The Redwood Palace

by M K Hutchins

  “One moment,” I whispered, trying not to gag. I turned back to the kitchen. Mint? Cress? Those weren’t strong enough by half to block the smell, not with my perceptive nose. The last thing I needed was to vomit and fall off while the Hungry Ghost scaled the roofs.

  I grabbed a hotradish from the pantry and sliced a few rounds off. I popped one into my mouth, tucked the remainder in my skirt’s waist, and bit down. The heat burned up my sinuses and down my throat. I couldn’t smell anything else. I couldn’t see particularly well, either, with my eyes watering, but I’d make do.

  This time, I managed to mount. So close to the ghost, I could smell the rot, like must and mildew under a rug. The hotradish kept the worst of it away. I tightened my legs around its side and clung to a roll of fat with both my hands.

  “I’m ready.”

  Or, at least, I thought so. It jerked upright and scrambled up a wall. I tightened my legs and dug my nails into its flesh, but my hands slipped on the slime.

  It flattened onto the roof. I grabbed at a roll of fat further up and yanked myself closer to its shoulders just as it sprinted across the sloped shingles.

  The stench of it knotted my throat. I bit down on the hotradish again, burning myself with new heat. Tears blurred the rooftops, the curve of the trees, but I kept chewing, trying to keep the stink out. Droplets of slime, picked up by the wind, splattered my face. Why had I tucked the rest of the hotradish in my skirt’s waist? I couldn’t pause to reach it, not here. My thighs numbed from the cold of its slime.

  Oddly, the Hungry Ghost hardly made a noise. Maybe its limbs were too small. Maybe its fat padded the sound.

  The cloth over my face pulled free and fluttered away in the breeze. I tried to sit up straighter, away from the reek, but my stiff legs wobbled.

  I lay flat, face pressed next to the slime of its skin and sobbed as spicy vomit welled in my throat and spewed out my nose, streaming back onto my face and neck.

  The Hungry Ghost jerked to a stop, then lowered me through an open window with its tiny hands. I collapsed on the floor. My legs ached from clinging. I could barely uncurl my fingers. I turned my head to the side so I didn’t drown in my own vomit.

  The ghost’s enormous bulk shouldn’t have fit through the window, but it squeezed through like noodle dough in a press. Behind it, the window showed only stars and tree tops—we weren’t on ground level.

  The Hungry Ghost apologetically nosed the recent contents of my stomach, coming close enough to engulf me again in the miasma of its stench.

  “Just...” My throat burned like someone had seared it on white coals. “... go. Please.”

  It whimpered, then climbed up the wall, leaving the way it had come in.

  I shivered. The roomed still smelled foul, but not unbearably so. I lay, trying to compose myself. The raw hotradish, being the opposite of a well-prepared meal, dampened my sense. Sight, hearing, touch, and—mercifully—smell all fuzzed around the edges. I managed to sit up.

  Polished redwood composed the floors, walls, and ceiling. An antechamber with open curtains lay on the far side, but the opulent lacquered bed inside held nothing but wrinkled blankets. A number of beautiful things adorned the room—vases, calligraphy posters, an elegantly carved wardrobe and a pink-granite washbasin—but no King Former Fulsaan. No sign of life other than a lantern glowing softly on a low table.

  But the King Former never left. I dragged myself to a window as the ill effects of the hotradish ebbed. I spotted a wall a good distance below encircling the building. This had to be the third floor of the Royal Bear House. The Hungry Ghost perched on a nearby roof, looking like a greasy shadow. It lowered its head, plaintive, and gestured with one stubby arm for me to stay inside. To wait?

  I made a wide gesture at the room, then held up my arms in question.

  It nodded, like it knew no one was inside. I gestured for it to come get me, to take me to King Former Fulsaan, but it shook its head and held out its hand. Wait.

  I eyed the steeply peaked roof and contemplated climbing out. But if the fall didn’t kill me, breaking both my legs ensured the Palace Guard would catch me. I peered under the door and saw the heels of two guards. No escape that way, either.

  My chest knotted. The Hungry Ghost wanted my help. It hadn’t brought me here as a taunt.

  Wherever King Alder had taken his father to, they’d probably return soon. When they did, I didn’t want King Alder to glimpse any trace of me.

  Quietly, so the guards wouldn’t have more to think about, I stripped my foul clothes off, poured a pitcher of water into the basin, and scrubbed myself liberally with the parsley soap. Then I upended the basin over the floor and used my clothes to mop it all up. I stuffed the whole wet mess under the dresser. By then, goose bumps riddled my skin, but at least the world smelled like soap and stench instead of just stench.

  Impertinent as it was, I helped myself to one of the long shirts and soft pants inside the king’s wardrobe. I’d already been bold enough in coming here; borrowing clothes seemed like a small crime next to that. The sleeves tumbled over my fingertips, impeding movement, and the pants bunched and rubbed between my knees.

  I hid myself behind the bed, where I couldn’t be seen from the doorway. Hopefully King Alder wouldn’t notice the lingering, acrid taste in the air, or that the floor shone a little too brightly.

  My body protested the stiffness of the position, but I didn’t dare wait somewhere more comfortable. Cheek pressed against the redwood, I inhaled the crisp smell of the forest and the musk of oil. There were worse smells. Worse places to be. Where was Dami right now? Sleeping in a tent, with a dozen other unwashed soldiers? Marching through the rain? Fighting hand to hand on some battlefield I’d never see, reeking with the tang of blood?

  I dozed off, thinking of her—of her long braid and all the people she’d left behind.

  When I woke, the lamp had burned out. By the false dawn outside, I made out the Hungry Ghost’s silhouette in the window. It dropped down onto the floor.

  I scrambled to pull my neckline over my mouth, but oddly, I didn’t smell anything foul.

  The rolls of fat boiled inward. The ghost’s filth wicked off the floor, back into its body. Its limbs rounded and its belly shrank. The head domed into something more human-shape. A nose grew. The mouth widened and sprouted lips. Hair stubbled its scalp, then poured down its shoulders. Black slime turned into wrinkled skin.

  A ray of real sunlight glanced across the window top and I found myself staring at an old, pudgy, naked man.

  As a chef, I was no stranger to anatomy, but I closed my eyes, then covered them with a hand.

  “Kitchen girl,” he called softly, his voice higher than I’d expected after seeing him as a massive ghost. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  He yawned. “I have no desire to search for you, but I do want to talk with you. Come out.”

  “Ah. Are you dressed now?” I hadn’t heard him take so much as a step.

  “Clothes. Curse it,” he mumbled. I heard the wardrobe open. “If it’s warm, I usually don’t bother. My only daily visitor is my son. I’m not about to exert myself for his comfort.”

  His words tumbled together in my skull. My chest knotted. “You’re King Former Fulsaan.”

  “Of course. Didn’t you get the message with the branches? Ripping them up was exhausting. You can come out.”

  Our own past monarch, a Hungry Ghost. The Father of our nation. Shame for all of Rowak welled in my chest. I stepped out from behind the bed, my stiff muscles groaning. Purple Fulsaan sat on the floor. He’d pulled on a pair of trousers and a tunic, but hadn’t bothered to tie a belt or comb his hair.

  “You’re dead.”

  “I noticed.” He rubbed his eyes. “I’d like to be exorcised.”

  “Why didn’t you ask your son? The King could—”

  Fulsaan waved a hand. “Who do you think keeps me in here? He knows.”

  “But why—” I didn’t fi
nish before my insides frosted. “King Alder knew the apprentices weren’t lying?”

  “Of course.”

  “He had them all hanged!”

  Sadness rimmed his eyes. “How could he hide me, with such rumors flying?”

  I shifted half a step back. This man, however pitiful he looked, didn’t become a ghost through neglect. “You knowingly put me at risk of the king’s wrath.”

  “I did hope, separated from the Royal Bear House, that you’d be clever enough to escape the King’s notice. I gave up asking my guards for help after Alder killed the third set. The fourth set’s deaf now.”

  Did he mean they’d always been deaf, or that the King had punctured their eardrums? The King had seemed so sad about the war, about his father’s failing health. So... human. I wanted to believe he felt justified in the apprentices’ deaths. That he wasn’t a murderer. That, maybe, he’d listen to my pleas for a merciful punishment at the trial.

  “So the King keeps you imprisoned here to protect himself.”

  “Oh, no. The smart thing to do would be to bring in a good chef, exorcise me, and then cremate the chef. Do you know what happens if it’s found out I’m a Hungry Ghost?”

  I frowned, uncertain.

  “I’d be struck from the records as a king and my descendants all demoted to red-ranked. Alder, Sulat, Torut. Alder would be dethroned and Valerian disinherited. The upheaval would give the Shoreed the perfect opportunity to attack and end Rowak all together.” Fulsaan shook his head. “Alder should have ended me a long time ago. I wish he had. All this sneaking about and trying to get exorcised without Alder slaughtering the whole palace is incredibly tiring.”

  “Who would succeed if Alder was demoted?” I demanded. This stank of a plot.

  “Hmm. I have no brothers. Lady Thrush is my oldest sister—long deceased — but it would be her oldest living descendent, Blue-ranked Captain Gano of the Palace Guard.”

  Captain Gano. Did Fir work for him? My adrenaline cooled and my brain began working. But why would Captain Gano poison Lady Sulat if he could disinherit her?

  “Why doesn’t King Alder exorcise you?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I’m his father. However rude and obstinate I am during our visits, he wants to keep me around.”

  Alder’s words from that night I spied on Lord Torut played through my mind: If I could, I’d place him in a room safe in the clouds, where no illness or age could ever strike him down. Where I could always have him nearby.

  Is that what he thought of having his father turn into a Hungry Ghost? How could he be so callous to other people’s sons when he cherished his father so? Not that he followed his father’s wishes for an exorcism.

  I sat on the floor, several paces back from Fulsaan. King Alder would show no mercy to a girl from the kitchens who’d asked questions about Hungry Ghosts in the archives. I’d have to count on the Council to acquit me.

  In the meantime, I should finish what I’d started. “You still want me to exorcise you, right?”

  “Yes.” He sighed. “Are you going to hold me to that whole spying-for-you thing?”

  I frowned. “Did you not even look?”

  “I did. A little.” Fulsaan rested his elbows on his knees. “Lieutenant-General Behon, the man in charge of Askan-Wod’s defenses, is sending secret messenger-birds at night. But for all I know he’s writing a mistress.”

  My shoulders dropped. With such an ideal spy, I’d hoped for more. “Your son isn’t behind the poisoning?”

  “He seems genuinely disturbed by it. Using two poison-tasters now.”

  Was the king just trying to look innocence?

  “So. Back to my exorcism...”

  A lump of disappointment pressed against my ribs. He’d failed me, but as a chef, I still wanted to help him. “First I need to know what vices tie you to this world.”

  Fulsaan sighed, jowls drooping.

  “Don’t you want me to help you?” I asked, firm-but-kind. Almost like talking to a child.

  “I do. It’s just such a long story. Fetch me a cup of huckleberry wine. Bottom drawer of the wardrobe.”

  I poured Fulsaan his drink, which he slurped down before speaking. “Ahh. Tell me what you know about my oldest son, Ospren.”

  “He used talk about tax reformation to cover his thefts from the treasury. For those thefts, he was exiled eight years ago to a cabin on the southern border, under heavy guard.”

  Fulsaan nodded. “The bit about the treasury’s all lies, of course.”

  I peered at him.

  Fulsaan scratched the back of his neck. “Well, I suppose he did want to reform taxes. Right now, the governor of every province collects taxes, then sends the throne their portion. Birdie wanted royal tax collectors who’d bring everything to the capital, then redistribute it to the cities. The Blue-Green councils of the provinces have little ability to check the governors in regards to taxes—Birdie thought handing the whole matter over to the Royal House was the best way to stem corruption.”

  “Birdie?”

  “That’s what we called Ospren when he was little.”

  “Ah.”

  “It wasn’t a popular motion, taking power from the governors and giving it to the Royal House. He also had some strange ideas about improving roads. In any case, Alder came to me with a plot to exile Birdie.”

  “And you agreed?” I asked, incredulous. Speaking with Fulsaan seemed surreal—I didn’t think to keep my tone polite.

  But Fulsaan didn’t seem to mind. He shrugged. “Easier than dealing with upset magistrates and their machinations. Or assassination attempts.”

  “You... weren’t a very good king, were you?”

  “I was an excellent king!” He tried to take another drink, then waved at me to refill his cup. “I didn’t rule like a tyrant. I kept enough control that people considered me malleable, but not a mere puppet to be dethroned.”

  I handed him the wine. Is this where Lord Torut picked up his habits?

  “You didn’t want to make Rowak... better?” I asked.

  “I was just a king.” He sipped. “I wanted to eat and sleep and have excellent baths. You sound like my wife.”

  I frowned. I didn’t know much about the late queen.

  “She had ambition. Edged out I don’t know how many other women to marry me. Ospren, with all his plans... he was her joy. I’m afraid she rubbed off on Alder and Sulat as well.”

  “She died of a fever, correct?”

  “Oh, I don’t know if she’s even dead.” He finished his drink and set it on the floor. “She disappeared after Alder and I framed and exiled Birdie. But there’s no sign of her at Birdie’s cabin. So we said she died. Staged a funeral. Much easier than trying to explain a missing person.”

  I rubbed the side of my skull, head aching. “Haven’t you tried to find her?”

  “Not particularly. She hated me. Me and my banquets and my pretty serving girls.”

  My stomach fell. “You weren’t faithful to her, were you?”

  “Ancestors above! Of course I was. Usually. Do you know how much effort’s involved in keeping mistresses? Let alone keeping them secret? Besides, late-night tumbling leaves me sweaty. I detest sweating. And then there’s cleaning up and getting dressed again! Bah.”

  I’d frozen, ears burning as surely as if someone had lit my hair on fire. Given his earlier transformation, I could unfortunately craft an accurate image of a naked, sweaty Fulsaan.

  “Oh. I apologize. Being dead does make one rather cavalier. You’re not married, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Ah, you’re so lucky. Well, now that you know what my crimes are, you can exorcise me, right? I can’t tell you how bothersome it is to be a ghost all night, compelled to run and run searching for scraps. There aren’t enough naps in a day to make up for it.”

  “That’s what you find bothersome? Running?”

  He blinked at me, eyes wide atop his round cheeks. “You say running like it’s not an evil word! Part
of my brain is my own, but I can’t stop my search for food. I can’t even lounge in this room—closed doors or windows keep me from entering any space inside a building, but they don’t keep me from going outdoors. Alder tried boarding up the window, but I could still squeeze through. It’s horrid! Every moment, I’m perfectly aware that my soft, warm bed lies empty and unappreciated, my pillow deprived of the creases of a happy dreamer’s head.”

  He rudely slapped one hand into the other to emphasize his point.

  I don’t know who I’d expected to meet in this third-story room, but I certainly hadn’t imagined a lackadaisical king who considered getting dressed a bother. “You’re...” the words lumped in my throat, but I kneaded them out. “You’re lazy.”

  “Well put! Usually my advisors tried to be polite about it.”

  I scowled. “And you want me to exorcise you, because you’re too lazy to bother being a ghost?”

  “Yes! Exactly!” He sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry for what I let happen to my son. And my wife, if that’s my fault—it probably is. And that I didn’t find out more for you and your trial. But I’m dead now and ready to rest for eternity. The running’s horrible. And I have to start every sunrise and sunset in this exact same spot where I died. If I’m not here, I’m ripped back, all pins and needles. Found that out when Alder tried to stash me in an internal room with no windows. Rather uncomfortable. Would you fetch me another cup?”

  Lazy. What kind of food did I make to exorcise a lazy ghost? And would it work? Exorcism also required the true remorse of the ghost and King Fulsaan didn’t seem remotely ashamed.

  At least I could report this all to Lady Sulat. I sighed. I’d expected this to somehow be tied to Fir, to the poisonings... but why would anyone poison her if they could disinherit her with far greater ease? Besides, Violet had been on the waiting list for three years—long before Fulsaan died.

  “King Former Fulsaan, I will try to help you. Ghosts should find their rest. But it won’t be easy. And given your particular nature, you might have to do something to achieve it.”