Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
—William Shakespeare
"Karl," Andy-Andy's voice called to him, sweeter in his ears than anything he had ever heard. It occurred to him that she had been calling his name over and over again—for minutes, or was it hours?
She sounds worried. His eyelids weren't heavier than twin Volkswagens, so he opened them. It didn't make much of a difference: The room was dark, and it was far too much effort to focus. He was stretched out on a down mattress, the heavy blankets piled on his chest threatening to interfere with his breathing.
"Karl," she said urgently, "can you hear me?"
"Of course I can hear you," he tried to say, but the words came out as glmph.
*He can hear you perfectly well.* Ellegon's mental voice was firm. *Karl, don't talk. Just use your mind—assuming you have one. I'll relay.*
Fine. Got to tell her about Deighton—
*Save that for later.*
But—
*But nothing; you've been dreaming about nothing else since they brought you within range. I know it all.*
Ellegon—
*Shut up and listen. You're the luckiest human that ever there was. As far as blood goes, Andrea thinks you're down more than a quart, so you have to take it easy. We pulled five bullets out of your hide; none of them hit anything vital. And not only did you fall into the cannon's blast shadow—that's what saved your life—but Andrea got to you with the healing draughts quickly enough to save everything except most of three fingers on your left hand. You've been hovering on the edge for eleven days now, and we've all been worrying about whether or not you were ever coming out. Happy?*
His eyelids had increased in mass until they were much heavier than Buicks, so he let them sag shut.
Tennetty, Aveneer, Erek—did they—
*Tennetty's fine, Karl. She cracked some ribs, that's all. Although once we figured out that you were going to be okay, she did have some words about you pawing around inside her tunic. Says if you want to do that again you should ask really prettily.*
Ellegon, you're not telling me about the others. Did any of them—
*No. None of them made it.*
His fists started to clench, but he didn't even have the strength to do that. The Holts and the slavers—
*Chased all to hell and gone. After the explosion, Valeran led a rifle company out after them. The Holts couldn't use their own guns, not with Andrea keeping up a light drizzle; Valeran captured about two hundred, killed more than three times that number, and sent the rest running. Now go back to sleep.*
The next time he woke, light was streaming in through the mottled glass window, splashing warmly, brightly on the bed.
Andy-Andy was next to him, sitting on a low stool, her face only a couple of feet from his. She smiled at him as she reached out and took his hand.
"Hello there," she said, her calm, level voice belying the exhaustion written in her face. The dark shadows under her red-rimmed eyes showed that she clearly needed a night's sleep.
"Hi." Lifting and dropping his hand to pat the mattress next to him wasn't quite impossible. "Get . . . in."
"Really?" She brightened. "You're getting better quickly, but not that quickly."
"No. Sleep."
"Maybe later. Would you like some broth?"
*I've already sent down to the kitchen for the food. Andrea, I've got to tell him.*
"It can wait!" she hissed.
*That is a matter of opinion. Mine differs from yours. Karl, Walter wants you to know that Pirondael did abdicate, just as you wanted, but Furnael didn't survive through Biemestren.*
Furnael was dead. That meant that Thomen was now the prince? A bit young, but Beralyn might be a decent regent.
*Guess again. Thomen is Baron Furnael; his mother will be regent, but only of barony Furnael.*
Wait. If Pirondael abdicated in Zherr Furnael's favor, then—
*But he didn't. What Prince Pirondael agreed to do was to abdicate in favor of Captain Garavar's selection. As far as Garavar and the rest of the House Guard are concerned, that pretty much settles it: Garavar picks the next prince, and if the rest of the barons don't like it, they can try to revolt.*
Who's this Garavar person?
*Officially, he's a guard captain in the House Guard. Unofficially, he's the Biemish commander-in-chief, although that'll have to be ratified by the new prince.*
Great. So who is the prince? Some—
*You.*
Very funny.
*I thought so, too. But Captain Garavar of the House Guard is here along with all of the House Guard except for a skeleton force that's waiting at Biemestren castle, and Garavar and the two thousand House Guardsmen don't think it funny at all. Matter of fact, he's pretty damn impressed with the firepower your majesty is bringing to the throne, including one spiked slaver cannon, a few hundred real gunpowder guns, a dozen hand grenades, and—ahem!—one slightly damaged dragon. Dowager Baroness Beralyn has dispatched messengers to the remaining barons, pledging barony Furnael's loyalty to your majesty, and explaining that you and five hundred men just scattered two regiments of Holts and slavers all to hell—which ought to impress them.*
This is all crazy, you know.
*That is entirely a matter of opinion. If I were you, I'd try to get used to it. Now go back to sleep.*
But—
*That wasn't a suggestion.*
None of it made any sense to him.
Sleep, on the other hand, did.
Sleep, food, and rest gradually brought back some of his strength. Within three days, Andrea decided that he could have visitors, as long as they didn't tire him.
Walter Slovotsky was the first. "Hey, Prince, how you doing?" he asked, manifestly pleased with himself. As usual.
Karl pushed away the bowl of soup that Andy-Andy was trying to force on him. "No more beef stock. I want a beefsteak. Thick one. Pan-fried. With butter, lots of it. And corn—on the cob. And maybe some deep-fried chotte—"
"Whoa, hero." She laughed, kissing him lightly on the forehead. "Take it slow." She gave him another sisterly peck.
Karl quietly resolved to even the score for that, and shortly.
*Sex. All this one thinks about is—*
Shh.
Andy-Andy rose to leave the room, stopping for a moment to whisper to Walter that she wanted him to make the visit short.
"Well," Slovotsky said, shaking his head, "I'll keep it as short as possible; there's a lot to catch up on."
"Think about it." Her face stern, she held a hand in front of Walter's face and murmured a few harsh syllables. Sparks arced from her thumb to her forefinger. "Just a few minutes, I said."
"Right. Just a couple of minutes. One minute. Thirty seconds—whatever you say." Slovotsky waited until the door shut behind her. "Whew!" He shook his head. "I'll be happy to get back to Kirah. My wife isn't deadly." He threw a hip over the edge of the bed. "How long you figure you'll be laid up?"
Karl sat up all the way, his head spinning only slowly.
"Another couple of days and I'll be on my feet. Probably be quite a while before I'm back to par, but . . ." He eyed the fresh bandages covering the still-painful stumps of the three missing outer fingers on his left hand. "It could be worse."
"Good. I'm going to send Garavar in here in a couple of minutes." Slovotsky snorted. "I'll tell you, there was a time when I regretted getting him and the House Guard to go along with Pirondael's abdication—I'd planned on showing him an upright Karl Cullinane, not a comatose one."
"What is this nonsense about my being a prince?"
"Not nonsense. Bieme's all yours—unless you abdicate. Which I wouldn't suggest. There've been enough changes—"
"But why me?" Dammit, Walter, this isn't my sort of thing, and you—
"Garavar went along with it because there had to be somebody, and your name was the one on the table." Slovotsky shrugged. "I pushed for you because the only way I can think of for this war to be ended is for the Holts to sue for peace quickly. And that wouldn't happen with some revenge-minded baron on the Biemish throne.
"Which is where you come in. After word percolates through Holtun of your defeat of two regiments of combined Holtish and slaver troops, you're going to be the most feared man in the Middle Lands. If the Holtish don't come to the peace table, my guess is that with Andy making sure that the Holts can't use their guns, Valeran's improvised brigade can go through them like shit through a goose."
"But I'd intended on ending the war—"
"In your own way." Walter spread his hands. "Which might or might not work. This will. Whatsamatter, don't you want the crown?"
Karl clenched his fists. "Don't give me that—"
"Then fine. Give it to Thomen, and let Beralyn rule as regent. That'll be a fine gift to Furnael's son."
"Now, wait—"
"Or let the barons fight over which one gets it. They might settle it quickly enough so that Bieme doesn't necessarily lose the war. Bieme might even win, Karl—and instead of Bieme's being chopped up and sold to Pandathaway on the installment plan, it'll be Holtun that gets the axe."
"Not while I'm alive, it won't."
Slovotsky nodded. "And not while you're prince, either. Here's one hell of a chance for you to make some changes, Karl. Go ahead and use it." He turned to the door and raised his voice. "Garavar! He'll see you now."
Garavar was a large, grizzled man of about fifty. His features were regular, and his hands of normal size, but he had something of Aveneer's expression around the eyes, the same look of eagles.
"Your majesty?" he said, as he walked slowly into the room, an aged wooden box in his hands.
Karl sighed. Walter was right. He was stuck with it, for now. But not forever.
*Of course not forever. You're not even going to live forever.*
Good point.
*Thank you.*
"I am Karl Cullinane," he said carefully.
"I am Garavar, of the House Guard. With the others, I have been . . . managing as best I can, waiting for you to be able to take over your duties."
"Fine." Karl swung his feet over the edge of the bed. "Give me a hand, both of you. Walter, get me some clothes. There's work to be done."
"Andy-Andy said—"
"If I'm prince, then I outrank her, no? Move. Captain," he said, forcing himself not to waver as he pushed himself to his feet, "I'll want a staff meeting tonight. Frandred, Valeran, Beralyn, my wife, Tennetty, plus you and anyone from the House Guard you think needs inviting. In the meantime . . . Ellegon, are you flying yet?"
*Just short distances. I . . . still have a ways to go. And the same goes for you—*
"Shut up. Captain, tell Valeran I want a recon of the slaver camp on Aershtyn, and I want it yesterday."
The warrior nodded gravely. "Yes, your majesty. You intend to send a detachment up Aershtyn?"
Karl snorted as Walter helped him on with his breechclout and leggings, then slipped a clean tunic over his head. "I plan on leading a detachment up Aershtyn, Captain."
"With all due respect, princes don't—"
Kneeling to slip Karl's boots on, Walter threw back his head and laughed. "With all due respect, Captain, this prince is going to do whatever the hell he damn well pleases. Get used to it." He belted Karl's saber around his waist. "Better give him what's in the box."
Garavar opened it. Inside lay a circlet of silver, studded with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. "You could wear a simple cap of maintenance, if you'd prefer, but — "
"This will do for now." Karl took the crown and set it on his own head. It didn't feel steady there; he had to hold himself up straight to make sure it didn't slip off.
Probably I can improvise some sort of bobby pin, but . . . first things first. "Captain Garavar, as of now, nobody owns people in Bieme. Anybody who thinks he owns anybody else—"
"Ta havath, Karl." Slovotsky chuckled. "Garavar's already had that explained to him, complete with ruffles and flourishes. No point in bothering with any proclamations right now; no matter how you yell and scream, there aren't going to be any changes, not until the war settles down. Hmm . . . what are you going to do about the former slaves?"
"Sharecropping is a step up, no? No, not sharecropping," he decided, remembering little Petros' fierce devotion to his scraggly field. "Better: We'll give the former slaves some of the barons' land, and allow the barons reasonable taxation privileges."
I'll soon be known as Karl the Tyrant by the barons, but that's their problem. Government needn't worry about the strong and wealthy; they could always take care of themselves. "Give me your arm," he said. "I've got work to do."