“Soon to be married to the youngest daughter of the King of Pryggia!” cried the second.
“It’s the social event of the season!” proclaimed the third.
“Precisely,” said Magrit. “Relax, Greyboar. I’ve timed this escapade so that just about everybody in the Embassy’s going to be stinking drunk in the ballroom, all the way across the castle from where you’re doing your business. Satisfied?”
“But will this Gauphin fellow agree to help us?” asked Ignace. “I mean, I don’t see why he should. It’s a bit risky for him, and I don’t see where he gets anything out of it.”
“Nonsense!” stated the fourth. “He’ll gain the respect and admiration of the toiling poor of Pryggia, who’ll certainly pass word of his deed through every hovel and garret of the city.”
“Though, ’tis true, this respect and admiration won’t translate into purchases of his paintings,” commented the fifth.
“Which are priced beyond the reach of the common folk,” elaborated the sixth.
“But whose displeasure, should he fail in his patriotic duty, will certainly be felt in the galleries and salons where his paintings are bought by the stinking rich,” developed the first.
“The which salons and galleries will, every one of ’em, be picketed by the irate plebeian citizenry,” predicted the second.
“Not to mention torched to the ground,” foresaw the third.
“Gauphin’s effigy burned in the public square,” presaged the fourth.
“His name cursed by the masses,” divined the fifth.
“Himself hunted like a dog through the—”
“Enough!” bellowed Magrit. “You’ve made the point. He’ll help us. Now—any other questions? If not, let’s—”
“A moment, madame,” spoke Zulkeh. “I find myself distressed by an aspect of your plan.”
“What’s that?”
The wizard frowned. “As I understand it, the individuals now present who will actually participate in this enterprise consist solely of myself, my apprentice, Sirrah Greyboar and his agent. Am I correct?”
“Right on the mark,” agreed Magrit.
Darker still grew the mage’s frown. “Yet meseemeth that the individuals who stand most to gain from our adventure consist of yourself and these—these half-dozen disreputes here. At least, in a proximate sense.”
“Right again,” said Magrit.
Black as night was the sorcerer’s frown. ” ‘Tis most unseemly, madame!—most unjust! Those who gain the most should not eschew the peril! Nay, fie on such witless notions! Did not the supreme philosophe Aristotle Sfondr—”
“Oh, shut up, you old fart!” roared Magrit. “I didn’t say that we wouldn’t be playing a role! We just won’t be along on your part of the escapade. The four of you will need a diversion. Sure, and there’ll be a wedding reception going on, and the booze’ll be flowing like a river, but the Ozarine didn’t get where it is by having stupid and careless officials. We’ve got to make sure that the attention of every single Ozarine and Pryggian muckymuck—not to mention their goons!—is riveted to the reception floor.”
“We’re going to crash the party!” hallooed Les Six in unison.
“I beg your pardon?” queried Zulkeh.
“You heard ’em,” said Magrit, grinning widely. “Me and Les Six—and Wittgenstein, he’s going to be the star of the show!—are going to attend the reception, representing, so to speak, the little people.”
“Who’ve been most rudely excluded from the event,” complained the sixth.
“For fear their gaucheries will disturb the tranquility of high society,” explained the first.
“A fear well-founded!” cried the second.
“Indeed so!” agreed the third. “A most boorish lot, your unwashed toilers!”
“Not up on the finer points of etiquette, sad to say,” contributed the fourth.
“Certain, in their crude ignorance, to behave improperly,” elaborated the fifth.
“Here’s to bad manners!” roared the sixth. This was apparently something in the way of a lowborn toast, for the six dregs of the earth raised their teacups in unison, pinkies politely extended like so many small cannons, and slurped noisily.
“I see,” mused Zulkeh. His brow cleared. “A cunning stratagem, madame! For if there exist any on the face of the earth most suited to the task of turning a royal wedding reception into a shambles—a public scandal!—it is yourself and this canaille.”
Magrit and Les Six nodded in acknowledgement of what was, actually, not a compliment. Then did Zulkeh’s brow unclear, resuming its former furrowed darkness.