Tin Horses and Paper Planes
Chapter 6 - Her Majesty's Displeasure
The more that he saw of the palace, the more Wyatt found himself
wondering if magic had gone into its construction. There seemed to be
more halls and vaulted ceilings than could be accounted for from the
outside, and every new turn of the passage brought a new curiosity into
view. Here was a small, circular courtyard containing a shallow
reflecting pool in which tiny, copper-coloured fish darted and shoaled,
appearing and disappearing as they passed over the bright mosaic
beneath. Here was a garden laid out as a rising spiral, a verdant
flight of tower stairs that vanished into a glass dome high above.
He
hadn't explored this part of the palace before, but DG had told him
about the tower garden. At the apex of the lush helix, a single
Liaph-C'nul - rare and distant cousin to the Borganavie of the Papay's
well-tended orchards - spread branches filled with pale-green,
soft-skinned fruit. Wyatt had never tried the fruit himself, but
recalled the Mystic Man receiving a small basket of them - a gift from
the Queen - during his time on the wise man's protection detail. His
friend, Reg Knowles, known to the other Tin Men as 'Copper' for his
unmistakeable ginger hair, had been in charge of checking the Mystic
Man's food, and had reported the taste to be somewhere between peaches
and strawberries, and the Liaph fruits themselves to be almost too
pretty to cut up.
"Something on the skins," he'd told Wyatt,
looking slightly embarrassed. "A kind of radiance, almost. Like they
were covered with powdered mica."
Wyatt hadn't ribbed Copper too
badly about his aesthetic sensitivities, and now he thought he could
appreciate what the other man had meant. The suns were high in the sky,
and the light that descended from the top of the tower garden was laden
with soft, gauzy veils of shimmering dust. If sights like this had once
been commonplace in the ancient OZ, it wasn't hard to see why OZians of
the time had believed themselves to inhabit some kind of Fairyland.
He
was careful to keep his expression neutral, lest he seem like a
rubbernecking hick on his first visit to Central City. The Tin Man was
useful for that; in a tight spot, you didn't want to show any emotion
that could give away your next move, and the slow, measured way of
speaking that marked Wyatt out as a country boy had cooled off plenty
of tense situations in the past. Talk slow, but think fast.
He'd always stuck to that, unlike Zero, who had been born in a small
town a few hours' ride from the Cain ranch, but who had taken to the
City like a pike to water, quickly adopting the local fashions and
modes of speech. Selling out was your style from the start. I can't think why I was suprised when you turned traitor.
They had arrived at the end of a hall and the servant turned. "I will see if Her Majesty is ready to receive you."
Five minutes ago you were champing at the bit to get me here. Now you want me to wait for her?
As the servant vanished into the room ahead, Wyatt looked around, ready
to take in a new wonder. Once again, the palace provided: the double
doors in front of him were dark, polished wood, elaborately carved with
a flowing design - birds, animals and people, which streamed out in
complicated scrolls and loops from the handles, which were... What were
they? Wyatt narrowed his eyes. Dragons, maybe, although they might have
been birds or winged people. It was hard to tell; the two figures were
intertwined in a manner that was bordering on erotic, and it was only
when he looked closely that he could see how the puzzle of wings and
limbs interlocked.
"A fine work, no? That door - four hundred
annuals or more, and still it has not lost it's glow." Wyatt
straightened up and turned to find himself belt-buckle to face with a
tiny, dapper man whose hair appeared to have been stealthily making its
way down his head for some time. The dome of his skull was entirely
bald, and shone pinkly in the lamplight, but his eyebrows were bushy,
and his beard was curly and jutted forward as though to offer observers
his chin. The little man regarded Wyatt with keen interest.
Wyatt
had encountered Munchkins before; while the majority of them kept to
their settlements in the depths of the vast forests between Central
City and the Black Mountains to the East, there were some who had
gravitated to the city itself, and a thriving little community had
sprung up near the river's edge, referred to as 'Munchkinland', or, by
some - who resented their odd, secretive neighbours - rather
disdainfully as 'the Lollipop Guild', because of their bright,
ornately-decorated houses. The city's Munchkins seldom needed the
attentions of a Tin Man; they were as lively and territorial as
blackbirds, but seemed to be able to police their insular society quite
adequately without having to call on the help of the law. Nevertheless,
there had been occasions when Wyatt had had cause to patrol along the
streets on the edge of the shallow gorge, and he had ceased to notice
their exotic attire and inexplicable customs and viewed them just like
any other inhabitant of the city.
There was something piercing in the Munchkin's gaze, a sharp intelligence that left Wyatt momentarily at a loss for words. I hope you're not expecting me to answer in rhyme. I don't do poetry.
He cleared his throat. "They look like they're dancing," he ventured,
nodding towards the elaborate design. "It's quite a piece of work."
"Dancing?
Yes! The dance of bird and beast and Man has never ceased since time
began, and each Idea that springs to life and spreads its wings becomes
a part - distinct and clear, yet intertwined - of one great Mind, or
Universal Heart."
Listening to the little man's lilting speech, Wyatt was reminded of the Mystic Man. Not that he used to spout poetry, but it's the same old cosmic bullshit I used to get from him.
I'll
take your word for it," he said diplomatically, wondering if it was
possible for the Munchkin to open his mouth without sounding like the
riddle in a Solstice cake. I can't keep thinking of him as 'the Munchkin'.
He put his hand out, hoping that the gesture wasn't perceived as
hostile amongst Munchkins. "I'm Wyatt Cain. Are you waiting to see the
Queen, too?"
He was subjected to another shrewd stare, then
Wyatt's hand was briskly shaken. "Iskra waits for me, not I for Her,
but She has need of my advice - a matter grave indeed and Doctor Spicer
is my name. Yes, I recall you Wyatt Cain - you're nearly all the mjesanc cares to talk about. Our purpose here, I have no doubt: to give Her some idea of how he fares."
He
was stretching it a bit with 'name' and 'Cain', Wyatt thought, but the
observation was rapidly pushed aside to make room for other, more
pressing things. This was the personal physician DG had mentioned. And he calls her 'Iskra'. Not 'Her Majesty'. That's pretty personal. And there'd been a word he hadn't been able to make out - mess-ang,
or something close to that - and it was obvious he was talking about
Glitch. What did Spicer mean? Was that the Munchkin word for
'zipperhead'?
"I only -" The double doors swung silently inward,
and they were beckoned inside before Wyatt could finish. It was
probably for the best; he'd been about to preface his question with 'I
only know a little Munchkin' and, on reflection, that might not have
gone down so well.
The doors had promised something grand, and
the chamber beyond didn't disappoint. Dominated by a horseshoe-shaped
table, which appeared to be one seamless piece of wood - but surely
there was no tree large enough in the whole of the OZ to supply such a
thing - the room was encircled by several tiers of carved wooden
seating and lit on every side by high windows that were quartered into
coloured panes - red, blue, yellow and purple, a small diamond of green
marking the intersection. It was obviously a room for weighty meetings
and audiences, but Wyatt couldn't help but compare it to the city's
Crown Court and it was clear enough, as he approached the head of the
table, who was on trial. Queen Iskra sat waiting, a small frown
creasing her elegant brow. Krantz was standing off to one side, and
there was an air of triumph in his posture.
"Doctor Spicer,
please sit down. Mr Cain, Doctor Krantz has been telling Us the most
alarming things. He says you refuse to let him treat Ambrose, and have
been deliberately obstructing his work. Is this true?" The Queen fixed
him with a level lavender stare, and Wyatt returned the gaze calmly,
ignoring the smirk oiling its way across Krantz's face. Don't think
you're gonna unnerve me, Ma'am. I've been hauled over the coals by the
Chief Constable himself, and this doesn't even come close.
"Did
Doctor Krantz tell you that his 'work' consists of putting Ambrose
through all kinds of hell and talking to him like he's a moron? I guess
he was a little selective with the details." That ought to knock the smug look off your face. "Your Majesty," he added, as an afterthought. The lines on the Queen's forehead deepened, and she turned to Krantz.
"Doctor?
We trust you have an explanation?" Wyatt could almost see the cogs
turning in Krantz's head as he formulated a response. It was only a
fraction of a second before the self-assured expression reasserted
itself, then the doctor bowed his head in gracious affirmation.
"Your Majesty, Mr Cain is not a medical man. He is not even an educated
man. How can he be expected to understand anything of the delicate and
complicated investigations I'm undertaking?" He spread his hands in a
pantomime of helplessness. "To a layman, perhaps, the tests might seem
harsh, perhaps even a little frightening. But they are entirely
necessary if I'm to identify the reasons behind... Ambrose's sickness."
Again, the pause was infinitesimal, but Wyatt had questioned enough
suspects to pick up on even the briefest hesitation.
That's right, you son of a bitch. He's got a name.
He eyed the doctor coldly. "It doesn't take a fancy education to know
when someone's being patronised. You could see he was worried about
that mask thing, but did you take the time to explain what you were
doing? N-"
"As a matter of fact, I explained everything to him,"
Krantz interrupted smoothly. "You must have realised by now, Mr Cain,
that a zipperhead's memory is seldom reliable at the best of times, and
Ambrose can hardly retain a fact from one minute to the next. I won't
deny the test might have been uncomfortable, but one learns, in the
medical profession, to set aside sentimentality and do what must be
done. If that means insisting a child takes his medicine, no matter how
much he cries that it tastes bad, so be it."
Wyatt felt his teeth grind together. I pity any kid unlucky enough to have you for a doctor.
"That stuff in the mask wasn't medicine - I could smell it all the way
out into the hall. And those lights - he tells you his head's hurting
and you flash a damn great light in his eyes." He saw the Queen's
expression stiffen with disapproval, and affected not to notice. "He
was t-" No. Glitch might have been terrified, but there was no way
Wyatt was going to say that in front of Krantz. "He was distressed and
confused, and all you did was make it worse."
Spicer, who had
remained silent since entering the hall, cleared his throat. "I must
confess, I'd like to know what all these tests are meant to show. And
if the doctor can report some measure of success."
Krantz stared at the little man. You don't have the first clue how to deal with a Munchkin, do you? 'specially one who's smart as you are.
Wyatt thought, but he held his tongue, waiting to see if Spicer would
get a straight answer. The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose, a
heartfelt sigh escaping him.
"Doctor Spicer, I would be
delighted to be able to tell you that I have a firm diagnosis. But
while my work is subject to interference and interruption, however
well-intentioned, my hope of success is minuscule." He glanced meaningfully towards Wyatt, who bristled silently.
The
problem is a guy called Krantz. He went and blew his only chance, and
if I can't knock out his teeth, I'd like to kick him in the pants. And
that's why I don't do poetry.
"The lights and scent
described by Mr Cain - am I correct in saying your intent was that
these potent stimuli should cause a state of seizure? Could it be that
you suspect the falling bane or cognate malaise of the brain?" Doctor
Spicer tilted his head, a small, bird-like motion. Wyatt found himself
warming to the man, if only because it was clear to him that Krantz
would rather he wasn't there, but he wasn't so sure he liked what he
was hearing.
"Wait... all this was to try and make him have another seizure? Are you crazy? What the hell did you think you were playing at? You ought to be-"
"Mr
Cain," the Queen spoke sharply, but Wyatt ignored her, striding over
and slamming his hands down on the long table, as close to Krantz as he
could get without vaulting the obstruction. There was a sudden
commotion from the uppermost row of seats on his left; a pair of
uniformed guards, whom Wyatt could have sworn weren't there when he
arrived, were making their way hastily down the steps towards the
Queen. She raised a hand, and they came to a reluctant halt, guard dogs
stopped short by an unexpected leash.
Apparently unaware of the
byplay, Krantz had also stepped forward, his hands clasped behind him.
"I'll try to use small words, and we'll see if they penetrate that
thick skull of yours. I can't help your friend if I'm not sure what's
wrong with him. If flashing lights, or loud noise, or the peppermint
oil had triggered a seizure, I'd be closer to finding the nature of the
problem. Any of this sinking in, is it?" he enquired, in a voice
dripping with disdain.
Doctor Spicer jumped down from his chair,
the net effect being to make him a couple of inches shorter than he'd
been when seated. "Gentlemen, I must protest! I heartily object to your
aggressive tones. Remember that you're not alone; Her Majesty demands
respect! We're here at Her requ-"
"Now it all makes sense."
Wyatt hadn't taken his eyes off Krantz. "I guess I wasn't paying
attention when he collapsed. Lucky you were here to see the fireworks
and all the people tossing around flasks of stinking oil." Krantz
raised a brow, a small, contemptuous smile playing about his lips.
"Perhaps he's affected by the smell of barnyard anim-"
"Gentlemen!"
The Queen's voice was frosty. "This childish bickering is beneath you
both. Ambrose's welfare is our common concern; can we not put aside
these quarrels?"
At once, Krantz bowed, manufacturing a look of
contrition that Wyatt longed to bury his knuckles in. "Your Majesty is
right, of course. I apologise, Mr Cain. I spend so much of my time
amongst learned men; it's easy to forget that our actions and decisions
can seem obscure to others. But I promise you, Ambrose's condition is
my sole concern. I am not a doctor so jaded by the suffering and pain
around me that I have lost all traces of compassion. I do truly
understand the value of his life."
The whole little speech was
delivered with a slick sincerity that Wyatt siezed upon immediately,
hunting for the edges of the lie. Is anybody else falling for this crap?
By the looks of it, they were - the Queen and Spicer were both looking
at him expectantly. "All I care about is Ambrose," he said quietly.
"Maybe all the tests are necessary, I don't know. But I do know what
Ambrose has been through, and he deserves to be treated with kindness
and respect. I won't stand by and do nothing while Doctor Compassion
here bullies him..." he knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as
the words left his lips, but the Queen's stern look was somehow more
infuriating than Krantz's piousness "...even if you will."
The
Queen's voice was as brittle and chilly as an icicle. "Doctor Krantz,
you may go - I'm sure you have a great deal to do. Spicer min hera lijest. Ako mal, ga til-a Amb'r oess. Sjes med, ül' enjevaad."
Spicer made a perfunctory bow and made his way out across the
mosaic-patterned floor, darting a furtive glance towards Wyatt.
Krantz's bow was more florid, and his expression deferential - at least
until the Queen could no longer see his face.
"Do you
really care, farm boy? Or is it just that all that straw in his head
reminds you of home?" he muttered under his breath as he passed Wyatt,
who stared straight ahead, teeth clenched.
I'm onto you, Sunshine. I throw a punch and get myself sent away, and you carry on busily doing nothing.
He waited for the gloating doctor to close the door behind him,
counting slowly and silently, waiting for the Queen to make the next
move.
At last, she did. "Leave us." It was a moment before
Wyatt realised that she was talking to the guards, and they were
clearly as surprised as he was, because they didn't move immediately,
and the Queen gestured impatiently at them. "Go! We are in no danger
from Mr Cain."
Lady, right now, I wouldn't be sure of anything. Wyatt watched her stolidly as she rose from her seat, moving gracefully around the table to stand in front of him.
"We
sent them away, Mr Cain, because We did not wish them to hear what We
have to say to you, and in that, We think, We show you more courtesy
than you have shown Us. You are a guest in this place, and yet you
speak to Us with a temerity that is quite frankly astonishing. Do you
account Us responsible for Ambrose's present condition?" She stared up
at him coolly, and Wyatt gazed back, looking for the flicker.
Just one guilty little tell-tale... And there it was; her eyes flitted away from his for an instant. Let's see if there's still a palace underneath Ice Mountain.
"You mean the seizures, or the zipper?" Iskra drew in a sharp breath
and Wyatt relented, pulling the punch at the last minute, adding "I
don't think you're to blame for either, Your Majesty. But I don't think
you're doing right by him now. He needs the best there is, and Krantz-"
"Doctor
Krantz has come to Us from the Central City School of Science, from the
Royal Hospital itself. They send only their most qualified and
respected members to represent them at Our birthday celebration. It is Tradition." Wyatt's eyebrows shot up.
"You mean you haven't checked up on him? You don't even know if he's the best they've got?" You married an Othersider. When did you get so precious about tradition?
The
Queen looked affronted. "Your years spent amongst the criminal element
have left you with a suspicion that is not warranted here. You are not
a Tin Man now, Mr Cain."
"I spent eight years locked in an iron suit, and that left me with a suspicion that's warranted everywhere." Guess I can forget that job offer, DG - I don't think I'm suited to high society. "And all that time, Glitch was living hand to mouth in the wilderness bec-"
"Don't call him that!" There was a fracture in the wall of ice, and Wyatt caught a glimpse of dismay and, beneath that, revulsion.
"Seems
to me you're more worried about the formalities than you are about
making sure he's being looked after properly. How many times have you
been to see him since he got sick?" For that matter, how many times have you been to see him since the eclipse? He'd hit a nerve, that much was clear. The Queen was white with shock and anger, but Wyatt was furious. "I saw his memory, the day they took him away to be headcased. He gave up everything he was for the OZ. For you. And now he needs you to look out for him, you act as if he's caught some kind of contagious disease..."
"You go too far! I care a great deal about Ambrose - you have no right to suggest otherwise. Whatever he needs, I-"
"What he needs is a new doctor, because the one he's got right now is no damn use."
The
Queen glared at him. "It is the Royal Prerogative to decide who attends
to the health of Our staff, Mr Cain. It is not your concern."
Wyatt felt heat rising in his face. "Your staff? He was your friend." He looked at the Queen in disgust. "I guess memory loss is
contagious. You can stick your Royal Prerogative where it won't cast a
shadow. Your Majesty." And he turned on his heel and left the Queen
staring, open-mouthed, after him.