The Magician King_ A Novel - Lev Grossman [32]
“I apologize about earlier,” Elaine said. “Your Highness. About your being king.”
“Forget about it.” He refocused his attention on her with an effort and smiled. “I’m still getting used to it myself.”
“It would have been easier if you were wearing a crown.”
“I did for a while, but it was incredibly uncomfortable. And it always fell off at the most inappropriate moments.”
“I can imagine.”
“Christenings. Cavalry charges.”
Under the influence of the local moonshine he was beginning to find himself insouciantly charming. Le roi s’amuse.
“It sounds like a public nuisance.”
“It was practically an enemy of the state. Now I just maintain a kingly bearing. I’m sure you noticed that.”
It was difficult to make out her expression in the twilight. Mobs of exotic eastern stars were filling in the black sky overhead.
“Oh, it was unmistakable.”
She began rolling a cigarette. Were they flirting? She had to be at least fifteen years older than Quentin. Here he was afloat in the wild magical tropics of Fillory and he’d stumbled on the only cougar within 477 nautical miles. He wondered who Eleanor’s daddy was.
“Did you grow up here?” he asked.
“Oh, no. My parents were from the mainland—down around the Southern Orchard. I never knew my father. I’ve been in the diplomatic service forever. This is just another posting for me, I’ve been all over the empire.”
Quentin nodded sagely. He wasn’t aware that Fillory had a diplomatic service. He’d have to look into that when he got back.
“So do you get a lot of people coming through here? I mean from outside Fillory? Over the sea?”
“Sadly no. Actually I’ll tell you a terrible secret: no one has ever come through here, not as long as I’ve been at the embassy. In fact in the whole history of this office, three centuries of it, nobody has ever once passed through customs from across the Eastern Ocean. The records are completely blank. In that respect I suppose you’d have to call it a bit of a sinecure.”
“Well, what with there being no work and all.”
“It’s a shame, you should see the customs forms, they’re really magnificent. The letterhead alone. You should take some. And the stamp—I’ll stamp something for you in the morning. The stamp is an absolute masterpiece.”
The tip of her cigarette glowed in the dimness. Quentin was reminded of the last time he’d smoked, during the brief but vigorously hedonistic period when he’d lived in New York, three years ago. Her cigarette was sweet and fragrant. He asked for one. She had to roll it for him, he’d forgotten how. Or had he ever known? No, Eliot had a clever silver device that rolled them for you.
“I hate to bring this up,” Quentin said. “But there’s a reason why I’m here.”
“I thought as much. Is it that magic key business?”
“What? Oh. No, it’s not the magic key.”
She leaned back and put her feet up on a chest she used for a table.
“What then?”
“It’s about the money. The taxes. You didn’t send any last year. I mean the island didn’t.”
She burst out laughing—a big, openmouthed laugh. She leaned back and clapped her hands together once.
“And they sent you? They sent the king?”
“They didn’t send me. I’m the king. I sent myself.”
“Right.” She dabbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands. “You’re a bit of a micromanager, aren’t you? Well, I suppose you’re wondering where the money is. We should have sent it. We could have, no one’s in any danger of starving on the Outer Island. Tomorrow I’ll take you out to see the gold beetles. They’re amazing: they eat dirt and poop out gold ore. Their nests are made of gold!” She kicked the chest their feet were resting on. “Take this. It’s full of gold. I’ll throw in the chest for free.”
“Great,” Quentin said. “Thanks. It’s a deal.”
Mission accomplished. He took a drag on the cigarette and stifled a cough. It had been a very brief phase, his smoking period. Maybe he’d had too much of whatever this was. Rum?