by Moore, John
Xiao stiffened in his arms. She pushed against him and backed away. “Infinitely converging series?” she said, eye-ing him suspiciously. “You talk like an engineer.”
“Who, me?” Charlie tried frantically to recover from his gaffe. “No, not at all. Converging series? Just a phrase I picked up. I know nothing about math. I studied—um—art history. Yes, I’m an art history major. When I graduate I’ll be completely unemployable, I swear!”
Xiao’s face softened, but the moment had been ruined. There was a knock at the door. She quickly wrapped herself in a loose robe of patterned silk, and answered it. Sing came in, wheeling a cart with plates, utensils, and covered dishes. He left without saying a word.
“Ah,” said Xiao. “Now we shall see what the future holds for you.” With quick, practiced motions, the movements of someone who had done this a thousand times before, she scooped up the bag of herbs, poured just the right amount into the water pipe, tamped them in with a small brass rod, and lit the pipe from the candle. She took a long, deep drag on the mouthpiece, and held the smoke in her lungs for so long Charlie started to get concerned. Then she blew it out through her nostrils and said, “Oh wow, like, let’s get started, okay?” Without waiting for an answer, she took the cover off the largest dish. It contained a plate of pork ribs, lightly coated with tangy sauce. Xiao uncovered a second dish and frowned. “Potato salad? I asked for—wait a minute.” She turned her attention back to the ribs, stared at them for a long while, looked over her shoulder at Charlie, then perused the ribs once more. A few moments later she threw the lid back on the dish, stalked over to a pile of cushions, and sat down, facing away from Charlie.
Charlie waited while the silence stretched out. Eventually he said, “Something wrong?”
“No,” said Xiao. She folded her arms across her chest. “I’m fine.”
“Well, good.” Charlie waited some more. “So what did you see?”
“Nothing.”
“Right.” Charlie hadn’t expected anything else. He still clung to the slight hope that she’d take off her clothes again, but the situation no longer seemed to be moving in that direction. “So I guess I’ll just be going.”
“Who is she?” said Xiao.
“Who is who?”
“Red hair. Green eyes. Expensive clothes. What is her name? Your captive. The woman you’re holding prisoner.”
“Catherine? Um, she’s not exactly a prisoner. She sort of agreed to stay there.”
“And you like her, right?”
The prince thought for a while before he spoke. “There are some political issues to be resolved,” he said carefully. “My personal relationship with Lady Durace is exactly that—personal. It is not a matter for discussion.”
“No one can see into a woman’s heart,” said Xiao. She pointed at the plate of ribs. “I see things that will happen. I cannot tell you why.” Now she faced Charlie, and her pretty lips were curled with scorn. “So don’t talk trash with a High Priestess of Matka. I know what you want to know. You want to know if you will make it with her, isn’t that right?”
“Maybe,” said Charlie. He had talked about Catherine with his uncles, but they were family. He was less willing to bandy a woman’s name about with a girl he just met. “Are you saying you can tell me that? Whether I should press my suit, or if I’m just wasting my time?”
“It is a mistake to couch your questions in that way,” said Xiao. “You give yourself only two choices when truly, the paths are many.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” said the prince. “More double-talk. Xiao, give me your hand.
Xiao looked surprised, but lifted up a slim arm. Charlie took her hand and, in one swift motion, jerked the surprised girl to her feet. He brought his other hand around and delivered a stinging swat to her bottom. “Ow!”
Charlie pushed her back down. “Okay,” he snapped. “That’s enough of that. I have run out of tolerance for nonsense. I didn’t ride all this way for the view. I rode here for an answer, and I want it right now, and I don’t want a vague, ambiguous display of dissembling. I want a straight, simple yes or no.”
Xiao scooted away from him. “Ask your question, then! You want to know about your girlfriend, I’ll tell you about your girlfriend. Rest assured you won’t be pleased with the answer. Catherine Durace is . . .”
“I want to know,” interrupted Charlie, “if we will get rain in Damask this summer.”
“What?” said Xiao.
“You heard me. Rain. We need rain. Are we going to get it? A lot depends on it. What I’m going to do in the next few weeks depends on whether we get rain.”
Xiao made no attempt to conceal her surprise. “You don’t want to know about your girlfriend?”
“I want to know about a lot of things, but first I want to know if the people of Damask are going to get enough rain to sustain a harvest. I’ve got responsibilities. I’ve got decisions to make and what I decide depends on our chance of getting rain.”
Xiao stood up. She took Charlie’s hands, and when she spoke, her voice had become much softer. “Your Highness, to get the answers that you seek, you must learn to ask the right questions. The answer to that is not what you need to know.”
Charlie dropped her hands. “More nonsense. I don’t have time for this. I want to know if my people’s crops are going to get enough rain. Just give me a straight answer, dammit! Yes or no!”
“All right, then fine! Don’t listen to me. The answer is no! No, the crops will not get enough rain. No, no, and no.” The High Priestess tied her robe tightly shut and flopped back down on a pile of cushions. “No! Is that unambiguous enough for you? Is there any part you don’t understand?”
“No. Thank you. That’s what I needed to know. And now, if we’re through here, I must be getting back.” Charlie started for the door.
“No, we are most certainly not through.” Xiao got up. “You are such a jerk. You don’t deserve this, but I have to give it to you anyway.” She disappeared behind the screen and came out with a small object dangling on the end of a thin gold chain. “Here, put this around your neck.”
Charlie took it and looked at it. It appeared to be a tiny bit of crystal, wrapped and secured to the chain with gold wire. He handed it back. “Thanks, but I’m not really into jewelry.”
Xiao refused to take it. “Do you have to argue about everything? Put it on. It’s a getting-out-of-a-tight-spot device. I can’t tell you how it works, but . . .”
“But when the time comes, I’ll know,” Charlie finished for her. “I understand how a getting-out-of-a-tight-spot device works, thank you very much.” He held it to the lamplight and looked at it with distaste. “ ‘But what does it do?’ ” he mimicked, “says the hero to the wise old sage. ‘Oh, I can’t tell you,’ says the wise old sage to the hero, ‘but when the time comes, you’ll know.’ ” He swung the crystal on its chain and caught it. “I could never understand why the wise old sage just didn’t tell the hero what to do.”
“That’s just the way they work,” said Xiao. “Don’t look at me that way. I didn’t create the damn thing. I’m just passing it on to you. Take it, for goodness’ sake. You’re playing a risky game. You know that. If anyone in the Twenty Kingdoms needs a getting-out-of-a-tight-spot device, it’s you.”
The prince had to admit there was some logic in this. Reluctantly he put the chain around his neck and slipped the crystal under his shirt. “There’s one more thing,” said Xiao. “If you ever need to use the getting-out-of-a-tight-spot device, don’t lose the chain. Be sure to save the chain.”
Charlie pulled the chain back out and looked at it. “Why? What’s special about the chain?”
“Nothing. It’s just a very nice gold chain. Pure gold. You can wear it afterward. Like, if you go to a nightclub, you can leave your shirt unbuttoned and show it off.” She saw Charlie’s expression. “Or perhaps not. Maybe you can give it to a friend. The point is, just don’t throw away a good gold chain.”
“Right,
” said Charlie. He put the chain and crystal under his shirt. “Thank you for the interview. How do I get out of here?”
“Follow me,” Xiao walked swiftly and Charlie followed behind, watching her bottom swing with no little feeling of regret. Eventually they exited the building, onto a terrace with chairs and round tables with umbrellas. Pollocks was sitting with some monks, sipping a glass of wine and looking over Lake Organza. He stood when they approached. Xiao walked right up to him. “You didn’t tell me he was an engineer,” she said accusingly.
“He only took a couple of semesters,” said Pollocks, “and he didn’t do that well.”
“And that he’s in love with another girl.”
“Whoa, how time flies,” said Pollocks, looking at the sun. He grabbed the prince by the arm. “We really need to get started, Your Highness. It’s a long ride back.” He hustled Charlie away. “Your Holiness, thank you for your hospitality,” he called back over his shoulder. “She likes you,” he said to Charlie.
“And who do you think you are now, the Faithful Family Matchmaker?”
“If she didn’t like you, she wouldn’t be upset about Lady Catherine.”
“I’m not an idiot, Mr. Lonely-hearts. I can figure that out.”
“I just thought I’d mention it. What prediction did she make for you?”
“We need to find Thessalonius,” said Charlie.
But the famous sorcerer was not to be found. In the days that followed, the weather continued fine. Which is to say, it was not good at all. Most years the occasional summer thunderstorm would make it through the mountains, and thus keep Damask from being a total desert, but this year gave nothing but warm days and sunny skies. Oh, once in a while there would be a light shower, just enough to lower the dust and raise hopes, but serious rain was not forthcoming. The few streams that trickled down from the mountains grew smaller and smaller as the snowcaps melted away. Duck ponds and stock ponds shrank. Farm gardens withered. More commoners left their farms and attached themselves to the public works projects, even as Charlie cut the grain allotment and instituted water rationing. Discontent grew. Muttering in the ration lines increased to grumbling and then to complaining out loud. Revolution was in the air.
The Minister of Agriculture, one Lord Dumond, a close friend of Lord Gagnot, came to Charlie with a proposition. He had been exchanging messages with his counterpart in Noile. Noile had a grain surplus, but Damask had no money to buy it. The Noile minister thought he could arrange to send food if Damask gave up its sovereignty and rejoined Noile.
Never! the prince regent declared, pleased that the nobility was considering the idea. He reported the conversation to his uncles, who were equally pleased. Various lords were raising troops of their own and that was a good thing, because they would undoubtedly fight with one another and create the sort of internal division that would justify foreign intervention. Still, Charlie would need to spark the fire, and the tinder of revolution was not quite dry enough.
He grew haggard. At dawn each day he was out on his horse, checking that the grain was being equitably distributed, and carefully tabulating the remainder in the silos to make sure none was being siphoned off. He inspected the public works projects to verify that the foremen were treating their workers fairly. He skipped meals and worked late into the night, either in the small office connected to his suite or the large office near the throne room, calculating food allotments, issuing directives for the public works projects, or reviewing the books of each government ministry. Each audit was invariably followed by throwing one or more officials into the Barsteel, on charges of corruption. And each arrest was followed by even more resentment, as each and every corrupt official invariably complained that everyone did it, everyone had always done it, and he was only being singled out because the prince regent wanted a larger share of his gains.
Pollocks got more and more nervous as the tension outside the castle increased. He drank less, because the wine no longer sat well on his stomach, but smoked more. His pipe burned almost constantly. His concern increased when Charlie again showed an interest in the theater. A new troupe arrived in town. Charlie sent a message to the manager. In reply, the manager delivered to the prince regent an invitation to the opening night party. Charlie was holding the invitation when he called the FFR to his office.
“ ‘Misleading Ladies,’ ” he read from the buff card. “Is this a comedy? It sounds like a burlesque.”
“No, Sire. It is a whodunit. A murder mystery.”
“So someone is murdered on the stage?” It was a silly question but Pollocks realized that Charlie was merely thinking out loud. “Are they poisoned, by any chance?”
“Poisoned, stabbed, bludgeoned, strangled. There is a wide variety of death in murder mysteries, Your Highness. The challenge is for the audience to guess who the murderer is. Both of your uncles are rather fond of this type of drama.”
“Are they? Really? But if the victim is murdered on stage, where is the mystery? Doesn’t the audience see who the murderer is?” Charlie saw Pollocks mentally gear up for a long explanation, so he waved the question aside. “Never mind, Pollocks. We’ll find out when we get there. Accept this invitation.”
“Very good, Your Highness.” Pollocks, who loved the theater himself, was delighted. He only hoped the prince did not intend to audit the box office. Nonetheless, he arranged with Oratorio to provide extra security for the theater, and dissuaded the prince from sitting in the royal box, arranging for Oratorio and Rosalind to sit there instead.
“We’ll be able to see better from a rear box,” he told Charlie. “The forward boxes are really designed for fashionable people to show off their clothes.”
“Wow!” The prince was leaning forward, almost falling out of the box. “Are those girls?”
Pollocks glanced at the stage. “Ah, yes,” he explained to Charlie. “Until fairly recently, women were not permitted on the stage. Women’s parts had to be played by boys. As this illusion is difficult to sustain, except in the case of very young characters, the playwright would insert some reason why the woman had to disguise herself in men’s clothing. This allowed the woman’s part to be played by a boy pretending to be a woman pretending to be a boy. All the great playwrights did this. Indeed,” he continued, warming to his theme, “the entire history of stage drama can be understood as the pursuit of reasons for putting women in men’s clothing.”
He paused to take a sip of wine, then leaned forward in his seat. In the royal box, an earnest young man had buttonholed Oratorio and was speaking into his ear. Pollocks frowned when he saw the young man was Albemarle Gagnot. The last curtain call was announced and Gagnot disappeared.
He realized that Charlie was asking him a question. “You seem to have a pretty good knowledge of the theater, Pollocks. Were you ever in a play yourself?”
Pollocks cleared his throat. “In my youth, Your Highness, yes. I was involved in a few theatrical productions. Strictly amateur, you understand, nothing professional. But I must say we did garner a few outstanding reviews from the local critics.” He did his best to sound modest, but it was obvious to the prince that he was quite proud. “I once played the role of Violento—that’s Martin’s best friend, the one who gets killed—in Martin and Marianne.”
Even Charlie was familiar with that play. It was one of the most famous romances in the literature of the Twenty Kingdoms. Martin and Marianne were young lovers from rival, feuding families. Overcoming great obstacles, they managed to marry and consummate their love in the first two acts. The rest of the play was then taken up with their arguments over which set of in-laws they were going to visit for the holidays. “Was it an all male cast, in those days?”
Pollocks stroked his beard, indulging in fond memories. “No, Your Highness. By then times had already changed. Now women tread the boards as expertly as men. And this is a boon to modern playwrights. They are now free to take advantage of women’s dramatic range, to create fuller, deeper, more rounded characters, to place
actresses in roles that completely delineate the female experience, social dramas that explore women’s place in society and bring to light their failures and triumphs. They never actually do this, of course. Mostly they just still try to get women in men’s clothing.”
“Why?”
“Because they figured out that the men in the audience will pay good money to see pretty women in pantaloons and hose.”
“Oh, right.” Charlie was watching the lead actress, a pretty woman who was dressed in pantaloons and hose to conceal that she was the daughter of the woman who had been kidnapped by pirates. “It seems a bit unfair to the women in the audience, though.”
“Well, there’s a new style of play being developed, in which the male leads are in drag. I’m told that women find them hilarious.”
But to Pollocks’s disappointment, the prince sat through the whole performance without showing the slightest bit of interest in the plot, merely giving the actresses the same attention that every other young man gave them. Afterward he accepted an invitation to the opening night party. The cast presented him with a gift—a ceremonial dagger in an engraved case. Charlie thanked them, stuck the dagger absently in his belt, and spent the rest of the evening in quiet conversation with the stage manager.
And that, apparently, was that. The next day was business as usual. He announced a plan to institute a standardized system of weights and measures to Damask. Pollocks objected. “The nobility already dislikes you. Now the merchant class has also turned against you. Standardized measures make it harder for them to cheat their customers.”
Charlie pretended to be surprised. “Really? And how do the customers feel about this?”
“Well, I suppose they don’t object, but the working class is even more angry with you than the merchants or the nobility. Ever since you issued that decree banning discrimination on the grounds of religion. Every priest and monk in the country has been riling them up against you.” Pollocks relit his pipe from a candle and took small, nervous puffs on it. “I honestly don’t see why. Religious toleration is not that unusual in the Twenty Kingdoms.”