The Clan Corporate

"Why that-one-legged whore's son of a bloated tick! I'm sorry, your grace. Sky Father rot his eyes in his head, yes! It continues. As the circuit assizes will attest this high summer. And he's got the sworn men to compurge his case before the justiciars, claiming with their lying hands on the altar that every inch of the forest he's cleared has been in his family since time immemorial. Which it has not, on account of his family being jumped-up peddlers-"

"Not so loudly if you please, Otto. Another glass?"

"My-discreetly! Discreetly does it indeed, sir, I must apologize; it is just that the subject causes me no little inflammation of the senses. My grief is not at the e

"Quite true, Otto."

"I most humbly beg your pardon, your grace, but I find that hard to credit."

(Pause.)

"It is entirely true, Otto. The merchants own considerable estates, and fully a tenth of them were turned over to this crop last spring. With considerable hardship to their tenants, I might add; an unseemly lack of care will see many of them starving. Evidently red and purple flowers mean more to them than the health of their peasants, unless by some more of their magic they can transform poppies into bread by midwinter's eve."

"Idiots." (Inarticulate muttering.) "It wouldn't be the first idiocy they've been guilty of, of course, but to damage the yeomanry adds an insult to the blow."

"Exactly his thought."

"He-" (Pause.) "The rising sun is of this thought?"

"Indeed. Even while our father sips his new wine, imported by tinker trickery, and raises them in his esteem without questioning their custody of the lands he's granted them, our future king asks hard questions. He's a born leader, and we are lucky to have his like."

"I'll drink to that. Long live the king!"

"Long live… and long live the prince!"

"Indeed, long live the prince!"

"And may we live to see the day when he succeeds his father to the throne."

"May we-" (Coughing.) (Pause.) "Indeed, my lord. Absolutely, unquestionably. Neither too early nor too late nor-ahem. Yes, I shall treasure your confidence."

"These are dangerous times, Otto."

"You can-count on me. Sir. Should it come to that-"

"I hope that it will not. We all hope that it will not, do you understand? But youth grows impatient with corruption, as dusk grows impatient with dawn and as you grow impatient with your jumped-up peddler of a neighbor. There have been vile rumors about the succession, even as to the disposition of the young prince, and the suitability of the lion of the nation for the role of shepherd…"

(Spluttering.) "Insupportable!"

"Yes. I merely mention it to you so that you understand how the land lies. As one of my most trusted clients… Well, Otto, I must be moving on. People to see, favors to bestow. But if I may leave you with one observation, it is that it might be to your advantage and my pleasure for you to present yourself to his grace of I

"Why, thank you, your grace! Gods willing."

"My pleasure."

Transcript Ends

Rumors of War

Meanwhile, a transfinite distance and a split second away, the king-emperor of New Britain was having a bad day.

"Damn your eyes, Farnsworth." He hunched over his work-glass, tweezers in hand, one intricate gear wheel clasped delicately between its jaws. "Didn't I tell you not to disturb me at the bench?"

The unfortunate Farnsworth cleared his throat apologetically. A ski

"Then what have you got to say for yourself?" demanded the monarch, moderating his tone very slightly. Farnsworth suppressed a sigh of relief: John Frederick was not his father, blessed with decisiveness but cursed with a whim of steel. Still, he wasn't out of the woods yet. "I see it is"-the king's eyes swiveled toward a mantel covered from edge to edge in whirring clocks, every one of which he had built with his own hands-"another thirty-seven minutes before I must withdraw to the Green Room and prepare for the grand opening."

"I deeply regret the necessity of encroaching upon your majesty's precious time, but"-Farnsworth took a deep breath-"it's the Ministry for Special Affairs. They've hatched some sort of alarm or excursion, and Sir Roderick says it ca

"News?" The king snorted. "Urgent? It's probably just some jumped-up border fort commander complaining that Milton's been squeezing their bully and biscuit again." But he carefully lowered the tiny camshaft assembly, placing it back on the velvet cloth beside the rectangular gear mill he was building, and lowered a second cloth atop the work in progress. "Where's he waiting?"

"In the Gold Office, your Majesty."

Two footmen of the royal household scurried forward to secure the items on the royal workbench. A third servant bowed deeply, then bent to untie the royal apron, while a fourth approached bearing the king's topcoat. The king slid down off his high stool and stretched. At thirty-six years old he was in good health, although his waistline showed the effect of too many state banquets, and his complexion betrayed the choleric blood pressure that so worried his physiopaths and apothecaries. He extended his arms for the coat, of conservative black broadcloth embroidered with gold frogging in the style of the earlier century. "Take me to Sir Roderick and the prime minister. Let us hear this news that is important enough to drag the royal gearsman away from his analytical engine."

Farnsworth glanced over his shoulder. "Make it so," he snapped. And it was done. The King of New Britain, Emperor of Terra Australis, by grace of God Protector-Regent of the Chrysanthemum Throne, pretender to the Throne of England, and Presider of the Grand Assembly of American States, could go nowhere without an escort of Horse Guards to protect the royal person, majors-domo to a