by K. E. Mills
Reg rolled her eyes. 'Yes, Gerald. I hear you, Gerald. Now can we please get on with it, Gerald, because I'm not getting any younger!'
She hopped down from his knee and crouched on the grass before him, eyes gleaming with determination, wings outspread and ready. He leaned forward and rested a finger lightly on the top of her head. Closed his eyes. Sought for the power hidden within and felt it shudder, waiting. 'Accelerando maxima,' he whispered. 'Accelerando maxima qui. Accelerando maxima deco dea'.
Nothing happened.
'Gerald, if you're waiting for me to change my mind you're much sillier than I ever gave you credit for!' said Reg, flapping her wings. 'I'm going and that's all there is tooooo—ooooh—ooooh — Gceeraaaaaald.'
And she was gone.
For a long time he sat in the shade of the chestnut tree, listening to a nearby gardener's tuneless humming and staring at the point of sky into which Reg had launched herself like an arrow of flame. He lost track of time. Felt bodiless, as though he were nothing but a vast and pulsing pain contained within a tissue-thin sack of skin. As though at any moment he would tear to shreds and the pain would come pouring out in a torrent of tears to soak into the grass and put an end to him entirely.
He thought that might be a good thing. Because if anything happened to Reg…
Then a voice cried: 'Oh there you are, Professor! I've found you!' and he was dragged back into passing time and aching flesh and solid sorrow.
Oh no. Not Rupert. Not now. Someone make him go away.
He closed his eyes, but when he opened them again Melissande's batty brother stood directly in front of him, beaming like a little boy who'd found his lost teddy. He was dressed in a puce velvet suit with lace trimmings, and wore a butterfly like a hair ornament.
'Rupert,' he said, struggling for rudimentary good manners. 'Hello. Ah… on your head—there's a—'
Rupert's smile widened. 'Oh, yes, that's Esmerelda. Isn't she beautiful?' Collapsing his knees and ankles he dropped to the grass to sit cross-legged in the shade. The green and white butterfly clinging to his tangled hair fluttered its wings but didn't fly away. 'I named her after my mother. Her name was Esmerelda, before she became a Melissande. She was beautiful too. Lional looks just like her. Unfortunately Melly and I seem to have taken more after Father's side of the family' He reached up a gentle fingertip; the butterfly stepped onto it, dainty as a ballerina. 'Esmerelda's a Dumb Cluck,' he added, grinning soppily at the docile insect.
I can't stand this, not right now . . .
'A what?' Gerald said, ungritting his teeth.
'It's a specialty breed,' Rupert explained. 'Designed as a house pet. They can't fly so they almost never escape. If you're not careful though you tread on them, with unfortunate consequences. But they do make excellent companions, provided you remember to look where you're stepping.' He winced. 'Or sitting.'
Gerald tried to imagine the kind of person who'd go to all the trouble of purpose-breeding a butterfly that made a good pet but couldn't fly.
Probably they looked a lot like Rupert.
'The Dumb Clucks used to be very popular,' said Rupert, carefully returning the insect to his head. 'But then Andrea Wallington-Finch successfully crossed a Dumb Cluck with an Exciteable Clampet.' He sighed. 'And after that hardly anybody wanted a plain old Cluck in the family. I suppose I have a certain amount of fellow feeling for the poor things.'
There was no way to answer that politely, so he nodded. 'Hmm.'
'Now tell me, Gerald, how are you feeling this morning? All recovered from that nasty fall?'
'Yes. Quite recovered. Thanks for asking.'
Rupert peered at him. 'Are you sure? Because when I saw you just now I thought: Oh dear, Gerald's having a relapse.'
Reg. With a supreme effort he banished the haunting fear. 'No. No relapse.'
'You'd tell me if you were, though, wouldn't you?' Rupert said anxiously. 'I mean, if there was anything upsetting you, you'd tell me? I know I'm a bit of a ninny but I'm a very good listener. You'd be surprised, I think, the things people tell me. Especially the staff. They all come to me with their little problems because they know I'll listen. Sometimes I even solve them, only please don't go repeating that because Lional doesn't like me getting familiar with the staff.
Tell Rupert his little problems. There was an idea. Your brother probably tried to murder me, I accidentally arranged for your sister to be sold into a loveless marriage, I've almost certainly plunged your kingdom into a religious war and there's a good chance I've just killed my best friend. He dredged up a smile. 'That's incredibly kind of you Rupert, truly. But I'm fine.'
The prince beamed. 'I'm so glad you're calling me Rupert. It makes me feel like we're proper friends. You don't mind, do you?'
He stared at Melissande's dotty brother, ambushed by compassion. What a sad man Rupert was. Hardly even a man, really. More a case of tragically arrested development. A figure of idiocy, with his tremulous mouth and his watery eyes, his shrinking posture and his grating laugh. Dressed in that dreadful suit… crowned with a butterfly… and everywhere he turned—Lional. Tall and handsome and mercunally gifted. Poor Rupert, doomed to be a perennial scholarship boy in the university of life.
'No,' he said gently. 'I don't mind at all.'
'Wonderful. That means I can tell you what's bothering me!'
His heart sank. 'Bothering you?'
Rupert nodded eagerly. 'Yes! You see I'm rather worried about Melissande. She and Lional are very alike you know, Gerald. Both dreadfully stubborn.'
'You don't say?'
'Oh yes. They both take after Father in that respect. Once Father's mind was made up you couldn't have changed it with a block and tackle. And I really do think that the more Lional says "you will marry the sultan", the more Melly will dig her heels in and say "I won't"'. Rupert chewed his lip. 'And to be honest, Gerald, although it hurts me to say so because he is my brother, if Lional doesn't get his own way he can be a trifle… snarky.'
He kept a straight face, just. 'Really? That's hard to believe.'
'Well I promise it's true,' said Rupert earnestly.' don't think she should marry Zazoor either, no matter what the Kallarapi gods say. Quite frankly, what business they've got making wedding plans for my little sister I'm sure I don't know. And as for Lional agreeing with them… I don't understand it. But he won't explain why. He just shouts and stamps and makes Tavistock look at me with all his teeth.' He shuddered. 'You'll have to speak to him about it, Gerald. He won't make Tavistock look at you with all his teeth.'
Oh lord. He rubbed his aching head. 'Rupert…'
'He won't,' Rupert insisted. 'He likes you. He's always liked wizards, ever since he was a boy he's been fascinated by magic and all those terribly secret and peculiar things you chaps get up to. Actually, I think he'd have liked being a wizard himself but he's got next-to-no aptitude. Very put out about that, he was. He made the men from the Department test him 5 times.'
'That must have been disappointing,' he murmured.
Rupert bleated. 'Oh, Gerald, you don't know the half of it! Anyway, the first thing Lional did when he took the throne was hire himself a court wizard. Although,' he added, frowning thoughtfully, 'as it turns out Professor Uffitzi wasn't quite what he was after. None of them were. But he thinks the world of you, Gerald. In Lional's eyes you can do no wrong. He already likes you more than he'll ever like me. In fact…' His face lit up. 'Why don't you marry Melly? That way you'll be Lional's brother-in-law, which will more than make up for me.'
Gerald staggered to his feet. 'Marry Melissande? Me? Rupert, are you cracked?'
Rupert got up, one hand over his head to safeguard Esmerelda. 'I expect so,' he said cheerfully. 'But that doesn't make me wrong. I mean I know she's not exactly beautiful, at least not on the outside, and she can be a bit bossy, but really that's just her being organised and goodness if she wasn't organised I don't know what would happen to the rest of us, and then of course there's Boris…' He thought for a moment then s
ighed. 'No. I can't think of a single nice thing to say about Boris. Still. Nobody's perfect, are they?'
Oh, hell… 'Look,' he said helplessly. 'I'm sorry, Rupert, but I can't marry your sister. I will talk to His Majesty, though, and see if I can't convince him to reconsider her marriage to Zazoor. How about that?'
'Well,' said Rupert, patently disappointed. 'All right. If you think it's worth a try. In fact…' A growing expression of unease spread over his gormless face. 'Why don't you go talk to him right now?'
The unease was contagious. 'Why right now?' he said, suspicious.
This time Rupert's smile was sickly. 'Because I've just remembered why I came looking for you. Lional wants to see you. In his private dining room. Something about lunch and state business.'
'Bloody hell, Rupert! Why didn't you say.'
'I meant to,' Rupert said meekly. 'I got sidetracked. Sorry. Do you remember how to find the dining room?'
Idiot, idiot, idiot! 'Yes,' he said, walking rapidly.
Behind him, Rupert cleared his throat. 'And Gerald?'
'What?' he demanded, over his shoulder. Idiot Rupert was pale and agitated. 'I think I'd run, if I were you.'
CHAPTER NINETEEN
'Half an hour.' shouted Lional, sitting bolt upright and radiating fury. 'You've kept me waiting for half an hour, Professor! It simply isn't good enough!'
As a relieved servant closed the private dining room's door behind him, Gerald glanced warily at Tavistock, disapproving beside Lional's ornate chair, and bowed. 'So sorry, Your Ma—'
'My instructions were perfectly clear, not even a moron like Rupert could've misunderstood me!' Lional seethed. 'Which means you've kept me waiting on purpose!'
The dining table was set for two and laden with tureens and platters and sauceboats of food. Poached fish. Roast duck. Delicately spiced gravies. Green beans and artichokes swimming in garlic butter. Their combined aromas teased and tantalised. On the sideboard a towering confection of cake, as yet untouched, with cream and chocolate and the seductive scent of coffee liqueur.
Almost deafened by his abruptly rumbling belly, Gerald swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth. 'Please forgive me, Your Majesty. I intended no deliberate slight or disrespect. I think His Highness had some difficulty finding me.'
Eyes narrowed, lips pinched, Lional drummed his lingers on the table, vibrating the used cutlery on his emptied plate. Then he reached for his wineglass, tossed its blood-red contents down his throat and thrust it forward. 'Well, man, don't just stand there! Pour me another one!'
Hastily he poured Lional more wine from the large crystal carafe on the table. The king half emptied the glass then sat back in his chair, suspicion and anger still not fully allayed. 'So what were you up to, Professor, that Rupert couldn't find you?'
Damn. Of course Lional had to ask. 'Up to? Ah—' Inspiration struck. A chance for two birds with one stone, no pun intended. 'I was out looking for Reg, Your Majesty'
Lional's eyes narrowed again. 'The bird? Why? Where's it gone?'
Schooling his face to an expression of innocent anxiety he said, 'Actually, Your Majesty, I'm not entirely sure.'
'Not sure?' Lional sat up. 'You mean you've lost it?
Reg, hexed to the eyeballs and hurtling home. Oh lord, I hope not. 'No, no, Your Majesty. Not lost. Just—'
'Good,' said Lional. 'That bird is an integral part of my plans for this kingdom. I would be excessively… disappointed… if you'd been so careless as to misplace it, Gerald.'
I bet you would, Lional. 'Yes, Your Majesty.'
Lional didn't look entirely convinced. 'I should warn you, Gerald, that I don't much care for being disappointed.'
Too bad. Because you're long overdue and if I have my way… . 'I'm sure you don't,Your Majesty.'
Without warning, Lional smiled. One hand drifted down to scratch Tavistock between the ears. 'Well, you're here now so I mustn't complain. Do have a seat, Professor. You look positively peaky. Help yourself to some food and while you're eating you can explain what has happened to your little feathered friend.'
'Thank you,' said Gerald, and sat at the tables other place setting. He was so hungry he felt lightheaded and ill. He was so hungry he didn't care he'd be eating with Lional and Tavistock for an audience.
Plate hastily filled, he tried not to fall on the food like a starving wolf or choke when Lional poured wine for him into his glass.
'Drink up, Professor,' the king urged, positively genial. 'Your blood could do with some fortifying, I think.'
It certainly can. Reg, Reg… please be all right. 'Thank you,' he said, and swallowed a mouthful of the wine. It was exquisite, rich and robust and full of fruit. Just what he needed. He swallowed some more. Ate the fish and roast duck. Savoured the buttery garlicked artichoke. The rumbling ache in his belly eased, mouthful by mouthful. He drank the rest of the wine. It was fiibulous.
'Another half-glass?' suggested Lional, crystal carafe raised invitingly.
He shook his head, which was swimming gently like the goldfish in his foyer fountain. 'My thanks, Your Majesty, but—'
Lional ignored him. 'And now that your appetite is assuaged,' he said, expertly pouring, 'do feel free to tell me all about Reg. Where has the charming little wretch got to?'
His blood felt replaced, not fortified; rich red wine pumping in time with his heart. He almost emptied his refilled glass in a single swallow. It was so good! He'd been worried about something. What was it? 'Reg?' he echoed. 'Oh! Yes! Reg! Well, Your Majesty, she went out early this morning to stretch her wings. She said she'd only be gone an hour but she still hasn't returned.'
'I see,' said Lional, gently frowning. 'And you're anxious? You feel there could be some cause for alarm?'
'Well, I was. I did. I mean I am! I do! Although…' He leaned towards Lional confidingly. 'Just between you and me, she does enjoy her little jaunts. Has been known to get a bit carried away in the sightseeing department. Your Majesty' He hiccuped. 'Scuse me.'
Lional's smile was camaraderie personified. 'Not at all, Professor.'
'The thing is, Your Majesty, I think I was overreacting,' he admitted. 'She's no spring chicken, is our Reg. Been about a bit in her time. You'd be surprised. She'll be fine. Be back before we know it. My word on it, believe me.'
Lional patted his arm. 'You're the wizard, Gerald. If you say that's the case, of course I believe you. And doubtless the gods of Kallarap will protect her.' He smiled again. 'Have some more wine, my friend. It wants drinking up.' He poured for the third time.
Gerald didn't need encouragement. All his knotted muscles were unravelling, leaving him loose and delightfully mellow. He raised his glass. 'To your good health, sir!'
'Thank you, Gerald,' said Lional, sitting back. 'I'm touched. Tell me, how are you feeling? No unfortunate repercussions from yesterday's tumble?'
Tumble? Tumble? Oh yes! I fell off a horse, aren't I clumsy? He stifled a giggle. 'None at all, Your Majesty.'
'Ah, you wizards. Tough as old boots.' Elbows propped on his chair's gilded arms, Lional laced his fingers. 'And your memory of our little outing? Any sign of its return?'
'My memory?' he said vaguely. 'No, Your Majesty. I'm afraid it's as blank as ever.' He did giggle this time, a ridiculous sound. 'So if you happened to ravish a milk-maid or three while we were romping about the countryside, I promise your secret's safe with me!'
He held out his empty glass with a hopeful smile. Watched Lional fill it yet again. Drained it dry. Reached for the carafe himself this time, without asking, and sloshed more red gold into his glass.
Good old Lional. Excellent fellow. If only Errol Haythwaite and his cronies could see me now, chatting over lunch with my friend King Lional. They'd be greensick with envy. And Scunthorpe, too, that miserable old paper pusher. Bet he'll be sorry when he finds out the calibre of wizard he let slip through his fingers. Too stupid to see the genius right under his nose, Scunthorpe. They all are. Idiots! They'll rue the day they disrespected Gerald Dunnywood!<
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Replacing the carafe on the table with exaggerated care, he realised Lional was watching him intently. 'Cheers, Y'Majesty!' he said, and raised his glass in salute. 'Bloody nice drop this, innit?'
'Bloody nice indeed,' said Lional. He reached into his green silk coat's inside pocket and withdrew a red velvet covered box. Placing it on the tablecloth between them he added, 'And I hope you'll find this equally nice.'
He leaned forward, peering muzzily. 'Wazzat?'
'A gift, Gerald. A trinket. The merest token of my appreciation for all your efforts.'
'For me?' He felt his jaw drop. 'Y'Majessy… y'shouldn't have!'
'Of course I should! You've no idea how much I owe you, Gerald. Or how much more I'll owe you very soon. Open it.'
Fumbling, his fingers stubbornly uncooperative, he wrestled with the velvet box's lid. Inside, nestled in white satin, was a heavy golden ring set with a single cabochon-cut sapphire; the blue gem winked and flashed in the chandelier light.
Lional smiled. 'It's a signet ring. A gift from my father.'
'Y'father?' The box slipped from his clumsy fingers into a puddle of congealed gravy on his plate. 'Oh—no—can't take it—too precious—'
'Nonsense,' Lional said robustly. 'I never wear the wretched thing. Come. Put it on.'
'Oh, no, I—'
'Gerald! Please! You must, it's a gift! Do you want to hurt my feelings?'
Hurt Lional's feelings? Good old Lional, his mate, his chum? 'No, course not!'
'Then put it on, Gerald. Let me see how it suits you.'
It took him two attempts to fish the box clear of his plate. Growing dizzier by the second he gave it a half-hearted swipe with his napkin. 'Sorry, Y'Majessy,' he mumbled. 'Must've drunk a bit more than I realised.'
Lional laughed. 'Not to worry, old chap. We all get a bit tipsy from time to time. Quickly, now. Slip on the ring. Or I'll think you've not been truthful and you don't care for my gift.'