Heir Apparent (7 page)

This was the exact point at which—during the first game—the strange storm only I could see had moved inside the Great Hall. I now knew that the storm was the physical manifestation of the CPOC demonstrators damaging the Rasmussem Gaming Center, setting the equipment to which my brain was linked to "deep fry."

I got to hear what the thunder had previously prevented my hearing.

"Now," Queen Andreanna said, wearing the same pained-and-disgusted-but-still-trying-to-carry-on expression that might flicker across your face if you realized you'd just publicly sat on a plate of Jell-O, "Princess Janine. Obviously, you are neither trained for nor suited to life in the political arena. Between the barbarian hordes waiting at our northern border for the first sign of weakness, and the peasant uprisings in the east, now is not the time for an inexperienced sheepherder to play at being king. For your own safety, as well as that of the country, it would be best if you left the rulership of this kingdom to those who understand its intricacies. My suggestion is that we send you to one of the manor houses in the country. You can bring your foster family with you, if you wish. There will be servants under your command, guards to protect you, luxury to surround you."

I said, "And I won't need to worry my pretty little head about all that nasty politics and complicated decision making and stuff."

The queen smiled tightly, as though looking at me gave her a headache.

"That's a very kind offer," I told her. "But King Cynric named me his heir apparent, and I don't intend to shirk my duty."

"There are those who would eat you up," the queen warned.

Pass the barbecue sauce—I knew that already. "Thank you for your concern," I said.

She swept to her feet. "It's your funeral."

Unfortunately, I knew she meant that literally.

Her three sons made to follow her out of the room.

Since Nigel Rasmussem had seemed to warn me away from Kenric, I switched to a different prince. "Wulfgar, may I walk with you?"

Wulfgar bowed. Remembering that Deming had said Wulfgar had been raised abroad, I tried to believe his courtesy was foreign manners, but I suspected he was just being ironic.

The queen didn't react well to my talking to her oldest son. "Wulfgar," she snapped, just as she might have to any lowly subject, "I need to speak with you in the topiary maze."

Wulfgar grinned, obviously relishing being the prize in a power play between the queen and the heir apparent. "In a few moments, Mother," he said.

Even I could see that was the wrong answer. She linked arms with Abas and Kenric, as though afraid I would try to steal them away, too, and walked out of the Great Hall in a huff.

"So, Wulfgar..." I said as we trailed them. Slowly. So they couldn't listen in. (Make alliances, the Heir Apparent directive said. I realized I had no idea how to go about doing that. Talk sweetly. Make nice. That was what my mother did, in her New York job.)

Wulfgar didn't help. He waited for me to say something.

"I think we need to call together the old king's advisers," I said, proud of myself for remembering to say "we," for including him, which his mother seemed not inclined to do. "We should have a counsel, decide what direction the kingdom needs to take."

"All right," Wulfgar said.

"I was thinking your advice might be helpful."

He seemed to like that thought. "All right," he said again. Just as I was fearing he was no help at all, he said, "That would be Sir Deming, Counselor Rawdon, and Sister Mary Ursula."

Finally! "Oh," I said, "Sister Mary Ursula—what's she like?"

"She's a fusty old meddler," Wulfgar said, which surprised me—since Mr. Rasmussem had said
Kenric
didn't work well with her. "Why do you ask about her in particular?"

Was I ever going to learn not to give away too much? "No special reason," I assured him. "It's just, I've already met Deming and Rawdon."

That answer seemed to satisfy him. He said, "You should also meet with those in the kingdom who know magic."

"That sounds like a fine idea." In my eagerness to please him, to flatter him, to make sure he liked me, I suspected I was sounding like an overly enthusiastic kindergarten teacher. "Who would they be?"

"Orielle," Wulfgar said, which was a new name to me. "And Xenos and Uldemar," whose names Kenric had mentioned.

"Anything I should know about any of them?"

Wulfgar paused to consider. "Orielle is better-looking than Xenos and Uldemar."

"OK," I said. If I were a fifteen-year-old boy, that might impress me.

By then we had entered the courtyard. And we were once again just in time to see the armored guards dragging along the boy accused of poaching—the boy I was convinced had the ring I needed.

"Prince Wulfgar and Princess Justine," one of the guards called out to us.

"Princess
Janine,
" Wulfgar corrected, and he rocketed up in my estimation.

"Sorry, sir," the guard said, apologizing to the person who was important rather than to the one he had actually slighted.

"What's all this?" I asked, though I already knew. I had been thinking I wasn't going to be too sympathetic to the boy—remembering how he had kicked me. I needed to rescue him because I needed what I'd deduced he had—but he looked so young and scared, I couldn't help myself.

Still looking at Wulfgar, the guard said, "We caught this boy poaching. He killed a deer. The usual punishment?"

"Yes," Wulfgar said.

"No," I said.

Wulfgar gave me an annoyed look.

The boy whimpered, "No. I didn't do nothing. I found 'im dead already. I was dressing 'im down so's the meat wouldn't go to waste, but I didn't kill 'im."

Wulfgar gave
him
an annoyed look, too.

I said to the guards, "Let the boy go."

The guard who was doing all the talking protested, "Punishment for poaching is death."

"You didn't actually see him poaching, did you?" I asked.

Looking sulky about it, the guards shook their heads.

Wulfgar leaned in to me and hissed, "You asked for my advice. So heed me now: This is not wise."

Impatiently I gestured for him to back away from me.

"There have been uprisings among the peasants. Now is not the time to be
soft
with them." He practically spat the word
soft,
as though to get the taste of it out of his mouth.

"On the contrary," I said. "Perhaps the whole problem is that you have been too harsh with them." I realized as soon as I said it that I shouldn't have said "you." I meant "the old regime," but it came out sounding as though I was criticizing Wulfgar himself.

Wulfgar spun on his heel and left. The guards saluted and left.

Well, that hadn't gone particularly well. And I'd have to figure out some way to protect myself from the guards who would be spreading the word that I was weak and unfit to rule. In the meantime, I grabbed hold of the kid by the shoulder of his grimy tunic so he couldn't run away and spoil everything. "It looks," I told him, "as though you owe me a favor."

"Yeah?" he asked, sounding not at all grateful to me for antagonizing both Wulfgar and the guards on his behalf. "You looking for a payment? You need to be bribed into mercy? I coulda guessed your fine talk was all a act. You're worse'n the rest of 'em."

"It wasn't," I protested. "I'm not."
Worse than let's-just-kill-her Queen Andreanna?
"I only meant..." Well, to be honest I only meant:
If you've got a ring, hand it over.
But obviously I couldn't say so. "Sorry," I finished lamely.

"If you wanna get paid," the kid said, "you gotta talk to my father—I got nothing."

"I don't want to get paid," I insisted. "Is your father near here?"

"Somebody's sure to have told him I got brought in. He's probably in the woods nearby."

I noticed that the two guards I'd humiliated by taking the boy's side were talking to another pair of guards, and all four of them were glancing over in my direction with looks that reminded me that they'd already killed me once today.

"Look," I said, getting a whole new picture of what making alliances could mean. "I'm new here. The royal family hates me, the guards distrust me, and from what I can see, things here have obviously been run badly for a long time. I think it's time for a change. I want to talk to your father, to some of the regular people in this kingdom." Peasant unrest, did the queen say? Maybe I could start my own revolution.

The kid looked at me for at least five seconds before he remembered to close his mouth. Then he grinned. "All right," he said. "Follow me."

He led me over the drawbridge and through a meadow and into the forest. Once we were among the trees, he put his hand to his mouth and gave a whistle that sounded like a birdcall. I didn't know woodland birds enough to know if someone answered.

I heard a rustling and a thud, and I felt a dull pressure in my back. It shouldn't have been enough to knock me over, but I fell to my knees and then fell forward again, onto my face. Looking over my shoulder, I could see an arrow sticking out of my back, and that was when I realized that I felt all fizzy. I wanted to tell the boy that he could keep the damn ring. But by then he was jumping over a Men log and running to embrace a big man who had to be his father; and a couple other woodsy-looking guys were coming out from between the trees, some of them carrying bows, and I was just so tired I had to rest
my
head on my arms and let the fizziness take over.

When I woke up to hear my mother calling me, I cracked. OK, the ring wasn't with the royal family or with the poachers, it
had
to be the one Deming had. I went tearing down the hill, Dusty barking her encouragement to me.

As my foster mother said, "Hello, Janine. Stand straight now, dear—" I launched myself at Sir Deming. We hit the ground hard, scattering chickens and younger siblings alike. I had his arm pinned and tried to unwedge the ring from his fàt little finger. But with the element of surprise having run its course, he squirmed out from beneath skinny little me.

My mother was fluttering worse than the chickens, crying, "Janine! Janine, what are you thinking?"

I bit Deming's hand, and I would gladly have gnawed off his finger if he hadn't pulled out a knife and stuck it between my ribs.

"Oh, Janine!" Mother cried. "How am I ever going to explain this to your father?"

As the fizziness bubbled over me, the last thing I saw was her wringing her hands helplessly.

"There is no ring," I observed, trying for defiant, but recognizing that my voice was only a feint mumble. This was all just an evil plot thought up by Nigel Rasmussem to torment me in my last hours.

"Of course I have no ring," my mother told me as my vision blacked out. "It's your father who took the ring."

I'd been sabotaging myself. I blamed Rasmussem, of course: In this day of fractured families, what made them think the average gamer would be willing to hang around just for a parental good-bye?

The next time I went down the hill, I spoke politely to my foster mother and to Sir Deming. Then, when my mother said, "Aren't you going to stay long enough to say good-bye to your father?" I drove thoughts of paternity suits and cheap birthday-and-Christmas gift certificates from my mind.

"Why, of course, how could I leave without saying good-bye to my father?" I said.

"Oh, for goodness' sakes!" Deming snapped. "We haven't the time!"

"Sure we do," I told him.

He continued to grumble and complain, but from what I'd seen in playing this game so far, there was absolutely nothing I could do or say to make the man act pleasantly.

My father didn't take long to arrive. He came running over the hill that my computer subconscious identified as the direction of the bog. "Janine!" he cried, sweeping me up into a great bear hug that took me totally by surprise. He was such a big guy, I found my face pressed into his chest. Considering that he had come straight from cutting peat in the bog, this was not the best position in the world in which to be. I held my breath, trusting that he would let go before I suffocated.

I could hear my little foster siblings chanting for his attention, "Father! Father!"

"Hush now," my mother said. "Run along. Your father, your sister, and I must speak with this man."

Then—still pressed against my father's chest, I could both hear and feel the rumble of his voice—my father asked, "She's been told, then?"

"Yes." Deming sighed impatiently.

My father held me out at arm's length to look me over, and I was amazed to see that his eyes glistened with tears. "I was hoping we'd have more time," he said.

He was going to miss me? My father was saying he was going to miss me?

Though he was just a stupid computer simulation, I felt my throat tighten. "I'll come back," I promised. "Or, better yet, I'll send for you."

He forced a smile. "We'll come," he assured me. Then he glanced in Sir Deming's direction before he said to me, "Janine..."

He hesitated, and Deming said, "Get on with it, man. Shake her hand, wish her luck, repeat after me: 'It's been nice knowing you; good-bye.'"

I sincerely hoped that at some time during the progress of the game, I would be called upon to kill Deming. Surely
one
of the infinite variations Mr. Rasmussem had talked about could accommodate that. "Could we have some privacy here?" I asked.

Yet again Deming sighed, but he strode several long steps away.

"Janine," my father said, "when you first came to us, you were less than a week old—-just a tiny little bundle, wrapped in a blanket."

My mother nodded mutely, dabbing her eyes.

I glanced at my father's rough and dirty hands and saw no ring, but why would a peat cutter have a ring?

He continued, "The midwife who brought you said that you were the daughter of the king and of a servant woman who had died in childbirth."

From off to the side, Deming complained, "She's been told all this."