He wanted to ask 'Amuse how?' but didn't dare. Instead he bowed.'Your Majesty.'
'Very good. Go, now. I shall see you in the Large Audience Chamber at three.' Another bow.'Yes,Your Majesty.' 'And Gerald?'
Swallowing a curse, he stopped walking, rearranged his expression into bland helpfulness and swung about.'Your Majesty?'
Lional was suavely smiling again. 'Make sure to wear that splendid robe you had on at dinner. The Kallarapi are a primitive people, easily impressed by bright display, and we do want to put our best sartorial feet forward, don't we? No need to mention it's hand-made, of course. Oh, and bring your bird, too. I dare say they'll find it… charming.' Safely within their apartments once more, Reg gave vent to her feelings in a long, loud raspberry. 'Appearance of intelligence, my arse!' Then she whacked Gerald on the head with her wing. 'And what d'you mean I get flustered in the presence of royalty! Cheeky bugger! I'd have a bloody hard time of it looking in the mirror every morning if that was the case, wouldn't I?'
Slumping into the nearest chair, Gerald watched her fly outraged laps of the foyer. Each time she passed the caged parrots she paused to engage in rude exchanges. Ordinarily he'd have laughed but he didn't have the energy. He was exhausted and he had another headache; the royal family of New Ottosland was a lot harder going than he'd bargained for.
Temporarily puffed, Reg fluttered to join him on the arm of the chair. 'That wretched Lional's a menace,' she announced. 'He's let inheriting a crown go right to his head. No wonder all his other wizards sloped off or got themselves fired. You mark my words, Gerald, there'll be tears before bedtime if someone doesn't haul him into line quick smart.'
'Mine, probably' he said, pulling a face. 'Reg, why do you think he's so keen on having you at this meeting?'
She shrugged. 'I expect he wants to lord it over the Sultan's delegates. See, I've got a wizard and a talking birdie. So double nyah.' "Well, that's just childish,'
'I know,' she sighed.'But you need to understand, Gerald, you're not dealing with normal people now. You're amongst royalty. Think Errol Haythwaite and multiply by a hundred. Which means our pretty friend Lional bears close watching.'
True, true, damnably true. And when I've done watching him, what then? I've no authority here, or jurisdiction. I'm not even a probationary compliance officer any more. If I had any sense at all I'd listen to Reg. Get out while the going's good. But even if I didn't have a contract, I promised Melissande I'd help. He pressed his fingertips into his eyes. Ale and my big mouth.
He pushed himself to his feet. 'I need to get Monk onto finding those former court wizards for me. I know it's a long shot, but if just one of them has an idea of how to keep Lional in check…'
But Monk wasn't answering his crystal ball. Disgruntled, he retrieved the recording incant, transmitted his predecessors' names with an urgent request for their contact details, then pulled the nearest bell-rope and ordered lunch from the breathless servant who turned up some fifteen minutes later.
Once he'd finished his soup and sandwiches, and Reg had gobbled her chopped chicken liver, it was perilously close to three o'clock.
With a show of devil-may-care he was a long way from feeling, he bathed, changed, then inspected himself in the mirror… Gerald Dunwoody, Wizard Spy… God help him…
After that it was time to go. He called for a servant to guide him through the labyrinthine palace corridors and made his way to the Large Audience Chamber with Reg uncharacteristically silent on his shoulder.
As for his spare cherrywood staff, he left it behind. Something told him he didn't need it any more. Lional was already in the audience chamber, ensconced on yet another extravagant throne. From head to foot he was swathed in gold and studded with rubies. Tavistock, freshly groomed and sleekly oiled, gleamed at his feet. As the herald's announcement of his arrival echoed beneath the lavishly frescoed ceiling Gerald made his way from the doors to the dais. The walk took forever: the room was absolutely enormous.
'Right on time, Professor,' Lional greeted him, glittering in the chandelier light. 'How gratifying. Do come and stand beside me. We must present a united front, musn't we?'
He climbed the dais stairs. 'Certainly, Your Majesty'Taking up a position discreetly to the rear of the throne, he looked around the empty chamber. 'Ah — I thought there'd be more people here. Attendants. Minor aristocracy'
Lional laughed. 'I have no need of them, Professor. On occasions similar to this one my late father, when he could be prised from his wheelbarrow, surrounded himself with ministers and secretaries, courtiers and chamberlains, experts all… and yet still we find ourselves in our present invidious position. He was a timorous fellow, my father. Too afraid to seize life by the throat. Too willing to let others do the thinking for him. In that respect, Professor, as in so many others, I am not my father's son.'
Which was a great shame. At least his father hadn't brought the kingdom to the brink of a war it had no hope of winning…
The herald positioned at the chamber's open doors cleared his throat. 'Your Majesty?' he called. 'The Kallarapi delegation is approach — owV
'They can wait a minute!' declared Melissande, having shoved the hapless herald aside.'Lional, hold your horses! I want a word with you!'
'Blimey bloody Charlie,' Reg muttered as the shaken herald hurriedly closed the chamber doors. 'She wants a word with a fashion consultant is what she wants.'
The princess, marching towards the dais, had made a valiant effort to match her brother's habitual magnificence… and failed. Gerald felt his jaw clench, and his guts turn over in horrified sympathy. Melissande, Melissande… what were you thinking?
Her rust-red hair was tortured into an odd looking construction on top of her head and stabbed to death with crystal-topped pins that looked like an outbreak of colourful warts. Her face — minus its glasses — was coated in makeup: bristly mascara-laden eyelashes, startled blue-rimmed eyes, embarrassed cheeks and lips the colour of over-ripe plums turned her ordinary features into a poster for bad abstract art. Her dress was a bilious green satin sack trimmed with blue-dyed feathers and finished about the hem with voluminous mulberry-coloured netting. To complete the ensemble she'd chosen thick dark tights, laddered at the ankle, and bricklike shoes in a moth-eaten black.
The only part of the outfit that worked was the matching pearl necklace and earrings.
'Melissande?' Lional enquired, his voice suggesting that hidden within its velvet sheath was a very sharp knife that could see the light of day at any moment. 'Would you care to explain?'
She halted before the throne. 'Look,' she said forcefully, 'sorry to interrupt, Lional, but who's the damned princess around here anyway? I'm just as much Blood of the King as Prince Nerim is Blood of the Sultan and on top of that I'm the prime minister. I deserve to be in this meeting!'
Lional frowned. 'Melissande, you'd be well advised not to take that tone with me. / wear the crown in this family, not you.'
She waved a pointed finger under his nose. 'Exactly! So why are you letting the Kallarapi tell you who can and can't be present at a meeting in your audience chamber?'
Lional leaned back on his throne and considered her from head to toe. Eventually he said musingly, 'I don't suppose you know exactly who is responsible for that fetching gown you're wearing, do you?'
'I might,' said Melissande, suddenly wary. 'But only if you want to write them a card saying how nice it is.' 'That wasn't my first thought, no.'
'In that case,' she replied, chin up, 'I found it in the bottom of my closet and I don't have the faintest idea how it got there.'
Lional sighed and passed a weary hand across his eyes.'If only I didn't find that so easy to believe.'