The Last Days Of The Edge Of The World

by Brian Stableford

  The enchanter and the king exchanged expressions of hearty good fellowship and wished one another well. Tactfully, they avoided any overt reference to the marriage or the likelihood of any formal engagement. Then they parted, each to apply himself to his own part of the problem.

  When all the guests had gone, and the footmen had turned back into mice, while candles cast a dim light over the banqueting table and left the suits of armour and porcelain dragons to the gloomy shadows, Sirion Hilversun and his daughter sat together, sadly and apprehensively. They were both full of food, and neither wanted an argument. Helen’s anger and resentment were at a low ebb.

  “I know he’s not the sort of prince you find in story books,” said the enchanter, “but few real princes are. But he’ll grow a little yet, and with a little encouragement.”

  “I don’t want to marry him,” said Helen flatly.

  “He is a prince,” said the enchanter.

  “I’d rather marry a swineherd. What’s so important about princes?”

  “You don’t know,” said Sirion Hilversun, in a low voice. “You don’t understand.” To him, it was important … as important as anything could be. He wanted to die knowing that his daughter was secure, and the greatest security there could be—the greatest security he could imagine—was that of being married to the heir to a throne. He had always wanted the best for Helen, and a prince, by definition, was the best. Had he known about the grievous state of Caramorn’s economy, his attitude would have been different. But he didn’t. And neither did Helen.

  Helen looked hard at her father, who was looking just now as old and as feeble as he had ever looked. She knew as well as he did that the fading of his remarkable memory and the fading of his magical powers were the inevitable preludes to his death. She accepted that as he did. And she wanted very much to ease his mind. She knew that the only way to do it was to give in to his stubbornness—but she also knew that there was no way on Earth that she was going to marry Damian of Caramorn.

  She hunted in her mind for a way out of the dilemma.

  All of a sudden she remembered something she had read long before, in one of the romances of which she was so fond.

  “Father,” she said, trying to sound perfectly calm and sensible. “I’ll marry your prince on one condition. If he can prove that he’s not a fool by answering three questions that I will put to him, then I’ll marry him.”

  Sirion Hilversun stared at her thoughtfully. He had read that story too. The young lady in question had never intended to marry at all, and she had asked questions which she considered to be unanswerable. He could see Helen’s strategy quite clearly. But the enchanter also remembered the end of the story, when a prince had come who could answer the questions. And that romance had ended happily. He hesitated, wondering what to say.

  “That’s very unusual,” he said.

  “It’s been done before,” answered Helen, reasonably. “And you wouldn’t want me to marry a worthless prince, now would you? You’d want me to marry one with a little common sense, a little cleverness, and perhaps a little initiative. If Prince Damian hasn’t any of those qualities he’d be a most unsuitable husband. I’m sure you’ll agree with that.”

  “Perhaps,” said the enchanter, slowly. “Perhaps.”

  “1 think you should write a letter first thing tomorrow morning,” urged Helen.

  “I can’t help thinking,” said the enchanter, “that it’s a little unfair. After all, the prince is a prince and you’re the daughter of a fairly mediocre magician. He might feel very insulted by such a demand.”

  “Fair enough,” replied Helen, thinking quickly. “You can tell him that the offer applies both ways. If he’ll prove himself by answering my questions. I’ll prove myself by answering his. Three each. Who could object to that?’

  Sirion Hilversun gave a low laugh. “I suppose you intend to play this game fairly,” he said. “No daughter of mine would think to cheat by failing to answer a question that was put to her, and thus break the marriage contract.”

  “How could you suggest such a thing?” asked Helen, with an attitude of outrage that was almost wholly genuine. “When I play a game I play it by the rules. Believe you me, if that weakling prince can answer my questions, I’ll answer his. No one’s ever going to say that I was unworthy to marry a creature like that. I have my pride, you know.”

  “I know,” murmured Sirion Hilversun. “I know.”

  The more he thought about it, the more the enchanter saw the suggestion as a way out—one way that perhaps everyone could be happy. If Damian really could answer the questions, and test Helen with some good ones of his own, then they might actually win one another’s respect—something they had conspicuously failed to do earlier that evening.

  There was, of course, a strong element of wishful thinking involved in Sirion Hilversun’s contemplation. He still had certain illusions about the nature and talents of princes that owed more to stories and legends than any trustworthy experience. But it is always easy to believe when you desperately want to believe.

  There was something more. While he thought about the idea, a thin fragment of memory wound itself into his thoughts… something about questions and answers, and letters exchanged… something momentous. He couldn’t remember anything specific, but he was suddenly seized by the notion that this suggestion was very important, and that on this decision might hang more than he could suspect. Something in his mind said that this was the most important decision of his life, and that he must take it correctly.

  A shiver ran suddenly down his spine.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Helen, seeing the shudder.

  “Magic,” whispered Sirion Hilversun. “Powerful magic. I sense it.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Neither do I,” said the enchanter. “It’s beyond me…. Something from a long time ago. I want you to be careful, Helen. Very careful.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Does that mean you agree?’

  “I’ll write the letter,” said Sirion Hilversun. “Not in the morning. Right now, I’ll put in your condition. But I want you to choose your questions carefully. Very carefully indeed.”

  “Oh, I will,” she replied, with a slight hint of ironic triumph in her voice. “I will. You can depend on that.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “What I want to know,” said the king, furiously, “is what on Earth the fellow means by it. Silly nonsense about questions. What questions? Is he trying to suggest that Damian’s a fool? I won’t stand for it, I tell you!”

  “It’s definitely an insult,” said Damian, feeding the flames of his father’s rage. “After this, I’d say that there would be no point at all in carrying on with this plan. We still have our pride. The marriage is out of the question.” He realized that he had accidentally made a pun and looked around to see if anyone had noticed. Nobody had. He shrugged philosophically. It was probably not the time for levity anyhow.

  “Please,” said Coronado, “let’s take this calmly. I understand your point of view. But what we must understand is that World’s Edge has customs and folkways that differ considerably from our own. The magic lands are steeped in ritual and superstition. Nothing is simple and straightforward where enchanters are concerned. All things have to be dressed in strange ceremony. I seem to remember reading somewhere about a custom very similar to this, and it is quite wonderful to think that such things are still being preserved. A man of Sirion Hilversun’s antiquity, you must realize, is bound to be very strong on tradition. It isn’t an insult. I think that we must, in all honour and with all dignity, accept.”

  The prime minister finished his speech with a small bow. Whenever he thought that he had made an especially fine speech he finished it thus. He was particularly proud of this one because he had done it, so to speak, off the cuff.

  The king writhed on the throne. It was not a very comfortable throne, and he had often considered getting rid of it and replacing it with a nice armchai
r, but somehow the idea always seemed slightly absurd when he got to the point of being about to mention it to someone else, and he never did.

  “I don’t know,” muttered the king. He had been impressed by Coronado’s speech, but his rages always took a while to wear off.

  “I’m not so sure that this is a good idea anyway,” said Damian. “It seems to me we’re taking a lot for granted. How do we know that his deal will do any of us any good. That old man looks pretty useless to me. I don’t see how he’s going to save the kingdom.”

  “If nothing else,” put in Alcover, “he’s got assets. Those porcelain dragons are worth more than a little, and that collection of clocks contains some priceless antiques. I calculate that to maintain the staff we saw last night and to keep a house the size of Moonmansion running smoothly he must have a budget of at least a thousand a week. That doesn’t sound much, but when you consider that he has no income at all, and must be living on his capital, or the interest it earns–-“

  “With all due respect to Alcover,” said Bellegrande, “the enchanter’s household budget is neither here nor there. What matters is his magic. And that he has in abundance. You may not have noticed, but I overheard some of those footmen in communication, and I assure you that they spoke no language I’ve ever heard before, it’s my belief they’re supernatural creatures enslaved by his enchantment. That is real power.”

  “He sets a very good table,” rumbled Hallowbrand. ‘A man who sets a good table is a good man to have on our side. That’s what I always say.” It did not take an intellectual giant to see which way the current of opinion was flowing. That was perhaps as well, as one thing Damian was not was an intellectual giant.

  “Honestly!” complained the prince. “Anyone would think that the wizard had you all under a spell or something. You’re all so keen to deliver me into his witch-daughter’s clutches. No one cares what I think. And in any case, what makes you think I’ll be able to answer her stupid questions?”

  There was a slightly uncomfortable silence. The ministers exchanged significant glances. The last question was most definitely an awkward one.

  “If I may make a suggestion…” said Hallowbrand tentatively.

  All eyes turned upon him. He shifted his great bulk from one foot to the other. “Your majesty has a most adequate library,” he continued. “We may not have it long, but it is still here. And there is a youth engaged in the business of cataloguing it so that the university at Heliopolis can make an offer for it. This youth comes from Jessamy—the son of an instrument-maker—and he has been attending the university on a grant which the government gave to him. It seems, you see, that this boy is of exceptional intelligence and aptitude. With the whole library at his disposal____”

  “Are you suggesting,” said Rufus Malagig IV, “that Damian should cheat?”

  “Not at all,” said Coronado, stepping in hurriedly. “It is hardly cheating if the prince makes use of the…er … research facilities at his disposal. I think that the boy might well be regarded, for the time being, as… an extension of the library services. He will, after all, only be assisting the prince.”

  The king thought about it for a few moments, then nodded. He was realistic enough to know that there was no other way that the prince was going to answer any but the easiest questions.

  “Suppose the enchanter finds out?” asked Damian, desperately.

  “I think we can arrange that he won’t,” said the prime minister, smoothly. “We can, I think, conduct the whole affair by mail. If we write immediately to Sirion Hilversun requesting that he send us the first question by return of post, and promise to deliver the answer forty eight hours later, together with our first question… and so on. I think we’ll have all the time we need, and we can get the answers how we please.”

  “He is an enchanter, you know,” said the king. “He may have ways of finding these things out.”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Coronado, “I don’t think that it will matter if he does. As I said, this is an old custom—probably no more than a formality. I do suppose he minds how we get the answers.”

  “I mind,” say Damian, hopefully. “I think it’s dishonest.”

  “Shut up!” said the king. “You’ll do as you’re told.” Damian sighed heavily. It was certainly no bed of

  roses being crown prince of Caramorn. Sometimes he wondered if he wouldn’t have been better off cataloguing libraries or some other such thing.

  Ewan was sitting quietly on a high stool between two colossal bookcases, reading by the light of a candle. It was the middle of the day, but the library windows were obscured by the ends of bookshelves, books stacked on the ledges, and by the dust of decades. The candle was necessary.

  He was so engrossed that he did not hear the door open and close. He was reading an ancient text by a failed alchemist who attempted to show that lead was much more useful and of greater value than gold. Not until a shadow fell across the page, when Coronado moved between the candle-flame and the book, did he realize that he was no longer alone.

  “Don’t stand up,” said the prime minister, in his best approximation of a friendly paternal tone.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said Ewan. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Hard at work, eh?”

  “Yes, sir.” Ewan blushed suddenly. “I wasn’t really reading it. Just—scanning through it. To see if…”

  “Of course,” purred the prime minister. “I understand perfectly. You have to describe books in your catalogue. The university want to know what they’re buying. Don’t worry a bit. You don’t tell me how to be prime minister, I won’t tell you how to catalogue a library, all right?”

  Ewan grinned weakly. He had never talked to a prime minister before. He was not intimidated, but he did feel that Coronado’s sickly tone of voice was unwarranted. Ewan didn’t like people to speak to him as if he was a child.

  “And how are you getting on?” asked Coronado.

  “Very well, thank you, sir,” replied Ewan.

  “You’ll get us a good price for it all, I hope.

  “That’s nothing to do with me,” Ewan was quick to assure him. “I only list the books. The archivists at the university will check through it and decide what price to offer.”

  “Oh, to be sure, to be sure,” murmured the prim minister, idly, maintaining the silky tone in his voice; His eyes ran over the shelves, noting the tide marks in the dust where books had been disturbed for the first time in more than a hundred years. The king and his forefathers had been great collectors, when they could afford the luxury, but very few people at the palace ever read anything except the newspapers. His gaze came to rest on the ink-pot and quill, which stood upon the parchment on which Ewan was compiling his list. To judge by the number of completed pages there was a very great deal of work still to be done.

  Ewan blinked, wondering what so august a person could possibly want with him, not liking to ask.

  “What do you do with your spare time?” asked the prime minister.

  “I don’t have a great deal,” said Ewan.

  “You enjoy your work?”

  Ewan shrugged. “I like books. I like reading. I even like making lists. I don’t mind working a long day. After all, it’s for the good of the country, isn’t it?” He supplemented this last remark with a weak smile, as though it were a joke—or perhaps half a joke.

  “It is indeed,” said Coronado soberly. “And that’s something you care about, is it? The good of your country?”

  “Of course,” said Ewan. What else can you say to a prime minister who also happens to be your employer? But in point of fact, Ewan was being honest. Though he felt that his own future might lie in lands far to the west, he was concerned about Caramorn. His father and mother were here, and his two sisters, and everyone he had known as a boy. He knew about the bad harvests, and even felt slightly guilty that he had missed the worst of them by being away in the Western Empire, where food was plentiful.

  “I’m
glad,” said Coronado. “Because it happens that there’s a small favour you can do for your country. A little extracurricular task, as you might say. I can’t offer you money, or any other material incentive, but I can assure you that if you do this little thing you’ll have brought the country one step nearer to salvation from ruin. Will you do it?”

  Ewan wanted to reply, as any sensible person would have: “That depends what it is.” But it was such a nice speech, such a heartfelt appeal, that it would have seemed churlish and unpatriotic to prevaricate. So Ewan said, “I’ll be glad to,” just as Coronado had known that he would.

  “That’s excellent,” said Coronado. “I’m afraid you’ll be an unsung hero, because this must be kept very quiet. It’s a state secret, in fact. You’ll have nothing but the satisfaction of having helped your country, but for a man like yourself I know that will be enough. Now, I want you to swear that you’ll never breathe a word of this to anyone. No one must ever know of your involvement.”

  Ewan felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He knew that he was being used. The slickness of the prime minister’s whole approach told him that something underhanded was going on. But he also knew that he had no choice. He had to play the game, whatever it was.

  “Do you swear?” said Coronado.

  “I swear,” said Ewan, with the faintest of sighs.

  “Well, then,” continued the prime minister, leaning over so that his lantern jaw was only a few inches from Ewan’s ear, “it’s like this. Prince Damian is in a bit of a spot. It is vitally necessary, for reasons of state, that he should marry a certain young lady. It was, for various reasons, necessary that we should arrange all this in a bit of a hurry. Naturally, both the young people concerned are a little apprehensive. They’re a fraction reluctant. They don’t really understand why things must move so fast, and apparently without much regard for their own feelings. You, of course, are an intelligent person and can see the logic of such arrangements, can understand the fact that sometimes a marriage must be made in order to help a kingdom out of its little difficulties.