Sly was glum, as glum as he’d ever been in his life. After tense hours with testy officials in a stuffy room, he’d followed his embattled superior down a secret stair and through a door that provided unobserved access to serene formal gardens.

         Batten the hatches, boy, he told himself. You’re in for a real blow this time. Keep your trap shut. Smile. Nod. Get through it.

         He knew well – damn well - what to expect. “Lord Above,”1 he groaned. “Enough upset for one day. No more, please.” He attempted a diversionary tactic, a string of acidic quips assessing the intellects of the men they’d just been sparring with. In response, he got annoyed shrugs and a variety of mirthless sounds, snorts, snarls, and sighs aplenty.

         In his best nothing-fazes-me voice he exclaimed, “Sir! This is a bad business. We must ponder a response, certainly, but I’m not up to it just now. Let’s shrug off this sour mood and enjoy what’s left of a beautiful afternoon. We’ll go at it tomorrow. What do you say?”

         The old man tramped sullenly along the brickwork path. Sly followed dutifully. Finally, behind a dense hedge, the graybeard bent low, a hand cupped on one knee to steady himself nose to nose with his diminutive associate. The other hand clutched his cloak tight at his throat. His thin lips were contorted in a deep frown. “Look here,” he spat. “You would abandon me to those fat-heads? I refuse to believe it.”

         The hunched form, indifferently braced, was tettering, but his underling did not back off. “Let me slip away,” he hissed. “It’s all my fault. These fools are in revolt against me, not you. The most of them are good men. I am willing to assign them the least foul of motives; they are fearful. You and I have been too flagrant in our unnatural association. That bastard has given them an issue to rally around. The sudden accord of ones normally at each other’s throats is the closest they dare come to a bald rebuke. Once I’m out of the picture they'll they’ll revert to their fractious ways, for this proposal is, unquestionably, indecent.”

         “Don’t leave me!” begged the anguished ancient. He lurched toward a stone bench, collapsed onto it, and buried his face in his hands. “Holy Mother,” he moaned, “steel my spine, as you did that of the Friar of Carcassonne.”2

         Sly bowed his head in an approximation of reverence. “A fine kettle of fish,” he muttered. D’Ollot’s latest assault was a honey. He had to admire the creativity of the man, if nothing else. “This new joke,” he growled, “is a shot across the bow. The spark grows bolder by the hour, encouraged by your goodwife’s – I use the term loosely - support. This stunt, meant to humiliate you, is the first salvo in a power struggle, make no mistake. Fine. Fiddle this tune. Here’s what I advise: condemn the depravity, but do not attempt to obstruct. Whatever you do, he’ll find a way to use it against you. Look the other way. Let me handle it. All manner of things can go wrong. Will go wrong. I have my own nasty ways, and you know it.”

         “Do I not!” moaned the grizzard.

         “I can’t predict the exact nature of my intervention but, whatever happens, no blame will be laid at your door. I’ll see to that.”

         “No blame? What do I say to Saint Peter, standing sentry on the door to Joy Eternal, when the inevitable hour overtakes me?”

         “Let’s not dig into that bucket of worms, please. I’ve heard enough nonsense for one day.”

         “I’ll tell you what he’ll say!” the old man screamed. “He’ll say, you saw to your own selfish needs? You looked the other way while the faith of thousands was compromised? Worse, you failed to hinder the corruption of the innocents? Begone, scoundrel! No, my oh-so-clever friend. No! I will not tolerate the deviltry. Never!”

         The wailed remonstrance brought attendants running. Anticipating the assault, Sly had crept into a swath of mounded petunias. He lay low as his wild-eyed companion raged and shook a fist at the cloud-strewn expanse of blue slowly dulling to grey, the perhaps observant, possibly occasionally responsive, all that good stuff, but more likely deadoblivious to our hopes and woes, the celestial space widely rumored to be the safe harbor, after the storm-tossed sea of life, commonly known as heaven.3

*

         Attendants! Is the wobble an inmate of an asylum? You will think so when I tell you that he’s been talking to a cat. Sly, Sylvester Boots, happens to be a cat that talks, I swear to God. Swallow that – I’ll have arguments in support of the assertion by and by - and nothing else in my tale will throw you. 

         Jakome, that’s the wreck’s name, is no ordinary sad-sack. He’s a king, I’m afraid, a not terribly effective one. He’s a gentle soul. He hasn’t a ruthless bone in his body. That’s not good when you’re king, not good at all.

        Jak was not the monarch he’d been, not by a long shot, and what he’d been had never been impressive. Always timid, he had become alarmingly withdrawn. His new habit was to brush long bangs into his eyes, using the heavy crown to hold the screen in place, to conceal the panic that pinched his brow whenever he was forced to commit to a course of action. Full of confusions, the man was often unable to respond to a question until the cat hopped onto his lap and whispered instructions. Circumspect was the kindest thing that could be said of him. His conduct went beyond the usual royal fatuity. It could not be branded judicious temporizing, nor cunning dissimulation, nor, least of all, innocuous bafflement. It was dangerous dithering. Even his friends conceded that he was unfit to rule. But they propped him on the throne for the son was no better, and might easily be worse.

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