The Skies Discrowned (21 page)

“It’s suicide, Frankie,” said Tyler sadly. “You want to die. No, don’t get rude with me; I’m a poet, I’m allowed to talk this way. If you go grinning up to the palace gate with a knife in your paint box, it may look like a gallant bid for revenge, but
I’ll
know. It will be a suicide attempt, disguised as desperate vengeance to fool everyone, yourself as well, maybe.”

“George, you are so full of crap—”

“Yeah, you say that. But you’re my last friend since Sam got it, and now you’re
eager
to get killed. And all because that half-wit girl ditched you for Matthews.”

“That isn’t it, George. Not much of it, anyway.”

“Aha! You admit it’s suicide, then?”

“I’m not admitting anything, dammit. I’m humoring a raving drunk.”

“Well,
there’s
a judgment. But all right, I won’t bother you anymore.”

For a full five minutes they drank in silence.

“Someday I’ll be restored to my former exalted state,” Tyler muttered, half to himself, “and then I’ll set all this right. I’ll have Costa sweeping the gutters, and then you won’t have to kill him.”

“George,” said Frank levelly, “I have been trying very hard, for weeks, to find a real claimant to the ducal throne. Throughout that time I have admired your tact in not burdening me with your own … delusions in that line. If there is (and there
is)
one thing I don’t want to hear, it’s another crackpot telling me he’s the true prince.”

“I’m sorry, Frank,” Tyler said. “You’re right, you don’t need that.” He emptied his glass. “I don’t really believe all my stories, either, so you needn’t think I’m a crackpot. It’s just my poetic nature letting off steam.”

“I didn’t mean you’re a crackpot, George. I spoke … heatedly, without thinking.” Frank opened the table drawer and felt around in it, but his pipe was missing. “Where
did you
come up with all those stories about being Topo’s son, anyway?” he asked.

“I made them up, mostly,” Tyler said. “And my mother used to tell me I was. I was an illegitimate child, you see. I’ll bet all unwed mothers tell their sons they’re the secret offspring of royalty.”

“Yeah, probably so. Not a good idea, in the long run, if you ask me.” Frank poured out the last dribble of the bottle. “Page. Hey, page! Another bottle of this. A cold one.”

The page nodded and scampered away.

“It was a bedtime story, you see,” Tyler explained. “She was a scullery maid, at one time, in the palace, so when she was fired she hinted to everybody that Topo was the real father of her illegitimate brat. I always liked the story, that’s all.”

“Didn’t she ever give you a reason why the Duke didn’t acknowledge you as his son?” asked Frank, curious in spite of himself.

“Didn’t need to. What self-respecting duke would admit to having a child by a scullery maid? Besides, she was fired and moved understreet, soon after I was born. But wait—” Tyler squinted thoughtfully “—I remember now. She always did tell me that Topo had written up an official birth certificate for me, acknowledging me as his blooded son. Costa, the story says, was a spoiled kid even then, and Topo wanted to have the option of leaving the dukedom of Octavio to me. Hah!”

The wine arrived and Frank twisted a corkscrew into the bottle.

“Not just his son—his favorite, too, eh?”

“Yeah, it’s delusions of grandeur, I admit. She was real convincing about it, though. Even told me once where Topo had hidden the birth certificate.”

“Oh?” said Frank. “Where?”

“In a copy of
Winnie the Pooh
. Frank! That’s good wine!”

Frank had dropped the bottle, and pieces of wet glass spun on the floor. The page leaped up to fetch a mop and broom. “Never mind that,” Frank told him. “Get Hodges for me. Tell him to summon a full council, at once. Yes, I know it’s three o’clock in the morning. A full council, you hear? Immediately! Run!”

The page darted out of the room.

“Frank,” said Tyler uncertainly, “are you all right?”

“For the first time in months, George.”

An hour later twelve irritable lords sat around the table, their eyes squinting, their hair oddly tufted, and half of them in incorrectly-buttoned shirts.

“What is this, Hodges?” rasped Hussar. “More delirium tremens?”

“You’re treading on thin ice, Hussar,” said Hodges softly. “His majesty will be here in a moment to explain the reason for this meeting.”

“We probably haven’t been hijacking enough brandy to suit him,” giggled Emsley.

“I’ll discuss that with you afterward, if you like, Emsley,” said Frank, who had silently entered the room. “Come on in, George.”

Frank and Tyler took the two empty chairs at Hodges’s left. “All right, gentlemen,” Frank said, “I’ve found an heir—a genuine one, as a matter of fact. He’s an illegitimate son of Topo, and I know where to find a birth certificate, signed by Topo, acknowledging him as a son.”

The lords stared at him skeptically. Even Hodges looked doubtful, knowing that Frank had not interviewed any claimants since the last meeting. “And who is this lost prince?” asked Hussar, with a look of long-suffering patience.

“It’s George Tyler,” Frank said, knowing full well the response that declaration would have. It did. After a moment of stunned silence all
the lords burst into howls of laughter.

“Tyler?”
gasped Emsley. “Get some black coffee into you, Rovzar.”

“Black coffee?” queried Frank with a quick smile. “Why black coffee, my lord?”

“Because you’re drunk,” Emsley replied carelessly, not seeing the snare.

“That will do, I think,” Frank said, “especially in front of thirteen witnesses. You will do me the honor, Lord Emsley, of meeting me in East Watson Hall tomorrow morning at ten?”

Emsley paled. He glanced at Hussar, who was staring at the tabletop, and then at Frank. “But I—” he began. Frank raised his eyebrows. “All right,” Emsley said weakly. “Ten o’clock.”

“Now back to more important things,” said Frank. “George, tell them about your bedtime story.”

Tyler awkwardly outlined the story his mother used to tell him, and told them where she’d claimed the birth certificate was hidden.

“And I know where that copy of
Winnie the Pooh
is, gentlemen,” said Frank. “I was with Topo when he was killed, and just before the Transports kicked down the door, I saw where he hid it.”

“Where?” asked Hussar.

“In the throne room. For the time being I’ll keep to myself the exact hiding place. Now pay attention, here is what we’ll do: I’ll assume a disguise and apply for the job of painting Costa’s portrait; I’m confident that I’ll get it. Once in the throne room I will quietly remove the
Winnie the Pooh
from its concealment, make an excuse to visit a bathroom, and blow a loud whistle down the bathtub drain.”

“And what will that do?” asked Hussar with exaggerated politeness.

“It will summon our army, which will be waiting in the sewers under the Ducal Palace. They will dynamite, from beneath, all the bathrooms, janitor closets and laundry rooms in the ground floor of the palace, and attack through the resultant holes. Our army is large and adequately trained, as you all know, even though it’s made of thieves and farmers. I don’t think there’s any doubt that we can take the palace. And with an acknowledged prince to set on the throne, we can hold it.”

There was a thoughtful silence. “I think it’s good,” said Hodges finally. “I think it’ll work.”

“If you’ve got it right about this birth certificate,” said Hussar cautiously, “I agree.”

The others all nodded their somewhat qualified approval, except for Emsley, who looked nauseous.

“With George on the throne we’ll be able to evict the Transport from Octavio,” Frank said. “They won’t go cheerfully, but they haven’t become strong enough to openly oppose the government. In a year they
would be
strong enough. I suggest, therefore, that we mount our attack on the day after tomorrow, first to strike before they get any stronger, and second to prevent them from hearing about it in advance.”

“This seems hasty, your majesty …” began Hodges.

“It’s quick, Hodges, but it isn’t hasty. Now send me maps of the palace sewers, and their connections with the understreet sewers. You’ll all be hearing from me tomorrow (later today, I should say), so be where I can reach you. And Hodges,” added Frank as they all stood up, “since it looks like I’m going to get no sleep tonight, bring me a pot of black coffee, will you?”

For the next three hours, Frank studied multi-level sewer diagrams and drawings of the palace, making copious notes and drinking quantities of coffee. Finally he threw down his pen and rubbed his bloodshot eyes.

“I think I see how we’ll do it,” he said to Hodges, who was lighting his twelfth cigarette since the meeting. “The palace sewers all run into a long watercourse that joins the Leethee near the Bailey District. That’s the most direct route, and it shouldn’t be hard for you to get the army organized there. Then you run them up the line and into the pipes that connect with the palace. The pipes are all five feet high and probably well-built, since they date from the time of Duke Giroud. Then you’ll just wait for the whistle.”

“Sounds good to me, sire,” said Hodges a little sleepily.

Frank sat back and drained his most recent cup of coffee. “Hodges?”

“Yes, sire?”

“Was the Subterranean Companions’ meeting hall ever a church?”

Hodges blinked. “Uh, yes. A couple of hundred years ago some philanthropist built two churches understreet. He later disappeared—some say he ascended bodily into heaven, some say he fell into the Leethee.” Hodges took a long puff on the cigarette and exhaled slowly. “So one of his churches became our meeting hall, and one, to the northwest, was converted into a cheap hotel. It was destroyed, incidentally, when that bomb took out four levels last year. The place had two carved-iron gates out front, said to have been cast by some sculptor of note. They both fell into the Leethee flood when the explosion kicked the place apart. Haven’t been found yet.”

“Ah.” Frank reached for the coffee pot. “Well, I’ve got to figure out the arrangement of our troops, Hodges, but you can go home. Get some sleep; we’ll all be busy as hell later today.”

“Right. Thank you, sire.”

Thirty miles northwest of Munson—separated from the city by slums, suburbs, small cities and, eventually, the most wealthy neighborhoods on the planet—stood the Ducal Palace, a grim fortress of centuries-old stone under the bright banners that waved from its walls.

The sun had made dust of the spring mud, and the merchants who thronged the gate and courtyard wore veils across their noses and mouths. Street musicians fiddled and clanged at every corner, storytellers babbled to rings of children, and palace guards fingered their sweat-damp sword grips and squinted irritably at the crowds. The place was a carnival of smells: garlic, curried meat, dust, sweat, hot metal and exotic tobacco.

Under the barbican, across the bridge and through the gate plodded a tall man on a gray horse. The man wore a ragged brown leather jacket and a white cape, and had wrapped a length of white cloth around his head and across his lower face, so that only his cold blue eyes, a glimpse of a scar and a lock or two of black hair showed. He was unarmed, and carried only a wooden box slung behind him on the saddle.

Whichever way it falls today, Frank thought, this is the end of a circular road I’ve traveled for a year. It’s been a busy year, too—I’ve been an art forger, a thief, a kitchen boy, a fencing teacher and a king of thieves. I’ve fallen in love, and climbed out of it. And I’ve seen more deaths—of friends, enemies and strangers—than I want to think about.

He nudged his tired horse across the crowded courtyard to the steps of the keep.

“What’s your business, stranger?” asked the guard, a red-faced man in the ubiquitous Transport uniform.

Frank unwrapped the white cloth from his head and shook back his hair. An artificial moustache clung to his upper lip. “I’ve come to paint the Duke’s portrait,” he said. “I understand he wants it done.”

“Yeah, that’s true, he does. Leave your horse here and go down the hall inside. Third door on your left. Are you armed?”

“No. I’m a painter.”

“Well, open up your box and let me see.”

Frank unstrapped his battered wooden box and handed it to the guard, who set it down on the dusty pavement and flipped up its lid. He rummaged about for a few seconds in the brushes, crumpled tubes and bottles, and then closed it and gave it back.

“Okay,” he said. “Go on in. Third on your left.”

Frank dismounted and let a footman lead his horse away, then picked up his box and walked up the steps into the keep. The third door on the left opened easily when Frank turned the knob, revealing a counter behind which a dozen people sat at paper-littered desks. An old man shambled up to the counter.

“You’re applying for the custodial position?” he asked.

“No,” Frank said. “I’ve come to paint Duke Costa’s portrait.”

“Oh. Okay. Wait on that bench for a moment.”

Five minutes later a grinning, slick-haired clerk approached. “You’ve brought your portfolio,
yes?”

“No,” Frank said, “but I’ll draw you in two minutes.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Go ahead.”

Frank took a chewed pencil from a pocket in his leather jacket. He laid his box across his knees and quickly sketched the man, using the side of the box for a surface. The drawing was quick and graceful, shaded with the fine cross-hatching of which his father had been master.

“Hm,” said the official, peering at it. “Not bad. But can you paint? It’s a painting he wants, you know.”

“Paint. Sure.” Frank took three tubes of paint, all shades of brown. out of his box and squeezed blobs from them onto the bench. He dipped a brush in one and went to work on the wall. In five minutes there glistened on the ancient plaster a portrait, done in the style of Goya, of the slick-haired clerk.

“Well,” said the clerk. “You’ve got the job, assuming the Duke likes your work, which I think he will; but I’m afraid I’ll have to fine you five malories for defacing government property.”