Дэйв Дункан - Magic Casement

So they were sitting or standing there, waiting as they must have waited all day, talking quietly; and the center of the group was Andor, slim and graceful in dark green, tall for an imp. He was the key to the kingdom, she thought. If she was to marry Andor, the council would accept him as her consort. He was young and handsome and personable and competent. Even Foronod seemed to be engrossed, smiling now with the others at some tale that would likely have made them all laugh aloud in a happier time. If Andor was the key, then Foronod was the lock, for he was a jotunn and probably the most influential. If the factor would accept Andor as king, then likely they all would. Except perhaps Yggingi.

Andor would not have returned with her had he not cared.

Then she was noticed. They turned to await her in sympathetic silence. Mother Unonini was there, black-robed and bleak-faced as always. Aunt Kade in silver and pink had been sitting at the bottom of the stairs like a watchdog. Bless her!

She hugged Aunt Kade and was hugged by the chaplain, smelling of fish. She wondered how she could ever have been frightened by this dyspeptic little cleric with her resentful air of failure and bitter exile.

One by one the men bowed, and she nodded solemnly in return: Foronod, grim, lank in a dark-blue gown, winter pale, with his white-gold jotunnish hair glowing against the outer dark of a window; old Chancellor Yaltauri, a typical imp, short and swarthy, normally a jovial but bookish man; the much older Seneschal Kondoral, openly weeping; the vague and ineffectual Bishop Havyili; the others.

“It will not be long,” she told them.

Mother Unonini turned and headed for the stairs.

“You must eat now, dear.” Kade led her to a table that had been laid out with white linen and silver and fine china, like a small oasis of Kinvale in the barren arctic, but bearing cakes and pastries that looked cumbersome and lumpish. And there—wonder of wonders!—balanced on its warming flame, Aunt Kade’s gigantic silver tea urn, like a forgotten ghost from Inos’s childhood. The day she had met Sagorn and knocked over that urn—absurd, irrelevant, vulgar thing! —Father had joked about her burning down the castle… That insidious, unexpected, irrelevant fragment of memory made a quick dash around her defenses and grabbed her by the throat and almost defeated her, but she averted her eyes quickly from the wretched tea urn and started to say that no thank you she couldn’t eat a thing. Except that her mouth was full of pastry. So she sat down and stuffed herself, drinking strong tea poured by Aunt Kade from that same monstrous urn, which was now only a very ugly utensil.

Then she looked up to see that Mother Unonini had returned. Inos rose slowly and was given another fishy hug. “Insolan, my child—I mean, your Ma . .” The gritty voice hesitated, and then began a knell about the weighing of souls, and how much the Good had exceded the Evil in Father and all the predictable platitudes. Inos shut it out.

It was over, and she would shed no tears today.

It was a release.

There was some good in every evil.

There was also a medic, shuffling and awkward. She asked him, “What now?”

He began to mumble about the lying in state. She remembered her mother’s lying in state in the great hall and the chains of weeping citizens filing by. So she told the man to go ahead, and some part of her was standing back, watching this masterly self- control of hers with amazement. Then there were more hugs from Aunt Kade and Mother Unonini, and a stronger one from Andor, and bows and mutterings from the other men, while she was vaguely aware that people were trooping through the room, heading up to the royal bedchamber. In a little while they carried the body back down, she supposed, but she turned her face away and ignored these necessary unpleasantnesses. Soon the great bell of the castle began to toll, slow in the distance, muffled and dread.

But the attendants departed at last, and the door was closed, and she could not ignore the world forever. The night had longer to run yet. When she turned around to face the men again, she discovered a newcomer—the odious, square-headed Proconsul Yggingi.

The king was dead; the ravens were landing. As always he was in uniform, clutching his crested helmet under one arm and resting his other hand on the hilt of his sword of office, an elaborate and gaudy thing of gilt. She feared him, she thought, but only him. Anything or anyone else she could manage.

“Factor?” she said, knowing that Foronod was the most competent of the council. “What now? The city must be informed.”

Foronod bowed and said nothing.

Which was not very helpful.

“Well?” she demanded. “When shall I be proclaimed queen?”

The craggy face remained without expression, but she could sense the fury burning below its jotunnish pallor. “That decision is apparently not presently within the jurisdiction of your late father’s council, miss.” He was biting the words. “Imperial troops have taken control of the palace and the town. Sergeant Thosolin and his men have been disarmed and confined. I suggest you address your inquiries to Proconsul Yggingi.”

He bowed again and stepped back against the wall.

Inos restrained a mad impulse to burst into tears or throw herself into Andor’s arms. She had led the predator back to her lair and now she must turn and give battle to it, to the monster whose thugs controlled her homeland. She looked expectantly and coldly—she hoped coldly—at the proconsul.

He lowered his head in a hint of a bow. “Perhaps we could have a word in private, Highness?”

Andor and Aunt Kade both started to protest.

“Highness?” Inos said.

She saw a glint of amusement in the piggy eyes. “Beg pardon—your Majesty.”

Well! That might be her first victory. “Certainly, Excellency,” Inos said. “Come with me.”

Holding her chin up, she marched over to the doorway that led upstairs, wishing she had a long gown to swish impressively, realizing that she was still in her soiled riding clothes. Probably her hair was a mess, but at least she had not been weeping. She stamped up the stairs into the dressing room, with its wardrobes and chests and one large couch. It was really only a junk storage. She would have it cleaned out in the summer. The candles were inadequate, leaving the big room dim and crowded with shadows—which might be a good thing if it would help conceal her expression, for surely Yggingi was a much more experienced negotiator than she was. But she had nothing to negotiate. He was going to dictate his orders.

She stopped beside the couch, spun around, and said, “Well?”

He was still clasping his stupid helmet and his armor flickered with dozens of little candle flames. He was a square, broad man, a hard man, a killer. He moved too close, deliberately threatening.

“Did you get it?”

The question seemed so meaningless that she felt her mouth move and nothing came out.

“The word!” he snapped.

“What word?”

He flushed angrily. “Did your father tell you the word of power? Inisso’s word?”

She was about to say “No!” and then she recalled that among all the other gibberish her father had spoken about Inisso…

Yggingi saw her hesitation and bared his teeth in a smile. “Do you know what it means?” he asked quietly.

She shook her head.

He took another half step closer and had to bend his head to look down at her. His breath was sour, and told her that the palace wine cellar had now been liberated.

“You have three things of value, little girl. One is a very pretty body. We may negotiate on that later, but I can find those anywhere, almost as good. You also have a kingdom—sort-of-have a kingdom. I never thought I wanted that, and now I’ve seen it, I’m sure. It certainly isn’t worth fighting over, but I’m told that the jotnar are on their way, so I may have to fight. But the third thing you have is that word. And that I want. That is what I came for.”