The guild man waved his cigar menacingly.
“And I can close this castle down.”
“Get that weed out of my face, mister. I don’t take kindly to threats.”
“I can order a walkout any time,” the guild official said casually, withdrawing the pungent cigar.
“Let me ask you a question. Why does it take no less than five footmen to attend a coach?”
“You got a problem with that?”
“Yes, I happen to have a problem with that. From now on three is the maximum.”
“We got a contract!”
“I’m renegotiating, unilaterally, as it were.”
“We’ll walk!”
“Then walk.”
“The funeral! You’ll need —”
“Get out.”
“But —”
“Out! And take that burning bush with you. You don’t have the proper beatific mien for it.”
Rupert shook his head as the guild official stalked out. When the door slammed he said, “You handled that very badly, Excellency. If I may make so bold as to say.”
“You just said it. Yeah, you’re right. He really got my goat. I suppose I’ve bought myself a load of trouble.”
“He not only controls the craftsmen — seamstresses, wainwrights and such — but teamsters and draymen as well.”
“I know, I know. Okay, get the other guy in here. Ye flipping gods.”
“Excellency, there are more visitors in the hallway — we really should get a proper anteroom —”
Trent groaned, wiping his forehead with a paisley handkerchief.
“Excellency?”
“Monster headache. I’ll be all right. It’s the goddamned banishment thing. I’ll have to take a break at some point, get the hell out of the castle.”
“Your schedule for the next few days is crammed. In fact, it’s crammed into next week.”
“To say nothing of the state funeral. That’s got to last what, all day?”
“Most of the day, Excellency.”
“Wonderful. With lugubrious music, too.”
“His Majesty’s tastes in music were good. The
“Oh. Well … Gods. Rupert, do you smoke? I need a cigarette.”
“I wasn’t aware that His Excellency —”
“I quit long ago, but this curse thing is driving me crazy. I need something, and alcohol won’t do. With booze I’d just teleport right to cloud cuckoo land, nothing would get done.”
“I can have someone run to the tobacconist.”
“Fine. Let’s see … oh, the guy from Lytton. By the way, where and what the hell is Lytton?”
“A kingdom in the Albion aspect. Much like England of Earth in the Elizabethan period.”
“Okay, Rupert, show the fellow in. Oy.”
“
One after the other, visitors trooped in and out of the office: envoys, ambassadors, ministers plenipotentiary — diplomats of every sort, along with a
The clock chimed nineteen times.
Trent looked up. “Ye gods and little pink elephants, look at the time.”
Rupert closed the door on the clot of supplicants still in the hallway.
“No more, Rupert, I’m fagged out.”
“The Regent’s office is hereby closed for the day.”
“Thank the deities.”
Trent reached for the pack of cigarettes, found one crumpled, and lit it anyway. He took a long drag and sat back.
“I’m done in. Did Inky do this every single day?”
“This was a relatively slow day.”
“You gotta be kidding me. I mean, there are only so many hours. Come on.”
“Oh, he used magical coping methods, indubitably.”
“I’d hate being forced into that. Not good to have a gaggle of spells going on at one time. It gets confusing and sometimes it’s dangerous.”
“His Majesty was a past master at that art.”
“I know. “Art’ is the key word. I’m a good magician, but Inky had a certain style about him. He was a stylist. An artist. So am I, but some styles are better than others. Inky was great at subtle spell interaction.”
“He was, Excellency. That he was.”
Trent sighed. “Sometimes I lean toward acceding to the proposition that Inky was simply the better magician.”
“His Excellency underrates himself.”
“You’re kind, Rupert. But I’m afraid it’s true.”
Trent took another long pull on the cigarette. He began a bout of coughing which threatened to turn into a fit.
Still hacking, he mashed the cigarette out in a clamshell ashtray. The tray flipped to the floor and smashed.
“Is His Excellency all right?” Rupert asked, bearing a glass of water.
Trent took it and drank. Recovered, he said, “Thanks. Ye gods, those frigging things can kill you!”
Rupert smiled.
“No more,” Trent said firmly, throwing the rest of the pack of cigarettes into the trash can. “Enough of that. I’ll never live my twenty-five score years and ten if I start smoking again.”
“His Excellency makes a wise decision.”
“Let’s cut the “Excellency’ bit, all right? It’s really starting to rankle. Makes me sound like I should be wearing a handlebar mustache and goatee.”
“It is the proper honorific for your station.”
“We’ll have to do something about that. I’m still a prince of the realm, you know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And maybe I should have stayed a prince.”
Trent suddenly rose.
“Sir, are you leaving for the day?”
“I’m outta here. I’ll be back tomorrow … I think.”
“Excell — er, my lord prince. One more thing.”
Trent was tying on his cape as he replied, “What is it now?”
“Just this report from the Royal Undertaker that I thought might not wait.”
“What’s it say?”
“It’s sealed, my lord, and marked “Confidential.””
“Really? Let’s have it.”
Trent took the envelope from his side and ripped it open.
“Have no idea what the Royal flipping Undertaker would have to say that I —”
He read.
Rupert stood by, arms folded.
Trent lowered the sheet and stared off. Presently he said, “Holy smoke.”
Rupert’s eyes widened.
Trent looked at him. “Send a note to my wife. Won’t be home for supper.”
“Yes, my lord prince. Shall I say —?”
