The Problem King

by Kris Owyn

  Arthur was moving his hand back and forth, back and forth, to demonstrate the action: “See? Push, pull, push, pull... what does this remind you of?”

  She sighed, uninterested: “Boxing?”

  Arthur slumped. “No, imagine it’s... it’s not my hand that’s...” He sighed, motioned for Merlin to hand him something else, and he got a small rectangular cartridge, about the size of the squarish hole she’d seen earlier. He aligned the two, pushed the cartridge in until it clicked.

  “May I borrow your cloak?” he asked.

  She unclipped its buckle and handed it over. “With pleasure. The thing weighs a ton.”

  “Excellent,” he said, giddy at whatever he had planned next. He set it down on the table next to them, flattened out a portion, and then pressed the tip of the device against the fabric. He let out a tiny, bracing breath, and started pumping his hand like echoing a heartbeat... squeeze, squeeze, squeeze... as he traced the device down the cloak.

  Guinevere raised an eyebrow, despite herself. The thing was stitching. Bright red thread, tightly spaced, flowing out of this odd contraption. The King was sewing. The look on his face was pure joy, which was in itself extremely problematic. Never mind that he’d spent the last three months at a virtual standstill, governance-wise; if anyone knew that in reality, he’d spent the time learning to sew... well, even Mad King Rufus might opt to take a swing at invasion under such circumstances. The look on Lancelot’s face suggested he was thinking the very same thing.

  Arthur finished the line, twisted the device — clip! it cut the thread itself — and put it back in Guinevere’s hand. “I’m half as fast as Merlin, but in a trained hand, it could cut a tailor’s workload in half. Or more.” He looked to Lancelot, laughing. “What do you say, Lancelot? Impressive?”

  “Is there still a lighter crossbow somewhere?”

  “Oh stop it, you’re no fun,” Arthur laughed, and Lancelot chuckled a bit, himself.

  Guinevere handed the thing back. “The First Minister’s inventions are...” she searched for the word... “Unique, sire. But I’ve another matter to discuss that—”

  “There’s more, too,” Arthur interrupted; not like he accidentally spoke over her, but like he wanted to speak over her. “We’ve got a harvester that... you put it in the fields and it...” He struggled to put it into words, and Merlin seemed adamantly opposed to helping. “Well, it’s best if you see it. It’s really quite remarkable.”

  Guinevere smiled, politely. “Yes, sire, I’m sure—”

  “Let’s see... what else... ah! The tubing,” Arthur said, over his shoulder to Merlin.

  “No,” said Merlin, plainly.

  “They have to see it, Merlin, it’s—”

  “It is not ready.”

  “It’s ready enough.”

  Merlin stared. Stared, stared, stared, and then finally turned on his heel and paced down to the far end of the room; he picked up the thing they’d been looking at earlier. Meanwhile, Arthur looked almost ecstatic to be talking about it.

  “It won’t seem like much, but it’s—”

  “Here,” said Merlin, and handed the tube to Guinevere, abruptly, before taking a step back. “Do not break it.”

  She was immediately surprised at how light it was. From a distance, she figured it for a thick metal of some kind, but up close she could see it was actually wood, coated in some kind of thin alloy, with a waxy substance on the inside; layers of it. The diameter was about the length of her spread hand, from the tip of her thumb to the tip of her pinkie; on the rim were grooves, cut so precisely it was almost unreal. She wondered what would happen if she dropped it, just to spite them. Probably nothing productive.

  “What does it do?” she asked, voice dead and uninterested.

  “Take it apart,” said Arthur.

  “Take it... apart?” she asked, looking it over again.

  “Take the two ends and... and twist.”

  She did as she was told, awkwardly, but nothing happened. But when she tried the other direction... there was resistance at first, but then the tube unlocked, separating at a midpoint to make two segments of tube, exactly the same as one another. Guinevere held one in each hand, amazed despite herself.

  “Well that’s something,” she said.

  “But why?” asked Lancelot. “I like segmented tubes as much as the next man, but what’s it good for?”

  Arthur completely missed the sarcastic tone; he took the two parts from Guinevere and set them on the table, sliding the left one onto the other and twisting until they locked. Then Merlin arrived with more segments, pushing and twisting them until the tube stretched the entire length of the room. One massive, singular tube.

  “I still don’t—”

  Arthur clicked a final piece into the series, stepped back, and grinned. This segment, instead of being a straight tube, had three exits to it. Left, right, top. He put his hands on his hips, smiled to his friend. “This is Merlin’s waste system.”

  “Waste... system,” Guinevere said; whatever intrigue had been there, it was gone. The King had spent his summer making sewing devices and tubes to carry excrement. It was not a disappointment so much as a crisis.

  “It has so many uses,” Arthur said, continuing his piss-poor sales pitch. “Obviously, there’s the benefit of not having waste laying around in the street. The smell, and the flies and what have you. But with additional attachments and filters, Merlin thinks he can, you know, separate out the different types of—”

  “I’m sorry, sire, I just don’t—”

  “—and farmers can—”

  “But who does this help?” she asked, and he stopped cold, like he’d been slapped. He seemed to have trouble figuring his response.

  “P-people...” he said, suddenly unsure of, it seemed, everything.

  “You want to help the people,” she said, as if dredging up a memory. “Your primary focus, as King, is to help people. And yet I’m still trapped in—”

  “Lady Guinevere, it’s not... they’re two different issues, and I...” He sighed, at a loss.

  She looked at him, at the expression on his face, and knew he was going to do everything in his power to avoid talking about her freedom. He would be nice about it, of course, but he wouldn’t let her get a word in, wouldn’t let her try to convince him. She would play her part, of the doubting-but-loyal servant, and he would keep her as close as he could, where she would have no room to breathe.

  She took a sharp breath. It was time King Arthur learned who she really was.

  “And do these people pay?” she asked. “Have they any money?”

  “No, you see, they’re—”

  “Peasants?”

  “Yes, peasants. And tenants, and other—”

  “And you expect their landlords to pay for, what, improving the air in boroughs and villages they’ll never visit? Because I can say with absolute certainty, milord, they won’t agree to it. It’s an expense, and unless you can eat it or wear it to Court, an expense is something the nobility will avoid at all costs. If you wanted to roll out the sewing device, maybe someone might back it, for a return on investment... Perhaps a harvester, too, under the right conditions. But there’s no money to be made in waste. None at all.”

  “They might—”

  “They won’t.”

  “Then Camelot can—”

  “The royal treasury? Really. Let’s see...” She looked to Merlin: “How much would it cost to manufacture a league of this tubing? An average cost, if you can’t—”

  “Twenty-seven tremisses,” he said, without hesitation, then looked away.

  “Twenty-seven tremisses,” she repeated. “Camelot City has, what, five hundred leagues of road, give or take? That’s close to fourteen-thousand tremisses, sire. And Camelot’s roads are efficient, compared to many of the smaller villages with laneways go
ing off this way or that. You’d bankrupt yourself faster than you could—”

  Arthur looked close to tears. It might’ve inspired pity, from others, but for Guinevere it only made her angrier. Kings did not cry. If he carried on like this, Camelot was doomed; and her escape, all the more urgent.

  “I thought you were on my side...” he croaked.

  “On your side?” she said, and felt Lancelot touch her arm, pulling her back.

  “Guinevere, don’t,” he whispered, urgent and pleading.

  She pulled herself free. “May I return to Lyonesse, sire?”

  He shook his head, definite about his answer. “Not until it’s safe.”

  “And if it’s never safe?”

  He had a look on his face like he had considered the possibility — nay, thought about it extensively. Dreamed about it. And he’d come to the conclusion that, even if she resisted at first, she was better off with him, than away. It was written all over his face.

  “Lancelot is—”

  “Lancelot answers to you, sire. Don’t deflect.”

  He seemed genuinely conflicted, but she knew neither side of his internal argument even considered granting her what she wished. “I can’t risk losing—”

  “Only free men can choose sides, milord. Prisoners do as they’re told, and resent every minute of it. You want me to support you — to truly support you? Let me go.”

  He sighed, face pained, hands wringing. Merlin had receded further into the background, like he was trying to escape what was happening. Lancelot’s jaw was tense, so very tense.

  “I can’t,” Arthur whispered, afraid to make eye contact. “I can’t.”

  Guinevere had known it was coming, but it stung all the same. Her eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, and she tried not to sound as full of bitter fury as she was — and failed.

  “Then do me the courtesy of treating me like the prisoner I am, and not some willing confidant.” Lancelot let out an exasperated sigh, but she wasn’t done. She put on the most sycophantic tone she could muster, and said: “Your waste system is genius, sire. Most genius. The kingdom will love it, and so do I.”

  Arthur winced at this, like it physically hurt him. She hoped it did.

  She looked to Lancelot, bitter and dispassionate: “Bring me back to my cell.”

  Twenty-eight

  “You didn’t,” gasped Eleanor. “Guin, he’s the King...”

  “I know,” Guinevere sighed, lying on her bed, arms over her face. “But he was just stubbornly refusing to engage with me. Whatever I said, he veered back to talk of sewing devices and tubes and—”

  “Still... it might be a step too far, even for him.”

  Guinevere laughed, shook her head. “Too far. There is no ‘too far’ anymore. I’ve nothing to lose.”

  “But making him your enemy—”

  “Oh, that will never happen. He’s lurking around like a scolded child. I don’t think he has a vindictive bone in his body. And that’s my problem: if he hated me, he’d bring charges I could fight. If he distrusted me, he’d send me somewhere I could still operate. If he feared me, I could push him where I needed him to go. But he’s protecting me, and there’s no recourse to smothering.”

  Eleanor sat on the bed next to Guinevere, rubbed her arm, kissed her cheek. It was nice to have a friend again, especially with Ewen gone.

  Their positions had swapped, somehow, in the last few months; Guinevere, cutting back on expenses, wore simpler clothes, had simpler jewels, had simpler meals that left her leaner, coarser. Eleanor was a flowering beauty all over again, with dresses that — while not as extravagant as she might’ve had, without Gawain managing her finances — would never be mistaken for servant’s clothes. She looked alive, and Guinevere wanted to soak all of it up, as long as possible.

  “He’ll see reason eventually,” Eleanor said, gently. “Men need time to think, sometimes. Give it a few days, and—”

  “I don’t have a few days,” Guinevere sighed. “If that shipment reaches London and I’m not there to receive it, and the Gwynedds demand payment while I’m still stuck here... I’ll be finished. There’ll be no way back from that.” She picked at a loose thread on her skirt. “Thirteen days until the delivery’s made. I’ll need two days to get there — assuming I can get a fast enough horse — and another two to squeeze every tremis I can out of Rufus to pay my bills. Three, if the tax collectors have been idle for too long. That’s eight days. Eight days into which I must fit waiting for the King to think, fighting to convince him I’m right, and hoping that he will let me go. It’s not the greatest of schedules.”

  Eleanor seemed defeated by this calculation, but only for a second. Her eyes lit up: “Maybe I can go to London for you.”

  Eleanor in London. Well, on the one hand, Eleanor had more than enough experience with Rufus to make the trip safely. She knew him far better than Guinevere did, even. But then there was a long history there of failing to sway Rufus on even such basic matters as paying debts owed to her father. Would this be any different? Would Rufus hand over the tax revenue he owed, or would he deflect and dismiss? Would he give her the authority to chase it herself, or would she be relegated to playing the part of the pretty houseguest, while Guinevere rotted? And in the face of the Gwynedds and their bill of payment, would she negotiate ably, or fold at the first sign of stress? She handled herself well, in the wake of her father’s troubles, but that was borne out of necessity; she never had the option to not engage. This... this was an entirely different matter. No matter how much she wanted to help now, Guinevere couldn’t take the chance.

  She shook her head. “I can’t do that to you.”

  Eleanor’s eyes flickered understanding, and then... hurt. “You don’t think I can handle it.”

  Guinevere tried to say otherwise with her face, but it was hard. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Eleanor, but—”

  “No, I understand,” she said, dangerously close to sounding petulant. “I’ve not the same experience as you. Your father was the greatest negotiator in Christendom, and mine is... mine signed away his honour for a handful of coins.” She shook her head like she had just woken from a dream. “I mean, let’s be honest. Gawain runs circles around me, every time I see him. I’d never survive London. Not at a time like this.”

  Guinevere put her hand on Eleanor’s cheek and kissed her lips gently, made sure she knew she was speaking from the heart.

  “I do believe in you, Ellie. But without Ewen, and with so many unknowns, and especially considering Rufus... I fear small mistakes will be amplified, and big mistakes could prove fatal. Actual, life-ending fatal. And that’s a risk I can take myself, but not one I can ask of you. I won’t risk you like that.”

  Eleanor seemed to accept this. A little, anyway. “So you’re smothering me.” She cracked a smile, and Guinevere smiled too.

  “I could use the company, if you’d like to be a prisoner here with me.”

  “A subordinate prisoner.”

  “Well, there has to be some some structure, after all.”

  They laughed and embraced, and for a few seconds, Guinevere felt like it might not be the worst thing in the world, to be trapped in a lavish castle with her soulmate at her side, even if everything she’d ever worked for, ever dreamed of, ever built up... if that all went away. But then she remembered who she was, and the illusion blew away like smoke.

  Her stomach rumbled, and Eleanor pulled back with a grin on her face. “You’re hungry.”

  Guinevere shrugged, though she was desperately hungry. “I’m conserving resources.”

  “You’re not eating properly.”

  “That’s what I just said.”

  Eleanor laughed. “Come on, let’s raid the kitchen.” She stood up to leave, but Guinevere wasn’t following. She waved her over. “Come along, there’s no pride involved. The King’s not giving yo
u the food, you’re stealing it. See? Honour intact.”

  “Dubious, my dear,” Guinevere smiled, “but there’s still the matter of the guards outside my door. I can’t set foot outside this room without being escorted by four heavily-armed men.”

  Eleanor had a mischievous grin, at that. “So I’ll go outside, point down the hallway and shout: ‘Oh no! Assassins, come for Lady Guinevere!’ and right after they—”

  Guinevere got to her feet, urgent. “Eleanor, that’s brilliant!”

  “Really? I thought I undersold it. I was thinking—”

  “No, assassins! I need assassins!”

  Eleanor frowned. “I feel like we’re talking about something else.”

  Guinevere rushed over to her desk, took out her purse. She shoved the whole thing over to Eleanor, nodded for her to pick it up. “I can’t leave because the King’s afraid of unknown threats, so let’s make them tangible for him.”

  “Guin, I—”

  “I want you to hire some men for me. A dozen, maybe. All sorts.”

  “For what?”

  “To threaten my life.”

  “Guin, sending mercenaries to kill you is mad, but sending them into the palace is treason.”

  “They won’t go into the palace. They musn’t go into the palace.” Eleanor frowned. “They’ll stand out outside, late in the afternoon. Hire them to count how many bricks make up the west wall.”

  “Why do you—”

  “The guards will see a bunch of strangers looking far too intently at their charge, and they’ll want to know why. That’s when the second group—”

  “Second group?”

  “The second group approaches from the south, stands in the King’s park there, between the palace and Council. They need to be in full view from the King’s chambers, so not too close.”

  “And count the bricks—”

  “No, they need to bring crows.”