“No,” Vivian agreed, “he certainly wouldn’t.”
A seagull screeched nearby, drawing everyone’s attention. For a while, they just watched the sunlight on the waves.
Finally, Tamra turned to Marlon. “Do you have any parting words for our guest of honor? If not, we might as well get on with this.”
“Thank him for his services,” Marlon said, with a good solid attempt at sincerity, “and wish him well in his research. I’ve little doubt there’ll be many more breakthroughs with his name attached.”
“Is that all?” Tamra prodded.
“I think so, yes.”
“No good-byes?”
“No. Life is long. The Queendom is small. He and I will be seeing each other again.”
She looked ready to respond to that, but finally shrugged. “All right, then. Bruno, I’ve kept the media away this time— cordon set at twenty kilometers—but I’m sure you understand, we can’t let you out of here without another Medal of Salvation.”
“No,” Bruno agreed ruefully, “I don’t suppose you can. Is this a ceremony, then?”
She shook her head. “You’ve earned the right to have this your way. But I will say thank you; you didn’t have to come help us again.”
“Oh, pish,” he said, not bothering to hide his irritation. “Of course I did. I’m not half the misanthrope you seem to believe, dear. I do wish for people to be happy, free of harm, all that sort of thing. It’s just that usually I can best accomplish this by being far away; Rodenbeck is correct about one thing: collapsium research is fraught with perils. Marlon is braver than I, to risk his reputation so close to home.”
“That may be,” she conceded, silencing Marlon’s protest with a look. “And we wouldn’t dream of depriving you of your passions, nor of depriving ourselves of the benefits thereof. But we do miss you; surely you understand that.”
“I’ve never doubted it.”
“Well, then,” she said, and stuck out her hand, a little gold medallion dangling from it by a length of green ribbon. “Here’s your medal.”
He took it from her. It was heavier than it looked, and warm from having been in her pocket. Somewhat embarrassed, he nonetheless slipped the thing around his neck and let it hang.
The Royal Committee applauded politely for a full minute, at which point Tamra said, “All right, everyone, thanks for coming. Now I’ll ask you to excuse us.”
They all rose with a chorus of good-byes, to which Bruno responded with, surprisingly, a little lump in his throat. And then, without further ado, they were all walking away, blankets in hand, their rising conversation now with one another, rather than with Bruno. In another minute, he and Tamra were alone. They rose, leaving their own blankets behind for beach attendants to clean up, and made their way toward the fax gate that stood by the washrooms, just beyond the tree-line.
“You’re more regal than you used to be,” Bruno remarked. “More comfortable with your regality.”
She shrugged. “The people expect no less: elective monarchy is basically a scapegoating tactic.”
Bruno smirked at this; in Girona, the word “scapegoat” had meant, literally, a goat on whom the city’s problems were blamed. Every year, in a grand festival, the people would stack themselves into human pyramids—a prize for the highest! the widest! the jiggliest!—and then they’d throw this poor goat off a tower. No one particularly disputed the cruelty of the practice, but centuries of tradition weighed heavy then, as they probably did today.
Tamra, who knew all about the goat but apparently hadn’t made the connection, continued. “Once upon a time, democrats overthrew monarchs for the promise of freedom. What a laugh! As if responsibility and accountability were something people wanted for themselves! Freedom means finding someone else to worry about all the little details for you, and all the big details you’re too immersed in your life to see. People don’t want a dictator, obviously. Quite the contrary; they want a dictatee, a conscripted functionary who can be endlessly blamed and imposed upon. It is democracy, for all but the monarch herself.”
“Ah, but we love you in return,” Bruno pointed out. “And there’s a lot of money and privilege involved.”
“Yes. Yes, there is. And it-s my duty to enjoy and appreciate that, up to a point. But if I begin to feel entitled, I undermine the very principles of my office, and wherever I go I find myself sharply and impatiently reminded of the fact. They aren’t shy about it, these subjects of mine. Isn’t it the least bit ironic, Bruno, that a Queendom which seeks to match jobs to people for optimum happiness and efficiency also insists on, at best, grudging leadership at its highest levels? Isn’t that an odd thing?”
Bruno mused, then slowly nodded. “It is ironic, yes. But it’s hardly the only such irony. And I doubt it’s quite the conspiracy you suggest. People probably just want their money’s worth, and haven’t really reflected on how it affects you personally. Or perhaps they have, but they still feel—rightly, I think—that someone has to bear the responsibility. It’s not always for us to choose our fates.”
“Not for me, at any rate. I do like to imagine I’ve bought some freedom of choice for other people. But anyway, it’s not like I have anything else to compare my life to. I’m content enough, yes, through long practice and long experience. And like everyone else, I reserve the right to complain sometimes. You will attend me in this, Philander.”
“As you wish, Highness.” Bruno couldn’t quite hide his smirk. “You know, I wasn’t always so suave. You’re just about the only person who accepted me, in those days, exactly as I was.”
“Suave!” she laughed. “Well, that’s one word for it, I suppose, though not one that leaps most readily to mind. But seriously, Bruno, I don’t accept you. I never have; you’re not a very acceptable person. I love you, and that’s a very different thing.”
“Indeed,” he agreed. ‘Very different. I wouldn’t know what love was if not for you. It’s difficult to leave you here and go about my business; surely that’s understood.”
She looked sad then, which made him feel guilty. He almost decided right then to stay in the Queendom forever. Almost.
“Unfortunately,” she said, ”even twenty kilometers away, news cameras have an alarming ability to resolve fine details. If we were, say, to duck into one of these washrooms for even a moment, the headlines would last the rest of the year. So I’m afraid you must kiss me chastely on the lips, just once, and take your leave of me.”
“Yes, Highness,” he said, ever the obedient one, and complied exactly with her instructions.
“Oh, phooey,” she said, punching him lightly on the chest. “Is that the best you can do? Do my hints and temptations mean nothing?”
“That wasn’t very grown-up of you,” he said, feigning both pain and indignation.
“Who ever said I was grown up?” she returned, and pushed him bodily through the fax gate.
For once, he experienced a distinct sensation of travel; her laughter cut off instantly, and the cool touch of her hand seemed very distant indeed. Sweet sorrow? Pah, there was nothing sweet about it. On the other side was full daylight and a decidedly chilly breeze. The trees around him swayed, and the clouds scudded overhead like speeding aircraft, and the breeze became a wind that ruffled and flattened the meadow grass as he hurried toward his little white house.