Finally, when Tripitaka was done, the prince bowed his head, chin resting on his breast, scowling at the floor, his face somber.
The companions waited, watching him closely, holding their breath.
Finally, the young man lifted his face, "It may be as you say," he said, "but I cannot believe something of such magnitude on your word alone, even though you are a holy man. What proof can you give?"
Silently, Tripitaka reached into the folds of his robe and drew out the white jade tablet.
The prince seized it with a heart-rending cry. "This never left my father's side! How have you stolen it? When?" Without waiting for an answer, he ran for the door, crying, "Guards! Courtiers! Arrest these thieves!"
Pigsy leaped between him and the door, but the look on his face was grave. "Please do not. Your Highness. We are no thieves."
"You must be, for that tablet is a family heirloom!" The prince whirled, pointing at Tripitaka with a trembling hand. "It has been the property of the Kings of Crow-Cock ever since our dynasty began! My father had it from his father, and will give it to me in his turn!"
Silently, Tripitaka held his gaze.
Trembling, the prince caressed the tablet, but his eyes were on Tripitaka's. "You did not steal it?'
"I did not," Tripitaka returned. "The ghost of whom I spoke, he gave it to me."
The prince faltered, but regained his composure bravely. "I cannot be certain! You may have stolen it from his pocket as he passed through a crowd—he may have given it to the temple on some foolish impulse! "
Tripitaka sighed with exasperation, but Shea said, "Why not ask your mother?"
The last vestiges of color drained from the prince's face. He stared at Shea in outrage. "What is your meaning?"
"Why, only this." Shea spread his hands. "No one knows him as well as his wife. If there has been any change in him, wouldn't she be the one most apt to notice it?"
The prince still eyed him dangerously. "In what way?"
Shea sighed; the kid was determined to be obtuse. "Ask her if the King still loves her as much as ever."
The prince still stared at Shea, but his color came back; indeed, his face began to darken. But he gave a curt nod and said: "It is well advised. I shall attempt it. If she says he has turned cold to her, I shall return and seek your assistance in my revenge." He spun on his heel and stalked toward the door.
Tripitaka caught Pigsy's eye and nodded. The pigheaded creature reluctantly stepped aside.
On the threshold, the prince spun about, his finger stabbing at them. "But if she says he is as much in love with her as ever, I shall return with an army to slay you all!" He whirled about, and was gone.
They stared at one another, listening to his footsteps receding down the hall. Then Monkey said: "I note that he waited till he was at the door before he threatened us."
"He's not totally rash," Shea agreed.
"It was well thought, Xei," Tripitaka said. "How did you come by such an idea?"
Shea shrugged. "Just an incurable romantic, I guess. I have this notion that everybody only has one true love, so that if the current King of Crow-Cock is a lake, he couldn't possibly be really in love with the Queen. Of course, I'm assuming they were really in love with one another in the first place, which I understand isn't always the case here."
"Marriages are arranged," Monkey agreed. "What has love to do with it?"
"Apparently it did, in this case," Shea said. "At least, our prince seems to think so, or he wouldn't be going to question his mother. Wouldn't it be great to be a fly on the wall during that interview!"
"Why, what a charming idea!" Monkey cried. "Would you truly like it, Xei? Then come, let us fly!" He made a magic pass, and Shea felt some very sudden and very odd sensations. The room swam before his eyes, and he felt panic; then it steadied, and he could see more of it—he had a 270-degree field of view, though it was broken up into dozens of fragments, a sort of living mosaic. He turned to Chalmers, but Doc towered above him like a mountain, looking appalled. With a shock of horror. Shea realized he was now a fly!
Then another fly buzzed over to him- a huge fly, as big as he was, and with Monkey's face! "Are you ready, then?" asked the simian sorcerer. "Then come, away!" His face changed back into a fly's head, and he turned away, darting up off the floor, wings a blur.
Shea followed him, then realized he had not even thought about doing so. With a sinking heart, he wondered if he could have resisted, if Monkey had not cast a compulsion of some sort over him.
They flew out the window, over the forest, and found the river. Upstream they went, till they saw the walls and towers of a city before them. It was not terribly big, by Shea's standards—he doubted if it held more than twenty thousand people—but it was very pretty from this height, with little white houses and a tall stone palace.
The Monkey-fly arrowed down toward that palace. Shea followed.
Monkey buzzed from window to window, then ducked in through an ornate carved screen. Shea came right behind him, just barely beginning to worry about fly swatters.
He really had no need; Monkey spiralled up and up to alight on the top of a tapestry, fifteen feet above the floor—though from Shea's new perspective, it looked as though he were gazing down from the side of Mount Rushmore. He perched beside Monkey, feeling like Teddy Roosevelt's image, and scouted the surroundings.
They were in a high-roofed, light, airy chamber, hung with silks and tapestries and floored with a rich carpet. The furnishings were luxurious, but uncluttered—a rich, wide bed, a table with two chairs, a chest or two. By the window sat a woman painting a scroll, which was an amazing feat of dexterity, considering how long her fingernails were. She was richly dressed in an embroidered silken gown, black hair elaborately coiffed. She was in her forties, but still strikingly beautiful. But in spite of her luxurious surroundings, she seemed listless, unhappy. Her brush strokes were few and labored, and her gaze kept drifting off through the window.
There was a scrabbling from that window, and she sat up in alarm.
"Mother!" came the prince's voice. "Admit me, please!"
"My son!" She rose in a single, fluid motion that contrasted oddly with her tottering walk as she hurried to open the screen. Shea saw why—her feet were so small that they might have been those of a child. He suppressed a surge of nausea and focused on the events below him.
The Queen was clasping her son to her breast, weeping openly, then stood away, as though remembering the proprieties. "My son, it is so good to see you! It has been three years since your father forebade us to meet! I have heard tales of your deeds, but have longed to see you with my own eyes!"
"And I you, Mother." The prince knelt, bowing "But I must speak briefly, for I come in secret."
"In secret?" The Queen glanced at the screen and quickly pulled it closed. "Yes, of course. It will go hard with you if your father learns of this, will it not? Oh, how foolish of you, to take such a risk!"
"It is necessary—because of that same king." The prince looked up at her, his face intent. "And because of my father."
"Why ... why do you speak of them as though they were two separate people?" she asked, her voice faltering.
"It is for you to answer that," the prince returned. "I was led today by a magician, led to a holy man who told me of a dream, and because of that I must ask you a question ..." He blushed and turned away. "Oh, but it is too personal!"
The Queen began to see where the conversation was going. She drew herself up, composing her face. "If it touches on your father's welfare, my son, you must ask it.
"I have no right ..."
"But you have a duty. He is your king. Ask what you will."
Neatly done, Shea decided—the prince had warned her of what was coming, but had managed to phrase it in such a way that she could not object. He bowed his head now, and asked, "Forgive me, Mother, but I must ask—has my father become less fervent in his love for you these three years past?"