Lessons in Etiquette (Schooled in Magic series)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “It’s a good idea to go,” Alassa said, standing up. “You never know when you might have the chance to go again.”

  Emily sighed and followed her out of the carriage. The fort smelt funny to her, a faint mixture of burnt wood and oil. And horses, dozens of horses. There was a field behind the fort where several dozen horses were kept, ready for the next courier who needed to change animals. Several of them were being led out to replace the ones pulling the carriages; Emily couldn’t help but notice the stirrups the riders were using. That had been her idea, one of the concepts she’d introduced. They’d clearly spread further than she had realized.

  The next part of the journey passed quickly, once they finished at the fort and headed back on to the roads. Emily found herself staring out of the window as the procession passed through a series of small hamlets, each one barely large enough to support more than twenty people. Or maybe there were other houses hidden away in the undergrowth. There was no time to do more than pick up impressions before they were past the hamlet and heading back down an empty road.

  She felt the carriage slow down as they entered a larger town, with massive buildings built out of stone. There was a large crowd cheering them, although Emily had the private suspicion that some of them were there because they hadn’t been given any choice. But others seemed more than willing to welcome the Princess of Zangaria and invite her to marry their Prince. Emily was still shaking her head as they left the town behind and headed onwards. Did they really think that Alassa would make her choice based on who shouted the loudest?

  “I can’t marry the crown prince of another kingdom,” Alassa explained, “and Alluvia has too many other princes. If I married one and took him away…”

  Understanding clicked in Emily’s mind. “It reduces the risk of civil war,” she said. “They’d be glad of that, wouldn’t they?”

  “If I had a brother, he would be the heir and I would be the spare,” Alassa said. She looked oddly wistful for a long moment. “If I had two brothers, the younger might try to overthrow the older. And I would be sent off to marry someone to seal a treaty. But I am alone.”

  She looked up as the carriage rattled over a bridge. “But we’re almost at the castle,” she added. “And then we have to get dressed. Before we are formally presented to the king…”

  They shared a groan. “You’re lucky,” Alassa added. “You won’t have it so bad.”

  Chapter Eight

  EMILY SUCKED IN HER BREATH SHARPLY as the carriage rumbled towards Castle Alluvia. It was a massive structure, seemingly larger than Whitehall, perched on a craggy rock that allowed it to dominate the city below. The city itself was much smaller than Dragon’s Den, somehow giving the impression of being compact, as if thousands of people had been jammed into a relatively small space. It had no walls, something that puzzled Emily as the carriage started to head up the street towards the castle. But then, if someone did attack, the population could be herded into the castle or–more likely–told to flee into the countryside and fend for themselves.

  The street was lined by cheering people, who waved at the carriage as the small procession drifted past. Emily had to smile as she realized that most of them grew less enthusiastic once the golden carriage had passed, even though Alassa hadn’t passed yet. But it did prove that the diversion was working and no one knew where the royal princess actually was. The wards surrounding the vehicles would make it harder for magic to be used to target her. Emily settled back as the road circled the castle, before finally reaching the gatehouse. She felt a tingle as they passed through an outer set of wards–weaker than Whitehall’s wards–and came to a halt in the courtyard.

  Whitehall was dimensionally transcendent, larger on the inside than on the outside. Castle Alluvia was very definitely not; the courtyard seemed tiny, barely large enough to house Alassa’s vehicles and escorts. Lady Barb rapped on the carriage’s door, inviting them both to climb out of the vehicle. Emily jumped down gracefully, then turned to help Alassa climb down with somewhat more dignity. The princess looked around with interest, even as everyone from the castle’s staff bowed to her. Emily followed her gaze, unable to escape the impression that Castle Alluvia was crude compared to Whitehall. But then, there was nowhere near as much magic worked into its structure.

  “Your Highness,” Nightingale said. He looked tired, but there was nothing wrong with his outfit, a garish mixture of purple and green. “You must change, and then be presented to the King.”

  Emily rolled her eyes at the little man’s self-importance, although he was right. Protocol dictated that Alassa could not be greeted formally until she was presented to the kingdom’s monarch, which meant that she had to be dressed for the part. Emily had wondered why the king couldn’t simply meet them outside the castle, to which Alassa had pointed out that she was the guest and the king couldn’t be seen to come to meet her. And besides, she’d added a moment later, they both smelled pretty rank after hours in the cramped carriage. She didn’t want the King’s first impression of her to be that she was smelly.

  Nightingale had evidently been to Castle Alluvia before, for he led them over to a little door set into the stone walls. Inside, it was dark, without even a hint of light. Emily hesitated, but Alassa marched inside as if nothing could stop her. And perhaps it couldn’t. Emily looked up at the darkening sky, caught sight of a handful of birds flying around the castle’s towers, and stepped inside. There was a second tingle–the doorway was protected against intruders–and then she was in a small corridor leading into the building.

  Whitehall’s corridors were massive, wide enough to allow several people to walk side-by-side at once. Castle Alluvia had corridors so thin that Emily felt a hint of claustrophobia, each one illuminated only by burning torches rather than magical lights. It made sense, she knew; anyone who attacked the castle would have to come at the defenders one at a time. Even so, it still felt odd compared to Whitehall. But then, the defenders of this castle didn’t have vast amounts of magic to help them.

  And if they were attacked by a necromancer, it wouldn’t matter anyway, she thought. Whitehall hadn’t been saved by its powerful wards, just Emily…and knowledge from a very different world.

  If anything, the staircases were even worse. Alassa had to bow her head to avoid striking it on the stone ceiling, while Emily could barely stand upright. It was impossible to escape the feeling that the castle was permanently on the verge of collapse, or that the passageways would become so small that she would find herself trapped there. She bit her lip and followed Alassa, reminding herself that the King of Alluvia wouldn’t want to kill or embarrass his distinguished guest.

  “Your rooms, Your Highness,” Nightingale said, as they came out of the stairwell. “The castle’s staff will tend to your needs.”

  “Very good,” Alassa said. She sounded like a princess, almost like the brat she’d been when Emily had first met her. “You may leave us.”

  Nightingale bowed and left the room, leaving the girls alone. Emily watched him go, closing the door behind him, and then looked around Alassa’s room. It was massive, with a huge four-poster bed at the head of the room, illuminated by a chandelier filled with glowing candles. Emily couldn’t help wondering how they managed to light them all, before deciding that it didn’t matter. It gave the room an oddly romantic atmosphere.

  There was a smaller bed placed in one corner, although it was still larger than the bed she’d had at Whitehall. It took Emily a moment to realize that they were meant to be sharing the same room, although she wasn’t sure why that had surprised her. She’d shared a room at Whitehall with two other students and Alassa had done the same; hell, one of Alassa’s roommates had thanked Emily for helping the royal brat turn into a decent human being.

  “No windows,” Alassa said. They shared a long look. “I’m sick of being in rooms without windows.”

  Emily couldn’t help agreeing. Their dorms at Whitehall had no windows either–and they were illuminated by magical lig
hts. But then, no one would want to run the risk of an assassin climbing up the castle walls and getting into the room through a giant window. And besides, the more cynical part of Emily’s mind added, it would be harder for Alassa to leave without the King’s permission.

  She walked over to a door set in one wall and opened it, peering inside to see a wash basin and privy. There didn’t seem to be any plumbing, she realized after a moment; there were vast jugs of water waiting for them to wash themselves. Whitehall’s showers had been primitive compared to the ones she remembered from Earth, but Castle Alluvia didn’t even seem to understand the concept of plumbing. Void had told her never to drink water that hadn’t been boiled, proving that the locals understood the existence of germs–or was that just sorcerers? Could they drink the water in the castle?

  “Boil it with your magic,” Alassa suggested, when she asked. There was a sharp knock on the door and the princess raised her voice. “Come in!”

  The door opened, revealing five young women dressed in simple black robes, with white caps on their heads. Emily remembered vaguely that white caps denoted personal servants in some kingdoms, but there were so many differences between the various kingdoms that made up the Allied Lands that it was impossible to know for sure. In some ways, the Allied Lands worked hard to prove that they were separate kingdoms, although they hadn’t–yet–managed to establish separate languages. The Empire had existed long enough to ensure that everyone spoke the same standard tongue.

  Four of the maids went down on their knees, facing Alassa; the fifth remained standing, but bowed her head. “Your Highness, we have come to tend to your needs,” she said. “It is His Majesty’s instruction that you present yourself before him.”

  Alassa kept her face expressionless. “Bring up my trunks from the carriage,” she ordered, grandly. “And bring up Emily’s as well.”

  Three of the girls vanished out of the door, presumably to go downstairs and recover the trunks, while the other two advanced on Alassa and started to undress her. Emily stepped to one side, wondering absently how the girls intended to bring up the trunks; it would be very difficult to get them up the claustrophobic stairwells. Magic, perhaps–or maybe there were other, wider stairwells for the servants.

  The girls returned with the trunks and put them in the center of the room, then walked out of the door again. Emily opened her trunk and recovered one of the dresses Alassa’s mother had sent her, silently grateful that the queen hadn’t wanted to risk Emily outshining her daughter. The green dress might have been very simple, if expensive by the standards of Zangaria, but it was also easy to put on without needing help. She concealed a smile as the maids pulled Alassa’s clothes off, just as the door opened again and the three maids returned, carrying a large bathtub of scented hot water.

  Alassa threw her a dirty look as the maids started to wash her, as if she couldn’t wash for herself. Emily wondered how her friend managed to endure it; she couldn’t have tolerated complete strangers stripping her naked and then washing her thoroughly. Shaking her head, she walked around to the other side of the bed and hesitated, unable to decide if she should undress now or wait until the maids were gone. Being naked in front of her roommates had been hard enough, but she didn’t even know the maids. Maybe it was that sheer lack of personal relationship that made it easier for Alassa accept it.

  But then, Alassa hadn’t been raised to think of the lower classes as human.

  “You may use the remaining water,” the head maid said. “It is still warm.”

  Emily wondered just what they’d been told about her; she might not have been an aristocrat, but she was the Necromancer’s Bane. Did the king really want to offend her? It struck Emily, a moment later, that she was thinking like Alassa had thought, back when they’d first met. There was no reason to assume an insult without proof–besides, Alassa was easily more important, socially, than Emily. Even if she had beaten a necromancer.

  “You can bring her fresh water,” Alassa snapped. “Now!”

  The maids bowed and retreated, taking the bathtub with them. Emily glanced at Alassa in surprise.

  “Making you use my old water is insulting,” Alassa said, simply. “The king wanted to test me, to see what I would do when they tried.”

  Emily was still puzzling over that when the maids returned, carrying new buckets of water and the emptied bathtub. Their leader offered a grovelling apology as her subordinates poured the water into the tub, then headed back towards Alassa. Emily rolled her eyes at their backs and saw her friend smile in return, just before she was surrounded by the maids.

  The water smelled faintly of flowers and herbs, Emily decided, as she undressed and washed herself. There didn’t seem to be any dedicated bathroom; the water splashed on the marble tiles, creating a slipping hazard. Emily wondered if they were just going to leave the puddles there, before realizing that the maids would probably come into the room while they were being presented to the king and clean up the mess. She made a mental note to ensure that her trunk was locked before she left the room. No doubt the king would expect his maids to search their possessions if they had a chance.

  After the long journey, it felt good to wash, although she would really have preferred a shower. She found herself considering ways to convince the king to install modern plumbing, before realizing that they could have done it long before Emily had been brought into their world. Maybe someone was hoping that the king and his family would rot in the filth of their own living accommodations…it didn’t seem too likely, but it made her smile as she towelled herself down and donned the dress. In the mirror, she looked rather unimpressive, almost waiflike.

  She heard a muttered curse from behind her and turned to see Alassa, still being tended by the maids. Two of them were working on her hair, propping it up in a manner that made Emily think of Marge Simpson; two more were poking and prodding at her blue-white dress, fanning it out to ensure that no one could do more than hold hands with her. Emily couldn’t help noticing that the dress was rather like a wedding garment from Earth and wondered if the symbolism–a virgin bride–held true for Zangaria too. Was Alassa a virgin? It was odd, given how much else they’d shared, they’d never talked about sex. And Alassa hadn’t raised the topic when Emily had told her about Jade’s proposal.

  It was nearly an hour before the maids finally pronounced themselves satisfied. Emily had gone from amusement to boredom and had been reading a book, which she returned to the trunk as Alassa stared at herself in the mirror. She did look striking, although Emily had some difficulty understanding how she was meant to go through the corridors without brushing her hair against the ceiling. They met eyes and Alassa winked at her, then dismissed the maids with a wave of her hand.

  “Remember your protocol,” Alassa said, as the door opened again. Nightingale and Lady Barb stepped into the room. The Master of the Princess’s Bedchamber had changed into an outfit that was even more eye-catching than the first; Lady Barb didn’t seem to have changed at all. “I bow to the King; you count ten ticks and then curtsey. Then stay on one knee until he gives you leave to rise.”

  Emily nodded. Alassa had told her the same thing for the last ten days before they left Whitehall. Alassa was nervous, Emily knew, fearing that she wouldn’t make a good impression. Her prospective husbands might have heard of her reputation and feared to marry her–or, alternatively, they could have thought that a royal brat would be easy to manipulate. It still struck Emily as odd, but a mistake on her part could reflect badly on Alassa.

  “Your Highness,” Nightingale said. “You look wonderfully regal.”

  Alassa nodded imperiously, but said nothing.

  “Come with us,” Lady Barb ordered. She didn’t seem very impressed with Alassa’s royal title, or perhaps it was just the company she kept. “His Majesty is waiting for you.”

  Emily stayed one step behind Alassa as they walked out of the second door and into a antechamber that housed two beds. Nightingale and Lady Barb were literally
sleeping outside Alassa’s door, Emily realized; absently, she wondered how they tolerated each other. Somehow, she couldn’t see them being friends. Outside the antechamber, there were three soldiers on guard duty, two of them wearing the livery Emily had seen on the guards escorting the carriage. The third wore different colors.

  The corridors were wider deeper inside the castle, she saw, as they walked down a massive flight of staircases and stopped outside a pair of giant wooden doors. Alassa gave her a nervous glance, then winked as the doors began to open, revealing the royal court. Hundreds of people were inside the chamber; they turned to look as Alassa strode in, staring at the royal princess. Emily almost quailed before a push from Lady Barb forced her to start walking up the aisle. It was impossible to escape the sense that she was attending her own wedding.

  King Jorlem was a tall, powerfully-built man who was slowly turning to fat. He seemed to be bald, wearing a heavy crown as if it were the lightest thing in the world. Emily couldn’t help thinking of Henry VIII, before realizing that King Jorlem, at least, had two male heirs. If he had any daughters, none of the genealogical tables Emily had consulted had shown them. But he’d want daughters, wouldn’t he? They could make useful alliances, particularly if they couldn’t actually inherit on their own.

  Alassa stopped, two meters in front of the throne, and bowed. Emily felt her heartbeat racing faster as she counted ten seconds, then curtseyed. Despite all the practicing Alassa had made her do, she still nearly tripped over herself. A moment later, she went down on one knee, feeling oddly exposed, almost humiliated. King Jorlem wasn’t her King. Besides, no one knelt to the president.

  “We welcome you, Crown Princess of Zangaria,” the king said. His voice was thin and reedy, but there was no mistaking the absolute assurance of power behind it. “You are most welcome in Our court.”