A Company of Heroes Book Two: The Fabulist (3 page)

CHAPTER THREE

ONE WONDER AFTER ANOTHER

More than a week has passed since King Felix finally decided how he is going to handle the problem of his nephew. Bronwyn had readily agreed that separating her brother from Payne Roelt would certainly be a step in the right direction. As weak as Ferenc is, physically, morally and mentally, he nevertheless symbolically represents an authority that is immensely powerful, something Payne Roelt of course knows very well, and as long as the two men are so intimately bound, as long as Payne remains within the sphere of Ferenc’s protection, there are few plans that can even be contemplated. Therefore, the first step is to separate the two. Bronwyn explains to her uncle that Ferenc is being kept quite literally
incommunicado
and is probably entirely unaware that he is being systematically isolated from both the outside world and any effective control of his nation. If Ferenc can be lured to Londeac, then something, whatever finally might be decided, could be done about Payne. At least Ferenc would be safely beyond the influence of his Chamberlain, and Payne would no longer have the physical presence and authority of the king to protect him. Feeble as this plan might appear, seen objectively, it is the best that Felix or Bronwyn can devise, short of declaring outright war on Tamlaght.

Bronwyn is to join her friends for dinner one evening almost two weeks after Felix’s invitation had been sent to Ferenc. As usual, they are dining without the presence of Bronwyn’s uncle, who has suffered yet another asthmatic relapse. At the orders of his doctors, the king eats very sparingly, and of a rigidly prescribed diet. Though Bronwyn feels a little guilty at being relieved at the king’s absence, she is at the same time spared the greater guilt of eating substantial food and wine in the presence of the elderly man, who is forced to chew morosely on steamed lettuce. In these instances she and her friends ate in a small dining room that adjoined their apartments.

Even though these meals are attended by only the four refugees, they never fail to dress for them. It is a genteel routine that symbolizes normalcy, civilization and rightness. Bronwyn was delighted to discover that her wardrobe was filled with exquisite dresses, gowns and frocks, all meticulously tailored especially for her. Many of them are in styles alien to anything she has been accustomed to wearing, and are therefore not a little intimidating. Still avoiding anything she feels might be too extreme, she has for that evening chosen a fern-green dress that is cut in a style not dissimilar to what she had been used to wearing back home. Nevertheless, in spite of the fact that the hem brushes the floor, that its collar is high and its sleeves long, it fits her unlike anything she has ever before worn. Like most of the highly fashionable fabrics, it clings to her shamelessly, emphasizing her height and boyishly broad shoulders, past which her cordovan hair has grown long, spilling over weirs of clavicle and scapula in thick, aeruginous waves.

As she stands in front of the tall mirror, she tries to examine its image objectively. What she sees serves only to embarrass her. She wishes she was attractive enough to justify such an exquisite article of clothing. She squints at her reflection; her face looks bony, her nose is too large and she fears she has an overbite. At the same time she blushes at how tenaciously the fabric clings to her breasts, they look like gleaming unripe apples, and she regrets that they seem to look no larger than apples. She thinks the girl in the mirror looks lanky and awkward. She is surprised by the intensity of the emotion she is suddenly feeling. Or rather, not so much the intensity, but the
quality
of the emotion, which she realizes is
bitterness,
of all things. And her body is not the target; it is the dress.

There’s never been any real reason for me not to have had clothes like these in my old life. This dress is emblematic of everything that is wrong with Tamlaght. It is by no means a poor country. Why does it have to be so proud of being tawdry, grey and coarse? I had such golden memories of being raised as part of a very special, elite class, always knowing, believing, at least, that I am receiving and enjoying the best and finest of everything. Now I feel like some country bumpkin, proud of going barefoot, wearing homespun and barely able to worry out the letters of my own name, wholly unaware of a larger world of shoes, velvet, art and books.
The green dress makes Bronwyn feel dreary and resentful, golden memories have been revealed to be only cheap electroplate.

Gyven, Thud and Milnikov are already in the dining room when she arrives. All are wearing, like her, the fine evening clothes the king has so thoughtfully provided. The baron looks only slightly less piratical in full evening dress: black tails, high stiff collar and white tie. More like a stage magician or professional card sharp. Thud is . . . amazing. He actually looks nearly human, more or less, perhaps something like a liberal editorial cartoonist’s caricature of a capitalist. As for Gyven . .
. Oh, my! Why does he do this to me? He treats me like I’ve allowed no one else in my entire life to treat me . . . like no one else would ever have even
considered
treating me . . . and I let him do it! I let him get away with it. As long as I’m not looking at him, he infuriates and even disgusts me. But, Musrum help me, when I see him like this, I’ll forgive him anything. Damn it, I hate that: so why do I do it?
Anyone seeing Gyven at that moment would have sympathized with the princess’s feelings. In full formal attire the man is almost supernaturally handsome.

She sat between Thud and Milnikov, as far from Gyven as she can manage, who seem not to notice that the princess is assiduously avoiding eye contact. The irrepressibly suave baron begins the conversation while the soup course is being placed upon the table. The subject is absolutely irrelevant, which makes her wonder if he’s been able to divine her thoughts and mood.

“Well, my dear Princess, I haven’t seen much of you these last few days. You’ve been exploring the palace, I take it?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, it’s a wonderful place, isn’t it?"

“Not quite like home, eh?”

“I know, I know. I’ve got very mixed emotions about that.”

“Is something the matter?”

“It’s hard to explain. Maybe I’ll talk to you about it later. But don’t worry: I’m fine.”

“And you, Thud?” continues the baron. “How do you like this place?”

“It’s nice.”

“You like the food?”

“It’s good.”

“You look very, ah, splendid in your new clothes.”

“They’re good.”

“And Gyven? How are you getting along, sir?”

“It’s all very pleasant here, thank you. I couldn’t possibly find fault with the hospitality, but I would be very much happier if I are where I
ought
to be,” he answers, fixing Bronwyn with a significant look.

“See here,” she replies, instantaneously heating, “I’ve told you before and I suppose that I’ll have to go on telling you that you’re no longer any responsibility of mine.”

“You promised,” he answers with equanimity.

“I did not! You aren’t even there! How do
you
know what I promised or didn’t promise?”

“I know what King Slagelse told me.”

“So what?”

“He told me that you promised to take me to the faeries’ kingdom.”

“Well, I’ve got some news for you, then. I haven’t any more idea where this faerie kingdom is supposed to be than you do. So chew on that for a while!”

“Um, Princess,” says the baron, a little distressed at the course the conversation is taking, “tell me the thing you’ve found most interesting about this wonderful palace.”

“What? Oh, I’m sorry, Baron. Please forgive me. I shouldn’t let silly things bother me so much. I apologize to all of you,” she says, letting an icy glance suffice to inform Gyven eloquently that what she had really said is “
most
of you.”

“There must be a thousand things here that are new to you.”

“Oh, yes! Yes! It’s been wonderful, like a dream. I could probably list at least that many without trying hard. You know, back home I read everything I could get my hands on about geography and science, but it’s one thing to read about something in words, or to look at pictures, and to see whatever it is in real life. Did you know I’d never seen a steam engine before the day we arrived here, and I had never before seen anything electrical? I think those’re the most wonderful things.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, the electric lights are just too beautiful; I can’t stop playing with the switches! And I discovered that I can talk with anyone in the palace with a, ah,
telephone,
and that there’re thousands of people in Toth that I could be connected to if I wanted. All I have to do is give the dispatcher the name of the person I want to talk to. And one of my uncle’s secretaries showed me this machine he uses for writing, letters and things come out looking just like they’d been printed. He can write with it faster than he can write with a pen. I forget what it’s called. And he had another machine that can send
handwriting
over an electric wire, if you can believe such a thing. There are a lot of other things I’d like to see: moving stairs, electric carriages, things like that.”

“I’m sure there’ll be time to see everything.”

“I haven’t been out of the palace since we arrived!”

“Well, now that your business with the king has been taken care of for the moment, why don’t we take a tour? There’ll be nothing to do until we hear from Blavek. It’ll help pass the tlme.”

“I’d love that!”

“Pardon me, Princess “ interrupts Gyven.

“What is it?” she replies with an exasperated gritting of her teeth.

“I have been recollecting the events and conversations during the time you spent with the Kobolds of which I am personally aware. I am forced to admit that I do not personally remember anytime actually hearing you make any specific promise to King Slagelse to take me anywhere other than Londeac.”

“That’s
exactly
what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“Well, if it turns out to be true that it is possible you said nothing to King Slagelse about taking me to the faerie kingdom then in that case I would probably owe you an apology.”

I don’t believe this! What a backhanded thing to say! “If I happen to be wrong then I might owe you on apology!” My, my . . . I’m so impressed.

To her amazement and horror she hears herself traitorously saying, “That’s all right, Gyven, I understand.”

“Do you have to know what you’re seeing for something to be interesting,” asks Thud, with an apparently monumental irrelevancy, “or can you just see something but not know what it is?”

“What in the world are you talking about?” asks Bronwyn, still peevish from her internal defeat.

“I was wondering about that little ball we saw in the sky today. Does that count as something interesting? Even if we didn’t know what it was?”

“Tell me about this, Thud,” requests Milnikov, thankful again to Thud for changing the subject.

“Today the princess and I saw something funny in the sky.”

“It looked like a little black ball,” Bronwyn continues, “floating in the clouds.”

“I think I know just what it was,” replies the baron, with a smile. “I’d rather not tell you right now. If you still want to go on an outing with me tomorrow, however, I can show you.”

“Why can’t you tell me now?” protests the princess, who absolutely loathes mysteries of any kind. The baron, however, ignores all her entreaties and threats, forcing Bronwyn to retreat into a sullen pout at being both mystified
and
thwarted. The baron’s mischievousness easily outclasses the princess’s stubbornness. Even having to explain to Thud that fish are not to be eaten whole fails to change her mood.

While the dessert is being served, the baron asks, “Tell me, would a concert improve your mood?”

“I doubt it.”

“Toth possesses a fine symphony orchestra.”

“Good for it. I don’t care to go to the theatre, thank you.”

“Oh, there’s no need to go anywhere!”

“I suppose the symphony is coming here?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“You really
are
going to make me angry, Milnikov!”

Rather than answer her, the baron signals one of the servants. This man immediately begins removing several large, square panels from one wall of the room. This reveals a half-dozen round, funnel-shaped openings, each perhaps a foot wide. The servant then steps back to stand beside a large brass disc set into the wall. Bronwyn has before only been vaguely aware of this, but now she can see that it has the names of most of the theatres and auditoriums in Toth engraved around its perimeter.

“If I’m not mistaken, and I doubt that I am,” says the baron, “a symphonic recital is about to begin at Blevitny Hall. If you please?”

The servant rotates a pointer on the dial until it indicates the appropriate location. Almost immediately, Bronwyn hears someone cough, though the sound came from no one around her, then the tapping of a baton on the edge of a music stand. She visibly jumps at the sharp sound, coming, as it seems, from the empty air around her. The phantom sounds are uncanny in their realism. Then the first, swelling notes of a familiar piece of music fills the room, the overture to Espenhobble Glossop’s “The Flying Goatherd”, she realizes. The music comes from the horns in the wall, she knows. Although to a critic it would have sounded tinny and flat, she thinks she can almost see the musicians in the room with her. Bronwyn thinks it is the most magical thing with which Londeacan technology has yet impressed her.

“You win!” she says to the baron, her mood broken.

“We could be listening to what is going on in any one of the theatres on that dial,” he explains, gesturing to the servant. The man slowly turns the pointer from one name to another. As he does so, the sounds from the speakers change from music to the spoken word to silence, depending upon what is taking place at the indicated hall: a concert, a recital, a ballet, a lecture, an opera or nothing at all.

“There is a central exchange somewhere in the city. All of the theatres that are connected to the service have wires that arrive there. Every evening girls are stationed to make the connections as required. A series of dials tells them who is ordering what and from where. Several hundred private homes are clients of the Theatrophone Company, as are almost all of the better hotels.”