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There rose the city of Verdopolis!
The Douro puppet, who had diamond chips for eyes, slapped his sword against the stage. A loud bang sounded and a puff of green smoke billowed out into the night, making everyone cough till they were nearly sick all over the garden. When it cleared, a pretty model of the capital of Glass Town stood at Douro’s feet, all spangled green towers and houses and steeples. Applause rippled round, for it had been a rather good trick, even if their eyes still smarted. But Lady Zenobia did not blink. The white flames of her eyes burned the smoke away. She was not clapping.
“I am heir to Northangerland,” she growled. “And that skinny little craven pepper pot knows it. My grandfather had just as much hand in Verdopolis as Douro and bloody well more than Calabar. Wellesley and Zamorna designed the Tower of All Nations in the Great Square! Even Bonaparte laid the bricks of the wall with his own hands. How can Wellesley snooze on his lion over there while this brat insults his family? What is this rubbish?”
But the current Marquis of Douro seemed pleased enough. He smiled tightly and waved his ashen hand, recognizing the honor Young Soult meant to do him with his poetry.
Emily raised her eyebrow at Byron. Was this what he wanted her to see? It didn’t seem much, and was taking an awfully long time to get to the point.
“Wait,” he assured her.
But the next verse did not move things along much.
Thus the years passed, as they do,
With sons and grandsons numberless,
New Douros and Boneys born
To all their ancestors possessed.
“Yes?” Lord Byron groused, rolling his eyes. “That is how inheritance works. Thank you so much for explaining it. Whatever would we do without you, Soulty? Get on with it, man! Exposition does not become us!”
A new puppet dangled down. This one had a long, wicked nose, cruel eyes, and wore a black cloak lined in red. All the ancient Lords shrank back from it, save Douro and Bonaparte. Drops of Young Soult’s sweat began to drip onto the planks of the little stage.
“Here we are!” Lord Byron chortled. He leaned forward eagerly. “Now the beef ’s on the plate!”
But ho! What’s this? Who now intrudes
Upon our happy scene?
I say! It is the very devil!
With his fangs and hooves . . . er . . . unclean.
What crawls from out the darkness
Of the frail and mortal heart?
Foul AMBITION comes at night
To tear our peace apart!
“Almost skidded off the road there, lad,” Rogue smirked. “Also, there were eight Lords, you dolt.” He turned to his beloved. “That cretin forgot Elseraden and Almadore. And of course it’s the Gondal nobles tossed on the rubbish heap. But Calabar sneaks in? That fat fool hit his head on a rock jumping off his stupid boat onto the beach at Gaaldine and died before they even got around to naming the place!”
Zenobia and Gravey blinked curiously at Rogue.
“Why should you care?” the Leftenant whispered. “Forget Gondal!?
?
But the crowd roared over whatever answer the Sergeant Major gave. However poor the poetry, the story got their blood up. Highborn ladies threw bits of their feasts at the stage as though they were in the cheap seats of a bawdy dance hall. Earls and Barons shouted in English, French, and highly unauthorized mixes of the two. The miniature Bonaparte rattled his saber-arms and waggled a long, velvet tongue. Soult put on an obnoxiously over-the-top voice for his Bonaparte puppet. Charlotte felt so embarrassed for him she turned her eyes away. Napoleon doesn’t even sound like that! she thought grumpily at the grass.
Eez not enuf to own all zis,
To rule Gondal wiz me dainty fist
One country? Pfft! Iz nothing muches!
