ACTA KICKED OPEN THE DOOR leading from the underground gaming chambers and stepped into daylight. Candles along the corridor were snuffed out as wind rushed into the passageway. The Prince stalked into the cobbled street, his fist clenched. Baltham followed, letting the door close quietly behind him. He shivered and tugged at the collar of his jacket. At close range, anything or anyone could become Macta’s target, so he kept a safe distance from his master. Bam! The doors were flung open once more as Zelimir the Dwarf and his two cronies stumbled into the gray afternoon air. Macta spun around and glared at the Dwarves. Zelimir chortled, pointed, and nudged his translator in the ribs. The third Dwarf, the one who carried the sack of money, laughed out loud. “Why, if it isn’t the Ant,” mocked the translator, referring to the toss of the dice that had lost Macta the money he had made from selling off his stash of the stolen Jewels of Alfheim. “The Ant, and his little cockroach!”
The three burst into gales of raucous laughter as Macta stood staring at them with contempt. “Hello, again, Mr. Ant,” said Zelimir, stepping forward. “Fancy finding ye’re still here, after the tragedy what happen’d inside!”
Macta was incredulous. “Zelimir, you — you speak our language? Then why do you have a translator? Why did you pretend — why, you scoundrel, you cheat, you!”
“Just part o’ game,” the Dwarf snickered. “Say, young Prince, perhaps ye’d be intereste’d in making little wager? What are the chances thah sweet-faced Princess from Alfheim will show up at wedding o’ ye’rs t’morrow? What are odds … two t’ one? Five t’ one? Zelimir’s willing t’ bet she is a no-show. But, oh dear, I forgot, Macta, you have nothing left t’ gamble! Sorry!”
Exercising uncharacteristic restraint, Macta turned his back to the Dwarves. The rage screaming in his ears drowned out the sound of their horrible laughter. Control, he said to himself, teeth clenched, control. Meanwhile his life was spinning out of control. The tidy sum he had extracted from the gem merchant? Gone. He never should have risked it, but Macta was so swept up in his emotions that he had believed he couldn’t possibly lose. Everything of value that Macta owned was squandered, thrown away at the gaming tables. No matter, he thought. This will soon be forgotten, once I’m married, and the war with the Humans has begun. Then the real money will begin rolling in.
“Forgive me,” mumbled Baltham, hanging back a few paces, “but Macta, if you have no further use for me this afternoon, I have some obligations at home. Yenri is expecting me to take the children to their fencing lesson.”
“Then go,” spat Macta. “Abandon me in my darkest hour. What do I care.”
Baltham scurried to Macta’s side. “No, if you need me, Macta, I’ll stay. I will! Yenri can send the children with the servants. You know how she is, she expects me to do everything, even when she knows how important my job is assisting you!”
“Your problem, Baltham, is that you’ve got to decide who your Master is. You can’t serve two, you know.”
Baltham swallowed. Being married to Macta’s sister presented him with a vexing dilemma; he did have two Masters. But he had learned that the Master to whom he should bow was whichever Master stood before him. Baltham bent low and clicked his heels. “My Prince,” he squeaked, “I am at your command.”
“Then I command you to go home and tend to your family. I have no need of your company today. I was just testing you, Baltham. I made a little wager in my mind that you would yield to me, and I won. I won! If only there had been some money riding on the bet. Now go, before I change my mind.”
As Baltham scurried out of harm’s way, Macta pictured Princess Asra’s face. It floated before him, indistinct and fuzzy. It hovered for a moment before crumbling away, revealing behind it the green, slobbering visage of his pet, Powcca. Macta forced back a sob.
My confirmation dress, it’s so pretty, the satin, the bow for my hair, Mommy is putting in the hem. Like a princess, Daddy said, I look like a princess standing on the chair, while Mommy pins the hem. Daddy says he’ll be so proud, and I’ll be proud, too … when I look down, my new patent leather shoes are so shiny, so bright!
But I’m in the water, always,
the water.
It’s too late, now, too late for me, too late for Mommy and Daddy, too late. I want to lie down in the water, I have to lie down, for it’s just about
over.
“What in the name of—” shouted Macta. There in his apartment, by the lava statue in the parlor fountain, were his housekeepers, Herma and Holda. Between them stood the Human girl he had taken from the stream near Alfheim, the one they called Liqua. She hovered, staring into space, with the doll and the photographs in her arms, with that same stricken look her face always wore. Herma and Holda had draped the girl in wide swaths of cream-colored fabric and were pinning the seams of the fabric together for stitching. “Long time,” said Herma.
“No see,” said Holda.
Mechanical birds cheeped from the plaster branches above, as Macta stalked into the chamber, flailing his arms. “What are you doing? This creature is my weapon, my tool, and you’re playing dress-up with her? Look, I can see right through her arms. Her hands, my God, they’re almost invisible. She’s fading away. You’re killing her, keeping her out of the water. Stop this nonsense and get her back in the arboretum pool!”
“We’re dressing her for the wedding, sir!” Herma mumbled through the pins clutched in her teeth.
“For the wedding,” said Holda. “You said she was coming, and we wanted to make sure that she looked presentable! Isn’t it going to be lovely?”
“Pretty asss a picture!” hissed Herma’s snake, slithering around from behind her collar.
“This isn’t your idea, is it?” Macta fumed. “You’re just as stupid as … as a snake. You know nothing, none of you! She’s not part of the wedding, she’s not a guest. Everyone would be terrified if they saw her at the ceremony. And that’s exactly the point — she’s my trump card, the ace up my sleeve; she’s the key to the house none can enter. She’s an implement, a living machine, part of our strategy. But she’s not coming to the wedding; she’ll be out in the woods near the Humans’ house. She doesn’t need a pretty party dress. The rags she was wearing when I found her were perfect camouflage. Get her back in those clothes. And for God’s sake, get her back in the water so that she doesn’t evaporate right before my eyes!”
Macta could hardly see Anna now, except for the head and a hint of her shoulders, and the cloth hung there like a sheet on a ghost. The doll and the McCormack family pictures looked like they were floating in space. Macta reached out and waved his hand where Anna’s arm should have been. She was like a vapor, a fume. But she felt the Elf Prince’s touch and recoiled.
It’s nearly over. The coming and going, the waking and the dreaming, all done. There he is, the dark one, coming for me. It’s in his touch,
the shadow … like
water, in my nose, and eyes, in my throat and my lungs. The water
is everywhere, black, and cold, and the water
will take me away. No more of the past, no more
memories, no more hopes. Gone, gone, gone. I want to
go home. I want to to go to
sleep.
Herma and Holda were ushering Anna down the corridor to the arboretum when they heard a knock at the door. “What now?” Macta muttered, stalking past the rainbow-colored lanterns. He stood on tiptoes and peered through the peephole in the door. Through the fish-eye lens he could make out his father’s personal tailor standing impatiently with a team of seamstresses. Macta flung open the door. “What do you want?”
The tailor breezed into the room. “We’re here for your fitting, sir, time’s running out.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Macta replied, eyeing the mounds of yellow-and-black fabric carried by the seamstresses. His heart sank as the realization hit him. “Wait — what is this? Yellow and black? I’m not wearing the Helfratheim Security colors. I won’t be a walking advertisement for my father. I’ve been planning this day for years; I know exactly what I want to wear — a suit made of the finest moss, with an embroidered deer antler across the breast, a high collar and—”
“Your father, the King, has spoken,” interrupted the tailor, “and his word is my command.”
Macta stiffened. “Then I’ll just have to have a little talk with my father, won’t I?”
“I don’t believe I see your name on today’s calendar,” said Cytthandra, the King’s personal assistant.
“Then you’ll just have to write my name down, won’t you?” Macta hissed, storming past her desk.
He raised both fists and smashed them against the doors to his father’s quarters. When the doors sprung open, Macta stalked inside, only to discover that no one was there. He swung around to see Cytthandra leaning against the door frame. The advising snake around her neck eyed him warily.
“Why didn’t you tell me he wasn’t here?” Macta inquired, his face burning with rage.
“You didn’t ask.”
“Then I’m asking,” Macta fumed, so close to the Secretary that she could feel the heat of his breath. He grabbed Cytthandra by the collar, then whipped out his dagger. He pressed the point of the knife to her throat. “Where is my father?” he growled.
For the first time in her long relationship with Macta, Cytthandra experienced a taste of fear. “In the Experimentalists’ chambers,” she croaked.
Macta stormed across the palace grounds, pushed his way past a cart of executed criminals, and snarled at anyone unlucky enough to get in his way. He found the King standing with his entourage outside the bunker known as the War Room. “Macta!” Valdis said, a smile pasted on his face. “What a surprise!”
“Father?” Macta narrowed his eyes. “I’m confused. Why are you standing out here?”
“Waiting for you, my lad. Cytthandra sent word that you wished to see me.”
“But, how — I came right here from your quarters. How did she—”
“A little bird told me,” said Valdis, as he glanced at a crow nodding on the gutter overhead. “I also heard that you behaved very badly toward Cytthandra. Very badly, indeed. So I am standing here in the cold and the damp in order to ascertain if you and I are still on the same side. I look upon life as a game, Macta, but one can’t begin play until the sides have been drawn.”
“I — I’m your son,” Macta stammered, tugging at his collar, “but I don’t believe we can win this game without each other’s trust.”
“Indeed!” The King spread his hands. “Then I trust that you will make an effort to rein in your anger, my son. Now, what have we got to talk about?”
“I’m here to discuss my wardrobe for tomorrow,” Macta said. “’Tis important that I look my best, Father. So despite your insistence, I wanted you to know I have no intention whatsoever of wearing yellow and black to my own wedding.”
The King’s face darkened as his advisors clicked their tongues in disapproval. “’Tis perfectly appropriate for the son of a King to honor his father and the family corporation by dressing in a manner that pays proper respect to the company. Everyone knows what the yellow and black represent — they are the colors of a bee, and they stand for the twin virtues of industry and aggression. You will play the game, son,” the King exclaimed, “and your reward will be my blessing for your future happiness. Now come inside, and let’s find out what the prognosticators have to say about your wedding day!”
In the chambers of the Experimentalists, the sound of moaning came from behind a pair of ironclad doors. As the pair entered the chamber, the King swept an arm around a room abuzz with activity. “The Diviners!” he said. “You can’t plan a wedding or a war without them!”
A circle of black-clad Elves, their eyes squeezed shut, were rattling bundles of reeds. These bent and huddled figures were the source of the miserable groaning. “Father, what makes them—”
“Ssssssh!” ordered Valdis. “You’ll destroy their concentration!”
In a low, carpeted area another group danced in circles, spinning furiously until Macta was certain they would tumble into a heap of broken arms and legs. At the center of the room stood a stone slab where an animal had been strapped, belly-up. Above the slab a Fire Sprite hovered, illuminating the squirming rodent with a fierce intensity. “We’ve been waiting for you, your Highness!” grinned an Elf, standing by a smoldering brazier. He was the leader of an assembly of hooded monks, who looked up anxiously when they saw their King approaching.
“Well, there’s no need to wait,” Valdis smiled. “Let’s find out what the entrails have to say about our success in battle tomorrow! How glorious will our victory over the Humans be?”
With one deft slice from an iron blade, the Elf opened up the rodent’s belly. The monks hovered over the carcass and examined the color of the liver, the shape of the heart, the arrangement of glistening organs spread out before them. Then the Elf wielding the knife stood up. He gulped, the color draining from his face.
“Well?” Valdis inquired.
“There — there’s something, your Highness, something that doesn’t bode well. There’s something amiss, though I’m not yet certain what it is …”
“Let me look!” Valdis bellowed, pushing his way past the monks who surrounded the slab of stone.
“There,” said the Elf, his finger trembling, “do you see the discoloration, toward the top? And do you discern the odor?”
The King sniffed, then grimaced. “So … it’s something to do with our air offensive?”
The monks grumbled, shaking their heads. “Nooo, your Highness, ’tis not an airship that’s the problem. Leastwise not all of it. We’re in agreement about that. It has something to do with — with you, sire. You see, it’s—”
“I come to you for the answers I want to hear,” the King bellowed, “not for some vague mumbo jumbo that can’t possibly be verified. What do the divining sticks say? What about them, over there?”
King Valdis stalked across the room to a low pit. There a half dozen Elfmaids, all deep in trance, lay in a circle. At the center sat a grizzled old Elf with a film over one eye and drooping, pendulous ears. The Elfmaids’ lips moved silently, their eyes stared blankly toward the ceiling. “Well,” said the King, “what do they have to say?”
From his chair the interpreter cocked an ear, squeezing his eyes shut. He nodded, his lips forming a pained smile, then nodded again. “Their message is unclear, my King. We must try again, later.”
“There won’t be any later, if I wait around for you to tell me what’s going on,” the King fumed. “I suppose no news is good news, at least compared to that nonsense about the arrangement of the rat’s innards. Take courage, Macta. Let’s go have a talk with the generals. That should cheer us up. Confidence is the best weapon, in business and in warfare!”
“And marriage,” said Macta.
“Confidence or foolhardiness,” his father corrected. “Sometimes ’tis hard to tell the difference!”