Someone else coughed. More looks were exchanged — silent offers and counteroffers; implied claims; tacit demurrals.
Presently one of them began, “Well, I should think —”
He was interrupted by the sound of the chamber doors creaking open. A page entered and stood to one side, at attention.
“His Royal Highness, Trent, Prince of the Realms Perilous!”
Trent strode in, green cape billowing.
All rose.
“Good day, my lords.”
Greetings in turn were murmured around the Council table.
All eyes were on him as he walked around the table. All took note of the resplendent finery: the silks, the ermines, the chased sword hilt in its jewel-encrusted scabbard, the sparkling gems on almost every finger. The hat was black with green trim, an enormous white plume sprouting from it.
Trent reached his place at the head of the table.
“Be seated, good my lords.”
They waited till he took his seat. Then they sat. The page retreated, the doors of the chamber closed. A hushed quiet fell.
Trent looked energetically confident and completely self-sufficient. His gaze was a withering beam that swept the table. His head swiveled only slightly. He looked from side to side, back and forth, once, twice, thrice, raking the solemn array of powerful men.
Then he smiled.
“It seems we have a problem.”
A minister to Trent’s left rose. He bowed. “Your Royal Highness. I think I speak for all my colleagues in expressing our sincerest condolences in this, your family’s hour of grief. Rest assured that we all share the pain of this most devastating and inconsolable loss, the loss not only of your dear brother, but of our liege lord and king.”
Trent nodded. “Thank you, Lord Burrel. And on behalf of my family, let me say that I feel secure in the knowledge that the day-to-day handling of the affairs of state will be in competent hands during this difficult period of change and transition. You have our every confidence and faith.”
Burrel bowed again. “Your Highness, my colleagues and I are ever your humble and obedient servants.”
“Fine,” Trent said. “Now let’s get to business. We have a boy king. A boy king wants a regent. I’m here to present the case for my taking on the job.”
Burrel slowly sat as a collective exhalation went up from the table. They had all known it was coming.
Another minister rose. “Sir, if I may be permitted to speak —?”
“Please, Lord Tragg.”
“I think it safe to say that Council will entertain any proposition or proposal that His Highness might wish to advance, and will, in due course, render its decision. But I beg His Highness to bear in mind that many and various considerations will be weighed in the balance before any settlement might be reached on so critical a matter as this. Such a process takes time.”
Trent shook his head. “No, Lord Tragg, the Realms cannot wait. We need a king, a ruler. We have one in the person of a twelve-year-old boy, a fine boy who will one day, no doubt, make a splendid king, given the proper education and training. My lords, I fully expect that Brandon will in due course take the throne and reign, and, if he’s any son of his father, there is every chance that he’ll rule with a will. But that day is distant. What do we do in the meantime? There are one hundred forty-four thousand worlds to be looked after. There are a thousand worlds to govern directly, thousands more we have a hand in ruling, either through our proxies, puppets, and dupes, or through other covert means. How is all this to be done in the interim?”
“Your Highness,” Tragg said, “we have not yet come to a decision. The king is not yet three hours dead — that is to say, it has been less than that time since his body was discovered. Surely you don’t think we can —”
“The decision must be made immediately,” Trent said.
“Impossible, Your Highness,” spoke the man to Tragg’s right. “As Lord Tragg said, many deliberations must be made. There are many factors to be brought into the calculations. These things must be approached with some delicacy of judgment. Besides, Lord Incarnadine would have wanted it that way.”
Murmurs of “Hear, hear!” around the table.
“Well-spoken, Lord Morrel,” Trent said. “Then how do you propose to deal with the situation? What happens until a regent is appointed? And what happens then?”
A man across from Tragg rose. “Your Highness. I think we are all in unspoken agreement as to the best course of action.”
“Go on, Lord Baldon. What’s the best course of action?”
“The Council as a whole, making up a Board of King’s Regents, will govern until such time as a suitable regent is found. There is historical precedent for this. Twelve hundred years ago the untimely death of Ervoldt VII left the infant Arven his successor. The King’s Council appointed various regents over the next twenty years —”
“Yes,” Trent broke in, “as a dozen factions battled for control. There was one damned palace coup after another.”
“Until Arven came of age; then —”
“Baldon, don’t you think it would be a good idea to avoid that kind of hugger-mugger?”
“Of course, Highness,” Lord Baldon agreed hastily. “Of course! But —” He cast his eyes around the table. “I see nothing but civilized men here. After all, these are modern times. We are not barbarians. We are not brigands. This is a democratic age.”
Trent said, “But this isn’t a democracy, nor should it be. The Lord of Perilous holds ultimate power. The castle is the source of all magic. One man must hold stewardship over that power. It cannot be shared. The saw about too many cooks also applies to magicians, Baldon.”
“There is something to that,” said the extremely old and wizened man to Trent’s immediate right.
Trent turned to him. “Thank you, Lord Yorvil.”
Yorvil smiled toothlessly. “Oh, I still have a thing or two to say, even at my age, that is not completely the product of an addled brain.”
“Your contributions are always welcome, I assure you. How old are you, by the way?”
“I am in my seven hundred and sixth year, Highness.”
Trent was surprised. “I had no idea. Are you quite sure you’re not immortal?”
“I am happy to say that I will die this winter. The soothsayers have foretold it.”
“Oh. I’m …”
“Fret not, good my lord. “Glad did I live and gladly die, and I laid me down with a will.””[6]
Trent laughed. “Yorvil, you’ll probably dance on my grave.”
Eyes twinkling, Yorvil replied, “If so, it will be a pavane, my lord prince.”
“On the contrary. I think you can still do a fine gavotte.”
Yorvil chortled merrily.
The smile left Trent’s face as he leaned forward, elbows on the buffed tabletop.
“Back to business. My lords, I find your plan, if you can call it that, unacceptable. The last thing this castle needs is to be thrown into a dither, a prolonged period of uncertainty fraught with internecine squabbling and general palace intrigue. That’s nonsense of the first water. I won’t have it.”
“But, Your Highness …”
“Tragg, are you going to tell me that I’m not the heir apparent and don’t have a leg to stand on? That I ought to mind my own business and get back to my trade —?”
“Oh, never, Your Highness,” Tragg protested. “Never!”
Trent sat back and chuckled. “Imagine, a prince of the realm going into trade. How positively déclassé. I guess that renders me beneath contempt. And I won’t even mention my marrying a commoner!” He scanned the room once again, sizing it up. “Nevertheless …” He drifted off momentarily, then brought his attention around again. “Nevertheless, this hotel clerk is giving you an ultimatum.”