Free Castle Dreams by John Dechancie

dance on my grave."
    Eyes twinkling, Yorvil replied, “If so, it will be a pavane, my lord prince."
    â€œOn the contrary. I think you can still do a fine gavotte."
    Yorvil chortled merrily.
    The smile left Trent's face as he leaned forward, elbows on the buffed tabletop.
    â€œBack to business. My lords, I find your plan, if you can call it that, unacceptable. The last thing this castle needs is to be thrown into a dither, a prolonged period of uncertainty fraught with internecine squabbling and general palace intrigue. That's nonsense of the first water. I won't have it."
    â€œBut, Your Highness..."
    â€œTragg, are you going to tell me that I'm not the heir apparent and don't have a leg to stand on? That I ought to mind my own business and get back to my trade—?"
    â€œOh, never, Your Highness,” Tragg protested. “Never!"
    Trent sat back and chuckled. “Imagine, a prince of the realm going into trade. How positively déclassé. I guess that renders me beneath contempt. And I won't even mention my marrying a commoner!” He scanned the room once again, sizing it up. “Nevertheless...” He drifted off momentarily, then brought his attention around again. “Nevertheless, this hotel clerk is giving you an ultimatum."
    All heads turned.
    â€œUltimatum?” Baldon said, gray brows raised almost to indignant heights.
    â€œI might as well lay all my cards on the table. I want to rule. Hell, I've always wanted to. And now here's my chance. I want the regency, on my terms. Or..."
    â€œOr?” Tragg said quietly.
    Trent's eyes had narrowed. There was a hint of menace in them. Now they widened and a slow smile spread across his face. He sat back, lifted his left foot and rested it on the edge of the table.
    â€œOr I'll press my claims to the throne again. Legally, this time. Through the courts."
    Dismayed grumblings around the table.
    Trent's grin was sly. “Oh, you don't like that, do you? Yes, years of litigation, the courts in an uproar. The expense. The uncertainty. Poor magistrates gnashing teeth in their sleep. The expense ."
    Morrel mopped the translucent skin of his forehead. “The barristers’ fees will eat us alive!"
    â€œOh yes, oh yes.” Trent's manner was airy and casual.
    â€œYour Highness,” Baldon pleaded. “I beg of you, spare us this travail. This was all settled years ago!"
    â€œNot by my lights. Nothing was settled except that Incarnadine was crowned and I wasn't. I didn't get so much as an invite to the coronation. Pity, I would have RSVPed and everything. Had an outfit all picked out."
    It was Tragg's turn to plead. “My lord prince, we cannot have this."
    â€œThen make me Prince Regent, and I'll lay off. It's easy."
    Yorvil cackled appreciatively. Trent grinned at him.
    Baldon turned to the man on his left. “Lord Hivelt, as Royal Counsel and Barrister General, how do you assess the legal merits of His Highness's claim?"
    Hivelt's long hair was salt-and-pepper, though he looked not much younger than the rest of the ministers. His voice, however, was strong and resonant. “It's hard to say, my Lord. There is the fraternal twin question to be considered."
    Tragg huffed. “That old chestnut! A legal chimera."
    â€œI'm not so sure,” Hivelt said.
    Baldon asked, “But how would you rate His Highness's chances for making good his claim to the throne?"
    Hivelt shook his head. “Ah, that's impossible to say. He does have a prima facie case, after all—"
    â€œReally, Hivelt!” Tragg's eyes were sharply admonitory.
    Hivelt shrugged. “It's the truth. As His Highness said, it would be a long bout of litigation, probably dragging on for years. There's no telling which way it would come out. Eventually, he might very well succeed in wresting the throne from Prince Brandon."
    Expressions of chagrin were exchanged around the table.
    Baldon leaned forward. “Your Highness, you spoke of