Rory had rehearsed this moment in her mind a hundred times. She would declare the marriage null and void, denounce the Regent’s perfidy, expose the cloning facility on Beo. Then someone could retrieve Ivar, and restore the true Prince, and. . . . She hadn’t gotten much farther than that, unwilling to imagine too thoroughly how the Ministers might respond, or the diplomats. Or security. She could feel them staring holes in the back of her head.
Rory had not imagined Ivar being Ivar, however. Isolated on Beo, perhaps in cryonic suspension, he had not had the benefit of a Messer Rupert, or a Grytt, or even a wretched Deme Isabelle. The Regent would, if his schemes were revealed, face arrest, trial, execution. But those things wouldn’t help the Prince. Vernor Moss was an ambitious, amoral man, but he was hardly unique. True Prince or no, this Ivar, her Ivar, was no sovereign. The Free Worlds of Tadesh would be ruled by someone, in Ivar’s name. That hadn’t mattered six months ago, three months, three minutes. But it did, now.
The Regent, emboldened by her hesitation, peeled a smile and hissed, “Dissolve this marriage, Princess, and the peace dissolves with it. The treaty is very specific. There will be war.”
Rory matched his tone. “You have no power to declare that, Messer Moss. You are no longer the Regent. You have not been, since the Prince turned eighteen, and that was almost four hours ago.” She turned to Ivar and reached out a hand. Ivar took it, warily, and let her pull him to his feet. His fingers clutched at hers, still cold, with a grip surprising for its force.
“You are the King, Majesty,” she told him. “The coronation is a formality. Tadeshi law, Section One, subsection forty-three, paragraph two. Which means you”—and she rounded on the Regent—“have no power at all now, save what your sovereign grants you.”
“The Pri—King has not relieved me.” The Regent stared fire at Ivar. “Majesty. I am your humble servant—”
“That man is no king,” said a voice from the rear of the arboretum. “The true Prince is dead. That man is a clone.”
This time, the surprise lurched past murmur and straight into commotion, with voices—both human and otherwise—striving to shout the loudest.
“We have proof.” The voice and its owner, the Lanscottar ambassador, just-call-me-Maggie, shook free of the crowd and stood alone and surprisingly tall in the middle of the empty path. “We have medical files on Prince Ivar, detailing the methods by which Regent Moss cloned his Highness in three separate attempts. The real Prince, our Prince, died on Beo, where he was prisoner.”
“Nonsense,” said the Regent. “Lies. Arrest her!”
Tadeshi security moved to do so, converging off the perimeter like ants toward spilled sugar. Their progress was hampered by the sudden surge of the crowd, who, having found themselves between security forces and their target, attempted to move out of the way by pushing at everyone around them and shouting a great deal. This, in turn, proved helpful to some individuals wearing the formal dress of Kymru, Zhenovia, and Tzoumish, several of whom had produced sticks of varying lengths, and who accreted into a barrier around Maggie, who ignored all of them.
“Truth!” she bellowed. “We have proof, which we have uploaded to the station’s turing. We’ve also quantum-hexed it out to Lanscot, Kymru, Zhenovia, and Tzoumish. The word will spread.”
The Regent whipped around, staring at Ashtet-Sun. “Is this true?”
The arithmancer produced a small, sleek pocket-terminal and poked at it. His eyes widened. “On all the major news channels,” he said, in a grey voice. “And the social feeds. She’s telling the truth, my lord.”
The noise in the arboretum damped several notches, as people nearest the conversation retrieved their personal devices and began checking the newsfeeds, at which point their neighbors followed suit, and so on, until everyone, with the exception of the security forces and the ring around Maggie, was bathed in the glow of small handheld screens.
“Shut it down,” said the Regent. “Now.”
Ashtet-Sun grimaced. His fingers flickered across the touchpad of his terminal. “I can’t. They’re your codes, my lord.” He looked poison at Rory. “Your doing, too?”
“I stole the medical files,” said Rory. “I can’t claim credit for the codes.”
“Those files are false,” snapped the Regent. His expression hovered between scorn and righteous anger. “Clever fakes, but false. There is no proof.”
The first Tadeshi security had reached the ring of Maggie’s defenders, and hesitated. There were protocols about firing projectiles in public places that did not apply to swinging sticks, and as a result, the defenders held momentary advantage.
“We have proof,” said Maggie. She looked over at the knot of Lanscottar, wrapped in their wool. Her arm thrust out, imperious finger settling on a tall man, wrapped to obscurity in a violent plaid, wearing a ridiculously elaborate hat with a floppy brim and an excess of feathers.
For a moment, the arboretum held its collective breath. Handheld devices turned toward the tall man and followed him like flat glowing eyes.
“The Regent’s own son can testify!”
Jaed tugged the hat off. His hair, which had grown to brush his shoulders, crackled in the sudden absence of hat and stuck out at all angles. He was looking at Rory. She could see the blaze of his eyes, could feel them, all the way across the arboretum.
There came a tiny cheer behind the ornamental pears, which was picked up by other brave voices around the arboretum. Handhelds winked and flashed, immortalizing the moment for later dispersal onto the networks.
“You,” said the Regent. Then he shoved Merrick forward, so that he stumbled into the middle of the dais, and threw himself at the rear, the three blond security at his heels. At the same moment, the younger marine grabbed for his sidearm. Thorsdottir promptly tackled him and they went down in a heap, which had the effect of clearing the dais and its immediate perimeter of bystanders. Rory dragged Ivar aside, Zhang leapt at Merrick, and the Thorne delegation swarmed to surround their Princess.
The conflict did not last long enough to earn the term battle. Thorsdottir laid the young marine out with a decisive right cross to his jaw, and was back on her feet, exploring the blood on her lip with the tip of her tongue. Merrick offered no resistance (to Zhang’s evident disappointment), and passed quietly from her hands to Franko’s, while Stary took ungentle custody of the younger marine. The steel-haired marine lunged for the Regent, though too late; the Regent had already disappeared, presumably having escaped through the maintenance hatch hidden behind a small decorative hedge on the rear bulkhead. The old marine rounded on Ashtet-Sun instead, who promptly raised both hands, empty.
“I will testify for immunity,” Ashtet-Sun said. “But I suggest you take control quickly.”
“Ministers,” Rory said sharply, and seven heads whipped toward her. “Which of you is in charge?”
“You’re the one who knows the fine points of law,” snapped the Minister of the Interior. “Maybe you can tell us.” But she called out two of her colleagues, War and Energy, and the three of them put their heads together.
The Ministers of the Interior, War, and Energy, with sheer force of will and tremendous volume, imposed order in the arboretum. They were helped by the older marine, who loaned his bellowing to the Ministers’ efforts and reminded the security forces, all of whom had been soldiers at some point, that an angry sergeant’s order is more compelling than a politician’s. Six of them set off in pursuit of the Regent, shouting into their handheld communication devices.
It may seem, to someone well versed in dramatic narratives, that Prince Ivar, at this point, would discover new depths to his person: step forward, find his voice, command the security to stand down. Instead, Ivar remained huddled at Rory’s side, as she stood in the middle of the barely controlled chaos, and breathed. She was alone on the dais, except for Ivar, Thorsdottir, and Zhang. The Thorne embassy staff, including security, was imposing an ever-increasing ring of order on the area immediately around the dais. The armed delegates of Kymru had secured the arboretum’s main set of doors. The Zhenovian and Tzoumish delegates were mingling with the crowd, offering reassurance and threats of violence, as was most appropriate.
Rory’s knees sent a tentative plea to her brain, asking if they might not buckle and just sit, since everything would make more sense on the ground. Rory’s brain denied their request. She’d caused all of this. The least she could do was watch its resolution. Besides, she could see more than a few handheld screens gleaming in her general direction. Whatever she did now would be on the Ursan network in five minutes, and from there it would travel to all the corners of the Free Worlds, and to the Consortium, and—
She was suddenly conscious of just how scant her clothing was, and how lurid her bruises, and she wondered what her mother would think.
“Princess? Here.” Zhang did not wait for acknowledgement or permission. She draped Rory’s cast-off wedding dress over her shoulders.
Rory clutched it with her free hand, Ivar still having possession of the other and showing no inclination to let go. Zhang tipped a meaningful look at the Prince, which Rory interpreted as an offer to pry him loose.
Rory shook her head. “It’s fine.”
She had more pressing concerns than possession of her fingers. She could see Jaed Moss wending his way across the arboretum, heading straight for the dais, moving with the brisk determination of someone who knows exactly where he wants to be and won’t be stopped by anything like shouting ministers and nervous crowds. He was stopped briefly by a young man who wanted a 2D, which Jaed permitted and for which he even produced a smile, but after that single interruption, he did not break stride again until he reached the edge of the dais.
He exchanged a nod with Thorsdottir, an almost-smile with Zhang. But his real smile, he saved for Rory, as he stepped up on the edge.
“Hey,” he said, but what the fairy gift heard was I love you.
Rory hitched her dress-cloak over her shoulder more firmly, jammed a swath of skirt tight between her Ivar-side elbow and her ribs, and freed up an arm to throw around Jaed’s neck. His arm snaked around her, helping to keep the dress-cloak in place. His heart and hers attempted to engage in an exchange of Morse code, each knocking against the respective ribcage.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” she told his shoulder. “I didn’t know if you were.”
“Likewise,” he said. “I thought those bruises were my father’s doing, at first.”
“Thorsdottir’s and Zhang’s.” Rory gave his neck another squeeze. “You hexed the turing with your father’s codes. Well done.”
Jaed shrugged. He was trying, and failing, to look nonchalant. “I had help from Messer Rupert. He and Grytt got picked up by a Lanscottar spy ship, and Dame Maggie’s got an illegal quantum-hex globe, so we’ve been talking. Also, the Lanscottar arithmancer, Tess, is really first-rate.”
Rory had been about to extricate herself from Jaed’s arms. Now she was glad of their support. “Messer Rupert’s alive?”
“And Grytt. They made it. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes,” Rory said, and she meant it. “Now. Jaed. This is Ivar. The real Prince Ivar.”
Jaed looked past her shoulder. His eyes darkened. “Your Majesty,” he said, after a moment.
“Jaed,” said Prince Ivar. He released Rory’s fingers.
Jaed worked his mouth around what was either a small sack of stones or a difficult sentiment. Then he added, “I’m glad you’re all right, Majesty. We thought—you know.”
“Thank you,” said Ivar, with a credible attempt at sovereign dignity.
“So,” said Jaed. “Now what?”
They both looked at Rory.
She sighed. “Wait here.”
Rory readjusted her dress, squared her shoulders, and marched toward the current seats of Free World government, which appeared to be a wrought iron bench, a small glass-topped table, and a conveniently low collection of garden statuary, on and around which the Ministers and several ambassadors, including Maggie of Lanscot, congregated. She arrived near the end of the Minister of War’s update on the Regent’s impending arrest, which was being hampered by the protests in the main corridors, as it seemed every malcontent had emptied into the station’s thoroughfares and begun waving signs and chanting for Rory’s freedom, the Regent’s arrest, or the end to the monarchy. All three, in some cases.
The Ministers greeted that news with variations on the frown and the scowl. Several ambassadors, including Maggie of Lanscot, beamed. Then she noticed Rory and beamed wider.
“Princess!”
The Minister of Energy scowled. “Princess.”
“Princess,” said the Minister of the Interior. Her face was carefully neutral.
The Minister of War puffed his cheeks. “Princess,” he said. “You’ve made a fine mess of our station.”
“I’m sorry, my lord, but I’m not sure how this is my fault. Moss is your Regent.” Rory smiled with only her lips. “Dame Maggie, a word?”
The Minister of War opened his mouth. The ambassador of Lanscot stepped on his foot, hard, and his teeth clicked together. “Of course, Princess,” Maggie said. “Excuse me a moment, my lords.”
She walked with Rory a few paces away, still beaming.
“Princess, is there something I can do for you?”
“Tell me you planned this. Riots? Rebellion?”
“Reform,” Maggie said firmly, “begins at the popular level, when the people express their discontent with the corruption of the aristocracy.”
yes
Rory nodded. A cold seed sprouted in her chest. “I see.”
Maggie nodded, as if it were the most natural thing in the universe, that a princess should understand and approve of rebellion against the ruling class. “We owe you a great debt. People were incensed at your incarceration. No one wanted your wedding to happen. Everyone blamed the Regent, and we used that. And those files—they were all the proof we needed to give the referendum some teeth. Thank you. You’ve helped save the Free Worlds from tyranny.”
The seed grew roots and spread. “You’re getting rid of the monarchy. That’s what you want. And I am intended to, what, return to the Thorne Consortium?”
Maggie’s smile dimmed and hardened at the edges. “If you renounced your title, we could offer you asylum on Lanscot, but you would be only a citizen, same as the rest of us. But you can’t stay here. No offense, Princess, but we’re done with royalty. What the Thorne Consortium does is its business, of course, but the Free Worlds must be truly free.”
Rory was conversant enough with history to know the answer to her next question already, but she asked it anyway. “So what happens to Ivar?”
Maggie’s smile ossified. “Prince Ivar is dead, of course, on Beo. Killed by the Regent’s treachery.”
“No. That’s Ivar. Over there. The fellow standing beside Jaed on the dais. That’s the real Ivar.”
Maggie abandoned her performance. Her face settled into the topography of a woman well acquainted with insomnia and hard choices.
“We know. That marine there, Ian Jones—he’s a Mac’Hoi’y on his grandmother’s side.”
“A spy.”
“A patriot. He didn’t like what he saw, down in those labs. No more than you did, Princess, when you read those files. Ian couldn’t get us proof, though, and you did—
“Then you know Ivar’s a victim, not a criminal. Certainly not a tyrant.”
Maggie shrugged. “He was used, Princess. So were you. But true Prince or no, that man over there is not fit to rule. Everyone can see that. Leave him in place, and we’ll have governance by Ministerial faction, and that only after a fight. Better that everyone believes him a clone, and the real Prince dead.”
“Not better for Ivar. Let him go into exile. I’ll take him with me.”
“And have him act as a rallying point for royalists? That would be civil war. And if they won—then there would be a larger war with your people again. Do you want that?”
“Of course not. But you’re saying he’s a clone, and a clone dies in a few weeks,” said Rory. “So officially, there won’t be anyone to rally around. Right? There will just be some young man of unknown parentage puttering around on Lanscot.”
Maggie considered. “I see your point, Princess. I’ll have to think about it.”
not worth the risk
“Thank you,” said Rory.
She inclined her head, turned on her heel, and marched back to the dais. Security had removed Merrick and the arithmancer, leaving only Thorsdottir, Zhang, and Jaed in possession of the dais, with Ivar there only because he had nowhere else to go.
“The Regent’s gotten away so far,” said Rory. “And the station’s rioting. Evidently I need to be freed, the Regent needs to be arrested, and the monarchy needs to yield to popular elections.”
“Ah,” said Thorsdottir. “That last one could be a problem.”
“I know.” Rory squinted across the arboretum. “The Ministers seem to be busy, at the moment. I don’t want to interrupt them again. Thorsdottir. Zhang. Do you think it’s safe to go back to our embassy?” She laid a dramatic hand on her forehead. “I’m very tired.”
Thorsdottir snorted. “I’ll get Stary and Franko. We’ll make it safe.”
“Good,” said Rory. She turned to Ivar. “I promised I’d help you. That means you have to come with me now.”
Ivar licked his lip. He had been so afraid of koi, of planets, of things unknown. Perhaps the cryonic suspension had been a kindness, a cold cocoon in which he was entirely safe. Rory had a moment’s panic in which Ivar refused her, in which she would have to contrive to abscond with him, or resolve to leave him behind to his fate.
Then Ivar stood a little straighter. He would never achieve Jaed’s square shoulders, never cut so impressive a silhouette; but in that moment, he became a giant.
“Let’s go.”
Jaed had been watching the exchange with increasing agitation. “Wait. You’re leaving. You can’t leave.”
with him what about me
“You haven’t asked me to stay,” said Rory. “You’ve assumed that I will.”
There were, in fact, a great many assumptions floating around. Maggie’s, that Rory would simply return to Thorne. Jaed’s, that she would stay on Urse, and presumably attempt to take control of the Free Worlds in some sort of coup. She had defeated their Prince, after all. By their laws, she could assume—that word again!—the throne. All those Tadeshi lives would rest in her hands. So would the reform Maggie was so intent on enforcing, which Rory suspected would be neither simple nor peaceful to achieve, and perhaps even impossible, with a popular sitting monarch. And she would be popular. She needed only continue on her current path, the one for which she’d been raised, trained, and prepared since the fairies had come to her Naming. Eleven of them had bestowed gifts upon her intended to make her an adequate queen. The thirteenth fairy’s gift would make her a great queen.
None of that would help Ivar, however. Only the twelfth fairy’s gift could do that. And once she’d saved him, that gift would help her, too. Courage is the best companion when going into the unknown.
She looked at her hands. They were empty. She liked that. Then she looked at Jaed, and offered him one of them. “I’ve been a political symbol as a princess. I don’t want to be one again. And that’s all I’ll be, if I stay here, whether or not I become a queen. That’s all you’ll be, too, if you stay.” She took a deep breath. “There are Consortium warships on the border. All we have to do is get there. Come with us. Come with me.”
A sensible man would, at that point, have hesitated, or argued, or offered a dozen good, solid reasons why getting there was not a trivial endeavor. Jaed did none of those things.
“How?” he asked.
“Zhang,” said Rory. “I think it’s time we stole a ship.”
“Yes,” said Zhang. “I think so, too.”