She took a closer look at her bodyguard, whose clothes showed singe marks. “Oh, Vilkit, Ciellō needs a new manservant costume.”
“It will be done, immediately,” Vilkit boasted.
“And Chamberlain, you must find me a dressmaker capable of making me a gown for my crucial address to the city. I badly need new footwear, so also fetch the best cobbler to my rooms with his wares within an hour.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” murmured Vilkit.
“I would like to speak to all the staff at a supper tonight in the Banquet Hall. The food doesn’t need to be fancy; we can eat what is left over from the gentry’s feasts but still wholesome. But every servant from the lowest chimney sweep to you, Chamberlain, is invited to sup with me to welcome me home.”
“Such wise decisions, Your Majesty,” said Vilkit, bowing low again. “All will be in readiness.”
Cerúlia decided to ignore his unctuous compliments while she judged whether he could produce what he promised. She stood up, noticing that her arm throbbed quite nastily now.
“Oh, Vilkit! Another thing. Make sure that every gown fashioned for me accommodates my dagger. I may look like just a slight young woman. But you badly underestimate me if you hold no fear of me. ’Twas I who cut Duchette Lolethia’s throat.”
She was pleased to see the look of shock on both Vilkit’s and Ciellō’s faces.
She walked out of the room, Whaki on one side and Ciellō on the other, pretending she had been queen for more than a few hours.
10
EXCERPTS FROM THE CHRONICLE OF QUEEN CERÚLIA
Kept by Chronicler Sewel
Queen Cerúlia’s Reign began in Blood and Fire […]
In the late afternoon, the Queen’s Flag, showing the world that the princella had been Defined and Nargis’s grace continued unbroken, flew again over the palace.
By evening all outright hostilities had ceased. Palace staff, gentry visiting for the wedding, the New Queen’s Shield, and the sovereign broke bread together in the Banquet Hall.
The atmosphere of the room was subdued rather than joyous. Most workers and visitors were anxious about the immense upheaval—and some wondered if now the newcomer would institute a purge of those who worked for Matwyck the Usurper.
Many, no doubt, examined their actions over the past fourteen summers and worried as to whether their associates had information or cause to inform on them.
This chronicler sat at the head table with Queen Cerúlia’s trusted associates, which included both Duke Naven and a stableman. Our new queen appeared weary and in pain from the assault on her person in the Throne Room. Her Zellish bodyguard stood behind her the entire time, his eyes raking the room.
After supping, the queen rose to speak.
She announced a tally of forty-two people killed during the day, nineteen wounded, and fifty-three being held in the stable paddocks. Sixteen of the dead were recruits of the New Queen’s Shield, drawn primarily from the ranks of our navy. Seventeen were members of the palace guard, five were gentry, and four servants or staff. This chronicler noticed outbreaks of grief over the losses.
The fire in the Administration Wing destroyed five rooms, and another four suffered much damage.
The queen spoke further about her years of hiding in Wyndton, as the foster sister of Lady Percia, and how growing up amongst the people has given her a unique perspective on Weirandale life.
Finally, the queen solved the murder of Duchette Lolethia by confessing to the deed. Duchette Lolethia had paid her a visit in her bedchamber. When the duchette discovered Her Majesty’s blue locks, instead of bowing and pledging fealty as a proper Weir should have done, the duchette screamed for guards. The queen deemed she had no choice but to kill her. To forestall suspicion she had the body moved to Lord Burgn’s chamber.
This makes Cerúlia the Gryphling the only known monarch to have killed a Weir citizen by hand before her rule had even begun. Because Duchette Lolethia was an agent of Lord Matwyck the Usurper, this chronicler will consult with judiciaries as to whether this act should be considered “self-defense” or “defense of the realm,” and append their decision when available. […]
11
Exhausted from stress and her wound, Cerúlia slept past daybreak. When she woke she was loath to rise—this bed and its linens felt so soft, and the morning light that filtered through the covered window made the water feature in the room, a small waterfall down rock to an enameled basin, shimmer and shine.
A knock, however, brought Nana with a tray, on which stood more willow bark tea for the pain that afflicted her arm. And Nana insisted on spreading more herbal oils on the wound—which looked swollen and bruised but not infected—before she rebandaged it. Cerúlia decided that she would wear a sling today to take the weight of the arm off her damaged muscles.
“What’s the situation?” Cerúlia asked as her head cleared of sleepiness and pain and she sat herself at the table with the fastbreak.
“Quiet, but kind of tense-like,” said Nana as she poured the tisane and took the cover off the ham. “Even though Shields march the corridor, that brother of yourn, that Tilim, he stood with his sword by the doorway in your old bedroom half the night; and your man, Ciellō, slept in front of that door.” Nana pointed to the door that separated the Queen’s Bedchamber from the Queen’s Reception Room.
Her followers sensed that her hold on power was still tenuous; she had so few dedicated supporters that a strong counterstrike could retake the seat of government. Cerúlia realized that she needed to enlist a larger contingent of loyalists without delay.
“Nana, help me put on that blue dress and robe.”
“Finish eating first, Your Majesty. You’ve only taken three bites. Look what I’ve got—that cinnamon bread of Borta’s you used to favor when you was young.” Nana unwrapped the bread and slathered it with butter.
The bread, still warm from the oven, was redolent of cinnamon, cloves, and currants, and the butter was cold and creamy. Cerúlia sat back in her chair and closed her eyes, savoring every bite, and then, like a child, licked her fingers and picked the crumbs off her napkin. Whaki looked reproachful that Cerúlia didn’t offer him the crust, but Nana’s eyes twinkled as she poured more tisane.
“Now will you let me wash and dress and pin up my hair?” the queen entreated her nursemaid.
When she emerged from her room, she found that Gunnit and Tilim waited in the corridor with five dogs from the kennels for her approval.
“Bring them in the Reception Room and let’s take a look at them.”
The first was a short-haired, reddish-brown hound; he reminded her of Didi, her Alpetar companion, though he was more than a hand bigger and more heavily muscled. When she plumbed his mind she found him to be mature and loyal, with a keen sense of smell.
Would you like to work for me? she asked.
My honor, he replied.
I name you Vaki, she told him, her fingers scratching the softest spot behind his ears. Whaki yipped jealously, but she raised a displeased eyebrow at him, so thereafter he approached his new companions with get-acquainted sniffs and elaborate play bows.
Three sleek, white-with-patches deerhounds waited their turn: two sisters and a male from another litter. They offered their agility, their fearlessness, and their experience working as a team. Delighted to be released from the kennels, they stretched in front of the fireplace, relishing the warmth, immediately making themselves at home. After discussion with the boys, Cerúlia named them “Mimi,” “Nini,” and “Haki.”
“We weren’t sure whether to bring this one,” said Tilim, “because she’s so small. We couldn’t figure out whether she’d actually be useful.”
“But really she wouldn’t let us leave without her,” added Gunnit. “She insisted.”
Cerúlia laughed at the wire-haired terrier that had lurked in a shadow and now, understanding that this was her moment, self-importantly bustled around their feet.
“That’s because she’s
so dominant,” the queen remarked. “Her heart is bigger than her chest. She bossed you around, and she’ll boss the bigger dogs around too.”
Cerúlia knelt, supporting her aching arm. “Come here, Cici,” she said, “I’ll wager you’ll end up the leader of this pack. Just don’t stick that little chest out at me.” Cici wagged her stumpy tail furiously and bounced about, trying to lick the queen’s chin.
Captain Yanath interrupted their time getting acquainted with the dogs to announce that he had all the palace guards gathered and separated into groups outside the Salon of Queen Cinda.
The queen needed just a moment to brief the dogs.
Dogs, you six now comprise the Queen’s Canine Corps. You will often be stationed near me, providing extra security. However, your first duty this morning is to smell human nervousness, deceit, or ill will. I know you can do that if you concentrate.
Naturally we can do that, Young Majesty, Cici replied. Humankines never understand how much they smell. Big clouds of stink. Verily, pack?
As shields brought the guards into the room, thirty at a time, the queen asked the men to pledge their loyalty and let the dogs roam and sniff as the soldiers bent a knee. The dogs bayed or growled at those who should be relieved of their posts. A few soldiers protested at this “trial by scent,” saying that they had done nothing wrong and how could she trust the judgment of a dog; the queen replied that they weren’t being arrested, merely no longer trusted with sensitive postings.
When the fourth set of soldiers was ushered into the room, Cici didn’t yip or growl—she immediately launched herself through the air and sank her teeth into a man’s lip. Before the man could even react, Ciellō had his knife at his throat. Cerúlia called the dogs off while shields searched the suspect inch by inch, finding a stiletto secreted in the seam of his boot.
“You were going to use this needle sharp?” Ciellō asked, cutting a layer of skin with his dagger at the neck.
“If I got a good opportunity,” the man admitted as blood coursed down his chest.
“Who do you work for?” asked Wilamara, standing in front of the suspect, her gray eyes pinning him in an intense glare. The man stayed silent until Ciellō twisted his arm behind his back.
“General Yurgn!” the would-be killer shouted.
“Are there others in the general’s payroll?” Wilamara asked.
“I think so,” the man answered with a snarl.
“Who are they?”
Ciellō had to twist his arm again.
“The general kept us separate,” he said. “I don’t know who they are.”
Wilamara had the would-be killer taken away, and they continued surveying the guards, now even more attentive to watch the dogs’ reactions because Cici had proven their superior ability to judge people.
Over the rest of the morning the dogs winnowed seventeen men and one woman out of the ranks of the palace soldiers. The rest were either genuinely delighted to welcome the Nargis Queen home, or content enough to work with a will for whomever paid their salary. Branwise took their vetted troops off to get the men and women organized.
Returning to the Queen’s Closet, followed by Ciellō and encircled by canines, Cerúlia discovered a narrow-chested young man in clean but threadbare clothes waiting at her door. He bowed low, revealing a premature bald spot on his head. Vaki took advantage of the man’s posture to sniff him deeply, relaying no suspicion to the queen.
“You may rise,” Cerúlia said. “Who are you, and what is your business?”
“Your Majesty, my name is Darzner of Vittorine. I worked in the chronicler’s office for over ten years as a clerk, until the Lord Regent dismissed me. Chronicler Sewel sent word to my lodgings to come to the palace this morning; he thought I might be of use to you as a secretary. During my years I picked up a fair amount of knowledge about how things tend to work here.”
“I see,” she responded. “Well, let’s make a trial of how we get on together.”
As soon as they entered the room she began to rattle off issues that needed attention, from calling Percia and Marcot back from their honey trip, to finding out the locations of Matwyck’s secret prisons, to requesting updates about the condition of the wounded. Darzner’s quill moved rapidly across a page of paper, and his questions evinced a knowledge of palace process and an astute weighing of priority.
He was leaving her to put her requests in motion when Captain Yanath, in evident distress, almost collided with him.
“Your Majesty, Regent Matwyck has vanished from his chambers!” cried the captain of her Shield.
“What!? Was he not guarded?”
“Indeed, I left two of my best outside his door. We found them unconscious in the hallway. They seem to have been poisoned.”
“Poisoned? Dead?”
“No, a sleeping draught.”
“Thank the Waters. Did anyone see anything?”
“We were so shorthanded, I had two mariners at the Kitchen Gate. They were ambushed. The sailors put up a fight; one of them is dead and the other badly wounded.”
“Drought and damnation!” The queen kicked her table leg in anger. “Do we know when this happened? In the night?”
“No, I checked on this prisoner right before dawn. It might have been just an hour ago, while we were judging the loyalty of the guards.”
“Aha! I see,” said Cerúlia. “Yes, our winnowing of the soldiers might have provided a perfect opportunity. And it was hardly a secret—everyone in the palace knew our plans, and so villains took advantage. We should have foreseen…”
“As much as I rue this,” Captain Yanath remarked, “I don’t believe that Matwyck can mount a threat to us wherever he goes. Healer Finzle said his injuries are grievous.”
Ciellō had stood silent during this colloquy. Now he spoke. “The stable jail is full; this morn we discover more guards with black hearts. But still more traitors stole your enemy away. Who? Where are they now?”
“You’re right,” Yanath agreed, his growing estimation of the Zellishman showing on his face. “There must be more blackguards among the servants or staff. We must be alert and protect the queen at all times.”
“Gentlemen, I think your fears are overblown,” said Cerúlia. “Besides, now I have a canine corp.”
Chamberlain Vilkit joined the three men standing in her closet. The small room had become quite packed.
“Your Majesty has heard the news, I take it,” Vilkit said after his bow.
“Yes, we were just discussing security.”
“I have come to tell you that the dressmaker awaits your pleasure in the Royal Bedchamber.”
“Maybe we should reschedule for another day … I have so many other things to attend to.” She addressed the other men. “Yanath, you need to talk to the shields, find out what they can tell us about the escape. Ciellō, do you think you should take a look at the room and the escape route?”
“With the greatest respect,” Vilkit interrupted, “my dear Majesty, I believe that your wardrobe is a crucial element of security.”
Cerúlia wanted to argue, but she bit her tongue. She saw the wisdom of Vilkit’s contention; if they couldn’t uproot every person in league with the previous order, they badly needed to win more people over to her side, and perchance the proper wardrobe would help.
“Very well,” she assented. “Mistress Stahlia…?”
“—awaits you in your bedchamber,” Vilkit informed her.
* * *
Yestereve’s cobbler had been a gentle, stooped, elderly man. Tears had coursed down his face while he was fitting her, and when she asked him why, he said that he was so happy she had returned, and felt so privileged to serve her in his humble way. He had his team of cobblers craft her three pairs of appropriate shoes overnight, with more to come.
By contrast, accompanied by an army of assistants and a mountain of packages, Mistress Editha of Editha’s Exceptional Garments for People of Quality stormed the Royal Bedchamber like an invasion force. She was a
small person, with piercing black eyes, wearing glittering tailor’s tools in a custom-designed belt around her waist. Obviously, she was accustomed to commanding her squad of underlings.
Cici, the terrier, barked at Mistress Editha, one dominant dog to another, warning that these rooms were her territory. Wisely, Editha chose to overlook the challenge, though she glanced around at the other five large dogs draped around the floor, shedding, with a look that spoke of unyielding, fervent disapproval.
After her curtsey, her first words showed that Editha intended to take no prisoners.
“Your Majesty, with your coloring, dark blue is a mistake. And that neckline is all wrong for your Nargis Ice pendant. From now on, you will wear lighter, brighter colors, and the necklines must follow the contour of your pendant.”
“What you say about the neckline makes sense, but I am not used to wearing bright colors,” Cerúlia replied.
“Aye,” Stahlia agreed. “You always wore quiet colors.”
“I was trying not to attract attention.”
“But Your Majesty,” protested Editha, “You-Are-the-Queen.” She held a gold-handled scissors in one hand and tapped it into her open palm at every word. “All eyes must be on you, all the time.” Editha snapped her fingers, and one of her assistants pulled out of paper wrappings a half-finished silk gown of a pinkish-orange, the color of a sunset.
“That’s beautiful material, but don’t you think it’s a little gaudy?” asked Cerúlia.
“If I thought it was gaudy, I would not have kept the girls up half the night sewing in these pleats! Besides, you haven’t seen my plan for the robe. Allow us to fit it to you. Let’s get rid of this blue monstrosity.”
Cerúlia was not comfortable having her mother’s clothing labeled monstrous, nor at undressing before a crowd. Even though she was wearing an undershift, several of her scars would be visible. But evidently she had no choice.
The Cerulean Queen Page 6
