Chapter XXVII:
The President and the Queen Travel Cognito

TRUE TO HER word, President Malory arrived at New Wembley Ballpark right on schedule. At least, I was fairly certain that the woman emerging from the dark limo on my private landing pad, shrouded in a dark suit, dark hat, and dark glasses, encircled by dark-suited, dark-bespectacled guards, was Malory. She hugged me as if she knew me, and that was identification enough. She said:

“Morgan, how lovely to see you again. It’s been too long.”

It had been only a few months, but I agreed with her sentiment. I had missed her, too, and told her so. “Would you like a tour of the ballpark before we settle in for business?”

She shook her head. “Another time, please. My security detail advises me to keep my head down as much as possible for the present.”

That response saddened me more than you might suppose. By this time, I had assimilated enough of the American speech patterns to understand that in her mind, the act of “keeping one’s head down” meant to be cautious of potential dangers; wise advice given the maelstrom of controversy swirling around her. However, in my experience, which numbered decades inhabiting the sixth century compared to the handful of years I had spent till now in the twenty-first, to “keep one’s head down” means unconditional submission, such as a peasant must display in the presence of a noble, or else suffer injurious consequences; and my sixth-century mind equates “submission” with “defeat.” And defeat for a leader of Malory’s eminence was tragic beyond imagining.

For the sake of her well-being—emotional as well as physical—I was glad that my limo’s landing pad featured a private route to my box. Inside the corridor, Malory slipped off her hat and glasses and handed them to a guard; but we walked in silence, and her tension did not begin to dissipate until we had entered my box, just the two of us, as I had promised her via Clarice.

Malory looked old, far older than the passage of half a year should have produced. Her hair, though neatly styled, was drab and dull and streaked with much more gray than I remembered. Worry lines marred her face. If the circles beneath her eyes had been any darker, she would have resembled a masked robber. Her carriage, once so proudly erect, seemed bowed nearly to the breaking point. I wanted to cry for her but refrained; not only was it against the rules of queenship, even privately, but I suspected she would not have appreciated the outburst.

I debated whether to cast a spell to help her feel better or offer tea. I selected the latter and rang my staff for a pot; enchantments for enhancing one’s personal appearance do not last long unless the enchantee so wishes, and I knew that would not happen for Malory until she had had a chance to talk.

To bide the time, I chose a different conversational tack:

“I suppose you heard about my besting Ambrose at wagering on the Knights’ games in Nîmes?”

Her laugh was short and mirthless. “That was quite a pile you won.”

My heart lurched. “That will not cause financial hardship for you, will it?”

“No. That money is all his, from his mining interests and whatnot. Serves him right for being such a fool with his wagering.”

I felt it prudent to keep my agreement to myself. It is not politic to denounce someone else’s spouse, even among friends, and even when they themselves are doing a fair bit of denouncing.

The tea arrived, steaming and aromatic, and it seemed to refresh Malory somewhat. She spent several minutes inhaling the vapors curling above her cup before saying:

“I don’t know why I said what I said in Nîmes. That was so stupid of me.”

“The remark may have been ill-advised, but it was honest at its core. I have no patience for able-bodied, able-minded people who choose to beggar themselves, either.”

“But you’re smart enough to keep that opinion to yourself.”

“Perhaps merely lucky. I did not learn until that trip that New Wembley also has homeless people living in its shadow. If I had known—but enough about me and about what you said. As I tell my team all the time: the past is past; the game goes on. What you said cannot be undone, magically or otherwise, but it can be covered over in peoples’ minds.”

“How? By magic?”

Malory looked so hopeful at that suggestion I wanted to laugh but, for her sake, I did not.

“Possibly, yes. But I was thinking more of something you might do. Actions always prove more meaningful and effective in the long term.”

“Do—do what, exactly?”

Lord God, give me patience; I had no clue she would be this dull!

“Do you despise the homeless as those headlines suggest?”

“No!”

“Do you care about their plight?”

“Yes, of course!”

“Good. Then don’t tell them; show them. Walk among them, ladle soup for them, give them your cloak and tunic, lay on hands and heal them, whatever it is you of this century do to demonstrate compassion for the less fortunate.”

She seemed so taken with this idea that she smiled—perhaps the first smile in days, to judge by the way her face seemed so reluctant to bend into that shape that I could almost hear the muscles groaning in protest. At length they obeyed, and the overall result was a definite improvement.

“A compassion tour—that’s it! New York, Seattle, LA, Chicago, Dallas, New Orleans, Miami, DC of course, and any others that would be appropriate. Let the people see for themselves that I care about them, really and truly care! I’ll have Clarice clear my schedule and begin making the arrangements at once. And you’ll come with me, Morgan.”

Even though she softened it with a, “Won’t you, please?” I knew a royal command when I heard one, and yet coming from Malory, I did not mind it. While we talked, I had been keeping enough of an eye on the baseball game to know that my Knights were well on their way to another victory and could do without my presence for a while.

I had grown to understand how much value (too much) these twenty-first century masses place on appearances, and how much value (way too much) politicians place on the opinions of the masses. It should not be so, and yet it is—and it solidified in my mind another reason to help Malory become President for Life; as such, she would not have to care one dried, bug-riddled fig for what the masses thought. Why, the events of this day alone had demonstrated to me how damaging it can be to one’s rule if one remains enslaved by the whims of one’s subjects. I doubted whether Malory had accomplished any important duties for her government during the days since falling afoul of the broadcasters and bloggers in Nîmes.

The termination of that tyranny of a sudden seemed as worthy a cause as any I had ever known, and I counted it a special honor and sacred duty to help bring it to pass.