The Request

I was still at least slightly miffed about the whole situation, when I took a short and discreet look around the ballroom. The use of this grotesquely oversized dining hall was sparse, so this was a space forgotten by most people, bar the management of the club. The secrecy of the whole thing was making me feel pretty tense, although honestly, if anything was to happen to me personally, the use of busy streets and sidewalks of the capital city would make more sense.

There were twelve people in the room. Besides the servant, who quietly moved beside the door, there were two armsmen, most likely prince's bodyguards, though I couldn't be quite sure due to the fact that their overcloaks did show neither house insignia, nor crests. The young man standing to the right of the prince was certainly his adjutant, a junior staff officer by the name of Reynald Barrow, who as far as I knew was a person that dealt with people with whom prince could not have been seen. That left four other people in the ballroom, two of whom I have never seen before.

The other two, I have known much too well, I'm afraid, and I was pretty surprised that they were involved in meeting in such a secrecy. Although, to be honest, I should have suspected that Nicholas Perceval, a private secretary to Archmage Thierry Desmaine, His Wizardness, The Imperial Archmage, had plenty of ambitions to advance his career beyond being eyes and ears of pretty boring, though capable theoretical wizard and administrator. Those good looks, blond locks on a handsome, longish face and slim body, combined with impeccable taste in robes, made him pretty well-liked, especially among the female members of the magical community.

Then, there was Bishop Michael Clement, vicar general of Queen's View, a tall, but a little plump fellow, seemingly in his early thirties, with bright, bespectacled eyes watching people with a fox-like intent, looking for each and every weakness he could exploit. A pleasant fellow altogether, as long you didn't try to cross him, for he was a man, who should not be trifled with. He welcomed me today with a smile and a cordial face, seemingly easing me into the unknown. Oh, bother, what did you put me into, Robin? I shot my friend a quick, sharp look saying 'Thank you for bringing the world down on my head' and then I settled down.

'May I ask for the cause of this meeting, Your Highness?' I asked as slowly and as calmly as I managed. 'It is always a great pleasure to be able to serve you.' It is advisable to be as courteous as possible in all circumstances and a little bit of grasping at vanity of person of superior station to your own.

'It is my pleasure, doctor.' His Highness seemed a little bit amused. 'You know of course, mage Perceval and bishop Clement, don't you?' Was it irony or simple statement of the fact? Both, I suppose. Now was the time to try to relax the muscles and muster enough strength not to let out a sigh of relief.

'This is guild master Fergus MacGill.' He continued speaking, introducing me to the middle-aged tough looking gentleman, wearing a fine made, but still provincial looking coat - wool, I presumed, since it was ill-suited for any time, but night in the capital. 'And this is, Mireille Isabeau, a master at arts.'

And there was she, a tall, athletic, but slender Gran lady with highly accented cheekbones, green eyes and dark-brownish hair, braided with help of assortment of pins under the hat. As Perceval was known for his great taste in a wardrobe, she could have beaten him fair and square with attention to detail. Her tight-fitting riding clothes were elaborately marked with flower patterns, though they were made for utility and easy movement rather than fashion. My mind admitted to being scared witless, though I have only heard of her. Admitting one's fears does have a point though; the known factors are usually easier to deal with than those beyond our control. So I have bowed not-too-deeply, but still adequately to the guild master, who tried to reply alike, but failed miserably, showing the lack of courtly grace. He really was an outsider, probably an influential member of provincial craft unions.

The woman has not lacked in social etiquette, allowing herself to raise her hand, approximately to the level of my chest, but still allowing for the double curtsy that a proper court introduction asked for, while my lips brushed against her hand. Master of Arts, well, it was a conjecture that made perfect sense only for the players of politics. If one were to blunt - master assassin in league with Imperial heir would fit description perfectly. Were we planning a coup now? That would have sounded plausible, but Crown Prince did not strike me as an impatient man, so there was something else.

'You do wonder, why I had you brought here, doctor.' The calm voice made me even more apprehensive, if this was even possible. 'It seems that you lead an interesting debate about my research paper two seasons ago.' More like pointed out that while His Highness had an interesting ideas, perhaps better described as revolutionary, his train of thought had some disastrous glitches, coming from the fact that any well-meaning enlightened tyrant does forget, that any attempt reforms, do provoke a counter-reform movement. Simple physics, really.

'Mr. Perceval and Rev. Clement concurred with me that while your diagnosis was correct, the faults in my proposals were possible to correct.' So that was what Prince Raymond was after. 'And Mr. MacGill and Ms. Isabeau were kind enough to come to similar conclusions on their own.' This was finally getting somewhere. 'And I think that while we cannot set exactly set a timetable upon how soon the reforms I envisage may start, it is the present company that will have to develop the ideas into future policies. And while it may take a while...'

My face must have been saying something, because His Highness stopped and waited for a retort. Obviously, I needed to work on my facial expression and probably there was at least one person in this room, who could give me a lesson.

'I think that there is one major obstacle.' I spoke my mind. 'Your Highness, there is no doubt that you are most sincere in your desires to reform Empire and while my critique of your ideas was intense, there is also no doubt that obviously you have given much thought to the matter. But until Your Highness ascents to the throne, the whole point is moot, and what's more, may be considered treason by His Majesty.'

There, I've said it. Now, one had to suffer the consequences of one's impudence and end up on a mission to some forsaken village in back country, investigating if some local lore had anything to do with an actual magic, rather than with local superstitions. To my surprise, at least one other person has sighed as though my words had touched upon some very sore and sobering subject.

'My father, The Emperor is dying.' Raymond replied with a sullen voice. 'His love of unmitigated food and drink makes it impossible to heal him by both mundane and magical means, and it is only months, he has left, though he would never admit it.'

Crown Prince suddenly went from seemingly an energetic reformer to a world-weary man, who saw his world crumbling.

'Still, I don't expect that you all agree to plan the reforms in a day.' He sighed. 'But talk here, and think through, what needs to be done before. I must take my leave, my wife expects me to spend some time with her and our son. I suppose, she is also conscious that in the near future, we will not be able to do that.'

His adjutant opened the door for him, and Raymond left the ballroom with his escort, leaving the rest of us standing in a thoughtful silence.

'Shall we retire to library and eat some dinner, while probing His Highness's questions?' Anne asked meekly after a few more moments have passed and the lack of conversation started bordering on dreary.

'So we shall.' Somehow the ghastly unison that followed through with the answers was strangely appropriate.