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  Time had come for the morning audience with King Augustine. Cabbarus ordered his mastiff to pack the documents in a red leather box. With Pankratz trotting two paces behind, Cabbarus left his quarters and made his way across the courtyard to the newer wings of the palace. These splendid areas had been raised by the king's grandfather, the second Augustine, now called The Great.

  The original Juliana Palace had been an ancient fortress of thick stone walls, narrow passages, dungeons, and torture chambers. Instead of tearing down the historic structure, Augustine the Great built around and added to it. In one of the watchtowers he installed the famous Juliana Bells. Their peal set the mood of the city, as if they were the voice of Marianstat itself. Augustine IV had commanded them to remain forever silent, in perpetual mourning for the late Princess Augusta. The child had loved them. The king found them too-painful reminders of his daughter. He preferred muteness to memory.

  Most of the Old Juliana had been given over to storage and the offices of lower functionaries. Cabbarus had lived and worked there during his superintendency. As chief minister, he was entitled to sumptuous chambers in the New Juliana. He declined them. He kept his same quarters, setting an example of frugality and modesty; righteousness being always more believable when combined with dreariness.

  Since Augustine no longer received ministers in the audience chamber, Cabbarus went directly to the king's apartments. Taking the red box from his secretary, he allowed himself to be ushered in. Pankratz stationed himself outside the door, keeping a dog's eye on the attendants in the hall.

  The apartments were airless and stifling hot. Draperies blinded the casements. Spring had come early and warm, but logs blazed in the fireplace. Cabbarus set down his box on a side table and approached the king. Augustine, in a dressing gown, sat in a high backed chair close to the fire. He barely acknowledged the presence of his chief minister.

  "I trust Your Majesty slept well," said Cabbarus, knowing the king seldom slept more than an hour at a time. Augustine turned a feverish eye on his chief minister. The king was not a tall man; since his loss, he had shrunk still further into himself: emptied, filled only with inner shadows. He had never ceased to blame himself for being too doting a father. Had he been less indulgent, the tragedy would not have happened. Because it was too late to take a stronger hand with his daughter, he had chosen Cabbarus to take a stronger hand with his people. Since then, Augustine had only one concern.

  "Have you still found none with the true gift?" asked the king. "Those who can summon the spirits of the dead?"

  Cabbarus stifled a sigh. He had hoped that Augustine, for once, would not bring up the matter. "Your Majesty has always been disappointed."

  "I charge you to find one who will not disappoint me. I will speak with my daughter. Let her spirit come to me, even from her unknown grave."

  "Sire, your duty is toward the living." Cabbarus did not intend pursuing this old and tiresome subject. He did not even intend discussing the contents of the box. The topic he resolved to raise this morning, as it had grown in his mind, filled him with a pleasure he would have judged indecent had it not been directed toward the good of the kingdom.

  Augustine had given him the opening he sought, and he hurried on before he lost the monarch's attention. "Indeed, Sire, kings have a duty even beyond the tomb. We are all, at the end, dust and ashes. Your Majesty, alas, bears the added burden of determining his successor."

  "There is no successor."

  "Precisely my point, Majesty. Queen Caroline, as a royal widow, may rule in your stead. This merely delays the question without resolving it. Your Majesty must have an heir to carry on his sacred trust." Augustine frowned. "It is no longer possible."

  "Permit me to say, Majesty: on the contrary. It is both possible and urgent. The law permits you to adopt one. It requires only your decree, confirmed by the assent of Queen Caroline."

  "Are you saying, Chief Minister, that the Queen and I should adopt a daughter?"

  "Not a daughter," Cabbarus replied, "joyful as that might be. Not a daughter, Majesty, a son. A son who dreams, who hopes, who will strive to approach the wisdom, strength, and vision of his glorious, though adoptive, forebears. A son who will honor Your Majesty now and in years to come."

  "Speak of this another time," said Augustine. "I am weary. There is, moreover, none I would consider."

  "None?" cried Cabbarus, dropping to his knees. "Majesty, let me reveal to you the respect, the affection, the love that has grown daily within my heart, the dream of that glorious day when I may call you Father!"

  It took the king a moment to understand his chief minister's proposal. He staggered to his feet. "You? In the place of my dead child?"

  The king struggled to disengage himself from the embrace of his chief minister. Cabbarus, in turn, did all he could to cling to the legs of his prospective parent. Augustine's face went gray. He stretched out his hands, groping vaguely, and toppled to the floor. In despair, not at the king's possibly fatal collapse but its untimeliness, Cabbarus seized the monarch's wrist. The pulse beat faintly. Cabbarus climbed to his feet, flung open the door, and shouted for help. He returned to the prostrate Augustine and stood wringing his hands.

  Queen Caroline was there in moments. Hardly glancing at Cabbarus, she knelt beside her husband and loosened his gown and shirt. The queen still wore mourning, as she had done for six years past. While the king's grief had weakened him, her grief had only strengthened her. Despite her anxiety, her features were sternly controlled. When Cabbarus tried to speak, she cut him off with a gesture and followed the attendants who bore Augustine to a couch.

  "Madam," protested Cabbarus, "we had scarcely begun our audience. His Majesty appeared in better case than when I left him yesterday."

  "His Majesty," replied the queen, "is in even better case when you are absent."

  The court physician had now entered and was ordering the attendants, including Pankratz, to take themselves off. Dr. Torrens was still in his shirtsleeves. His face, broad and blunt, was softened by a mane of silver hair, unpowdered, caught at the back by a common cotton ribbon.

  "Madam, I must ask you to withdraw," said Torrens, adding to Cabbarus, "and you, too."

  Cabbarus glowered at the court physician. The queen went to the antechamber and sank down on a chair. Cabbarus reluctantly followed. Since the queen did not give him leave to sit, he took up a station in the middle of the room, his head bowed, hands clasped before him. Thus the queen and the chief minister shared close quarters and chilly silence until Torrens reappeared.

  "The king is sleeping now, a blessing in itself," he said to the queen. Dr. Torrens finished rolling down his sleeves, then addressed Cabbarus. "He has had a severe shock. You were with him, Chief Minister. I think you shall have to answer for it."

  "I would not call it shock," said Cabbarus, looking past Torrens to the queen. "Rather say, Madam, an excess of joy. His Majesty was discussing the happy prospect of adopting a son and heir. His fondest wish, his royal choice devolved upon." Cabbarus sighed and spread his hands. "Myself. Public duty and personal devotion led me to accept this highest honor. For the king, the joyous excitement of that moment."

  "How dare you!" cried the queen. "How dare you speak of yourself as adoptive heir? Such a question is raised privately, between the king and me. The queen's consent is required first and foremost, as you well know. That consent, I assure you, will never be given. I desire Dr. Torrens, here and now, to witness my refusal."

  "Privately or publicly, Madam, the question must be raised," answered Cabbarus. "The king is desperately ill."

  "Yes," put in Torrens, "but I can also tell you the king has, no illness. Not in the physical sense. His body is wasted and weakened. This might be set right, as I have tried to do; and would have done, except for the meddling of idiots like you, who set my regimens aside. The king's body may answer to commonsense treatment, to food, sleep, and fresh air. His gravest illness lies in his spirit."

  "You are saying th
e king is mad!" exclaimed Cabbarus. "This is high treason. You are more than incompetent, you are a traitor!"

  "Neither one nor the other," Torrens answered. "The king is not mad. He is sick with grief, frozen in self-blame. No, I am not a traitor. I am a man who speaks his mind and faces facts." He fumed to the queen. "Do not lose hope. His Majesty may, in time, recover. Meanwhile, I urge you, allow him to make no decisions he may come to regret, and certainly not the adoption of."

  "You go too far!" Cabbarus burst out. "Your trade is physic, not affairs of state. The king must and will follow the guidance of his ministers."

  "Forgive me," said Torrens. "I called you an idiot. I spoke hastily You are not. Had I given it more thought, I would have called you a scoundrel." He bowed to the queen. "Your servant, Madam."

  Dr. Torrens turned on his heel and strode from the chamber. Queen Caroline hurried after him. Cabbarus, about to follow and give Torrens a withering reply, thought better of it and remained there, silent.

  The chief minister enjoyed a gift for sniffing out possibilities without immediately understanding them. As before, when he had trusted this instinct, nothing could have been foreseen. He had risen, nevertheless, to chief minister. When the proper moment came, there would be many in the Royal Council to favor him as adoptive heir. As for Torrens, he would be dealt with. A plan was already shaping in his mind. It always pleased the chief minister how clear-sighted he could be in clouded circumstances.

  6

  The Demon Coachman brought them to Kessel: hungry, late, and sopping wet. The morning repairs had not outlasted the day, the wheel threatened to come off again at any moment, and a spring rainstorm had begun pelting down. Taking the risk of sending coach and passengers into a ditch, Musket pressed ahead, hunched on the box, whistling through his teeth, grinning like an undersized fiend in an oversized hat.

  Kessel offered a large inn. Because of the storm, however, it looked as if every traveler had broken his journey there. The common room stank of wet clothing and bad cooking. Las Bambas, Musket and Theo following, elbowed his way to the chimney comer and called loudly for the host. The count, in the privacy of the coach, had changed from his uniform into garments of black set off by white wristbands.

  "The chambers of Mynheer Bloomsa and servants," declared Las Bombas when the landlord finally appeared. "You have my message reserving them."

  The landlord, taken aback by the sight of the Demon Coachman and a dripping Trebizonian, protested that no such message had come. In any case, his house was full. Theo, having digested his surprise at the count's new role, expected Las Bombas to make a show of indignation.

  The count merely sighed. "That's the public post for you. It is not your fault. I required a suite of your finest apartments, but I shall have to seek accommodation elsewhere."

  Instead of doing so, Las Bombas stood casting an eye over the travelers. When Theo urged him to leave before it would be too late to find another inn, Las Bombas shrugged him off.

  "Patience, my boy. I'm looking for pigeons. You might oblige me by handing over that gold piece, temporarily."

  Theo gave him the captain's coin, which Las Bornbas quickly pocketed. His attention meanwhile had settled on a table occupied by a plump little man in a fur-trimmed cloak. The count made his way toward him. Passing the table, he contrived to pull out his handkerchief so that the gold piece dropped to the floor. Las Bombas kept on as if he had not noticed.

  "Good sir, your money!" the man called after him, picking up the coin.

  The count turned back and allowed the traveler to press it into his hand. "You need not have troubled yourself, sir. It is of no account. I thank you, nevertheless."

  "Permit me." the traveler popped his watery, pink rimmed eyes at the count "permit me to remark: I would hardly call gold of no account. My name is Skeit, alderman and corn merchant, and I assure you, sir, in my occupation I know the value of money."

  "I, too," replied Las Bombas, with an appraising glance at the quality of the alderman's garb and the weight of the gold chain he wore as ornament. "To me, its value is precisely nothing."

  "My good Mynheer!" cried the alderman. "Bloomsa, was that the name I overheard? You amaze me!"

  "No doubt I do." The count beamed. "Money, my dear sir, is only metal and, like any other substance, subject to the same natural laws of transmutation and transmogrification. I am a man of science, not finance." He lowered his voice and drew closer to Skeit. "My experiments have brought me the means of creating as much gold and silver as I please. Therefore, whatever value they may have for others, for me they have none."

  "But-but this is marvelous! My journey has been most profitable, but nothing compared with meeting a personage of your accomplishment. Wait until my good wife hears of this when I'm home!"

  "Since you have troubled yourself on my behalf," said Las Bombas, "allow me to offer you supper before I leave. I must find some lodging still available at this dismal time of night."

  "Indeed, not!" returned Skeit. "I shall be the one to offer you supper. Look no further, I insist you share my own quarters."

  "If it pleases you," said Las Bombas. "My servants can take their food in the stables, while they attend to my horse and coach."

  The count, during this, was gesturing urgently be hind his back. Musket pulled Theo out of the common room and hustled him to the stable.

  "What was that all about?" asked Theo, as the dwarf tossed him some rags and a brush to wipe down Friska. "He's up to some trickery. The man doesn't have an honorable bone in his body."

  A powerful kick sent Theo into a pile of straw: not from Friska, but from the dwarf, who stood, hands on hips, glowering at him.

  "Mind your tongue," said Musket, "next time you have anything to say about the count.."

  "It's true, isn't it?" cried Theo.

  "What if it is? I'll hear nothing against the man who bought me. That's right," Musket went on. "How much he paid, or if he swindled them out of the price, I don't know or care. I was half your age. In Napolita. He bought me from the beggar factory."

  "From the-what?"

  "Beggar factory," the dwarf said cheerfully. "No, you wouldn't have heard of that in your little hole-and-corner. But you've never wondered why there's so many beggars? Oh, there's no shortage of first-rate paupers, lame, halt, and blind. But half your noseless, or legless, or hunchbacked-they've been custom tailored for the trade. Youngsters bought or stolen, then broken past mending, sliced up, squeezed into jars to make them grow crooked. Sold off to a master who pockets whatever charity's thrown to them."

  "That's horrible. It can't be true."

  "Can't be," said Musket. "But is. I was lucky. I was born like this, no adjustments required. If it hadn't been the count who bought me, no telling where I'd be. Rascal he is, but he's a good-natured one. Take your nobles who flog their servants, gouge their tenants, or the judges who send some wretch to be hanged-they're honest as the day is long. Any scoundrel can be honest."

  "But all the rest of it," said Theo. "The Salamanca Lancers! Great Copta! Trebizonia I wonder if he even knows where it is. Why does he put out such nonsense?"

  "No business of mine," said Musket. "For all I know, he can't stomach the world as he finds it. Can you?"

  Theo did not answer. He turned back to rubbing down Friska. He had been more comfortable when he had been able to judge Las Bombas a complete rogue.

  The pot boy brought them supper. Since it was too late to rouse a blacksmith, Musket and Theo set about repairing the wheel themselves. The dwarf, this time, swore his work would last. Soon after they finished, the count hurried into the stable.

  "Master Skeit's on his way home," said Las Bombas, smiling like a cream-sodden cat. "But he'll be back, looking for us. We'd best be off." He triumphantly held up a knotted handkerchief that chinked as he shook it.

  "I have performed an experiment in elementary alchemy. My coins, I assured our good alderman, had a remarkable quality. They could multiply any others they touched, a
s easily as a hen hatching eggs. He had only to wrap his money up with mine and let it brood overnight. By morning, he'd have treble his fortune.

  "He was overjoyed. We set the packet on the mantel in his chamber and went to bed. It couldn't have turned out better. He woke up, restless; he wanted to get home with his fortune. I warned him not to undo the handkerchief till dawn, or the experiment would fail. But he won't wait; he's too greedy. When he sees what he has, he'll turn back on the instant.

  "What I forgot to tell him was while he was snoring away, I tied up another kerchief with nothing but pebbles in it, and changed it for the one on the mantel."

  "You robbed him!" cried Theo. "You might as well have held a pistol to his head."

  "Nonsense," replied Las Bombas. "I don't carry a pistol. My dear boy, until I can set Dr. Absalom to work again, this money's the only thing to put food in our mouths." Chuckling, Las Bombas unknotted the handkerchief. Then he choked and stared. His face went mottled. There was only a handful of leaden disks.

  "Slugs!" roared Las Bombas. "He switched the packets! But-I had my eye on the real one every second. I never left his side, only when he was fast asleep and I went out to the yard for pebbles. I wasn't gone a minute-That wretch! He was shamming! Robber! How dare he pass himself off as an alderman!"

  The count ran to the stable door and shook his fist into the night. "Villain! Little sneak!" He turned back to Theo. "Ah, my poor lad, there's a lesson for you. Never trust a stranger. What a world, with so many thieves abroad in it."

  Part Two The Oracle Priestess

  7

  Las Bombas, as Theo began to learn, could not? stay long in low spirits. By the time Musket had Friska between the shafts and the coach ready to roll, the count's storm of indignation had passed, and he was eager to set off.