Twice Upon a Marigold (8 page)

"No. I did it all. She just gave me the supplies."

Abruptly Olympia turned to Sedgewick. "Go! Get that unicorn back in its stall! And see that the reflecting pool is cleaned out! And rip out that blighted rosebush." She pointed to a dress. "Give me that one. I'm going to try it on."

Mr. Lucasa handed her the gown, and while she and Miranda were in the dressing room, he wandered around the sitting room looking at the paintings and statues and ornaments and carvings. There were lots and lots of them. Some were fine and beautiful, and others were garish and ornate. Olympia seemed to want everything, without any kind of discernment, just to have it.

"Well?" she asked when she came back into the room.

He examined her silently for a moment, and then said, "Here." He touched one shoulder. "And here." He indicated a seam on the bodice. "I'll fix those. Try another one."

At the end of an hour, Olympia had tried all the gowns and was impressed at Mr. Lucasa's creativity and attention to detail, though she certainly wasn't going to tell him. To her way of thinking, praise made people slack and shiftless (except for herself, of course, for whom there was no such thing as too much praise). It took criticism, and plenty of it, to keep people performing.

Swithbert and Ed rode out into the countryside on Razi and his stablemate Petunia for one of their regular visits to Magnus. As they rode along, they had the odd feeling that they were being followed. But every time they turned to look, they saw nothing but the trail, surrounded by the trees of the forest.

At Magnus's manor house, they banged on the front door. Winterbottom ushered them in, saying, "I'll see if Sir Magnus is up yet."

"Up?" Ed said. "It's afternoon. Is he sick?"

"Ever since the queen was here, he's taken to his bed. I'd say he's sick in his spirit, thanks to her." Then he remembered who he was talking to and added,
"Begging your pardon, sire. I meant no offense." He, too, had heard that the dungeon had been reopened.

"Never mind that," Swithbert said with a sigh. "I'm afraid I know too well how she can have that effect. But I didn't know she'd been to see Magnus."

After Winterbottom had gone upstairs, Swithbert said to Ed, "You know, she used Magnus before, when she was trying to get rid of Marigold and me. I wonder if she's recruiting him again. If she is, I know just what she'd threaten him with."

"His house," Ed said. He knew how that could feel. He'd voluntarily given his crystal cave-castle over to Marigold and Christian. After all, it
was
in Chris's kingdom of Zandelphia, and it
was
just across the river from Swithbert's castle, and Chris
had
grown up there, and it
was
beautiful enough for a royal residence. But sometimes he wished he hadn't. After all, he
had
lived there for over one hundred years, and he
did
have all his collections stored there, and he
did
love the place more than anywhere else he'd ever lived. He knew you couldn't cross back over a burned bridge when you came to it, as the saying went, but some days, much as he'd liked living at Swithbert's, he wished he had his own place again.

After a long while Magnus, in his dressing gown, came draggling down the stairs behind Winterbottom.

"Hello, Your Majesty. Hello, Ed. I beg your pardon for my appearance. I'm a little under the weather."

"Yes, I can see that," Swithbert said. "And I have an idea of what's wrong with you."

Magnus gave him a startled look. "You do?"

Winterbottom herded them into the sitting room. "I'll bring tea," he said.

"So ..." Magnus hesitated and then tried again. "What do you think is my problem?"

"Could it be—Olympia?" Swithbert asked.

Magnus went paler than he already was. "Did she say something to you?"

"No. But I know her. I know how she operates. And I know what she did to you once before."

Magnus hung his head. "I shouldn't have cooperated with her then. But I was younger, and a little desperate, and—"

"It's all right, Magnus," Swithbert said. "I understood."

Magnus raised his head and looked at the king. "I really did like Marigold. But I knew all along we had nothing in common."

"I know. What you wanted was a place to belong. I really do understand that. Which is why I made sure you got your own house. And now ... I'm just guessing, but could it be that Olympia's threatening to take that away from you unless you do what she wants? And what she wants probably has something to do with my health, just like last time. Am I close?"

Magnus jumped. "How did you know?"

Swithbert shrugged. "Unfortunately, I know Olympia."

"But this time I told her no. I swear it."

"I believe you. And that's why you're so under the weather. Wondering what her retaliation will be. I'm sure you've heard she's cleaned out the dungeons, ready for business again."

Ed jumped in. "We aren't ones to want to wash our dirty hands in public, so we'll need to keep this conversation confidential. But we have to stop Olympia."

"Do you think we can?" Magnus asked doubtfully.

"That's what we need to talk about."

So they did, spending a long time over the tea and cakes that Winterbottom brought. Ed was especially fond of the raisin scones and ate more than he should have. Trolls have very little restraint when it comes to food they love.

Swithbert ate modestly, mostly because that was his usual practice, but also because he had had such perfectly boiled eggs for breakfast that he'd requested them again for lunch and was quite full still. Either
the old cook had finally learned how to boil an egg properly, or someone else had taken over the job.

Magnus was too upset and bilious to eat a bite.

A
T THE END
of the afternoon they'd gotten exactly nowhere. Every plan they came up with had holes even they could see through, which meant it wouldn't have fooled Olympia for an instant.

"It'll be dark before we return to the castle if we don't leave now," Swithbert said. "But we'll keep racking our brains about Olympia, and we'll meet again tomorrow. We must solve this problem before it goes any further."

Ed opened the door to the sitting room and found Winterbottom on the floor, held down by Rollo's boot in his back, and with Rollo's saber poised at the nape of his neck. An eight-foot-tall captain of the guards is intimidating under any circumstances, but especially when he has his blade on one's neck.

"Rollo!" Swithbert commanded. "What are you doing here?"

"I've been eavesdropping all afternoon," he said. "I and two of my archers followed you. Queen's orders. And she's not going to like what I have to tell her."

"Olympia's had you spying on us?" Swithbert asked in astonishment.

"For good reason, apparently," Rollo said. "The three of you are under arrest."

"Me?" squeaked Winterbottom from the floor. "All I did was make tea. And more raisin scones than I thought anybody could eat. But he did." And he pointed a finger at Ed.

"Not you." Rollo removed the saber. "Him, and him, and him," he said, waving the blade at Ed, Swithbert, and Magnus. "And I can promise you, there won't be any raisin scones where they're going."

"I need to get dressed," Magnus said, looking down at his bare legs, slippers, and dressing gown. "I can't go anywhere like this."

"You think I'm simple enough to let you go where you could escape or fetch a weapon?" Rollo scoffed. "You're coming just as you are."

It was a pitiful little procession that Rollo and his archers escorted back to the castle in the twilight. A storm was brewing off to the west, and the rumble of thunder and flash of lightning accompanied Ed (his stomach aching from all the scones), Magnus (struggling to keep his dressing gown closed while on horseback), and Swithbert (fighting back tears at his own failures).

The downpour started just before the entourage reached the castle, and by the time Ed, Magnus, and Swithbert were locked into separate cells in the dungeon, they were dripping wet and shivering.

"When will we get our trial?" Swithbert asked. "It's
in the Beaurivage constitution that everybody accused of something gets a trial."

Beaurivage was unusual because it was a constitutional monarchy. Most monarchies operated at the whim of the monarch; Beaurivage had rules. But Swithbert had a sinking feeling about Beaurivage's famous rules just then. Olympia had never been fond of rules—unless they were her own. And if she were sole monarch, there would be plenty of whims.

"I guess you haven't heard," Rollo said. "The queen is rewriting the constitution."

"But it says in the constitution that no single person can do that," Swithbert protested. "There's a process that has to be followed."

"That was the first thing she changed," Rollo told them, and left them in the dankness of the dungeon.

The king slumped down against the damp cell wall. "Can you ever forgive me for getting you all into this?" he called to Ed and Magnus. "It's completely my fault. I should have been able to manage Olympia on my own."

"Nobody can manage her on their own," Magnus called back, and sneezed.

"At least it's clean in here," Ed said rather dolefully, since the cleanliness reminded him that all his precious possessions were gone. He paced around his cell
in the guttering light from the torch stuck in a bracket on the corridor wall. He found, overlooked by the cell shoveler-outers, a bent fork and a gold button. Not much help there.

They were silent, each trapped in his own gloomy thoughts, until a commotion on the stone stairs leading down to the dungeon roused them from their funks. They were all standing at their barred cell doors when Olympia came sweeping along the corridor with all the trappings of royalty and then some—crown, ermine cape, scepter, orb, ropes and ropes of pearls, diamond-studded badges, emblems, and brooches pinned to her dress, feathers and ribbons attached here and there, and an escort of four soldiers carrying standards with her coat of arms on them.

She stopped in front of his cell. "Hello, dear," she said coldly.

"Hello, Olympia." Swithbert, with effort, kept his voice level.

"Got yourself into a spot of trouble, I see."

He was silent.

"And your friends, too," she went on. "A shame to have brought them into this. Now you'll all be guilty of treason."

"Guilty?" Swithbert said. "We haven't been tried yet."

"Oh, what's the point of a trial?" she asked airily. "Why waste everybody's time? I have a lot to do to get this kingdom on its feet again. No time for such nonsense."

"Fairness is hardly nonsense," Swithbert said. When she only glared at him, he swallowed hard and said, "Is there—is there a sentence?"

"I'm still thinking about that," Olympia said, tapping her chin with an index finger almost covered by a huge ruby ring. "I can't decide which would be more satisfying, and instructive to my subjects—a public hanging, or a lifetime in here following a public flogging. I really do need to make an example of you, just so I don't have any more of this kind of trouble. I'm sure you understand."

A wretched croak came from Magnus's cell. Olympia turned to him. "I'll bet you're wishing you hadn't said no to me when you had the chance to say yes. Am I right?"

He cleared his throat. "I'm not sorry I said no," he rasped. "But I am sorry to be in here."

She laughed gaily. "I only give one chance, anyway, so you'd have ended up here no matter what." Turning to Ed, she said, "And
you.
You escaped from here once before, but I can assure you, that won't be happening again."

"Don't be so sure about that," Ed said defiantly, though he had no idea what he might do about it.

"Oh, I'm sure," Olympia said. "There'll be a guard here night and day until I decide your fate." She spun on her stacked red heel and swept back to the stairs waving her fingers at them. "Ta ta, now."

There was a long silence as they watched the guard take his post, standing at stiff attention, pike in hand. Finally Ed muttered, "This is a fine kettle of hen's teeth."

As the hours wore on, Ed, Swithbert, and Magnus could only fret and doze and shiver. Soon the guard, whose name they learned was Finbar, was shivering, too, and trying hard not to doze. Guarding innocent people isn't very interesting—though technically, of course, they were
very
guilty because they
had
been plotting against the queen.

But some plots are necessary, and even required.

Marigold spent the day writing p-mails. She'd had to do some hard thinking about who to send them to. It's true she wanted Olympia stopped, and preferably sent far, far away. But, in spite of the dire fate Olympia had planned for her and for Swithbert, she couldn't bring herself to ask someone to do the same to Olympia. She had to phrase her request very carefully—and in three to six lines, since each pigeon-leg capsule could hold only a short message.

She finally settled on:

Have you any interest in helping me
rid Beaurivage of a dangerous queen?
No bloodshed, please. —Marigold

She sent the pigeons—Walter, Carrie, and their offspring—into the sky, carrying the messages to various carefully chosen fairies, sorcerers and sorceresses, witches and warlocks, wizards and shamans. Then she settled down to wait.

She paced. She overwatered her plants. She threw the ball a thousand times for Flopsy, Mopsy, and Topsy (all of whom kept wishing it was the blue squeaky toy). She picked her cuticles and ate a lot of chocolate and looked at the sundial eighty-seven times in a single hour.

It was nearly dusk when the first pigeon returned. Marigold almost broke its leg trying to get the message cylinder off, after which the pigeon stalked away to its perch, exhausted and pouting.

The message read:

Sorry. No bloodshed, no interest.

Love, Morven

She threw the message onto the floor and paced some more.

In the next hour, six more pigeons returned, all carrying variations of Morven's message.