II. In Which Internal Monologues Are Expressed With Words, Which Is, In Fact, The Primary Means By Which Serious Thought Is Processed
ooo
The first rule of performance is to make the impossible appear simple. Edgar Roni Figaro was a performer, albeit of an unusual calling: he valued his appearance just as highly as his political persona. It took well over an hour of daily maintenance to perfect his famous silky blond hair, flawless skin and pearly teeth.
He was working on the last of these as he always did in the early morning, brushing his teeth just before services. Between listening to Parliament go back and forth on the trade dispute and overseeing the banquet preparations, it was going to be a long day. Perhaps he could wheedle Sabin into testing all that back-ordered machinery in the dungeon...
Edgar briefly stepped out of the bathroom to make a request to this effect, only to find Sabin's room unoccupied. He wheeled around and walked into a wall of muscle.
"How convenient," he said, surprisingly coherent with a mouthful of toothpaste and a thin wooden brush. "Back from your run already?"
"Uh, no. I just got up."
"I see. I wanted to..." Edgar stopped short. He turned around to the empty bedroom, turned back to face Sabin, and turned around again. "Beg pardon?" he asked.
In that instant Sabin wished he didn't put so much stock in telling the truth. "I was visiting Terra."
"At dawn?!"
"No," he said, as though hurt by the suggestion that he would be so rude. Edgar absentmindedly dragged the brush over his teeth, awaiting clarification.
"I slept there."
Suddenly there were bristles down Edgar's throat and he collapsed choking onto the floor. Sabin grabbed him tight and gave him a hearty slap on the back, dislodging the offending toothbrush and perhaps a few vertebrae.
"Hey, hey! Take it easy, why don't you?"
"You slept there?" Edgar gagged.
"I sorta came over there the other night, and we were talking, and it got late..." As much as Sabin felt his brother was overreacting, it had been a while since he'd gotten a good lecture. If he played his cards right he might be able to hear the "That's not how you treat women!" harangue.
Edgar sensed he was hoping for an explosion. Well, he wasn't about to give him that satisfaction. No, he was the mature one here, damn it. He delicately put the toothbrush back in his mouth and resumed speaking as if he hadn't just been about to pass out. "I understand. I had forgotten you didn't have experience in these scenarios. In the future, know to excuse yourself politely as opposed to---to sleeping on the floor of a lady's bedroom."
Anyone else would've taken offense at the 'experience' jab, but Sabin had the double advantage of being perpetually mercurial and a little bit ignorant. "No, it wasn't like that. I just fell asleep on the bed."
The brush handle snapped in half and Edgar realized the King of Figaro was about to die the world's least dignified death. It was all over. No amount of shrewd maneuvering or machinery would save him. And now, in his last breaths, he wouldn't even be able to tell his brother how much he loved him. Farewell, Sabin, I regret having to leave the kingdom on your shoulders...be a good and honest ruler...
"Brother!" Sabin cried. He slammed Edgar into the wall hard enough to realign his previously malajusted bones and the halves of the toothbrush were spat pitifully onto the floor. This time Edgar let them stay there.
"Get ahold of yourself!" Sabin's chiseled face was creased with worry. "Are you okay?"
"Never better," he coughed. Then, looking at his brother with a vague distaste, "Is there anything else you've neglected to tell me? You know, murders committed, children you've fathered, any other equally trivial things?"
"Edgar!"
"Well, forgive me for not being more indifferent to your sleeping with women!"
"I didn't sleep with anyone!" His roar rattled doors up and down the hallway. The servants who had been peering around the corners disappeared.
Sabin felt his anger evaporate as he recognized he'd been shouting at his own brother. Why was he so upset? Come to think of it, why was the old unflappable, impenetrable Edgar on edge? "I..." he said, then felt his cheeks go hot with shame. "I mean, I just fell asleep there. It wasn't, I didn't...wouldn't ever..."
"I know that," Edgar murmured. He knew there was no excuse for having said such outrageous things, especially when Sabin prided himself on his virtue. He had wounded him, deeply, and all because of...what?
"Don't disapprove of me." It sounded more like a plea than a command. "I know I can't be around as much as I used to, but things haven't changed. I'm still me. I wouldn't do anything you didn't like, I promise."
It shouldn't matter what I like, Edgar wanted to say, only to discover it mattered more than anything else in the world. He'd spent the last three years trying to make up for a decade of lost time between them. Now it was though everything had changed and Edgar felt as though he'd been left out of it all.
Of course Sabin's had so much trouble living his own life...
...I haven't been able to let him go.
He was so lost in thought he didn't notice Sabin bent over him, waving a hand in his face. "Hey! Hey! Are you even listening to me?"
"I'm quite all right, thank you." He pushed him away with a slight shove, if only to alleviate the sudden pangs at his conscience. "Now then. Will you be in the chapel for services, or...?"
"Nah, I was gonna change clothes and go run. I'll see you around for tea, though. That's about as much ceremony as I can take in one day, you know?"
"Indeed." Edgar tried to apologize, found he couldn't, and so dismissed the whole notion with a would-be casual wave. " 'Till then, irminho."
ooo
Sabin was glad to be out of the castle, even if he was only a stone's throw from the west courtyard. Some days it seemed like the building itself reeked of mistrust and underhandedness.
Maybe that explained why Edgar had been so harsh with him. Or it could be that he was just stressed from work. Hell, anything was easier to believe than the idea of Edgar really thinking he was...
He forced himself to not think about it. No, it was just stress. It didn't mean anything.
The first bell tolled, signaling the start of morning services. Sabin could picture the rows of novice monks coming in with their silver-lined capes and thick candles. Thirteen years ago he had been there, hoping his dedication to the order would be the first step towards a life of freedom.
"Freedom? You mean nonstop training and spiritual conditioning is freedom? And I thought my future was going to be difficult," Edgar had laughed. The twins were invariably the first out of the chapel; Matron's sabbath-day lunches were the best part of the weekends.
Of course Sabin didn't believe it and Edgar didn't either; they both knew that the future king would suffocate under the responsibility. Their father had hinted at their having the final say in Figaro's future, an idea neither of them could bear. They knew what happened to families who tried to share the throne. No amount of promises, no matter how significant, could stop them from fearing a life dominated by power.
The first hymn went up, bringing more old memories to the surface as he broke into a steady run. He could still recite all of his vows.
I give myself to prayer, fraternity and force of life beyond the boundaries of man...
Help everyone everywhere. That ethic had come in handy when the world was collapsing. So many people had clung to him and sobbed thanks into his shoulder for little things like rebuilding houses or helping people in need. Hell, in Albrook alone more than five couples had sworn to name their next sons after him.
...my only riches will be Yours in heaven...
Boy, the parliament had had a field day with that one. How could he intend to be king with no sense of "princely necessities"? Sabin had never cared much for gaudy ribbons, ermine cloaks and dazzling jewelry. It wasn't as though he had anything against his brother's tastes, but he didn't see any need for it. An old tunic was fine.
...my strength reconciled to the defense of Your own...
He jumped a series of irrigation ditches without so much as getting splashed. Martial arts was well and good, but it was all a means to an end. He fought to protect anyone, everyone in need. There was no point in being strong for his own sake. And who had room for an ego with Edgar around?
...my life consistent and without excess...
It wasn't the traditional monk's renunciation of physical pleasure. Master Duncan, himself a married man, didn't think it necessary. "Why forbid it?" he would say. "The evil is not the wine, but the lack of self-discipline. We should rejoice with righteousness in the gifts from our Lord. Now two hundred more pushups!"
...and my heart aligned with Your will.
More than a decade later he still didn't understand how could anybody know what the divine wanted. No two priests had ever offered the same answer. The best Sabin could manage was to do all the good work he could, try not to think of his own wishes and hope he wasn't screwing up too much.
...In te, Domine, speravi: non confundar in aeternum.
If he had to pick a single sentence to define his entire life's experience, it would be that one.
ooo
Terra awoke to the clamor of seventeen iron church bells playing "Abide By Me" in five-part harmony. She held both hands over her ears and winced. Somewhere over the years a household of screaming children had become less like noise than actual music.
She stood up, stretched, and glanced at the grandfather clock on the wall. Three o'clock already?! It can't be! She spent a few minutes groping around for her dress before she remembered she was still wearing it. Had she really fallen asleep without changing? Oh...right. Sabin came in, and...
He probably left before the sun came up. Terra crossed to the closet, hoping for something to wear for the time being. The whole alcove was filled with skirts, boots, gowns and blouses more beautiful than anything she'd ever owned. To her amazement, the first one was precisely her size...as was the second...and the third, and the fourth...
"Oh, Edgar," she breathed, then began to laugh in spite of her astonishment. He really was something else. She hoped history would memorialize him for his extravagant eccentricity as much as his dedication to his country. "Edgar, you're magnificent!"In a fit of childish excitement she began pulling at everything she could find.
There was a knock at the door. "Come in!" Terra sang.
"Good morning, dear. His Majesty bid me bring you an early lunch, so..." Matron paused at the sight of her young guest. "Miss?"
Terra had on a button-up shirt, a sundress, thick patterened sandals and a floppy straw hat, all of which clashed horribly. Her smile was even more blinding than her wild disregard for fashion. "Is it really morning? I saw the clock---"
"I'm sorry, that old thing's been broken for years. It's about eleven-thirty. Is there anything I can do for you, miss?"
"No, I'm fine. I'm not sure what to do today, but I'm sure I'll find something." Her upbeat attitude was miles away from the hesitant confusion of the girl who had come to Figaro Castle three years ago. Matron had sat with her then, brushing out the tangles in her milkweed-colored hair and telling her not to fear the future. Well, the future had come, and it had been good to her. She looked like a different person.
...of course, it could be the clothes. "You know," Matron said, speaking in the elderly person way that made the most basic things sound like timeless folk wisdom, "we do have an herb garden in the west courtyard, and we're in the middle of the second harvest. If there's anything you'd like pressed and dried I'd be more than happy to get it for you."
"Don't do that! Let me help, please! We have a plot at home, but so much of the soil is still too diseased to nourish the plants..." Terra clasped her hands together eagerly. "Please, could I?"
It was a pity more young women these days weren't interested in gardening. "Yes, of course," she said. "Come down whenever you're ready."
Apparently the prospect of gardening was more exciting than a good hot meal, because within minutes Terra was up to her elbows in silt. The other working maids watched her and her ridiculous hat with fascination. One of the older girls had nearly summoned the courage to talk to her when a looming shadow in the distance made her turn back to work. Terra was too engrossed in picking out the asefetida to notice.
"Terra?"
"Hm?" She glanced over her shoulder at the most massive legs she'd ever seen. "Oh, hi, Sabin!"
"You look great," he said, because she did. It was hard to deny the magic power of a big hat. "Couldn't stand to sit around on idle hands, huh?"
"Mm-hmm. Look at it all! I'd take some seeds back with me if I could, but I bet a lot of it wouldn't grow. Say, this here..." She waved the foul-smelling asefetida at him. "I've been trying to get some in the window planter for months now. How do you get it so big?"
He squatted down beside her. "It needs soil in the sand and a good hot climate. I don't think you'll have much luck in Mobliz."
Her shoulders slumped at the thought, then straightened up again. "Since when do you know so much about plants?"
"Hey, come on! I spent a decade up in the mountains around here. Besides, I'm an authority on anything I can eat." His sage nod made Terra laugh out loud. "Want to look for some stuff we can grow, though?"
And so they whiled away the next few hours in the garden, setting aside what could be transplanted and throwing out the trash. Sabin was familiar with even the smallest blossoms and most obscure clusters.
"What's that?" Terra asked. She poked at the tips of a thorny green bush with spear-shaped blooms.
"It's gherkin top. Edgar uses it to prevent headaches. We oughta bring some in." The flowers were added to the growing pile of rosemary, allspice, cinnamon and bay leaves. When they were finally done, they grabbed their harvest in handfuls and went in search of the king.
ooo
"He's in session?" Sabin gaped. "But it's the summer! And a weekend! You can't be serious!"
The guard at the chamber doors was apparently very serious and didn't appreciate the assertion to the contrary, but he wasn't about to talk back to someone more than twice his size. "Forgive me, Your Highness, but Parliament has demanded a meeting in regards to the emissary from Jidoor."
"Can we sit in the gallery, then?"
"I'm afraid not. Classified information." Then, almost begging, "Please don't hurt me, Your Highness."
Sabin's expression indicated that while he hadn't considered it before, it was now looking like a very real option. He wasn't fond of the assumption that his strength made him some kind of killing machine. "Don't worry about it," he muttered.
They left together, disappointed in having missed a prime opportunity to bug Edgar, but Terra was curious. "Who's coming from Jidoor and why is it such a big deal? Do you know?"
"Remember that fat old windbag Owzer? His sister's got even more influence than he does, and she has a granddaughter they wanna get married off. They've been down Edgar's throat for months about setting something up. The ambassador's coming in a few days to give him an ultimatum. It could be pretty rough."
The idea of Edgar finally settling down and marrying made Terra's heart wobble. That, more than anything else that happened in the future, would change things forever. Would he still be able to hold those wonderful yearly reunions that ended in eight empty barrels of wine and Cyan berating himself for behaving in such a dishonorable manner? "What's...what's this potential bride like?" she asked.
"Eh, nothing special. Around twelve or thirteen. Not real smart, but what matters is the huge dowry she's got goin' for her. Plus all the revenue Figaro would get by owning all the trade routes down there. It's a good deal. Edgar isn't thrilled about it, though. I don't blame him." Sabin recalled how violently his brother had protested and he chuckled. "He wants to compare all the offers he's gotten before making a decision, but Owzer and his sister won't hear of it. They want a decision right now."
"Oh." She felt strangely sick. Edgar, married? "Um, I'm not feeling too good. Maybe I'd better lie down." She tottered back to her room before he could say anything else, and she could vaguely hear him saying "Well, sure. See you at dinner, then?" as if from a very far distance.
Edgar, married?
Maybe she was all wrong. Maybe she wasn't ready to be an adult, to have everything change. The thought of one of her oldest friends suddenly married---the fundamental opposite to the way he'd lived his whole life---it hurt, somehow. It wasn't right to think that he'd have this change thrust on him when he didn't even want it.
She went to lie down when the clock tolled a quarter-hour six times in a row. Terra frowned. In a moment of impulse she decided to fix it on her own. Anything was better than just sitting here with that awful refrain in her head. Edgar, married? Edgar, married? Edgar, married?
Terra opened the dial glass. The least she could do was set the hands properly. She pushed at the minute hand, but it didn't budge. She pushed again, to no avail. In a fit of frustration she grabbed at it with both hands and yanked down.
The clock chimed, whirred, and promptly disappeared into the ground. A narrow passage appeared in the wall where the clock had been.
Terra stared.
What are you waiting for? she wondered. It wasn't really her own thought, or even her own voice. Locke was the first person she ever remembered meeting, and as such he'd probably had a disproportionate influence on her instincts. She could just hear him goading her on to check it out. What do you suppose is back there? he was saying, pleading with his big brown eyes. I bet it's interesting! Come on, at least take a look!
If I get in trouble for this it's so your fault, Terra thought, but the Locke in her imagination had gotten distracted by something shiny and wasn't paying attention.
The passage was little more than a musty staircase carved in the walls. Terra was just barely able to stand upright. She kept her hands along the sides, content to wander wherever the path would take her.
After a long stretch of aimless meandering she heard a knot of angry male voices. She leaned against the cool stone and listened closely.
"Is that the only protest we have? We can't afford to be so stubborn!"
"Lord Holyoke, I don't know why you insist on taking such a defeatist attitude..."
"What are our alternatives?"
"I don't believe anyone can honestly say this is the best choice of action for Figaro!"
"If you stopped to consider the nation's role as an international player for once as opposed to demanding we become a bunch of God-damned isolationists you'd learn that---"
Terra never found out what was going to be learned. Something thin caught under her foot and she tripped, falling hard to the ground. Ouch. What is that?
There was no light, but she could feel a familiar honeycombed texture under her fingers as she touched it. It was about a foot long with misshapen knobs on either end. It was spongy and lightweight, like...
Bone! She dropped it, startled, then chastised herself for being so squeamish. Was it really? It had a few holes in it that didn't seem right. Terra turned it over a few times. The holes were almost evenly-spaced, too. What is this...? Uplifted by her treasure, she took it in hand and began the slow process of slinking back out of the passageway.
ooo
"Can anybody tell me what this is?" Terra set the bone down on the side table. The kithcne servers gasped, disgusted by of what could be human remains being set down on an dining surface. Edgar gasped, mortified at the idea of their being corpses just lying around in plain view. Sabin gasped too, but he recognized it.
"Where did you find that? That used to be mine!" He picked it up. "Man, I haven't seen this thing in so long."
"It's yours? Yes, of course. It's old and and primitive and likely diseased; it must be yours." Edgar shuddered. "Care to explain?"
"A long time ago...I must've been about ten or eleven. Vargas and I were outside, playing with a deer we'd killed, and he got the idea of making a flute out of it. So we drilled a bunch of holes and tried to make it all smooth, and then we went upstairs, up in the northeast secret passage behind the clock, and sat around playing it over the session room. We tried to see how loud we could go before anybody downstairs noticed, and then finally..."
"Was that the time when Father boxed your ears so hard you had to wear a bandage for three days?"
"Two and a half," Sabin corrected haughtily.
A young maid entered with a tray of hot teas, and immediately the room smelled of hickory smoke and old leather. She set the cups down on the table, nervously avoiding the spot where the bone had been, and left. As soon as she was gone Edgar let out a perfectly unkingly retch.
"You still drink that?"
"It's good!"
"It smells like a slaughterhouse."
"That would be your tea. Do you know what that is?" Sabin leaned over in his armchair to Terra, who always wanted a front row seat when the two of them were squabbling. He lowered his voice to a would-be conspiratorial undertone. "He asks for four tablespoons of pure valerian root. That's enough to knock out a cow!"
"First of all, it's not a problem when you drink slowly," Edgar shot back, sounding irritable, "and secondly, you would require a sedative too if you spent your weekend dealing with a room full of spoiled manchildren who would rather obstruct genuine progress than concede a point to their rivals."
"Oh, sure. Justify your drug problem, why don't you."
"Speaking of undue immaturity..."
Terra took one of the cups and lifted it to her lips. It tasted odd. She'd asked for puerh, which Edgar praised so highly. It wasn't quite as sweet as she'd expected, but the single sip sent a series of warm tingles down her spine. She continued to drink, soaking up the pleasant feeling as the boys battled it out.
"You know, I think the reason you haven't gotten married is because you wouldn't be able to share the bathroom with anybody else."
"That suggestion is as obtuse as it is nonsensical."
"What I'm saying is that the sink would be cluttered with jewelry and silk scarves and makeup and gleaming buttons. And where would your wife put her stuff?"
"Har har. Yes, I avoid matrimony purely out of personal vanity. Congratulations on your keen insight into the political issues surrounding arranged marriage."
"You're not denying it."
"Brother dearest, if I denied everything you said that was so incredibly wrong as to warp the current scientific understanding of what 'wrong' means we would never leave our rooms."
" 'Cause God knows you've never been wrong. Like that one time you said we would never have to go to evening lecture again if only we could find a bunch of purple paint and a goat?"
"Youthful indiscretion."
"Yeah, that I got spanked for."
"If you hadn't been standing there and looking dumbstruck---"
"You told me to!"
"---and, as you said, if you'd recognized that even I am capable of error---"
"Don't even try." Not willing to admit defeat, but certainly ready for a change in subject, Sabin took one of the other teacups. Edgar, following his lead, took his, and they shared a rare interlude of complete brotherly harmony as they drank.
"Ugh!" Edgar spat. "This is yours."
"No kidding."
They hastily traded cups.
"No, this still isn't mine, this is puerh."
"But this is my lapsang souchong, which means..." They turned to Terra, who had fallen asleep in her chair. An empty cup of valerian root tea lay in her lap.
They smiled, embarrassed at their own inattention and touched by the innocence she seemed to exude. Sabin took the cup away and lifted her over his mighty shoulder, holding her around the knees. "We're both to blame for that one, huh?"
"Sabin Rene Figaro. What have I told you about treating women like sacks of potatoes?"
"They don't boil as well if there's no salt in the water?"
Edgar gawked. It might have come off as less frightening if Sabin wasn't so...well, big. "Don't ever say that again."
"Right, right. Anyway, I'll take her off to bed and be right back."
"You've got no excuse to stay there this time!" the king called after him. In retrospect the whole idea was funny more than anything else. Never having been one to waste quality tea, he finished the rest of the puerh.
On the other hand, Sabin's was going straight into the trash.
ooo
It could be hard to get the younger maids in the castle to actually do what they were asked. They tended to be lazy with their chores, unless it meant stopping into the king's chambers, in which case they tore each other's hair out for the chance. Sabin considered himself lucky to find three girls who were willing to help out.
They followed behind him, heads bowed in the traditional fashion, but he could hear them whispering amongst themselves about the girl draped over his back. Well, whatever. Let them do that. They're fourteen. But when they were just to the guest suite, he overheard the word "drunk" and felt a surge of indignation.
"She's not drunk," he snapped, whirling around so fast Terra's head banged hard into the bedroom door. "Shit! Shit, shit, shit, is she all right?" He shifted her under his arm so that he was cradling her like a small child. "Okay, no injuries. Anyway..." Sabin turned back to the maids, who looked at him in terror. "Give her a bath and some comfortable clothes, then put her to bed, okay? She's not drunk, just drugged. She drank Edgar's tea by mistake. And let that be a lesson to you!" he said, feeling a responsibility to not come off as an unthinking brute to a bunch of gossipy adolescents. "Don't drink Edgar's tea! Especially not if he gives it to you!"
He gently lowered Terra down and into the ready hands of the girls, who seemed to think they were taking her away from a grave danger. Gee, thanks a lot. He sighed and headed back to the lounge. Maybe he'd get a chance to ask his brother just what he was planning to do about his marriage, and if there was any truth to those rumors that he had his eye on a woman with no noble blood at all.