“Whenever.”
“Minimum thirty.”
“Done.”
“Okay, pal, you got yourself a job. Here.”
The man rolled a coin at him.
“Go out and get yourself some decent clothes. Don’t want my employees walkin’ around with their shortcomings exposed.”
He took the gold coin. “Are you human?”
“Naw.”
“But —”
“I like myself this way. Makes the mortals feel at home.”
“Very well, then. I will be back.”
“Wait.” The owner pushed a tankard of ale across the bar. “You look like you need this.”
He took the vessel and tilted it toward his mouth. He drank the whole thing down.
He wiped his mouth and caught his breath.
The owner grinned. “Yeah. Goes down good after a long ferry ride with that seven-foot-tall nightmare, huh?”
“Death’s a bitch.”
“And then you’re reincarnated.”
Fourteen
Office of the Regency (Temporary Quarters)
“Hello?”
“Am I speaking to His Excellency, the Regent?”
“You are.”
“This is Giles, in the Ministry of Supply and Materiel.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Excellency, if I might have a word with you?”
“Yes! Go on.”
“Those requisition forms you filed. Excellency, they weren’t in proper format. Not only that, it was entirely the wrong form for such a requisition.”
“So?”
“All requisitions must conform to procedure or they won’t go through.”
“So? Fix it so they do go through. I need that stuff.”
“Begging your pardon, Excellency, but I can’t touch them. It’s against regulations.”
“Hang regulations. Have one of your people do it.”
“No can do, Excellency. Interoffice procedural regulations are quite specific. They don’t quite have the force of statute law, but —”
“Oh, all right, send them back.”
“I already did. This is a courtesy call. Please use the right form next time. For the materiel you’re asking for, it’s Office Supplies Requisition Form 1867 dash 401 —”
“Wait! Damn it, this pen doesn’t work.”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“Rupert! Gimme one of those … Right. Okay, what was that form number again?”
“Office Supplies Requisition Form 1867 dash 40178374 …”
“Right, right.”
“Dash 2673 slash J.”
“ … 2673 dash J.”
“No,slash J.”
“Slash J. Right, got it. Will do.”
“And they have to be signed by you personally.”
“I did sign them! … Didn’t I?”
“No, Excellency, the forms were rubber-stamped, by your secretary, I presume.”
“Oh.”
“That’s no good for 2673 slash J. For any slash J form — you better write this down for future reference — any slash J form must be signed personally, not stamped …and — this is also very important — you must affix your seal of office.”
“My goddamned seal of office hasn’t come from the castle smithy yet.”
“Well, that’s a problem. In that case I’ll have to have a sworn affidavit from you until you get the seal.”
“Gods! All this for a damned box of paper clips?”
“Afraid so, Excellency.”
“Amazing. Very well. Is that all?”
“Yes, Excellency. I’m truly sorry for any inconvenience.”
“Forget it.”
“But regulations … well, you know.”
“I’m learning. Goodbye.”
“Have a nice day.”
Trent slammed the phone down.
“Rupert!”
The scribe came running back into the crypt, which had been hastily transformed into a working office.
“Excellency?”
“I need that damned seal. When?”
“It’s on rush order. They said Monday at the earliest.”
“Rats. Every damned form requires it. See if you can’t rush them a little more.”
“Yes, Excellency.” Rupert wrote in a tiny notebook.
“What’s next?”
“The Foreign Minister of Lytton is still waiting in the hall.”
“Oh. Send him in.”
“But the guild official has been waiting longer.”
“What guild official?”
“The Castle Craftsmen’s Guild, Excellency.”
“Oh. I forgot. Well, send him in first.”
“The Foreign Minister’s the more important person. If you make him wait any longer it could be taken as a slight, and he might leave in a huff. Diplomatic incident. On the other hand —”
“Spill it.”
“If the guild guy gets ticked off, he might just call a wildcat strike.”
“Jeez, can he do that?”
“Well, sure.”
“Get him in here.”
The guild official was a burly fellow smoking a huge green cigar. He wore an expensive embroidered ministerial gown that did not quite hide his enormous gut. A red plume rose from his tricorn hat. He approached Trent’s desk with a confident stride.
“Yes, sir, what can I do for you?” Trent said.
“You’ve had our grievance report for two weeks. We got nothing back from you.”
“I hope you realize that I’ve been in office only a matter of days.”
“I was speaking of the Administrative Offices. We want action on our grievance.”
Trent shuffled papers around his desk. “Right. I can’t seem to — Rupert! ”
Rupert was brushing past the guild man with a file folder.
“Excellency.”
Trent took the folder and opened it. He glanced at the papers within.
“All right … uh, why don’t you précis for me what exactly this is all about?”
“Hey, it’s complicated. You shoulda read it.”
“Sorry. Condense it.”
“Actually, we’re making some seniority adjustments. All we ask is that you go along with it and change your employee roster accordingly. Not much to ask … Excellency.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that Administration turned us down. We filed a grievance. You got it in your hand.”
“Fine. Why are you making these adjustments — and when you say “adjustments,” you mean what, exactly?”
“Demoting some employees to a lower seniority, is all.”
“In favor of others, I assume?”
“Yeah, kinda.”
“Why?”
“It’s an internal matter. Guild business.”
“So why come to us?”
“You gotta alter wage scales, benefits, schedules —”
“Who works and who doesn’t, what they get paid.”
“Yeah, you got it … Excellency.”
“My brother turned you down, didn’t he?”
“Yup.”
“And you expect me to go against his wishes.”
“You’re in charge now, aren’t you? The Council of Ministers —”
“No deal. I think I can intuit what’s going on, and I don’t like it. I don’t like fiddling with a servant’s livelihood unless there’s a very good reason, and you’ve given me none.”
“Like I said, it’s internal. You can’t interfere.”
“I can refuse to act favorably on this grievance.”
The guild man waved his cigar menacingly.
“And I can close this castle down.”
“Get that weed out of my face, mister. I don’t take kindly to threats.”
“I can order a walkout any time,” the guild official said casually, withdrawing the pungent cigar.
“Let me ask you a question. Why does it take no less than five footmen to attend a coach?”
“You got a problem with that?”
“Yes, I happen to have a problem with that. From now on three is the maximum.”
“We got a contract!”
“I’m renegotiating, unilaterally, as it were.”