Wisdom's Kiss (16 page)

The duchess at once made to strike Escoffier a vicious blow, but her son deflected her swing, pointing out that a pet from Montagne should not be harmed. "Not yet, anyway," sneered Wilhelmina. "I shall sleep much easier once this marriage is sealed and the abdication complete."

Yes, Granddaughter, you read correctly:
Abdication!
Oh, Teddy, an awful conspiracy has been concocted, and Wilhelmina and her son fully expect you will quit your throne—within the week!

Would that I could spare you this terrible reality—alas, I cannot. Instead I shall report my findings swiftly; the sooner pain is felt, the sooner it may pass. Darling, it appears—and from the confident and informed manner with which these connivers schemed, I cannot but believe they speak the truth—it appears your suitor, sweet-tongued though he may be, is in actual fact an agent of the Duchy of Farina! And his only task has been to win your love that he might convince you to leave Montagne forever—and by so abdicating, pass the throne to your sister! Is that not horrible?

Wilhelmina is a wicked, wicked woman; it was all I could do not to hurl Escoffier at her to scratch out her eyes. If only I could be there to sit with you and comfort you in your grief, reassuring you again and again that someday, me dear, you will find true happiness.

Numb with shock at this loathsome discovery, I hastened back to our suite and released myself from Escoffier that I might read again your description of this alleged suitor—and yet your letter was nowhere to be found! Such correspondence I treat most carefully, securing it within a locked casket, and to discover it missing devastated me utterly. I am certain that it has been stolen, and moreover I cannot but suspect that your more recent missives have met a similar fate—at the hands of a villainess whom we can both readily identify—that I might remain ignorant of your plight.

Please, Granddaughter, much as it will crush you, you must imprison this rogue at once. I shall return as hastily as I can, lingering in Froglock only long enough to see to Dizzy's safety.

Please, I beg you: protect your nation and your throne!

Your panicked grandmother,
Ben

T
HE
S
TORY OF
F
ORTITUDE OF
B
ACIO
, C
OMMONLY
K
NOWN AS
T
RUDY
,
AS
T
OLD TO
H
ER
D
AUGHTER

Privately Printed and Circulated

CHANCELLOR OF FINANCE? Oh, goodness dear.

Trudy turned about, baffled. Her sight had never failed her like this. And what precisely was this corridor, anyway? Every door—and there were so many!—had a label:
RECORDS J—L; RECORDS Z+;UNDERSECRETARYOF DOMESTICPROTOCOL;STATIONERY, DIPLOMATIC; MOST SECRET SERVICES
(and how secret could they be, Trudy wondered, with the name engraved for all to observe?);
LIBRARY OF LAW
. The library door, remarkably enough, stood ajar—the first open door Trudy had seen that night—and as she passed, a quavering old voice called, "Anna, you're late!"

"I beg your pardon?" Trudy asked, remembering that with her recent weeping she must look a fright.

But the old man was too busy to look up for more than a brief second; certainly not long enough to recognize that she was not in fact the negligent Anna. He wrestled with an armload of rolled documents, a lit pipe in one hand.

"May I help?" Trudy asked, fearing he might set the room ablaze. Perhaps the man could lead her back to the main entrance ... or at least out of this bureaucratic labyrinth.

Bleating complaints about the indolence of modern youth, the graybeard loaded her with parchments, leaving himself unburdened except for the pipe. He glared at her. "You're not Anna!"

"No, I—"

"If you're not Anna, then you're someone else," he added, with flawless logic. He shuffled toward the door, then turned. "Aren't you coming? Are you dim?"

What a thoroughly unpleasant individual, thought Trudy. How could her sight have led her
here?
"I am—Lady Fortitude—" The last time she might ever require that horrid fakery!

They walked without speaking for some time, the old man muttering to himself. "Montagne, eh?" he stated at last, glancing at her sideways. He had hair growing out of his ears and curling off the tip of his nose. Trudy did her best to look elsewhere.

"No, I'm from—"

"Damned ridiculous system you've got there. In Montagne."

"Oh?" Trudy offered after a space.

"Female succession! Damned ridiculous. A country needs a king. Just like a woman needs a man."

I had a man—almost, Trudy thought, struggling to keep from weeping.

"And sloppy! The whole legal system's sloppy. Are you sloppy?" He fixed her with a beady eye.

"Ah, no..."

"That's one thing I can't stand. Sloppiness. You write a law, it's meant to stand! No damned loopholes. You put a loophole in, someone will find it. Someone with a legal mind," he added, tapping his temple. "Not like those damned sloppy Montagne lawyers."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."

"Well, I'm not. It's not right, a country without a king. It's not right
ever.
You hear me?"

"Ah, yes..." Trudy wondered how long she would be burdened with this crabby mossback. Her urge to escape the palace was now overwhelmed by her desire to escape his spiteful presence. Besides, she knew where she was now—that portrait, of the baron who looked like he'd just drunk bad milk, was only a short distance from their own rooms...

"Yes, well, Montagne knows it too. Or they will soon enough." The curmudgeon poked his stinking pipe at the parchment below Trudy's nose.

She looked down. There, amid the gold leaf and wax seals and embellished foreign words of what was without doubt an extremely important manuscript, was the neat signature of "Temperance, Queen of Montagne," and next to it a flamboyant scribble that could only belong to Wisdom.

No sooner did Trudy see this document, however, than the old man snatched it from her arms.

"It's for Her Most Noble Grace. I've a meeting with her—her and the duke—and they won't like that I'm late." He clutched the stack of parchments to his bony chest and glared at Trudy. "What are you doing here, anyway? I wager you're a spy—a Montagne spy. You're certainly not a lady."

A spy? Never had Trudy heard something so ridiculous, so utterly ... dim. No, she was not a spy, and most certainly not one from Montagne. How she wished she had never heard of that horrid country. How she wished she had never come to Froglock!...Well, she would manage. She would more than manage. She would show them all—even Tips!—that this orphan was a survivor.

She glared at the old man, her irritation for once obliterating all thought of decorum. "You're right. I'm not a lady. If you want to know the truth, I'm a kitchen maid." And with that she raced down the corridor to collect her belongings and return, at last, to Bacio.

8
TH EDITION

Printed in the Capital City of Rigorus
by Hazelnut & Filbert, Publishers to the Crown

CUTHBERT OF MONTAGNE

The life course of Cuthbert of Montagne is surely without parallel in the Empire of Lax. Born to a charcoal burner in the then-Kingdom of Drachensbett, the boy from a young age exhibited a precocious aptitude in the natural sciences, particularly silviculture and mycology, and after studies abroad returned to establish the Department of Botany at the Universität Drachensbett, which had been founded after Drachensbett's absorption by its smaller neighbor Montagne. While on the faculty, he was introduced to Crown Princess Providence; it is safe to say that their courtship stunned the kingdom. Once married, Cuthbert absolved himself completely from politics, remaining on the faculty of the Universität Drachensbett to study his beloved fungi. When Providence's mother, Benevolence, relinquished her title of queen to retire and enjoy her two granddaughters, Providence was crowned ruler, and Cuthbert, following Montagne tradition, named prince consort. Nine years into Providence's reign, Cuthbert perished while tasting unnamed mushrooms, a death that even his grieving family agreed was more than fitting. To honor her late husband, Providence posthumously elevated Cuthbert to the unprecedented "king regnant," in effect transforming his position to that of sovereign. Such a radical alteration to the monarchy was accepted without challenge, though it had profound repercussions for the next generation of Montagne's rulers. Providence died mysteriously three years later, and the throne passed to their daughter, Temperance.
Cuthbertii,
a previously undiscovered subgenus of alpine mushrooms, is named in Cuthbert's honor, as is the savory mushroom pie
Cuthbert en croûte,
now the national dish of Montagne; the phrase "Cuthbert it," as in "to leave something," implicitly to perish or decay in a beneficial manner, was coined by Drachensbett students, and the court of Montagne to this day serves mushrooms with every banquet course, though recently making an exception for the dessert ices.

My Dearest Temperance, Queen of Montagne,

Well, Granddaughter, I have at last a full explanation for Wilhelmina's insistence on this wedding, and now my blood runs cold. There is not a moment to spare—Montagne hangs in the balance! For Farina intends not only to remove you from the throne, but
Dizzy as well!

I had just finished a missive to you, calling for a page to include it—
quite securely!
—in the morning's mail, when Trudy returned to our suite. She could no longer contain her misery and insisted on returning to her village. Nothing I said, nor Dizzy, to her credit, could dissuade her. While packing her belongings, the girl described her hours in the palace—most significantly her encounter with a misanthropic legal scholar more conversant with our laws than any attorney in Montagne. It took all my wheedling to coax the details of their encounter from Trudy, who was most interested in her own swift departure and cared far less about the curmudgeon's plotting than that she had met him at all. "I should have seen such unhappiness," she kept wailing—an admission, however inadvertent, of her clairvoyance. I did not wish to upset her further by verbalizing her secret; otherwise I would have soothed her with the reassurances that magic by definition defies reason and that elucidation would doubtless emerge in the fullness of time. Perhaps the child bears a connection to Montagne, though how
our
ultimate happiness might improve
hers
I cannot figure—and at this moment the happiness, indeed the very survival, of our kingdom hangs in limbo!

Oh, Teddy, I fear that your mother's efforts to honor dear Cuthbert will rain dishonor upon us all. Her declaration elevating him from
prince consort
to
king regnant
apparently contains a "loophole"—the precise word used by that disagreeable legal expert—that will allow others—Roger, to be precise—to rule as
king!

How many times have you and I pondered why Wilhelmina would permit her son to marry a younger princess when they both so desire the Kingdom of Montagne. Well, I now, so sadly, know the answer: Wilhelmina intends to push you aside (by abdication or
even worse,
I fear!) and crown her son king—apparently the reams of parchment the battle-axe sent us to sign included a cunningly worded document orchestrating this precise outcome! I do not need to explain that once her claws are in Montagne, we shall never be free again, and our country will dwindle into yet another province of voracious Farina.

Given Rüdigers edict tonight, it is manifest that the wedding will transpire tomorrow; your sister's fate is sealed. But you can—you must!—safeguard yourself, and our land. Please, Teddy,
keep yourself protected at every moment.
If you do not, all is lost.

I pray this letter reaches you on eagle's wings, or angel's.

Your terrified grandmother,
Ben

What pleasure it gives me to read others' mail!

I shall preserve here the two latest missives from that witch-queen to her sniveling granddaughter—they form a singular addition to their correspondence.

Have I not always suspected that the queen engaged in sorcery?—now at last I have the
proof!
—written in her own hand!

Once I possess Montagne, I shall see that miserable crone of a witch burned and her diabolic black feline stuffed and mounted.

It perturbs me not in the least that she and her cretinous spawn now know my plan—for they have no capacity whatsoever to stop it.

My agent in Montagne has served the world well by destroying all correspondence from that idiot young queen with her mawkish jabber of love (the very thought makes me gag!)—he writes that Temperance is now in his thrall, and that she meekly agrees abdication is her best and only means of demonstrating her devotion to him.

How I value a man so adept at destroying female confidence.

This wedding cannot happen soon enough.

THE BOOTED MAESTRO

Dear Trudy,

Im sitting outside the duchesss window if you can believe it—Ive written you from stranger places but never I think from anyplace so
high
—I do hope if I fall that whoever finds
my body
me will make sure you get this letter—if they can read my moonlit scribbles, that is.