Twice Upon a Marigold Page 12

  "I'll tell him," Chris said. "He'd have to believe me. I've got credentials and clout."

  "And he's under orders not to let you in, too," Marigold reminded him.

  "Oh, yeah. Well, somebody's got to make him an offer he can't refuse."

  They all looked at one another, weighing the reasons why none of them could do it, even as they recognized that with Rollo on their side, the odds of Ed, Swithbert, and Magnus avoiding becoming history, as well as toast, were greatly increased.

  "I still have the livery I wore when I was a servant here," Christian said. "I kept it as a souvenir. I can go get it and wear it to approach Rollo. I'll wear a false mustache so nobody recognizes me."

  Marigold's heart almost stopped at the thought of the serious risks Chris would take in such an operation. She wanted to tell him he couldn't do it, that she couldn't bear to have anything happen to him. But then she remembered that she was a queen. And queens—good ones, anyway—had to put the good of the people they were responsible for ahead of their own personal desires. Maybe not just queens should do that, she thought. Maybe everybody should. But since she was a queen, she really had no choice. And because Christian was a king, he didn't, either.

  She took a deep breath, blinked back her tears, and said, "That's the only plan that makes sense. And we're running out of time. You'd better hurry."

  With that, Chris gave her a quick hug, rushed into the disposal tunnel, and disappeared.

  The time before he returned was filled with pacing, hand-wringing, worrying, and feeble attempts from each of them to cheer up the others. Feeble being the operative word: the attempts were completely unsuccessful.

  Chris returned with a bundle holding the livery, the fake mustache, and also a shaggy gray wig left over from a costume party he and Marigold had thrown to celebrate their first anniversary. Once he was dressed, he looked so ridiculous that it was hard to imagine Rollo would even be able to talk to him without laughing. But in disguise was the only way for him to go into the castle, so he kissed Marigold, shook hands with Finbar, Ed, Swithbert, and Magnus, and started up the stairs.

  29

  Christian tiptoed along corridors, ducking behind drapes or statuary whenever he heard anyone coming. As he ran through the deserted Hall of Mirrors, he caught a million quick glimpses of himself and hoped that he didn't really look as demented as the blurry, fractured images suggested.

  Gradually Chris made his way to the guardsmen's quarters and loitered outside their ready room, crouching behind a large leather chest with assorted weapons spilling from it. If Rollo took offense to anything he had to say, there would certainly be no shortage of items with which to be run through. Chris shuddered, then braced himself. This was no time to get cold feet. He had a mission. A lot of people would benefit from what he had to do. If he did it right.

  He hid behind the chest for quite a while, through one changing of the guard (accompanied by a lot of weapon-clattering), a long, boring conversation about the merits of different kinds of chain mail, and finally silence as all the off-duty guards went to dinner. And Rollo never put in an appearance.

  Just when Chris thought he would have to go out into the castle again to hunt Rollo down, he heard footsteps and, peeking out from behind the chest, saw him coming along the corridor alone. At eight feet tall, Rollo was always an impressive figure, but at that moment, he was not at his finest. His eyes were cast down, his shoulders slumped, and he was dragging his sword along so carelessly that Christian could see (with relief) that the tip was being dulled and bent.

  Chris waited until Rollo had gone into the ready room before he came out from behind the chest and tiptoed into the room, too. Rollo was sitting in a chair, his back to the door, untying his cuirass. His sword lay on the table beside him.

  Chris closed the door and cleared his throat. Rollo grabbed his sword, jumped to his feet, and whirled around. When he saw Chris, dressed in Beaurivage livery, he lowered his blade, gave a choked laugh, and said, "What in the devil do you want? And who's your barber?"

  Chris felt his wig, relieved that Rollo didn't seem to recognize him. "Does it look that bad?"

  "It's pathetic, man," Rollo said. "Looks like it's been gnawed by a ferret. Better not let Sedgewick see you or he'll have your head shaved. Which, come to think of it, would be a big improvement. Did you want something?"

  Chris nodded. "I need to speak to you in confidence."

  Rollo spread his long arms. "Nobody in here but us. Go ahead."

  Chris cleared his throat and shot a quick look back, calculating how fast he could get the door open if he had to run for his life. "I'm here to make you an offer. A very good offer."

  Rollo laughed, loudly this time. "You? What have you got to offer me?"

  Chris stood very straight and resisted trying to smooth his wig. "I'm authorized to offer you a new title—major-general of the guards—as well as a new uniform, a better steed, and a medal."

  Rollo squinted at him. "Say again?"

  So Chris said it again.

  "Authorized by who?" Rollo asked.

  "By the king of Beaurivage, and the king and queen of Zandelphia."

  "Huh," Rollo grunted, and scratched his head. "And why would those folks want to do all that for me?" he asked suspiciously. "By the way, in case you haven't heard, the king of Beaurivage is being tried for treason tomorrow morning, so he might not actually have too much to say about what happens around here."

  "That's why he wants to give you these things. So you'll help him"—Christian had to stop for a breath before he plunged into dangerous territory—"with his rebellion."

  "Rebellion?" Rollo boomed. "There's going to be a rebellion?"

  Chris resisted the impulse to put his finger to his lips. "That's the plan. I mean, the hope."

  "Who are you, anyway? What's some footman with a rotten haircut, who I'm pretty sure I've never seen before, doing with an offer like that? You wouldn't be a spy from Queen Olympia, would you, trying to test my loyalty? Trying to get me put on trial tomorrow, too? Because, if you are, you should know I wouldn't take very kindly to that." He raised his sword and ran his thumb along the edge of it, stopping with a puzzled look when he got to the bent tip.

  This is the moment, Chris thought, and whipped off his wig. "Now do you know me?"

  Rollo leaned forward and squinted. "King Christian? Of Zandelphia? Really?" His mouth made a big O.

  "That's me."

  "How—how did you get in here? All my guards know the queen has forbidden your entrance into the castle. Who let you in? The queen will have his head."

  "Nobody let me in. I have my own ways of access. That's beside the point. Which is that there's a revolt on the way. The people of Beaurivage deserve better ruling than they're getting from Olympia. Swithbert should be back on the throne. We have reason to believe that a good number of the citizenry will be with us, and also most of your guards. But we know it will go faster and smoother, and with less—uh—mayhem—if you're in it, too. And if you are, there'll be the title, the uniform, etc. If not—well, you'll take your chances."

  "You're serious?"

  "Never more."

  "You're really going to rebel against the queen?"

  "Didn't I just say that?" Chris was getting exasperated. He wanted a yes or a no—and right now. Not all this dancing around. They were running out of time. If Rollo said no, the rebellion would have to start instantly.

  "What happens if you lose?" Rollo asked.

  "Probably nothing good, wouldn't you think?"

  "Yeah, that's what I'd think."

  They stood there looking at each other. Chris observed that Rollo hadn't turned loose of his sword, though he hadn't raised it, either, so there was no clear indication of his intentions.

  One more try, Chris thought. "The queen has been very unkind to many people. King Swithbert has never been anything but benevolent. Which style of leadership do you think your fellow Beaurivageans would thank you for helping them achieve?"
r />   "Some admire how Olympia rules."

  "True, I suppose. Is that your answer?"

  He sighed. "No. But when you're eight feet tall and captain of the guards, people expect a certain degree of heartlessness and inhumanity."

  "Maybe you could show them that being eight feet tall and rigorous in the pursuit of justice for everybody is better than being eight feet tall and heartless. You don't want to be a stereotype, do you?"

  Rollo sighed again. "You don't have to bribe me with the title and the uniform and all that. I'm tired of heartlessness and cruelty. It wears on you after a while, you know. Especially when you're thinking about becoming a father. I'll help. I want to."

  "Good man. You won't be sorry." I hope, Chris thought. "And good luck with the father project. I'm thinking about it myself."

  "Just tell me what you want me to do."

  Rollo didn't sound very happy, but Chris hoped that was because he was scared and worried about the outcome, not because he wasn't convinced. Well, join the club, he thought.

  After a long explanation of the plan to Rollo, Chris said, "You can't change your mind now."

  "I won't. Just don't wear that wig tomorrow, okay?"

  "You've got a deal. Now I've got to go. But I'll see you tomorrow."

  FAR ABOVE THEIR HEADS, in Olympia's suite, she also was looking ahead to the next day. But she was doing it with glee.

  30

  Lazy Susan asked Mr. Lucasa how many people he reckoned were in favor of the rebellion.

  "Everyone I've talked to," he said. "With odds like that it seems the problem should be able to be solved by ho'oponopono. But knowing the queen, I see that it's not possible."

  "Ho'oponopono?"

  "It's Hawaiian. It means solving a problem by talking it out."

  "With Olympia? Pardon me while I say 'ha'!"

  "Precisely. Do you know when it's to be?"

  "Tomorrow. What we're supposed to do is gather up everybody who is on our side, pass out all the weapons from Ed's collections left behind in the dungeon, and be ready when King Christian from Zandelphia springs the trap. It's going to be during the trial of King Swithbert and the others. We're supposed to pass the word along."

  "You've gone to a lot of trouble to help with this. I'm somewhat surprised. I'd heard that you, well, that you were rather haochi-lanzuo."

  She just looked at him.

  "Oh. Well, it's Chinese. It means to be fond of food, but averse to work."

  She looked down at her shoes. In Granolah, where everyone accepted her as she was, being haochi-lanzuo had seemed perfectly reasonable. But since she'd been in Beaurivage and had seen how necessary real work was to keep a society functioning, and how important it was for workers to cooperate and help each other, she had begun to feel differently about her slothful existence. Too, she'd experienced the satisfaction of a job well done—even one that involved dragon fat and hoofenpoofer juice.

  Meekly, she said, "I must confess, that used to be true. But I don't think it is anymore. And as far as the rebellion—I like feeling a part of something big and important, knowing it could benefit a lot of people."

  "And what if the revolt fails?" Mr. Lucasa asked. "What if it turns out to be a yabu hebi ni naru?" He added, "It's Japanese for something that backfires. Literally, it means to poke at a bush and get a snake."

  "A nice way to refer to the queen," Susan said drily. "But accurate. Well, if it fails, we'll be taking the consequences—and I'm sure they won't be pretty. But the effort is necessary. I really think so. And once you see something that needs to be done, it just makes you feel all itchy and uncomfortable until you take care of it. Doesn't it?"

  Mr. Lucasa smiled. "Congratulations. You've met your conscience. In my experience, the world is divided between those who have one and those who don't. And the ones with one are divided into those who will act on their conscience and those who won't. Those who will are, I'm afraid, the smallest category. They will jeito. It's Brazilian Portuguese. It means to find a way to get something done, no matter what the obstacles."

  "Well, I guess I'm going to jeito. At least for tomorrow."

  OF COURSE, NOBODY who knew what the next day would be bringing slept a wink that night.

  Ed spent the long hours muttering imprecations at the guards who had made such a mess of his collections as they dug through them, searching for usable weapons.

  Finbar, Magnus, and Swithbert played snipsnapsnorum with a deck of cards Ed had unearthed until Finbar owed the king more money than he would ever see in a lifetime—at which time he outright accused the king of cheating.

  "Well, of course I cheat," Swithbert said, unfazed. "Everybody knows that. That's why nobody but Ed will play with me anymore. He cheats, too, so it's even. I thought you knew that. Magnus, you knew that, right?"

  Magnus nodded. "But playing keeps my mind off what could go wrong tomorrow. Now that you mention it, though, in what might be my last hours I should be doing something more—I don't know—more noble, or more significant."

  "Don't talk like that," Marigold interjected. She was scared and worried and having palpitations already, and didn't want anybody making it worse. "I know. I'll teach you a new kind of joke I learned. It takes two people so, Magnus, I'll start with you. Knock, knock."

  "What?"

  "Not what," she said. "You have to say 'who's there?' "

  "Oh. Who's there, then?"

  "Boo."

  "Are you trying to scare me?" He looked to Swithbert for help, but the king just shrugged. "I'm already scared."

  "No!" Marigold said, exasperated. "You have to ask 'who?' "

  "I don't get this," Magnus said. "And I don't think it's very funny, either. It's not helping me be less nervous."

  "Wait. Let me demonstrate with Christian." Which she did, and when they got to the punch lines (Boo who? I'm sorry I made you cry.), everyone understood how it worked, but talking about crying didn't make anybody feel any better.

  "I think I'll write Sephronia a letter," Magnus said, "just in case I don't get another chance to explain things to her. Though I'm not sure I really can explain what went wrong the last time I saw her."

  "When was that?" Christian asked.

  Magnus remembered all too well. "It was right after Queen Olympia came back to Beaurivage."

  Christian looked over at Marigold and nodded. "You were right," he told her. "She did release something noxious into the air." Turning back to Magnus, he said, "We were all breathing in some of Olympia's bad effusions, and it made us behave in strange ways. I think even the dogs were affected. It explains all that growling and fighting they've been doing."

  "We were breathing Olympia's effusions?" Magnus asked. "Well, yuck! And how am I going to explain that to Sephronia?" He sighed. "Ed, can you find any ink and paper in that pile? I guess I'd better at least try."

  "Does anybody want to do another knock-knock joke?" Marigold asked. "This one will be better, I promise."

  Swithbert, always the good father, said (after a silence that went on a bit too long), "Certainly, precious. Knock, knock."

  "Who's there?" Marigold asked.

  He scratched his head. "I have no idea. Am I doing something wrong?"

  "Oh! I'm the one who's supposed to say 'knock, knock.' The person who knows how the joke comes out says it. So, Papa, knock, knock."

  "Who is it?"

  Marigold stopped herself from correcting him, and said, "Archie."

  Swithbert looked over at Christian, who whispered, "Archie who?"

  "Oh," Swithbert said. "Archie who?"

  "Gesundheit!" Marigold exclaimed, and clapped her hands.

  "I didn't sneeze," Swithbert said.

  "I know, I know. But when you said 'Archie who?' it sounds enough like a sneeze so that when I said 'Gesundheit,' the joke makes sense. Oh, I just love knock-knock jokes! Ed, give me some of that paper and ink. I want to make up a few more."

  While Marigold was busy with her joke writing, Swithbert turned to Christian
and murmured, "These knock-knock jokes will never catch on. They're way too complicated, and not very funny."

  "I couldn't agree more," Chris murmured back. "I don't know what Wendell was thinking when he taught them to Marigold."

  "Wendell the wizard?" Swithbert interrupted. "What's he got to do with all this?"

  "He's over at the cave-castle in Zandelphia. Marigold called him in to help us do something about Olympia."

  "Wendell? He's the last person I'd call in for something important."

  "Actually, he was the last person. Which is why I didn't want to tell you that he's going to be part of the revolution."

  "Oh, good grief," Swithbert said. "Now you tell me. I hope he's not a very big part."

  "Hmmm," Chris said. "How about another hand of snipsnapsnorum? Don't worry, I know you cheat."

  OLYMPIA WAS playing cards, too, just then. With her favorite partner: herself. She had laid out a hand of solitaire and was moving the cards to create a better arrangement. She hadn't a care in the world. Everything was planned to a tee for execution day—and then she would be queen all by herself, without Swithbert in the way.

  She scratched Fenleigh's neck and said, "How would you like a little crown, Fenleigh? You can be my consort." And then she laughed uproariously at her own wit.

  31

  After a long, long night, morning finally came. Ed had fallen asleep on his pile of possessions, and the others had continued with the joke writing, letter writing, and cheating at cards until they, too, had dozed off where they sat. Not even terror and trepidation can keep exhausted people awake. Sleep is the escape hatch for overburdened minds.

  Finbar was the first to awaken, the result of years of military discipline. When he saw his fellow conspirators sprawled out around him, snoring and drooling, he had a moment of great dread. The revolution depended on these people? They didn't look capable of organizing a bake sale.