Gretsella ignored him. “What do you say to that, Mr. Kedge?”
“I’d agree to it with a joyous heart, madam!” said Mr. Kedge, and they shook on it then and there.
“You can report to work tomorrow morning,” Gretsella said, “and be assigned your rooms. Once you’ve performed satisfactorily for a week, you can have the chain and the hat. If you don’t show up to work tomorrow, I’ll turn you into a chicken and have you put on exhibit at county fairs—you’ll be solving arithmetic problems with your beak.”
Mr. Kedge paled slightly at this threat and swore he would appear at the appointed time. Then he very swiftly walked backward, away from Bradley, until he could dart out of the room.
“Mother,” Bradley said once the accountant was safely out of earshot, “do you really think it’s wise to hire him back? He did commit crimes, after all.”
“He committed crimesfor his former employer,” Gretsella said. “That’s exactly the sort of person you want handling your money. Perfectly honest with you, and perfectly dishonest with everyone else.”
“I suppose there must be something to that,” Bradley said after a long moment. “Like with lawyers.” He still had his faceall creased up: It usually did that when he was venturing into the uncharted waters of forming an independent thought.
“Exactly,” Gretsella said. Then she waved over the guards. “You two! Do you only drag people here against their wills, or can you send messages as well?”
The guards conceded that they were capable of carrying a message, though the still-somewhat-parrotified fellow didn’t look pleased about it.
“Good,” Gretsella said. “I want you to tell a few people to come here tomorrow morning for an audience with the king.”
The guards did as they were told, if reluctantly, and the next morning, Gretsella found herself proudly presiding over a fine assemblage of various useful personages. There was Lady Cordelia, looking crisp and tidy and gratifyingly witchlike in highly starched black. There was Janet: alert, attentive, and drinking too much coffee. Next to her sat Sir George, who only had eyes for Bradley, and beyond him Mr. Kedge, even more alert than Janet despite politely declining a cup of coffee on the grounds that he took “no strong drink of any kind.” Then, finally, there was Herman, who mostly looked puzzled over having been invited.
Gretsella outlined her plans to them. She couldn’t give any of them noble titles, but she could give them jobs. Some of their roles were obvious. Lady Cordelia would be taking over the role of housekeeper, tasked with keeping the palace running and the servants mostly propped up on both feet. Mr. Kedge would be responsible for getting the accounts intoorder and working with Lady Cordelia to identify where the palace could best economize. The others, however, were given roles that she knew they hadn’t expected.
“Janet,” she said, “the king has decided to assign you the position of Chief Jester and Minister of Propaganda.” Then she gave Bradley a quick warning kick under the table to let him know that his decisions were final, even when he’d only just now been informed that he’d made them.
Janet looked pleased, then confused, then pleased again. “Oh,” she said. “I’m sure that I’ll do my best to fulfil His Majesty’s expectations, Grandmother.” Then she ventured: “What exactly is a minister of propaganda?”
“They’re all the rage in Overthere,” Gretsella said. “And other Abroad places.” She’d learned all about them from one of the newspapers that she didn’t read. “Their job is to convince the people that they’re all wildly lucky to live where they live, and that the king is the best king who ever could have reigned, and that they definitely don’t want to violently overthrow anybody.”
Janet sat up even straighter in her chair. She was the sort of educated young person who was always very impressed by things that they did Abroad. “That sounds like an interesting job,” she said. “Convince them with songs and jesting, you mean? Can I have a budget? The quickest way to get people to listen to what we want them to hear would be to have other people singing the songs I write, and the fastest way to do that would be to get sheet music printed and distributed for free in bars. People will like anything if they hear it often enough,and musicians will play anything if they don’t have to pay for it.”
“Very clever,” Gretsella said. “I knew that I could count on you. Find her some money, Mr. Kedge.”
Mr. Kedge said that he would, though he used so many impassioned words to do so that Lady Cordelia looked as if she regretted having agreed to work with him. Next, Gretsella turned her attention toward Sir George, who was valiantly attempting to adjust his left sleeve to hide the prominent stain on its cuff. Tomato sauce, Gretsella thought. At least it would be easier than the butter stain to scrub out. “Sir George,” she said, “I’d like you to serve as the king’s personal secretary. You know, writing his letters, arranging his calendar, making sure that he gets out of bed at the right time in the morning, giving sage advice when he asks for it. That sort of thing.”
“Oh…” Sir George said. The phrasegets out of bedhad induced him and Bradley to simultaneously develop some sort of terrible disorder that caused their eyes to dart all over the room and land absolutely everywhere but on the face of the other person currently under discussion. “It’s a very great honor, madam. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome,” Gretsella said generously. She liked Sir George, and she particularly liked that he served as an excellent distraction from men whom she liked much, much less. The more time George spent hanging around Bradley, the fewer the opportunities Bradley would have to get distracted, wander off, and fall into a sticky pit full of strong forearms and dubious motivations.
From the other side of the table, Herman cleared his throat. “Pardon me,” he said, “and meaning no disrespect, but what am I doing here? I doubt you need a Chief Minister of Stables.”
“I don’t care about stables,” Gretsella said. It was important to not allow the menfolk to come to the mistaken impression that you cared about the things that interested them. “Everyone here is on Bradley’s advisory council now. Your job is to be sensible and tell him when he’s being silly if I’m too busy to tell him first. You will be Chief Minister of Good Sense and Practicality.”
“Begging your pardon again, ma’am,” Herman said, “but I don’t think that calling a king silly would be very good for my health.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Gretsella said immediately. “Bradley is much too gentle and just and true a king to have anyone’s head chopped off for giving him a bit of constructive feedback on his work performance. Isn’t that right, Bradley?”
Bradley looked exactly as confused as usual, but significantly more shocked and appalled. “I don’t want to chopanyone’shead off!”
“You see!” Gretsella said, and then clapped her hands. “Excellent. Off you all go. Time to get to work!”
Everyone, including Bradley, glanced nervously at one another. Sir George cleared his throat. “Your Majesty,” he murmured, “may we all be dismissed?”
“Oh! Right. Yes, go ahead and leave, everyone,” Bradley said. Everyone darted to obey. Except Gretsella, of course. Shedidn’t have any reason to stay, but it was against her firmly held spiritual beliefs to gratify other people’s politely worded requests in a timely fashion. “Not you, Sir George,” Bradley said quickly. “I need you to…do personal secretary things. Immediately.”
“Oh,” Sir George said. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
The two of them were looking at each other with absolutely revolting expressions of mutual fondness and admiration. “Ugh,” Gretsella said, very loudly and disruptively. Then she left to go find somecake.
