How to Rescue a Dead Princess (12 page)

“I was sucking something out from under my fingernail?”

“It means you're lying. If I had a torch handy, I'd ignite your pants just to make my point that much more clear. And because I'm a closet pyromaniac. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to turn you over to be executed. Unless...”

Randall leaned forward.

“Ah, you're expressing interest. Good. I've created a lie detector test. A magical one. Are you willing to take it?”

Randall hesitated. A lie detector test was rather unappealing considering that he was lying. “I don't think so.”

“Wimp.”

“I don't like magic.”

“Pansy.”

“I had a bad experience with magic. My uncle was turned into a toad. Wrecked every social gathering with that tongue of his. Stuck it to everything and everyone.”

“Momma's boy.”

“Okay, I'll take the test! Jeez!”

Alan nodded at one of the guards, who exited the room and returned a minute later holding a steel box. Attached to the box was a coil of golden wire, and what looked like a silver stake. The guard set the box down on the table in front of Alan, then returned to his post by the door and looked stern again.

Alan picked up the stake. “First I have to shove this through your skull to make the connection with your brain.”

“I don't believe I'm going to let you do that.”

“Well, granted, that
is
the more inconvenient method. Holding it in your hand should work just as well.” Alan handed the stake to Randall. “Now, it's very simple. If you tell the truth, the box will go ‘beep.’ If you lie, the box will go ‘beep’ but with more treble. Understand?”

“Yes.”
Beep
.

“Ah, the truth. Very good. Is your name Randall?”

“Yes.”
Beep
.

“Do you come from the kingdom of Mosiman?”

“Yes.”
Beep
.

“Do you find me physically attractive?”

“No.”
Beep
.

One of the guards stepped forward. “Do you ever get the urge to run around flapping your arms and going ‘Awk, awk, awk!'”

“No.”
Beep
.

The other guard also stepped forward. “Do you find the word ‘wiener’ inherently amusing?”

“No.”
Beep
with more treble.

“You're lying to us,” said Alan.

“Sorry.”
Beep
with even more treble.

A guard spoke up. “Do you have an unnatural craving for tapioca?”

“Have you ever put sawdust in your loin cloth?”

“Do you ever wish you could change your name to Chuckles?”

“Why you wanna do me so bad?”

“Have you ever gotten your tongue stuck in a bottle of wine? I mean,
really
stuck.”

“If you could be any kind of tree, what kind would you be?”

“Okay, that's enough,” said Alan. “Now, time for the real question.” He leaned forward and locked eyes with Randall. “Are you here to do harm to our king?”

“NO,” SAID Randall, “I am not here to not do harm to your king.”
Beep
.

“What did you say?” asked Alan.

Randall set down the spike. “I am not here to do harm to your king.”

“That's not what it sounded like. It sounded like there was an extra ‘not’ in there somewhere.”

“I sometimes hear extra ‘nots’ in sentences, too. It's very strange. Well, there must be some logical explanation for it. Can I go now?”

“Pick up the spike,” said Alan.

“You don't trust me?”

“Would I be giving you the lie detector test in the first place if I trusted you?”

Hesitantly, Randall picked up the spike.

“Now,” said Alan, “tell me that you're not here to harm the king.”

“I'm not
here
to harm the king.”
Beep
.

“Why did you emphasize the word ‘here'?” demanded Alan.

Randall dropped the spike. “To make my voice more interesting.”

“That's the second time you've dropped the spike before speaking. That means you're nervous. I think you emphasized ‘here’ to fool the machine into thinking you didn't mean to cause harm to the king in this very room.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Here's what you're going to do. You're going to pick up the spike. You're going to say ‘I did not come to this kingdom with the intent of in any way, directly or indirectly, causing harm to the king.’ Those words are to be said in a monotone. Understand?”

Randall picked up the spike.

“Say it,” urged Alan.

“I did not come to this kingdom with the intent of...” Randall trailed off as he stared at the steel box.

“Finish the sentence!” said Alan. “Now!”

“A tree fell in the woods, nobody was there, and it made a sound!” shouted Randall.

The box, not knowing how to answer, began to quiver. As Alan gasped, the box suddenly began emitting a steady stream of beeps, alternating between those with and without extra treble. Then it began to melt.

“My lie-detector!” Alan cried. “My precious box! Child of my loins!”

The guards rushed forward. Randall stood up, waving the spike at them. “Stay back!” he ordered.

“That spike
is
kind of pointy,” said one of the guards, cautiously stepping back toward the door.

“I want to talk to the king,” said Randall, waving the spike some more because his newfound sense of power was intoxicating. “I'm not going to cause any problems like commenting on his dandruff or anything, I just need to talk.”

“You wrecked my box!” Alan said. “I can't believe you wrecked my box! Ten years I spent bribing wizards to make that for me!”

“Shall I go get one of the others out of the storage room?” asked a guard.

“No, don't bother. He'll just wreck that one, too.” Alan glared at Randall. “I have to admit, I don't quite believe your story. But I'm a nice guy, and I'm just going to assume that your destruction of my lie detector was an expression of rage toward magical technology and not an attempt to get out of telling the truth. I'll grant you an audience with the king. You may join him for lunch.”

“What're we having?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Can you find out?”

“No. Had you not threatened me with a spike, perhaps I would make the effort, but as things stand you're going to have to go into the meal blind.”

“Well, that's okay.” Randall set down the spike. “Do you think I could get a new set of clothes?”

“Certainly,” said Alan. “Clothes that tacky can always be replaced.”

IN ONE OF the more blatant coincidences of the land, almost all of the kings within a sixteen-kingdom area had the first name of Waldo. King Waldo of Mosiman, King Waldo of Lockhart, King Waldo of McNaughton, etc. Even King Herbert of Zulkosky ordered his subjects to call him Waldo because he felt it had great dignity. This use of the name Waldo had led to a terrible tragedy in the War That Happened Ten Years Ago, when all the Waldos went to war over the numbers after their name. Finally, they had reached an agreement to drop the numbers, though a king would still try to refer to himself as Waldo the Thirteenth (widely considered the coolest name) on occasion.

The king of Rainey, however, was named Irving. Irv for short, Irvington for long, Ir for very short. Feeling left out, he had decided to take the stance that Waldo was a rather silly name best reserved for nerds and the mentally ill. To make his point, he'd secretly formed the League of Waldos, a roving gang of thugs consisting of nerds and the mentally ill that went from kingdom to kingdom causing all kinds of trouble. It was his intent that this would give the name Waldo a bad name, which would then make him the most powerful king in the land.

So far, his plan had achieved approximately squat.

Which is why, as he sat at the table in the royal dining room, his thoughts were elsewhere.

“Your Highness?” prodded Alan.

“Huh? What?”

“I believe your thoughts were elsewhere, as shown by your glazed eyes and lolling tongue.”

“Oh, I guess you're right. How unregal of me.” He sat up and turned his attention to Randall. “So, squire, what was it you wished to tell me?”

“Well, as you know, I was accompanying Sir William on his errand to bring Princess Janice here.”

“I'll be darned! I
did
know that!” King Irving wasn't used to knowing what was going on.

“Anyway, there was a slight problem, and now they're lost in the Forest of Death.”

“Well, that doesn't sound so bad. I'll send ten of my best knights there to rescue them.”

“That won't be necessary,” Randall insisted. “I'm sure Sir William can handle the situation, and would be insulted if you were to send help.”

“Well, then, I'll send help but tell the knights to pretend it was a coincidence.”

“Sir William is not the kind of person who appreciates a good coincidence. You should hear him talk about all the Waldo kings.”

King Irving's eyelid twitched. “We can't just have him wandering around the Forest of Death. I hear that a woman named Scar who hangs around there is in possession of a deadly magic crystal.”

“I heard that was just a rumor.”

“No, no, it's the truth. Apparently the crystal used to be part of the legendary Necklace of Powerfulness.”

As Randall pondered this piece of information, the servers entered from the kitchen, holding bowls of soup, which they placed in front of Randall, Alan, and King Irving.

“Remember,” said one of the servers to King Irving, “at the bottom of your bowl is a happy face, so eat it all up!”

Randall looked down into his bowl. The soup was thick and sort of a pale orange color. “What is this?” he whispered to his server.

“Peel soup.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, the peels of fruits and vegetables are the most nutritious part, so that's what this soup is made from. Plus a special sauce.”

“That's disgusting.”

“Shhhhh. Eat up.”

The servers filed out of the room. Randall put his spoon into the soup, and was not pleased to find that the spoon could stand straight up without him holding it.

King Irving swallowed a spoonful. “Ahhh, delicious!” he proclaimed. “So delicious, in fact, that I would be extremely disappointed and unforgiving if my guest should feel differently about the soup and not finish the entire bowl.”

Randall scooped up a spoonful, and lifted it to his mouth. He smelled it. It made his nose hurt.

“So,” he began, “about that necklace crystal. You say it comes from the Necklace of Power?”

“Is that what I said, Alan?”

“No, Your Highness, that is not what you said.”

“Explain to our guest what I said.”

“He said it was the Necklace of Powerfulness.”

“That's exactly what I said.”

Randall continued to hold the spoon next to his mouth. “They're the same thing, right? Is it conceivable that if I were to, say, need the Necklace of Power really bad and were to, say, obtain the Necklace of Powerfulness instead, that it wouldn't make a difference?”

“Heck, I dunno. Eat your soup.”

Randall continued to hold the spoon next to his mouth. “I wonder if Sir William would appreciate me enjoying such a fine meal, while he's no doubt surviving on grubs.”

“That's not our problem. Go on, eat up.”

Randall continue to hold the spoon next to his mouth. Then, calling upon his full reserves of willpower, he placed the spoon inside his open mouth and closed his lips over it. He stayed in that position for a moment. Finally, he pulled the spoon out, leaving the soup behind.

He knew that spitting it out onto the table, gasping for breath, and shrieking “What psychopathic idiot in the kitchen thought this was edible?!?” would be quite a
faux pas
. As would simply keeling over. But, as desperately as he tried, his throat refused to admit the offending liquid, which meant that his tongue, clearly the suffering party, had to remain in soup-contact.

“Gak,” he said, not meaning to.

“Pardon me?” asked King Irving.

“Gurk,” Randall replied. He pointed across the table. As the king and Alan turned around to look, Randall leaned forward and spit the soup into the flower arrangement in the center of the table.

“What?” asked Alan.

“That painting,” said Randall, gesturing to a painting of a chicken that hung on the wall behind the king and Alan. “It's very artistic. Where'd you get it?”

“The queen did it,” said King Irving. “She says it symbolizes our lack of knowledge, since though the chicken lays an egg, we don't know which came first.”

“It could also symbolize transportation by crossing the road,” Randall pointed out.

“Shut up,” said the king.

Randall looked over at the open window. “Forgive me, but I've always wanted to see what the view is like from a royal dining room. Do you mind?”

“Go right ahead,” said the king.

Randall scooped up a mouthful of the soup, then stood up and walked over to the window. He leaned out, peering down at the commoners below, then spit out the repugnant fluid.

“Nice view from up here,” said Randall. “The people on the ground look like ants.”

“Yes, a rather unfortunate series of mutations,” said Alan. “Probably something in the water. Come to think of it, you might not want to drink any more.”

Randall sat back down at the table. There remained plenty of the hellish swill in his bowl. His stomach began to twist around like a balloon animal being formed. He could almost sense the soup mocking his taste buds, daring them to come closer ... closer....

There had to be someplace else to get rid of the soup. His pants seemed like a poor choice, though he was willing to try it if no other option surfaced.

The king lifted his bowl to his lips and began to slurp the remainder of the soup. Alan did the same. Randall lifted his bowl, shouted “Nervous twitch!” and hurled it across the room. The bowl shattered against the wall.

“Sorry.”

“That's quite a twitch you've got there,” King Irving remarked.

“I know. It's a terrible burden in social situations. Especially romantic ones. You'd be amazed how many amorous moments have been disrupted by my punching a potential lover. Though on one occasion it led our relationship into a whole new area.”