“But I’ve—”
“Don’t embarrass both of us, Kathrin.” He stood up. “There’s nothing to say. I shouldn’t have come to this. I’m sorry.” He stepped around the table, pushed his way through the crowd to the door and disappeared into the eternal understreet night.
THE yawning page boy plodded around the room, refilling the oil-reservoirs of the lamps from a can he carried. The job done, he returned to his chair, began nodding sleepily and was soon snoring.
George Tyler refilled Frank’s wine glass and then his own; his aim had deteriorated during the evening, and he poured a good deal of it onto the tabletop.
“Frank,” George said carefully, “don’t try to pretend with me that this is an ... altruistic action you’re contemplating. You know that it isn’t Costa that’s strangling this planet. He’s just a ... pitiful puppet ... within whom moves the cold, steely hand of the Transport.” Pleased with his metaphor, Tyler chuckled and gulped his wine. “And it isn’t even personal revenge, lad, that’s goading you to kill the poor geek. Not entirely, anyway. Want to know what it is?”
“What is it, George?” Frank asked obligingly. “It’s suicide, Frankie,” said Tyler sadly. “You want to die. No, don’t get rude with me; I’m a poet, I’m allowed to talk this way. If you go grinning up to the palace gate with a knife in your paint box, it may look like a gallant bid for revenge, but I’ll know. It will be a suicide attempt, disguised as desperate vengeance to fool everyone, yourself as well, maybe.”
“George, you are so full of crap—”
“Yeah, you say that. But you’re my last friend since Sam got it, and now you’re eager to get killed. And all because that half-wit girl ditched you for Matthews.”
“That isn’t it, George. Not much of it, anyway.”
“Aha! You admit it’s suicide, then?”
“I’m not admitting anything, dammit. I’m humoring a raving drunk.”
“Well, there’s a judgment. But all right, I won’t bother you anymore.”
For a full five minutes they drank in silence. “Someday I’ll be restored to my former exalted state,” Tyler muttered, half to himself, “and then I’ll set all this right. I’ll have Costa sweeping the gutters, and then you won’t have to kill him.”
“George,” said Frank levelly, “I have been trying very hard, for weeks, to find a real claimant to the ducal throne. Throughout that time I have admired your tact in not burdening me with your own ... delusions in that line. If there is (and there is) one thing I don’t want to hear, it’s another crackpot telling me he’s the true prince.”
“I’m sorry, Frank,” Tyler said. “You’re right, you don’t need that.” He emptied his glass. “I don’t really believe all my stories, either, so you needn’t think I’m a crackpot. It’s just my poetic nature letting off steam.”
“I didn’t mean you’re a crackpot, George. I spoke ... heatedly, without thinking.” Frank opened the table drawer and felt around in it, but his pipe was missing. “Where did you come up with all those stories about being Topo’s son, anyway?” he asked.
“I made them up, mostly,” Tyler said. “And my mother used to tell me I was. I was an illegitimate child, you see. I’ll bet all unwed mothers tell their sons they’re the secret offspring of royalty.”
“Yeah, probably so. Not a good idea, in the long run, if you ask me.” Frank poured out the last dribble of the bottle. “Page. Hey, page! Another bottle of this. A cold one.”
The page nodded and scampered away.
“It was a bedtime story, you see,” Tyler explained. Frank hiccupped. “Did your mother even work in the palace? At least?”
“Naw, the story hasn’t even got that much to support it. She told me she was a dancer at a tavern he used to go to. She claimed that for a season he was crazy about her, wanted to marry her. This would have been before Topo’s brother, Ovidi, died, you see, back in the days when nobody thought Topo would ever make Duke. And Topo was supposed to be a wild lad in those days, you know, Frank—drunk all the time, always getting into fights—my mother told me he even got a tattoo of her, had it done on his chest by some young painter they both knew. The guy had never done a tattoo before, but he’d got hold of a tattooing needle somewhere, and they were all drunk, and so they gave it a try.” Tyler smiled. “My mother said the tattoo didn’t turn out too badly, considering.”
Frank gulped some wine. “Oh?” he said. “That’s good, that’s a relief. Looked like her, did it? Caught a resemblance?”
Tyler laughed. “Well, no, probably not. He ... portrayed her ... in her dancing costume, which was ... well, it was a bird suit.”
Frank nodded. “A bird suit.”
“Yeah, an immodest one. My mother didn’t even describe it to me until I was fifteen. Her costume was an over-the-head bird mask, see, and big wings that she’d slip her arms down inside of—and nothing else. Well, shoes, maybe.”
Frank laughed, but Tyler’s words had reminded him of something. Sure you don’t want me to make it either all-bird or all-girl? I still could, you know. His father had said that—to Duke Topo—who had never permitted himself to be seen even partially undressed.
“She even told me he’d made up a birth certificate for me, acknowledging me as a son of his. She said he’d shown it to her once, but wouldn’t let her keep it, in case he changed his mind or something.”
The page returned with the wine, and Frank absent-mindedly took a swig right from the bottle. “Uh,” he said, noticing that his hand was shaking, “uh, this tattoo—”
“And you know where she said he’d hid this birth certificate?” Tyler went on. “You’ll love this. In a copy of Winnie the Pooh. Frank! That’s good wine!” Frank had dropped the bottle, and pieces of wet glass spun on the floor. The page leaped up to fetch a mop and broom. “Never mind that,” Frank told him. “Get Hodges for me. Tell him to summon a full council, at once. Yes, I know it’s three o’clock in the morning. A full council, you hear? Immediately! Run!”
The page darted out of the room.
“Frank,” said Tyler uncertainly, “are you all right?”
“For the first time in months, George.”
An hour later twelve irritable lords sat around the table, their eyes squinting, their hair oddly tufted, and half of them in incorrectly-buttoned shirts.
“What is this, Hodges?” rasped Hussar. “More delirium tremens?”
“You’re treading on thin ice, Hussar,” said Hodges softly. “His majesty will be here in a moment to explain the reason for this meeting.”
“We probably haven’t been hijacking enough brandy to suit him,” giggled Emsley.
“I’ll discuss that with you afterward, if you like, Emsley,” said Frank, who had silently entered the room. “Come on in, George.”
Frank and Tyler took the two empty chairs at Hodges’s left. “All right, gentlemen,” Frank said. “I’ve found an heir—a genuine one, as a matter of fact. He’s an illegitimate son of Topo, and I know where to find a birth certificate, signed by Topo, acknowledging him as a son.”
The lords stared at him skeptically. Even Hodges looked doubtful, knowing that Frank had not interviewed any claimants since the last meeting. “And who is this lost prince?” asked Hussar, with a look of long-suffering patience.
“It’s George Tyler,” Frank said, knowing full well the response that declaration would have. It did. After a moment of stunned silence all the lords burst into howls of laughter.