The Bastard of Mallardmoor

The succession crisis began at eleven fourteen in the morning, between the second and third movements of the Royal Waddle.

This was considered exceptionally rude.

The Royal Waddle was not merely a dance. It was the dance: twelve ceremonial steps, one imperial turn, and a final pause during which every duck in attendance was expected to contemplate the majesty of organized waterfowl. King Aurelius Ducksworth III had invented it during the third golden season of his reign, largely because the previous coronation dance had involved too much flapping and one regrettable incident with a candelabrum.

Princess Belladonna Flutterquack had just lifted one wing for the imperial turn when the doors of the Sun-Crowned Hall flew open.

A mallard stood in the doorway.

He was tall for a duck, which meant very little, but he carried it as though it meant everything. His green head shone beneath a burgundy traveling cape. Mud marked his boots. A narrow scar crossed his bill at precisely the angle a painter would have chosen if asked to make him look dangerous but redeemable.

“Stop the music,” he said.

The orchestra stopped. Sir Reginald Quillhelm drew his sword. Duke Bartholomew adjusted his hat. Lady Seraphina remained balanced on one foot, not because she had failed to hear the interruption, but because allowing a stranger to end her pose would have been a form of surrender.

King Aurelius regarded the visitor from the Golden Reed Throne.

“You have interrupted the Royal Waddle.”

“I know.”

A murmur moved through the court. Several minor nobles fainted decorously.

The stranger walked to the center of the hall and dropped a leather case onto the marble. From it he removed three objects: a water-damaged birth certificate, half of a golden eggshell, and a small portrait of a royal duck beside a hen whose face had been scratched away.

“My name is Peregrine Mallardmoor,” he announced. “First hatchling of the Sun-Crowned blood. Rightful heir to the Seven Ponds.”

Belladonna lowered her wing.

“That,” she said, “is inconvenient.”

Sir Reginald advanced. “Your Majesty, permit me to remove this treasonous mallard from the premises.”

“With the sword?” asked Aurelius.

“If necessary.”

“And if it is unnecessary?”

Reginald considered this. “The flat side of the sword.”

Dame Willowfeather emerged from behind a curtain no one had noticed. She was old enough to remember when bread had corners and suspicious enough to believe that was when civilization began declining. Without greeting anyone, she collected the certificate and held it toward the window.

“The seal is royal,” she said.

“Forgery,” said Belladonna.

“The paper is from the reign of Aurelius Ducksworth II.”

“Excellent forgery.”

Willowfeather tapped one talon against a line of faded Duck Rune Script. “And the claim was witnessed under the Law of Unclaimed Hatchlings.”

The room went still.

Duke Bartholomew cleared his throat. “Was that law not repealed?”

“No. It was misplaced.”

“For how long?”

“Seventy-two seasons.”

“Can we misplace it again?”

Willowfeather looked at him until his hat lost confidence.

The law was brought from the archive in a box labeled CEREMONIAL NAPKINS: WINTER. It stated that any abandoned hatchling bearing a fragment of the First Golden Shell could petition for royal recognition, provided the petition was delivered during the Royal Waddle and before the final contemplative pause.

Peregrine had arrived with nine seconds remaining.

Belladonna stepped closer to him. “Where did you get the shell?”

“It was left with me.”

“By whom?”

“If I knew that, Princess, I might have enjoyed a less confusing childhood.”

The sharpness left her face for only a moment, but Aurelius saw it. So did Peregrine.

The king descended from the throne.

“You expect me to believe that my family abandoned you?”

“No,” Peregrine said. “I expect you to prove that it didn’t.”

That was when Aurelius became interested.

For eighty-seven golden seasons, enemies had approached him with armies, insults, marriage proposals, tariffs, poisoned grain, and once a very aggressive mime. None had arrived with evidence designed to be almost—but not quite—enough.

“The petition will be heard,” Aurelius declared.

The court erupted.

Reginald demanded trial by stale baguette. Seraphina suggested a truth ballet. Bartholomew proposed a private luncheon in which ancestry might emerge naturally over soup. Belladonna said nothing. She stared at the broken shell in Willowfeather’s hands as though half her future had been carried into the room by a stranger in a theatrical cape.

Aurelius raised one wing. Silence returned.

“Until the tribunal, Peregrine Mallardmoor will be treated as a petitioner under royal protection. He will receive a chamber, three meals, and no unsupervised access to the crown.”

“Four meals,” Peregrine said.

“Three.”

“Then I request better bread.”

Aurelius almost smiled.

That evening, Peregrine stood alone on the guest balcony overlooking the Seven Ponds. Below him, royal guards pretended not to watch. He removed the burgundy cape and folded it carefully. Without it, he looked younger. Smaller. Less like a rival heir and more like a duck who had rehearsed his entrance because he did not know what would happen after it.

From inside the room came a faint rustle.

Peregrine turned.

A white feather lay on the windowsill. It had not been there before. Around its stem was wrapped a strip of paper bearing a single line:

The ponds remember what the palace buries.

No signature. Only the faint, unmistakable scent of goose.

Peregrine looked toward the black water beyond the palace lights.

For the first time since entering the kingdom, his confidence disappeared completely.

Someone had not merely expected him to come.
Someone had sent him.