By snodlander
Runt slipped out of the stables at dawn. The cloudless sky promised another perfect summer day. The priest would drag him in for his catechisms soon enough, but he would have to find him first.
The miller's youngest had the croup. Runt had heard the infant hacking in the evening. They would be calling for the crone, and she would give them the ointment she had given little Mary last week. Tomorrow another child would get it, and another, till soon she would run out of ingredients.
Runt had a good nose. One of the ingredients was the root of winterbane, its acrid smell obvious to Runt. It just so happened he knew where there was a stand of these shy plants in the forest; deep in the forest, where Runt could be alone and sing the forbidden songs he heard in his head. It was always a good investment to be on the right side of the crone. The other kids told tales of how she poisoned one in three of the children she treated, then took their bodies home and ... well, they never quite agreed what it was that she did, but they all agreed it was nothing good.
Runt laughed at them. She was just an old woman with the gift for healing and a knowledge of plants. Even so, with no family of his own to pay her, it would do him no harm to have her in his debt.
He trotted along the High Road, north to the ford. There he paused, and surveyed the opposite bank. The inhabitants of the northern half of the village were a snooty lot. They looked down on Southside as though they were dung: useful to have in your back garden, but not in your house. The Northside boys would hang around their bank of the river, a stack of polished pebbles handy for any Southsider that couldn't or wouldn't pay the 'toll'.
The coast was clear. It was too early yet for them. Later, when the sun had warmed the earth, they would be in the river, fighting water battles in the ice-cold stream, while the priest beat the catechisms into Runt in the stuffy dark hellhole he called a study.
But that would be later, an age away on a day like this. Runt stepped into the freezing water, paused a moment for the numbing pain to subside in his feet, then carefully felt his way across the slippery stones.
He trotted on, up the road to the square. His heart sank when arrived there. A crow held court on the central dais, occasionally pecking at the wood in the vain hope of finding a grain of corn left over from last week's market.
Runt stopped and bowed. "Good morning, Your Highness." Even the church acknowledged the sovereignty of the crow. Crows punished bad manners and lack of respect. Fail to honour the forms of behaviour, and there would be bad luck dogging you. Throw a stone at a crow, and illness or death would stalk the village. Even Runt knew that.
The crow ignored him. Runt fidgeted nervously. If the hour became too late a Northside gang would find him, or worse, the priest, but you couldn't just barge past, the king must first dismiss you.
A mongrel trotted into the square and barked at Runt. The crow took flight, lazily flapping its wings to gain height. The cur chased it, yapping in its wake. Runt sighed. At last!
He ran through the market square and on up through the North Road, sprinting to the village limits. He passed a couple of villagers, who ignored the ragged boy. Runt welcomed the lack of interest. The only time anyone showed any interest was when he was in trouble. He didn't want any trouble this morning; the day would hold enough later on.
At the village edge he stopped at the shrine and forced his breathing to slow. He pulled out the cloth tucked into his waistband and carefully unwrapped its cargo. It was a stone, black as night, worn smooth by the river. He had found it by the mill pond, embedded in the clay bank. It was square with rounded corners, small enough to fit in the palm of his hands. Perhaps it was a tile from the palace of the ancient kings, swept away in the flood and polished for eons by the flowing current.
Runt placed the stone in the hollow and sprinted through the blessing, not having to think about the words as they tumbled, murmured, from his lips.
Spirit of the village, care for my soul in my absence. Lady of the village, I offer you this token. Guardian of the village, hold these both safe until my return. Protector of the village, bless my venture.
He looked back at the village. Nobody was on the road. Nobody knew he had crossed the boundary. For the next hour or so, he was free. Stuffing the empty cloth into his waistband, he turned and trotted north.
Half an hour later he reached the peak in the road that afforded him a view across the valley. South, behind him, he could see the slight smoke haze of the village, the long arc of the river as it stretched east, then north, skirting around the shoulder of land he now stood upon to disappear en route to the great citadel of the north.
The old tanner had told him that he had once been to the citadel when he was a boy, fighting in the service of the king. He said a million people lived in houses stacked on top of each other, ten high. He said women there would do whatever you wanted for the price of a bottle of wine. He said that they had great war machines that could kill an entire army in minutes, leaping into the sky and spouting flame like a dragon. Of course, he also said that the trees were conspiring to kill him. The other boys teased him, till he reached for his strap, but Runt liked to listen to his stories of the citadel. He never spoke of the battles, which was a pity, but the crone told Runt that it was the war that had sickened his brain beyond even her help.
There was movement on the road to the north. Runt squinted against the morning glare. It was a magistrate, his purple scarf visible against the grey of his clothes. Runt looked about desperately. He was not doing anything wrong, technically. He was offending no spirit, and breaking no law of the king. But if the magistrate started to ask questions, if he asked Runt to accompany him back to the village ....
The forest started a hundred yards to the west, shrub-filled wasteland between it and the road. If he hunched down as he ran, and if he could make it to that bush there in time ...
Runt scrambled over the bank and ran, doubled over, for the cover of the trees. Twice he stumbled on the uneven ground, hummocks and divots hidden in the long grass tripping him. He reached the first trees panting, and in the cool cover turned back to the road. The magistrate had not yet reached the peak of the hill. He was free.
He turned and slipped into the shadow of the trees.
He had hardly ventured a hundred yards when he heard a voice behind him. It was as cool as the shade, as lyrical as the birds, as soft and breathy as the breeze in the tree tops.
"Hello, little one," she said.
Runt froze, terror rising up in him. For the first time in his life he was grateful for the lessons the priest would beat into him. A dryad! He tried to deny it. They lived only in the dark centre of the forests, not within spitting distance of open countryside. What was she doing here?
Never look at her, for once a man looks into her eyes his soul is lost forever, and his body will remain in the forest till it dies of thirst. The priest had lots to say about the soul, much of it concerning how wretched Runt's was, but they had brought a soulless man into the village once. He would walk, if led. He would swallow if water was poured into his mouth, but he was dead in every way that counts. They had sent for the crone, and the only thing she could do was 'lead his body to join his soul.' Everyone agreed it was a mercy.
Runt stared fixedly in front of him. Show respect, that's what the priest had said. Show respect, do not lie and pray to the spirit of the village that you may, just possibly, not be consumed.
"Hello, mistress," he said.
"'Mistress', he calls me," and her voice was close, just over his shoulder. "Would you like me to be your mistress, my little one? Would you like to serve me in the forest? Do you want me to taste you?"
A gentle breeze blew on his face, and Runt had a sudden image of her breathing in his soul.
"Mistress, I am such a little thing, you would be hungry again in a minute. I'd do nothing but whet your appetite."
She laughed, like the distant chuckle of a stream.
"But the little morsels taste the sweetest," she said. "I know you. I've smelled you before. You are the one that sings to my forest when no-one else is around."
Runt's heart sank. Maybe that's why his songs were forbidden; they attracted unwelcome attention from spirits such as her.
"Who taught you the ancient songs, my sweet?"
'Sweet' sounded all too literal to Runt's ears. "No-one, mistress. I just know them."
"Really? How interesting. Your mother must have had strong powers."
Runt fought the urge to turn and see what sort of creature could have such a seductive voice. "I don't know, mistress. I never knew her."
"Have you come to sing to me again, little appetizer?"
Do not lie!
"No, mistress. I have come to collect some winterbane."
"Ugh! Such an ugly little weed. Why would you want that?"
"For medicine, mistress."
Her voice whispered an inch from his ear. "Who else is with you, my titbit? Who accompanies you on the road?"
"No-one, mistress. I travel alone, but I did see a magistrate coming this way."
"A magistrate? A man of power, I can smell it. Run along then, my little sweetmeat. Gather your medicine. I wouldn't want to eat a morsel with such a lovely song."
Runt ran, expecting to feel her arms upon him at any second. He didn't stop until his breath hurt his throat. Bent over, hands on knees, he wondered briefly if he should have warned the magistrate. But she was right, magistrates were powerful. They knew how to protect themselves. Besides, what could he have done? At least that explained why she was so far from her natural home.
Runt headed north, until he found the woodland trail he knew, then through the thickets to the little clearing. A stand of winterbane grew under the shade of a willow.
The encounter with the dryad had made Runt cautious. It did no harm to pay respect to the powers, even if they weren't around. He knelt before the flowers, a wary eye on the gnarled trunk of the tree. Willows could catch a man's leg and slowly drag him into the ground as fertiliser, some of the children said. The priest said that was nonsense, but he wasn't here, he hadn't just had an encounter with a dryad.
But what did you say to non-existent spirits in unprescribed circumstances?
"Spirits of this place," he said, but his voice sounded thin and weak. He coughed, and tried again.
"Spirits of this place," he repeated, trying to put more timbre into his voice.
Then the song took him. It welled up inside him and flowed from his throat like a flood. It was not a song he had heard before, and as ever, he did not understand the words. He had an impression, though. It seemed to him that the song was about peace, the still quiet of an untroubled mind. Long seconds after the final note had danced through the trees, Runt felt that all was well, that nothing could be wrong in the world.
Somehow reassured that the non-existent tree spirit was assuaged, he gently dug into the soft soil with his fingers, pulling out the long bulbs and laying them carefully into his rag. He took only half of them. Who knew what might be offended if he took them all? Besides, it would be better if the crone were indebted to him twice, should she need more.
He tied the bundle into a crude bag, then headed for the trail. He would give the corner of the forest where he had entered a wide berth, just in case. It was still early morning. The afternoon held the promise of boredom and beatings, but for now he was happy. Who knew, maybe the magistrate was heading for his village, and the priest would forget about him for the moment.
| Author Notes | I'm not sure I like this at all. I wanted to see if I could write a fantasy story that was not Tolkein-esque. I was aiming for somewhere between Lord of the Rings and The Jabberwock. My gut feel is that I haven't gone far enough, but I'm too close to this to tell |
By snodlander
Runt paused at the shrine and retrieved the black tile. Someone had left a silver coin there. He wondered what terrible sin they'd committed to warrant such a sacrifice. For a moment he was tempted to take it, but the price would far exceed whatever it was that had made the sinner sacrifice it. A bunch of wild flowers lay next to it. That would be Goodwife Tailor, as if her daily sacrifice would bring her daughter back. Runt trotted on.
The square harboured the usual people: goodwives gossiping or shopping, old men trading yarns no less gossipy than the women, a handful of traders.
"Oi! Toerag!"
Runt turned. The landlord stood outside the inn.
"The reverend wants you. You're for it, you are." There was a perverse note of pleasure in his voice.
Runt glanced in the direction of the rectory, then spun on his heel and sprinted towards the crone's house.
"Oi!" Runt ignored the landlord's shout and redoubled his effort. Winterbane was hard to find. If he could get it to the crone, he'd be quids in. She might even feed him. The priest wouldn't, not after he'd played hooky all --
A hand shot out from the corner of the Smith's place, the heel of the hand arcing into the pit of his stomach. Runt's feet shot up in front of him and he landed heavily on his back, the wind knocked out of him. Someone placed a boot on his chest, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to keep him on his back. Runt looked up, past the purple, into the scowl of the Magistrate's face.
"You're the one they call Runt," he said. It wasn't a question. "The priest has a lot to say about you."
----
The priest was furious, angrier than Runt had ever seen him, which, given their history, was saying something. He paced the rectory office.
"You idle, wicked, spiteful little -- " The priest glanced at the Magistrate. He appeared to be searching for a word that would convey the vitriol he felt towards Runt, but that would not offend the Magistrate's ears.
"Bastard?" suggested the Magistrate.
"Bastard! Do you have any idea...? Any concept...? You ... and on the day the Magistrate... I... You..."
Runt had endured more beatings than he could count. Some stood out in his memory. There was no doubt that what would follow would put the others into shade. He'd not only disobeyed the priest -- a weekly sin -- but he'd shown him up in front of the Magistrate. His rage had surpassed mere words and could only be expressed with the thick cane the priest always had to hand.
"The reverend here tells me you are wicked beyond words," said the Magistrate.
"Beyond wicked," spat the priest. "After all I've done. Taken him in, fed him, clothed him, taught him his letters. No one else would. And how does he repay me?"
The Magistrate held up his hand. The priest glared at Runt but held his tongue.
"It seems to me you are a wicked boy indeed," said the Magistrate, frowning at Runt. "Perhaps even more wicked that the good priest here could know."
"You have no idea," said the priest.
"Reverend, it seems obvious to me there is something here that needs more investigation. I will interrogate this miscreant further."
"No need, your honour. I shall beat the wickedness out of him, have no doubt about that."
"On the contrary, I am the Emperor's Magistrate. I am beholden to uphold His peace wherever I see it threatened. It is my duty to investigate just how deep this boy's depravity sinks."
The priest bowed his head. "Well, of course, in His glorious name, but really, I'm sure I can --"
The Magistrate silenced him with a gesture.
"The hearings. They'll be at the inn?"
"It is the only place big enough, your honour."
"I wonder, could you ensure everything is just so?"
"Of course, your honour."
The two men looked at each other.
"Now?" said the Magistrate.
"I -- " The priest looked at Runt. "Yes, of course."
"It should take you an hour, I expect."
"Oh, no. Master Vinter will have everything in hand."
"An hour, I should think, don't you?. We shall see you there."
"I -- " The priest looked at Runt and the Magistrate. "Um, an hour. Yes, of course."
The Magistrate stood at the window, hands held behind his back, watching the priest depart and stride up the road towards the river. Runt stood where he was, eyeing the Magistrate, bracing himself for what was to come.
"What's your name, boy?" the Magistrate said eventually, still staring out of the window.
"Runt."
The Magistrate turned.
"Your real name. The one your mother gave you."
"Never knew her."
"But you know the name she gave you."
Runt remained silent. The Magistrate stared at him.
"Don't know," Runt said at last.
The Magistrate sighed. "You know who I am?"
"The Magistrate."
"And you know what I do?"
Runt shrugged. "Magister."
"I spend all day, every day, listening to people lie to me. Big lies, little lies, half-truths and exaggerations. Sometimes, hardly ever, but sometimes, they tell me the truth, but mostly they lie. I know a lie when I hear it. Don't lie to me, boy. Don't play me for a fool, because I will skin you alive. I will break a bone for every lie you tell me. What is your name?"
Runt clenched his jaw shut.
After a moment the Magistrate nodded. "At least you know the power of a name. Runt it is, then. What were you doing on the road this morning?"
"What road?" asked Runt.
The Magistrate shook his head. "I don't think the priest told me the half of it. I told you not to lie, didn't I?"
"Didn't lie."
"I see. You want to play games. We can do that, if you want."
He stepped over to the priest's desk and tugged open a satchel. He turned back to Runt.
"Open your hand."
Runt held his hand out. The priest had him hold his hand out every time he got a catechism wrong or spoke in a tone the priest didn't like. If the Magistrate thought he could beat his name out of him he was mistaken.
The Magistrate placed a stone in Runt's hand. It was like no other stone he'd seen. It was pebble-smooth, warm in his palm, and as red as fresh blood.
"Hold it tight," said the Magistrate. He slipped the purple scarf from his neck and wrapped it around Runt's hand. "Do you know what that is?" he asked, wrapping the scarf tighter, tying it around Runt's wrist, trapping the stone in his fist.
"No."
"It's a truth stone. That's my job. To find the truth in men's hearts. I'm good at my job. I can find the truth ninety-nine times out of a hundred, just by listening. For the one in a hundred, though, I use the truth stone." He tied the final knot then turned back to the satchel. Runt tried to flex his fingers, but the scarf held them tight.
"Lie to me, boy, and the stone will burn," he said over his shoulder. "The more you lie, the hotter it will burn. Lie too much and you'll have a stump on the end of your arm." He turned back to Runt and fixed him with cold eyes. He'd donned gauntlets, huge leather affairs that reached half way up his forearms. "I have a feeling the stone will get too hot for me to handle bare-handed before you tell me the truth. Now, I saw you up on the road. You saw me too, before you ducked into the woods. What were you doing up there?"
"Nothing."
The Magistrate leaned forward and the stone in Runt's hand burst into heat. Runt gasped and tried to open his hand, but the scarf was tied too tight. He clenched his teeth. He would not give the Magistrate the satisfaction of hearing him crying out.
"What were you doing?"
"Looking for winterbane."
The Magistrate leant back. The stone cooled.
"That's better. Why?"
"The miller's girl has the croop."
"You know your herblore?"
"Some. The crone has me go get stuff for her sometimes."
"What about the dryad?"
"Don't know nothing about --" Runt gasped as the Magistrate flung out an accusatory finger. The stone in his hand burnt like fire.
"Liar!"
"Okay, okay. There was a dryad."
The Magistrate lowered his hand and the pain subsided.
"I warned you, boy, don't lie to me. Did you see her?"
"No. I came back, didn't I?"
"But you knew she was there. She spoke to you?" The Magistrate nodded, reading the answer in Runt's face. "Yes, she did. And you're still here, so you must have some wits about you. What did she say?"
"She said --" Runt braced himself, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "She said she wanted your power." Runt flung his hand out to the Magistrate. His hand exploded in pain. "And she was riding a pink unicorn!" he screamed, flinging his hand back behind him. Immediately the pain stopped. He lifted his chin and stared at the Magistrate in defiance. "Truth stone!"
The Magistrate sat back, shock on his face. Then to Runt's surprise, he threw his head back and laughed. "A pink unicorn, you say? Well, they're uncommonly strange. When did you figure it out?"
Runt shrugged. "It only got hot when you leaned forward."
"Very good." The Magistrate opened his gauntleted hand to reveal a twin of the stone in Runt's hand. "You'd be amazed at how few people have guessed. They get hotter when they're near each other." He turned and placed the stone on the desk. "Not hotter per se, they just feel hot to the skin. I wouldn't risk singeing the Imperial purple. But the fear of the Magistrate and the pain is enough to befuddle most people's reasoning. Everyone knows we have arcane powers to divine the truth, right?"
He circled Runt and took his bound hand, holding it away from the stone on the desk. He tugged at the knots of the scarf. "So why didn't you warn me of the dryad?"
"You're a Magistrate," said Runt. "What are you to me? Besides, you got arcane powers, right? Everyone knows."
"Be careful, boy. You're smart, I'll give you that, but a smart boy would watch his tongue."
He pulled the scarf free. Runt turned his hand slowly, then eased his fingers open. The Magistrate retrieved the stone. To Runt's surprise, his flesh was unscorched. Just a flush on the skin gave a clue to the heat he'd endured.
The Magistrate returned to the desk. As he stowed the stones away in the satchel he said, "You're not averagely stupid. You can be stubborn even in pain. You know your letters?"
"Yes."
"And you can write too?"
"Yes."
The Magistrate turned. "Better than the priest thinks, I suspect. Your hand's okay?"
"I've had worse."
"No doubt, no doubt. Do you love the priest?"
"What?"
The Magistrate laughed. "I'll take your face's answer." He folded his arms and leant back against the desk staring at Runt for long seconds. "You'll write every hearing down in the record, you'll learn the law, no matter how boring, and Gods it is boring, and if you displease me I'll beat you worse than the priest ever did. On the other hand, you'll get to eat as much as you want in each village and people will fear you almost as much as they fear me. Plus you'll get free of this shithole. All right?"
"What?"
"Don't make me revise my opinion of your brain, boy. I'm indenturing you as my clerk." He smiled. "Close your mouth, you'll swallow your tongue."
"But the priest."
"If he meant what he said, he'll be grateful to get shot of you. And if he's not -- " He shrugged. "I'm the Magistrate. Is he going to incur the displeasure of the Imperial Court? Over you?" He shrugged himself off the desk and draped the scarf over his shoulders. "Come on. Let's tell him the good news."
"You said an hour."
"A Magistrate is always early or late. Either way it throws people into a panic, and that's always a good thing."
By snodlander
Her Imperial Highness Yasmin, Duchess of Greensward, Princess of the Imperial Court, stared down into the courtyard. All she could see was walls and windows. The whole citadel consisted of walls and windows. The buildings, the departments and the people. Walls and windows, revealing only what needed to be seen. She pressed her forehead against the windowpane. A boy ran along the far edge of the small square, a document wallet held in his hand. No one challenged him. No one told him it wasn't dignified to run. No one had to tell him his purpose. His purpose was to deliver the document, whatever it was, from some bureaucrat to another, presumably as fast as he could.
"What's in the wallet, do you think?" she asked.
Jane stood on tiptoes and followed Yasmin's gaze.
"I don't know. News, maybe?"
"What news? Bad, obviously."
"Obviously?"
"No one runs to deliver good news. What do you think? One of the kitchen maids is pregnant by Lord Harris?"
"Ew!" Jane shuddered. "That's horrible. Anyway, how could they? I mean, how could you get close enough to it to get pregnant?"
Yasmin laughed. "That's why it would have to be one of the kitchen staff. He must spend half his life in the pantry."
"Yes, but could you imagine?" Jane pulled a face. "Lord Harris?"
"You tell me what it is, then."
Jane peered out of the window as the boy disappeared through a doorway. "I don't know. Um, a message from a northern battalion? The dragons of the fire mountains have awoken and they're descending on the city."
"Burning everything in their path." Yasmin looked at the rooftops. Behind them, she knew, the citadel spread through countless buildings and offices and courtyards to the wall. Beyond that sprawled the city itself, and beyond that...
Well, she wasn't sure. Fields, certainly. Forests? Villages and towns? The empire in all its variety and glory.
"Would we see the smoke, do you think?" she said.
Someone knocked softly on the door. Yasmin sighed.
"The smoke from the towns, I mean. After the dragons had burnt them. How far is the nearest town?"
The knock was repeated. "Your Highness?" The door did nothing to disguise the voice.
"Shall I?" asked Jane, pointing at the door, uncertain.
"Would it be close enough to see the smoke?" asked Yasmin, turning her body away from the door and staring out of the window.
Behind her the door opened. "Your Highness? May I come in?"
"No, Chancellor, you may not." She turned to face him. "Bugger off and write a report or something."
The chancellor treated her to a pained smile. "Your Highness is pleased to make a joke at my expense." He stepped into the room. "Most droll. However, Your Highness' presence is required at court."
"Tell the court they can bugger off as well."
"I'm afraid His Imperial Majesty may not appreciate Your Highness' wit and repartee as much as his servant at this juncture."
"He can bugger off too."
Beside her she heard Jane gasp. The chancellor winced, but it was an affectation more than a reflex. Did he have any emotion at all, she wondered? If you peeled away all the etiquette and the politics and the manners, would you have anything left?
"You Highness, might I suggest such witticisms are best not voiced. Best not thought, even. Whilst we are all friends in the sanctum of your quarters, such remarks could be open to misinterpretation if taken out of context." The chancellor took a further step into her 'sanctum' and stood aside, inviting her through her own door with a sweep of his hand. Her rooms! Her door! And he'd walked in as though it were his own personal property, as though she were his chattel. Sanctum!
Yasmin folded her arms.
"I'm not doing it."
"Your Highness is mistaken, I'm afraid."
"I mean it. I'm not. Get the physic to give him a potion."
"The physicians bow to your superior authority in this matter."
"That's all I am, isn't it. I'm just a potion to give him when the quacks are too scared to give them some of their moonshine. I'm just a prisoner."
The chancellor looked around the room. "This is hardly a cell, Your Highness, but if there's anything you lack, please tell me. Would you like a bigger bed? More cushions, perhaps. I don't see the attraction myself, but I understand women like cushions. Silk? I could have them embroidered. What motif would Her Highness prefer?"
"Don't you patronise me, you bloody sarcastic... servant! I'm a princess, I am. A bloody princess! I got royal blood and what have you got? You're just a jumped-up clerk. I told you, I'm not going in there again. I'm not doing it. He can burn the place down for all I care. And you can't make me! You know you can't. You don't have the authority. You can't lay a hand on me, and you know it. What are you going to do? Drag me there? You want your head on a block?"
The chancellor looked shocked. "Your Highness, I would never do such a thing. To lay a hand on you, never mind the penalties, it's contrary to every protocol. I would never, I could never do that." He laid his hand over his heart, as though the very thought might stop it beating. "Your Highness commands me at her pleasure in everything. I merely conveyed the wishes of the court. Of course, if you are steadfast in your wish, I will ensure His Imperial Majesty will be informed." He bowed. When he straightened he looked at Jane as though he had only just noticed her.
"Your name, my lady?" he asked.
Jane glanced at Yasmin, as though for confirmation that it was all right to answer.
"I -- I." She cleared her throat. "Lady Johnson, if it please your honour." She bobbed a curtsey.
"Ah, the Johnsons. A fine family. And remind me, where is your family seat?"
Jane blushed and stared at the floor.
"Stop it," said Yasmin, scowling at the man.
"Lady, that's not a title by marriage or inheritance, is it. More of a job title, you being a lady-in-waiting to Her Highness. No, no, don't be embarrassed. I am full of admiration for someone who can better themselves. And you obviously please Her Highness, and in doing so you please me, and I'm sure the whole court. No, brava. And I've heard nothing but good reports of your father, even though he works in a different office of state. The Exchequer and the Household have always had an uneasy relationship. We are traditionally rivals, but I can't hold that against you. Bravo to him as well as you, Jane. In fact, I think such loyalty and service deserves recognition. A promotion, in fact."
"Sir, if it pleases you, I am content here." Jane bobbed again, eyes on the floor.
"Nonsense. I am reassigning you."
Yasmin took a step forward. "If you think taking my friend away from me is going to make me change my mind, you do not know me in the slightest. Do this, and I swear I will never minister to the emperor again. You can't do this."
The chancellor feigned surprise. "On the contrary, Your Highness. Your 'friend' is a servant of the court. More specifically she is an indentured servant of the housekeeping department, which reports to the butler's office, which is in the service branch of the Household. Consequently, she works indirectly for the Chancellor of the Household, a title I am proud to uphold, the duties of which I put before my life itself. I most certainly can and will assign my staff as I see fit."
He pointed a finger at Jane. "You, girl. Do you know where the emperor's chambers are?"
"The emperor?"
"Gods, it's like talking to an echo. His chambers, girl. No? I will have you escorted there. Officer!"
A man in uniform stepped into the room. He looked the sort of person even heroes stepped across the street to avoid. The chancellor pointed at Jane, who looked close to tears.
"Escort this servant to His Imperial Majesty's quarters, and have her explain in person why it is that her lady will not be attending to him at his hour of most need."
"No!" shouted Yasmin. "You can't do that!"
"I think we have established I most certainly can."
"No!" Yasmin moved between Jane and the thug in Imperial livery. "I won't allow it."
"Officer," said the chancellor. "It is of course a serious offence to lay hands on someone of Her Highness' rank. The serving girl is a different matter. However much force is necessary to get her to --"
"Don't!" Yasmin screamed. "Leave her alone or --" She looked around wildly for a weapon of some sort -- "Or I'll scratch your eyes out." She raised her hands, claws extended, and faced off the soldier. "I will. I'll do it. I'll blind you."
The officer glanced at the Chancellor for orders.
"That's hardly fair, Your Highness," said the chancellor. He looked around, then perched on the arm of a settee. "You know the officer is not allowed to defend himself, yet his duty is to follow my orders. In the worst case, I'll simply call in another half dozen officers, and you will have ruined the poor man's life for nothing. You come from a Family, Your Highness. You know the noble obligations. If you didn't you wouldn't be so concerned for your serving -- pardon me, I mean your lady-in-waiting. Such a shame." He examined his nails. "If only there was another way."
"You bastard," said Her Imperial Highness, her voice forced through clenched teeth. "You complete and utter bastard."
"Your Highness is astute as always."
"You'd do it too, wouldn't you."
"Your Highness understands I would take no pleasure from it. Time is pressing, Your Highness." He stood and indicated the door. "At your pleasure."
Yasmin strode towards the door, shouldering the guard aside as she did so. As she reached the chancellor she paused. "You won't be chancellor forever, you know. One day you'll need a friend. I hope to all the gods you'll need help from me."
"Your Highness is gracious as ever," said the chancellor, bowing.
By snodlander
"We'll not make Fenmarket by night." The Magistrate tilted his head back, releasing a small downpour of rainwater from his wide-brimmed hat, and looked at the overcast sky. "There's a spot ahead we can make camp for tonight."
"In the rain?" At least back home there had been a dry stable in which to sleep on wet nights. Runt preferred sleeping in an atmosphere muggy with cow farts to sleeping out in the open, prey to who-knew-what, soaked to the skin in freezing rain.
"You thought I rescued you from that hovel so you could live the life of a prince? You'd rather go back to beatings and sermons from that dried-up priest? Stop whining like a dog and start acting like a magistrate's clerk. We'll make camp up ahead, and you'll be grateful for it. Walk on."
Runt trudged forward, leading the donkey on which the Magistrate sat, perched between the panniers. This wasn't what he thought it would be like. In truth, he didn't know what he had expected. The Magistrate had given him little choice in the matter, and anything was better than the life of boredom punctuated by sharp cruelty he knew back in the village. Almost anything. Anything but sleeping in unknown countryside in the freezing rain.
"Left, up there."
The clouds turned the late afternoon into dusk, but Runt could still see the mark.
"It's dangerous, master."
"How do you know? You've not been further than a morning's skiving from where you were born."
"Traveller sign. Look, there. Willow wand in the ground, with three pebbles. Dangerous magic."
"Very good. How'd you know that? Not from the priest."
Runt shrugged. "The healer told me. I used to collect herbs for her, sometimes. She told me, in case I looked in dangerous places."
"Well, the sign is correct. There's something wicked and dangerous abroad. Want to know what it is?"
Runt nodded.
"Me!" The Magistrate laughed and kicked his heels into the flanks of the donkey. "Now do what you're told and walk on, boy, before you discover how wicked and dangerous."
Runt walked on, looking nervously into the gloom. From the road a narrow track wound into the hawthorn bushes, barely wide enough for the donkey. The ground was covered in dead leaves from seasons past, and the occasional bare patch of muddy earth showed no tracks of anyone's passage.
"One of the necessary skills of being a magistrate's clerk, apart from obeying my commands without the backtalk, is observation, boy. Who licks their lips nervously when a theft is mentioned? Who is betraying a lying heart in a dispute? So, look around, what do you see?"
"Bushes," said Runt, unhappy about walking in the lead down a dangerous path in the rain.
"You want to see the back of my hand? Tell me what you see, and do it properly."
Runt sighed and stopped. He made a show of turning and looking at the shrubbery that surrounded them.
"We are in the middle of a blackthorn thicket. The bushes are dripping wet because it's pissing down with rain. The path is wet and slippery, but there are no signs of anyone having come through recently. Either side of the thicket the forest could contain bears or boar, but probably not because the traveller sign means there's something evil that could very well live on bear meat and the bones of travellers too stupid to avoid this place. The trees are mainly birch, but there's some oak. There's a dead tree over there. In fact, there are several dead trees all along the track, which probably means there's some magic that sucks the life out of anything unfortunate to spend the night here. Up ahead the thicket ends about a hundred yards away, so we're going to hit the forest soon and never be seen again. That's what I see."
Runt looked up sullenly at the Magistrate. The tall man looked back, eyebrows raised. There was something more, obviously. Runt looked around again, but that was all there was to see. The forest either side, the thicket of blackthorn and broken trees running between them to the forest wall ahead. The strip of blackthorn. The straight edge of the forest either side. The strip, with straight edges.
"This used to be a road?" he said.
The Magistrate shook his head. "No, not even in the Before. Why do you say that?"
"The thicket has straight edges, like the Great Road."
"But it has trees in it."
"Not for a long time. The trees are dead, broken down. Oh, broken down. So something came through here, knocking trees down, letting the hawthorn grow up in the space?"
The Magistrate clapped his hands gently in mock congratulations. "Very good, Runt. Something did indeed come through here. How big, do you think?"
"Big, if it had to clear a strip this wide. And it went that way, where we're heading, because that's the way the trees fell. Was it a dragon?"
"Okay, now that is impressive. What makes you think it was a dragon?"
"Some of the trees are burnt, under the moss. And they're broken off high up, like they were broken by something in the air. And back there the stumps are taller, so it was swooping down."
"Very good. But it wasn't swooping. It was crashing. Come on, we'll go see its corpse."
"The corpse? Of a dragon?"
The Magistrate spread his hands wide. "I'm a magistrate, Runt. You think I, a magistrate and your master, would lie?"
"Everyone lies," said Runt.
"Oh, so young, and so cynical. But you're right. Everyone lies, especially to us. But on this one occasion, I'm not. Walk on."
Runt walked on, even more reluctant now. Of course it wasn't a dragon. Only children would believe in such a fairytale. And besides, the damage was old. Still, there had been the traveller sign.
And there it was, where the hawthorn ended and the trees began. An honest to goodness dragon.
"That's not a dragon!" said Runt.
"No? Why not?"
"I don't know. It's just not. Look at it. It's just like ... like ... some sort of house or something."
"It has wings."
Runt looked at the structure in front of him. It did look a little like a great bird, he supposed, its beak embedded in the ground, its wings still outstretched and stiff.
"It's got two arses," said Runt. The Magistrate laughed.
"Yes, it has at that. But maybe dragons have two arses. How would you know?"
"It's metal. It's not a dragon. Someone made it." Who would have thought there was that much metal in the world? How big was the smithy that forged it?
"Maybe that's how dragons were born. Their time is long past. Who has ever seen a live one? Maybe in the Before they were born in furnaces."
Runt looked at the grinning face of the Magistrate. No, he thought. This wasn't born, it was made. It probably wasn't even a dragon. But he knows that, and wants to see if I can work it out myself. Stuff him.
"You're probably right, master. After all, you wouldn't lie to me. Where are we making camp?"
The Magistrate stared at the boy for a few seconds, searching his face, then shrugged. "Here."
"Here? With a dragon?"
"Why not? The wing keeps the rain off, and its body the wind."
Runt looked at the shadow under the not-a-dragon's wing. He was right, he had to admit. And they wouldn't be the first. A charcoal circle on the ground matched a soot smudge on the wing above. Other people had camped here before. No, the Magistrate had camped here before, and he was still here, wasn't he?
"Okay master. Should I get a fire going?"
Preparing camp seemed to consist of the Magistrate sitting back while Runt took the panniers from the donkey, hobbled it and allowed it to graze the bushes whilst he coaxed wet branches to catch the flame from his kindling box. After the miserable campfire took the blackness from the early night-time that descended in the lee of the dragon, Runt prepared the bread and ham from the village, their thanks for the Magistrate making everyone feel guilty. The Magistrate laid a napkin in his lap, sitting with legs outstretched and back against the cold skin of the dragon, and accepted the meal from Runt.
"You know why I gave you the opportunity to make something of your life, boy?" he asked, as Runt watched him slice the meat with his sheath knife.
"You wanted a slave small enough to beat?" Runt replied.
"Partly that, and partly your respectful manners. You think your life was better back there, then? Back with the priest's lessons and the stones from the older kids? You liked missing every other meal because no-one gave a damn about you?"
"At least I got to eat every other meal," said Runt, eyeing the ham.
"The master always eats before the servant. It's symbolic. You understand that?"
Runt said nothing. The Magistrate waited for a moment, then sighed.
"Look, it's like this. I arrived in your village, unannounced and unknown, and told that fat farmer he had to give his farmhand's widow a goat. I sentenced the thief to twenty stripes. I could have told them to hang him. And how do they react to this interfering, arrogant bastard from the city? They did exactly what I said, and thanked me for the privilege. Why?"
"Because you're the magistrate."
"So? They could have hit me over the head and buried me under a yew tree with a talisman to prevent my spirit rising and calling for blood. No-one would know. Certainly no-one from the city. Nobody there knows exactly where I am. So why didn't they?"
"I don't know. Because you've got a sword?"
"I don't have a sword."
Runt glanced at the scabbard leaning against a pannier.
"Go fetch it, boy," said the Magistrate, following Runt's gaze.
Runt picked up the heavy sword in its scabbard and carried it over.
"Draw it. Go on, take it out of the scabbard."
Runt loosed the ties at the top of the scabbard and pulled the sword free. In the yellow firelight the blade shone, glinting off the strange characters etched in it. It was lighter than it looked. Runt looked up expectantly at the Magistrate.
"What do you think, Runt? You with the sword, or me with this knife? Who'd win, do you think?"
"The sword's bigger."
"Yes."
"It's heavier too."
"True."
"The knife."
"Why?"
"It's got an edge to it."
"By the god of whores, he can think sometimes. Correct. That, boy, is not a sword. A sword is a weapon for killing one person at a time. That is the sword. It can kill whole families, whole villages, even. It's the sword of justice, pretty to look at, but dull-edged and useless, unless you respect it. See? It's the look of the thing. It's symbolic. People see it and know I'm not just some ditchside lawyer. I am The Law, and all it represents. You, you're part of that symbol too, heaven help me. You travel with me, some of that rubs off on you. No-one threw stones at you when we left the village. Did the innkeeper give you something to eat last night? That's because, for better or worse, and I can't see how it could get worse, you're part of the law too. But there's a cost. You're my servant. People see you eating with me, people hear your backchat and your grumbling, they start to think, 'well, if that runt can treat him like that, why should we bow and scrape?' Understand?"
"So I'm to bow and scrape?"
The magistrate laughed, pulled the napkin up by its corners and handed the bundle over to Runt.
"Yes, boy. Now you're getting it. But not bow and scrape to anyone else. We are the law, and the world bows and scrapes to us. To you too, which just shows the gods have a sense of humour. Go on, finish that off, and get me an apple. You too, if you want one. On the road, by our selves, and I'll allow a little leeway, unless you get above yourself. But in any town we visit, if we meet anyone on the road, I am the Magistrate, and you are my clerk, understand?"
"Yes, master," said Runt, trying to put just enough insolence into his voice not to be punished for it.
"Good. I'm a fair master, Runt, and I'll thrash your skin off your back if you disagree. And while you're there, get me a bottle of beer too."
| Author Notes |
I wrote this for the writing prompt, 'write a 1st chapter of a fantasy or sci-fi book'. The I discovered you can only enter 2 a week, and I had wasted one entry on a girly poem.
Actually, this is chapter three or four, I've just not written the others, but there you go. |
By snodlander
The Chancellor strode along the corridor, as stately as a galleon so fast Princess Yasmin half walked, half trotted in his wake. How does he do it? she thought. He was tall, but even so, he seemed to stroll, head high, back straight, hands clasped in front of him, but at such a deceptive speed. She glanced behind her at the two liveried men that kept step with them.
“I said I’d do it,” she told the Chancellor’s back.
“And you word is your honour. I have no doubt at all,” he said, without turning his head.
“So you don’t have to have me escorted by your thugs.”
“My – indeed, your – servants are merely there for our protection, nothing more.”
“Protection. Right. In the Inner Palace.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised, really you would. The number of deaths that are planned within these very walls.” The Chancellor indicated the tapestries without slowing his pace. “Even executed, I’m led to believe. This may be the most dangerous place in the world.”
“I am a princess you know. The law says – “
The Chancellor stopped so suddenly she cannoned into him. He turned to face her.
“Your Highness is indeed from a royal family. Your Highness has no need to lecture me on the law regarding the high-born. But do not underestimate your position. I have enemies, and they are your enemies as well. That is not to say we are allies, but there are those who would bring me down, and you, Your Royal Highness – “ He gave a bow, at once perfect in its form yet somehow insolent, “ – are a perfect vehicle to affect that end. And the prize makes cautious people reckless. People within an arrow-flight of where you are standing are very jealous of your power. Are jealous of the power your presence gives me. So please, give these gentlemen a little respect. They will die saving you if they need to.” He shrugged. “Of course, that’s not our first choice, but it’s a comforting fall-back, don’t you think?”
He turned and recommenced his casual rush. “Now, if Your Highness will continue, His Imperial Highness is in urgent need of your attentions.”
She scurried after him. “But they wouldn’t actually lay hands on me. I am a princess, you know. It’s against the law.”
He bowed his head. “I am sure your highness is right. I am but a servant of the court.”
She glanced out the window as she hurried after him. Across the courtyard scores of dark windows stared back at her. She was painfully aware of how easily an arrow could cross the courtyard.
“But they wouldn’t. You’re just trying to scare me.”
“One can only hope so,” he replied.
She wasn’t sure whether he hoped they wouldn’t attack her, or whether he hoped he was scaring her. What was worse, she was sure he’d planted that ambiguity in his answer on purpose. She clenched her jaw and tried to look regal while matching the Chancellor’s pace.
They rounded the corner, passing the Imperial guard who flanked the corridor. Ahead she could see what appeared to be half the court outside the Emperor’s doors. The Chancellor slowed. Yasmin tried to match his gravitas, but she was breathless from the march through the corridors.
A man in physic’s robes stepped forward.
“Hurry, girl. The Emperor is waiting.”
The Chancellor threw his arm out, halting her progress.
“Excuse me, Health. Has there been a coup I was not aware of? Has the structure of the court been rearranged and I failed to receive the missive?”
“He is ill!”
“Then we bow to your ministry.” The chancellor kept his arm outstretched. “Please, send in the physics. Brew your potions. Leach him. We await your ministrations with eager anticipation.”
“Gods, man, he needs her.”
“And yet you address a lady of royal blood, a princess of the highest family, as ‘girl’. You presume to order members of the Household as though you hold authority over them. Is that right?”
“You need – “
“Do not tell me what I need to do, sir. I know my duty. You, with all your brews, cannot do yours. Now, do I understand you wish Her Highness to administer to your patient where you cannot?”
The physic glared at the Chancellor with pure hatred. He closed his eyes for a moment and dipped his head. “Your Highness, if you would.” He bowed, spreading his arm wide in invitation.
For a long second the Chancellor kept his arm in front of Yasmin, then he lowered it and gave her a nod. The court stood aside, making a path from her to the huge doors. Holding her hands in front of her to stop them shaking, she held up her head and tried to look royal as she walked the gauntlet.
At the doors she stopped and steeled herself. She could run. Imperial law stated that no one could lay hands on her, but it didn’t say guards would have to open doors. And where would she run to? She let out a huge sigh and nodded to the guards at the door. One turned the door handle and she entered.
She caught an image of shadows of furniture before the doors closed again and she was plunged into darkness. She waited for her eyes to adjust, but immediately a voice cried out to her right.
“Go away!”
“Your Majesty?” She peered into the darkness. As ever at these times, the heavy drapes blocked any light.
“Go away, I said.”
“It’s Yasmin, my liege.”
“Do I give a shit? Piss off!”
He was on his bed then, against the wall to her right. She eased herself towards the voice.
“I can help, Sire.”
“No one can help. No one. Not even a bastard whelp from a witch.”
“Yes, my lord. Does it hurt?”
“Of course it bloody hurts! You don’t know how much it hurts. No one does. What a stupid question. Are you stupid? Are you?”
As she eased her foot forward her shin met the covers of the bed. She slid her hands forward, feeling her way through the geography of the ruffled covers.
“Very stupid, my lord. I’m sorry.”
Her hand met flesh, but before she could identify where she had touched him, he grabbed her wrist and twisted. She fell forward, crying out.
“You’re hurting me, Sire.”
“Not yet, I’m not.” His other hand flailed at her face, finding her throat. He grabbed and squeezed. Yasmin grabbed his wrist in both hands, unable to cry out or even whimper. She closed her eyes and fought down the panic. She slid a hand along his arm, over his shoulder and up to his temple.
And there it was, the pain, a purple knot of poison. She pushed her hand against his skull, fingers digging into his hair, pulling at the tangle of madness. It seeped through her skin, merging with her flesh, leaking into her blood. Her other hand pushed at his wrist, trying to break the grip blocking her from breathing.
“Die, you bitch! You’re like the rest of them. I’m Emperor! Emperor, you hear?”
Her free hand pulled again at the venom, feeling it infesting her. She could see a tunnel, even with her eyes closed, the world reducing to the dot in front of her. She struck at the hand strangling her, to no effect. She didn’t need to pull at the knot now. It was being sucked into her. She could feel it flowing up her arm. She tried to let go of his head but the madness wouldn’t let her. Her blood roared in her ears. Her throat burned.
And suddenly, he released his grip. She sucked in a ragged gulp of air, and then the pain struck. She shrieked in agony as her head exploded, the purple knot writhing through her head, tangling her thoughts, filling her entire being with pain.
By snodlander
“There are blankets in the pannier,” said the magistrate, leaning back against the side of the side of the prone ‘dragon’. He picked a glowing stick from the fire and lit his pipe. “Make up a bed. There.” He kicked at a piece of ground by the embers. “And clear it of sticks and stones. If I don’t rest easy tonight, I promise you you’ll be sorer than me in the morning.”
He watched as Runt dug through the pannier and pulled out the blankets.
“What was your bed like, back in that dung heap of a village.?”
Runt shrugged as he kicked at the packed soil by the fire. “Stables were ok in the summer. Straw, see?”
“The priest has horses?”
“Ha! Yeah right. Only beast of burden he had was me. No, I’d sneak into one of the farms.”
“And the winter?”
“The priest’s floor, in front of the fireplace.”
“That was uncharacteristically generous of him.”
“He wanted it lit for when he got up, or he’d warm me up.”
“Ah, that sounds more like it. How many blankets did you use?”
Runt looked down at the makeshift bed.
“Three. That’s all I could find.”
“No, two’s enough. Take one for yourself.”
“Thank you.”
The magistrate shrugged. “You’re no good to me sick or worse. Other side of the fire, mind. I know I’m the warm and generous type, but if you try and cuddle up to me I’ll gut you.”
Runt pulled a blanket free and spread it out where the magistrate had indicated. He looked around at their campsite. Though the dragon was metal, it seemed to absorb the firelight. Beyond the shelter of the outstretched wing the drizzle hid everything more than an arm’s length into the shrub.
“Do we take watches?” he said.
The magistrate tilted his head back and blew a stream of smoke into the air. “Where did you get that idea from?”
“The old men in the village. One of them fought in the great war. He used to tell stories about it.”
The magistrate nodded to himself. “So you think the enemies of the empire are even now crawling through the bushes?”
“No, but there’s thieves. And that dryad wanted you. There’s other things in the deep forests as well.”
“Fair enough. Never been troubled by cutpurses, I have to admit. Maybe it’s the purple. Maybe it’s the sword. Maybe by the time they’ve finished gutting my clerk I’ve made a clean getaway. And you don’t need to worry about that little temptress. She’ll be no trouble.”
The finality in his voice stopped Runt asking further. He didn’t want to know. You couldn’t kill a dryad, not in the forest. And you wouldn’t want to kill one out of the forest, because she had sisters. Whatever the magistrate had done, though, he seemed confident enough for the pair of them.
Runt looked out into the blackness again. He didn’t feel that reassured.
The magistrate sighed. “Look, I’ll surround the site with talismans and sigils. Maybe a spell of binding or two. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And I’ll take the first watch, if it makes you feel better. But that bed had better be comfortable, because when I go to bed it’s going to be the sleep of the innocent.” He winked. “No that I’m innocent, mind. Far from it. It’ll be the sleep I stole from some innocent. Now go to bed. I wake with the dawn, and I want to smell breakfast cooking when I do.” He wriggled himself into a more comfortable position and pulled on his pipe. “Go on. Sleep, little Runt. I’ll look over you.”
Runt lay down and wrapped the blanket around him. It was thin, but he’d had worse beds. He turned his back on the remains of the fire and closed his eyes. Not that he’d sleep. So many new things to assimilate, not least the magistrate. Runt didn’t like him, anymore than he liked anyone. Worse, he didn’t yet understand him. Why had he picked him, out of anyone in the village? Why his village? No, he had too many questions. He wouldn’t sleep.
By snodlander
Someone knocked gently on the bedroom door. Yasmin pulled the covers higher over her face so that only her eyes showed.
“Who is it?” she asked, her voice just strong enough to carry to the door.
The door opened and Jane entered, carrying a tray.
“Just me,” she said, pushing the door closed with her heel.
Yasmin threw the covers down and sat up.
“They made me do it again,” she snarled, all weakness suddenly gone from her voice. “They made me!”
“I know.” Jane place the tray on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed. She stroked a stray hair from Yasmin’s face. Yasmin batted her hand away and folded her arms.
“I hate them. I hate them all. I wish he’d just die already.”
“Your Highness!” Jane’s hand flew to her mouth. She looked around the chamber wide-eyed, then leant forward. “You mustn’t,” she whispered. “Someone will hear.”
“So what? What are they going to do? You don’t know what it’s like. If they tortured me it wouldn’t be as bad as what they make me do. And it’s not like they’d kill me. Sometimes I wish they would.”
Jane stroked Yasmin’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, but seriously, you can’t say things like that. They’ll find out. They always do, and you know they can always make things worse.”
“Worse? Worse than doing – doing that thing? Worse than how I feel afterwards?”
“Poor you. Can you eat? I brought soup.”
Yasmin screwed her face up. “Soup?”
“There might be a bit of cake too.”
“I’m not hungry. I want to throw up. I can’t eat.”
“What about some water?”
“What about something stronger?”
“Ha! I wish. You know they won’t let you.”
“If you were really my friend, you’d get some somehow.”
Jane frowned. “You know they check the tray. I’m sorry. I know it’s horrible for you, but what – “
Someone knocked on the door. Yasmin threw herself back into her bed and pulled the covers up to her nose.
“Who is it?” she asked in her sick voice.
The door opened to reveal the Chancellor.
“Your Highness. May I come in?”
“No!”
He treated the women to a humourless smile. “Your Highness is pleased to joke.” He stepped into the room. “How are we feeling?”
“Like shit warmed up.”
The Chancellor winced. “At least Your Highness is warm. What can the Household do to aid your recovery? Or are we so sick we should call a physic? Personally, I’d only sink to that as a last resort.”
“You’ve done enough, don’t you think?”
The Chancellor bowed. “I’m pleased you think so.”
“No, that wasn’t a compli – oh, very funny.” Yasmin turned her back and pulled the covers completely over her head. “Go away.”
“If it helps, I am truly sorry,” said the Chancellor.
“Yeah, right,” came her voice, muffled by the blankets.
“But sadly, we cannot always choose our path. I can no more turn you away from your duty than you can. All I can do is make the mean time as tolerable as possible.”
“I’m not listening.”
“As you wish, Your Highness. Fortunately, I like listening to myself. Words are my profession, and I must practice at every opportunity.” He looked around the room and indicated a chair. “May I sit?”
“No. You may piss off.”
“Thank you.” The Chancellor wiped non-existent dust from the cushion and sat. “It pains me to trouble you at such a time, but I’m afraid it’s time for your lessons.”
“My what? I’m not six.”
“No, indeed. Nevertheless, there are lessons to be learned at any age, and one in particular, I’m afraid. Today’s lesson is entitled, ‘steering your boat through rapids’.”
“I’m not in the mood for your weird little in-jokes.”
“Please rest assured, I am in deadly earnest, and this lesson is one you will learn if you wish to live.” He held up his hand to stop the princess’ protest. “Yes, I know you want to die. It goes without saying all young women of your age want to die, as well as wishing the rest of the world dead too, and yet you have failed to throw yourself our of the window, nor have you opened any major arteries with a fruit knife, so I’m going to assume that, miserable as you are, it is not yet a terminal condition.”
He waved a hand at the walls. “You are a relatively new resident of the Imperial palace, a city within a city. Every city, every town, every village, has its rules for survival. You and I would not survive a night in, say, a village on the northern border, nor would one of them survive a minute in the citadel. The citadel is a fine place if you have money or can shine in a trade. Not so the palace. This is a dangerous place, as I keep telling you, and as you keep ignoring, so let me tell you exactly why it’s so dangerous and what you need to do – what you are going to do – in order to live.”
“I know what I have to do.”
“It’s more than just – comforting – the emperor when he needs. It is much more than that. You are both blessed and cursed, and that blessing and curse fall on all around you. You know of the Great War?”
“Of course I do. I’m not ignorant.”
“You know who started it?”
“The Cursed. They tamed the great dragons and tried to destroy us because they were greedy.”
The Chancellor see-sawed his hand. “Yes. That is what we are told. And to a point, it’s true. And yet, it’s not. What were you told about the Cursed? They were monsters? They were giants? They had sharp teeth and ate babies for breakfast?”
Yasmin turned to face the Chancellor. “I’m not a baby. Stop talking to me as though I were.”
He held up his hand. “I’m sorry. But nevertheless, that’s what they were, no? Monsters? Monstrous, certainly.”
“I guess.”
The Chancellor shook his head. “No, they were us. Or at least, as much like us that you could not tell the difference. How do you steer a boat in rapids?”
“What?” said Yasmin, confused at the sudden turn.
“Rapids. It’s where a river rushes through – “
“I know what rapids are. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“The current is strong. The water rages. Rocks lie both above the water where they can be seen, and underneath where they can’t. The boat rushes on in the current, unable to fight it. So how do you steer it?”
Yasmin shook her head.
“A touch here, an oar there. You don’t fight the current, you work with it. You don’t expend all your energy; you use the energy of the river. A word can change history. A touch. Even a thought. The Cursed understood this. More, they could channel it. Some could make grown men weep like a baby, just by singing. Some could bend iron and fire to their will, just by thinking. Some could inflict pain with a touch.”
The Chancellor hauled himself out of the chair.
“And some could take pain away with a touch.” He paused, staring at the princess. “And this is why such behaviour is forbidden. The Great War almost destroyed us, and it must never happen again. Of course, rank has its privileges and an Emperor can commit no crime. Even so, it’s dangerous. The Archbishop wants you dead. Oh, don’t look so shocked. He won’t admit it, won’t say it out loud. Saying things out loud is dangerous, isn’t that right, my lady?” He arched an eyebrow at Jane, who blushed. “Nevertheless, to the church you are an abomination. The Health ministry want you under their arm. No doubt they would leach you white in order to find out your secret. But no, you are a ward of the Household, but that means we are both hated and envied, at least whilst the emperor, may he live a thousand years, still needs you. There are no neutral players in the palace. We are all trying to steer our own boats through the rapids, and if that means someone else’s boat is smashed, then so be it.”
He walked towards the door, but paused with his hand on the latch. “So it would be incredibly helpful, Your Highness, if you could refrain from standing up and rocking the boat. And eat your soup, or I’ll have the cook beaten.” He bowed low. “Your Highness. My Lady.” Then he turned and left the two women alone.
By snodlander
“Stop,” said the magistrate, after an hour of silence.
Runt hauled on the donkey’s bridle. The beast continued to walk a couple of steps, Runt’s heels dragging along the packed earth, then stopped.
“Time for you to earn your keep.” The magistrate nodded towards the bend in the road. "Uphampton lies ahead, about an hour by donkey. Half an hour for a fit young lad like you. You ever been there?”
Runt shook his head. “Never been this far.”
“Oh, you’ve missed a treat. There’s at least three horses in this town. Three! Can you imagine it? That’s where my next court is. Our court, I mean.”
“Okay.” Runt knew he was being patronised in some way, but he held his tongue.
“You’re going to run on ahead and announce my arrival. You will secure rooms for us in the Mucky Duck. Not the Emperor’s Head, that place is a shithole. The Mucky Duck, you understand?”
“It’s got two inns?”
“I know, right? But let me educate you, boy. As soon as you get three people together, two of them will take a dislike to the other. Uphampton is an insignificant little stain on this great empire’s bedspread, but it’s ten times the size of the little collection of hovels you call home. Yes, it has two inns, otherwise there’d be riots every night. The Emperor’s Head is the first place you come to, and the last place you want to sleep in. Go past that to the Mucky Duck. It’s in the square. You can’t miss it. Tell the landlord I’m coming, that I need his courtyard tomorrow for hearings, and I’ll want a room and dinner. And a room for you. A servant’s room will do. When I arrive, I’ll want to slide my sore arse off this animal and straight onto a bed with clean sheets. Clean, mind. You understand?”
“I guess so.”
“No!” Runt started at the force and anger in the magistrate’s voice. “Guessing so is not enough. You will do it, with all the authority of the Emperor Himself. You are the Magistrate’s Clerk! Stand up straight!
Runt squared his shoulders.
“No, stand like you’re knee-deep in shit and you want your nose as far away from it as possible. Better. That’s how you stand, and that’s how you walk, all the time you’re seen, understand? And the people you talk to, they’re neck deep in shit, so you talk to them the same way. You don’t ask for rooms, understand? You tell him he will give us rooms, as though we’re doing him a favour. Because that’s what we’re going to be doing. You take no shit from these inbred yokels. You represent the authority of the Emperor Himself, and by the gods they will act accordingly, understand?”
“I’m not sure I –“
“Yes, you are! You’re sure! You’re confident! You know that everything you say is gospel! Your farts smell like rosemary and their beer tastes like piss. You are the law and the judgement and they will respect you or they will suffer the consequences. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The magistrate leant back. “What are you going to say to the landlord?”
“Um –“
“No! No ums. Ums are for snotty little bastards from some arse-wipe of a hamlet. What does a magistrate’s clerk say?”
Runt took a deep breath. “I want a room for a magistrate.”
“No. No one give a tinker’s cuss what you want. You don’t ask. Asking is like begging. You tell him what’s going to happen. So? What do you want, Runt?”
“The magistrate’s coming? He wants a room.”
“The magistrate’s coming! It’s not a question. You tell him. And I don’t want a room. I’m not going to beg. Tell him. The magistrate will have a room. Understand?”
“The magistrate will have a room.”
“Yes, he bloody will, but not unless you tell him like you’ve seen it already. The magistrate will have a room.”
“Yes, he will.”
“And a decent one at that. I don’t give a fart what sort of dump he gives you, but mine will have windows and clean sheets, because a magistrate in a foul mood will find all sorts of faults in a business if he wakes up with bug bites. You understand, Runt?”
Runt stared up at the magistrate and swallowed in a dry throat.
“What did you call me?” he said.
“What?”
“I am the clerk to the magistrate!” shouted Runt. “You will address me with respect, you piece of dog shit. You got a room, or do I go down the Emperor’s Head? I heard his beer has less water in it.”
For a long moment the magistrate stared at Runt, then he threw his head back and laughed.
“That’ll do, Mister Clerk, that’ll do. Though you want to go easy on the shouting. You can put much more menace into a quiet voice. But that’ll do. I’m going to finish the last of the bread and cheese, maybe have a smoke or two. An hour, maybe a bit more, and I’ll ride into town. By then most of them will be soiling their pants at the news. And I’ll expect a room. Trust me, I will take a rod to you, in the public square too, if you screw up.” He looked Runt in the eye. “But you’ll do, Mister Clerk, you’ll do. Well?” He shooed Runt with his hand. “Jog on. Till you got eyes on you, then remember. Knee-deep. Nose up. They owe you.”
By snodlander
The Chancellor stood in the shadows of the cloister, watching the Minister of War perform a series of exercises in the quadrangle. He presumed they were of some use, martially. War had worked his way up through the ranks, and so must have seen action, though how the slow-motion thrust and parries would have helped him, the Chancellor had no idea. Still, it was graceful, of a sort, given the Minister's age and size.
Finally, the minister stood still, shoulders back, spine as straight as a pikestaff. Without turning he said, "Chancellor."
"Minister." The Chancellor stepped out of the shade and onto the lawn. "Are we expecting an imminent attack? Should I arm myself?"
"Ha!" The minister turned to face him. "And what use would a sword be in your hands? Your tongue is sharper than any knife."
The Chancellor bowed. "You're too kind. I shall hide behind your belly and hurl such insults at the enemy they'll be cut to pieces."
"Muscle." The minister slapped his stomach. "All muscle. Well, mostly. Used to be, anyway." He coughed, and waved a hand at the marks his ballet had left in the grass. "Doesn't do to forget where you came from. Besides, the men like it. A commander who knows his katas. Not some career pansy who grew up in the palace."
"Please, don't be embarrassed. It was ballet of the finest order. Trust me, as a career pansy I know my ballet."
"Want a beer?"
"Alas, I've not long finished breakfast. But, please, don't let me stop you. All that dancing must have made you thirsty."
"You're a sarcastic bastard, you know that?" War moved towards a table and grabbed a jug. "That's why I like you. You never give a straight answer, but at least you don't pretend you're being anything else. You know what Treasury said to me the other day? Some story that went on and on about -" War stood still and frowned, staring at the wall. "Damned if I can remember now. Something about cows. And dragons. Anyway, it wasn't till an hour after I realised he wanted to cut my budget. No, not dragons, snails. Anyway, sneaky bastard. Why not just come out and say it? He could make a corkscrew look straight."
"It is a constant wonder to me how such an honest and straightforward man such as yourself could end up in court."
"Because I'm bloody good at my job, that's why. And I'm not trying to stamp on anyone's fingers as they scrabble at the ladder. Who would want my job? Besides, loyalty." He filled a mug and took a drink.
"Loyalty?" prompted the Chancellor.
"Yeah. Take your people, House. Oh, a decent lot, I expect. Or, knowing you, maybe not. But you know damn well that if someone else stepped into your shoes, they'd be business as usual. Not my men. Not my commanders. Loyalty, right? Oh, loyalty to the Emperor, goes without saying, blessings on His name and all that. But loyalty to the chain of command, to your brothers in arms, to men who fought side by side with you, elbow deep in blood? That's a loyalty no palace pen-pusher will ever earn. And I've done that." He waved a hand at the quadrangle, slopping beer onto the floor. "Hence the katas. A minister of the court, right enough, but a soldier too. No, court in-fighting and petty little victories over other minsters? Not my game. And no one else wants my job, so why bother?"
He took another drink and looked sideways at the Chancellor of the Household. "Wouldn't want your job. All that mincing around, wrapping sarcasm in honey, playing one against the other, defending one border while attacking someone else's? I like an enemy I can stick a sword between their ribs."
"I've been tempted from time to time."
"Ha! Haven't we all. Bloody cows and snails. Or was it rabbits? But no, it's not a frontal attack you need to be wary of."
"No?"
War leant closer. "That girl's a problem, right?" he said, in what he probably supposed was a whisper. "Sometimes you have to give ground. Lose a battle to win a war. Health wants her, you know that."
"Oh, they all want her. But she's a member of the Household, and as such she brings balance."
"Yeah, but Health is an evil bastard. Seen his type before. Only pulls one set of wings off a fly and laughing as it flies around in circles trying to escape. You know what they say about their hospital for the poor?"
"All the more reason for Household keeping the girl."
"Okay, okay, just thought I'd give a word to the wise."
"The Household is grateful for your support, War. I'm sure we can all sleep easier in our beds for it."
"No, no, no. Not supporting you. Can't. None of my chaps allowed in the Citadel. Not even for R and R. No support from me, old chum. None that counts, anyway. You're on your own. Told you, wouldn't want your job. Too dangerous. Give me war every time."
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