“I was quite famous, before my eyes started to go,” the woman said proudly. “Sailors—captains—people from all over the world would come to see me, them that could afford it. As far away as Kikunari! Oh, I did some amazing things…an entire circus for a girl in Lesser Gaulica…Ah, well. Now I’m selling apples to make ends meet. At least I have my little house and orchard by the sea. And my own teeth. There’s them as have far less.”
“What a fascinating story,” Ariel breathed. She could already hear the song in her head: something about an artist in a shack by the ocean, whose pictures came alive off her arms and kept her company…Porpoises that dove into the waves, gulls that flew off her skin and into the air and…
…and squawked?
Ariel jumped. A real gull had broken her reveries: it had landed on a roof nearby and was flapping its wings and making noises at her. Jona.
“I must go,” she said, throwing the sack of fruit over her shoulder as gracefully as she could. Things in this world were heavy. “But I will see you again.”
“I pray you do,” the woman said softly.
The mermaid smiled to herself as she walked away, wondering when the woman would find the satchel of gems and coins that she had left on the stand where the apples had been.
He gnawed on his quail leg contemplatively, thinking about the strange meeting with the metalworkers, and of misty fantasy mountains, and of how much simpler life would be if he were a sailor, or a metalworker, or a real prince who went out and found dragons.
Suddenly he leapt up and strode out of the room, feeling something akin to panic.
The halls were filled with strange people. He didn’t remember it being like this before…before he was married. Some looked at him—the prince—suspiciously. Men in dark breeches and boots barely gave him a passing glance and whispered behind gloved hands. Representatives from eastern districts walked with broad steps and wore more traditional garb, loose shirts and broad leather belts. These gave the prince a nod at least. Women with waists so tiny and tight it was hard to see how they could breathe minced along in skirts too wide to easily fit through doors.
“Who are all these people?” Eric asked, more confused than ever. “When did they all start showing up in my castle?”
But of course, it all started when everything that was bad had started…
“…the night of my wedding.” He paused, consciously directing his thoughts to that day. He replayed memories that were so dusty and unused they sprang up clear and glossy, unmarred by use or the merciful editing of time. Each moment played like…a play.
There really was a mermaid. And a mer—uh, man? La Sirenetta was all real?
A pair of soldiers walked by, and didn’t even bother to salute the prince.
Am I mad? Eric wondered, feeling like a ghost as real life played on around him.
“Excuse me, I need your signature here, Your Highness.” A stalk-thin man held out a small board with a paper neatly tacked to it, and a quill. He at least sees me, Eric thought dryly. “The dynamite from Druvest. I hate to bother you, but the vendor must get back on the next boat…”
“Dynamite? The…explode-y stuff?” Eric winced at how stupid he sounded. But he couldn’t think of any other way of asking.
“Yes, Your Highness. It’s part of the new munitions order. Much more exciting than the bill for oats from Bretland I signed in your name last week, if I may say so. All new technology! What a world we live in.”
“Yes, what a world,” Eric repeated darkly. “No, I will not sign this now. I need to review our accounts first. No more orders for anything military without my review.”
The man started to protest but saw the look in Eric’s eyes. He chose instead to bow and back away. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Eric sighed. He had read about dynamite, of course, and the idea was exciting—like firecrackers but bigger.
Much, much bigger.
And without the pretty colored sparkles.
When had Eric agreed to such an order?
Why did he know that those two who hurried by him now, the ones in red jackets from Eseron, were there to discuss a potential alliance, allowing Tirulia to trade up through the northwest in case their land grab directly north failed?
For how many years had he been under the spell? Five? Six?
Air. He needed air. Sweet sea air.
The prince stumbled through the halls, desperately trying to undo his buttons, trying not to knock into anyone. Everyone. He ripped off the jacket and threw himself onto the first balcony he could find.