Chapter 14

 

Upon his return to the palace, Lycon had his men conduct a thorough search of every room, which took all of twenty minutes. Nothing remotely out of the usual way was uncovered, much to the admiral’s annoyance and confusion. Time was pressing: more ambassadors were expected within a matter of hours, and it would be his business to receive them. Given the circumstances of his abrupt elevation to acting head of state, it would be difficult enough to reassure them that the new regime in Rowana was peaceful, stable, and open to reasonable dialogue with its neighbours. Without a regent, or a regent’s body, and given his own suspicions, how much more difficult would it prove?

        It was not, of course, their intention to retain these ad hoc arrangements for any longer than a bitter and probably bloody succession crisis would take to play out, in which, as Lycon gloomily reflected, he would no doubt be forced into accepting a starring role. Not that he was averse to power in itself, but monarchic tradition aside, one had to be in control, and Lycon had no more desire to finish his days as a puppet of the Admiralty than as a murder case. Besides which, however this play was received by a foreign audience, it would certainly not go down to popular acclaim back home. More likely, it would be back to the good old days of rampaging peasant mobs, only now there was no monarch, or even a regent to drag before the hordes and dampen their ardour. Even following the appointment of one, given the perverse popularity of Gloriana amongst the lower orders, there was little hope that he – whoever he turned out to be – would immediately be accepted with open arms.

        Curse her undignified rallies, her provocative little concessions, her rash promises, her ill-conceived grand designs, her delusions of god-hood, and so forth. Lycon could think of a fair battery of sound reasons for despising the appalling woman, and was ever so slightly disturbed that none of them seemed to be working, but that was beside the point. Bearing in mind her general contumacy to precedent and tradition, there was no guarantee that he could have forced the Admiralty into accepting her even as a figurehead monarch, but it was a damn sight more attractive straw to clutch at than the obvious alternatives.

        The Admiralty… of course. Lycon’s quarters were surrounded by armed conscripts, and it was widely known that he had rarely visited the palace even in its better days. On the other hand, following the untimely demise of the occupation commander, and his own instatement in that post, nobody could doubt that Lycon would be in and out of that shoddy excuse for a headquarters on a regular basis. The next meeting of the Admiralty was scheduled to take place in a couple of hours, and the conference hall, such at it was, had been left without a guard. Frankly, there was enough work to go around without keeping a round-the-clock watch over an empty barn, although it would be searched with a fine-toothed comb and several loaded carbines before each and every meeting. And if I don’t get there first…

 

Having gathered together his search party, Lycon made his departure from the palace and led a hurried march down to the conference hall, although he took the care to follow some unfrequented routes. Although his list of enemies both open and secret within Fort Rowan had taken a drastic reduction since the end of the coup, he could not delude himself into believing that he had the implicit trust of all his junior officers, and this was not the time to be encouraging their untoward curiosity. His present duty was bound to be delicate and dangerous enough without the casual contributions of any self-appointed helpers to worry about.

        Upon their arrived, he ordered his men to spread out quickly and surround the hall. Although there were only the main doors for everyday passage, he would not have sworn to the walls’ ability to stand up to a good battering, and there were always numerous rents in the thatch for anyone who was really desperate to make an exit. With his men in position, Lycon took deep, slow breaths, in the vain hope that fear and excitement could be dispelled. Since they evidently could not, he decided to settle for the tried and trusted method of refusing to acknowledge their existence. So, with a wonderfully impassive expression and a perfectly resolute stride, he approached the main doors, slowly opened them to a prudent gap, and entered the dim hall, closing them behind him.

        Gloriana stood by the table; her revolving pistol trained upon him from the moment that he crossed the threshold. This, at least, was a marginally encouraging sign: clad in her black body suit and mask, she might very easily have lain in the generous shadows and shot him half-a-dozen times at her leisure. If she was standing, as she was, in the most exposed area available, save the tabletop itself, it suggested she was either amenable or suicidal. Either might presently serve.

        “I knew you’d come back,” he eventually said. He didn’t suppose it was a particularly brilliant opening, but given that the conversation might at length have begun with a shot and have ended with a death rattle, it had its merits. “Some might, I suppose, have been idiot enough to believe that you’d actually choose to waste away in self-pity down in those crypts, but it was very naïve of you to assume that I would fall for such a ploy. I thought you knew me better, Your Highness.” No answer, and seeing as how that evil little cluster of barrels held its aim, he thought best to play his solitary trump without further ado. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you that I had nothing to do with that sordid little uprising, so I shan’t waste my words, but if you’re thinking of exacting some futile revenge, it seems only fair to tell you that this dressed-up barn is surrounded by loyal men who would certainly take most unkindly to it. Incidentally, I like your clothes.”

        “Do you?” she answered, injecting an impressive amount of venom into two innocuous words. “Well, how very fortunate for both of us, if things are as you say, and you think you have me trapped in here. I should certainly be in need of some disguise to have the slightest hope of passing by your guards, and all the better if they could be made to find some body – even yours might do – slumped over in the corner wearing my garment. That might just give me a head-start.”

        “No it wouldn’t, unless they’ve all gouged out their eyes since I left them. No, Your Highness: you know full well you’ll have to listen to me sooner or later. How does now fit with your schedule?”

        “You have something to say that could possibly induce me to spare your treacherous hide?” The words were defiant and sarcastic, but the faltering tone was letting the side down badly. Lycon noted it, but betrayed no satisfaction.

        “Well, to begin,” he answered, crossing to the table and reaching for the wine decanter, with a reasonable show of confidence, “I owe you a debt of thanks.”

        “For winning your wretched war? Yes, I must say that the point had occurred to me.”

        “No; for killing my enemy.”

        “I confess, you have me at a loss, admiral.”

        “Corin, I meant. The fellow in the dress.”

        “If you still have the dress, then I’ll take it back, thank you.”

        “Ah.” Lycon smiled, broadly and rather more disconcertingly than he had intended, and filled up a pair of dusty, unwashed glasses. “Not immediately available, I’m pleased to report. I trust this will be of no inconvenience, Your Highness. Indeed, I was under the impression we might do very well without it, for our... negotiations.”

        Gloriana did not reply for the duration of several cataclysmically tense seconds, during which Lycon had ample opportunity to reflect on the wisdom of the gamble he had just staked his life upon. The barrels of the revolving pistol were still trained in his direction, and showed no inclination of shifting. If he had seriously erred in his judgements, he might only possess that knowledge for the most fleeting of moments, albeit an extremely noisy and dramatic one.

        At length, the reply came: confused and halting, but (he was relieved to note) with only the vaguest trace of rather affected offence:

        “Admiral... again, you have me at a loss, unless... as it seems to me, that was a crude and obvious attempt at seduction. Which is hard to credit, as one had supposed that you were a wise man, and not prone to suicide.”

        Having allowed himself the briefest flash of satisfaction, Lycon answered, rather sadly:

        “Actually, I thought it was rather a good attempt, but I must admit to being horribly out of practice.”

        “If you still have a mind to save your life, admiral, I should find something else to talk about. Your pity I can do very well without.”

        “I daresay, but if you ever want to get out of this building without being shot to Hades and back, you do need my mercy. And what’s more, if you’re inclined to get out of here with the honours and prospects to which you’ve been accustomed, you would be unwise to cast off my friendship so lightly. Think on this: Corin is dead, and his rabble of fanatics can now be brought into line with little enough fuss. That sorts out that little problem. But you’ve given us another one, which even Corin, fool that he was, wasn’t blind to: thanks to all your little reforms, and your public rallies, and suchlike antics, I anticipate rather a cold reception for us, should we return to Albinor with you on the run, or rolled up in sailcloth on the ocean floor, although it may be warmed up somewhat by the cheery blaze of burning palaces.”

        “Ah, well. You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

        “I suppose so,” he answered resentfully, “but since we’ve come to that, let me tell you what our friend Lord Robert said to me, when we discussed the circumstances of your regency. He knows nothing of our constitution, needless to say, but he may have hit upon an interesting point when he mentioned that I seemed to be far and away the most natural choice for successor.”

        “You? Since when have murderers been entitled to make free with their victims’ goods and chattels?”

        “Must we persist with that subject? More fool me for an act of thankless patriotism, but none could accuse me of having profited by it, whereas you certainly haven’t done too badly by it. I certainly recall little objection from you at the time. Be that as it may, my rank and connections would, you may be sure, have made my succession a fair deal smoother than yours proved, although the common herd probably wouldn’t have taken it lying down even then.”

        “They would have lynched you, admiral. Being brutally oppressed by their beloved and heaven-appointed monarch is quite one thing, but they can recognise a glorified assassin when they see one on the throne.”

        “No doubt, and I, thank the gods, have no popular appeal. On the other hand, I am bound to assure you that my fellow patricians despise you. So here’s the deal: when we get back to Albinor, in glory and in victory, I leave you in charge of home affairs and you swear to me to keep your feet – and all of ours – off the world stage. Build your New Arcady if you must, but do it within our shores. I’ll keep the patricians in line, and in return you’ll keep the hoi polloi from hanging us from the lampposts. I imagine we shall have ample time to discuss the specifics, but right now we may as well consider presentational issues. I’m all for signing my letters as King Lycon the... thirteenth, I believe, but I’m not sure if Queen Gloriana is populist enough for you. Any views?”

        None were instantly forthcoming, but the pistol had drooped considerably in her grasp, for which his unexpressed gratitude was considerable.

        “You... and I?” she eventually stammered, then regained her sardonic composure in a flash. “I would have thought that was rather cynical even by your standards.”

        “Hardly. That’s romantic by my standards,” he answered, with careful distaste. “I surprise myself, sometimes. Trust me; in the days of my youth I’d probably have had you shot out of hand by now, and be working myself up with sincere enthusiasm for a full-fledged civil war: no less than that maniac Corin would himself have done, given half the chance. But it all seems rather pointless. Granted, you represent everything I’ve always despised, but killing you is hardly going to stop the tide of change in its tracks, and I bear you no ill-will.”

        “Still, I do not call that much of a declaration of love.”

        “I never imagined that it was,” he replied, daring to approach her in a few tentative steps. He had been planning to offer her one of the wineglasses, but the time for such gestures appeared to have passed them by, so he let them stand. “Let’s see: I admire, and to some degree I respect your audacity and your ingenuity. I cannot say the same for your strange ideals, though I sincerely pity them. Your honesty is strange, and I would suggest inadvisable, but somewhat refreshing. You may take this or leave this for what it is.”

        Gloriana hesitated, then covered the remaining short distance between them with a couple of hasty steps. When she spoke, her voice trembled very slightly, though with what emotion is was hard to discern:

        “I’ll take it.”

        Double or quits, thought Lycon, and could not suppress a wry smile, which, by sheer luck, she largely misinterpreted. He noticed that the pistol was still in her hand, but it hung limp. No help for that, at any rate. At least if he misjudged the moment, he would not have long to reflect on his mistake. With a deft movement, though rather more forceful than he had been intending, he pulled the steel plate from her face, skimmed it across the room, and immediately forestalled her reaction with the most intense and sustained kiss that body and soul – presently a fair cocktail of anxiety, ardent self-preservation, and adrenaline-fuelled lust – could summon. Embracing her with his right arm, he retained enough self-possession to keep his hand gently caressing her gun-arm, in the event of any sudden tension in that region.

        A brief clang of metal on stone, accompanied by a general loss of tension, suggested to him that the revolving pistol had finally met the flagstones, though this was not the time to take a peek. Confirmation was soon forthcoming, as the hand that had been holding it now drifted around to his back, where it occupied itself in fierce, but by no means unfriendly motions. Her left hand had settled firmly at the rear of his head, apparently determined that he should not make too quick a job of what he had started. Her lips, which had at first taken a purely passive interest in proceedings, were now very much involved.

        At length, she pushed him away with a start, at which he was instantly on the alert, but he relaxed quickly as it became clear that she had no further designs concerning the abandoned pistol. She merely stared at him, the glint of a tear in her remaining eye, although that aside, her ruined face retained a considerable dignity. When she spoke, her voice seemed an equal confusion of states, although the old sarcasm was hanging on in there:

        “Lord Lycon; however hard or however long you kiss me, it is most unlikely that I shall transform into a beautiful princess.”

        “You’re no princess,” he answered, allowing the wry smile to regain its dominion. “You’re a usurper. May I join you?”

        “Please do.”

        And they were, at the very least, blissfully unhappy for a good few years.

 

The End.