A queen does not require assurances, but I allowed her to speak thusly to me and granted her leave to depart.
Clarice thanked me again, released her straps, rose from her seat as best she could, given that the limo’s ceiling obligated her to remain hunched over, and made her way further back into the vehicle, toward a small door through which she barely squeezed, due to the fullness of her shrimp-colored Lady Jane Seymour skirts. After a moment or two, listening to her mysterious bumping and thumping, swishing and scraping behind the door, I turned my attention to my growing wish to see outside, for all the glass panels were smoked as dark as if they had been hung over a blazing hearth for a year and a day.
As the Lord God is my witness, I had not even begun to contemplate a spell for to lighten the glass when, of a sudden, I could see what lay without: castles and dragons from horizon to horizon, and numerous huge white worms rapidly slithering to and fro, and diving underground and out again.
If you, dearest reader, were born into a world of stone castles and fire-belching dragons, as I was, you might begin to imagine how I felt to find these twenty-first-century castles made not of stone, but of gleaming silver and glass, a few of them hovering so far above the ground that some of the smaller species of this era’s dragons (who, as a rule, belched trails of grayish-white smoke out their back ends but nothing out the front) came to perch on the hovering castles themselves. To my further astonishment as I watched, these smoke-flatulating dragons disgorged many dozens of people, mayhap a bit ruffled and rumpled, but otherwise undigested and quite capable of walking away—walking, when I would have run—the first rule of queenship notwithstanding—from the dragons without a backward glance.
The landscape was not entirely paved with castles. As with the castles of my era, smaller buildings of varying size and quality clustered round the grounded silver-and-crystal fortresses, though the airborne ones were unencumbered by lesser dwellings. I was situated so high inside the flying limo (another subspecies of twenty-first-century dragon, and was it also flatulating smoke?) that the people wandering the streets below were nigh invisible to my eyes. I must have conceived a wish to see these people more closely, for the aspect of the nearest glass pane to me changed, and the people appeared larger.
A dragon that could read and obey one’s very thoughts! At that point, I thought it might be pleasant to command this dragon to engulf one of its brethren in flames, but apparently the limo possessed no fire whatsoever. Everything does have its limitations, alas.
Some of the people were dressed in the fragile garments I had seen in Revel Grove; others were wearing clothing of a darker, more purposeful looking sort, and they walked with the appearance of greater purpose. ’Twas this latter style of raiment that Clarice was wearing when she emerged from the limo’s bowels. The deep blue color of the fabric was much more complementary to her fair coloring than the shrimp had been, and the cut flattered her form without baring an excess of skin. I made no hesitation to tell her so. The pretty pink blush I had heretofore noticed returned to her cheeks.
“I’m glad you like my suit, Queen Morgan.” She held her arm aloft, over which was draped an array of black and white garments. “While we were making our way toward the limo, before leaving the fair, I ordered our driver to purchase a suit and undergarments for you, if it pleases your Majesty.”
Since none of the images I had seen had featured anyone wearing anything like unto my royal raiment—save one brief set of images in which I had recognized the faux King Henry and Queen Anne—I accepted her offerings and requested her assistance with the donning of them.
Said donning is none of the reader’s concern. However, if I should chance to travel to the era wherein lived the inventors of “pantyhose” and the “bra,” I should be pleased to smoke those men in their boots for the perpetual benefit of womankind.
Though Clarice vowed that she would keep my clothing and accoutrements safe, I would not part with my circlet. Call it an affectation, if you must; but instinct warned me that I would need every tangible reminder of my true self and nature. My instincts have remained trustworthy my entire life, and ever have I striven to follow them, despite my resulting fortunes having proven somewhat capricious.
With reluctance I allowed her to keep my dirk locked with my jewels. Neither the suit nor the undergarments contained a proper means of concealment, and Clarice warned me that the guards would keep the dirk for themselves. A spell of invisibility, even for such a small object, requires prodigious concentration and energy to maintain, so I judged it wiser to surrender the weapon.
Next Clarice sidled over to one of the other devices and bade me join her. She pressed her fingertip to something round and shiny, and the world flashed white. My gorge rose in panic; I thought she had sent me to a different century! But when my vision returned, she was still seated in the center of it, looking contrite and proffering a small, hard rectangle.
The rectangle bore the image of myself as I must have appeared moments before the flash, looking as gorgeous as ever in the new black suit, if a shade bemused. Beneath my image read the words “Morganna Hanks, UK,” followed by other words and symbols that carried no meaning for me whatsoever.
“Morganna Hanks?” I demanded, furious at the ever-closer association with my dead nemesis, Hank Morgan.
Clarice raised her hands, her visage a study in abject humiliation. “A harmless jest, your Majesty! I crave your pardon; I intended no offense!”
I felt inclined to believe her; and, suspended midair in the belly of a twenty-first-century dragon, I felt inclined to be magnanimous. I said:
“Of course, child. If it amuses you, then so shall it amuse me.”
“And it’s just a formality, see? You can still have people call you ‘Queen Morgan’ if you wish; people are always inventing titles and nicknames for themselves, so no one will think twice about it.” She waved the rectangle. “This is your ID card. Please don’t lose it! It bears proof that you are who you say you are, and it will get you past security. I advise that you keep it in your purse.” Clarice gave me a small bag with a long loop but otherwise no obvious means for attaching it to my belt as tradition dictated; in the next breath, I recalled that I was not wearing a belt, so I nodded, opened the purse, took the rectangle, shoved it inside, snapped the purse closed, and slung the strap over my shoulder.
As if in afterthought, Clarice said, “I have made all the necessary arrangements to add you to the UK citizens’ database.” I had no clue what she meant, but it sounded important. “I have made you the widow of Rance King, in case anyone asks. Your town of legal residence is London, England, and your profession is that of public relations.”
As queen I do not relate to the public; I govern them. And yet, after I bade Clarice explain this profession of “public relations,” I had to admit that assigning such a role to me for the sake of twenty-first-century appearances made a degree of sense. These public relations specialists do not relate to the public either, but attempt to tell the public what to do, ostensibly for the benefit of the people themselves but in truth only to fill someone else’s treasury vaults, much as a queen does, but in a smaller and shallower scope and without the divinely appointed authority to make the people obey their commands. Highly inefficient. Clarice said her realm operates in this manner to preserve the people’s “individual liberties”—another inefficient, overrated, and altogether unnecessary concept that operates at cross-purposes with the smooth and profitable governing of any realm of any size.
The limo began to slow. I needed no second warning to reseat myself and secure my straps. To the dragon’s credit, its landing was as smooth as could be expected, had I ever taken time to contemplate what it might feel like to ride on—to say nothing of in—a dragon.
We emerged from the beast onto a wide, tall-walled courtyard that I likened to the outer ward of a castle. From the proximity of feathery birds and steel dragons and wispy clouds, I presumed this was one of the hovering castles that I had g
limpsed from the limo. The keep itself, its silver and crystal glinting golden in the setting sun, shot straight up into yet more clouds which obscured its height. Above its double doors, said doors being not as tall as Camelot’s, but feeling just as imposing, arched the words “Hinton Tower.”
I could become accustomed to governing from such a place as this. ’Twas a wonder the Church ever permitted these impressive structures to be constructed for worldly use, especially those with the temerity to hover at the very feet of heaven itself.
At this point, I feel compelled to remark upon the feminine footgear of this far-distant century, for here I had by necessity to take my first steps therein. ’Twas, it pains me to admit, almost a disaster. The soft, low-heeled, ankle-high boots of my preference enjoy that status for the comfort they offer while walking, sitting, and standing. Though the comely little deviltries Clarice called “Pradas” felt comfortable enough while I sat inside the limo, as I walked I felt akin to the Revel Grove performer who strode upon waist-high wooden rods. After I cast a discreet balance-enhancing spell, my fortunes in the Pradas improved dramatically.
I drew glances of appreciation from the footmen and guards abounding without and within the castle, though whether by cause of the Pradas or my new suit was impossible to discern. Regardless, all the men seemed to take special pleasure in stopping me and Clarice, courteously but firmly demanding our ID cards, pointing a magical red light beam at the cards, and spending the rest of the time offering us silly grins and speeches before at last waving us on to the next knot of twenty-first-century castle guards.
I believe even Clarice grew wearied of this routine. After we passed the last enclave of guards, she heaved a sigh, approached a wall, touched it once, and a set of doors slid open. She beckoned me to follow her inside, which I did with no small amount of trepidation and no small appreciation for the continued effect of my drying spell.
The doors slid closed. Clarice withdrew a different card from her purse and inserted it into a slit in the wall, touched the highest number on a panel of numbered circles, withdrew the card, stowed it, and we began to rise far swifter than the limo’s ascent had been. Outwardly I strove to achieve my typical serene expression, once I had grasped firm hold of the closest rail; inwardly I felt as if an entire flock of dragons had taken residence, feasted upon my unfortunate entrails, and the beasts were now engaged in discussing among themselves the quality of that recent meal, punctuated by many flame-tinged belches which I struggled to suppress. The second rule of queenship is: never let anyone hear any noise emanate from your royal person other than the sound of your voice; the pleasant modulation thereof is optional, as the situation warrants.
“This is an elevator, your Majesty,” Clarice offered, as if she had read the question in my mind. “It does exactly as its name implies: it elevates, or lifts, its passengers to any floor of the building the passengers choose. That is, given certain access restrictions.” She nibbled her lip. “As in your domain, not everyone here has permission to be part of the—royal court. It would have been faster to use the transporter pad, but I presumed you might have had enough of transportation tech—er, sorcery.” Her smile shone briefly but genuinely.
Once again she had the right of it. However, if the denizens of this century could wield the spell that had miscarried at my invocation of it, then perhaps all was not as lost as I had first presumed. I resolved to study this century’s transportation enchantments at the very earliest opportunity.
The conveyance stopped, and its doors parted. Clarice led me from the tiny chamber into a large, bright, airy reception area occupied by yet more black-liveried guards. While my companion spoke with these men, I walked to one of the many floor-to-ceiling plates of glass that seemed to be all that protected me from the outside environs, which were obscured by the clouds.
Magically I nudged them aside to reveal my circumstances, and in the same breath I wished I had not. I was standing so high above the earth that even the flying flatulent silver dragons seemed as ants to me, and the long white worms writhing from structure to structure at ground level appeared as thin as spokes of a spider’s web. The people were nowhere to be seen.
“Queen Morgan?” Clarice appeared at my side as abruptly as if she had invoked a transportation spell of her own. The hand that I did not realize I had pressed to my lips, I balled into a fist and lowered slowly. Clarice averted her gaze but did not curtsey. “My apologies, your Majesty. They are ready to see you now.”
“They” proved to be what passed as the queen, royal consort, and court of this realm. A queen in many ways—in bearing and handsomeness and wealth and authority—and yet not a queen in the most basic tradition of divinely ordained right. Though she wore the same style of somber suit as I and Clarice and every other woman in the room, I needed no herald to identify her to me. She stood among a knot of courtiers, poised, smiling, infrequently nodding in a regal fashion and saying even less, clasping in her left hand a clear goblet of blood-red wine from which she sipped a few drops now and then. By the lack of alcoholic aroma about her person, I judged it a certain wager that she had not yet commanded a refill.
’Tis just so with me whenever I attend an event whose circumstances dictate that I remain wary and watchful; each time I visit Camelot springs to mind.
I also would have wagered my crown on the prediction that this tower was not the home fortress of this twenty-first-century ruler.
The woman glanced toward me and Clarice. A gray man standing at her right hand—gray of hair, gray of eyes, gray of clothing even down to the gray of his shoes, with the exception of a crimson band of silken fabric tied round his neck and cascading down the front of his pale gray shirt as if someone had slit his throat and he had forgotten that he should have perished from the mortal wound, and yet clean-shaven and not appearing nearly as old as his gray demeanor might otherwise suggest—bent to whisper something in the woman’s ear. By magic I discerned the phrase, “This is the one,” though I knew not what he meant.
She whispered to him, “Not Arthur?”
They were expecting my brother and not me! But the tone of the woman’s disappointment sounded far less acute than the gray man’s; therefore, I forgave her, she being one of my peers in spirit if not in actual fact.
As for the gray man, he had a menace lurking behind his sparkling gray eyes and sparkling gray smile, a writhing menace like the cat that crouches in wait, hindquarters all awriggle, twitching its gray-striped tail and smiling its secret gray-lipped catty smile, for the targeted mouse to creep unaware into perfect position for the lethal pounce.
He was going to be trouble, this gray man; I knew the fact as well as I knew my beloved mother’s name. “Wary” does not even begin to describe my heightened state of alert.
The woman and her companion stepped away from the courtiers and toward me. Clarice, at my side, offered them one brief but polite nod. Apparently in this century, vulgar baseball lived but proper reverential courtesy was dead. She said:
“Madame President, I am honored to present Morganna Hanks, known to her family, friends, and familiars as Queen Morgan.” I inclined my head much as Clarice had done, though more briefly. “Queen Morgan, it is my singular honor to introduce President Malory Beckham Hinton of the United States of America and her husband, Senator Ambrose Josiah Hinton.”
“Former senator,” said Ambrose in a manner so oily that I felt tempted to summon a cake of one of The Boss’s more useful inventions, soap. “It wouldn’t do for the President during her term to be married to an active senator; balance of power, and all that. No, no, no, that wouldn’t do at all.”
Horse dung, thought I through my most winsome smile.
Here before me stood a man whose every pore shouted, to every person with wits enough to discern the din, his desire to be a kingmaker—or queenmaker, in this case. That was why he had been so disappointed at my arrival, I realized; he probably had hoped to consult with Arthur, perhaps regarding how Arthur had dealt with th
e rebellious factions after he had taken upon himself the mantle of kingship.
Another, darker insight struck me. What if this man’s desire was not to abolish the present form of government within these United States of America in favor of a monarchy for the benefit of his wife, but instead to make himself the supreme sovereign? The more I pondered it, the more likely that scenario loomed in my mind, and the less I liked it. A king’s first recourse to secure his crown lies in the elimination of all rival claimants, whether by binding them as allies through marriage (hence why I in my virgin youth was forced by Arthur to marry King Uriens, the most powerful of the rebel kings arrayed against him at the start of his reign), or other forms of bribery such as the gifting of lands, or through use of the more permanent and trustworthy—and far less costly, in human if not spiritual terms—solution of murdering them.
If Ambrose one day were to succeed in making himself king, I would not give Malory a snowball’s chance of seeing, with her earthly eyes, the following day’s dawn.
As I clasped hands and pumped, according to the courtesies of this era, first with the President as was proper since she bore the higher rank, and then with her consort, my resolutions became twofold. Retribution and the return to my era could wait. I vowed to divert all of my attention and energy into helping Malory Beckham Hinton, my sister-sovereign (though not a sovereign, yet); and, of more vital import, I resolved to watch Ambrose Josiah Hinton with utmost caution.
He said:
“Queen Morgan—Morgan le Fay? Prove it.”
Quietly as the quietest of summer breezes I said—
“Ambrose Hinton, scratch thyself.”
He did not immediately fall to the raking and railing of his sundry parts; nay, that would have been too obvious and too easy to explain by means other than the magical arts. Some might have suggested that he had been bitten by an onslaught of fleas (though with nary a dog nor cat nor rat in sight, fleas would have been prodigiously difficult to come by), or that someone had slipped an itching potion into his goblet (not likely, due to the ubiquitous watchful presence of the black-suited guards), or rubbed oil from the virulent trileaf vine onto his clothing (again, not likely, owing to the lack of said vines on the premises and the tower’s hovering above ground), or some other such “natural” contrivance, for people will try their uttermost best not to see magic as it shimmers plainly all round them. The command I planted within Ambrose’s simian brain I felt content to let germinate of its own speed and volition, while I applied my skills to the inflammation of lust within the breast of every other male in the room: toward me, of course, and within strict limits. ’Tis never meet to lose control of a situation of one’s own devising when proving a point.
King Arthur's Sister in Washington's Court Page 5