That night there was a huge wake at the palace, hosted not by Raymond, who was deep in mourning at the loss of his friend, but by the royal guards. It was open to everyone. Nobles and dignitaries rubbed elbows with bootblacks and weavers. The American legation made an appearance, as both tradition and protocol required. A small orchestra played, and there was dancing. In a corner of the ballroom actors performed skits. In another corner a magician pulled birds out of his sleeve. Marge and Logan got themselves cups of punch and stood off to one side, watching the people and the festivities.
Marge sipped her punch. “Everything but dancing girls.”
“The royal guards are hosting this.” Logan pointed at two particularly graceless dancers. “Most of them wouldn’t have a clue what to do with a dancing girl.”
“Logan, they can’t all be gay.”
“Probably not. Let’s just say they’re all broad-minded.” He scanned the crowd. “Constantine seems to be enjoying himself.” The charge d’affaires was talking with a well-dressed young man.
“You guys never rest, like rust.”
“Stop frowning, Sappho. At least there are no predatory kings or queens here.”
“Queens?”
“I mean the genuine kind. Her majesty keeps giving me the eye, in a way that’s hard to mistake.”
“Isn’t she in mourning? It’s only a couple of months since her husband—”
“You’ll have to excuse me, Marge.” Peter had caught his eye and was gesturing that he should sneak off with some of the guards for a ‘private party.’ Logan didn’t have to be asked twice. And so he honored the passing of Duke Rupert with multiple orgasms with multiple men, all of them young, fit and gorgeous.
* * *
The next morning Constantine was late getting to his office. “Too much punch,” he moaned to Marge
She shook her head sadly. “The things we do for America. It’s a good thing you got here. I was just about to send someone up to your room to get you.”
“Why? Am I needed for something?”
She resisted the temptation to wisecrack. “There’s a messenger here from Count Schlutow.”
Constantine woke up; in a flash he was bright and alert. “Send him in.”
The messenger was a young man in livery. He handed Constantine an envelope. “I was supposed to give this to Mr. Logan Bockwein personally. But I guess this will be all right.”
Constantine opened the envelope. Inside was a formal engraved invitation to lunch at the count’s residence, addressed to Logan. “Surely there must be some mistake. The ambassador is Mr. P.T. Bockwein. Logan is his son.”
“The count was quite explicit, sir.”
“I see. I will give this to Mr. Logan Bockwein at once.” He had no idea what to make of the situation.
Logan was still in bed, even more wiped out than Constantine, thanks to three particularly athletic guardsmen. Constantine had to knock at his door repeatedly before he got any response. Finally, Logan opened the door. He was undressed and had wrapped a sheet around himself. He yawned. “What do you want?”
“You’ve been invited to the palace.”
Another yawn. “Not the damn king again…”
“To the Schlutow Palace.”
“The—? There has to be some mistake. They want dad, not me.”
The door swung open a bit. Constantine saw that there was a young man in the bed, naked and still asleep. One of the guardsmen? “That’s what I thought, too, Logan. But the messenger was insistent that the invitation is for you.” He held it out.
Logan looked at it but didn’t take it. “Look, I’m not awake yet. I’ll deal with this after I’ve had a chance to shower and get dressed.”
“Of course. He looks pretty hot.”
Logan closed the door in his face.
* * *
At noon, right on the dot, a carriage celled for Logan at the embassy. As he climbed in, he grumbled, “Doesn’t anyone in this country own a car? Is this the 20 first century, or what?”
The footman who held the door for him didn’t respond. The carriage set off, and, in a few minutes, they were at the dock. Logan transferred to a small boat that took him out to Schlutow Island and the count’s palace. A butler saw Logan in and led him to the dining room. The walls were mirrored, making the room seem enormous. Crystal chandeliers blazed. Artworks hung on the walls. It was, in short, a typical room in a typical Bulvanian palace.
A long table ran the length of the room. At one end of it a man was seated. Logan put on his best diplomatic smile and crossed to him. It wasn’t the count. It took Logan a moment to recognize him: Archbishop Defilippo. He wasn’t in his clerical robes but in a black suit with a diplomatic-style sash cross his chest. But what on earth was he doing there at all?
The butler gestured Logan to the chair opposite Defilippo. They said hello to each other and made small talk for a moment, the weather, the previous day’s funeral and wake… As he was settling in at the table, a door opened and Count Schlutow entered. There was another round of good-day-how-are-yous, and the count took his seat at the head of the table. Servants came and served aperitifs. Schlutow said to the bishop, “She’ll be down any moment.”
She? Logan had a sinking feeling he knew who “she” had to be.
As if on cue the door opened again. “She” stood there, framed by the wide doorway, as if she was waiting for a fanfare or a royal escort or something. The butler announced, “Her majesty, Queen Theodora.” And she swept grandly into the room and took her place at the table, opposite the count. The men all got to their feet, then sat again once she had taken her place.
“Mr. Bockwein, I believe you know her majesty.” The count was all smiles.
“I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her, no.” He nodded to the queen. “Your majesty. You are even more beautiful close-up.” This was going to be an ordeal. He wasn’t sure he could keep playing this diplomatic game for very long; he’d have given anything to have Constantine there with him or, better yet, not to be there at all.
“Thank you, Mr. Bockwein.” She accepted the compliment, in stride, as if it were her due, and was all noble graciousness. Logan couldn’t help wondering if the count had been screwing her all night. “And I must say you live up to your reputation as the handsomest young man in the diplomatic corps.”
“Your majesty is most generous.” He felt foolish saying it, like he was a character in a silly old costume drama.
Thankfully servants appeared and began serving the meal. The first course, the soup, was a delicious fish chowder, as was appropriate for a country in the sea. Next came a salad of greens and nuts garnished with goat cheese. The queen and the count made small talk; the bishop stayed mostly silent and ate. Logan interjected comments now and then, just to keep up his end. There was no sign of a point to the gathering. He kept wondering what on earth he was doing there.
Wine was served with each course, and the three Bulvanians drank freely and heavily. Logan was careful not to drink too much; it might be the only advantage he had over them when they finally explained what was up.
Finally, they got to the dessert—more nuts. The count and the queen and prattled and gossiped about this noble or that one. Did you hear that Baron So-and-so is sleeping with his cook? Did you know that Count What’s-his-name sniffs heroin? And on and on. Logan knew some of the people they were talking about but nowhere near all of them; he couldn’t have been more bored. Then the dishes from the last course were cleared away, the servants were dismissed and the three of them fixed their attention on Logan.
Count Schlutow’s manner turned quite serious. “Well, Mr. Bockwein, how do you like living in Bulvania?”
“It’s a fascinating country.” He chose his words carefully, diplomatically. Everyone at the embassy would have been proud. “I can’t say I’ve been bored even once since I came here.”
“And our politics?” The queen put on a rigid, icy smile. “What do you make of them?”
“I’m afraid I’ve been too busy acclimating myself to pay any attention to the political scene.”
“Yet you have become friendly with our young king.” It was an accusation, not a question.
Logan was feeling more and more uncomfortable. He wanted to make some excuse and get out. If only they’d give him an opening so he could leave without seeming blatantly rude. “I’m not certain ‘friendly’ is the right word. We have met, of course.” They had been spying on him, and there was no point denying anything. “Alex Borodenko, the guards’ commander, is a mutual friend.”
“You must be aware,” the count went on, “that her majesty should rightfully have come to the throne. Raymond is a pretender, nothing more.” There was still a steak knife on the table; he picked it up and played with it.
Logan would have given anything to be somewhere else. “The ins and outs of the Bulvanian royal succession are a subject I know nothing about. Didn’t the Privy Council—”
“The Privy Council deprived me of my due!” The queen spoke softly but vehemently.
Count Schlutow adopted a softer tone. “Apparently the sticking point for the council was the lack of a royal heir. If her majesty had mothered a child, she would be on the throne as regent now. And that is where you come in.”
Logan had a sinking feeling he knew what was coming. “I? But I’m an American, not a Bulvanian. Our State Department would be most unhappy if I tried to get involved in your internal politics.”
“You are already involved.” The count was serene. “You have become friendly with King Raymond.”
“Friendship is one thing, politics is something else entirely. Besides, I barely know the king. We’ve had dinner together, that’s all. Once.”
“We have reason to suspect,” the queen said softly, “that Raymond is a sodomite. Our informants from his monastery indicate that.”
Logan didn’t respond. Hearing the word “sodomite” left him speechless. He couldn’t have been more startled if she’d pulled out a buggy whip, or if the count was wearing a celluloid collar.
“There is a long history of that vice in his family,” she went on. “Even my own late husband… ”
“Well,” Logan was slowly recovering, “sodomites do tend to be everywhere.”
“Unfortunately.” The archbishop let the word hand heavily in the air. “You would be well advised to be careful around our young king, Mr. Bockwein. If you value your manhood, that is.”
This was too weird. Telling them that he was a ‘sodomite’ himself seemed… inadvisable. Logan decided he had to get out. “Well, I really must be going. Thank you so much for the meal. Meeting you all has been a memorable experience.”
“If you might give us just one more moment of your time… ” Count Schlutow put on a smug little grin. “We have a proposition for you.”
“A—?”
“Her majesty needs a son. It is that simple.”
“And what does that have to do with me?”
“Her majesty would like her son to be beautiful, intelligent and talented. She is beautiful. So the father must be intelligent and talented.” He paused heavily. “Like you.”
Oh. It was exactly as he feared. There had to be some way to talk his way out of this and get the hell out of that palace. “But—but—isn’t this all a bit late? The king has already been crowned. What can be done?”
“Kings,” said Theodora slowly, “are a disposable commodity. Once I have produced an heir to the throne, Raymond will be redundant. And eminently removable. Don’t look so astonished, Mr. Bockwein. There are a great many instances of monarchs whose reigns were brief. Lady Jane Grey was queen of England for a mere nine days before she was… shall we say, brushed aside.”
She was saying too much. Count Schlutow interrupted the flow. “Once her majesty is with child, the Privy Council will vote to remove Raymond. He will be forced to abdicate and return to his monastery. That will be that.”
“And if he doesn’t, er, abdicate… ?”
“That will be dealt with in time.”
Logan’s head was spinning. There was no doubt in his mind now that these people had been behind the death of the last king. How on earth could he get away from them? “But… but… but surely an heir would have to be of royal blood. An American father would hardly—”
“That is irrelevant.” The count dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “The child will be royal.”
“But the late king has been dead for months. People will never believe that the child is his.”
“Before the king died, he placed a store of his semen in a sperm bank in Switzerland. The nation will be astonished to learn that Queen Theodora is pregnant with her late husband’s child. The Privy Council will not be able to ignore the presence of a genuine royal heir.”
Logan was feeling more and more out of his depth. “But… then, what do you need me for?”
The three of them stared at him, grinning like sharks, and didn’t say a word. It finally sank in. The sperm bank story was just that, a story.
“Archbishop Defilippo will verify that he gave his blessing to the sperm bank scheme. No one will question the word of the head of the Church of Bulvania.”
“I—I—I—” Logan realized he was stammering like a fool. He took a deep breath to recover. “If you don’t mind my asking, why should I go along with this? What on earth would it gain me?”
Again, it was the count who answered. “Your father is trying to negotiate a deal for our tin. Whether he succeeds is entirely up to you.”
Oh. Oh. So the success or failure of P.T.’s deal—and the American government’s plans—depended on Logan going along with this scheme to “remove” Raymond. Logan had to get away from these monsters. He jumped to his feet. “Well, you have certainly given me a lot to think about. But as I said, I really must be going now. Thank you again for this memorable lunch.”
“Mr. Bockwein, please do not leave so hastily. You haven’t given us your answer.”
“I need to think. You have sprung—er, proposed this quite unexpectedly. Really, I need time to think and explore all the ramifications.”
Archbishop Defilippo leaned forward. “Think quickly, Mr. Bockwein. Our nation’s fate depends on you. As does a great deal else.”
It was a threat. There was no mistaking it. If Logan decided not to belly with the queen… “I really must be going. It has been most remarkable meeting you all.” He bowed, fist to the queen, then to each of the two men, turned and got out as quickly as he could.