Let me know in the comments what you think of the chapter (and the cover). And throw a buck or two in to support the book, if you like it.

“Of all the finest noble clans, house Becket is surely the most entertaining. It is said by the historian Ebersman that ‘every house has held the big stick at one time or another. The Beckets were the only ones to play fetch.’

Whether by marriage or conquest, it is generally accepted that, if a Becket is in power, the next ruler will be of a different house; and if any other house is in power, a Becket will succeed them. There have only been a few notable exceptions, including the reign of King Sigler, whose bastard son succeeded him, and King Richard whose sons both reigned in turns.

It is often said that the Becket’s reigns have acted as a calming force for other houses, as any massive overtures made by one generation are generally struck down by a Becket in the next generation. When King Oliver the third declared all federal prisoners to be vassals who had given up their agency to the state, it was a Becket who was heralded for freeing the slaves and wresting control of the nation away from him. When Mad King Aaron declared war with Luna, a settlement of his own country, it was Daniel Becket who picked up the sceptre after the Mad King’s sudden demise.

This is not to imply that the Beckets have always been a calming influence. It is well known that the Cutpurse King was a Becket, whose controversial reign could hardly be described as calm.”

— An excerpt from “Our Nobility, Our Noblemen, a Treatise on Government” by Kirstin Jacobs

The king awoke to a shove in the chest, delivered by a silver-tipped boot. He spluttered and rolled over to see the petulant lordling from the night before frowning down at him.

“See? What did I tell you? He doesn’t even bother to dress. Common gutter trash animals.”

Wendy Wilde walked over to the bed and sat on the far corner, “Stay your hand, Astor. He’s had a hard night.” She wore a sensible dress of green, laced in gold, that rose to her knees in front, and faded to a diaphanous train in back. The cut of the neckline was respectfully high, interlaced with a golden necklace that spiderwebbed up to a ruby choker.

The young lad took on a stricken air, “Oh I do beg your pardon. You’re right. After all, it’s hardly his fault.” He too was dressed for palace working, in a suit top and jodhpurs. His tight jacket and pants were black, laced in gray, and wide enough to look like an outline defining the boy. The yellow shirt inside puffed up at the throat. He shouted at Dizzy slowly, as if to an imbecile, “Did your parents ever tell you that you should dress for bed? Or even what covers are?”

Dizzy blinked one eye blearily as he sat up, “Did your parents ever tell you they met at a family reunion?”

Wendy sputtered a laugh, one hand flying to cover her mouth. Behind them, Dizzy could see another young woman, eyes wide with fear. She wore an expensive Sunday dress of white lace which surely would have been astonishing in other company, but looked like sack-cloth when compared with the finery of her compatriots. Her eyes flicked from one to the other as she gripped the sides of her dress in her fists. Astor looked back at her, then frowned at Dizzy, “You shouldn’t make such jokes in this palace.” He turned to Wendy, “You see what I mean? Imagine if he’d made that joke in front of Olivia?”

Dizzy ran both hands over his face, “Could someone please tell me why I’m being awakened?” He flashed a wicked smile, “Or is it check-out time? Everyone gets one turn at the crown, then they have to clear out by two o’clock?”

Astor grunted, “If only wishing could make it so. No, I believe we’re stuck with you for now.”

Wendy grinned at them, “And he would know. Astor’s father has had half the lawyers in town up all night, fighting every angle of this.”

Dizzy crawled out of bed, “Really? Who won?”

Wendy shrugged, “Well, you’re still king. Who won is probably a different answer.”

Astor sulked, “Sigler’s law is ironclad. Apparently, he faced just as much resistance to having his bastard crowned.”

Dizzy stood next to the bed, looking down at his feet and holding his head in his hands. He said in a very quiet voice, “Astor, do you believe that I have the power to cut your tongue out?”

He and Wendy shot a look at each other, “You wouldn’t dare!” The girl behind them gasped.

Dizzy didn’t answer. He just tried to wait for the room to stop spinning.

After a moment, Astor said, “Well, technically, I believe it would be within your -”

“Let’s put a pin in that,” Dizzy said as he looked up. His eyes were bright and awake, and they bored into Astor’s. “Let’s just hold that thought in our minds every time you use the word ‘bastard’.”

Dizzy fought past the fatigue to stride purposefully over to the bathroom, “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve been wearing the same clothes for nearly twenty hours, and I am well overdue for my morning ablutions.” The young woman rushed over to follow him. As Dizzy turned to face her, she dropped in a low curtsey so quickly that Dizzy feared that she’d found a sinkhole.

“Your highness, I am Dame Perla Poppek.”

Dizzy nodded slowly and attempted to ask a question without admitting that he didn’t know the answer, “Ah, yes. Dame, ah Poppek.”

“It is my honor to bathe you this day.”

Dizzy blinked at the other two, “Look, did Cadvan do this every night?”

Wendy shrugged, “Different Lords have different customs for rising and resting. Cadvan suffered such attention graciously enough.”

Dizzy nodded and looked down at the young woman who was clearly holding an uncomfortable curtsey, “Look, thank you, but you can get up now.” As she rose, he stared at her thoughtfully, “How did you get this position?”

“My liege, of the thousands of houses, mine was chosen by lot to have the honor this day. I’ve spent a month in preparation, and -“

“Thousands?” He looked back at the other two, “They do this every day?”

Astor made a rude dismissive noise and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.

Dizzy looked back at the young lady, “Dame Poppek. What were you instructed to do?”

“I was not told, my liege. It would be presumptuous of us to assume anything of our lord, prior to hearing his wishes.”

“So what have you been preparing for?”

She looked up at him uncertainly, “Anything.”

Dizzy stepped back involuntarily as Wendy tittered. He blinked down at the young lady, “Please rejoin your people, Dame Poppek, and tell them that I was well pleased by your offer of service, and that I require no more help today.” He gestured at the door, and she quickly took the hint.

Once she was gone, he looked back at the other two, “Is there a different one of those every night?”

Astor leaned back and sighed, “Every single damned night.”

Dizzy looked over at Wendy, “Did Cadvan ever…”

She shook her head, “Cadvan was no fool. Women threw themselves at him all the time, but the mistress of the king has incredible power, and he would never upset the balance by showing favor to one over the others.”

Dizzy nodded, “Yes, of course. But then, how does one ever meet people?”

Astor chuffed, “Your majesty flatters us.”

“No, I mean new people. If I guess correctly, you are Astor Atherton, and you are Wendy Wilde. You are from the inner circle, and guests of the crown. I’ll likely see quite a lot of you. But what if I just want to meet new people? What if I actually do wish to court a lady?”

Wendy shrugged, “When you feel the time is right, one will be selected.”

Dizzy nodded slowly, “I was afraid you were going to say that.” Looking back to the bathroom, he noticed the tub was still full of lukewarm water. He turned back to face the others, “Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll bathe in private.” Dizzy looked down at the wide, thick bracelet on his wrist.

Wendy and Astor looked at each other, then Wendy crossed to the wardrobe, “I will see to the day’s raiment, my liege.”

Astor pushed past him and said through clenched teeth, “I will attend to your bath, sir.”

Dizzy knew that attitude all too well. When the master is to be thwarted by the servants, they serve him in ways he did not request. Dizzy squinted at Astor, “Mr. Atherton, did you hear me when I said I wanted to be alone?”

Astor turned from the controls on the tub, “I take it my lord has been without servants during his years of hiding?”

“You are correct.” While impersonating members of the nobility, Dizzy could hardly afford faking an entourage.

“Then my lord is unaware that assigned duties must be done, lest the servants become idle.” He reached into a cupboard and pulled out a huge, fluffy white towel, which he hung next to the tub. The massive pool had already filled with hot, soapy water, and Astor gestured him in.

Dizzy frowned at him, still not wanting to concede the point. Astor sighed, “Does my liege require my assistance in disrobing?”

“Ye gods, no. Just… ” Dizzy pulled off his jacket and dropped it on the floor, “Do you really need to stay in here? I mean, what really is your duty here?”

“I’m your valet, sir. It’s my job to clean up your messes.” Astor picked up the jacket and hung it over his arm, “Clearly, one of the most difficult of positions in the castle.”

Dizzy turned to face him, “I’m really just not going to like you, am I?”

The young man glared at him, stone-faced.

Dizzy nodded once, then said, “Your duties here are done. Wait outside this chamber, and I will call for you when you are needed.”

“Very good, sir.” Astor closed the door behind him. Dizzy continued to get undressed, thinking about the bracelet.

He whispered, “This may seem a silly question, but are you my scepter?”

The voice in his head replied, “I am, sir. How may I help you?”

Dizzy frowned, “No, nothing. It’s just… well, I thought I’d dreamed that part.”

He started the water for the tub and continued disrobing. When he reached his smallclothes, he looked at the bracelet again, “Um. So, do you truly store everything?”

“Everything that happens near you, my liege.”

“Right. Ah. Well. I think I’ll just put you in the cupboard then for a few minutes. Posterity, you know.” He reached around the bracelet, looking for a clasp, but could find no lock.

“No sir.” The voice was cordial, but final.

“No?” Dizzy continued working at it. “But I am your king. I demand it. Yes. I order you to let go now.”

“I apologize, my liege. But it is within my required duties to refuse even a direct order from the king, if if violates my purpose.”

“I could have you melted down for that.” He put his hands on his hips, “I mean, really, what’s the good of being king if you can’t even order the robots?”

Sceptre responded, “The last time I was removed, my king was killed.”

Dizzy waited for amplification, then stared at the decoration with new respect, “Wait. Is that guilt?”

Dizzy felt the tickle of whirring going on inside the machine. It finally replied, “I am an automaton, sir, and incapable of base emotions. I pointed out a detail that should be important to you, my liege.”

“Well, you may be superstitious, but … Well, all right. Let’s say for the moment that I just don’t want to argue the point. How do I wash my arm with a bloody great gauntlet wrapped around it?”

“I will transfer to the other arm when needed, sir.”

Dizzy nodded and began to remove his underwear as he remembered what had originally bothered him, “Wait. You say you record everything that happens around me.”

“Everything.”

“So, that’s video as well.”

“From the ultraviolet to infrared range, yes sir. Also multiple radio frequencies and audio ranges above and below human hearing.”

“Yes well. Not to put to fine a point on it you understand but… ah. I’d like not to spend my entire reign wearing the same set of underwear. What did Cadvan do about it?”

“About what, my liege?”

“Nudity, man. How did the prior king handle the fact that you were recording him completely naked?”

“He did nothing. When he wished to wash himself, he would often ask me to take the form of a necklace. When he was with a woman-“

“Wait! Cadvan slept with women? When? Who?”

“I am not at liberty to say, sir. The prior king’s secrets are his own.”

“But you just told me one of them.”

There was a short pause, “You have entered a social circle previously unknown to you, your grace. In that social circle, King Cadvan was not considered a virgin.”

Dizzy thought about that. It made sense that, the king could have an entire harem without anyone at his previous social level ever even hearing about it.

“Very well. So, he took you off while consummating such relationships?”

“No, my lord. I took the form of a bracelet. Once he bedded a woman with me in the form of a crown, but that was by her request.”

Dizzy took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and dropped his drawers. Gritting his teeth, he settled into the tub, trying hard not to think about the thing around his arm.

The warm water soaked into his sore muscles and seemed to pull him lightly downward. Dizzy lay in the water for a time, staring at his arm.

“You know, I still don’t like it. The very idea that I should have a creature watching me every moment of the day and night. It’s an incredible invasion of privacy, and I would think that, as king, I would be afforded more control over my life than a commoner.”

“This is a common misconception among the lower classes, my liege.”

Dizzy blinked, “Was that meant to be insulting?”

“No, your grace. That was meant to be an observed fact. In general, every social class believes that the one above it has more freedom, more power, and less work than they do.”

Dizzy could hardly argue with that, “All the same, it seems hard to believe that the king would be the most surveilled person in the kingdom.”

“Heavy hangs the head, my lord.”

Dizzy’s eyes shot open, “That’s what you give me? ‘Heavy hangs the head’? I talk about surveillance, and you give me Shakespeare? What about ‘Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind?’”

“Henry VI, Act 5, scene 6. But the evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones.”

“Julius Ceaser. But you are recording everything, without giving us the chance to explain our actions. The empty vessel makes the loudest sound.”

“Henry the Fifth and King Lear. But no legacy is so rich as honesty. Seriously, your majesty, are you trying to fight with a computer on Shakespeare quotations?”

“You chose Shakespeare, I’m just using his words to make a point. It’s not fair to record everything a person does, with no opportunity to make context.”

“My liege. You have the greatest concentration of political power and notice in this entire kingdom.”

“Yes.”

“Everywhere you go, everyone who sees you will mark your coming and going.”

“That’s all very well, but -” Dizzy realized something and held his arm out in front of him, “That’s what you are, isn’t it? You’re nothing more than a physical manifestation of an imperial reality, aren’t you? As long as I’m wearing you, in the dark corners of my mind I’ll remember that I am being watched.” He put his arm back down on the edge of the tub and hung his head back to stare at the dome above them, “A king shall always act with composure, secure in the knowledge that he is never alone.”

There was a short pause, then Sceptre replied, “I am also useful for remembering appointments and referencing new information, my lord.”

Dizzy watched a cloud through the dome as it moved across the sun, “Shakespeare was wrong for you. It should have been Greek legend.”

The robot paused for a moment, then replied, “Good King Richard called me by that name, sir. At first, he felt very angered by my presence, as you do.”

“He named you Damocles?”

“He did, your grace.”

“And how did you like that name?”

There was a short pause, “I will respond to whatever name my liege chooses.”

Dizzy grinned, “First guilt, now pride. And you say you have no emotions. I’ll figure you out, little golem, if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Then I will be the pattern of all patience. I will say nothing.”

Astor crouched outside the door, a crystal cup held to the oaken surface, “There!” He whispered, “I heard it again.”

Wendy pulled back the fitted sheet and dumped it on the floor next to the folded one, “You’re wasting your time. It’s soundproofed.”

“I’m telling you, I heard him talking to himself,” Astor hissed.

Wendy walked over to a cupboard and reviewed the sheets, “So what of it? He’s hardly the first King to think out loud.”

Astor slid the cup to another part of the door, “Mad kings talk to themselves.”

“I talk to myself. That hardly makes me mad.” She considered a set that matched the color of the new King’s eyes, then thought better of it. She picked a dark purple set to remind him of his duties with the color of regal import.

Astor squinted at her, “You- what do you say?”

Wendy pulled down the sheets, “I beg your pardon?”

“When you talk to yourself, what do you say?”

“Oh, whatever silly thing is running through my head. I work out problems by taking both sides of an argument, or I berate myself for some tiny mistake. It’s almost always a minor thing, but it often helps when making a decision or fighting loneliness.”

Astor frowned, “I don’t do that. I never talk to myself.”

“How odd.” She flipped the fitted sheet over the bed, letting it billow out to cover the space, “I would think that, with your list of friends, you would do most of your conversing alone.”

“Oh, very funny. You have the refined wit of a woman ten times your age.”

“Get away from the door. He’s going to come out of there and find you, and you’ll look a right ninny. Given the abuse you hand out, he’s like to take your eyebrows off for the slight.”

Astor stood slowly and returned the glass to the sideboard. He took a towel and wet it. “It’s not right, you know.” He knelt next to a dried puddle of milkshake, and began dabbing it out of the carpet. “Whatever the lawyers think of, you and I both know it’s not right.”

Wendy tucked a corner of the flat sheet in and sighed, “If you’re to continue in his service, you must divorce yourself of the idea that your house would be the one to take over.”

Astor’s eyes widened, “Are you suggesting that one of the other noble houses could take the throne?”

“The laws regarding succession are deliberately muddied when the ruling house loses it’s heir.”

He sneered, “And you think it could be your father. King Wilde, is that it? Hunting the animals by day and-”

Wendy snapped the sheet tight with a ferocity that echoed off the walls. She said quietly, “Mind your tongue, lordling.”

He worked on the puddle for a moment more, then chuffed, “Queen Wilde. What a sad jest.”

Having finished with the bed, Wendy walked over to where Astor knelt next to the carpet. She sat on the bed and said, “You know. Now that I think of it, that may not be out of the question anyway.”

He frowned up at her, “Your father could never take over the country. If my father didn’t take the throne, it would only be because Oldham killed him in the attempt.”

She smiled, “No. I meant that, while the new King closes doors for you, he opens doors for me.” She sat on the edge of the bed.

Astor frowned at her for a moment, “You wouldn’t.”

“My father sent his most beloved child out here to serve the king. Do you really think he would do that just to settle a slight?” She leaned forward, spreading her dress out over the covers, “I wonder if that was his plan all along.”

Astor’s ears grew redder, “Your father has never shown any interest in becoming royalty.”

“Not by conquest, no. But marrying his vast estates with the Becket clan could only help to strengthen both houses.” She leaned back against her elbows and leered, “The new king is a handsome rogue, isn’t he? I’ve always liked gingers.”

“You can’t! You’d upset the balance of power.”

“By making my family the strongest one, and becoming queen over all of you? I think I could bear that.”

“I’ll tell my father!” The words came out before he realized what he’d said.

She laughed and sat up, “What would you tell him? The wildling girl may marry the King? Do you think he hasn’t been preparing against that contingency since the day I was born?”

She stood and turned, smoothing off the covers, “Besides, you’re right. My father has no head for governance, and doesn’t wish for the job. And I have no wish to be married off to some hidden dandy, just so that people would bow and scrape.” She shot him a playful smile, “You’re the one who wants that.”

Astor threw the towel into a bin in the corner, “Now you’re trying to confuse me. You mention one tactic, then throw it aside, expecting that I will pick it up again and defend against it, while in fact, you are planning an entirely different vector of attack.”

Wendy sighed, “Once again, you have outthought my grand plans. Truly you are the master strategist. Do be a dear and pick out the King’s clothes for the day, would you?”

—

After Dizzy had finished soaking, scrubbing, and shaving, he donned the towel and stepped out of the bath. He grinned at the two of them, “There is nothing so satisfying, I think, than a nice long soak in the morning.”

Astor nodded, “It is good to have a king who sets goals that test his capabilities.”

Dizzy’s grin didn’t falter, “You, lordling, have a skinny nose.” He walked over to the wardrobe, where three suits were set out, “I believe I saw the same skinny nose on your father.”

Dizzy reached out and felt the soft, light fabric of the nearest suit, a conflagration of tunic, vest, and jacket in varying shades of royal blue. “I wonder, if I were to refer to it as a beak in court, would your father notice?”

Astor held very still and waited. Dizzy held the blue suit up to himself and checked the wraparound mirrors. “The Atherton beak. Catchy, isn’t it? I’ve heard that kings are often the source of new fashions, simply by making offhand remarks like that.” He frowned slightly, “I wonder, though, what your father would think of that.”

Dizzy rejected the suit for a green one that highlighted his eyes and contrasted well against his red hair, “Of course, your father couldn’t possibly blame you for something like that, now could he? He would be fair and see that it was just my impish jape.”

Astor’s lip began to quiver as he shot Wendy a helpless look. She shrugged sadly in response. Astor looked back at Dizzy and said in a soft croak, “Please don’t.”

Dizzy turned to face him, “I beg your pardon?”

Astor glared down at the floor, “Please don’t do that, my liege.”

Dizzy stared at him for a long time, then asked, “Seriously, what is the problem, Astor? What makes you think you can talk to the king this way?”

“It’s not right.” Astor refused to look up from the ground, “It should have been me.”

Dizzy nodded slowly, “That’s not my fault. I didn’t make that decision. So believe me when I say that, however slighted you may feel, I do not accept any guilt for it.”

He stepped up to Astor, “If you want to hate me, you go right on and hate me, but I am not the source of your misery. So if you show anything less than wholehearted support for me in public, I will feel no guilt in striking back.”

Tears dripped from Astor’s eyes as his hands curled into fists at his sides. Wendy stepped into the bathroom to straighten things. Dizzy sighed and said, “If, however, you wish to continue berating me in private, please feel free. It will be nice to have one person who doesn’t toady up to me.”

Wendy re-entered the room, and Dizzy pointed at her, “No. On this one I must be firm. I shall not change clothes in front of a woman. Call me old fashioned or prudish if you-”

She held out both palms in front of her, “It would please me to serve my liege from without.”

Dizzy waited until she left, then turned to face Astor. He still had his head down, scowling. Dizzy shrugged and dropped his towel. He began putting on layer after layer of the green suit, fighting with the flaps and buttons.

Astor mumbled, “You’re doing it wrong.” He walked up to Dizzy and started pulling at the buttons, jerking the chains into order. Dizzy relaxed and let him go about the duty.

Standing close to Dizzy, Astor said quietly, “That wasn’t right. You humiliated me in front of an enemy faction.”

“What, Wendy? She knows you better than I do, and she was practically on your side. She’s got no reason to pass around any embarrassment.”

“That’s not the point. You made me beg in front of her.”

Dizzy frowned, “I never did.”

Astor’s eyes blazed, “I had to say, ‘please.’ I am a noble lord. I can’t say ‘please’ to people. Not a peasant or an equal. It weakens me. But you made me beg. You threatened to humiliate me in front of everyone.”

Dizzy blew out a sigh, “Seriously, Astor, that was all your doing. I was just replying to your constant supply of insults. If you should decide to stop insulting me, then-”

“That doesn’t matter now. All that matters is that house Wilde watched as house Atherton begged the king.”

Dizzy’s brow furrowed, “I really hope you’re wrong. I really hope our nation’s power structure is not so delicate that it could be swayed by such a petty thing.”

Astor finished with the shirt and stepped back, “Tell me, your grace, what kind of breakfast fish do you like?”

Dizzy blinked at him, “Fish for breakfast? If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not.”

Astor walked over to the bedstand, “Last night, at your coronation celebration, the chef prepared a sumptuous seafood soiree.”

“Did he? Well, that sounds lovely. Unfortunately, I was forced to leave early due to-”

“That’s what everyone was told. Pressures of the day, wanting to get a fresh start on the morrow, that was the story spread around.” Astor picked up a newsie sheet folded next to the bed. “Unfortunately, that left the chef in a situation where the first meal he ever made for the new king was spurned over a milkshake.” Astor held out the sheet. Emblazoned across the headline was, “NEW KING SPURNS ROYAL MEAL. CHEF FLOUNDERS.”

Dizzy frowned, “How did something like that get around so quickly? Yesterday, people didn’t even know that Cadvan had died.”

“Lord Dunem was hard at work, making sure no one knew. Because of the secrecy around Cadvan’s death, may his soul rest in the bosoms of angels, people are not sure whether to believe that it’s true. Fewer still realize that a new,” Astor’s mouth pursed petulantly as he formed the word, “successor had been found. Everyone knows that Cadvan had no heirs and no family, so most people either think that the death is still a rumor, or that one of the Athertons has taken the crown.”

Dizzy raised an eyebrow, “A rumor your family is quick to dispute, I’m sure.”

Astor shrugged innocently, “We use what power we have in the media to protect the message of the king, but we cannot control all the talk.”

Dizzy raised the newsie again, “But what about this? If they can’t decide who the king is, how can they have detailed information like this?”

“When people tell differing stories of great import, the news ignores them. But when many tell the same trifling tale, the headlines run. If it were something they would embarrass them to get wrong, they would not get it wrong, but if it’s about the king’s appetite, they care little.”

Dizzy shook his head, “So, they had to have had this same silly rumor repeated by many people.”

“Loose lips abound in the palace, my liege. It is best you either become accustomed to it, or start witch hunts.”

Dizzy nodded and read the article, “It says here that I don’t like fish.” He looked back up at Astor, “I do like fish. I’m quite a seafood connoisseur, truth be told.”

Astor nodded, “That’s as may be, but what is printed is the truth to the people, and what they are reading si that the King does not like fish. This morning, strong letters of complaint were sent-”

Dizzy took over, reading from the sheet, “By major fisheries and sea port nations throughout the Americas.” He looked up again, “Seriously? Complaints because I don’t like fish?”

“Then you admit it. You don’t like fish.”

“What? No! I just said I do like fish. This whole thing has got out of hand.”

“Nonetheless, my liege, Lord Dunem has requested that, when you go downstairs to break your fast, the major newsies will be there to report that you are enjoying -”

“A fish breakfast. It all comes clear now.”

“Some popular choices are the Japanese salted Fish, British Kippers, or Cape Malay Pickled Fish.”

Dizzy handed him the sheet back, “I’ll have the kippers, thanks.”

Astor held his gaze, “The next time I tell you you’ve embarrassed a noble house, remember just what can happen with petty slights.”

Astor walked over to the front door, “If you are ready to go, my liege?”

“Just a moment.” Dizzy turned and looked himself over in the mirror again. It wasn’t that many years ago that he was living on the street. In the mirror, he thought he could still see it in the lines of his face, like a dirt one could never truly wash out. He’d joined forces with brigands and thieves, thrown in with con men and liars, and slowly built himself a life of suspect nobility.

Only a month ago, he thought himself quite clever because he was living from one day to the next in the lap of comparative luxury. He had a bit of money, clean clothes, and unearned respect. He never slept in the same bed twice, but he always ate well, and he thought he had finally beaten the system.

But now, to look at that same face, staring at him behind truly regal raiments… Well, it still just didn’t seem right. It still felt trappish. In the back of his mind, Dizzy was always listening for sirens, always expecting the police to crash through a door. A part of him always would be waiting for that.

What kind of king could he make if he was always worried that he’d be discovered?

Astor cleared his throat loudly from the door, and Dizzy squared his shoulders. Sully always said that if you never look caught, they can’t ever get you. He walked over to the doors, and waited for Astor to open them.

As he exited, Astor took a position one pace in front of him, while Wendy fell in behind him, “You look very grand, my liege.”

Dizzy inclined his head in recognition as they continued down the hallway. As they passed another apartment, the door opened, and Olivia stepped out.

Dizzy nodded to her, “Lady Oldham, you look lovely this morning. Will you be joining us for breakfast?”

She fell in behind him, next to Wendy, “Of course, your grace. I understand we’re to have fish this morning.” Dizzy thought he could detect a hint of mirth in her voice.

As they proceeded through the corridors, other youths fell in behind the noble children. They began to form a large procession, all following Dizzy, who in turn, followed Astor.

“So tell me,” Dizzy asked, “Whatever happened to the boy who lead me to my chambers last night? I haven’t seen him since.”

Astor looked over his shoulder, “He works the night shift. He’s sleeping now.”

Dizzy quirked an eyebrow, “Really? So you actually have-”

Dizzy looked into a grand stateroom as they passed it. Inside, he saw a large group of serious men standing around a long table. He stopped and looked in, “What’s that?”

Astor waved it off, “Security briefing.”

Dizzy slowed to a stop, forcing many of the children behind him to flock around him in surprise, “What kind of security briefing?”

“It’s nothing. Every day, the military leaders, civic leaders, political leaders, they all gather to report and receive the standing orders.”

Dizzy began walking over to it, “Shouldn’t I be involved in that?”

Lord Dunem appeared at the doorway and despite his thin frame, blocked it from view, “My liege. It is good to see you up and feeling well. The doctor says you should feel ready to begin the business of the day.”

Dizzy nodded, still frowning, “Yes, but it seems the business has begun without me.”

Lord Dunem declined his head minutely, “Yes, your grace. Please understand that this is not meant as an affront to your sensibilities.”

“Damn my sensibilities, is it even legal for you to have a briefing without me?”

The lord blinked at him, and the faintest smile showed on his lips, “Yes, my liege. It is entirely proper. Our nation is strong and dynamic, and the momentum of the realm is great enough to carry it forward for a few days without the steering of a regent.”

Dizzy’s frown deepened, “But it’s the man at the tiller who says the boat needs no steering.”

Lord Dunem shook his head, “Your grace, I assure you. We do nothing here invito rex.”

Dizzy paused for a second to parse the latin, “Against the… Well, it’s not my will if I don’t get a voice. Dunem, are you going to get out of my way, or am I going to call for the guards. How close is this to a coup? Would you even tell me if it were?”

Lord Dunem waited for him to wind down, but stood implacably in place, “One day, my lord. Twenty-four hours. That is all I ask. Take one day to get to know your noblemen, your country, your place in the world. After that, it would honor me to stand beside you as you guide the morning briefing.”

“With all you could do in a day, why should I trust you?”

The old man’s voice softened, “Because I put you on the throne, dear boy.”

Dizzy’s certainty wavered as Dunem continued, “I didn’t have to do it. King Richard’s legacy could be broken honorably, leaving the kingdom in the hands of… ” He looked over Dizzy’s shoulders to see Astor listening in, “in the hands of others. But I believe in you, and I’m taking an awful risk with you.”

Dizzy shook his head, “How do you even know me?”

The old man smiled, light glinting off his monocle, “That’s a story for another day. Just trust me. For one day, trust me. Go to your fish breakfast, sit with your nobles.” A shadow passed over his countenance, “and watch everything. Listen to everything. Notice everything. Just for today.”

He smiled again and stepped back, “I look forward to you joining us on the morrow, my lord. Astor?”

The thin lordling hooked a thumb over his shoulder, “This way.”

As they entered the dining room, Dizzy expected to see a flood of cameras and recorders. Instead, there were two old men holding vidrecs, and a long dining table filled with children who stood next to their chairs. He looked at the two old men, astonished, “Who are you?”

They nodded, and the nearest one spoke, “We represent the press in this matter, my king.” His bushy handlebar mustache was huge and colorful. Behind him, a thinner, older man set up a tripod.

“Yes, but who are you?”

“Ah, I am Sir Reginald, and this is my photography companion, the Earl of Reston.”

“I.. ah, well, I somehow thought the press itself would want to show up.”

The two noblemen shared a look and the older one coughed. Sir Reginald gestured to the seat at the end of the table, “If you would, my liege. I need to test the lighting.”

As Dizzy walked down the long table, looking at all the children, he snagged Wendy’s sleeve. As politely as possible, he walked closer to her and whispered, “There are thousands of press outlets in the nation, and at the first appearance of the king, they chose to send only two old men. Does this mean Astor was wrong about this whole fish thing? Maybe no one really cares.”

She shook her head, “No my lord. Sir Reginald and the Earl of Reston are the only ones who take pictures of the king.”

“But why? Do the newsies just not care about it?”

Wendy reached her seat and turned to face it. Dizzy took a step forward and began to pull the seat out for her. Next to them, Olivia Oldham gripped Wendy’s chair, blocking Dizzy. Through a thin smile, she said, “The king holds no one’s seat.”

Dizzy released the chair and took a step back, nodding thanks to Olivia. Wendy leaned in to whisper to him, while pointing unobtrusively at the old men, “The newsies are run by commoners.”

Dizzy continued to the end of the long table, thinking. As he sat, he heard the scrape of dozens of other chairs as everyone else took a seat. Dizzy sat, of course, at the head of the table, with Astor Atherton at his right hand, and Olivia Oldham at his left. The two old men took a place midway down the table, and called out, “We’re set.”

As soon as the words were said, the doors in back opened, and waiters began bringing plates of smoked kippers, smoked sausage, leafy greens on broken toast, and scrambled eggs. They moved with military precision, a server for each guest, and always serving Dizzy first. Within moments, every cup was full and every dish was set.

Dizzy marveled, not just at the display of exacting precision, but by the fact that they laid such a wonderful meal. There were kippers, to be sure, but placed on a bed of leafy greens with toast and sliced tomato, covered in a light hollandaise sauce. A white wine was served that, when Dizzy tried it, astonished him for it’s clarity, subtlety, and flavor. It was a wine that waited, made to be savored, and it brought the whole meal together admirably.

Dizzy was half way through his fish before he noticed that the others had waited for him to begin eating. He looked over at Sir Reginald, who gave him the “thumbs up” sign and grinned.

Dizzy did his best to look exceptionally pleased with his fish, mugging a bit for the camera. Further down the table, children laughed and chatted amongst themselves. Dizzy turned to Lady Olivia, “Tell me, who are all these children?”

“They are your direct servants, my lord.”

“So, footmen and scullery maids and such? Why would they be eating at the table with us?”

“No, my lord. Footmen and scullery maids do not sit at the King’s table. It is an honor to serve the king, and many families have gladly submitted their children to experience the joy of serving the king directly,” she expertly speared a chunk of fish and nibbled on it daintily.

Dizzy nodded, “That sounds quite nice, actually.” Then, as he was chewing the next bite, it hit him. He almost forgot to swallow before saying, “Wait. they aren’t hostages, are they?”

She feigned shock, “Hostages, sir? The King would never stoop to terrorism!” She dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin, “The king simply extends to different families and nations the opportunity of having a family member serve at court, oftentimes after he conquered their lands.”

Dizzy fell back in his chair, and tried to count all the children. There had to be forty or fifty of them, “It seems King Cadvan did a lot of conquering.”

Astor sniffed, “His military leaders did. Cadvan himself had -” Dizzy looked at him mildly, but Astor blanched anyway. He filled his fork and said, “King Cadvan had great military instincts and strategy.”

Dizzy pushed the remainder of the fish around on his plate, still looking at the children at his table, “Did he take one from each victory? I mean, one child from each conquered noble house?”

Olivia stared down at her plate, “It is a powerful deterrent to rebellion, my lord. For many generations, our kings have been practicing this strategy.”

Dizzy frowned down at his plate, “It just seems so wrong. I mean, I know the world is different for a king than another man, but it just seems like…” He leaned in toward her, asking in a low voice, “What if I wanted to end it? Is that even possible? Could I just say, ‘Everybody go home’?”

The lady scanned him with suspicion and a touch of fear. Her voice was flat, “I honestly don’t know. I think some houses would welcome it, but there is a valid reason for the strategy. There would surely be uprisings.” She looked away suddenly, and in a louder voice said, “I could not begin to guess what disasters such a decision could bring.”

Dizzy sat back again, and watched the children, “We’ve got enough for a pair of polo teams.”

Astor chuffed, “The king hasn’t had much luck with polo of late.”

Dizzy sighed, “That was rude, tasteless, inappropriate, far too soon after my brother’s death, and,” he turned to face Astor, “that’s my brother you’re talking about.”

Astor chewed for a moment, then said in an offhanded manner, “Yeah. Sorry.”

“So, what exactly am I to do with all these children?” Dizzy took another bite, “I mean, it’s not like we’re running an orphanage.”

Olivia responded, “Your grace has given these children a magnificent life. The finest tutors are brought in for them, and they all learn to serve the king by practice.”

“Hmm.. Yes. I still don’t feel entirely comfortable with that.”

Astor shrugged, “You get used to it. You’ve never had servants before, so you don’t know how it works. And in the end, we are really no different from any other servants. After all, what’s the difference between a servant who chooses to work for the King and one who’s ordered by the King?”

Dizzy blinked at him for a moment, considering his words. He remembered Dunem’s comment. There was a whole culture here that Dizzy was just not prepared for.

He saw Sir Reginald waving his arms, and realized that he was unconsciously frowning at a fork full of fish. Dizzy ate it and smiled.

He gestured at the two of them, watching him, “So, I still don’t understand why the whole of the press corps consists of two men.”

Olivia looked over at them and smiled, “Well, they’re both amateur nature photographers, so they are judged best suited for candid photos of the King.”

Dizzy shook his head, “No, that can’t be right. There are photo journalists out there right now who would give their eyeteeth to get royal pictures. I’ve seen them, heading off to the front lines or to the lunar colonies or whatnot. What makes these two so…”

Slowly, the realization hit him. The servants this morning, the party last evening, the advisors…

He muttered through a mouth full of kippers, “You know, I don’t think I’ve seen a single commoner since I was electrocuted.”

Astor and Olivia exchanged a look, and just past Astor, Wendy perked up. Astor coughed into his sleeve, “I beg your pardon?”

Dizzy’s eyes flicked to Astor, then back down to his plate. He shrugged, “Well, I just mean, I haven’t seen a single commoner since I was brought into the palace.” He shook his head slowly, “All these years, I’d heard that the king never let commoners near him, and I never took that literally.”

Astor snorted, “And why would he? In addition to the noble houses you have the lesser lords, dukes, earls, and knights, and all of them have noble children.”

Dizzy grinned, “There are, what, thirty thousand noblemen in the Northern Americas?”

Astor smiled, “A prodigious number, and growing all the time.”

“And around four hundred million other people in the Northern Americas.”

Astor frowned, “Four hundred… what?”

“Commoners. There are around four hundred million of them, and thirty thousand of us.”

Astor shrugged it off, “You talk about them as though it was a military standoff.”

Olivia whispered, “Pray it never is.”

Dizzy pointed his fork at her, “That’s exactly what I mean. We make up, oh, I guess a four-hundred-thousandth of the total population. That’s… ten thousand of them for every one of us. Doesn’t that scare you?”

Astor leered, “If you’re proposing we thin their numbers, I’m right behind you. But it may be exactly the kind of thing that will bring about the revolt you’re worried about.” He chortled and took another bite.

“It’s all tied together,” Dizzy said, dabbing at his lips with a napkin. “This isolation from the commoners, this hostage-” Olivia shot him a sharp look, and Dizzy sighed, “This requested internship. It’s all about control, and it goes too far.”

Astor sneered at him, “End it all then. You’re the king. Let us all go and let the commoners come in. But before you do, promise me one thing.” He speared another piece of fish, “list my father as your noble heir, so I can inherit when they raid the place, tear down your palace, and kill you.”

Dizzy frowned down at his plate, “I don’t know how yet, and I’ll admit, I don’t know what will come of it, but this-” Dizzy looked at his wards, sitting and laughing at the table, all pleasantly trapped, “I want to stop this.”

“King Augustus,” Wendy spoke in a quiet, measured tone, but the words caught Dizzy’s attention. He saw her glaring at him, “Before you make any more grand proclamations over breakfast, might I request that you mention them to your chief of staff? I believe Lord Dunem will be quite interested in hearing about how you’ve revolutionized the nation, and civilized the palace.”

There was ice in her words, though Dizzy could not understand why. It made no sense for his hostages to fight against freedom. Already, he’d noticed a pattern of people stopping him at every mention of his use of power. He opened his mouth to say something, but as he brought his hand up, the bracelet hanging from his wrist rang against his plate for a moment, distracting him. He stared at the bracelet and thought about a King’s power.

He took a deep breath, forced a smile, and said, “Well, it seems we are all in agreement that the king is wrong on this, so let us table the matter for another time. Tell me, what are we doing today?”

Astor said, “Today is sport. I’m meeting with a few of the fellows for polo.”

Olivia smiled, “I’m working on archery.”

Dizzy raised an eyebrow, “Oh? You’ve got a keen eye, do you?”

She demurred politely, “No. That’s why I’m working on it.”

Astor pointed a fork at him, “And you have to inspect some flea speck township in Michigan.”

“Me? Why?”

Astor shrugged, “Because it is on your schedule. You and Wendy will be taking a hopper to Flint, Michigan, where you will inspect their algae food production system. After that, you will play a game of human Circus, then return to the palace. Oh, and there is a Lord Valen who wishes to speak to you.”

Dizzy grinned, “Wait! Human Circus? I’m a great fan of the game. Not too shabby at it, either.”

Wendy raised a hand to stop him, “Well, we will have experts available at the game sir. You should turn to them for advice.”

“No. I’m sure I can hold my own. Who am I playing?”

“The Belgian Prime Minister. He has been on a tour of the Americas for the last few weeks. He wraps up his visit with this game.”

Dizzy stared at him for a moment, “The Belgian Prime Minister is here?”

“Yes.”

Dizzy opened his mouth, then shut it again, groping for the words. Finally, he said, “We are still at war with Belgium, are we not?”

Astor seemed unperturbed, “At the moment, yes.”

“Well then, isn’t there something we can do about this?”

Astor frowned, “About what?”

“How is it even possible that I can meet with the Prime Minister when our countries are at war?”

Olivia put a hand on his forearm, “That’s why it’s just a friendly game of Circus. If this were a diplomatic mission, the tone would be completely different.”

“The king is meeting with the Prime Minister. What part of this isn’t a diplomatic mission?”

Olivia’s tone was unimpressed, “You will negotiate no treaties. No one will surrender today. You meet as equals for a game of Circus. This is public relations, not diplomacy.”

Dizzy sat looking at all of them for a long time. He simply couldn’t understand this world. He pushed his plate away and stood quickly. As soon as he did, every chair moved back and everyone in the dining room, from youngest to eldest, stood at attention. Dizzy muttered, “Wendy, I’m ready to look at this flea-speck township whenever you are.”

Let me know in the comments what you think of the chapter (and the cover). And throw a buck or two in to support the book, if you like it.

“The creature must not be visible. That is paramount. If it is to do it’s job, it must always — (unreadable) — hovering just out of sight, never revealed. I don’t care how you do it, but I must have it. The realm needs it.

There must be one who follows the king everywh — (unreadable) — cannot stress this enough. It should watch him in court, in negotiations, even in his sleep. This automaton advisor must be small and quick, so that it may not be detected. — (unreadable) — to record everything that happens around the king. It must be able to hear the plots, and see the weapons that the king cannot.

It is paramount that this creature answer to no — (unreadable) — even the king. It must be able to use its own judgment on when to help the king and when — (unreadable) — If the king is ever turned, this creature must be there to put him on the right track. It must be prepared to inform him of dangers, warn him against plots, and stand between him and a bullet, if the need — (unreadable) —

Most important of all, this creature should be a line of defense against a king’s madness. We can ill afford another purging like that of king Leo. — (unreadable) — must watch, yes, but it must also judge the king. And if it finds that the king has strayed from the good of the realm, this creature must have the ability-“
— Recovered section of a message sent by King Charles to his secretary of Defense. The remainder of this document was irretrievably burnt.

The child took Dizzy’s hand, and led him out of the throne room, down a corridor adorned with statues of granite, inlaid with gold and silver highlights. Dizzy asked the child, “Do you know where you’re taking me?”

The boy was small, and couldn’t have been more than eight years old. His skin was ebony, and his hair was a dark brown cascade of curls that ran down his back. He grinned at Dizzy, “I know this castle like my home. You are the new king, yes?”

His accent was thick and Dizzy only got some of the words from context, “Yes, I suppose so.”

“The doctor-lady says you will have a drink when you get to your room. Then you will sleep.” He turned down another corridor. This one appeared to be conference or dining hall, from the large table that ran down the length of the room.

Dizzy frowned, “You are absolutely sure you know where we’re going?”

The boy shook his head, “I live here two years now. I serve the king every day. I know where he is going always.” The boy stopped and faced him, “Have we heard the truth? Cadvan is dead?”

Dizzy nodded, “I’m sorry. You must have been very close to him, serving him for so long.”

The boy showed no expression as he turned back and continued down the hallway. There was an awkward silence as he led Dizzy through a boardroom. Beyond another hallway was a grand dual staircase, leading to a bedroom.

“Here we are.” Two stout men stood outside a pair of oaken doors, staring at them. One of them nodded at the boy, “Is this, ah -“

The boy jogged a thumb at Dizzy, “Yeah. He tha new King.”

The guards took their positions and snapped to attention. In a moment, they were ramrod straight, still as statues and looking just as solid. The one who had been silent before now said, “Thank you, sir. My name is Roger, this is Mike. If you need anything, one of us will always be standing outside.

Dizzy passed between them quietly, “Thank you Roger. I’ll let you know.”

As Dizzy stopped in the entrance, stunned by the opulence of the bedroom, if it could be called that. He thought a better description might well be “pleasure dome”. The central figure was a revolving globe that showed the Americas in bright golds and copper. Lush, soft seats wrapped around it like satellites. If the globe were the central circle of a key, the fountain beyond made up the shaft. It extended from the back of one seat and shot dancing spurts of water along a shallow rivulet that ran along a hallway to the pool. The pool was large enough for an indoor party, ringed in marble. Beyond the osmosis barrier at the wall, the pool continued to a garden veranda. Inside, the air was cool and still, but outside torches blazed in lights surrounding the veranda. To one side of the hallway rivulet was a wrap-around wardrobe, with mirrors at every angle and a large, open area for considering one’s clothing choice. To the other side was a bed large enough for six people, covered in pillows. Stretching above them was a glass dome that amplified the light of the stars.

As Dizzy walked out on the Veranda, he passed the osmosis barrier and felt the oppressive heat of the early summer hit him. He looked out over miles of land, with streetlights lining the castle grounds, the businesses and houses of the capital beyond, and the dark silhouette of the mountains in the distance. The words “All he surveyed” floated through Dizzy’s mind, and another wave of belief hit him. He felt like he was about to throw up.

“My liege?” a deep, throaty alto called out to Dizzy. He turned to see a voluptuous blonde woman standing in the alcove of his bedchamber. She wore a long gown better suited for the party. She seemed a few years older than Dizzy, though almost a head shorter. She smiled up at him and said, “We were told you would like to retire for the night?”

Dizzy smiled at her and held out one restraining hand. There had been many confusing things this day, but he was absolutely certain he understood this one. He shook his head, “Miss, I don’t know what King Cadvan’s sleeping arrangements were, but I have no need of a bed warmer.”

The smile on the woman’s face widened as she turned away from him. She continued over to the bed, where two sets of nightwear were laid out. As Dizzy followed her, he saw two other young men, one standing next to the bed with his arms crossed over his chest, the other nearer to the door, wringing his hands.

The young man next to the bed glared at him and said, “Pig.” The other’s eyes were wide and unmoving.

The woman gestured to the sets of nightwear, “I only wished to get my liege’s preference, and then prepare him for sleep.”

The tall, thin young man bit at one thumbnail, “Cadvan was just like you. Both of you, pigs.”

The smaller, fatter boy’s eyes bounced from Dizzy to the other boy.

Dizzy held up one hand, “Now look, I meant no disrespect-”

“You see a woman and the first thing you think of is conquest. Oh, he played the innocent in public, but we all know better.”

Dizzy put his hands on his hips, “Sir, you have the better of me. I am doing my best-”

“Oh, I think we’ve seen the better of you already. Rutting animals, your whole family. How else could you have dug up a new heir so quickly?”

Dizzy stared at the floor for a moment, counting down. He didn’t like to act without knowing what was going on. But he was afraid that, if he didn’t stop this boy immediately, he could talk his way into treason. He turned to the door and shouted, “Guard!”

The door popped open and one of the two guards ran in, weapon at the ready. The short boy near the door scurried out of his way and ran behind a chair. Dizzy only smiled at the guard, “Mike, isn’t it?”

As the guard nodded, Dizzy pointed at the thin young man, “I am going to take a wild stab and guess that this boy has quarters somewhere in the palace?”

The guard looked over all of them, then nodded once. Dizzy said, “Very good. Please escort him to those quarters, and place a man on his door. He is not to leave there until dawn.”

The shorter boy yipped like a kicked dog, and his hand flew to cover his mouth.

The guard slowly put his weapon away and took a step toward the young man. When he spoke, his voice was low and cultured, “If you would, my lord.”

The boy glared at Dizzy, “I am expected at the party. I will be missed, and questions will be asked.”

The guard stopped and looked back at his king. Dizzy nodded and said, “Once you have escorted the young lord to his room, go to the main hall and tell them that he will not be joining them.” Dizzy looked the boy straight in the eyes, “Make sure everyone knows that the King has ordered him to remain in his room until morning.”

The boy blustered and sputtered, but the guard led him away by one arm. He looked over his shoulder and shouted at Dizzy, “You haven’t heard the last of this!”

As the door shut, Dizzy nodded sadly and faced the woman, “You know, I think he’s right.”

A shadow of a smile showed on her face, “You just made tomorrow a more interesting day, I guarantee that.”

The shorter boy popped out from behind the chair and ran over to Dizzy. As he got within an arm’s length, he dropped to one knee, “My liege. I am Andrew of house Brock. It is my great honor to prepare your bed.”

Dizzy blinked at the voluptuous woman. One side of her mouth quirked up in a smile, “House Brock has been given the honor this night.”

The boy kneeling before him nodded, his eyes averted to the floor, “By my father’s industry, my liege. Record profits this month have earned us this favor.”

Dizzy nodded slowly, “Okay. Well, congratulations for you and your family. It is good to meet you, and I will remember your family’s efforts.”

Tears of gratitude glistened in his eyes as he looked back up at Dizzy, “Thank you, your majesty. I will wash your feet now.”

Dizzy stepped back suddenly, and shot a panicked look at the young woman. She covered her mouth with one hand and said, “Lord Brock. While I’m sure the king appreciates your family’s service, he is tired and must expedite his preparations. Your help will be remembered.”

The boy stepped back slowly, unsure. He looked back and forth between them, “If – Well, if my liege needs no other assistance.”

“Not tonight, no.” Dizzy made polite shooing motions to the young boy, who backed out of the room. He bowed slightly, ensuring that his head never rose above that of his kings. When he was gone, Dizzy shook his head and turned back to the lady.

Dizzy smiled and took a step forward, “I apologize my lady, if I insinuated anything earlier that may have seemed inappropriate-”

She laughed, a friendly, rumbling laugh, “Shut up.”

Dizzy blinked at her as she shook her head at him, “Don’t use that tone with me.” She mimicked him, “I apologize my lady… insinuated anything earlier…” She laughed again, “Your diction is flawless, and your grammar is close, but you’re not royal born. Anyone inside these walls can tell that.”

Dizzy thought a moment, then shrugged, “I’ll be the first to admit it. To be honest, I don’t know where I was born, but it certainly wasn’t here.”

She frowned, “Where have you been, this hidden brother of the King? Did Dunem keep you secreted away all these years for this very reason? A backup for his childless sovereign?” She took a step closer to him, “And where did he keep you? You wouldn’t be safe in any other country, and you would be discovered if you lived here.”

Dizzy frowned down at the floor, then said, “Honestly, miss, I don’t know how much I can tell you. I don’t even know you. So let me ask the same question of you. You clearly knew Cadvan well, and you know the young lord there. You are not afraid to tell a king to shut up, so I don’t believe you’re a serving maid.”

“Nor a bedwarmer.” She grinned.

Dizzy smiled and raised his hands in mock resignation, “I did apologize about that.”

The lady took a deep breath and said, “My name is Olivia Oldham. I am the youngest daughter of Lord Oscar Oldham.”

Dizzy’s eyes widened, “Please tell me you do not live here at the request of the throne.”

She shrugged, “It is a pleasure to serve the king in his palace, rather than from a distant holding.”

Dizzy recognized the phrase, “Do they tell all of you to say that?”

“We all live together. We are all trapped here under this roof. We eat together, talk together… and we all attend the king in our different ways.”

“So, what did your father do to upset Cadvan enough to take one of his children?”

She shook her head, “They never told me. It is my considered opinion that my father did nothing at all to upset the crown.” She took a deep breath, “It is possible that Cadvan simply saw the utility of having a member of each noble house, and made the request. Wendy has it the worst, of course. She’s an only child, and her father absolutely adores her.”

Dizzy nodded, “What about you? You said you were the youngest. Why would Cadvan have chosen you rather than one of your older siblings?”

Olivia’s face clouded, “I’m not altogether sure he did.” She looked out at the veranda, jaw clenching, “My family situation is rather unusual, as I’m sure you know.”

Dizzy didn’t, but he tried not to let it show. For a long moment, she scowled at the landscape, making it decidedly hard for Dizzy to feign understanding. For moments like these, pregnant pauses are your best friend. Dizzy knew that, if he just held an understanding silence long enough, she would crack.

Eventually, she shook her head to clear it and looked at a door past the bedchamber, “I’ll draw your bath while you decide what you’d like to sleep in.”

Dizzy looked at the two sets of light, silken finery as she headed for the bathroom. He raised his voice to be heard in the other room, “Do I come off as a pig if I say that I’d rather not wear either?”

From the other room, he heard her call, “A pig’s response would be a sad attempt at wit by asking ‘whom’ the king would like to sleep in.”

Dizzy blinked at the bathroom doorway for a moment, deciding this was probably another good time for silence.

The sound of water filled the small room as she re-emerged, “However, a gentleman’s response would have been to simply not mention any choice and wait until the lady had left before exposing himself.”

As she walked past him, she punched him lightly on the shoulder, “Don’t worry. We’ll make a king of you yet.”

She continued to the front door and called over her shoulder, “Don’t give it more than a minute, or the humidity will scald you.”

Dizzy faced her, “You know-”

She turned, smiling, “Yes, my liege?”

“I’ve met a lot of new people today. Most of them wanted something from me, and I fear several of them would like to see me dead. But out of all of them, you were the only one who treated me like a person. I think I like you.”

She looked at him for a long moment, then walked slowly over to him. Her hips swayed in counterpoint to her shoulders as she approached, but her eyes never left his. She held his gaze with an easy smile as she stopped, a breath away from him. She looked up into his face with smiling eyes, and whispered, “Don’t.”

As she stepped back, still facing him, she said, “The doc had something sent up for you. A milkshake or something. It’s on the bed stand.”

She turned and wished him good evening on the way out.

—

Dizzy picked up the milkshake and wandered into the bathroom, expecting it to be opulent. He was still surprised by the grandeur of the room. It shone with white marble and gold. The room was huge and round, with a sink to the left and toilet to the right. The tub dominated the room, though. It was not so much a bathtub as a small pool, deep enough to stand submerged in, and wide enough for four or more people. Steam hissed from above and spun flywheels that ran the jets in the tub. Beyond the tub was a wall of one-way glass, that arched overhead and let the night sky shine through.

Dizzy sipped on the cool drink in his hand, and started to walk over to the tub, then stopped as he saw something in the mirror. The entire left wall was made of polished gold and silver, doubling the size of the bathroom with its reflection. Dizzy saw himself for the first time that day, still wearing the dark outfit he had visited the Dowager Queen in. It was worn around the knees and elbows, showing some gray in the cloth, but it had weathered the evening well.

The most striking thing about his image, though, was the crown. It fit so well on his head, he’d almost forgotten it. Dizzy walked over to the mirrored wall and turned his head one way, then the other. To him, it looked gaudy, flashy, and ridiculous. At the same time, he could see something of what everyone else was seeing. There was a nobility just in wearing a crown. The decoration carried so much symbolism, it made his whole face seem stronger, the lines deeper. It was a good look for him.

Then, just as suddenly as the moment of pride hit him, doubt struck, nearly doubling him over. He put the glass down next to the sink as his legs threatened to give out. He was in the palace. They were all treating him like a king. He was wearing a damned crown! He was so far past the point of safe escape, he couldn’t even see the way out anymore. If they figured him out, if they came for him as a despotic poseur, he very simply couldn’t talk his way out of it. He had enemies already, and no real friends. He saw the hollow, sunken look in his eyes, and could feel his breath coming fast.

He put one hand out flat on the mirror to steady himself, and looked hard in the mirror. He said softly, “I am not alone. There are people I love, and people who love me. If it comes down to it, I know they’ll be here. Sully, Barris, Cliffy, and me. They are all behind me, and they’re ready to help me do something amazing. I’m not alone.”

He stood straighter and removed the crown with both hands. Dunem might find he had the wrong man; Atherton may prove that he wasn’t a legitimate leader. They may find the Institute, or just hang him on the trumped-up charge of killing his brother. But whatever happened, Dizzy knew he had a safe place to go.

Dizzy sat on the edge of the tub and looked down at the crown in his hands, still not completely believing it.

The disembodied voice said flatly, “Now we are alone. It should be quite safe for us to talk.”

Dizzy jumped. He stood up and called out calmly, “I don’t believe in ghosts. Show yourself.”

There was a short pause, then the voice said again, “I’m sorry, my liege. I thought you were waiting to speak to me. Perhaps I can explain things better if you would put me down.”

Dizzy frowned at that, looking around himself. He realized he was still holding the crown in his hands, and blinked at it. The voice came again, “If you would, please.”

Dizzy slowly placed the crown on the edge of the tub. Among the intricate metalwork and folds of gold, there were grooves and hinges. They began to fold in on themselves, rotating slowly into position until the crown had flattened itself down to the size of a brooch.

From the back of the decoration, two arms unfolded, and levered the mechanical crown up. From there, two pistons sprouted from the spine of the crown, making legs for the thing. In the center of the brooch was one unblinking red eye.

The creature stood on it’s awkward legs and turned to face him. The body arched backwards for the eye to look up at him, “My liege. My name is Sceptre, and I swear my allegiance to you.”

Dizzy took a couple steps back, leaning abruptly against the edge of the sink, “Ah. You were the one I heard earlier?”

The body angled forward and back in a parody of a nod, “Yes, my liege. I fear that my nature has unnerved you.”

Dizzy suddenly felt silly for his reaction. He picked up the milkshake and took a drink, trying to look like this was all very normal, “Am I the only one who can hear you?”

“Yes sir. Focused audio is a well-known science.”

“Oh, well, yes, but I had no idea. Rather, I was not informed that my crown was an automaton.”

“Very few people know, my liege. I am the only one of my kind, built with one particular secret purpose.”

“And what’s that?”

“I record absolutely everything that happens to the king, and retrieve it for him at request. I did so for King Cadvan, and I will do so for you.”

Dizzy took another drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “Everything? That sounds a little invasive.”

The automaton stood still for a moment, then said, “My liege, if you were to write down your most secret thoughts, then place them in a box which, if anyone opened it, would destroy its contents, would you consider it invasive?”

“No. In fact, it sounds like a good security measure.”

“Just so, sir. I am that box. I am keyed only to respond to you. To any other person, I am an inanimate symbol of national power.”

“Even so, you’re a huge security risk. If anyone should get hold of you and pry open your databanks-”

“Forgive my interruption, sir, but there are multiple safeguards in place to ensure that does not happen. First of all, in the past two hundred years, only fifteen people have known of my existence, and ten of them were kings, who wanted to keep the secret. Security through obscurity is a deceptive security measure, but it is only one facet of my security.

Even if you should let it slip that I am more than a decoration, I am physically locked and welded. My casing is made of a material more durable than titanium. I can be frozen and thawed without damage, I can withstand temperatures of greater than 5500 degrees Celsius, which means I could survive for some time near the surface of the sun. More than that, I am hardened programmatically. I have multiple safeguards in place for every action I take or input I receive. I have self awareness, and would know if I were being stolen or manipulated.”

“Then you would call for assistance.”

“No sir. I would engage internal thermite detonators to melt down my databanks.”

Dizzy blinked, “But you’ve stored data from ten different kings. All that knowledge, all that history. You’re a national treasure!”

“I am a tool, sir. And if I am discovered, I am a liability.”

Dizzy put the milkshake down, and touched one finger to his lips, “So, you know all the dirty secrets about all the kings that came before me as well.”

The automaton replied, “I know many things, sir.”

“Could you tell me about the court?”

“Yes sir.”

“Who has proven faithful to the crown?”

“Yes sir.”

“And what plans Cadvan had in motion before his death?”

“No sir.”

“I – what?”

“I am here to record your memories and provide what reference I can. But your secrets will die with me. I can provide historical background only.”

Dizzy started to feel the effects of the milkshake, “You can’t tell me anything about what Cadvan was doing before he died?”

“I can tell you of many things he was doing. I cannot, however, tell you his secrets.”

Dizzy nodded, “I suppose that will have to do.”

There was a brief whirring inside the golem as it considered something. As the whirring stopped, it looked back up at him. “There is one something I need to impress upon you, sir.”

Dizzy ran a hand over his face, “What’s that?”

“Before Cadvan’s fateful game, he removed me.” The automaton paused, “The king never takes me off, sir. I am a symbol of his leadership. More than that, I am a powerful tool for retaining memory and evidence. Many times, he has availed himself of my strategy and perception.”

Dizzy nodded. His head was starting to feel fuzzy, “So, he took you off this morning.”

“Yes sir, then he died. I am not convinced that the two are coincidental.”

Dizzy nodded, his vision blurring a bit, “Wait, so you’re saying there was something he didn’t want you to see?”

“No. I am saying that he removed me prior to his game. I would not guess as to his intentions.”

“He could have been planning to meet with someone. Someone he couldn’t even tell you about.” Dizzy squinted at the squat, golden eye.

“Sir, I would recommend you shut off the water to the bathtub now.”

Dizzy nodded slowly, “Yes, right. The steam seems to be getting to me.” He switched off the water and began pawing at his shirt jacket.

“Sir, I would recommend you get into bed.”

“Me? Why? I’ve this, ah,” he waved vaguely at the tub.

There was a sudden, powerful blaring noise in Dizzy’s head, and he jumped back. Adrenaline coursed through his head as he dropped into a defensive crouch and cast about for danger. His mind and vision cleared instantly, as the back of his mind looked for exits and weapons. After a moment of silence, he turned back to Sceptre.

“Sir, while you are still alert, please return to bed. You have taken a powerful sedative, and I believe it is beginning to affect you.”

Dizzy blinked at the tiny metal man angrily, but trudged back into the bedroom. He muttered, “That really hurt, you know.”

The automaton skittered along behind him, “My deepest apologies, my liege. I was afraid you might injure yourself in the bathtub, and be unable to recover. I have no wish to lose two sovereigns in one day.”

Dizzy fell into bed. Face down in the covers, he slurred, “Still… coulda…”

The golden decoration jumped up onto the bed, walked over Dizzy’s body, and unwrapped itself into the form of a bracelet, attached to the king’s wrist.

There was a muted vidfeed mounted behind nanomesh on the ceiling of the precinct waiting room. People shoved and shouted as arresting officers brought in new suspects, family members tried to bail out their loved ones, and injured parties waited for their chance to press charges. As Capt. Trumble stormed into the place, he saw himself on the feed, holding the faux nobleman, and wetting himself, a look of stark panic on his face. The text crawler at the bottom of the screen read, “Tank vs. SWAT – Police in military standoff – Officers attempt to arrest the king.”

He grabbed a paperweight and threw it at the screen, where it bounced harmlessly off. He shouted, “Turn that off! Change the channel!”

One of the sergeants behind the bulletproof glass scrambled for the remote, and switched it to a different feed, which was showing the Captain holding the Earl of Viborg, a tank platoon in the background. The text crawler on that channel read, “No charges were filed – No evidence was brought forth – Suspicious arrest – Police investigation underway”.

He pushed through to the main office, “Where did they get that? Who’s giving the newsies those kinds of lies?”

Behind him, sergeant Samson said, “Knee-deep in calls, sir All wanting to know what we’s bringin’ him for.”

The captain stopped in his tracks and turned, “What we were – He was impersonating nobility! That’s a capital offense!”

“The king.”

“What?”

“The king, sir. Impersonating nobility.” He held up his open palms, “I mean, that’s the sound of it to me.”

“But he wasn’t impersonating the king. He was impersonating an Earl!”

“Dunno that’s a charge, sir. I mean, nobility impersonatin’ yer lessors.”

“He wasn’t king then! He wasn’t king, and he wasn’t an Earl. I can’t believe we’re even having this discussion.”

“Yessir.” Gallant fumed at him, red-faced. He wanted to get in the sergeant’s face, wanted to shout at him some more, but he couldn’t do anything with someone who just agreed with him. Then he noticed that the precinct had got very quiet.

He spun around to face all the detectives staring at him, “What? Get to work!” As the men turned back to their consoles and interviews, Captain Trumble stormed back to his office. The sergeant followed quietly, and shut the door behind him.

“We’re not done with this, you understand?” Trumble jabbed a finger at him. “I don’t care what they say, that was a good cop, and we nearly had him. I’m not going to let some up-jumped guttersnipe slip out of my clutches.”

The sergeant said in a soft voice, “May be it’s a bit hard to bring charges against the king, sir. I mean, dunno if it’s ever been done before.”

“No. No. He wasn’t king then. He wasn’t king, and he wasn’t earl, and I’m going to have him for that.”

The sergeant rubbed the back of his neck, “Well, even when we brought nobs in before, they sang the same. No charges filed. Don’t see as it’s gonna get easier pryin’ it out of them, now he’s king.” He shrugged, “A lotta them’ll see it like treason.”

Trumble thumped his fist on the vidsheet from earlier in the night, showing a loop of the Westin Inn security video, “We have proof. We have him entering a building with invalid identification.”

“Aye, sir, but without a crime, that’s still thin.”

“Impersonating an Earl is a crime!”

“Yes sir. But when a body wants to bring up the king on charges, he wants a bit more to go on than a fake ID.”

Captain Trumble put both fists down on his desk and pushed hard, “You don’t understand. I had him. I had him in my grasp. All I needed was a few minutes with him in the interrogation room, and I could have…” Gallant’s eyes unfocussed as he imagined it, then snapped back, “I don’t care who he is, I’m going to find out who he was. I’m going to -”

His phone started buzzing an angry red. Gallant blinked at it. He’d never seen it do that before. As he reached for it, a lieutenant popped his head in, “Commissioner calling for you, cap!” The lieutenant ducked out as fast as he could after delivering the message.

Sergeant Samson began backing out of the room, but Trumble held him there, “We’re not done here.”

He grabbed the phone and put it up to his ear, “Police Captain Trumble here.” He listened for a moment, “Yes sir. Well, I know, sir. I was there. I saw… yes sir, I understand. Of course. Well, sir, I’m not convinced that the perpetrator was… yes sir. We were there to apprehend a noble impostor. – No sir, I don’t mean a nobleman impersonating another… Yes sir, I know who he is now… Well, sir, at the time, he had not been crowned and was traveling under false… Yes sir. Brother to the king. But you see, sir, he was using -” There was a long pause as Trumble listened, growing redder by the second, “No, sir, I don’t believe that an apology would be appropriate given… You are, sir… Of course… Your desk, tomorrow morning. Yes sir.”

Captain Trumble put the phone down as it dimmed to a neutral black. He whispered to himself, staring at the phone, “Oh, I’m not done with this boy. No. Not by a long shot.”

Sergeant Samson tried again, “Ol’ mam used to say that a fella who jumps in a river to fetch a coin loses more than his cents.”

Trumble glared at him, “So I’ve lost my sense now?”

“What? Not a jot, sir. Only meanin’ there’s a backlog out there long enough without huntin’ any white whales.”

The door to his office flew open as the lieutenant bustled in, standing at attention the whole time. He actually saluted as a large fur balloon flounced into the room. “Gallant! What have you done to me?”

Captain Trumble had, in his youth, married above his station. In a desperate attempt to climb the social ladder, he married a Agatha Prone-Filings, a porky young debutante that he thought was descended from riches and nobility. It was only after marrying into the family that he found out how badly leveraged they were. His dreams of using his wife as a stepping stone to nobility were crushed when her family told him that they shared a name with a noble house, and that name recognition was the only way they could sneak into any parties with people of quality. For more than twenty years, he had regretted that decision.

“Lady Filings.” He always called her that, hoping that others would pick up the hint and start treating her like royalty. Thus far, he had had no success. Trumble stood respectfully as his wife spun around, glaring at the squalor of the room in general, and at him specifically. Her face was red, though from exertion or rage, he could not tell.

She glared at the two officers in the room. From the look on her face, Captain Trumble could see that it was only the presence of these peasants that kept from venting her full fury, “Gallant, you disappoint me.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what-“

“I was at the club!” she shouted. “I was at a dinner party, if you can believe it. A fundraiser to benefit the indigent and provide better relations between the forgotten man, and we, the upper classes.” For years, his wife had been working on her accent. While he knew how hard she worked to sound as important and regal as possible, when she pronounced it “clah-ses”, Captain Trumble always thought of the pompous woman from a Marx brothers movie.

The captain, having realized where this was going, decided to head it off with a bit of his own bombastic importance, “Now listen, my dear. This is a police matter, and I’m not about to-“

She shrugged out of fifty pounds of furs, which she dropped on Sergeant Sampson, “Don’t interrupt me, Gallant. Not now of all times. I honestly cannot believe – The forgotten man, Gallant! And just as Daisy was standing up to talk about how she had volunteered three of her own workers to a soup kitchen, the whole room goes abuzz with news.”

Captain Trumble thought he saw his men smirking, so he pointed an accusing finger at his wife, “Now look here! I won’t have people just barging into -“

“On the news, Gallant! On the news!” She looked stricken and pale as she raised a hand to her forehead, “I could forgive anything, but not the news.”

Captain Trumble opened his mouth again, but she gave him no chance, “Don’t interrupt. Right between the second course and desert, just as the servants were laying out a lovely creme brûlée, everyone starts digging out their personal comms, and I get an eyeful of you, threatening the common man, and defiling yourself on the news.”

“Agatha! I am trying to deal with that situation now.”

She walked up to him and slapped his accusing finger out of the way, “That’s why I’m here, Gallant. To deal with the situation. As soon as I saw this, of course, I was forced to denounce you and say that you must have gone mad.”

Gallant’s eyes widened, “You… you denounced ME?”

“Yes. And I said I’d have a stern word with you…” She took a deep breath and looked around the room, “Which I have now done. We shall continue this later when you get home. For now, understand that you are no longer welcome at the club, and I will insist upon a full apology to my parents.”

Gallant was so angry, he couldn’t speak. Every time he opened his mouth, his wife’s eyes narrowed and her frown deepened. After a long minute, Captain Trumble muttered, “Yes, dear.”

She nodded and walked over to Sergeant Sampson. She faced away from him and spread her arms in a kind of dumpy crucifixion. He blinked at her for a moment, then draped the furs over her arms.

“We shall continue this in private, Gallant.” The lieutenant disappeared after her, closing the door quickly.

Trumble stood in the center of the room, hands balled into fists by his sides. The sergeant moved further into a corner, waiting for the Captain to explode. Once Trumble got his breathing under control, he looked at the sergeant with cold, dead eyes.

“My wife denounces me, the commissioner demands an apology, my own men are giggling at me even now-“

The sergeant held out his palms, “Now, sir. I’m sure that’s not -“

Trumble ran to the windows and flicked open the opacity on the windows. As the booking office flooded into view he said, “I know they are! I can hear it! Even when they hide it from me, I know…”

He turned back to face the sergeant. “That boy. He mocked me, Jones. He walked away scott free. There’s video of me… disgracing myself because of him, and he got away. Now they tell me he’s untouchable.” He shook his head slowly, “No. I will shake every one of those noblemen until the truth comes loose. I will question every bookie and whore from here to California if that’s what it takes. No one moves without a trail, and I will find his. I will find it, I will follow it back, and I will get him.”

“Sir. He’s the king. He got armies protecting him. I mean like literal armies.”

Trumble just shook his head, “Not from me. He’ll have no protection from me.”

Let me know in the comments what you think of the chapter (and the cover). And throw a buck or two in to support the book, if you like it.

It is well known that there is a higher echelon of nobility, above that which you or I can see. In the same way that we are able to look down at the commoners who scratch and toil for their every cent, there are others who look down upon us as well. We know the king to be at the top of this pyramid, but very little is known about those who sit just below him.

Among our order are many levels of which we are aware. The lowest nobility is, of course, the family of the ennobled. Sons of dukes and daughters of earls. Above them, we have the lower noble classes, the titled land-holders. These are the knights, dukes, and earls. Some of them serve in Parliament, even if they have no holdings or vassals.

Above that order sits the higher nobles. These are the lords and ladies who rule over the lower nobility. A knight may think himself independent, but he will soon find that he is living on another man’s land, and under another man’s rule. The noble lords are all land owners, and have, at minimum, a working force of greater than a hundred vassals and servants. They are almost all members of Parliament, and even their children are above the lower nobility in rank and privilege.

While all this is understood to the youngest of children as the right and proper order of importance, the higher echelon is almost never mentioned. While we, the noble lords, may consider ourselves captains of industry, these higher Lords would surely be the admirals.

The average noble lord has lands and holdings valued at around twenty to fifty million dollars. These higher lords are said to be worth tens of billions of dollars on average. They have their own conscripted forces, some reaching almost a third of the strength of our nation’s armed forces. Lords at our levels rarely think about it, but when we refer to ourselves as land owners, we are, in fact, leasing that land from one of the higher Lords.
This power they have can be seen best by their anonymity. It is known that the upper echelon exists, and they can often be seen traveling with the king, but almost nothing is known of the people themselves. It is said that there are three to five small families that wield this awesome power, but very little is known about them, save what we hear from the media.

Newsvids are almost certainly owned by these families, as they often shape news stories to help one agenda or another. This is not conspiracy ranting, but rather a lifetime’s research into the media. Occasionally, one can see the lords sniping at one another, such as the printed rumors of Lord Wilde’s bestiality. In general, though, their influence is subtle, slight, and pervasive.

The chronicler would like to point out that there is no illegality or impropriety in this action, as it is well understood that a man who owns a thing can control that thing. It is only right and proper, and he thanks the higher lords for allowing him the opportunity to publish.

These higher lords tend to keep to themselves, socializing only with each other. It has often been suspected that, at important events such as coronations or royal weddings, the nobility will gather for a celebration, and the higher nobles will enjoy a more lavish and personal party elsewhere. These suspicions are unfounded, though, as no one from our level has ever been given audience before them.

I quote now from Lady Almalthea, the sixth daughter of the Earl of Laredo, and one of the few who can claim to have seen these parties:

“When I was five years old, I was brought to an opening for one modern art exhibit or another. It was in Queens, I remember that. I was too young then to realize what an honor my family had been paid, but my father and mother were making the most of it, chatting up all the higher nobility they could find. I quickly tired of the whole event, and decided to wander. Behind the drapes, I found a door which lead to the kitchen, and I remember thinking how odd it was that a museum would have a kitchen. I wandered through unhindered, as everyone else was running about all higgledy-piggledy.

On the other side of the kitchen was another door, and when I passed through that door, I saw the most stunning display I’ve ever known. I remember jeweled staircases, immense statues, and buffet tables with every type of dessert. There were several people inside, all dressed in such exquisite gowns and suits as I’d never seen. It was the most beautiful party I’d ever seen, or ever would.

There were several families there, but I remember there were only four important men. I could tell from their bearing and everyone’s deference to them. One was a large, stocky, bearded man who laughed with a deep, boisterous tone. Another was a tall, thin man with bright eyes like a hawk. He smiled only when he was watched. There was an old, bald man sitting in a chair, who did nothing but scowl at people. But the man they all looked at, well… I knew he was the king, you understand. I mean, I knew from his picture on the coins. But I’d never seen him in person before. He laughed and joked, and slapped the thin man on the back.

Then he turned and saw me, and I remember him saying, “Well what’s this? A little lost lamb?” Everyone turned and looked, and once the king showed interest in me, everyone else flocked to me. They smiled and cooed, and played with me. The king even walked up to me and hoisted me in the air. He said, “Now this is what I want. Someday, I’ll have one just like you, sweetling.” He spun me around until I giggled with nervous excitement.
Then suddenly, everything seemed to stop. The room got quiet as everyone turned to see my father standing at the door. His eyes were wide as saucers. It was the first time I’d ever seen him frightened. The old man hissed at him, “Private party. Get on with ya!”

My father, dumbstruck by the group, could only raise a weak hand to point at me. The king put me down and said, “There you go, back to your family then.” He squeezed my shoulders once, and pushed me in my father’s direction. We went back to the party, and my father immediately gathered our family and took us home. He tells everyone we meet, as though we were best friends with the king. Of course, I’ve never seen them since.”

— An excerpt from “Our Nobility, Our Noblemen, a Treatise on Government” by Kirstin Jacobs

—

Dizzy awoke with a massive headache. His whole body was numb and heavy. He blinked a few times, hoping to understand the room he was in.

Dizzy was smart, and before he was fully awake, he understood that he was in a noble house of some kind. The air smelled dry and refined, the cushions beneath him were form-fitting, soft and supportive. He kept his eyes closed and his breathing regular. He wanted as much information as he could get on the place before “waking up”.

He wasn’t bound. That was a good sign. Whoever had captured him didn’t want him for torture. At least, not yet. The sound of the air in the room indicated that it was spacious. From the clipped footsteps outside the room, he could tell by the echo that this was an official room. It sounded like walls and floors of marble, like a library or a mausoleum. That thought gave him pause. Did they bring him into a crypt just to gloat before snuffing his light out?

A little way away, Dizzy heard something coming. It was rattling, deep and chortling, like a pack of dogs, snuffing at a trail. It grew louder and closer. As the sound grew louder, it echoed off the walls, building in menace and strength.

Suddenly, Dizzy could bear it no longer. He sat bolt upright and cast about, looking for the stalking creature. He was seated in the middle of the room. His chair was on a raised dais, with a great hall stretching out before him. As he had guessed, it was covered in marble, from the floor to the columns. Rows of chairs sat in lines facing the center of the hall. On the walls, tapestries and vidscreens showed moments of great patriotism.

Above him, the ceiling raised hundreds of feet up, with buttresses covering supports every thirty feet or so. It looked like a giant webwork of intricately-carved scaffolding.

Dizzy heard the sound again, and looked down to see an old man sleeping in one of the audience chairs. He was snoring loudly, causing the sound that had menaced Dizzy into wakefulness.

The old man in the chair was dressed in military finery. Dizzy thought for a moment that he recognized the man, but couldn’t place him. Rather than wake the man, Dizzy continued looking around the room. Tall stained-glass windows ran along the walls, showing battle scenes of great victory for the American people. The marble floor was a single long sheet, which was an expense most nobility could only dream of. Whoever wanted him captured, they were major money.

Dizzy thought briefly of the Baron Stein, who had sworn never to let Dizzy come to another of his games. He thought of Sir Bruce, who had sworn to kill him on sight, or Lady Bruce, who swore she would cut out his heart. Too many names, too many enemies, and none of them as powerful as this.

He looked at the chair he was sitting in. It was simple oak, intricately carved, with gold poured into the carvings so that it remained smooth and comfortable. He saw sigils of the nation carved alongside the curliques and carvings.

Perhaps it wasn’t any one of them. After all, it would take more than one nobleman to remove a prisoner from their grasp. Perhaps it was all of them together. When he wasn’t watching, all his enemies joined forces and used their political power to wrest him away from the police, giving them assurances that they would kill the boy before they were through. Dizzy’s eyes flitted back and forth throughout the room. This time, he looked for weapons.

He leaned forward in the seat. They hadn’t restrained him at all. Not even to stop him from running. Was this to be some macabre game? He’d heard of Lord William Wilde, who was rumored to hunt men in his game forests. If that were the case, Dizzy decided, I won’t give them the satisfaction.

The old man shuddered suddenly, and came awake. He blinked rapidly, running a hand over his face and smacking his lips. Dizzy sat very still and watched him. Something Sully used to tell him, “When in danger or in doubt, hold still and find a way out.”

The old man looked at him and shouted, “The boy’s come to!” His gravelly voice bounced and echoed off the walls.

Scarcely a moment later, a door behind Dizzy burst open, and a tall, thin, perfectly-dressed older man strode in. He had one hand to his ear, and a monocle that was clearly streaming data to him. He muttered as he walked over to Dizzy, “Confirmation? You have my confirmation that the situation has stabilized, we have an alternate, and I will alert the press momentarily. If you want anything more, just make up stories amongst yourselves. You’re good at that.”

Behind him was a smaller man who rushed in, then stood in front of Dizzy, wringing his hands. The small man looked nervous, wringing his hands in front of him.

The bald man with the monocle stepped up to Dizzy and extended a hand, “My name is Ashford Dunem. I am-”

Dizzy’s eyes were as huge as saucers as he interrupted, “Political advisor to the king.” Suddenly it all made sense. Dizzy had long thought of himself as the greatest of the noble impostors. Now that all the nobility had gathered against him, what better punishment than to have the king himself execute Dizzy.

Even as he felt the trap close around him, Dizzy took the offered hand with both of his and fought the urge to ask for an autograph.

The bald man gestured back to the seat, and Dizzy nodded politely, sitting again before he even considered the gesture. Lord Dunem wrung his hands nervously as Sir Terry Cartwright entered the room behind him.

Cartwright looked him over, “This is he, then?”

Lord Dunem ignored him, “Mr… ah, how should I address you?”

Dizzy blinked up at him, “My name is Disreali Augustus McCracken the third.”

Lord Dunem nodded, “I see. So it is your intention not to stick with Veevers then?”

Dizzy’s eyes shot open. He was about to ask how they knew that name, when he remembered how he’d been caught. The police had him leaving the home of the Dowager Queen. If they knew his name was Vincent Veevers, then they must already know who she was and how they were related.

He frowned at that. Had she called in some favor? Spared him the police by asking a favor of the king? Could she even do that?

And why would she. Just earlier that night, he’d considered that she was the one who sicced the police on him. He couldn’t trust her any better than the police. Dizzy looked around at the gentlemen standing over him. At this point, he couldn’t trust anyone.

Dizzy took a deep breath and settled into the seat. He repeated, “My name is Disreali Augustus McCracken the third.”

Lord Dunem nodded absently, “Just as well. It sounds better. If I may recommend, though, I would leave the McCracken out. Augustus sounds far better for your station.”

Dizzy blinked up at him. Were they mocking him? Dizzy knew his station, and if they knew it as well, they had no reason to offer him advice of any kind. Dizzy decided to change the subject, “A strange sort of palace this is. A man could die of thirst before anyone offered him a refreshment.”

None of them took the bait. They just kept staring at him. Lord Dunem asked, “What do you know of King Cadvan?”

Dizzy said in an instinctual mutter, “long may he reign.” Dunem looked over at General Elling who only raised an eyebrow. Dizzy continued, “I met him once. Briefly. That is to say, I attended a royal ball once, but was never afforded the opportunity to visit the royal presence.”

Realization flooded in on Dizzy. Dizzy was a graduate of the Hidden Institute. He was attending a royal ball with a fellow alumni named Cliffy. At that party, assassins had attempted to kill the King, and it was Cliffy who saved the King’s life. For that effort, despite his low birth, the King had knighted Cliffy.

But Dizzy also knew that the King hated commoners. He hated the brotherhood of the Hidden Institute most of all for their presumptuous goal of infiltrating the nobility. Could this be why the King had brought him here? Cliffy was untouchable, having been raised up by the King himself, but Dizzy was a comparative nobody. He was an impostor who, once unmasked, could be made an example of. Had the King spent all this time tracking him down just to kill him now?

The door behind him slammed shut with a reverberating echo. The sharp clack of heels in a deliberate walk announced Dr. Hazel Turnock, the surgeon general. When Dizzy saw the doctor approach, he stood, “Ms. Turnock.” He extended a hand, palm up, offering to kiss her hand.

She took his wrist between two fingers and her thumb. With her other hand, she reached up and pried his eyelids apart. Dizzy blustered and took a hesitant step back. She growled, “Hold still now.”

After a moment, she let go of his wrist and held her fist in front of his face, thumb upraised. The thumbnail glowed brightly and she watched his eyes as she moved the thumb back and forth across his field of vision.

She held his head in both hands and pushed down hard under his cheekbones with her thumbs. Dizzy’s mouth opened involuntarily and she looked in, asking, “What was the last thing you had to eat?”

Dizzy tried to answer, but his words came out as a mush of vowels. The doctor reached around the back of his head, feeling for tender spots, then squeezed his collarbones, his upper arms, and his chest just beneath the ribs.

Dizzy tried to laugh it off, “I’m honored, my lady, that you would take such a personal interest, but-”

She didn’t bother looking at him, “He seems all right. Some nervous system damage, but that was likely due to the electrocution.” She squeezed a pressure point just above the back of Dizzy’s knees, and he nearly fell down. For a moment, he felt like a sacrificial virgin, being prepared for the volcano.

Lord Dunem asked, “So you feel he’s competent to take the oath?”

Hazel looked up at Dizzy with deep, canny, sharp blue eyes, “I’d say he’s physically ready. Only time can tell about the rest.”

Sir Cartwright hugged his chest, “We should make him sign first.”

Dizzy raised his hands in protest, “Now look. I think I’ve been kept in the dark about this quite long enough. If you’ve brought me here to face judgment from the King, then I’d like to speak to either an attorney or to the King himself.”

General Elling looked at him levelly and said in a flat voice, “The king is dead.”

Dizzy stood very still for a moment, easing back into the chair. King Cadvan was dead, and now they had brought him here. The one that Cadvan wanted to hunt down, and they bring him to the palace because…

His eyes shot open, “Oh, no. You’re not getting me for that!” Dizzy dropped into a defensive Torat Shav stance, “I’ll have no part of your back-room dealings. Whoever killed him, however he died, I will not be held on trial for the king’s death. You’re going to have to drag me away in chains, gagged and bound.” He glared at each of them in turn, “Because if you let so much as one other person talk to me, I’ll spill everything.”

Lord Dunem looked genuinely shocked, “Sir, I assure you, I have no intention of -”

Dizzy’s voice rang in the palace hallway, “Kill me now, if you dare. Kill me now, because I will never be silent about this. I won’t go gracefully to the gallows out of some misguided sense of duty.” Another thought hit him, “Do you have my family? Did you find Sully? Is that it? Are you planning to use my family to assure my silence? Because I tell you now, that won’t work. I will shout at the top of my -”

Lord Dunem shouted him down, “Of all the ungrateful, ridiculous, jumped-up, pathetic guttersnipes-”

There was the whisper of metal, and General Elling held a three-foot long sword to Lord Dunem’s throat. Everyone stopped in amazement, as the old man frowned at Ashford. Lord Dunem blinked at his friend of twenty years, “What are you doing?”

The General’s gaze was cold, “If he is who you say he is, then you will show some respect. If not, then this is all just a waste of time.”

Lord Dunem blinked at the blade, then looked back at Dizzy, “I apologize, sir. Perhaps we are going about this the wrong way.”

Dizzy remained intractable, “You won’t convince me to take the fall for this. I want to talk to my lawyer, I will talk to the press. I will not be the patsy for this crime.”

“Oh for all the god’s sake,” The surgeon general walked past them, pushing General Elling’s sword out of the way, “If he wants to talk to people, let him talk to people.” She reached for a bell pull next to the seat. “Let him talk to all the people.”

She pulled the cord, and a loud bell rang out. The doors at the far end of the hallway burst open, and a wave of nobility streamed in. They were dressed in every possible color, looking bright and resplendent in their finery. Dizzy had met most of the nobility before, and he knew the cut of truly fine clothing. The lords and ladies, knights and princesses, earls and duchesses who entered were clearly dressed for a formal occasion.

And every one of them was wearing a black armband.

They poured through the doorway, and filled the room, pushing and shoving their way to the best seats available. They all looked at him, and turned to one another, gossiping and plotting. Dizzy’s heart caught in his throat. Every single person who had ever wanted him dead was here, in this room, ready to pass judgement.

General Elling stood off to his left and Lord Dunem stood to his right. The others fanned out from there, ordered by rank. Once most of the room was seated, a fanfare sounded from the doorway. Two trumpeters played the traditional song announcing the arrival of the king. Dizzy sat down in the chair, wondering what it could mean. Hadn’t they just told him that the king was dead?

Lord Dunem walked stiffly forward, to stand in front of Dizzy. He dropped to one knee and said, “I am Lord Ashford Dunem, advisor to King Cadvan, King Richard, and King Stephen before him. I swear now to serve the blood-born heir to King Richard, brother to King Cadvan. I swear my life, my lands, and my service to King Augustus, third of his name. Long may he reign.”

The whole room echoed with the sudden shout of “Long may he reign!” Dizzy gripped the armrests of the chair he was sitting in and realized something. The seat in the middle of a palace is a throne.

—

Lord Dunem waited for the shouting to die down, then said, “My lord. I give my oath of fealty, the first of many. Will you swear to protect the land and people of this nation against all threats? Will you guard over our children and our soldiers in the field?”

Dizzy’s head was still spinning. All he could think to do was whisper, “Please stand up.”

Lord Dunem said, “Yes, my liege. I rise a noble servant to the king of the Americas.”

The shout echoed off the walls, “Long live the king!” Somewhere, revelers had started a cheer, but were shouted down by more perspicacious viewers.

Lord Dunem looked off to one side and called a name, but Dizzy couldn’t hear it through all the shouts. A young east african boy ran out into the center of the hall, holding a deep purple pillow before him. He stopped and knelt before Lord Dunem. In the center of the pillow was a golden crown.

Lord Dunem turned slowly and lifted the crown with both hands. He turned to face Dizzy and took one step toward the throne. Somewhere, musicians had been found to start playing a rousing anthem.

Dizzy had the all-too-common feeling that he was making a mistake. But surrounded by this lot, he couldn’t think of how to get around it. Lord Dunem took another step forward and Dizzy held up one hand.

“No!” The call came from far back in the hallway. Dizzy dropped his hand back to the armrest as everyone turned to look. A tall, thin, immaculately-dressed man stepped out of the line and repeated himself, “No, this is not the king.”

Lord Dunem took a step back, and turned to face him, “Lord Atherton. You have misgivings?”

The tall man pulled a small pinch of cloud and snorted it, “I have no misgivings. I know the law. This man is not part of the line of succession, and these proceedings are therefore an illegal travesty.” He turned to face the crowd, “I recommend an emergency meeting of parliament, that we may determine our own interim regent.”

There was a bit of muttering from the crowd, but most looked to Lord Dunem for a rebuttal. He nodded politely, “I have full authority over this, by right of the law of the Byblow king.”

Lord Atherton raised his head higher, “Without proof of his blood, your suggestion is baseless.”

Dizzy had the most peculiar feeling buzzing around in his head. What had started out as fear, wishing he could just get out of this, turned into something else. That thrillseeker part of him, which had so recently been tamped down by fear and confusion, finally started to surface. Why couldn’t he play king for a while? He’d played just about every other part in the aristocracy.

And with it came another realization. This was not a joke. It was no temporary dalliance that would eventually be discovered and lost. If he had the strength to take it, he could truly play this part. That wasn’t thrillseeking, but it was something akin. It was a willingness to take on a greater power than he’d ever known. It was a chance to be truly important, with no one able to argue that he was a fraud.

And as he watched Lord Dunem consider the challenge, Dizzy decided. He stood up, and all eyes turned to face him.

“Lord Dunem is a noted scholar on the monarchy, having served several kings himself. He lists legal precedent for this transfer of power. Now we have a challenger who gives no precedent. He gives no plan of action. In fact, Lord Atherton, your only suggestion seems to be to let Parliament adjudicate without consideration for any particular law at all.”

They all stopped for a moment, and Dizzy took a deep breath. There was one moment where you get past the setup, and you truly sell the con. At that point, you either hook the pidgin, or get run out of town on a rail.

“As the keeper of the law, I will not stand for that.”

A gasp rose up among the throng. All eyes turned to him, and Dizzy refused to show any weakness.

Lord Atherton took another pinch of cloud and snorted it, never looking away from the young man on the throne.

Dizzy turned to lord Dunem, “Please continue, sir.”

There was a new light in the Lord’s eye, and a powerful look of respect on his face as he lifted the crown high. He whispered, “I think this is yours” and placed it atop Dizzy’s head. The crown was heavier than it looked. It hummed with a life of its own, and quickly adjusted to just the right radius for Dizzy’s head.

As Lord Dunem stepped back and bowed, the room erupted in applause.

—

A parade of noblemen came up to greet him, never offering a hand or saying hello, but dropping to one knee and giving one kind of oath or another. Some were flowery and vague, offering their thoughts and prayers for his safety and the strength of his loins. Others were more visceral, offering their own disembowlment if it could save his life. Several oaths given were of a strikingly intimate nature, with women swearing their bodies and “unquestioning service” to his will. Dizzy nodded politely to each, hoping that he wasn’t expected to respond to such offers in the middle of the palace.

As one such woman curtsied low before him, ducking her chest down so that he could not miss her intent, a quiet voice sounded in his ear, “Congratulations on your coronation, my liege.”

Dizzy held very still, for while he was certain he’d heard the voice, he was just as certain that there was no one standing beside him. The voice continued, “It is a good idea not to talk to me now, as it would only draw attention.” Dizzy very casually looked over his shoulder, as though seeing something in the corner of his eye. He knew he wouldn’t find the source of the voice before he even looked though, because he could feel where it was coming from. Deep inside his head, he heard the thrumming of the deep voice. Whatever else he may believe, he knew he was hearing voices inside his head. The voice continued, “I will speak to you again later, tonight when you are alone.”

Dizzy continued nodding to the collected gentry while the back of his head spun with concern. Of course it would visit him in the night. Isn’t that when all the ghosts come out? He had been king for all of an hour, and he was already hearing voices. If it were the voice of the dead king, Shakespeare would be so proud.

The musicians continued and filled the hall with a bouncy song of joy and progress. It reminded Dizzy somewhat of a political rally he’d seen years ago. Food was brought in and a buffet was built along one wall. The center of the great hallway was cleared so that people could dance, though no one did.

The line of supplicants snaked all through the hall and seemed to have no end in sight. Dizzy looked at Lord Dunem, wondering if he realized how long they would all have to sit here and accept oaths of fealty. Dunem appeared to be looking at a particular place in line.

Most of the major lords had appeared at the front of the line, of course. Some were too far away, unable to leave at such short notice. But Dizzy knew enough of the high court to realize that the front of the line was stacked with noble lords and parliamentarians.

Dizzy tried to see what Dunem was looking at. A few hundred yards away, waiting patiently in line, was Lord William Wilde. He stood out, as his shoulders were twice as wide as any man. The lion’s skin he wore on his back blended well with the golden doublet he wore, but it clashed badly with his black hair and beard. As he stood in line, he looked over the people around him with suspicion. A few supplicants approached him, shaking his hand and offering greeting. He would nod thanks but little more.

Dizzy looked back at Lord Dunem. Why was he so interested in Lord Wilde? Dizzy’s attention was brought back to the line as a petitioner made the rather ridiculous-sounding offer of “All my angels and angles for the king!”

Dizzy opened his mouth to ask about it, but the voice inside his head said, “Lord Cuttington is famous for his carpentry. Specifically, engraved wooden angles that lend artistry to a room.”

Dizzy tried not to show any notice of it, but nodded and said, “Your loyalty is well appreciated, Lord Cuttington.”

Eventually, the line of petitioners proceeded to Lord Wilde. Dizzy could feel a tension coming off of Lord Dunem as the big man proceeded up the dais. He stood, towering, over the seated Dizzy for a moment, then slowly lowered to one knee. “My life for the king,” he muttered.

Then, as he looked up, there was a brief flash of hate in his eye. He whispered, “How is my daughter?”

Dizzy opened his mouth to answer, but Lord Dunem stepped in. He addressed the court in a loud voice, “My Lords and Ladies. The high lords have given their oaths, and the king is satisfied. We shall receive the remaining oaths at a later date. For now, let us celebrate the dawning of this new era.

Lord Wilde began to stand up, but Dunem put a hand softly on his shoulder. When Wilde shot him a glare, he saw Dunem pointing subtly toward the veranda. The giant man’s face split open in an unabashed grin.

Lord Dunem turned to Dizzy, “It is customary for the King to have the first dance, sir. Would you please take Wendy as your first partner?”

Dizzy looked, and saw a strikingly beautiful young woman standing away from the crowd. She wore milky-white satin that gathered around her center and pooled on the floor. Pearls of the same shade were gathered in ever widening ringlets about her neck. Her raven hair was pulled back to cascade down her shoulders, and a web of precious jewels covered the crown of her head.

Dizzy blinked, but kept his composure, “I would be delighted.”

Dizzy crossed to meet the young lady, and held one hand out to her. She accepted with a brief curtsy, gathering up her dress in her free hand as she did so.

The minstrels waited for them to reach the center of the room before playing a slow, regal waltz.

Dizzy had been caught off guard by the events of the day, but one thing he could always do was dance. He tested his partner briefly by leading more decisively than needed, but she was an able companion. She flowed gracefully from one step to the next, with the kind of fluidity that could only come from training and practice.

After a few minutes, the people applauded politely, and began to join them on the floor. Dizzy looked around as they danced, at the bright, shining throne room. The columns were lit with a diffuse internal glow, shaped and gilded by master artisans. The floor was dark marble, polished to a sheen that gave the impression of permanence, tradition, and nobility. The walls, the slowly-shifting tapestries, the high ceiling with it’s stained glass dome, they all spoke of the pinnacle of nobility and excellence.

He smiled to the lady Wendy, “Beautiful.”

For a moment, he realized how that must have sounded to her, and as she bowed her head in acceptance of the compliment, he allowed the sentiment to stand.

Lady Wendy was not a beautiful woman herself, but her good breeding, her dress, and her bearing made her lovely in this setting. She was clearly chosen to be the consort to kings.

As the thought hit him, Dizzy’s eyes widened. Ye gods, he hadn’t ever considered taking that plunge. He recovered his composure quickly, “Ah, I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure, miss.”

She nodded, “I rarely stray from the castle, sir. Were you a close compatriot of your brother, you would have seen me more regularly.”

Dizzy heard the rebuke, but didn’t see any need to answer it, “I don’t know how much you know about my situation regarding my brother.”

She smiled, “You have, to my knowledge, never visited him. He never spoke of you, and you are listed nowhere in the line of succession.” The dance brought them close, and she whispered, “I doubt very much that you had any relations with your brother.”

As they parted, Dizzy shrugged it off, “The ink on this day is not yet dry. I think that, in the coming days, we will find many new surprises.”

As they took a turn, Dizzy chose a new subject, “It seems passing strange that Lord Dunem would suggest you as my dancing partner. Surely he must know of your… concerns about my legitimacy.”

Her smile faded, “The snake wishes only to curry favor with my father.”

It only took Dizzy a moment to guess, then he looked out at the crowd and found Lord Wilde. The large man danced awkwardly with whatever chattering young woman asked the favor. While he stayed on his feet, the Lord looked clearly distressed. He kept his eyes always on Wendy.

Dizzy turned back to her, and saw the sad smile she gave to the Lord, “So you would be the lady Wendy Wilde, daughter to Lord William.”

Her look turned icy as she faced him again, “You know very little about the monarchy, for a monarch.”

Dizzy shrugged and grinned, “It’s only my first day.” As they turned again, he said, “My days have been spent in studying the lower levels of the aristocracy. I know my minor lords and ladies quite well, but I was kept well away from the major lords.”

She replied in a flat voice, “I’m sure you will find them all quite fascinating.”

“Court intrigue, I take it? Plots within plots?”

“You mock us, my liege.”

There was a sad look in his eye when Dizzy said, “No. I’m just worried about what may be coming.”

Dizzy looked back and saw Lord Wilde misstep as he danced. His concentration was clearly on his daughter, rather than the dance. Dizzy smiled at her, “He has great love for you, but I wonder at how he dotes. I don’t believe he’s taken his eyes off of you all night.”

The lady nodded, “He hasn’t seen me in three years.”

Dizzy blinked, “Well! Then this must be quite the reunion! No wonder he is so pleased.”

Lady Wendy stopped suddenly, breaking the flow of their dance. Her voice was cold and flat, full of menace, “Cruelty does not become my liege. Were you any other man, I would scratch your eyes out.”

Dizzy looked uncomfortably around at the gathering crowd. He ran one hand over his mouth in thought, then said, “I apologize for my mistake. Please do me the curtesy of explaining my error to me while we dance.”

She looked around them, clearly thinking of the articles that would be circulating in tomorrow’s newsies. She inclined her head slightly and offered him her hand again. Dizzy took it gratefully, and rejoined the dance.

From the corner of his eye, Dizzy could see that Lord Wilde had stopped dancing altogether. He stood and watched Dizzy and Wendy as though afraid the new king had struck her. After a moment, he continued to go through the motions.

Dizzy looked over at Lord Dunem, who showed only slight concern. His eyes barely flitted away from a genial conversation with Lord Oldham.

For a long moment, Dizzy danced with the lady, trying to muster his thoughts. He finally said, “I meant no offense, my lady, and I sincerely would like to know how I have so wounded you.”

She continued the dance for a moment, refusing to look him in the eye. The thin smile she wore fooled no one. Between frozen lips, she muttered, “A king does not apologize.” Dizzy decided to take the comment as nothing more than a helpful suggestion. He held his tongue, in the hopes that she would elaborate.

After what seemed like an eternity of consideration, she asked, “You truly know nothing of the royal court?”

Dizzy shook his head somberly, “I have spent years traveling among the minor nobility. I have seen pockets of intrigue and camaraderie. I have known treachery and kindness the likes of which I did not think possible for our station. But in the end I must admit, I have never been privy to the inner workings of true royalty.”

Her brow furrowed a bit, “How could you follow only the lower nobility, without tracking the steps of the royal families?”

Dizzy flashed his famous smile, “I spent quite a lot of time trying to avoid the truly royal. You see, my lady, there are hundreds of lords, thousands of earls dukes, knights, and such. It is easy for a man to lose himself among those of lower nobility. But there are only five or so royal families.”

She snorted, “In truth, only three. The Reed house is easily dismissed, and the McMillans are in decline. It is only a matter of time for them. That leaves only the Oldhams, the Athertons, and the Wildes.”

Dizzy’s smile remained, “You see how little I know, miss? I have travelled the world, living among nobility from all different nations, but I never-” Dizzy cut himself off there. What could he truly admit? If he was truly king, he could absolve himself of all manner of iniquity. All the same, he couldn’t be sure how much of his story could truly be open.

“Four.” He finally stated.

“Four?”

“Yes. Four. You mentioned the Oldhams, Athertons, and Wildes.”

“What other family is there?”

“Mine.” Dizzy’s gaze drifted away, though his feet kept perfect time, “My family must be one of the noble houses.” His voice faltered as he said, “You know, I don’t even know my own last name.”

She raised an eyebrow, “You were secreted away for most of your life, the last hope for your royal family, and now that you’ve returned, you don’t even know who they are?” He nodded, still staring out to space, then he turned to look at her.

The look in his eyes seemed honestly lost, and she took pity on him, “Becket.”

“Becket?”

“My liege, King Augustus, third of his name, defender of the crown and last scion of the house of Becket.”

Now Dizzy’s feet stumbled. He let go of her hand as he sidestepped, and regained his footing almost too late. As people turned to see his misstep, he twirled lady Wilde, making the entire move look intentional. She played along, but once they were close enough to whisper again, she said, “You’re not ready for this world.”

Dizzy felt the room closing in on him, but he fought back with the favorite weapon, exaggerated confidence, “This world’s not ready for me.”

One corner of her mouth twitched in the hint of a smile, “You stumble at the sound of your own name.”

“Just think of what my enemies will do at the sound of my name.”

She shook her head, “The king’s brother, estranged and roaming the world among the lower houses. Whatever possessed you to do that?”

Dizzy took a deep breath and tried to change the subject. “Tell me, why haven’t you seen your father in three years?”

Her eyes flashed rage again, but Dizzy held up one finger between them, “Ah, now. You cannot possibly be upset by my questions. I already told you that I don’t understand the situation.”

She inclined her head to him and said, “Lord Wilde is a good and loyal servant to the crown.”

Dizzy nodded, “That is, of course, good to hear.”

She continued, “I am his only heir.”

Dizzy covered his confusion with compliments, “And he should be well proud of you. You are a charming young lady, and quite the dancer.”

She looked away, “Some years ago, my father supported an initiative to help workers in the peninsula of Florida. Local lords were having trouble keeping workers from fleeing to the Southern nations.”

Dizzy nodded, “Yes, I believe I heard of that. The king even took part in the dispute, I believe.”

She nodded, “King Cadvan, may he rest in peace, felt that it was treachery to leave, punishable by death. My father did not argue the sentence, but he publicly disagreed with the sentiment. Lord Wilde said that any man who cannot appreciate the wonders of our land is punished enough by leaving it.”

“Ah. So they disagreed philosophically, but your father held with the king’s law.”

“He did so after I was invited to be a guest of the crown.”

Dizzy nodded for a moment to keep up with the story. Then, in a moment of clerity, he frowned, “The king brought you here to the palace. And he kept you here for three years?”

“I am proud to serve the king directly, rather than from a distant holding.” Her voice was flat and expressionless.

Dizzy muttered to himself, “Cadvan bought his loyalty by kidnapping you.”

The young woman’s teeth were clenched as she said, “Such words are treason. I would never utter them.”

Dizzy continued dancing on automatic as the idea spun through his head. He frowned at her, “It seems barbaric.”

Her eyes gleamed for just a moment, “The grievances of one king need not be the concerns of the next. As I go to my chambers tonight, I will pray for wisdom to guide my king’s thoughts.”

A wild thought struck Dizzy, and as he did with all such thoughts, he cultivated it carefully in reflection. He cast a glance back at Lord Dunem. The old man still seemed distracted, surrounded by minor lords and ladies. Dizzy strengthened his grip slightly and led Wendy a bit more forcefully, “What I do now…”

She frowned at him, surprised by the change in course, “My liege?”

He grinned at her, “What I do now is an act of friendship and kindness. It changes nothing. Do you understand?”

She flashed a quick look over her shoulder to see where they were going, then frowned back at him, “No.”

Dizzy shrugged, “You will later.”

Dizzy stopped suddenly as Wendy blinked at him. As she looked around, she saw that they were standing next to Lord Wilde and a young woman, swaddled in a frilly yellow dress.

As they stepped closer, Dizzy held Wendy’s hand and turned to her father, “Lord Wilde, I appreciate you attending my coronation. I hope you will not mind if I cut in?”

The huge man blinked at him, slightly agape as Dizzy placed Wendy’s hand in his and turned to the frilly yellow thing, “I fear you’ve been dominating one of the most lovely dresses I’ve seen all night.”

The lord shot a glance at Dunem, then nodded once at Dizzy, “I won’t forget this.” He took his daughter’s hand as if she was made of some light merengue, and danced away with her. As they moved, Dizzy could see that his skill at dancing improved immensely.

He then faced the young lady who was turning three shades of crimson. For a moment, Dizzy thought about how this woman would have shunned him outright only a day previous. She would likely have spit on him and called for the constables if he dared to speak to her. Now he extended a hand, and the young lady grasped it with surprising strength.

She began to drag Dizzy back out onto the dance floor when another voice cut in, “If we are changing partners, may I have this dance?”

Dizzy turned to see Dr. Turnock standing next to him. The frilly yellow thing looked incensed, but Dizzy nodded, “Why, I would be delighted, madam.”

Hazel’s partner was a comely young man who led the frilly young lady away, even as her eyes mourned the lost opportunity. Dizzy held the old woman’s hand lightly as they began the dance.

Dr. Turnock did not move with the smooth grace he had expected, but her movements were measured, clipped, and timed perfectly. She wore a gown of green and olive, shimmering around the waist and shoulders.

Dizzy smiled at her, “Thank you for all you’ve done. I’ll admit, I don’t completely understand what’s going on.”

She nodded, “That’s what I’m afraid of. Tell me, what month is it?”

Dizzy blinked, fearing some trick question, “Still April, I believe.”

“And who won the Bear Polo Invitational last year.”

“That would be the Wilde Warriors. Best bears in the game.”

“And who rules the Americas.”

“King Cadvan, first of his name.”

“That’s what I thought.” She stopped and held his hand, “I’m going to give you some sedatives and send you off to bed. You’ve got a lot still to digest, and it may take some time.”

Dizzy shrugged, “I feel fine, though.”

She nodded, “Yes. I understand. You’re going to bed now.”

“Honestly, I don’t believe that I need mothering from-”

“Do you know how easy it is to depose a monarch on medical grounds?”

Dizzy stopped and considered, “It seems to me I wouldn’t want to find out.”

She smiled and gestured for a young boy standing in the wings. He came running over to the two of them. The surgeon general said, “I’ll make your excuses for you.”

There was a sudden commotion as Lord Dunem strode angrily over to where Lord Wilde and his daughter were dancing. Dr. Turnock said, “You’d best go now, before people start demanding explanations.”

—

Stan and Lou looked down on the celebration from their perch in the rafters. Stan propped himself up on the wide broom he’d been using to clean the glass, “Now that’s a thing, and no mistake.”

Lou sat on their railing, his long, spindly legs dangling over the party. He looked up at Stan, “Wozzat?”

“The boy, just this evening, picked up by the blues for subterfuge.”

Lou frowned down at Dizzy, “Izzat the same as earlier?”

“The very one, my duck. Before, a running cuckoo, hunted by constabulary. Few hours on, and half the world ready to pucker up.”

“The one what was gettin’ pinched for impersonatin’ a nob?”

“I say again, yay.”

“Well, that’s a thing, innit?”

“I believe I said it first.”

Lou frowned down at him, “Seems an awfully long way for the nobs to go, just to get one boy outta the clink.”

Stan put his head in his hands.

Let me know in the comments what you think of the chapter (and the cover). And throw a buck or two in to support the book, if you like it.

Before one may understand the concept of the “Byblow King”, one must first fully comprehend the traditional line of succession. That a father should train the son is obvious, and such is the bedrock of our society. A good king raises his eldest son to replace him. A more perspicacious king will prepare multiple sons, knowing that the scythe swings wide, and no man can truly say that he has prepared enough.

So the succession goes from father to each of his trueborn sons, eldest to youngest. Then, if there are no male heirs, title transfers to the eldest daughter, who holds the position as regent in waiting of a worthy suitor. From her, the rule of law transfers down among her siblings by seniority.

Should there be no children left of the marriage, the mother then can rule as regent, for so long as the search for a new king is underway. Should the mother then be struck down, the burden falls to her eldest living male relative, and so the cycle continues.

In the disastrous, and highly unlikely situation where the entire family is wiped out, parliament is duty-bound to choose a new noble house capable of carrying on with the honor and dignity of royal birth. This duty, though clearly enumerated among the articles of Sovereignty, has never yet needed to be exercised. In scholarly circles, it is said that such deliberations might well dissolve the parliament through argument and filibustering.

It is important to understand this. It is important to see that many safeguards are put in place to ensure a swift and safe transfer of power. It is important because, there is a caveat which, when exercised, can throw the entire clearly described and enumerated process into disarray.

In a situation where the king dies, and leaves no trueborn issue, a bastard may be recognized as king. It is an extremely rare and humiliating case which most of the aristocracy would prefer to leave out of the rule of law altogether. However, the law of the Byblow King is one which carries the full weight of the king’s decree.

Such it has been since the days of good King Sigler, who, when faced with losing his entire family to the very popular and powerful Geary clan, decided by decree that his own bastard child should take the mantle after him. The Geary’s took offense, of course, and the battles fought over it were. . .

- Justin Foote, Archivist and author of “The Veever King”

“We should come home from far, from adventures, and perils, and discoveries every day, with new experience and character.”
— Henry David Thoreau, Walden & Civil Disobedience

Dizzy made haste for the rear hallway, in hopes that the police had not already spotted him. If the Dowager Queen had called them, then it was surely no more than a matter of time. Nonetheless, the rabbit does not stand in the clearing and wait for the fox. Two doors in the hallway he tested, and found locked. The third opened to his hand, and he dived into a squalid apartment. The entryway was cloaked in dim lighting from wall panels, and discarded Chinese food boxes littered the floor. One of the boxes, so long left unattended, had reached it’s biodegradable trigger ages. It sat in the center of a heap of refuse, decomposing. A small plant just sprouted hopefully from the center of the pile. Dizzy shuffled past the collected refuse, and ran for the living room. In a building as expensive as this, there was only one creature who could have such a decrepit room on the first floor, and that would be the manager. Dizzy wasted no time in wondering why the door had been left open.

The short hallway led to a small living room, with only a set panel and a weatherbeaten sofa. The sliding glass doors in the back of the room led to a terrace that had been completely bricked in. Dizzy stopped in the center of the dark, sultry room, blinking at the enclosure, then ran back into the entryway.

As he reached the front door of the apartment, Dizzy slammed into it bodily, locking it. He grabbed a knife from a set of faux-metal cutlery in the refuse and, holding the knife in both hands, he jammed it into the locking mechanism, enlisting all his weight and strength. The complex electronics were undamaged, but pulling the mechanism back a quarter of an inch lodged the lock closed.

Dizzy ran back down the corridor and turned a different way. He stormed into the next room, where he found a stack of cardboard boxes, a mound of dirty clothes, and an inflatable mattress sitting on the floor. He blinked at the tattooed woman lying on her back in the center of the mattress. Her entire upper body was covered with tattoos, her lower body was covered not at all.

She looked up at him as Dizzy held out a single gloved hand to block her from his vision. Years of training in etiquette took over and guided his concern more than his own imminent incarceration.

The woman popped her gum and shouted, “Matt? Got’s visitors!”

A young man wearing only a towel popped out of the bathroom, “Wozzat dearest?” As he looked at Dizzy, they both paused. Dizzy felt a flush rise without even knowing what Matt’s mind. His mouth opened and closed automatically, though no words came out. Would he think Dizzy some sort of attacker? If so how could he explain this? What power on Earth could keep this man from shouting for the police, so near even now? How could he-

The young man took two steps forward and kicked the mattress, “Off that an’ getcher dignity, ye?”

Turning to face Dizzy, he ran his hands through his hair, slicking them back. He stood straighter, holding his head up high, and held his hands behind his back, “I’m terribly sorry, sir. I fear we may have led you to the wrong room. Please allow me to help you..” He continued walking toward Dizzy, using the force of his personal space to make Dizzy step back. The woman snatched clothes from a nearby pile and began pulling them on, swearing at both of them.

The young man continued, “Here at the Westin Hills, we pride ourselves on the cleanliness and service of each member of our staff, and I hope your experience here has not given you the wrong impression regarding the professionalism of our little community.” He continued pushing Dizzy closer to the front door, bowing and scraping as he did.

Dizzy finally stopped backing up and caught his mental balance. In his situation, he knew there would be no reasoning with the police. However he knew how to handle a servant. He pulled out a thousand dollar bill, “Here, James. I need your help.”

“Of course, sir.” The money disappeared as the boy smiled kindly. Dizzy tried not to wonder where the boy secreted the money on his person, given that he was wearing no more than a towel. The boy held his hands behind his back and leaned forward slightly, looking every bit the part of a concierge, despite his state of undress.

Dizzy pointed, “First, your sad excuse for a door seems to have gone and jammed itself. It locked me in before I was even able to recognize I’d got the wrong room.”

He shot a frown quickly at the door, “I’m terribly sorry, sir -”

“Locked me in! Like a damned animal.” Dizzy seethed, but not so much that it would worry the boy.

“Of course, sir. I will have maintenance on it right away.” An angry customer was nothing new, so long as they weren’t too serious about it.

Dizzy shook his head, “Well, I don’t care about that. But dammit, how am I going to get out of here?”

“Well, sir. It may take a few moments for maintenance to show up.” The boy frowned at the door again, squinting in the low light.

Before he could recognize the knife stuck in the door, Dizzy took him by the shoulder. He turned the boy to look at the back of the living room, “I thought I might leave by one of your other exits, but this whole terrace is bricked up. How does something like that happen?”

Matt smiled a thin smile and said, “Management feels that it is best if the workers in the building are seen as little as possible. To that end, they have ensured that these apartments are undetectable by most patrons. If you should wish -”

They heard the thump of running boots outside, and a fist pounding on the door. Matt turned to the front door, but Dizzy grabbed him again, “Don’t worry about that. It’s only the police.”

The young man’s eyes widened, “The police?”

“Yes. They told me there was a madman running around with a gun. Said that I should get to cover. That is’, of course, why I ran in here in the first place. Now I expect they are going room to room, trying to figure out where the villain is.”

“Well, shouldn’t we answer the door?”

“Are you the villain? Is she? I know for a fact that I am not.”

“No, but-“

“I told you boy, they sent me in here. They told me to get somewhere safe and stay down.”

“Is that why the door-” Matt pointed.

Dizzy cut him off, “I’m asking you a question.” The boy’s mouth snapped shut as Dizzy pulled himself up to his full height, “Now, how do I get out of here.”

The boy blinked at him, “I’m sorry. What?”

“Now that I’ve seen it, I’ll not stay in this grotty little rat trap a moment longer.” He waited for the boy to protest, but his training was too good for that. “I clearly can’t go through your front door, and you’ve bricked up the back door, so what else is there?”

The woman came stumbling in from the bedroom, “Who’s poundin’ at this hour?”

The boy took Dizzy’s forearm with both hands, guiding him lightly, “It may seem a bit unorthodox, sir, but I believe I can accommodate your egress.”

He led Dizzy through the bedroom to the back bathroom. The room had a toilet with a sink built into the water tank, surrounded by the tile of a shower. Above the toilet was a small, dirty window.

“I’m sure you jest.”

The boy looked torn, “I’m sorry, sir, but that is the only other exit. It leads to an enclosed fire escape which can take you up as high as the second floor. Normally, I would never dream to suggest such a thing to a man of your stature, but… “, he gestured helplessly around them.

Dizzy took a deep breath and patted the boy on the shoulder. He pulled out another hundred and left it on the sink, “Desperate times and all that, what?”

Dizzy gathered up his pant leg in one hand, and stepped onto the toilet seat, his other hand on the boy’s shoulder for support. He reached up and grabbed the window sill.

“Seriously, if they ever hear of this at the club- ”

“It will not leave this room, sir.” The boy tried gingerly to push Dizzy up by his rear.

“Hands off, son. I’m not so feeble that I can’t do this.” In truth, Dizzy knew he could shimmy through a drain pipe, should the need arise, but he wished the boy to think him a dandy for as long as possible. The longer the boy kept his mouth shut, the better it would be for them both.

He stepped onto a metal stairway, expensive shoes clanking on the wrought iron grate. Above him, Dizzy saw iron stairs rise up, level after level, out of sight. On all four sides, the stairway was bricked in. Generations of cold and damp had seeped into the stone. Dizzy held his handkerchief to his face, hoping to mask the overpowering stench of mildew.

He looked down at the window, and saw Matt’s head sticking out. “All right, boy, you needn’t gawp. Go back in and wait for the police to return. And again, not a word about this… “, he ran a gloved hand down one bannister and shook his head at the rust stain it left, “This travesty.”

“No sir. Of course sir. Very good.”

Dizzy took his first few steps, doing his best to stay silent. From inside the brick helix, Dizzy had no way of seeing how high the stairs could go. Despite his best efforts, footsteps clanged and echoed up and down the enclosure. As he passed each level, he saw a window and feared that someone would peek their head out. A few of the windows were already bricked up, which suited him fine. Dizzy continued until he reached the top, where the stairway simply ended at another window.

Stan and Lou stood in the crowd, held back by the police energy barrier. Stan leaned against the frame of it, listening to the crackle of electricity. He sighed, “It would seem, my duck, that you were all too correct.”

Lou towered over him, his scarecrow-thin frame shivering in the oncoming night, “How d’ya figger?”

Stan jogged a meaty thumb at the door the SWAT team was stalking, “Viddies your lord ain’t no such after all.”

Lou nodded, then crossed his arms, “Dunna that’s why the blues showed though. Never seen sucha fuss by the long arm. Could be the lord’s real, but the lady’s not.”

Stan nodded slowly, “Always one for careful consideration, you are. D’ya think, then, the lordling was a blue incognito? Sent here for scopin’, for the 5-0 swoop?”

Lou shrugged, “Guess that depends.”

Stan raised an eyebrow, “Depends on what, my sage?”

“Well Stan, if’n he ain’t a lord, that’s one thing there. But if’n she ain’t a lady-“

“She looked ladylike enough for these tired old eyes, Lou.”

“But if’n she ain’t, well, that would make him a lord then. Someone got reported. The lady would holler at the sight of a cuckoo lord, and only a true lord would report a non-lady.”

Stan grinned, “You’re flamin’ tonight, with that logic of yours. But you’ve forgot one thing, my duck.”

Lou frowned, “Wozzat?”

“What if they’s both not nobs?”

The two of them stared at the hotel in silence for a moment, then Lou said, “Now that is a ponderin.”

Dizzy stood at the top of the stairwell and peeked inside. He could see nothing of the dark, silent room. Dizzy took a deep breath and kicked the window hard, shattering it.

For a long moment, he stood perfectly still. He wondered briefly what he would actually do if someone did come to investigate the noise. How does one explain standing on a grimy, bricked-in fire escape while wearing stylish evening wear?

Once satisfied that no one was coming to check, Dizzy slipped through the window and stumbled into the most opulent larder he’d ever seen.

Rows upon rows of canned goods were sorted in shelves next to dehydrated and quick-frozen meats. Cylinders of PVC contained several casks of beer and mead. For a moment, Dizzy simply took in the impressive sight of it.

He walked slowly past row after row of shelving in the dim room. Dizzy’s footsteps echoed in the immense series of rows, making him wonder if someone had purchased the entire floor for a personal larder. As he moved further on, he saw that it stored more than foodstuffs. Velos and peds rested, powered down and covered with cloth. Ornate furniture was stacked carefully along the walls. In one corner, he saw an immense cabinet with dozens of different types of firearms, hanging from a red velour backing. Dizzy considered it briefly, but discarded the notion. He had little skill at gunplay, and had little regard for carrying a weapon in front of armed police.

A bay window stood in the far distance, casting light into the storage room. It was larger than the one he’d crawled in through, and obviously not bricked in. He ran to the window, and looked down at the police velos surrounding the building. Most were showing their lights, but kept their sirens mute, out of respect for the important people in the building. Further down the street, Dizzy saw the squarish, black shape of a SWAT velopod.

Dizzy breathed, “Rodger me sideways. These people mean business.” He looked across the alley at the office building that butted up against the hotel, its lights dimmed for the night.

Dizzy turned back to the room and scanned the furniture. While his intent was a ladder, his best find was a tall oaken door. A large stained-glass window framed the center of the door. The intricate brass metalwork surrounding the frame was matched in brilliance only by the diamond doorknob.

Dizzy picked up one end carefully and carried it to the window. He moved slowly, hoping that the scraping of the oaken door would not be heard by the tenants below. Once the door was standing next to the window, Dizzy walked back to the gun cabinet. In one of the lower drawers, he found the tool that he needed. Kept in an ornate pen case, the small, thin thumper rested on a bed of red silk. It was longer than his finger, but thinner, and fit in his hand much like a magician’s wand.

Dizzy walked back to the window, and pointed the thumper at the door. As he squeezed the contact points on either side, the thumper let out a powerful, low-frequency pulse that would stagger a man. The thumper, if used against a human, could cause sharp intestinal pain, stabbing headaches, nosebleeds, dizziness, and in some cases, deafness. Dizzy used it against the window, shattering it into glass dust. Dizzy brought his handkerchief up to his face quickly as he leaned out the window.

Above, he could hear the rotors of a quadcopter hovering over the building. A shaft of conical light showed that they were waiting for him to emerge on the roof. Looking down at the alley below him, there was no sign that anyone heard the thumper at work.

Dizzy leveled the weapon at the closest window in the office building, and fired again. Dizzy held his breath and listened to the silence following the explosion. No alarms sounded, no warning lights flashed. Either the office building was utterly unimportant, or it employed only silent alarms.

Dizzy took the oaken door standing next to the window and lay it flat on the window sill. He pushed it slowly out, to bridge the gap. He grunted with exertion, careful not to lose his grip. He had to shift it slightly to get the doorknob over the window sill, but other than that, it moved quite easily.

He put his weight down as it crossed the gap between the buildings, but soon Dizzy heard the clack of it resting on the distant window sill. He looked out again to see that the door had bridged the buildings, then climbed out onto the ledge.

From outside, Dizzy could feel the air rushing through the alleyway. He looked down at the street, hundreds of feet below him. “Oh, my son. What have you got yourself into now.” He slowly dropped to hands and knees, resting carefully on the door.

He shifted out slowly, listening for every creak and possible snap of the door. It was oak, but not solid, and he couldn’t count on it to hold his weight the whole way over. As he reached halfway up the door, near the center of the stained-glass window, a gust of air blew him over.

Dizzy fell sideways, scrabbling at the door edge for purchase. He grabbed the edge and the whole door rotated, lifting one side up to follow him. He grabbed the door close, and tried to make himself one with the glass. He feared the door would turn over completely, dumping him on the sidewalk. Or else the movement would be just enough to pull it away from one of the buildings, and sending the whole door plummeting to the ground.

The wind receded, and the door dropped back down to it’s former place. Dizzy wasted no time in crab-walking his way across the rest of the door. As he reached the office building, another wind caught the door and shifted it sideways, dislodging it from the hotel window. The door toppled and fell, end over end, the hundreds of feet to the ground. Dizzy pulled back from the window as he heard the crash of wood and glass upon the street below.

That would be noticed. They would be looking along this wall soon.

Dizzy crouched next to the window sill and looked around the room. It appeared to be a standard work office, with translucent cubicles holding desktop routers. Large panes of glass with keyboards mounted beneath at each desk. Coffee cups stating, “World’s best Dad” and stuffed bears with jerseys labelling their teams. Photos hanging from the cubicle walls shifted every fifteen seconds between different album images. The room was spotless, the trash cans emptied. So at least he knew the cleaning crew had been through here already.

Dizzy stood slowly, walking away from the window. He walked through a maze of cubes, looking for stairs. Every major thoroughfare led to board rooms, meeting nooks, and mini-cafes. Dizzy stumbled in the dark as often as he walked through the area, always looking behind himself, expecting to see a security detail.

In the distance, he saw a red sign reading “Exit”. Dizzy almost ran for it, trying his best to keep quiet as he moved. When he reached the light, he could see only more of the same cubicles in every direction. He cast about madly, then saw another red “Exit” light in the distance.

He muttered under his breath, “Either these are bread crumbs, or I’m being lead on a ridiculous wild-goose chase.” Seeing no other option, he followed in the direction of the next light. The third light was just as far away, making him think that he may well be moving in circles.

As he proceeded, Dizzy happened to notice a pair of elevators in the center of the room. He stopped dead, then ran over to them. The lights on the elevators indicated that both were in service, and neither was full at the moment.

An elevator was the worst place possible for a person on the run to take refuge, but Dizzy knew he had to find his way down. He put one hand on the wall next to the elevator, and followed the wall in the dark.

The thin carpet stifled his steps as he moved around the elevator block and found what he’d hoped for. Emergency stairs.

Dizzy opened the door carefully, aware of their notorious nature to slam with a resounding crash that could be heard throughout the stairwell. He began running as silently as he could down the stairs. At each level, he listened in at the door. There were no signs of pursuit as far as he could tell. As he reached the first floor, though, he saw something that nearly stopped him in his tracks.

Lights under the doorway were moving back and forth. They weren’t the normal lighting of an occupied room, but rather the cone of a searching flashlight. As he neared the door, he heard one of them say, “Right. You lot take root. Viddie them ‘vators, an’ see no soul escapes this way. Brass says he’s upstairs, so we’re gonna have every exit checked, yeah? The two of you follow. We’ll have eyes on stairwise.”

Dizzy froze, inches away from the doorway. He couldn’t go back upstairs, he just couldn’t. He’d be worse trapped if he tried to escape that way.

The doorknob turned, and three uniformed police officers walked into the stairwell. One shone his light up the stairway, while the other two looked around the landing. “Nothing boss.”

The one in charge shrugged, “Keep ears tuned, lads. Y’can check a whole stairwell by sound. Even when ya can’t viddie nothin’.”

The started slowly up the stairs, with the one cop shushing them every few steps. Far below them, in the stairwell leading to the basement, Dizzy crouched in the darkness and waited.

When he thought they were far enough away, Dizzy took off his expensive leather shoes, and held them in one hand. He tiptoed down another flight to the parking garage. Once he reached the basement level, Dizzy carefully opened the door and looked out.

The garage was completely empty. Row after row of empty spots lined the rows and aisles. Illuminated columns stood equidistant from each other, ensuring safety and convenience for all wage slaves sad enough to work here.

Dizzy began walking away from the elevators, assuming that they were the farthest from the exit. He began running in the brightly-lit concrete cave. Dizzy saw the loading dock in the distance, and better still, saw the catch to open it.

Dizzy’s stocking feet slapped wetly against the concrete as he ran full tilt toward the exit. He slid on his knees as he reached it, grabbing the latch and yanking it into place. Dizzy grabbed the bottom of the garage door, and stood up, pulling the door with him. As it rolled up above his head, Dizzy found himself standing directly in front of three police officers.

“Mornin’ sunshine.” The middle officer said. Dizzy opened his mouth to respond, but the man brought out a zapper, and with one electric touch, switched Dizzy off like a light.

—

Captain Trumble paced back and forth behind the squad car. Every few moments, he would look up at the entrance to the Westin Inn. They should have had him by now. They should have brought him out so Gallant could question him. Oh, the moment of glory would be beautiful.

White floodlights snapped on behind him, making Gallant jump. He turned around to see a press velo wrapping around a mobile newsdesk, where talking heads were already reporting about the lack of what they saw. Gallant grinned. Calling the press was his idea, after all. He just wasn’t sure if they’d be there to see his moment of glory.

A reporter came over to him, “Are you Captain Trouble?”

“Trumble!” Gallant corrected him, “With an ‘M’.”

“Yeah, so, you’re the guy. So,” The reporter ran a hand through his perfect hair, “Is this real? Do you really have a royal impostor in there?”

Gallant puffed up his chest, “We’ll have him out here in just a moment.”

The reporter nodded, “Great right. Well, we’re setting up over there. I just need to switch on and we can start getting some details.”

Gallant grinned, “Yes, of course. Go right ahead.”

The reporter touched a connection on his shoulder, and a bright light shone out from it. A smaller, blinking light indicated that they were recording. The reporter began quickly, “This is Brad Newbaum on site in front of the Westin Inn with Police Captain Gallant Trouble.” Gallant winced, but the reporter continued, “Now tell us, Captain, what exactly do you have here?”

The police captain opened his mouth, then stared into the blinking red light. Somewhere behind that red light were a million different people. Millions of eyes watched his every facial tic, hung on his every word. He suddenly realized that the commissioner was probably watching. The voting public was watching. His mother might even be seeing this.

He stammered, “Are. Ah. Is this taped?”

The reporter frowned, but kept going, “No sir, we’re on a live emergency cut in. Now, you said you had a royal impostor inside this dwelling?”

Gallant nodded for a very long time. He realized suddenly that they wanted more than that, so he said, “Oh, ah, yes. We have an impostor, a royal impostor, in the- Well, he’s trapped, you see. We have men all around the building and snipers on the roof. In fact, I probably shouldn’t tell you that.” He grinned at the reporter, “Hope he doesn’t have a vidfeed on right now.”

The reporter didn’t smile back. Gallant continued, “Well, he, ah, calls himself the Earl of Viborg, which is, of course, ridiculous.”

The reporter cut in, “And why is that sir?”

“Well, you know. I mean the Earl of Viborg is bedridden. He couldn’t be wandering around an American town when he’s bedridden in Denmark, now could he. No, we’ve got the fellow. Got him here.”

“And you’re sure there’s only one Earl of Viborg?”

Gallant blinked, “I’m sorry?”

“Well, Earl isn’t a unique title among the aristocracy. There could be multiple Earls in Viborg, the same way we have multiple Earls here in New York.”

Gallant blinked at the reporter for a moment, then the reporter asked, “Perhaps you could tell us what steps you took to make sure you had the right man.”

A shout came from far away, “We got him!”

The captain turned to look, and saw two servicemen carrying a man in a sharp suit between them. They dragged him by his arms over to the captain.

Three squad velos with blinking blue and red lights illuminated the center. Outside of the circle, all was dark, but where the headlights pointed into the circle, it was as bright as noon.

Captain Trumble ran over to them as they brought Dizzy into the circle. He grabbed the young man’s collar, as if to take credit for pulling him along. The reporter strode alongside him, saying, “Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m told that the police has just apprehended an Earl of Viborg.”

“THE Earl of Viborg,” Trumble piped up, then shook his head, “I mean, not the Earl of Viborg. This is the one who ISN’T the Earl of Viborg.” As they reached the circle of light, Trumble pointed at the officers, “Here, prop him up. Get him standing.”

The two pulled Dizzy up, with one arm under each of his shoulders. Trumble made sure the reporter had a good view as he walked up to Dizzy and grabbed a tuft of hair. He pulled the boy’s head back and said, “All right, you scum. You’ve been impersonating nobles, and that kind of thing doesn’t go in my town, you get me?”

His eyes flitted over to the reporter, then back to Dizzy. He grabbed the lapels of Dizzy’s jacket, and shook the unconscious man, “We’ve got laws in this town, see? Laws that defend decent, hardworking people like us from scum like you.”

There was a sudden rush of wind that nearly blew everyone over. Powerful floodlights from outside the circle suddenly flashed into view. As Trumble and the reporter looked around, they saw three gunships hovering in the air above them, with fully automatic rail guns trailed on them. The ground shook as they turned to see a company of tanks rolling down the street toward them.

As the tanks reached the circle, they stopped and aimed for the police velos. The reporter slowly turned around in circles, taking in all the firepower that had surrounded them. “Ladies and gentlemen. Ladies and gentlemen, I don’t know what to say. We seem to be under attack by-”

A voice boomed from a loudspeaker above, “This is Lord Ashford Dunem. Put the king down you dirty little man.”

The reporter turned back to look at Trumble, still holding the lapels of Dizzy’s jacket. Trumble had gone all white, and stared, gaping at the gunship.

The reporter continued, “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s too early for confirmation, but it may be that the New York Police have captured our nation’s king.”

In an unconscious move that would later prove to be a source of humiliation, Trumble wet himself on national television.

Pirate Cinema

So, I was reading Cory Doctorow’s “Pirate Cinema” (absolutely brilliant for anyone who has kept on top of the SOPA/PIPA/CISPA thing), and I realized that he’s using the Lester Dent formula! The hero has an inciting event (Internet is cut off from his home because of excessive downloading), which spurs him into action (running away from home) but he slowly builds his life back up (finding life among the homeless, starting his downloads again so he can make remix movies), and leads him into another inciting event (the cops raid his new squat). Lather, rinse, repeat.

He’s not pacing it the same (hit the protagonist with a world-changing event every 3k words), but it’s definitely the same formula. Hero has terrible event that causes him to run, he recovers just enough to decide he’s going to fight, then hit him again, repeat). Now that I look back on it, Doctorow’s been doing this for years, even when you’re talking about a boy who’s mother is a washing machine, or when the hero is one of the golems on Pleasure Island.

I don’t mean this as recrimination, but as a realization. That pattern really freakin’ works!

You’ll understand why I’m excited when I tell you what my pattern for writing is:

So there's this guy
his world sucks, and ...
um...
Oh! I know! Something cool happens...
I guess...

My best-selling book was the one where I totally stole the storytelling pattern from Robert Heinlein. So, I’m just saying, cribbing the writing pattern from a successful writer is one of the tools we should not be without.

Let me know in the comments what you think of the chapter (and the cover). And throw a buck or two in to support the book, if you like it.

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DateTime: 24997584600 UTC (RST)

Subject: Agent Klienko
Handler: REDACTED
Fragment 14 of 73 follows:
“…get to him. Observation has found no openings. The king is attended at all times. Romantic coercion has failed. Fraternal bonding has been rebuffed. We have turned one of his confidantes, but were unable to place anyone in his circle.

If he has a weakness, it is his isolation. No parents, siblings, or children. The king is alone and surrounded by underlings. This may be exploited, if we could arrange an escape. Our contact in his circle considers it impossible, but I believe we can convince him to come to us.

This isolation also makes him a timed target. If the king dies without heir, the country follows. This opportunity will not last forever. I have mentioned it in council, but as yet, our superiors have…”

—

Chester Harrington woke that morning with a song in his heart, and nearly danced his way through the most important day of his life. First among his duties was to oversee breakfast for his noble parents, then to help prepare the bears, coordinate with the other boys regarding outfits and prepared the halftime revels.

His was a smaller house of no great standing among the nobility, which made this day so frightfully important. As subjects to Lord Wilde, it was the greatest honor that the Harrington family had known in years, to host a Bear Polo game with the king among their ranks.

Their rivals for the day were Oscar Oldham’s team, second-raters to be sure, and one easily beaten. But that was no excuse for slacking off. Every boy knew that there would be no quarter given for treating this as though it were only a game. Thousands of the kings loyal subjects would be watching, with millions more tied in by remote wave. Each boy knew his parents would be harshly judging every movement on the field, as they rode alongside the King himself!

Chester’s hands began to shake when he thought about it. Should the King notice him, perhaps for his riding skill or leadership on the field, he might share a word with Chester. People might see them talking privately. A thing like that was valuable currency with his father and the other elder noblemen. And should the King, perhaps, find him charming and witty, laugh at a joke or slap Chester on the back…

Chester shook his head to clear it of silly notions. The place was an active anthill, breaking down the breakfast, preparing for the luncheon following the game, setting up the awards ceremony (the King’s medal for victory had been ordered more than three weeks ago, and had only just been delivered the day before, causing a minor stir among the servants), everything had to run smoothly.

The day bounced frenetically from one small meeting to another as Chester checked up on safety harnesses for the mid-game show acrobats and color-coded saddles for the bears. It seemed almost no time at all before the game was on, and all the boys scrambled into their newly-tailored uniforms before mounting their beasts.

They shuffled through the dark, crowded tunnel under the stadium, lining up based on their rank and performance that season. Chester was proud to be first in line, a right his father had fought and paid for. The boys in line waited nervously for the announcement whistle. The bears shuffled back and forth, trying to break out of the line, unnerved by standing so long in the darkened tunnel.

From his place in line, Chester could hear the cheering of the throng through the heavy oaken door. He leaned forward a bit to hear better, just as the doors sprung open with the hiss of a pneumatic press.

Chester blinked at the glare of the bright light that flooded the tunnel. The light and the roar of the crowd washed over them, battering them with its intensity. For a moment, Chester only blinked and stared, agape. His eyes, ears, and mind all tried to adjust at the same time, as one of his friends slapped the back of his helmet, “Go on, dunderhead!”

Chester shook his head and spurred his bear into motion. He kept a careful pace, letting the bear amble carefully out at the gait they were trained for.

One of the main reasons bears were chosen over horses was their flexibility in movement (the other main reason being the rise in horseflesh consumption among the more poor of the commoners). Bears run as fast as a horse in a sprint, they stop much more quickly, they can run sideways if needed, and they learn how to step much better.

For weeks, Chester had been teaching his bear, “Bruv” to trot. Such movement was very awkward for the bear and looked a bit sissified to Chester, but the trainer said that it was a noble and proud gait for a bear. Bruv raised its head aloft, and brought two paws up high every time it put the other two down. The cheering from the crowd was instant and powerful, and Chester grinned inside his helmet. Every soul loves a dancing bear.

As each of his players came out onto the pitch, the announcer called their names, and received a round of polite applause. Chester led his group in a short circle around the center point of their half of the field, then put them in a line facing the center.

Once they were all in line, there was a loud crack, and the Ursa Majors took to the field. They ran out onto the field at full tilt, shouting and whooping, as though they could frighten Wilde’s Warriors with their sprinting ability. The Majors were all wearing the sickly off-yellow and green that Oscar Oldham’s house was known for. In response to their appearance, the crowd showed ambivalence, with some polite applause, and even more uncouth booing. The announcer called out their names as they took to the field then a hush fell over the crowd as the announcer said, “The Empire now asks all loyal subjects to raise a hand to our hearts and renew our vow. Please join our special guest, Myra Palmer, in her recitation of the vow.”

Everyone raised one hand to their heart, and looked up at the vidscreen which showed a tiny, blonde girl in a blue dress, standing just offsides at the center line. Chester grinned to see the little moppet, barely able to stand alone without messing up her pretty new dress. She shifted from foot to foot as the camera zoomed in on her from above. Her words, though muttered and indistinct, were blasted over the entirety of the stadium.

“Um. I swear my undying… my under… votion to the King, and all he stands for.” Her practiced words quavered, as the attention of a thousand people weighed her down.

As the crowd parroted the young girl’s words, a new sight appeared on the field. From offsides, the King rode in on a mighty Kodiak.

He was a brilliant, sparkling vision of royalty. His jersey and cloak were gold, and he wore no helmet, letting his own blonde hair blend with the bright, shimmering power of his outfit. The bear was massive and beautiful, with rippling muscles under its gleaming coat, and the clear focus of a well-trained beast.

The girl continued, so caught up in the pressure of her speech that she failed to look around, “His grace protects us and leads us and holds back the night.”

The murmurs of surprise and amazement shifted through the crowd as the King continued to amble over to the child. Those who had only been mouthing the words of their vow now found themselves cheering the child along as she led them.

“May all the lords above grant me the grace and power to… fend hims and his works, and may I lay down my life in serf… service to his grace.”

The king’s bear reached the child, and she looked up to see him. That moment froze in the minds of everyone watching, and would be used in clips for years, as the beautiful little child gaped up at her sovereign in joy and amazement. He smiled down at her, resplendent in his high saddle and shimmering in the early morning sun. He reached down and scooped the child up into his arms. The king placed her on the saddle in front of him and held her. He smiled and murmured, “Go on.”

The child grinned and shouted, “My love and my life for my king!” The king kissed her forehead.

The crowd went wild.

—

Following the opening ceremony, the king rode over to the Warrior’s line and nodded to the boys. Everyone gathered together in a circle near him. Chester took the lead by right as head boy, saying, “All right, everyone. We’ve beaten Ursa Major before, and we’ll do it again. If you remember last time, they were strong on defense, but have no powerful strikers. So Guentzel and Cromer, I expect you to stay on their forwards. Harris and I will follow the ball, and the rest of you try to stay spread out.” Chester found himself talking louder than he’d intended, and shut his mouth suddenly. He was in the presence of the king, speaking to the king, giving orders in front of the king. If that didn’t show leadership, nothing would.

Chester cast a worried glance over at the king, “If that’s well with you, my liege.”

The king nodded distantly, “Yes, of course. As you said, you’ve beaten Oldham before, and I’m sure this will be no different. I’ll do my best to stay out of your way, and try to tuck in where I see an opening.”

Chester grinned, “It would be an honor, your grace.”

The king looked up from the scrum, “It is a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

The boys shot each other worried glances, though everyone loudly agreed with him.

Chester broke up the group, and they trotted into place. From atop a panda, the referee blew his whistle, and everyone rode into the fray.

Chester was one of their strongest players, and if he committed any sin that day, it was trying too hard to gain the king’s attention. His swings were wild and overpowered, he sprinted his bear from place to place, and shouted orders to his boys. The king himself seemed fairly detached. He floated around the edge of the group, taking only those shots that were already coming to him. The king was a fairly competent player, and Chester realized that he wasn’t lacking for skill, just interest.

Oldham’s men lacked for nothing. They seemed to take it as a personal slight that the king would ride with Wilde’s Warriors, and they fought hard to punish the Warriors for that. Chester had never seen them play so viciously before, and after losing two points to them, he began to re-evaluate his situation.

At the first quarter break, they dismounted and turned their beasts over to the grooms who hurried onto the field. As the bears were watered and brushed out, the men began to walk off field for their tea service. The king, however, stood in the center of the field, staring up at the collected people in the stadium, and at the sky in general.

An immaculately-dressed servant pushed a tea trolly out onto the field. He bounced over the rough, scarred terrain, but lost not one dish. Nor did he spill his tea with his quick movement. As soon as he reached the king, he began serving the tea. The king invited his teammates to join him, and they all gratefully accepted.

They stood, sweaty and breathing hard, holding beautiful bone china cups, and having tea with their sovereign in the middle of a polo field. Chester could not have been more pleased. In his mind, this was already the best day of his life. The king spoke amiably with the boys about how the game was going, but Chester could sense his distraction. His comments were light and friendly, without any serious consideration or concern.

Once the quarter break was finished, the grooms brought out their mounts, and the teams took their positions again. The king rode up to Chester and said, “I know I haven’t been a great help thus far-”

“Oh, no, my liege. It’s been wonderful having you… “, as he saw the passive blankness in the king’s face, Chester realized that he’d interrupted the man, and snapped his mouth shut.

“As I said, I haven’t been a great help, but I promise you, I will be of use to you in this quarter.”

Chester didn’t trust himself to answer, so he only nodded. The king continued, “You should know, as soon as I take up an active role, they will attack in force.” Chester frowned as the king shook his head, “They have been given the right to play against me. There is an implicit right to play hard against me. When men are given that power, they tend to abuse it. After all, how often do you get the opportunity to unseat your sovereign?”

Chester’s eyes went wide as saucers, but the king just smiled sadly, “Don’t let it vex you. There are some who would never consider it. Others would be too afraid to upset me. But I’ve looked into their eyes. These boys will push their limits.”

The king took a deep breath and said, “I only tell you this so that it won’t surprise you when it happens. They will likely gang up on me. In this way, I may be of more help, because while they want to brag about knocking me down, they would never dare to do me any real harm.”

Chester nodded mutely, so the king added, “I can be bait. I can pull men off the scent. But you’ll need to be ready for it. You’ll need to be able to take advantage of it. Can you do that?”

Chester’s heart beat fast as he considered the words. The king was offering himself as a sacrifice? How could any loyal servant agree to that? But then, could a servant who refused his king be called loyal?

After a moment, the king nodded as though he’d received his answer. As he rode away, Chester noticed something odd. The king wasn’t wearing his sceptre. He thought the king always travelled with his badge of office.

Play resumed, and true to his word, the king dove into the fray. He scored two points for Wilde’s Warriors before the Ursas even began to take him seriously. After that, they had two men on him at all times, riding up next to him to sour his swing, pulling in front of him to break his bear’s stride, and occasionally colliding with him in an attempt to knock him off.

Chester did what he could to protect the king, but he knew the game would suffer if he covered the king instead of moving the ball. He took his eye off the game for too long, and suddenly the Ursa Majors were even with them for score. At that point, the game began to turn ugly.

When a group swarms after the ball at the same time, the group packs together, with people trying to swing at the ball or sour other’s swings. This “packing” was fairly rare in civilized games, where gentlemen allowed their opposition access to the ball if they reached it first. Wilde’s Warriors, however, were not about to lose this game in front of the king, which made them all play a little more desperately. The ref had to break up two packs before the end of the quarter. In one of them, Chester’s power forward took a nasty blow to the upper arm, and gameplay was paused for the doctor to examine him.

The third pack was a disaster. The ball was deep in Warrior territory, and Oldham’s men were pushing it vigorously. Chester had never seen such a powerful offense from the team. It was coming up to the half, and the ball came to rest in the center of the entire group. As Chester ran to join the pack, he saw the bright golden flash of his king, riding the fastest bear on the field, into the fray.

The pack came together like a crashing wave of bears and mallets. People swung wildly, bears bellowed and screamed, swiping at each other with their massive forepaws. Chester had never seen anything like it, and in the heat of the moment, he couldn’t tell friend from foe, or even figure out how to get away.

They could barely hear the referee as he rode into the pack. He fired a starting pistol to get their attention, then stopped the fighting. One by one, boys rode out of the pack, some bears limping and some boys nursing wounds.

When the whole pack was broken up, the referee found the ball, and next to it, the body of the king.

—

“Who are you?” The old woman snatched her hand from Dizzy’s grasp.

He stayed as still as he could, despite the cold anger rising inside him, “When you knew me, I was called Vincent.”

Her voice lost its continental lilt, “Fine, Vinnie. I don’t know you, and I don’t owe you anything. I don’t know how you faked your way in here, but if you’ve come to collect for somebody, you won’t make it out alive.” Bracelets jangled as one hand reached under the table.

Whether she was going for a weapon, or calling the guards, Dizzy knew he had little time to make his case, “You remember Vincent? Vinnie Veevers?”

The old woman’s eyes widened, but her hands stayed where they were, “How do you know that name?”

He let a tense moment pass, unsure how to convince her, then said, “Look at my face.”

The hand she held under the table moved slightly, and the soft lighting blinked out. It was replaced by the harsh glare of a spotlight between them, “I don’t know you. I never met you. How would I recogn-“ She squinted at him as the ends of her mouth dropped into a look of abject sorrow, “Oh, dear gods. You have your father’s eyes.”

He nodded slowly for a moment, then said, “I didn’t know that. So, you remember me, mother?”

She clasped her hands over her mouth and nose, “Oh gods, no. Not you. Not now.”

“I’m sorry to come to you like this-“

“Why now? Of all the demons in hell sent to torment me, why you? Why now? When I am this?” She threw her arms out wide.

Dizzy sat still, suddenly feeling guilty for coming, “I had questions. I never was able to find you before.”

Her bracelets rang out as she stabbed an accusing finger at him, “You won’t get an apology from me. You won’t.”

Dizzy frowned, feeling himself an impetuous child, “I ask for no apology.”

“What do you want then? You come to me now? You come to haunt an old crone with her past sins?”

He stood up, “I came with questions.”

“Ask them, then, and -“ Her throat choked on the words, “Please go away.” The old woman turned away from him and left the table. Facing away from him, she said, “It was so long ago. I was so young.”

The old woman stared down at her hands, “I thought I could have it all. The perfect scam. The perfect mark. The ultimate long con.”

Dizzy took a deep breath, “I want to know my father.”

Her head swiveled to lock on to him, “No. Not that. Catalogue my mistakes if you wish, hold me accountable for my sins if you must, but that part of my life…” She shook her head sadly, “I can’t let you know. I won’t talk about him. Not to you. Not to anybody ever again.” The old woman bit on a bejeweled fist, “My boy. My only child.”

Dizzy frowned, “You know who my father is, though.”

She scowled at him, “That’s low, that is. What do you think I am?”

Dizzy’s gaze dropped to the floor, but he held his ground, “I don’t know anything about you. The last thing you told me was that you’d come back for me. I was eight years old then.”

Her breath came to her in a hiss, “If you’re going to just bludgeon me with it, I’d prefer you got it over with. Call me a whore, if you want. Call me a faithless woman.” She hugged her arms over her immense bosom, “It may be no better than I deserve.”

“I’m not here to insult you or hurt you.”

“You don’t have to, though, do you? You don’t have to do a thing, say a word. All you have to do is show up.” She looked up at his face, “Just stand before me with his eyes.” The old woman put one palm to her forehead, “You could hardly cut me deeper.”

“You know who he was. Something happened. Did you split up? Did you leave him?”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“Is my father still alive?”

She blinked at him for a moment, then looked away, “That’s a valid question. Of course, now that you’ve seen the wreck that your mother was, you’d want to track your father down and see if he is any better.”

Dizzy’s frustration was starting to build, but years of training helped him handle it. When blocked by emotion, always use charm, “Not such a wreck. My mother’s the Dowager Queen. How many fellows can say that?”

A thin, hopeful smile raised her lips, “It’s just a name. Just another part, like any other two-bit cover.”

He shrugged, “You’ve done well with it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it done so… so brazenly.” He frowned at her suddenly, “How could you take such a risk? Half the world knows of you. Aren’t you afraid someone will figure out who you are?”

Her smile deepened, “Oh, honey, I’m so far ahead of you, it’s sad. Before I ever get out of bed, I check on the people most likely to ruin my life. Two of them owe me a debt of gratitude they can never repay. Three of them fear my wrath, and four more would kill anyone I wanted just to keep me from revealing their secrets.”

She began moving around the room, picking things up and cleaning absently, “I have queens and princesses whose lives would be ruined if I spoke a single word in the right ear. They watch my back for me. I still have roots going to the underworld, deep enough to disappear if this gig ever went south. I’m covered six ways to Sunday.” She cocked her head to one side, evaluating him, “What about you? Earl of Viborg?”

Dizzy nodded, “It’s a living. Not too pretentious, not too low-born.” He paused again, and took a deep breath, holding his hands behind his back, “Is he alive?”

For a moment, the old woman blinked happily at him, then her face fell again, “No.” She dropped the things she’d been collecting onto a chair.

Dizzy’s mouth was a hard line as he frowned down at the floor. A well of emotion pushed up from his chest, but he fought it with everything he had.

Dizzy had grown up without parents. He had adjusted to the idea that he would never know his mother or father. Finding the Dowager Queen changed all that. While he knew they could never be a normal family, hope sprang anew. There was a chance to connect with them, find out about them, and himself.

But that would never happen now. Dizzy could read it in the flat, simple honesty of that one word. His father was dead. No chance of asking him about his family, his loves or dreams. Not even a way to ask him why.

His words were pushed out of a gravelly, dry throat as he asked, “How did he die?”

The old woman waved it away, “No. You’ve got all you’re going to from me. He was a good man, and now he’s dead. Don’t go looking for him, don’t go asking around about him.”

Dizzy glared at her, “Did he leave us? I remember you, but I don’t remember him. Did he leave you because of me?”

Her voice was distant, barely more than a whisper, “He barely even saw you.”

“And now he’s dead!”

“Trust me, son, you wouldn’t want to go looking for him if he weren’t. You think he would take you in with open arms? You think he would want to meet his child now?” She shook her head, “No. If he knew you were alive, he’d run from you. He would-” Her head raised up suddenly, “I said I wouldn’t talk about it.” She squinted at him and one side of her mouth twitched up in a wry grin, “You’ve a bit of his silver tongue, too.”

Dizzy didn’t soften, “Whose tongue? Give me a name.”

She shook her head again, “You won’t get it. Not from me, not if I can help it.”

He raised his fists to his temples and pressed them into his eyes, “So this is what I know. My father was a good man, but he’d disown me if he knew I was alive. He left you, abandoned us, and then died.” He glared at her, “You know who he was. Did he have another family after he left us?”

“This isn’t helping. You’re going to make yourself sick worrying about -”

“I’d wager he did. I expect he had a better family, not associated with such low-life base-born gutter trash as us. So this good man of yours kicked us out onto the street-”

She took two short steps toward him, and slapped Dizzy across the face. His head rocked back with the impact, and he tasted blood as he turned back to look at her. Through the swelling lips, he said, “And then you abandoned me, just like he did. Was there anyone in my life who didn’t leave me?”

“Get out.” She said it in a flat, even voice, “Get out and may you never darken my door again, you horrible child.”

Dizzy stepped backward toward the door, “Of course, mother. I wouldn’t spend another moment in your presence.” Anger coursed through his veins as he stormed out, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

As Dizzy entered the elevator, he heard the hiss of pneumatic presses slowly dropping the car. In the bronze elevator door, he saw his face beginning to swell on one side. Dizzy pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at the trail of blood running from one corner of his mouth.

The servants at his apartment would talk, of course. He could have his doctor see to the face, but they would still tell tales of how the dowager queen had slapped him. In a distant, small part of his mind, he realized that it would improve his standing in court to be considered so dangerous that such an important person would physically accost him.

He looked past the injuries to see the face in his reflection. He looked into his father’s eyes. And this was all he would ever know.

Dizzy had thought that the worst consequence of this meeting would be that she could say he had the wrong woman. Looking at the sallow lad in bronze, he marveled at how wrong he had been. His mother was a confidence trickster, and his father was a nameless coward. He was better off ignorant.

As the elevator bell rang above him, he thought of the enemy he’d just made. She may be a grifter, but she had power. Politically, he was nothing compared to her. She could still destroy him on a whim.

He walked down the hallway thinking about her anger. She had certainly hated him enough to kick him out, but would she want him truly removed? Would finding out she had a son be reason enough to have him removed?

As he neared the inner door, he realized that the doorman wasn’t at his post. For the briefest of moments, he saw the flash of blue. The average pedestrian might not have thought twice about it, but Dizzy knew a police light when he saw one. His mind began to race as he headed for the back stairs.

A new thought occurred to him. Would she hate him enough to turn him in?

—

The locker room of Wilde’s Warriors was abuzz with people running in and out as onlookers, well-wishers, and officiates demanded attention. In the center of the room, a collection of the most prestigious doctors in the land stood quietly, watching the surgeon general as she moved around the king. People shouted orders, gave updates, and coordinated on the outside of the ring. On the inside of the ring of people, it was very quiet as everyone concentrated and listened to the old woman muttering.

A golden sphere hovered near the doctor’s head, recording everything she looked at, and everything she said. The old woman clamped an exposed vein in the back of the head, then sprayed a dispersal aerosol that cleaned the wound and evaporated exposed blood.

“The minor cuts and bruises suffered to the arms and legs are no more than one would expect from a bear polo pack. They are consistent in pattern and severity to other such injuries. The blow to the back of the head is clearly the cause of death.”

The king lay on his chest, uniform cut away from his body and legs. His head was turned to one side, to expose a deep depression caving in the back of his skull near his spine.

“The blow was powerful enough to shatter bone, but from the angle of incidence, it does not indicate a direct blow. It is more likely that the hit was a glancing blow by one intending to hit the ball, or something else on the low part of a swing.”

Lord Ashford Dunem spoke up, “We’ve found the player responsible, and have him in custody. There was blood on his mallet-”

The old woman waved him off without looking up, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay on topic.” She continued to examine the wound, “Skull is broken evenly and consistent with a single strike. From the state of the eyes and hands, I believe death was instant. We have an ambulance on route. Once the full autopsy is done and pharmacology is back, I can confirm. My preliminary diagnosis is death by misadventure, though.”

There was a generally supportive murmuring among the surrounding doctors, but no one spoke up loud enough to argue her diagnosis or to offer support. The surgeon general’s diagnosis would remain the standing order unless any other doctor wanted to lose their license.

The surgeon general grabbed the golden sphere above her head and squeezed it shut. As the recording shut off, she asked, “Could we have the room, please?”

Doctors and dignitaries were shuffled out, grumbling about important work and contaminating the scene. Once they were all gone, only Lord Dunem, General Elling, Sir Cartwright, and the surgeon general were left.

She looked over the group, “Well, gentlemen. I have to ask. How the hell did you let this happen?”

Dunem leaned forward, “We’re alone now. No recordings. You’re absolutely sure that it was unintentional?”

She shook her head, “Absolutely. That boy you’ve got in custody will probably spend the rest of his short life as part of a conspiracy theory, but he didn’t do this on purpose.” She pointed at them, “No, this is your fault.”

Dunem stepped back, blinking, “That’s a serious accusation. If you mean to say-”

“I mean to say that this was incredibly stupid and reckless! Your sovereign; a man without family, siblings, or heirs. You put him on the back of a wild animal, and threw him into a game with other people riding wild animals and swinging hammers. You put him in a game with two blood rival teams, and gave him no padding? No helmet? No safety preparations at all?”

General Elling shook his head, “We couldn’t have given the King more padding than the other boys. He’d have looked weak. It would undermine the whole purpose of the exercise.”

The old woman gestured at the body on the table and fumed, “How weak does he look now?”

Dunem turned to the General, “What’s the international situation?”

General Elling crossed his arms over his chest, “We’ve suspended forward movement in most theaters, telling men to hold position until further orders. The word isn’t out internationally, and I’ve got Atherton’s assurance that no news about this will leak outside the country for at least twenty-four hours. After that, we can expect Argentina, Northwest Canada, Iceland, and Greece to open up as new targets of opportunity.”

Lord Dunem frowned, “Is this really the time to be thinking about advancing?”

“You misunderstand me. I mean our enemies will see them as targets of opportunity. There are certain areas that will open up to us in the next few days, as long as we can appear to be without a governing head, but that’s gravy. Right now, I’m putting most of our effort towards a holding action.”

The surgeon general put her hands on her hips, “We need a governing head. I’m not talking about succession, that’s for the parliament to decide upon later.”

Dunem frowned, “I don’t want to put that kind of power in the hands of parliament. It will turn into a civil war right now. There are too many families who want to take over.”

Terry Cartwright, the financial advisor cleared his throat, “I don’t think it’s a question of what we want. The hereditary line is broken. The law dictates that parliament determine who our next king will be.”

The surgeon general shrugged, “That’s for tomorrow. Dunem’s right, that parliament will be fighting this for weeks, if not months. Right now, we need someone in place.”

The general nodded, “Yes. An interim lead while we wait for parliament to deliberate.”

They all waited for a long, nervous moment, looking at each other.

Sir Cartwright asked, “How can we do that? I mean, where do we get the authority to decide something like that?”

Lord Dunem took a deep breath and said, “This is primarily a political decision. If no one else has a complaint, I’ll take over.”

Cartwright raised one tentative hand, “Ah. No. See, this is a very delicate time. If we don’t handle this to the letter of the law, people will charge us with treason. They’ll think we’re talking about back-room deals with star chambers and people choosing the nation’s leader without any concern for the rule of law.”

Dunem waved it away, “Don’t worry about that. We’re a monarchy. Whoever we put into power will stand behind our decision and decide that it was entirely legal.”

Cartwright pointed at him, nodding, “Yes, that’s exactly the kind of thing they’ll string us up for saying.”

General Elling nodded, frowning, “Dunem’s right. I’m going to have my head in the game, dealing with foreign wars, and neither one of you know the inside of the palace like his Lordship here.” He turned to Lord Dunem, “But you realize, you won’t be able to hold it long. Parliament will want to vote on a interim lead at least. With no hereditary successor, they will go to war before they let you keep the position.”

Ashford said, “I know. That’s why I want to be the one who takes this. I think I could find an interim lead for us.” He looked around the room and asked, “What if king Cadvan had a brother?”

Let me know in the comments what you think of the chapter (and the cover). And throw a buck or two in to support the book, if you like it.

“As the boy becomes the man, so he must bear new burdens of sufferance and sacrifice. A monarch’s duties are, I find, no more heavy than those of a common man; they are, however, more devastating in the breadth of their effect. It is, therefore, with a heavy heart that I must commit these words, that they be recorded truly, and I pray, never acted upon.

My trueborn son shines in my heart as the light of all my days. He grows stronger and wiser with each passing moment and yet, I must prepare for the most dire of circumstances. A king cannot leave a mote of future in the hands of chance. He cannot let any situation rest in the hands of hope. I am not unaware of my situation, last of my line, with only one son of my name. If there be any justice, the kingdom will never need more than that.

But if there is tragedy where justice should reign, we must be prepared. My boy is young, and has no royal consort. He dallies with no mistresses, and the arrangements for his marriage are too distant for consummation. My boy, Cadvan, is true to his station, and will surely rule well, providing his own progeny. And while my heart rests on this hope, my mind flies to the obvious opposing view.

Faith is small hope for a mortal man planning his demise. But a king’s duties require that he protect his country, even after his last breath. I must, therefore, add another to the line of succession, a byblow shame who shall sit just below my boy Cadvan. Should abdication or misadventure rob the nation of my noble family, my dishonor shall protect our line.

Should the fates show love of our nation, these words need never be read; my ignominy will live in quiet peace. But if duty removes him from his freedom, let him know I was unwilling. Let him know that I have viewed him from afar, and protected him as well as a shamed stranger could.

If God is good, let the boy forgive me.”

— Excerpt from the Will of King Richard

The dowager queen was a force of nature. Any who could claim the honor of knowing her would readily admit this fact. In different lands, she was known by different names, but the title was as steadfast and unchanging as the woman’s power. In Russia she was hailed as princess Zorita, a distant and hidden descendant of both the Romanoffs and Rasputin himself. In shadowed tavern corners, it was whispered that it was Grigori’s tainted blood which marked her soul with the second sight. In New York, she was Lady Kreslin, given to be a child of the Carnegie fortune, which explained her opulent quarters and social standing. In China, it was whispered that she descended from the wizard Cheng Ling Foo, whose breath could immolate armies, and whose eyes could see through mountains. Such was the power of the dowager queen.

Always she was the consort to greatness. The ladies of powerful houses would vie for her attention, pulling her from nation to nation as they begged for a glimpse of her inner dark knowledge. Queens would demand her presence for communing with the recently departed. For not only was it widely known that the Dowager Queen could see through a man and grasp out the truth of his soul, but also that she could speak to the noble dead, if they were strong in will and power. It is said that the dowager queen was once asked by the Spanish Infanta if she would contact the soul of her friend, the Duke of Zaragoza. In reply, the dowager queen merely blinked her painted eyes, stared at the Infanta for a long moment, and said, “The Infanta is generous in granting me this audience, and she will ever have my thanks. For her lover, I give nothing. Good day.” The scandals that followed rocked the very firmament of European nobility, and though the Infanta spent the rest of her days denying the accusation, there was nothing that could undo such damage. She was wholly undone in that moment. Such was the power of the dowager queen.

Her ability to see within the soul and expose the most secret hearts of powerful people was enough to frighten minor members of the royalty. It was said that there were sections of Ireland that would not allow her entry, for fear of her dangerous insights. Rumor had it that she never stayed in the same city for more than a week, traveling from nation to nation, moving as the spirits guided her. She payed no attention to wars or borders, and easily moved throughout the world without asking permission or guidance. Such was the power of the dowager queen.

Such dark and distressing knowledge filled Disraeli Augustus McCracken III with concern regarding his upcoming audience. He did not wholly expect welcome from her, and wondered if courting such political power would gain him a powerful ally or a dangerous enemy.

He left his driver in the car as he ascended the steps to the Westin Hills Inn. The residence hall was an ancient, towering building of great history and import among the rich and powerful. It loomed before him, covered in dark marble and bright metal. Intricate silver lattice work poured over each step and bracketed the entrance. The doorman stood erect, just inside the front doors. He was well trained and stood still as a statue as Dizzy approached, with naught but his eyes moving.

For the briefest of moments, Dizzy paused, considering. He was bedecked in a smart, dark blue suit with subtle ruffles at the heels and wrists. His vest was a verdant green, inlaid with gold trim. Under the vest he wore a white shirt with a brilliant red cravat. The ensemble was designed to highlight his own shock of red hair, combed out at a wild angle that bordered on the edge of stylish. It was Dizzy’s contention that one must question convention in at least some way, or risk exposure by people who thought you fit in too well.

He carried a thin, light walking stick and wore a top hat with a brim of light green to show off his eyes. He looked every bit the part of a proper gentleman, and grew nervous as the doorman ignored him.

Dizzy currently held the title of earl of Viborg, though it was never legitimately given to him. He had never even travelled to Viborg, and never intended to. He looked the part of an earl, which was proof enough for most. If confronted by a Dane, he would likely make a polite retreat, to avoid his shame being revealed.

Of those who graduated from Malcolm Rutherford Holden Institute of Regentrification, Dizzy was their most successful. Though he came to this world by way of a baseborn woman, not knowing any paternal parentage, he nonetheless had gained the skills, knowledge, and experience necessary to blend with the lowest of the nobility.

In the nations of North America, there were three classes of people. The lowest, of whom it is said shall always be among us, outnumbered all others with their rampant procreation. Though there would seem to be levels among that caste, where bankers and doctors looked down upon laborers, in truth there was very little difference.

The minor nobility reigned above them, as similar to the commoners as a grand piano is to the child’s toy drum. These gentry were the only ones the commoners ever saw, and even then, only when they dared not avert their eyes in the presence of such greatness. The minor nobility held within their ranks the dukes, knights, earls, and minor lords. While there were surely billions of commoners, the minor nobility counted in the tens of thousands.

Many of the lower nobility thought themselves the kings of this particular hill, lord over all they should meet. It was only the highest among them who knew the truth; that within the nobility there was a third caste, as different to them as they were to the commoners. The king held court over this caste, and surrounded himself with their number. These were the major lords and governors who held the true power. While a minor lord may call himself master of a city or municipality, he would know to whom he owed his position, and to whom his tribute would go. Those of the major nobility held whole states in their grip, and rented them out to the minor lords as delegation to avoid dealing with them directly. While the minor nobility may number in the tens of thousands, there were no more than a few hundred of the major nobility, and they kept company generally only among themselves.

Dizzy was born to the common class, and had ambition enough to escape it. Through hard work and guile, he had cheated his way into the lower nobility. But even his ambition gave way to the cold truth that he could never dare to con his way into the circles of major nobility. His earl’s disguise was completely satisfying for his needs, keeping him warm, well fed, and respected among those who barely knew him. He advised with knights and earls. He held tea with dukes and minor lords. And if he should, on occasion, be found out, what of it? Dizzy was also well skilled in the art of running for his life.

Dizzy placed a hand on the top of his hat as he arched back and looked up at the towering structure. The disinterest shown by the doorman was almost enough to unman him, and carry him fleeing back to the car. He had held the title of earl for some time; perhaps too long. There was danger in meeting this woman, if she truly possessed any secret knowledge about him. She could be a threat to him.

Dizzy looked back to his silent tormentor, as a wave of surety ran across him. The idea that she could threaten him served to bolster his resolve. If there was anything Disraeli Augustus McCracken III knew how to deal with, it was an open threat.

He flashed an easy smile at the doorman as he approached. Dizzy’s smiles were legendary for their ability to melt the stony hearts of men, and the cold shoulders of women.  This doorman, however, showed no appreciation for his style or smile, but continued in his stoicism. Whatever else one could say of her, Dizzy thought, the Dowager Queen chose her guards well.

As Dizzy reached the outer door, he stopped expectantly. After years of servants bowing and scraping, he found a closed door to be an affront. He blinked at the contact pad next to the door, then reached inside his jacket for his identification. A slight frown formed on his lips as he looked back at the statuesque doorman. Part of maintaining the role of a nobleman was displeasure at any inconvenience. Dizzy paused for the briefest of moments before using the card. It would log his entry, and there would be no denying his presence later. Perhaps that was her goal, to prove that he had sought her out. But what would that gain her, in the grand scheme of things? He took a quick breath and waved the card at the reader. In for a penny, in for a pound. The outer door slid noiselessly open in a single, smooth motion.

Dizzy stepped into the small vestibule as the outer door snapped shut behind him. He waited for the doorman to open the inner door next, but the oppressive hulk did nothing. Dizzy heard the door behind him click as the lock engaged. He fought the instinct to look around for traps. He’d walked into this, locked in a small room with this behemoth. Had the dowager queen already decided his fate? Had she sentenced him in absentia, leaving him to be beaten and thrown out by this hulk as penance for his common birth?

Dizzy fell back on his teaching and slowed his breathing. Know the situation, never say more than you need to. Half of talking your way out is letting them offer you exits. He looked up at the doorman, one imperious eyebrow raised, “Now look here, lad. I’ve really had quite enough of this. Call yourself a doorman. I have an appointment with the lady in residence, and I find myself having to do for myself as any common gutter-”

A small chime sounded, and the doorman stepped forward. He opened the inner door and said, “Sweep says yer clean. Amble to th’ back. ‘vaters up to the fourth, yeah?”

Dizzy nodded his reply. Was this a message from the dowager? Had she left a baseborn doorman there to scan him for weapons as a way of denuding him of his noble pride? Was that why she’d insisted on him using his identification to get in? If so, was that to prove who he was, or to put him on the defensive before she ever saw him?

Dizzy’s heels echoed as he strode through the hallway to the lifts at the end. He ascended to the fourth floor, the entrance of which opened onto another hallway with one door at the end. Dizzy walked across the thick, deep, ruby carpet to the oaken door. As he raised his walking stick to rap upon the door, it swung open to reveal darkness.

The room inside was redolent of incense. A deep, melodious voice called from far inside the shadows, “Would you come in, Earl?” Her words had the tinge of an accent he could not place. Eastern Europe, clearly, but there was much of the world that answered to that description.

Dizzy’s eyes slowly adjusted to the light as he stepped into the room. The door behind him slammed shut, leaving him in shadow. Distant candles fluttered weakly, separated from him by gauzy curtains that swayed in a roiling wind. The tiny flames of the candles cast strange shadows over the curtains as the wind moved past. Tendrils of sweet-smelling smoke rose from the corners and filled the room. Tiny silver bells chimed as something moved in the darkened room.

Dizzy squinted and frowned into the darkness. He removed his hat, not daring to step in any further. He feared he might run into something in the erratic, shifting shadows.

He turned suddenly to look at a flash of motion in the corner of his eye. His searching eyes made out the vague shape of a woman with curves of opulence and excess. Her hair was held back by a silken scarf that covered her head, with veils that masked her face. As she shifted closer, jewelry glittered about her face and neck. Hooped earrings, layers of necklaces, bracelets, rings and other adornments hung from her body, shimmering and creating a constellation of a woman, defined by the flickering reflection of candlelight. He saw a dimple in the center of her forehead gleam turquoise for a moment as she looked him over. She extended a plump hand, palm down, as a hidden light illuminated the table just next to her.

“My lord, you honor my home with your presence.”

The words jolted Dizzy back from his unnerved stupor. Though unsettled, he knew how to respond to honorifics. He took the hand and dropped into a bow to lightly kiss it. As he rose, he said, “The honor is mine, my Lady. You keep a remarkably peculiar home.”

She tittered softly, covering her veiled mouth with the hand, “Oh, my. No. I am no Lady. I am but a simple creature who carries the burden of ancient hidden arts… “ her eyes pierced him, “and the benefit of noble friends.”

His smile did not fade, “As you say, ma’am. Your entrance caused quite a disturbance in town. I dare say, your very presence has set the entire social scene aflutter.” She nodded once, so he continued, “As it happens, I travel often myself. My business -“

“I know much of you already, my Lord.” Was there a sharp tone at the end? From behind those veils, he could read nothing of her countenance. He gripped the brim of his hat in both hands, his walking stick almost forgotten.

She slipped into a seat at the table, “I am given much knowledge from beyond that simply cannot be explained to those who have not the gift.”

Dizzy’s grip loosened as he saw the angle. He was too good a con man to miss the setup. The lady was not threatening him except in as much as she intended to warm him up for the plucking. He sat easily across from her, placing his hat upon the table. He folded his hands in his lap and said gently, “It occurred to me that, given our tendency to move so often, you and I have never been in the same town at the same time.”

“Surely a gross oversight on my part.” She muttered the words, guarded and wary.

Dizzy grinned wider, “Now rectified by this wonderful meeting in your charming home.”

“I know why you’re here,” She said somberly, reaching one hand out across the table. She held her hand palm up, waiting for him to place his in it, “However, I doubt you know your own purpose here. Ask me your question, and we will see how much you know of your own fate.”

Dizzy hesitated, looking at the plump, bejeweled hand. The woman cocked her head to one side, as a bird might contemplate a worm, “Or perhaps you wish to commune with the beyond.”

Dizzy reached out and covered her hand with his. She intoned, “Tell me the message you would send.”

His other hand reached out and, between both of his, he held her hand softly, “Hello, mother.”

—

Across the street from the Westin Hills, two sterling emissaries of the lowest class looked up from their game of Circus to watch the young man enter. The darkened alcove they inhabited was lit by no more than a distant streetlight, which made their pieces look more shadow than substance on the circular board. The pressed-wood gameboard balanced precariously on top of a corrugated steel barrel, rusted through at the bottom. From beneath their laborer’s caps, neither could see the other’s face, though that was hardly a bother for two who were so familiar with each other. They had worked side-by-side for so many years, they were more family than friends. They were brothers in every aspect, other than genealogy.

They looked to be complete opposites, two sides of the coin. One short and stout, with a bushy beard that ran from his ears to his shoulders. The other tall and wiry, more akin to a perching bird than a man. He had his knees pulled up under him so that he rested upon his feet while sitting on the dumpster. He hugged his knees as he watched the flashy young man enter the hotel.

The wider of the two shook his head and looked back to the game. He took a lance with his book and kept the dirty, wooden piece in his hand. Scratching his bushy beard with the piece, he said, “See that, Lou? Nobs in our midst.”

His taller, thin compatriot nodded, his head bobbing like a melon on a spring, “Dunna be long now, Stan, ‘fore we have to get Sunday best, just to walk the street.”

The thicker man regarded him with small deep-set, shining black eyes, “Nah. Expect he’s just here for words wit’ her ladyship.”

Lou’s pale hand floated over to a glove, moving the piece out of danger and placing it behind a pair of lances, “Didn’t seem a proper lord, anyhow.”

The dark man raised a bushy eyebrow, “How do you figure, Lou?”

“Well, proper lord don’t travel alone.” He tapped the side of his long face, winking, “That’s logic, there, Stan.”

The bushy beard shook, leaving a brief cloud of dust, “Nah. Perception’s what that is, my duck. Logic’s when you figger on what kind of person, what ain’t a lord, walks around actin’ so?”

Lou’s thin hand snaked out to catch the circular board as it threatened to capsize, “Well, Stan, seems to me there’s two kinda folk, what ain’t a lord, but walks so.”

Stan leaned back against the grubby tenement wall and laced his fingers together over his stomach, “Enlighten us, great thinker.”

“There’s them what’s really got the patter down. I mean, covered tight, with not a jot out of place, and every p and q dotted.”

Stan nodded slowly, “And t’other?”

Lou shrugged, “Them what’s gonna die.”

Stan nodded sagely, “Now that, my friend, is logic.”

—

His most high ruler, guardian of the people, protector of the realm, and keeper of the right, King Cadvan the second, hated spectator sports. He disliked public appearances, thought little of being presented as an equal among his lessors, and in this particular case, he was put off by the smell of the creatures.

The smell grew stronger as he approached the stables. It brought the odor of mud and grass and huge animals. Having just emerged from the pristine, air-conditioned dining area built by local lords for his visit, the odor of the stables was nauseating.

The king travelled, as he always did, with an entourage of children his age which he completely ignored, as well as a multitude of serious men, silently awaiting the opportunity to interject some small bit of help, and in so doing, elevate themselves in the process. At the head of the group walked the king’s top advisors. Lord Dunem, his political advisor, rode herd on the pack, making sure that he was always the closest to the king, “The turnout is excellent today, my liege, and it would seem the weather is with us as well.”

The king did not falter in his step, nor deign to turn and face him, “Oh joy. Oh rapture.”

Lord Dunem gave a thin smile, “I apologize if today’s events are distressing to my king. We do try our best to divert the crown from pressing matters of state with events that both lighten his spirit and improve goodwill among the people.”

Cadvan tamped down the sneer. He recognized the bait, and refused to rise to it. The king was well trained in his duties. He knew that, in planning this day’s exercises, his wishes were the least of their considerations. However, he also knew of the political gain in his attendance. Having the king join one house in sport against another at the beginning of the Bear Polo season was a monumental show of support, and would curry him favor with the strongest house in his land.

He knew the duty, and he would perform it. When one considered monarchs, Cadvan felt he was well suited. The king was ever aware of his place and the needs of his station. He knew his pleasantries, as well as his history and manners. He could spot subtle attacks, and he knew how to cut off rebellion quickly. Oftentimes, even without bloodshed.

The king was a slight young man of average build, piercing eyes, and not particularly good looks. His short, blonde hair was carefully kept, with a single lock grown out to a braided ponytail in the back. The ponytail was a ridiculous affectation he had picked up some years earlier on a flight of fancy, which immediately caught the attention of his courtiers. Within a fortnight, the nobility throughout North America were wearing extensions, tied back. Ridiculous superstitions sprung up regarding what the length or thickness of one’s braid said about the man. Now, even though the king had tired of the style, it would be considered rude for him to cut it off, and would weaken his position among the lesser nobility.

The key to the king’s authority lay in his most powerful feature, his eyes. He had a piercing stare that could bring lesser noblemen to their knees in fear. Cadvan was often loathe to employ fear, but he respected its power. To his mind, a good king never turned down an advantage.

Unfortunately, that same stare seemed utterly impotent when employed on Lord Dunem. The man was the very voice of proper decorum, unwilling to show the slightest concern on any topic. He dressed in the colors of an undertaker, unnerving as it was on his tall, thin frame. His head was ever held high, his nose angled slightly upward, forming a triangle between the folds of his cheeks and the thin line of his mouth. His face was chiseled as if from white marble, with blue eyes and a monocle perched precariously upon his thin cheek. His hair was short and black, bound back from his widows peak with a golden band. He had never succumbed to the affectation of a ponytail, and none questioned his choice. His clothes were all straight lines and ruffles. His shoes and buttons gleamed. The monocle perched in his left eye glinted status updates and news events that were visible to none but him. The lord never travelled without his connection to the news.

The king’s head inclined slightly toward his chief advisor, “What do we have after this circus?”

“Circus, my liege?”

Cadvan nodded at the stables, “We have trained bears at the ready. With this group of ridiculous clowns following me, I would say we have the makings of a real circus, wouldn’t you?”

The advisor smiled through gritted teeth, “Yes, sir. Very droll, my king. I presumed you referred to tomorrow’s game.”

The king raised a manicured hand to his forehead briefly, “Dear Gods, I’d almost forgotten that. Another damned public spectacle.” He took a deep breath, “But what of today? What follows this game?”

The advisor’s voice droned with a practiced, professional tone, “Following your triumph on the pitch, sir, you have a teleconference with the Russian, German, Egyptian, and -”

Cadvan raised a hand, silencing the man without breaking stride, “I don’t want anything to do with the Indian situation.”

His advisor nodded, “Very good, sir.”

The king continued as if he hadn’t heard, “Stupid business anyway. What point is there in fighting for freedom? We all know how that story ends.” He shook his head, “No one is ever truly free.”

“Mmm. Yes sir.” The tall, officious Lord raised one imperious eyebrow at him. He said in a soft voice, “If you refer to the matter of the lady -“

Cadvan cut him off, “General Elling. How are we on the war?”

Shadowing the king at a respectful distance was his military advisor, General Harcourt Elling. The old, grizzled warrior wore a scar that marred half his face, reaching from the top of his right ear down to the corner of his mouth. His gray eyes viewed the king from under a concerned scowl. He did not allow his slight limp to slow him as he walked with the group.

At his summoning, General Elling replied, “Not well, sir. Not well at all.”

“What is it this time? Have we not settled Guadalajara?”

“Yes, my liege. That territory is once again under your rightful reign.”

“Well, then, let us have a guess. India is sucking us into their stupid civil war by threatening New Zealand.”

The old warrior raised an impressed eyebrow, “No, my king. Nothing so dramatic as that. I’m sure my liege realizes that the minor, unseen concerns are every bit as dangerous as the -”

“Russia?” Cadvan’s step faltered a bit as he turned to look at General Elling.

“Yes sir. Our holding action is costing more in casualties and wounded than projections led us to believe. More importantly, battles along the Russian border are costing far more in ammunition than anticipated.”

The king scowled, “It’s their own damn fault for stirring their people up. Get them excited, they start fighting harder, and then who’s to pay for that?”

As they entered the stables, the crisp snap of footsteps on concrete gave way to a wet sucking sound by the mud and hay. Cadvan pointed to the far stall, “That one, is it? Cinnamon?”

Lord Dunem stepped up beside him, “Yes, my lord. The one you chose at Lord Wilde’s party last year. You were especially taken with its breeding and color.”

Cadvan knew all to well that he had not chosen that bear. It was tribute, yet another expected gift, given to him as a favor by nobility who only wished it as an investment in his goodwill. The bear wasn’t his choice. Nothing ever was.

Cadvan turned to General Elling, “Tell the Russian Prime Minister that I will require of him a loan to cover the ammunition costs.”

The warrior’s scowl deepened, “To cover the cost of battling them?”

“If it is war he wants, he can damn well pay for it.” Cadvan rested one hand upon the stall door and looked inside. The bear was already saddled and bridled, fairly shaking with nervous energy. It was a large, light brown beast, with powerful, dark eyes that Cadvan thought he recognized. The creature looked at the gaggle standing outside its pen before raising one paw to worry at its bridle.

Cadvan said, “Make sure it’s done before our conference today. I don’t want him looking surprised when I tell him he’s going to pay for fighting us.”

The general clicked his heels in the soft mud and straw. He bowed and backed away, “Yes, my king.”

“Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like a moment before we begin, to personally inspect the beast.”

Lord Dunem made shooing motions to the entourage, “Of course, your worship.”

Cadvan entered the stall slowly, looking at the mighty creature. While standing on all fours, it was as tall at the shoulders as he was. Cadvan closed the stall door, and the bear took one step closer to him, watching him warily.

The king waved it away, “Please.” He retreated to a far corner, and took his repose in the mud. The Russians would not protest much, he knew. They would pay for their war, and everything would proceed as it always had. Nothing ever changed. Even when he strove to break the mold he was assigned, forces beyond his control conspired and whispered, and brought him back. The very system he owned turned on him to clutch and strangle him with his inertia and duty.

From his lips passed a whisper, “The lady.” It was little more than a breath and barely less than a prayer. He placed his elbows on his knees, and cradled his head in his arms. He looked down at the heavy, golden brooch on his chest, then grabbed it. In one move, he snatched it away from his tunic, and threw it across the room, startling the bear. It turned its ponderous head to frown at him, and stepped further away.

Cadvan scowled up at the beast, “I need not accept it. No, I do not face Fate on my knees, begging for scraps of opportunity.” The lumbering creature frowned at him around its bit.

“My whole life is too great for them to control.” He walked over to the bear, who ambled behind him to the stall door, “Bits and pieces of me they may peck away, but they do not rule me”. Cadvan opened the door for him, taking harness in hand, “Do not worry Cinnamon. I’ll let you out.”

He looked at his tiny hand, controlling the head of the mighty beast. It followed obligingly as he led it out of the stables, harness held lightly in his hand, “I’ll get us both out.”

—

Police Captain Gallant Trumble was a small man in every possible way. At five-foot-one, most men would look down on his pasty, bald head. What hair he had, he grew out long, and combed it over his shame, but he knew it was a thin artifice. He thought his pencil-thin mustache lent him distinction, but to others it simply seemed predatory on his bulbous, frog-like head.

Captain Trumble always tried to dress better than his men, but most of his men were detectives, trained in observation. They knew a second-hand suit when they saw one. He wore glasses to feign intelligence, but refused to pay for the data plan, so instead he simply pretended that his specs streamed data. Once, the precinct had offered to pay for his data plan, but he demurred with a grandiose, “No, if I were to have this, I would be honor-bound to provide it to my men, an expense the force can ill afford.”

He was later caught removing an account ID card from a pair of specs in the evidence room in an attempt to hijack a suspect’s data plan.

The Captain was born the son of a butcher, and was never at a loss for money. When cattle across North America were hit with the gray waste, whole herds were lost, driving the price of meat upwards, and sending his family into a life of riches. His father brought honor to the family with his public work with the starving poor while young Gallant bought toys and friends.

At a young age, Gallant realized that no matter how much money they made, his father would never be a nobleman. Despite all their effort and influence, true greatness would ever elude their grasp. Young Gallant felt robbed, cheated, and in his wroth, he sought out ways to get back at life. Following that, on every test he cheated, every friend, he betrayed. Any dodge he could think of to cure this perceived injustice was exhausted. When he heard of the Hidden Institute, he begged his father to find a way to enroll him. The elder Trumble refused, saying that Gallant should accept the good life they had, and be proud of their role in society. Gallant shouted and fumed, ranted and destroyed furniture in his tantrum, but his father remained resolute. That was the day Gallant left home forever.

Gallant Trumble joined the police as a means of controlling the law. He saw the position as nothing more than a way to control those around him, and possibly even exert a measure of control over the nobility. In the precinct locker room, he heard men speak of the miscreants they’d collard, where some minor duke or lord was entangled in drugs or prostitution. “Nobs always beg”, the men said. They would always offer favors in exchange for their freedom. The rumors of bribes became more fanciful with each telling. Some said the nobs offered money, others land. Once, a grizzled veteran told them, “Tha boyo I nicked sez, ‘Please, sir! I can introduce you to high society! I’ll get you invites to the nicest parties’ or some rot. As though a blue’s gonna risk his tackle just for some fancy-dress.”

The words struck Gallant to his core. That thing he’d dreamed of, the one door that had always seemed closed, and here was an opening. He knew what an introduction to society could bring. He knew the value of showing up at those parties. The simple laborers who wore the street blues may not have known the value of social climbing, but Gallant was not so blind. He swore he would find one of these noblemen. Give me one hour, he thought, one hour alone in an interrogation room with the vids on standby. Gallant knew he could wring an offer out of one of them.

Trumble acted upon this epiphany by becoming a tireless worker, investigating every possible case for a connection to the nobility. His diligence pushed him up the ranks, while his tendency to hand off more common cases to other detectives lent him the appearance of a team player. An eventual consequence of this attitude was making Captain, which lent him the ability to monitor dozens of investigations at a time, always seeking that elusive link to the nobility.

He was in his office, searching through bylaws for a way to list a prostitute on his payroll without raising budgetary eyebrows, when a young sergeant rushed in.

“Sir, got us a nibble!”

Captain Trumble swept the small stack of papers into an open drawer, then shut it quickly, “The door was closed for a reason. If you weren’t born in a whorehouse, you’d know to knock.”

The boy didn’t even blink, “You recall I’s earlier mentionin’ the Earl o’ Viborg?”

The Captain waved him away, “Dead end.” He knew the young sergeant had spent weeks following enquiries about a foreign lord, but without result. To have a member of the nobility visit the station at all was a rare occurrence, but there were five visits recently that were far more curious. Each visit involved a nervous-looking nob who would cautiously ask if anyone had reported any information about an “Earl of Viborg”, but refuse to leave a statement. Each of them, when questioned, refused to give any information about themselves or lodge any formal complaint against the Earl. One of the nobs let it slip that the Earl had lifted a significant sum from his coffers before swanning off for a vacation with his daughter. However, when the officer on duty suggested that he fill out a statement, the nobleman went white as a sheet and almost ran from the room. After that, young Sgt. Samson began an investigation of the Earl.

Viborg was a city couched in the middle of a war-torn area, claimed by both the Germans and the NEN (Nordeuropeiska länder). Records from the area were sketchy at best, as Americans were not allied with either power, and were not allowed even casualty reports from the former Danes. For a time, Gallant had hoped that he would be able to capture this lord in some nefarious plot. Even if none of the nobs would press charges, he could hold the Earl for a few hours, suggest that America had no formal extradition to the battlefield states, and try to sweat an offer out of him. But without witnesses or information from the area regarding the Earl, the case had lost steam.

Then fortune smiled upon the sergeant. His girlfriend was of Scandinavian descent, and still knew people who were in contact with loved ones in the battle zone. He was able to inquire about the Earl, but even that hope proved fruitless. The message received stated that the Earl was a 60-year-old man who, following injuries in the war, was now permanently bedridden. Captain Trumble was crushed to hear the news. He suspected that the nobs who had approached him initially were doing so as some sort of obscure jest. The sergeant wished to pursue the matter by tracking the witnesses, but feared what might come of investigating the nobility. Without a witness or description of the man, the case could only wither on the vine.

Captain Trumble, now reminded of it by his young sergeant, snapped at him in anger, “Your whole investigation was nothing more than a waste of my time. The man’s a damn invalid. He’s got nothing to do with us.”

“Jus’ so, sir. But viddie this-“ He pushed an active-matrix sheet in front of the Captain, “Tha’s his ident on the door outside the Westin Hills Inn.”

Gallant squinted at the short animation that played on the paper. A young man walked up to the door, swiped his ID, and was let in by the doorman. The security camera crawler showed the time, location, and the name “Erl. Viborg”.

Captain Trumble frowned, “Is that vid accurate?”

The sergeant shrugged, “Can’t fake the ident scan.”

The captain smiled and rubbed the edge of his thin mustache between finger and thumb, “That man is not bedridden.”

“Jus’ so. I’d give loose odds he ain’t the Earl, neither.”

“But he certainly does look noble, doesn’t he? The suit, the walk, he’s every bit the gentleman.”

“Yessir, but I suspect a cuckoo.” Gallant frowned up at him, “An impostor, sir.” The sergeant’s breathing grew shallow. There had not been a charge of impersonating the nobility in years, and never one in his precinct. Certainly not a successful, living one.

The captain grinned at him, “Good work, Jones.”

“Samson, sir.”

“Whatever. Get a wave to the SWAT team.”

The sergeant’s face clouded, “SWAT? Just ta pinch one nob?”

“You heard me. I want them suited and ready in twenty minutes.” The captain jumped up and stormed into the main office. “I want men on every exit to that building in the next five minutes.” He strode past desks of concerned-looking detectives, “I want a jumper on that roof in ten minutes. I want a total comms blackout in that building. I want the power ready for shutdown at my command. And I-“ he turned back to proudly face his confused men.

Every one was looking up at him from their seats as he posed heroically in front of the weapons locker, “I will lead the raid.”

At the beginning of this month, I knew I could edit 2000 words per day if I could just find half an hour a day. I further knew that I was going to have outpatient surgery (nothing dangerous, just something I needed to have done), and I knew the doctor was going to have me stay in bed for a week. I also knew that I was a good worker, and that if I was going to be laid up for a week, I would be able to put at least four hours a day into my editing.

Armed with these facts, I made some basic assumptions about what I could get done over April. I figured I could finish editing the entire book. I even made the promise online that I could, by the end of the month, have something available for people to read.

What Folly

Some of you are already shaking your heads at my empty-headed presumption. And you’re right. I should have known better. Instead of spending the week editing, I spent most of the time lying down, staggering to the bathroom, trying to blink my eyes into focus, and generally being befuddled. The anesthesia did a number on me, and the number was greater than five days.

So there I was, recuperated and staring down the barrel of too much work. I had to come up with another plan. And here it is.

I’m going to release my book in pieces. Every week, I am going to try to put up one chapter of my book. It’s not going to be the final version, but it will be a version that I’ll be sending to my editor at some time in the future.

Audio Posts

And because I’m no slacker, I’m going to present both the digital version and the audio version at the same time. Every week, I’m going to try to have a new chapter in both e-book and audio.

It’s worth noting that these are not short chapters. They range about 6k per chapter, so I may have to cut some of them into multiple weeks. However, this I guarantee. I will have a new episode every week, aiming for about 20-30 minutes per episode.

These episodes will NOT be podcasted, for reasons I’ll go into in a minute. I will be presenting the basic audio, with no sound effects, incidental music, or chapter breaks. However, once I have five episodes in the can, I will send them to Podiobooks.com, and continue with new episodes there. At that time, they will be available on your favorite podcatcher.

Interactive Chapters

Every chapter will continue to have it’s own entry in my blog, with the digital text and the audio file there. The reason for this is, at some point I am going to publish the full book (print and e-book). When the book comes out, every chapter will have a QR code for a heading, which, if scanned, will lead the reader to a blog post where they can listen to that chapter, read the text in a web format, and read the comments left by others who were reading that chapter.

It’s my small attempt to make this book more of a shared experience. I really hope you all take advantage of it, and enjoy this feature of the book.

Now, I need to get back to editing the audio for chapter one, which should drop by Saturday, May 4th, 2013. I hope you like it.

—

(By the way, this isn’t as easy as it looks. Throw a couple bucks to the hardworking pixel-stained wretch)

A long time ago, I heard the stories of Anita Hill. I wasn’t really political at the time, so I’m going to tell it the way it appeared to me, through the lens of the broadcast news. As near as I could tell, a judge had made sexual jokes and advances to a woman who wasn’t interested. She didn’t call him on it, because he was her boss or something. Instead, it just sat there.

Then, when he was nominated a Supreme Court Justice, the story got out, and made a public scandal. Some said her complaints were politically motivated, and others said she was a victim who was too scared to speak up. She brought up a new version of crime that was based solely on innuendo and suggestion. The main thrust of this sin was not in the expressed intent of the speaker, but rather in the intent perceived by the listener.

In the end, she was left as the punchline for a new term “politically correct.”

Being politically correct meant saying safe things, rather than taking the chance of offending. It wasn’t about sexism, racism, or any form of discrimination. This was a push against the sometimes unconscious commentary that can be interpreted as offensive. This was hate crime thinking, and it was considered a logical progression of our need to protect ourselves from all forms of abuse.

Bill Maher had a show later called “Politically Incorrect.” While the title was tongue-in-cheek, and while it was a comedy show at heart, Mr. Maher was fighting for a valid point. We cannot act against people for the thoughts in their minds or the words on their lips.

Let me say that again. Unless you are creating a clear and present danger, I DO NOT have the right to censor anything you think or say.

That is a fundamental bedrock of freedom. It is older than the Constitution, it is older than the Catholic church. It is at the root of all freedom. If a man is stopped for his thoughts or words, then no one involved is truly free.

Bill Maher’s show was doing well until he took a politically incorrect stance and said of the 9/11 attackers, “Say what you want about it – staying in the airplane – not cowardly.”

Because of this, his show was taken off the air. The show proved its point, and we showed our true colors. As a nation, we proved that there is some speech that, while not inciting violence, we will still stamp out.

Other examples have occurred since then. Just a few weeks ago, a few men were joking with each other, with sexual innuendoes about computer hardware. A woman heard them and, being offended by the jokes, turned Twitter on them. One of the men lost his job, the woman lost her job. The Internet, her chosen weapon, turned on her and threatened rape and death. This is how far we have gone from freedom.

A few days ago, Hugh Howey wrote a blog post about the cheerleaders of legacy publishing, and how angry they made him. He referred to the cheerleader as a “Bitch”, a “Demon”, and other terms. He talked about his fantasy of getting an award, seeing her in the audience, and grabbing his crotch.

He was not inciting to riot. He was not calling for action against her. But once again, the Internet had its way with him, and in the name of sensitivity, painted him as a monster. He apologized and, when that wasn’t enough, took the post down.

Now, if you search for the original post, you will see bloggers saying, “That’s not nearly enough.” There is no penitence great enough to cover for offending someone online.

I didn’t want to write this. I felt strongly about it, and I ranted privately about it, but I didn’t want to say anything publicly. When my wife asked why, I said, “I don’t want them to come after me too.” I knew there were lots of people who were still angry about this, and lacking a valid target, might well see me as a very small, easy mark to attack. I don’t have the kind of following that can survive an attack by the Internet. I don’t want to lose my fans, my friends, my job. I don’t want to be painted as a sexist because I supported the right to free speech. I’m too small, and too scared.

She said, “Then write it anyway. Courage isn’t a lack of fear.”

So, yeah. My thoughts, my words, her courage.

But really, please, think about this. If you are offended by something, you absolutely should present an argument against it. The only true defense against bad speech is good speech.

Do not demand apologies. Do not demand litigation. Do not demand anything.

Because if you can take a man’s right to speak, you lose yours.

Recently, a viewer asked where they could put money in to pay for a new episode, so I put this together.

Here’s the deal. You click on that link, make a donation, and tell me if you are okay with me using your name in the show. When we reach a set amount for each episode (currently $500), I will stop work on my other projects, and put together another episode. In that new episode, I will list the names of everyone who donated to that episode and thank them in the credits.

Currently, we are 30% of the way to Episode 12. I’ll update that number as the donations come in.

And thank you, to everyone who chips in to share this great show.