Free Twice Upon a Marigold by Jean Ferris Page B

decide which would be more satisfying, and instructive to my subjects—a public hanging, or a lifetime in here following a public flogging. I really do need to make an example of you, just so I don't have any more of this kind of trouble. I'm sure you understand."
    A wretched croak came from Magnus's cell. Olympia turned to him. "I'll bet you're wishing you hadn't said no to me when you had the chance to say yes. Am I right?"
    He cleared his throat. "I'm not sorry I said no," he rasped. "But I am sorry to be in here."
    She laughed gaily. "I only give one chance, anyway, so you'd have ended up here no matter what." Turning to Ed, she said, "And
you.
You escaped from here once before, but I can assure you, that won't be happening again."
    "Don't be so sure about that," Ed said defiantly, though he had no idea what he might do about it.
    "Oh, I'm sure," Olympia said. "There'll be a guard here night and day until I decide your fate." She spun on her stacked red heel and swept back to the stairs waving her fingers at them. "Ta ta, now."
    There was a long silence as they watched the guard take his post, standing at stiff attention, pike in hand. Finally Ed muttered, "This is a fine kettle of hen's teeth."
    As the hours wore on, Ed, Swithbert, and Magnus could only fret and doze and shiver. Soon the guard, whose name they learned was Finbar, was shivering, too, and trying hard not to doze. Guarding innocent people isn't very interesting—though technically, of course, they were
very
guilty because they
had
been plotting against the queen.
    But some plots are necessary, and even required.

17
    Marigold spent the day writing p-mails. She'd had to do some hard thinking about who to send them to. It's true she wanted Olympia stopped, and preferably sent far, far away. But, in spite of the dire fate Olympia had planned for her and for Swithbert, she couldn't bring herself to ask someone to do the same to Olympia. She had to phrase her request very carefully—and in three to six lines, since each pigeon-leg capsule could hold only a short message.
    She finally settled on:
Have you any interest in helping me

rid Beaurivage of a dangerous queen?

No bloodshed, please. —Marigold
    She sent the pigeons—Walter, Carrie, and their offspring—into the sky, carrying the messages to various carefully chosen fairies, sorcerers and sorceresses, witches and warlocks, wizards and shamans. Then she settled down to wait.
    She paced. She overwatered her plants. She threw the ball a thousand times for Flopsy, Mopsy, and Topsy (all of whom kept wishing it was the blue squeaky toy). She picked her cuticles and ate a lot of chocolate and looked at the sundial eighty-seven times in a single hour.
    It was nearly dusk when the first pigeon returned. Marigold almost broke its leg trying to get the message cylinder off, after which the pigeon stalked away to its perch, exhausted and pouting.
    The message read:
Sorry. No bloodshed, no interest.
    Love, Morven
    She threw the message onto the floor and paced some more.
    In the next hour, six more pigeons returned, all carrying variations of Morven's message.
    When did everybody get so bloodthirsty?
Marigold wondered. Didn't any of them have enough imagination to figure out how to eliminate Olympia without such conventional and gory methods?
    Overnight several more pigeons trickled in, ones who had been unable to find their addressees, or who brought back rejections—too busy, too uninterested, or too retired. Only Carrie remained unaccounted for, and Marigold was fearful something had happened to her. She was getting a bit old for much long-distance work, though she was always eager to go. Marigold had deliberately given her the closest assignment, and still she hadn't returned.
    Finally, late the next morning, Carrie arrived, bright-eyed from a good night's sleep, plump from a scrumptious dinner and breakfast, and proud of the answer she brought. Wendell the wizard had agreed to help. He