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By his second year, Simon’s architecture class had covered most of the basic types of floorplans and drafting effects. “Our topic today will be supplementary power requirements,” Professor Raine told them. “A building’s substructure provides a certain amount of energy to draft the floorplan as well as power utilities such as lighting and plumbing. However, floorplans with complex structures or functions may require extra energy to draft. There are a few ways to achieve this ...”
The class all looked expectantly at Simon. He chuckled. “The classic method is drafting gems.” He took an example out of his bag and passed it around. “I think we learn to make these next year? These days it’s done with blueprint paper, but I’ve seen some really old ones with the formulae engraved directly onto the crystals. The drawbacks are that they recharge slowly, so each gem can only be used once a day. And there’s a limit to how much energy they can hold, so some floorplans need more than one gem to draft.
“You can also have a floorplan that contains a power plant, such as a Boiler Room. That works best when you have heavy machinery to operate, and you need conduits in connecting floorplans to deliver the energy. And the last method I know is the redprint setup, which drains resources from elsewhere – either the drafter’s stamina, or other house functions. That never really caught on because it’s unpleasant.”
“Figures that the Fenns would come up with something like that,” Robart grumbled from the back of the room. The color was mostly a coincidence, but Simon couldn’t blame him for the assumption.
***
Simom’s classes also covered creating his own floorplans. His term project was going to be a Green room: an Herb Garden, based on suggestions from Mount Holly’s staff. He’d based it on the Courtyard, so it could be drafted on any tile of the house, with one less door to save on energy costs. It would appear more often if the Kitchen or Pantry was drafted.
He was currently sketching his design on plain paper, checking his formulae before commiting them to the specialised greenprint paper, whose dye contained reagents which would support plant life. He had chosen a quiet corner of the library so that he wouldn’t be disturbed.
Nevertheless, a group of three people approached his table; an older gentleman who looked vaguely familiar, and a man and woman in their thirties. “Mr Jones, could we have a word? My name is Lionel Epsen.”
“My great-uncle?” Of course – he looked familiar because he resembled the portraits of Lady Clara. All Simon knew about him was that he travelled the world and never set foot in Fenn Aires. In light of the family secrets Simon had learned, he supposed Lionel’s travels were not just for leisure.
“These are my associates, Mr Green and Miss White.” Simon nodded to them in cautious greetings.
“Does this have something to do with my mother’s family?”
Lionel said, “This will come as a shock, but my sister Clara wasn’t Mary’s birth mother.”
With innocent sarcasm, Simon said, “Are you about to tell me that my mother was secretly a princess and I’m the long-lost heir of the House of Desilets?”
All three gaped at him. “You – ”
“I don’t know you well enough to discuss private details of my life,” Simon said. “Let me warn you, though, I’m not going to become anyone’s figurehead.”
Mr Green frowned. “Your heritage – ”
Simon looked him in the eye. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not rejecting my heritage. But I’ll honor it in my own way, and I have people depending on me. Not many, but I owe it to them to be a leader and not just a symbol.”
“Well said,” Uncle Lionel told him.
“Huh?” asked Miss White. “Aren’t we trying to convince Mr Jones to join our cause?”
“On the contrary, what we must now ask Mr Jones, is to let us join his.”
***
He’d had only one witness to his coronation. Though the staff had returned to the manor by then, he’d asked them to stay clear in case something peculiar happened. Kirk Darren, his head of security, insisted on staying by his side. He stod watch as Simon struggled with the Cursed Figurine that made each step feel like he was wading through lead. And when Simon finally sat on the throne, they both watched the room’s black draperies shimmer and turn blue.
“If I had a sword, I’d offer it to you,” Darren said.
“A computer terminal doesn’t have the same gravitas, does it?” Simon replied.
***
Daniel Jones had never quite gotten used to the variable nature of Mount Holly. He’d visted often enough with Mary, and after Simon secured his inheritance, they had spent weekends and school breaks up at the manor. Daniel preferred to read in the Den while Simon tackled Uncle Herbert’s puzzles and made pretzels out of time and space. He often felt that he had little to offer on the path that Simon had chosen to walk. So when Simon asked for his help with one of his ventures ...
“Are you sure about doing this?” Simon asked.
“I’m sure. I had to keep my head down while you were growing up.” It had to be that way, in a land where even young children understood that it wasn’t safe to like any color but red. “You’ve grown into a fine young man, and you’ll make a fine king.”
The Sinclair clan had worked for generations, and Mary had given up everthing for this. And now, Daniel would be taking charge of the Marion Marigold Cultural Foundation. Its first project was to be a limited-edition printing of the original version of The Red Prince, and on the final page was the sigil of Simon’s nascent nation.
***
The disappearance of Marion Marigold still weighed on Bon Margle’s mind, more than a decade later. He’d been such a naive hotshot back then, so sure that uncovering her fate would lead to justice.
Well. Even then he’d known that while it was safer for a clever and ambitious commoner to join the Red Guard, and thus demonstrate loyalty to the flag, too much curiosity and too many scruples could get him in hot water.
He returned to Mount Holly with the clothes on his back and little else, as the one place he could reach which could leave the Guard with unanswered questions. He had walked through the night from Trinsdale, leaving no trace; when he passed the manor’s gates, dawn was breaking over the mountains. Bon sat heavily on the front steps, exhausted.
Minutes later, the front doors opened. The man there was one he’d met before: Security Chief Darren. He remebered Bon as well.
“Detecive Margle? “
“Just Mr Margle now; I’ve been fired.”
“Is that so? What brings you to Mount Holly at this hour?”
“I’ve come to beg for shelter. I’m very fired.”
“Huh. That’ll be up to his Lordship; lucky for you he’s in residence.” Darren let him sit inside and pioured him a cup of coffee. He dozed as the morning wore on, until at last he was summoned before the young Baron.
Bon had met Simon before, during his investigation; he had asked the child a few questions about his mother’s habits, in the hope of discovering a pattern. Now Simon was a sober young man, sitting at his great-uncle’s desk with conficence. There was no hint of red anywhere in the room; a framed watercolor of Swim Bird sat on the desktop.
“Your mother’s work?”
“Yes – the book won awards from adults, but honestly, at that age I would have rather been reading Guardsman Underpants. I’ve come to appreciate her stories more as I get older.” He smiled crookedly. “You made the paper, Mr Margle.”
He slid the newspaper across, and Bon skimmed the article. It was about what he expected, condemning him for treason and sedition on nebulous grounds. It wasn’t even over anything he’d done; a rival angling for a promotion had trumped up the charges to get rid of him.
“Mount Holly is the one place I hope could shield me from the Red Guard, if you see fit to grant me sanctuary.”
Simon studied him over clasped hands. “Sanctuary, huh? Not to dig up dirt on my family to buy your way back into the Guard?”
“No. Too many people will benefit from my departure; even if I brought them the Ruby Crown itself, it wouldn’t get me anything but a dungeon cell.” Bon took a deep breath; with his next words, he would make the accusations true. “I’ll throw myself on your mercy, and take your side against the Red Guard, should it come to that.”
“Will you swear to that?” Simon asked him.
“I will, Sir.” Bon paused to consider his phrasing. “I, Bon Margle, hereby renounce the Red Banner and all its works and instruments. And I shall serve, er,”
“The Blue Banner of Mount Holly,” Simon prompted,
“I shall serve the Blue Banner of Mount Holly faithfully, so witness the Eight.”
“So heard, so witnessed,” Simon replied, formal as the highest court.
***
“I hear you’ve sworn fealty to our young lord,” Darren said.
“Suppose I did, at that.” The Fenn government gave such oaths lip service at best. Simon, however, had assigned him the Guest Bedroom – assuming he could find it – as well as a small allowance. Though he couldn’t spend it anywhere but the manor, it was welcome. The house manager procured a few changes of clothes for him. And Simon gave him a blank Directory.
“See what it’s like when it’s not on lockdown. Oh, and that book you were looking for is in the library now.”
The uncensored version of the History of Orindia was a letdown. There were no explosive secrets behind the black bars, nothing that Bon would consider worth censoring. Just some petty sycophant determined not to say a single positive word about Orinda Aries or the House of Desilets.
The manor seemed to have even more floorplans now.
The Archives.
The Closed Exhibit.
The red letters.
The Throne Room.
It had to be a replica, right? The Coronation Relics, other than the Crown, were myths from eras long past, or so the Teskin regime would have one believe. But ... five gems to draft? Bon had never seen a floorplan that cost more than three. He had to know.
The room’s banners were blue.
Simon found him there, some time later, standing hat in hand before the empty throne. “I wondered whether you’d find this place.”
“Your Majesty.”
“I think you’re the first person to call me that,” Simon said. “The staff usually stick with ‘my Lord.’”
“Probably safer that way,” Bon said. The Red Guard had noted the Sinclair family’s eccentric political views, but not anything of this magnitude.
“It doesn’t mean much yet, anyway,” said Simon. “In a lot of ways, legitimacy is determined by the winners. Come on, I want to show you something.”
Bon, still caught on that tiny word yet, followed Simon first to the orchard, where he turned a gas valve, and then to the viewing platform that overlooked the valley, which now revealed a lift. Down they went, through a chamber with some sort of chess puzzle, and into a courtyard lined with statues. A monument stood at its center, and the inscription proclaimed it the tomb of King Desilets III. Bon gaped. “All this time ...”
“I’m fairly sure he’s my four-times-great grandfather,” Simon said. “No one wrote anything down, of course, but Princess Kaitlin was Mary’s birth mother.”
“You’re in the direct line.” The princess, he recalled, had died in Eraja under suspicious circumstances, less than a year after Mary Jones, nee Epsen (allegedly), was born. Bon remembered some of his superiors quietly celebrating the end of the Desilets line.“You’re trusting me with this?”
“I think you’ve made your choice, Mr Margle.”
“Guess I have, your Majesty.”