Part 21 (1/2)

”People don't like it.”

The d.u.c.h.ess exploded. ”What does that matter?” she roared. ”We rule! They will do what we say or they will be pitilessly executed!”

The Fool bobbed and capered and waved his hands in a conciliatory fas.h.i.+on.

”But, my love, we will run out of people,” murmured the duke.

”No need, no need!” said the Fool desperately. ”You don't have to do that at all! What you do is, you-” he paused for a moment, his lips moving quickly-”you embark upon a far-reaching and ambitious plan to expand the agricultural industry, provide long-term employment in the sawmills, open new land for development, and reduce the scope for banditry.”

This time the duke looked baffled. ”How will I do that?” he said.

”Chop down the forests.”

”But you said-”

”Shut up, Felmet,” said the d.u.c.h.ess. She subjected the Fool to another long, thoughtful stare.

”Exactly how,” she said, eventually, ”does one go about knocking over the houses of people one does not like?”

”Urban clearance,” said the Fool.

”I was thinking of burning them down.”

”Hygienic urban clearance,” the Fool added promptly. urban clearance,” the Fool added promptly.

”And sowing the ground with salt.”

”Marry, I suspect that is hygienic urban clearance and a program of environmental improvements. It might be a good idea to plant a few trees as well.”

”No more trees!” shouted Felmet.

”Oh, it's all right. They won't survive. The important thing is to have planted them.”

”But I also want us to raise taxes,” said the d.u.c.h.ess.

”Why, nuncle-”

”And I am not your nuncle.”

”N'aunt?” said the Fool.

”No.”

”Why...prithee...you need to finance your ambitious program for the country.”

”Sorry?” said the duke, who was getting lost again.

”He means that chopping down trees costs money,” said the d.u.c.h.ess. She smiled at the Fool. It was the first time he had ever seen her look at him as if he was other than a disgusting little c.o.c.kroach. There was still a large element of c.o.c.kroach in her glance, but it said: good little c.o.c.kroach, you have learned a trick.

”Intriguing,” she said. ”But can your words change the past?”

The Fool considered this.

”More easily, I think,” he said. ”Because the past is what people remember, and memories are words. Who knows how a king behaved a thousand years ago? There is only recollection, and stories. And plays, of course.”

”Ah, yes. I saw a play once,” said Felmet. ”Bunch of funny fellows in tights. A lot of shouting. The people liked it.”

”You tell me history is what people are told?” said the d.u.c.h.ess.

The Fool looked around the throne room and found King Gruneberry the Good (906-967).

”Was he?” he said, pointing. ”Who knows, now? What was he good he?” he said, pointing. ”Who knows, now? What was he good at at? But he will be Gruneberry the Good until the end of the world.”

The duke was leaning forward in his throne, his eyes gleaming.

”I want to be a good good ruler,” he said. ”I want people to like me. I would like people to remember me fondly.” ruler,” he said. ”I want people to like me. I would like people to remember me fondly.”

”Let us a.s.sume,” said the d.u.c.h.ess, ”that there were other matters, subject to controversy. Matters of historical record that had...been clouded.”

”I didn't do it, you know,” said the duke, quickly. ”He slipped and fell. That was it. Slipped and fell. I wasn't even there. He attacked me. It was self-defense.” His voice fell to a mumble. ”I have no recollection of it at this time,” he murmured. He rubbed his dagger hand, although the word was becoming inappropriate.

”Be quiet, husband,” snapped the d.u.c.h.ess. ”I know you didn't do it. I wasn't there with you, you may recall. It was I who didn't hand you the dagger.” The duke shuddered again.

”And now, Fool,” said Lady Felmet. ”I was saying, I believe, that perhaps there are matters that should be properly recorded properly recorded.”

”Marry, that you were not there at the time?” said the Fool, brightly.

It is true that words have power, and one of the things they are able to do is get out of someone's mouth before the speaker has the chance to stop them. If words were sweet little lambs, then the Fool watched them bound cheerfully away into the flame-thrower of the d.u.c.h.ess's glare.

”Not where where?” she said.

”Anywhere,” said the Fool hastily.

”Stupid man! Everyone is somewhere.”

”I mean, you were everywhere but at the top of the stairs,” said the Fool.

”Which stairs?”

”Any stairs,” said the Fool, who was beginning to sweat. ”I distinctly remember not seeing you!”

The d.u.c.h.ess eyed him for a while.

”So long as you remember it,” she said. The d.u.c.h.ess rubbed her chin, which made an audible rasping noise.

”Reality is only weak words, you say. Therefore, words are reality. But how can words become history?”