It's a bright and cheery morning during the sort of golden fall day that should be spent galloping through drifts of brittle red and yellow leaf-fall on the back of your trusty warhorse. But which is for some inexplicable reason spent sifting through stacks of diplomatic correspondence, confidential reports and accounting statements instead. And to make matters worse, he hasn't found where Random keeps the scotch. Sucking the inside of his left cheek, he scans the message from the pick-up: ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Virgans come in all shapes and sizes. Care to name your preference? ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Hmm, different hand this time. And one not used to writing - the Captain's man? Simple caution suggests he shouldn't reply, but why punish the other man's initiative? He might turn out to be exactly what Martin needs. He scribbles a message: --------------------------------------------------------------------- Someone who was looking for a maker of ornamental boxes, cloths, and exotic blooms. --------------------------------------------------------------------- It's a long shot he figures as he seals the unsigned note into an envelope and puts it aside for his man to deliver later, but someone somewhere has to know something. He's just reading Caine's 'report' on his little trip to Virga when once again, someone knocks on the door. As Martin impatiently tells whoever it is to come in, he considers having the door replaced by something more practical, like a flap. He also allows Caine's report to disappear under a drift of complaints from the Guilds. Florimel opens the door and peeks inside. Martin sits at the large desk, wearing a faint scowl as he sorts through the King's haphazard notes before him. His jacket lies across the back of a near-by chair, the top buttons of his shirt are undone. "Kerric, I need those reports from the -" Martin glances up. "Ah, Aunt." His scowl vanishes, replaced by an expression of polite neutrality. "Please, Aunt, come in." "I must say it surprised me greatly when I received such a politely worded request from you," she says as she enters, "And I must admit that it piqued my curiousity why the Crown Prince would have such need of me," she continues as she closes the door behind her. "But to find you here, seated there", she says gesturing to where Martin is seated, "I find my heart begins to race a little. Is one to assume that there has been a coup de'tat and my poor unfortunate brother now lies dead or locked in some deep dark dungeon?" Florimel offers Martin the slightest of smiles. Martin's immediate reply is a faintly quirked grin. "Have a seat, Aunt," he invites, gesturing to the chair opposite his. "And rest assured that nothing so drastic has occurred." She feigns disappointment as she moves over to a seat and with a rustle of fabric, seats herself. His tone remains polite, and perfectly even as he continues. "The King has merely asked me to oversee some matters, particularly concerning the upcoming Festival. And since you are here in Amber, it would have been a waste not to have your expertise and experience involved." Florimel's slight smile broadens a little, "And is one to presume that His Majesty has moved offices?" "For the time being," Martin replies. "I gather this room wasn't entirely to his liking." "It was my father's study," she says offhandedly, "I'm sure the chair wasn't to my brother's liking." "Perhaps, perhaps not," Martin's smile is... polite. "I believe the chair is one of the things he was rather thinking of keeping. Now, will you be able to attend to the Queen?" Florimel glances down and adjusts her bracelet. "Is one to presume that the Queen is unaware of your efforts? I'm a little surprised that the request didn't come from her," Florimel says. "The Queen is polite, and dislikes imposing upon others," Martin answers. "I, on the other hand, dislike wasting the skills of capable people. Or I wouldn't have suggested you lend your talents to the matter." Florimel's smile is sweet. "Very well. What is it that you wish?" she asks. "The King has decreed that there be a Festival," Martin says. "So there will be a Festival. In about a week's time." He pauses, shrugging a shoulder lightly. "That's it. The Festival coins will be collected at the end of the Festival to be melted down, and a statue commemorating the dead of Amber will eventually be raised from the metal. That's all that's been established. What shape the festival itself takes depends on the Queen, and apart from one or two ideas, that's all there is." Florimel says, "Is this festival to be in lieu of the winter festival or an additional?" "An additional," he says. "There has been a suggestion that it be a harvest festival." Florimel says, "And what were those ideas that you mentioned previously?" "The exchanging of tokens, a grand masque," he replies, and concedes, "Not much, I know." A winged form glides past the window, the light glinting off its scales. She nods, folding her hands in her lap. "Can you do it?" Martin asks, his expression and tone remaining much the same as before - even, courteous, businesslike. Florimel says, "It would definitely interfere in my current business. Five, nearly six years is a long time to be away. I have a lot of tasks that need looking into, people that I need to speak with. This would make my tasks much more difficult." "Of course," Martin says. "But this will provide you with a means of re-establishing old contacts, and result in the people of Amber rediscovering their Princess. There'll be a celebration, and you'll be the heart of it." She simply nods. "Right. If you require anything for the preparartion of the Festival, I'll see you get it," Martin says. "Anything else?" "Where might I find Random?" Martin doesn't blink. "With Bleys and Benedict." Florimel nods and says, "Very well," as she stands. Martin rises from his seat as well. "Thank you, Aunt," he says. "I know the King will appreciate your efforts in this matter." A gesture takes in the room's contents vaguely. "I apologize for not offering you a drink, but I'm afraid the King keeps an untidy office. I'll have soemthing sent to your rooms instead, if you wish." Florimel bows her head, turns and moves toward the door. Martin nods to Florimel as she leaves, and once more resumes sorting through Random's papers. Bitch, Martin thinks privately as the door shuts. Somehow, despite her apparent acquiescence, she's going to be difficult. Martin allows himself the luxury of a sigh, and retrieves Caine's report. ------- 8/23/98