"Why that-one-legged whore's son of a bloated tick! I'm sorry, your grace. Sky Father rot his eyes in his head, yes! It continues. As the circuit assizes will attest this high summer. And he's got the sworn men to compurge his case before the justiciars, claiming with their lying hands on the altar that every inch of the forest he's cleared has been in his family since time immemorial. Which it has not, on account of his family being jumped-up peddlers-"

"Not so loudly if you please, Otto. Another glass?"

"My-discreetly! Discreetly does it indeed, sir, I must apologize; it is just that the subject causes me no little inflammation of the senses. My grief is not at the ennoblement of the line, which it must be admitted happened in my grandfather's day, but his attitude is insufferable! To raze the choicest forest is bad enough, but to sow it with weeds, and then to erect fences and bar his fields to the hunt in breach of ancient right is a personal affront. And his claim to be under the instruction of his liege is…"

"Quite true, Otto."

"I most humbly beg your pardon, your grace, but I find that hard to credit."

(Pause.)

"It is entirely true, Otto. The merchants own considerable estates, and fully a tenth of them were turned over to this crop last spring. With considerable hardship to their tenants, I might add; an unseemly lack of care will see many of them starving. Evidently red and purple flowers mean more to them than the health of their peasants, unless by some more of their magic they can transform poppies into bread by midwinter's eve."

"Idiots." (Inarticulate muttering.) "It wouldn't be the first idiocy they've been guilty of, of course, but to damage the yeomanry adds an insult to the blow."

"Exactly his thought."

"He-" (Pause.) "The rising sun is of this thought?"

"Indeed. Even while our father sips his new wine, imported by tinker trickery, and raises them in his esteem without questioning their custody of the lands he's granted them, our future king asks hard questions. He's a born leader, and we are lucky to have his like."

"I'll drink to that. Long live the king!"

"Long live… and long live the prince!"

"Indeed, long live the prince!"

"And may we live to see the day when he succeeds his father to the throne."

"May we-" (Coughing.) (Pause.) "Indeed, my lord. Absolutely, unquestionably. Neither too early nor too late nor-ahem. Yes, I shall treasure your confidence."

"These are dangerous times, Otto."

"You can-count on me. Sir. Should it come to that-"

"I hope that it will not. We all hope that it will not, do you understand? But youth grows impatient with corruption, as dusk grows impatient with dawn and as you grow impatient with your jumped-up peddler of a neighbor. There have been vile rumors about the succession, even as to the disposition of the young prince, and the suitability of the lion of the nation for the role of shepherd…"

(Spluttering.) "Insupportable!"

"Yes. I merely mention it to you so that you understand how the land lies. As one of my most trusted clients… Well, Otto, I must be moving on. People to see, favors to bestow. But if I may leave you with one observation, it is that it might be to your advantage and my pleasure for you to present yourself to his grace of Innsford before the evening is old. In his capacity as secretary to the prince, you understand, he is most interested in collecting accounts of insults presented to the old blood by the new. Against the reckoning of future years, gods willing."

"Why, thank you, your grace! Gods willing."

"My pleasure."

Transcript Ends

Rumors of War

Meanwhile, a transfinite distance and a split second away, the king-emperor of New Britain was having a bad day.

"Damn your eyes, Farnsworth." He hunched over his work-glass, tweezers in hand, one intricate gear wheel clasped delicately between its jaws. "Didn't I tell you not to disturb me at the bench?"

The unfortunate Farnsworth cleared his throat apologetically. A skinny fellow in the first graying of middle age, clad in the knee breeches and tailcoat of a royal equerry, his position as companion of the king's bedchamber made him the first point of contact for anyone who wanted some of the king's time-and also the lightning conductor for his majesty's occasional pique. "Indeed you did, your majesty." He stood on the threshold of the royal workshop, flanked on either side by the two soldiers of the Horse Guards who held the door, his attention focused on the royal watchmaker. King John the Fourth of New Britain was clearly annoyed, his plump cheeks florid and his blond curls damp with perspiration from hours of focus directed toward the tiny mechanism clamped to his workbench.

"Then what have you got to say for yourself?" demanded the monarch, moderating his tone very slightly. Farnsworth suppressed a sigh of relief: John Frederick was not his father, blessed with decisiveness but cursed with a whim of steel. Still, he wasn't out of the woods yet. "I see it is"-the king's eyes swiveled toward a mantel covered from edge to edge in whirring clocks, every one of which he had built with his own hands-"another thirty-seven minutes before I must withdraw to the Green Room and prepare for the grand opening."

"I deeply regret the necessity of encroaching upon your majesty's precious time, but"-Farnsworth took a deep breath-"it's the Ministry for Special Affairs. They've hatched some sort of alarm or excursion, and Sir Roderick says it cannot possibly wait, and the prime minister himself heard Sir Roderick out in private and sent me straight to you forthwith. He apologizes for intruding upon your majesty's business, but says he agrees the news is extremely grave and demands your most urgent attention in your capacity as commander in chief."

"News?" The king snorted. "Urgent? It's probably just some jumped-up border fort commander complaining that Milton's been squeezing their bully and biscuit again." But he carefully lowered the tiny camshaft assembly, placing it back on the velvet cloth beside the rectangular gear mill he was building, and lowered a second cloth atop the work in progress. "Where's he waiting?"

"In the Gold Office, your Majesty."

Two footmen of the royal household scurried forward to secure the items on the royal workbench. A third servant bowed deeply, then bent to untie the royal apron, while a fourth approached bearing the king's topcoat. The king slid down off his high stool and stretched. At thirty-six years old he was in good health, although his waistline showed the effect of too many state banquets, and his complexion betrayed the choleric blood pressure that so worried his physiopaths and apothecaries. He extended his arms for the coat, of conservative black broadcloth embroidered with gold frogging in the style of the earlier century. "Take me to Sir Roderick and the prime minister. Let us hear this news that is important enough to drag the royal gearsman away from his analytical engine."

Farnsworth glanced over his shoulder. "Make it so," he snapped. And it was done. The King of New Britain, Emperor of Terra Australis, by grace of God Protector-Regent of the Chrysanthemum Throne, pretender to the Throne of England, and Presider of the Grand Assembly of American States, could go nowhere without an escort of Horse Guards to protect the royal person, majors-domo to announce his presence in advance lest some hapless courtier fail to be alerted and take their cue to pay their respects, household servants to open the doors before him and close them behind him and brush the carpets before his feet fell upon them… but John Frederick the man had scant patience when kept waiting, and Farnsworth took considerable pride in ensuring that his lord and master's progress was as frictionless as one of the royal artificer's own jeweled gear trains.