A Tale of Two Kingdoms (10 page)

Duff looked up. “Good job, Grieve. I do no’ want to see you till then.”

Grieve looked shocked. “But sir! I have work!”

“Then take it home. You are no’ to set foot in this place before Monday mornin’. If you attempt to do so, I will have security give you the bum’s rush.”

“Sir!” Clearly the image of being taken by the seat of the pants was enough to make him feel outraged, which was exactly the reaction Duff was hoping for.

Duff tapped his watch. “Monday mornin’.”

Duff ran down to the kitchens to see what there might be to eat. Grieve may have initially protested the idea of booking appointments right through mealtimes, but had scheduled him with no break for the entire day. The kitchen staff had already cleaned up from dinner, but the coolers were stocked full and it wasn’t much trouble to put together a respectable plate of cold cuts, cheeses, fruits and bread. He sat at a twenty-foot-long stainless steel preparation table and ate alone, amazed at how good food tastes when the first meal of the day is eaten very late in the day.

While he ate with his hands he began planning the next day, feeling a little giddy about being on his own. That alone was cause for celebration. He went back for a second helping of shortbread and washed it down with pale ale. He looked around the immense, dimly lit kitchen. He had a full tummy and was feeling a little bit tired from a day of too many people wanting too many things, and a little bit cranky about the fact that Grieve had clearly wanted to make sure that it didn’t happen often. But underneath all that was something else. Some sensation that wasn’t there before. It was sort of pleasant and sort of warm. One minute it was butterflies in the stomach. The next minute it might be an inexplicably stimulated groin. Anticipation maybe.

He gathered up a store of snacks -
cheese, shortbread, beer, nuts, and a variety of sweets he probably shouldn’t consume,
and headed upstairs to his version of a lockdown retreat.

Sitting at his desk in his bedroom with a portaputer, a bagel and lox and maps spread all across his floor and his bed, Duff was enjoying a rare and profound sense of freedom. He had closed and locked the outer office doors, the inner office doors, the sitting room doors and withdrawn into his own private chambers with no one expecting to see him again until Monday. Even so, he sat barefoot on the side of an immaculately made bed – a holdover from his days of rigid military school training no doubt - wearing jeans and a navy blue long sleeve tee with a Strathclyde emblem.

Pulling out his phone, he scrolled down his list of contacts.
He knew there was no one else in the room, but looked around anyway. It was enormous. Of course. A rectangular shape perhaps forty feet by thirty feet with a fireplace as tall as he and ten feet wide. At the end of the room a bank of east facing casement windows showcased rain being splashed by wind currents. The entire room and everything in it was a very pale sage green.

Monochrome. Just like my life. But ‘tis about to change. Forever.

He selected IAY, send message, then texted,
Sunday 10pm
. It was their method of making a phone date. He looked at the curious response and took a deep breath.
ok xoxo

Step One
.
Asylum

He set the phone down and got to work on the task list. It was taking shape in his mind. He’d spent a sleepless night running through various scenarios, playing them out in a series of events that always ended the same. In disaster. He didn’t have a clear winner, meaning a plan with no risk. What he did have was a plan with the big risk preloaded up front. If he could get past the big gamble he was about to make, the rest was just a matter of list making.

His chief worry was making decisions for Aelsong without her agreement because half their fate was hers, but right or wrong, sometime near dawn he’d decided that’s exactly what he would do.

With hours to kill until it was nine a.m. in Ottawa, he began making lists to keep himself busy in the meantime. Around noon he got hungry. The last thing he wanted was to run into somebody who wanted something, which meant the kitchen was out of the question. Too many people likely to ask the wrong things. What was he doing? Why was he dressed like that? Why wasn’t he at work? Where was Grieve? Didn’t he have a lunch appointment?

So he pulled the hoodie up over his head and ran down the back stairs two flights to the tour guides’ break room, which was an obscure little nook tucked into a corner and typically unnoticed by anyone but those who used it. Of course he knew every cranny. Any child left to his own devices for any length of time knows everything about his home including the contents of every drawer and cupboard.

The tour guides, mostly university students who worked part time showing off the bits of the palace that were open to the public, couldn’t have been more shocked when the prince burst in, shut the door behind him and leaned against it like someone was after him. As soon as they recovered they all stood.

He looked at the curious faces and half-eaten sandwiches. “I’m sorry to be disturbin’ what appears to be a very fine lunch. Please do no’ mind me. Just pretend that I’m no’ here.” At that, they looked at each other, some more wide-eyed than others. He pointed at the door. “I’m, em, waitin’ for a pizza delivery.”

With theatrical timing as perfect as a director’s cue, there was a knock on the door. Duff nodded in that direction in a gesture meaning, “Go ahead. Open it. “

It was not a door that was used as an entrance or exit. Ever. But a young elf wearing a kilt in MacKesson tartan, pulled it open to find a pizza deliveryman. It was a testament to Duff’s directions that he’d found it at all and an even greater feat that he’d managed to get past the palace detail. But there he stood in a Mac under a shallow portico with sheets of rain forming watery walls on three sides.

Duff came forward, took the pizza and thanked the deliveryman who stood with mouth open. “You’re the prince, ain’t ye?”

“No. I just play him on TV.”

“Oh. Well. That’ll be eight pound thirty.”

Duff almost looked surprised, reached into his pockets and realized he hadn’t brought money down. He hadn’t thought about it since he didn’t normally carry money around his own house.

He looked up at the poor man who had braved a deluge in hopes of a nice tip by a palace occupant and looked around at the young expectant faces as mortification set in. “I’m, ah, sorry. I’m afraid I…”

The lad who had taken it upon himself to act as doorman came to his aid. “’Tis quite alright, your Highness. Please allow me to buy you lunch.”

“Oh, that’s very decent of you, kind even, but I could no’ impose…”

“No’ in the least. I shall ne’er be without a story to tell again,” he chuckled.

“No,” said a red-haired girl who had found her voice and was advancing from the corner. “The prince’s pizza pie will be on me! I insist.”

As the argument ensued the prince backed away. When he reached the door, he said, “Thank you for your kindness. Allow me to invite you all to dinner in the Stirlin’ room. Monday night at eight.” He counted in the air. “Seven. How many would like to plus one?” Every one raised a hand. He smiled. “Very well. Fourteen it is. I’ll be leavin’ word at the front door.”

Duff raced upstairs. The smell was driving him crazy. Truthfully he’d never had a bite of pizza before in his entire life, but it was a day for new possibilities and celebrating the beauty of common things. He relocked every door on his way back to his room, opened a beer, and bit into a pepperoni, Italian sausage, mushroom, black olive and green pepper pizza. He hadn’t known what to order so he’d asked the girl who took the order for a suggestion. He groaned out loud. He had eaten in most Relaix Fontaineau restaurants in the world and couldn’t remember groaning out loud.

He was glad he’d ordered a large pizza and was already planning on getting another for dinner. He stuffed some currency into his pocket while he was thinking about it.

Sometime later he realized he wasn’t hearing rain anymore. He glanced at the windows and then at the clock. He’d gotten so lost in the mechanics of planning a future that he’d gone past his target time. No matter. Later was probably better.

The where had come to him with the simple random action of the turn of a globe on the way past. Canada was
the world’s second largest country. If he and Song wore caps or wore their hair over their ears, with their coloring, in most places they could blend in.

Canadians spoke a version of the same language. It was cold. True. But they were both from the same latitude as the southern half of Canada so weather wasn’t the issue that it might be for some. Lots of beautiful, sparsely populated land. It might not be heaven, but close enough. Be it ruinous or fortuitous, he would let their future ride on the casual spin of the globe.

Duff had met the Canadian Prime Minister at a state dinner a few months before and, in all modesty, she had seemed taken with him. She’d made a point of remarking that, seeing him in person, she certainly understood why he’d been named World’s Sexiest Bachelor.

He knew her response to his request for sanctuary would depend on a variety of factors. The granting of political sanctuary would draw worldwide attention and Canada was not known for being at the center of mediating international affairs. It could cement the office on her behalf until she died or decided to resign. Or it could shorten her political career and become the entire character of her legacy. Much would depend on her mood and personal ambition, both of which could only be known by the Prime Minister herself.

He hoped his voice wouldn’t shake. It wouldn’t normally have occurred to him except that, when he lifted the phone, he noticed his hand was shaking a little. He had a lot riding on that one phone call.

After talking with three levels of bureaucrats, Duff was put through. “Madame Prime Minister.”

“Your Highness. To what do I owe the honor?”

“My mate and I want to be citizens of your beautiful country. We are formally requestin’ political asylum. We will no’ be a drain on public resources. We have the means to support ourselves.”

Fifteen minutes later, Duff had spelled out the issues and the need for asylum.

“If you can get here unaided, you’ll be granted asylum.”

She promised that their conversation would not be leaked until after Song and Duff were safe on Canadian soil. He said that he would confirm with her the exact date and place when they would arrive.

Step Two
.
Pick a GO DATE.

Materials needed: calendar.

There will never be a perfect time. Looking for a perfect time equals procrastination. Procrastination is the first step toward failure. Best chance of success. Pick a self-imposed, hard deadline.

He looked at the calendar. It was March third. His eyes drifted downward. March fifteenth caught his eye. His mouth twitched. No surprise why. March fifteen marked the end of boar season in Germany. It was one of his favorite things in the world. An area of the Black Forest was maintained as a nature preserve. Every spring they allowed a few dignitaries, on application, to hunt
without
modern weapons, during the very short season, to keep the population manageable.

Duff hadn’t been in two years. He looked up and laughed out loud.
Perfect.

He grabbed his phone, ran through his contacts and tapped the screen. It rang.

“Here.”

“’
Tis the crown callin’ for back taxes.”

“Duffy! You sod! Your old man’s bleedin’ me dry, I tell ye. So you can no’ be too poor to hire cute lassies to dun poor citizens out of their rightful earnin’s?”

“Cute lassies, you say? Have you seen Grieve?”

“’
Tis damn hard to be you.”