The Fumbling Kingmaker

Prince Vortigern fretted over his ship’s log. He knew he should be resting in preparation for the inevitable weekly staff briefing, but the thought of relaying the same orders for the same routine sweep of the monotonous seas west of Pelagea seemed unbearable. He stood up and paced the two steps from his desk to his bunk, carefully keeping his head down to avoid cracking it against the overhead beams.

“Busy work!” he grumbled to himself. “He doesn’t dare have me killed, but he’s never going to let me do anything.”

He tramped back to the desk, jammed his quill too deep in the ink pot, so that he had to blot up the spots on the desk with a pen wiper, and scratched in the log book.”Three bells on Morning Watch: sailing SSE twenty-five miles west of Toe Point, West Skander. Routine sweep of Western Reach will end at noon and the new sweep will commence. At two bells, sighted a Caravestrian lugger bound for Westport. Clear seas since.”

He poked the quill back into its holder, stood up, and carefully walked the three paces to the wide port that opened upon the frigate’s wake. He stared moodily at a pair of dolphins frisking in the swell. The lookout called, “Sail Ho!” and the prince peered out to see whether he could spy anything. “Too blazing far,” he grunted, and flung himself down on his bunk, feeling guilty because his steward would have to straighten it up again. “I’d be better off as a common seaman. At least I’d think I was doing something useful.”

He recognized the tap at the door. “Come in, David.”

Prince David, his younger brother, dashed in and impatiently brushed the flaming curls out of his eyes. “Lookout reports Indomitable with all sails set and a bone in her teeth,” he puffed.

Vortigern sat up. “Farnham! Which way?”

“From the east – from Regisport.”

“He’s dead – at last he’s dead!” Vortigern popped to his feet and knocked his head on a beam. He sat again, rubbing the lump that began to poke up through his tawny hair. “There’s no other reason for Farnham to come splitting his canvas out here.”

“You stay here and look cool,” David urged. “I’ll bring him down as soon as he’s piped aboard.” He looked at his brother critically. “And for the Guardians’ sake straighten up your uniform.” He rushed out.

Vortigern stood up carefully, brushed the lint from his maroon tights, straightened his gold medallion, and pulled on his jacket with its commodore’s broad gold braid along the arms. He fumbled in the desk drawer for his maroon beret with its twin golden dolphin pins, and then sat down and tried to look impor­tant over his log.

It took all his self control not to rush outside and swarm up the ladder to the quarterdeck so that he could see what was going on. But David was right, he must appear cool and completely in charge.

At last came David’s tap.

“Come in.”

David opened the door and announced, “Captain Farnham of the Indomitable to see you, sir.”

The Captain ducked his grizzled head through the doorway, waited until David had discreetly closed the door, then rushed forward and grabbed both of the prince’s hands. “It’s come, your Majesty.”

“When?”    

“Saturday morning – or Friday night.”

“How did he die?” Vortigern gestured to the chair by his desk and sank back to sit on his bunk.

“Phogborn, the new Court Physician, says it was a seizure of the heart, but we’ll never be sure. I was lodged at the palace awaiting orders from Admiral