The Problem King

by Kris Owyn

  “But surely it can be addressed tomorrow—”

  “In daylight,” added Lancelot.

  “—at Council?”

  “What I need to do, needs to be done in private,” said Guinevere.

  Lancelot raised an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?”

  She answered him by closing the door and smacking the back of the carriage to get it back into motion. Arthur peeked out the window, called: “Be careful!”

  She winked at him. She was always careful. Mostly always careful.

  It was a long laneway. Longer that at Lyonesse, longer than at Cornwall. It was almost too dark to see, but she could make out hedges along the sides of the road, trimmed precisely to the point where they looked like stone in the sliver of moonlight that shone through. The gravel beneath her feet sounded like teeth chewing bone. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

  Finally, there it was. The manor itself, like a mountain; deep wedges of stone pierced into the ground like they fell to earth in a fit of anger. If Lyonesse was a slave to nature, this building brought it to heel. There was light through the windows; many windows, in fact. Fires burning through the night, as countless servants toiled away without rest.

  She thought about leaving, about finding another way.

  Instead, she pounded on the door with a stern fist, and readied herself for battle.

  The door opened a few moments later, and an old man in a staid uniform observed her like she was a rat who’d learned to stand on stilts and knock on doors to beg for cheese.

  “I’m sorry, milady, but his Lordship—”

  She didn’t wait to hear the excuse. She pushed past the old man — old men were always easy to surprise — and into the foyer. She could see light from upstairs, and down the hall, and off to the left. But to the right, she caught sight of what she was looking for. She stormed off, the old man chasing after her, ineffectively.

  She stopped so suddenly, he bumped into her, scrambling to grab her arm and pull her back. “A thousand apologies, milord,” he stammered, “she just wouldn’t—”

  “—listen,” said Bors, grinning at them. “I know.” He waved at the servant, waved him away. “It’s fine. I can handle her.”

  He kicked a stool away from the dining room table, nodded to it, and picked up his half-empty wine bottle again. “You’ve some nerve, coming here.”

  “So you heard,” she said, sitting across from him, hands folded neatly.

  “That you lumped me in with traitors? Yes, yes I did. Funny, that.”

  “Bors, listen—”

  “So Rhos comes to me and asks me how long ago I heard that Gawain was seizing control of the military.” He smiled like it was hilarious, drank some more. “And of course I have no idea what he’s going on about, and I tell him as much, to which he replies—” He took another long drink of wine. “—’Lady Guinevere told me everything.’”

  He laughed a big, bellowing laugh.

  “Right?” he said. “Lady Guinevere told him everything.” He wiped his eye, nodding to himself, ready to drink some more, but putting it off a touch longer. “He says he doesn’t think I participated, naturally, but he worries about my exposure if I knew and didn’t tell anyone. And I’m thinking: I’m worried about that, too!”

  “Bors, it was—”

  “The thing is,” he said, slamming the wine into the table and leaning forward. “The thing is, I still can’t tell if this is you getting back at me, or if there’s some bigger scheme at play that nobody will see but you.” He scratched his chin, absentmindedly. “I can’t decide which makes me angrier, honestly.”

  “I never told them it had anything to do with you,” she said. “I never even said your name.”

  “But you never told them they were wrong for thinking it, did you?”

  She had no good answer for that.

  “So Rhos asks me when I heard. And I’m thinking to myself: I don’t know what I’m meant to say here. I’ve no idea of the... the outline of the situation I’m in. We’re talking treason, and I’m stumbling around in the dark!” He drank more, messily. “So I say it wasn’t an event specifically, but more like a feeling. A sense of wrongdoing. Nobody outright said the words, but it was clear by the way they conducted themselves.”

  “Smart,” said Guinevere, and he slapped the table.

  “Yes it was! And no thanks to you!”

  “Bors, I’m sorry. It... it was a complex situation that—”

  “That you had no control over?”

  “I didn’t. I swear. I was angry with you, I’ll admit that, but I wouldn’t have—”

  She glared at her. “Yes you would.”

  She sighed, nodded. “Yes I would.” She shrugged. “But I didn’t.”

  He finished the wine, threw the bottle across the room and lumbered to his feet to get more. “So I reckon you owe me. You owe me an explanation to what I am apparently knee-deep in, now. How does this fantasy about Gawain owning the military benefit you, except to scare the breeches off Arthur?”

  “It’s not a fantasy,” she said, and he stopped. “It’s real, Bors. Too real.”

  “You know this how?”

  “Council has been having the King sign documents giving up parcels of his power, piece by piece. The military, the treasury, the actual territory of Camelot itself...”

  Bors sat back down, ignoring his thirst. “You’re sure of it?”

  “I saw one. The contract assigning Camelot to Council. Making the King a tenant in his own land.”

  “How did... why didn’t—” Bors’ eyes opened wide. “He really can’t read, can he?”

  Guinevere shook her head. “Rhos has been working to uncover the extent of the damage. If there are legal avenues to pursue—”

  “It’d be a mess,” he sighed. “If you argue the King wasn’t aware what he was signing, they’ll just appoint—”

  “A steward, yes. But overturning the individual pieces is a tricky proposition. It’s not like the kingdom will be worse off with Council in charge. The King will be left arguing his powers should be restored because he prefers it that way...”

  “To which they’ll ask him why he signed away his powers in the first place. He’ll either have to say he changed his mind...”

  “Or else admit he can’t read...”

  “And we’re back at the steward,” sighed Bors. “Say what you will about Gawain, he’s got you boxed in nice and neat.” He stood again, stretched. “Now I really need that drink.” He fetched two more bottles from the cupboard and slid one to Guinevere. She pried it open and clinked it against Bors’ bottle, which he was already two swigs into.

  “So you’ve got a plan,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Obviously, you have a plan. How do you propose to twist Gawain’s ploy against him? Which one of his benefits is a liability in disguise?”

  She smiled, drank a little. “Separately? None of them. No reasonable person would disagree that, as long as the King and Council are working toward the same goals, that there’s any harm leaving the administration of the kingdom to the trained administrators.”

  “So long as we’re working toward the same goals, eh?”

  She grinned. “I’m going to pick a fight.”

  “His waste system. It’s all anyone talks about lately. You don’t even want to know what they call him now...”

  “I can imagine,” she said. “But just think what it’ll be like when he orders the districts to switch over to mass-producing those tubes, full-time.”

  Bors gaped. “You can’t... you’re not...” He drank. Drank and drank and drank, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Council will revolt.”

  “Yes they will.”

  “And they’ll use his contracts against him.”

  “Yes they will.”

  “And then you’ll what, argue the King’s independence
is being impeded by those contracts? That he can’t fulfill his duties because of them?” He thought more, scratched his beard. “It all boils down to his changing his mind because of a good reason, rather than a bad one. It’s not a strong case to make.”

  “No it’s not,” Guinevere said with a smile. “But it gives us pretext.”

  “Pretext for what?”

  She gathered the candles from around the table into one spot, save for two; one, which she put closer to Bors; and the other midway between them. It gave the room a strange flickering effect, like sunlight on water. She pointed at the bunch.

  “We’re going to starve them into submission.”

  Bors stiffened, mood darkening. “Guinevere...”

  “Not food, money.”

  He shook his head. “You said Gawain controls the Treasury.”

  “But in the event of a lawsuit between two interested parties, such assets will be frozen pending the outcome of the trial,” she said, doing her best to quote Camelot common law without tripping over Latin.

  “Right, but all that does is hurt you. Council’s flush with money, with more sales every week. They can drag this on forever, and never feel the slightest pinch.”

  “Not without the Gwynedds,” Guinevere said, with a coy smile.

  “What about the Gwynedds?”

  “They’ll be so busy setting up their new factories, I doubt they’ll have time to handle any further orders from Camelot.”

  “What new factories?”

  “The ones I’m building for them in London.”

  Bors stared. “We’re coming back to that. But even if you cut off new revenue, Council isn’t exactly wanting for money.”

  Guinevere pointed to the bundle of candles again. “The Round Table has seats, Bors. And some seats pull more weight than others. In fact, you might say some districts aren’t quite paying their way. Depending on the charity of their neighbours, to live the way they do.” She pointed to a few of the shorter candles, nearing the end of their lives.

  “Yes, I see where you’re going,” said Bors. “Lyonesse is rich, the others are poor. But you don’t control Lyonesse anymore. You’re bragging about Gawain’s assets.”

  She smiled serenely, licked her fingertips. “There’s no coinage in the district,” she said, and extinguished the tallest of the candles. “And I had Marcel hide our assets in Paris, the second Council kicked me out, that first day.” She nodded to the candle near Bors, and he snuffed it out, too. “London has more than enough to last a lifetime, but they’ll never find where it’s all hidden.” She blew out the candle between them. “Without Lyonesse, Council is weakened.”

  Bors looked at the second-tallest candle in the bunch, face twisted in realization. He nodded, shrugged, sighed. “I see where you’re going now.”

  “Without us, they’ll eat themselves alive, Bors. Lothian’s the next-richest district, but after his stunt with Cornwall, he’s got to be hurting, too. The others will get desperate, demand he help them, and when he doesn’t — or can’t — they’ll turn on him, and give us what we want.”

  “And what do you want? Once this waste system’s done its duty, what’s your real goal here?”

  Guinevere grinned. “Well, there’s this wonderful sewing device Merlin showed me...”

  Bors took her bottle from her, drank half of it at once. “You’ve gone mad.”

  “Actually,” she said, “I’ve got sane. Madness is working so hard for so long, hoping to change minds that have no intention of changing. Madness is holding on to a system that openly disdains you, and works to see you fail.”

  “But if you have the votes—”

  She laughed, sighed. “I don’t care about votes anymore. I’m not asking you to take my side on Council, Bors, I’m asking you come form a new Council with me. One we control, in support of our King. Pendragon made Camelot what it is by working with an enlightened few. Arthur will do the same, and I want to be on the inside when it happens. And I want you with me.”

  He was shocked. Shocked and, she could tell, intrigued. “And the others? What about them?”

  Guinevere, face deadened and cold, observed the last of the candles before her. And with a swat of her hand, she snuffed them all out.

  Forty

  The doors were closed, muffled sounds barely audible through the thick, dark wood. Guinevere paused there, in the outer chamber, looking down at that same ornate handle, ring pierced through a curious nose; it was so far beneath her line of sight now. Things had changed so much.

  The pages outside watched her like they knew they were watching a legend unfold in real-time, and both wanted to be a part of it, and also steer as far clear as they could. She straightened her spine, head held high, and pushed the doors open.

  Council was spread around the room, furiously debating what would soon be yesterday’s news; things that would be viewed through the lens of “oh, that was before...” and reminisced upon until those in attendance were old and grey and dying. This would be the pivot point, the moment that everything changed.

  The few men who noticed her watched her as she strode through the room, up to the Round Table and — pulling a chair back with the sloppy ease of someone who belonged — sat at the spot reserved for Lyonesse. Right in the middle of that spot. Lounged.

  Now the rest started to take note, and the tenor of the conversations changed in ripples as whispers overtook proclamations, heads turning back and forth as they raced to see what was wrong, what was different, and what it meant.

  Someone might’ve tried to say something, to address her or what she was doing or why she was doing it, but she realized the brave ones were still missing from the room. Gawain, for one, was nowhere to be seen; probably for the best, she thought, so she didn’t give away the plot too soon. Rhos was likewise absent, though she had counted on that; she wanted a chance to address Council before cooler heads were around to prevail. She wanted to rile them up, and then strike them down. Bors’ absence irked her somewhat, though. Her threat would work better as fact, rather than hearsay... but she knew what he was like, and he’d probably appreciate the opportunity to keep everyone in suspense until he could deal the fatal blow to their hopes.

  Wiglaf skulked into his chair, across the way, and glared at her with red-crested eyes. He could smell a fight coming, and he wanted good seats. She ignored him completely.

  Finally, one of Gawain’s sycophants cleared his throat and addressed her directly, with far more respect than his allies seemed willing to stomach: “Welcome back, Lady Guinevere,” he said, voice gaining clarity the more he spoke. “I believe the issue of membership has been addressed at length with you, already.”

  She didn’t look him in the eye, just flashed a half-grin. “It has.”

  “And so you recognize seats at the Round Table are reserved for legitimate noblemen.”

  “I do.”

  Now he was at a loss. She wasn’t going to move, that much was clear. He checked with his colleagues, who gave him exasperated shrugs. Finally, he ventured: “I’m afraid I must insist, Lady Guinevere. Vacate that seat or—”

  “Or what?” she asked, and now she made eye contact. He shivered.

  “Or... or we shall be forced to... to...”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “You need to work on your threats, sir,” she said, and the room broke into scandalous whispering at her use of “sir” instead of “milord.” They had no idea what scandalous was, yet.

  “Milady, I—”

  “Here, let me demonstrate...” She spread her arms wide, spoke to the room. “Give me back my title, my land, my business and my profits. Give me the respect I deserve. If not...” she winked at the sycophant. “...I will rain unholy terror upon each and every one of you, just like you tried doing to me.”

  The room was silent. Dead silent, like every man there was holding his breath.<
br />
  The key to bargaining against obstinate foes was to present your position — a brutal, uncompromising, impossible position — like you could not imagine things working out any other way. Act like you would gladly tear everyone down if you couldn’t get your way, and leave zero room for negotiation. Smarter men would dig in for a fight; lesser ones, like those around the room, would cower and plead.

  She wanted to see them beg.

  “I’ll make it easy,” she said, tracing a finger along the crest of Lyonesse, on the table. “To the count of ten. After that, the deal’s gone forever.” The sycophant swallowed, anxious. “One... two...”

  “The deal is dead,” said Gawain, from behind her. She gave the room a shrug as if to say “ah, oh well, your loss,” and settled back in her chair once more. The show was about to begin.

  “Lord Lothian, delayed as ever.”

  He stood across from her, next to Wiglaf, face stern and unforgiving. “Do you really think you can threaten and intimidate the good men of Council like this?” he asked.

  She thought a moment, replied: “Yes. Yes I do.”

  “Have you no shame?” he said, voice growing into a crescendo of self-righteous idiocy. “You come here, after what you’ve done, and—”

  “Lord Lothian!” shouted Rhos, as the doors opened for him. “Enough!”

  Gawain bit back whatever he’d saved for next, stung by the public scolding. That Rhos had dared take such a tone with Gawain was a clear indication his evidence would be thoroughly damning. She wished Bors would be around to see it happen. She wanted to turn in her chair, to see Rhos for herself, but she was having far too much fun glaring at Gawain.

  “Lord Rhos, I—” Gawain said, attempting to dial back to civility after sounding so pompous.

  “No,” said Rhos. “I don’t want to hear it.”

  Gawain snapped his mouth shut, nostrils flaring with frustration. And it would only get worse.

  “Lady Guinevere,” said Rhos, and she stood, grinning, tidied her skirt. “I am placing you under arrest for high treason.”