The Madness of Kings

by Gene Doucette

  “I couldn’t have found it if I was two maders away,” Damid said. “You should put up signs.”

  “Well that’s your answer, Batty,” Herma said, using a nickname Battine hadn’t heard since she was a child. “Second floor, east corridor. Don’t suppose you’ll just be walkin’ out of my laundry now.”

  “We need help getting there, matron,” Battine said.

  The old woman’s head drooped a little. “Aye,” she said. “Course you do. I knew my luck would come ‘round one of these days.”

  “Can you help?”

  “Oh, I can get you there, but on this leg it’d take a week. I ‘spect by then Lord Aginot will no longer be a guest of the castle. Tima? Come here.”

  Tima, who after putting her dress back on had been sitting quietly in the corner and practicing her controlled breathing—she seemed on the verge of a complete panic attack—scurried over.

  “Yes, mum,” she said.

  “This is treason, Tima,” Herma said. “If the throne room finds out these two are here, it won’t matter a whit if you went unwilling. You understand what you’re hearing, girl?”

  The poor thing looked about to faint. “Yes.”

  “What does the chambermaid say?”

  “She says nothing,” Tima said, slowly, “because she saw nothing.”

  “That’s right. Now I want you to go find Orean Gustys and bring her here.”

  “O-Orean…?”

  “Gustys. You know the girl?”

  Tima nodded rapidly.

  “Tell Orean I know what she done, and she best come see me right off. You keep with her too, make sure she don’t drop off on the way. You understand?”

  “But what did she do?”

  “Oh, it don’t matter, she’s always up to something. Go, go.”

  Tima curtseyed awkwardly at the room and then fled.

  “Do you think she won’t tell?” Battine asked.

  “Not sure,” Herma said. “I expect we’ll know soon enough. Now let’s see if we can’t make it so you two look like servants.”

  There was a bag full of clothing typically worn by the staff stuffed in a sack in the rear of the storage room. The smell indicated these were clothes that were supposed to have been washed sometime before the reign of King Ho-Wabin, but they worked okay. Battine came out of the transformation looking like a chambermaid, and Damid like a manservant.

  Then they had to wait.

  “I’m sorry if this sounds rude,” Damid said, after the silence had become intolerable. “But earlier…Batt, you said, ‘we have to stick together’ to the matron. What did you mean by that?”

  “She meant this, professor,” Herma said. She held up her wrist to show off a scar.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “I’m a Cholem, she said. “That’s where the tattoo used to be. Had it burned off when I was ten, but the scar never went away. I can still feel it sometimes, under the skin.”

  “I see,” he said. “That’s…barbaric. The tattoo, I mean.”

  “They don’t have Cholem where you come from, is that it?”

  “They do in some parts. It’s rare.”

  Herma Limasse laughed. “Everyone needs a way to label the outcasts,” she said. “If it’s not when we’re born, it’s how we come out. If not that, then a third thing. It’s the nature of people, professor. Don’t matter the culture.”

  Tima returned then, with Orean Gustys. Orean was a short woman with cropped black hair, skin the color of sandalwood, and bright blue eyes. If Battine didn’t know better, she’d have said Orean was no more than twenty-eight seasons. But she would have to be older than that. She was dressed as Tima was, which marked her as a chambermaid, and children weren’t allowed to be chambermaids.

  Of course, if Battine needed confirmation that Orean was no child, she need only have waited for her to open her mouth.

  “All right, old woman, what is you think I’ve done now?” Orean asked. “Did Lord Handsy break another finger? I swear I didn’t do it this time.”

  “No, Orean,” Herma said. She had that default tone of exasperation Battine knew well from her own youth. “I need your particular…”

  “Holy Nita’s tits,” Orean gasped, recognizing Battine. “The unblessed king slayer!”

  “Now, calm down,” Herma said.

  Orean hugged Battine. It was…an unexpected reaction. “Battine Alconnot, you’re my absolute hero. Tell me you really did it.”

  “I…no! No, I didn’t!”

  “Well that’s a shame! Still my hero. An unblessed, carving out a life as a titled lady, all thanks to…”

  “Orean Gustys, restrain yourself,” Herma barked. “Mind your station!”

  “Ah, yes. Sorry, milady.” Orean curtseyed, and then winked. There was a rampant mischief in her eyes that would have gotten her hanged as a witch a few thousand years prior. Battine couldn’t decide whether it would be best to stay as far away from this girl as possible or to adopt her.

  “Orean,” Herma Limasse said, “Lady Delphina and Mr. Magly require an escort to the dignitary suite in the eastern corridor. You know it?”

  “Course I do. That stone-dull Horace is there. And the…oh. Hello. I just now recognized you,” she said to Damid.

  “Please, finish the sentence,” he said. “I’d love to know if I’m also stone-dull.”

  Orean laughed. “Oh, I like you. You’re just the outsider, mister. All Horaces are stone-dull. You lot are each different. I’ll let you know when I’ve formed an opinion.”

  “Can you take us there?” Battine asked.

  “I can get you to any part of the castle you’d like, milady. Begging pardon, though, it seems you’re heading in the wrong direction.”

  “How is that?”

  “The road to freedom’s that way.” She pointed over Matron Limasse’s shoulder at the back wall of the office. What she meant was, it was the most direct route to the outer wall, provided one was capable of walking through stone. “They’re already sharpening the pikes for your heads, from what I’ve heard. The longer you’re in Castle Totus, the better their odds at filling ‘em.”

  “That’s why we have such great need of a clever guide, Orean,” Battine said. “I’ve grown fond of my head. I mean to give them another option for their pike vacancy.”

  “Matron Limasse always tells me I’m twice as clever as I’m good for. First time it come up as a compliment, but yeh. I can get you there. I’m only saying, I can also get you out if we leave right about now while everyone’s still confused.”

  “We can discuss that after I’ve traded words with Lord Aginot.”

  “Uh, just so I’m clear about this,” Damid said, “the whole ‘pike’ thing is metaphorical, right? They don’t actually do that kind of thing here?”

  “You’re the Middle Kingdoms expert,” Batt said. “You tell me.”

  “Well, historically—”

  “I didn’t mean now. Find time later.”

  Herma Limasse took Tima by the arm and walked her to the door.

  “I think it’s time you returned to your duties, Tima,” she said. “Remember, now…”

  “Yes, mum, I remember,” she said. “I’ll keep my tongue.”

  “Good girl.”

  Tima let herself out.

  “Princess,” Herma said, “I’ve got to return to the floor, else some will wonder why I’m not there.”

  Battine hugged the old woman gently.

  “Thank you for helping,” she said.

  “We do have to stick together,” Herma said. “But all the same, try not to commit me to acts of treason in the future. Orean, I expect nothing but the finest mischief from you. Do prove me correct.”

  “Yes, mum,” Orean said.

  Herma left.

  “Right then, now she’s gone, no need to be polite,” Orean said. “You two look awful.”

  “I thought that was the idea,” Damid said.

  “No, your posture’s all wrong. Slouch more. Im
agine sir, you’ve nothing to look forward to but a day in which just once, you won’t have to clean shit off cobblestone. And you, princess, your only hope is to come out of the day—any day—without some vapid royal thinking what’s between your legs is part of the service.”

  “It’s…it’s not really like that, is it?”

  “Ohhh, you’ve no idea. You ever break a man’s finger? It’s about the only thing they understand, milady. But you should be fine; most of the Alcons like ‘em young.”

  “I’m suddenly glad all I have to worry about is shit on cobblestone,” Damid said.

  “Next thing: eye contact,” Orean said. “Don’t make any. You lot are used to facing front when spoken to. Don’t do it. keep your eyes at your feet and mutter. Go on, practice.”

  “Seriously?” Battine asked.

  “Dead serious. I fully expect to be either hanged or exiled before my twelfth birthday just on my own actions, but the Five be damned if I go because you two can’t figure out how to act like commoners for more than ten seconds. Come on.”

  Chapter Nine

  The Castle Totus throne room was the most remarkable chamber in the entire kingdom. Nestled in the rear of the castle, the floor of the throne room was on the ground level while the ceiling was three levels up. There were entrances leading to the room from the first, second and third floors, with the latter two opening up to balconied walkways with staircases on the side walls. The ceiling was a parabolic dome that offered simply remarkable acoustics for whoever happened to be sitting on the throne, which was permanently affixed to a spot in the center of the back third of the room.

  Massive frescoes decorated the side walls on the ground floor depicting the Tribulations of the Five, from the Banishment of the Outcast to Haven’s Ascent and all the stages in-between. Massive oil paintings took up the wall space above the frescoes, depicting a range of historical events from the early days of the founding of the nine kingdoms, both the horrific and the idyllic. These also told a story if one followed them around the room counter-clockwise, in the same direction as the Tribulations. The first painting depicted the utter desolation following the Collapse, and the last was a pastoral setting representing the bountiful peace of the present days. In between, there were wars aplenty, with three separate depictions of the fall of Castle Totus. (In truth, the castle had been sacked on five occasions, but there was only so much wall space.)

  Then there were the massive stone columns arranged in a circle around the center of the throne room. In a very literal sense the columns were there to support the heavy dome ceiling. But given the ceiling was painted to look like the sky—Dyhine and Hadrine rising through the clouds on one end, banishing the nighttime sky on the other end—and the columns were carved with depictions of the Five, they also carried metaphorical heft.

  Porra had been in the throne room a thousand times and never tired of the view. Each visit seemed to reveal some new facet, another tiny detail she’d always seen but never noticed.

  Her usual perspective was either at the seat to the right of the king’s throne or standing behind the throne. On this day, she sat on it. Given there was a clearly established succession in place and that successor was in the castle already she likely had no right to occupy the seat, but so far nobody had worked up the courage to say so.

  If she stared directly ahead (as she used to, when seated beside Kenson) she’d be treated to the excellent fresco directly above the entrance doors, and extra-long piece that depicted the Engine of the World. This was the machine the Five built to keep the universe moving, depicted here as a massive box with pipes and gears sprouting from it and running off in all directions. The cleverest aspect was probably the offshoot that ran off the fresco and straight up the wall (splitting the space between two oil paintings) to the ceiling. From there, they became incorporated into the night sky, connecting with the two suns.

  Perhaps it was her mood, but instead of the comfort she usually found in the somewhat whimsical (and obviously non-literal) Engine of the World artwork, her gaze drifted to the darkest part of the room, artistically-speaking: the fresco showing the banishment of the Outcast, beneath the painting entitled The Desolate.

  The fresco was a highly stylized rendering of an event that was more myth than historical fact—although the Septal faith held that it was both. It showed the Five brandishing their symbols of power: Honus with his sword, Javilon with his pack of wolves, Nita wrapped in vines beside a violent-looking tree, Ho on horseback with her bow, and Pal wielding a staff and a cauldron. Their attack launches from the top left corner toward the bottom right. The Outcast is lunging out from the Depths on the bottom right, depicted here as a great aquatic abyss with waves cresting all around him. His three-fingered hands reach out to attack. His monstrous face—insectoid eyes, massive jaws with sharp teeth revealed (he’s in mid-shriek) and a bald, oval head—expressing pure rage and hatred, as he is pulled under.

  As a child, this particular fresco gave her nightmares. Especially the Outcast. The unnamed artist responsible for it managed to craft the perfect depiction of evil in physical form. The only thing that made her feel better was knowing that she personally was blessed; the Outcast held no sway over her.

  Better or worse, knowing that her own sister carried a part of that thing on the wall in her chest probably colored Porra’s attitude toward Battine more than she would ever comfortably admit.

  The Desolation was perhaps the more interesting of the two, if only because it definitely captured a true historical event.

  There were two versions of the Collapse in Porra’s head: the purely factual, and the religiously correct.

  It was factually the case that there was an event in the history of Dibble commonly known as the Collapse, and it was also a fact that nobody knew what it really was. However, everyone could agree on when it ended: 7,331 years ago. Most of the world’s calendars counted up from that time. (The current year, therefore, was 7,331 PC, or Post-Collapse.)

  It was also factually the case that up until a little over two thousand years ago the scientific world that existed outside of the Middle Kingdoms considered the Collapse to be a myth. In the Kingdoms, it was taken as a fact for as long as there were kingdoms. (More or less.) It took a man named Mobley Tenor—a scholar from Lladn—to prove it was real.

  What Tenor failed to do, and what nobody had been able to do since, was figure out precisely what the Collapse actually was. What it did, was wipe out effectively all evidence of what life was like on Dibble before it happened. Archeologists worldwide had uncovered evidence of mass extinction, both Dibbling and animal, but the nature of that extinction defied a causal explanation. So many of the skeletons they’d been able to recover showed evidence of individual acts of violence it had been theorized that one day everyone on the planet decided to kill everyone else on the planet with their bare hands. But there were also mass drownings—the oceans didn’t give up their dead easily, but the rivers, seas and lakes did—and evidence of animal attacks, and of continent-wide fires, and of a few other things.

  Collectively, it added up to very nearly the entire planet’s population dying by way of a dozen discrete individual causes, none of which made a tremendous amount of sense. At least, not scientifically.

  The religiously correct version of the Collapse, in Porra’s head, was much simpler: Dibblings had become so evil that the gods chose to punish them. The Middle Kingdoms arose from the ashes of that destruction as a pure representation of the way of the Five, to show the rest of the world the path forward.

  The painting depicted this interpretation, somewhat. It showed part of a castle, mostly rubble but with a few parts standing. The fallen stone has been overtaken by moss, but this was almost the only greenery in the image. The rest of it was dirt and dead trees.

  The castle could be Totus. It could also be one of the other eight major castles in the Kingdoms, because the only part of it still standing in the painting is the archaic Finger. Each castle in the nine king
doms had one of those.

  Other than the moss, the only glimmer of hope in the painting is the shadow of five people emerging from a hole in the base of the Finger: The First Kings. From the scene being depicted—The Emergence of the Kings upon the Desolation of the World was the painting’s full title—they would go on to found the nine kingdoms. This, too, straddled the border between fact and myth: taught as fact to children, presumed to be more mythical in nature by adults.

  Their emergence from the caved-in portion of the castle beneath the Finger was wrought with symbolism: the rerisen gods in mortal form, here to lead Dibble-kind out of the death and darkness behind toward the light and the life ahead.

  Porra had been looking at The Desolation for most of her life. Until that very moment, while occupying the throne that belonged to her dead husband, it had not occurred to her to find it weird that all five of the First Kings were male.

  It was subtle, as they were only visible as faceless shadows, but their wide shoulders, flat chests and short hair was obvious enough.

  This wasn’t weird, if one was drawing a straight line from the First Kings to their present-day counterparts, because all nine of the kingdoms were patrilineal. (However complicated it made things, this was even so in Choruscam.) If all the modern incarnates were male, then of course so were the first of them.

  But it was weird in respect to everything else on the walls of the throne room. Directly beneath The Desolation were the gods in their classical form: the male Honus and Javilon, female Nita and Ho, and non-gendered Pal. The same held for all of the other stations of the Tribulations, and even for the carved columns supporting the ceiling.

  Women can be our gods, she thought. When did we decide they couldn’t be our sovereigns as well?

  “My queen, did you hear me?” Fandaine asked. He was standing directly in front of her. The throne was on a raised dais, so she had to look down in order to see him. No telling how long he’d been there.

  “I’m sorry Fandaine,” she said. “I did not. Please repeat yourself.”