by L. K. Rigel
“The king’s new painting has arrived from Versailles, my lady.” Day Two looked up from her embroidery. “We could go see it.”
Her Ladies of the Hours wanted to believe the story Garrick had spread when he bid on her, that she was the real Mallory, truly the lost granddaughter of the old emperor. To maintain the conceit that they were ladies in waiting to a princess, they had decided copious amounts of needlework were in order.
At first, they had called her your highness, but she immediately put an end to that ridiculousness. Unfortunately, she had not been able to stop the embroidery. Tragically, they were really horrid at it.
“Yes, let’s do that.” It was easy to make Day Two happy. “Leave your work there.”
“I heard that it’s eight hundred years old.” She was already out of her chair. She wasn’t so in love with embroidering as she pretended.
“Let’s have a treat. We can eat it on our way.” Mal opened the box of chocolate she’d brought with her and offered some to the LOTHs.
Day One took a bite and closed her eyes, savoring the pleasure. “We know how old it is. We were all there when King Garrick announced the acquisition.” Between the Days’ petty rivalry and their constant sucking up, Mal felt suffocated.
“Oh.” Day One swooned. “Almonds.” So that’s what it took to get a pleasant word out of her – candy.
When the chalices told her to keep supplies of good food in country, she thought they meant for her own consumption. Now she understood the advantage to Red City’s control of world trade in coffee and Brazilian chocolate.
The Days took tiny bites, maintaining their dignity with the economy of letting the chocolate melt slowly in their mouths. She opened the box again and encouraged them to take more.
They were thin. She had forgotten how thin the world was. Not its kings and counselors and princes, of course. And Garrick’s guards were substantial and muscular. She had seen enough citizens to know some people got plenty to eat.
Why not her ladies?
“Tell my kitchen I want roast beef prepared for my afternoon meal. Real, not textured. Also green and yellow squash, potatoes with butter, strawberries, and whatever fresh fruits and vegetables they have. Enough for fifteen people.”
“My lady?” The Days looked at her in astonishment.
“All my ladies will share my table, and you may each invite a guest. We’ll have three bottles each of the Pouilly-Fuissé and the Napa pinot noir. If there is too much food, you may give the extra to your servants.”
She surely had a right to feed anybody she wanted to with her own food. Too bad she couldn’t see a way out of attending the dinner herself.
“And I want two cakes, one chocolate and one strawberry. And coffee with cream.”
A clock on the corridor wall started to mark the hour with a dull bunkh, bunkh, bunkh. That’s right; this city worshiped precision. “Real cream.”
Great gods, did they have to look like they might faint with joy? She had been stupid not to notice earlier. Next time, she’d be a better provider for her official household.
Garrick displayed its collection of artifacts from before the cataclysm at the Musée d’Concordia in the southeast sector, but the king’s current favorites stayed here in the citadel. He’d made a point of telling Mal that the objects were all useless in themselves, “but we expend our resources on them to show that we can.”
She had taken his meaning: He felt the same about the price of her contract.
The new prize was an old world masterpiece, one of few still intact. It was over five feet tall and a bit wider than that. It hung on the east wall set off by lots of blank space on both sides. The prince was there, admiring the painting, along with a woman and a priest of Samael.
It was too late to turn around. The priest had seen her.
The woman was a head taller than Garrick and slender, but not too thin, her long, straight blue-black hair held off her face by a bronze band interwoven with jewels. She wore the fine-tailored clothes of an aristocrat, a long, plain tunic over loose-fitting trousers and a cummerbund intricately embroidered with dragons.
She carried herself as if she were the most important object in the room. If she had been a chalice, her aura of entitlement would rival Kairo’s.
“My lady.” Prince Garrick took the woman’s elbow and led her out of the gallery. Mal nodded before she realized his my lady had been for the other woman.
“Lady Bron is letting go of her name.” The priest’s voice was quiet and gentle and surprisingly deep. “Or I am sure the prince would have introduced her.”
His brown robe was in the affected Samaeli style of an ancient order of monks. His straight pale hair accented the angularity of his face and gave him a hard look.
“Letting go of her name?”
“She’s training to be Counselor when the prince is king.”
“Ah, yes. The Act.” After all her years at Red City, people still assumed she was an ignorant settler. Maybe she never met Garrick’s Counselor, but she knew the story. She’d always identified with the girl’s adventuresome spirit.
When Counselor was thirteen, her mangled body was found on the riverbank outside the citadel. Red City sent a Team of Inquiry to help Garrick’s investigators, and the two teams produced competing theories of her death. Either she slipped on the rocks at Garrick Falls or she had been snatched by a raptor, struggled free, and fell into the rapids.
Soon after, the Concord Cities passed the Act of Succession allowing for a nonroyal counselor in a certain limited circumstance, namely the one Garrick faced. It seemed a perfectly sensible law to Mal, but it was the only concord ever enacted over Red City’s objection.
“It’s heretical, of course,” the priest nodded at the painting, “but Garrick will have its trophies.” He extended his hand with annoying familiarity. “I am Father Jesse.”
The priest who can see souls.
A sound in her mind like the echo of a voice said take his hand, and she nearly did, but the Days’ anxious reaction saved her. One did not touch a brood queen when she was carrying. What if Father Jesse had a contagious virus? And besides, Sister Jordana detested this priest above all others.
“Are you here to study the scrolls?” She chuckled inwardly. The comment had set him back; of course the Samaelii hated the fact of the very existence of the Scrolls of Scylla. “I see they’re displayed with proper respect.”
They were indeed displayed with flare and pomp at the west wall, encased in glass.
Mal turned back to the painting of the famous chalice of ancient times, the woman who produced Clytemnestra and Helen of Troy. Durga must burn with envy that Garrick possessed this painting.
There was no heresy in this celebration of Leda and her seduction by Zeus in the form of a swan. It was lovely, even mystical.
Mal’s breath caught at the scene where the swan flew away from Leda and her ladies. The bird seemed to embody the very spirit of the Lily Empani in Sister Marin’s office when it took the shape of a heron and escaped them all.
“Have you never spoken with your god then?” There was no reason to provoke Father Jesse, except to push back against his irritating familiarity and lack of respect for Red City. “I’ve heard this sad story about the followers of Samael, and I couldn’t believe it. But it would explain your ignorance of hierophany.”
She was veering dangerously close to admitting – if only to herself – that she’d once heard the goddess speak in her ear.
But Father Jesse had another agenda.
“The Leda was hundreds of years old when the final world war began.” His voice was relaxing and quiet, but something about it was unnatural. “A curator had the foresight to get it out of Berlin before the dirty bombs went off. It was in safekeeping at Spandau for over a hundred years.”
Beastie licked Mal’s chin and panted happily. He hadn’t growled or fussed at Father Jesse, so that was something in the priest’s favor.
“Spandau sold the Leda to Ve
rsailles when the Germans needed to raise a bride price.”
Ah, there it was. The Samaelii resented Red City’s control over natural birth. Sister Jordana said their dearest desire was to end the tradition of the Triune Contract. Fat chance of that. What would the kings do, get their heirs out of wildlings?
“Now, Versailles has sold it to Garrick and for the same purpose.”
He had pale blue-green eyes that should signify physical fragility; and though he looked well-fed and fit, he gave the odd impression of being insubstantial, almost ghostly, despite the hair and eyebrows and eyelashes.
He came closer, and she felt dizzy. She had to focus on the picture to keep her balance. She felt a strange wariness, as if her body, independent of her mind, agitated to get away.
“I feel a drain on my well-being. I wish to be alone with my ladies to observe the painting.”
“Of course, highness.”
At the word highness, the Days puffed themselves up. When the priest had gone, she said, “That guy gives me the creeps.” She buried her face in Beastie’s neck while he twisted around to lick her face. Sweet Beastie. He was her rock.
The painting was beautiful, but she couldn’t enjoy it. She wanted to scream that the rumors about her were not true. She was not the old Emperor’s long-lost granddaughter. She was a chalice, and didn’t that trump all?
Right after she arrived in Red City, a Team of Inquiry had traced the cradleboard Ma saved to caves near the Old Salt Lake. Wildlings there had once used longbows made of the same wood.
The team concluded that the wildlings had been attacked by raptors, and one of the giants had dropped the carrier outside the settlement wall. Ma had named her Mallory, after the mythical granddaughter of the last Emperor, in a blatant ploy to get a higher bounty if Red City ever came.
Durga had written on the face of the report: Not settlement trash after all. Wildling droppings.
If anyone cared to look, the evidence existed to prove Mal was no princess. But after paying such a ridiculous contract price, no one in Garrick wanted to hear that their brood queen was worse than settlement trash.
That evening the city elites assembled at the public theater on the citadel’s second level. Nights One and Two sat at Mal’s sides with the Days behind them in an open balcony above the people. The ladies were giddy, having indulged in a little too much wine and way too much food.
On the stage, the king sat between two KPs. He had been gorgeous once, like his son, but tonight he looked his age. Prince Garrick sat next to the king, and beside the prince was Lady Bron. Was it possible to forget your name once you knew it?
Mal thought of Pala’s ma and da at the settlement. She always called them Palama and Palada. She wished she knew their real names. She wished she’d called Palama by her real name at least once before she died.
She vowed she’d never forget Lady Bron’s name.
“My lord.” The KP who’d examined her that morning took center stage. “As king’s physician, I am honored to announce that our city can expect a wonderful event.”
The assembly quieted at the formulaic words, but they didn’t seem very excited. “We are ready to hear you.” King Garrick answered with the enthusiasm of a bureaucrat.
“Mallory of Sanguibahd, Garrick’s brood queen, carries our prince’s first child, a girl.”
The applause was polite and self-congratulatory. Of course they weren’t surprised. They were Garrick. They expected every good thing. She noted that they left out the “nee Settlement 20” part of her official title.
At least they hadn’t snuck in something about the Emperor.
The next morning at the boarding bridge, Father Jesse greeted her with Prince Garrick’s entourage. “Our wishes go with you for an uneventful gestation, highness.”
“Please, Father Jesse. That rumor has long been debunked. My lady will do.”
The prince stepped between them and took her hand. “Milady.” He bowed slightly, lifting her fingers to his lips. “I look forward to our time in the yin-yang.” He held on longer than necessary, his charming smile counterbalancing the coarse reference to the ensoulment chamber.
How different he was here in country, formal and deliberate, compared to his playful self-confidence during the Rites. It must be difficult to be a prince, waiting for the king to die before he could assume the only role the world allowed him.
“Until then, Prince Garrick.”
Day Two should have been on the bridge, but Father Jesse had taken her aside and put a letter into her hand. She nodded to him then hurried ahead to board Garrick’s jet. Mal laughed to herself. Didn’t everyone realize that if she were really an Imperial princess, Red City would have sent the Blackbird?
As the prince’s entourage turned away, her heart jumped. There was a guard with a mass of dark brown braids woven with beads and colored thread.
Pala! Pala was one of Garrick’s guards! He had grown tall and strong, and the muscles in his bare arms were impressive. He saw her too. His smile was as carefree as ever. Of course he couldn’t be happy farming. He touched his nose twice and put his finger to his lips, then moved on with the formation.
“Come on, Beastie, let’s go home.” She danced across the bridge as some infernal clock bleated the hour. She would allow that knowing the time could be a useful thing; but did the telling have to be so ugly?
No matter. Garrick’s mechanical relentlessness would not diminish her happiness. She carried inside her the future Counselor of Garrick – Garrick, great gods! And Pala was here. Thank you, Asherah! There would be at least one friendly face to greet her when she returned for her lying-in.
The jet lifted off and circled the citadel. She couldn’t help but compare the bleakness below to that other city she had visited. It was a long time ago, and maybe she had idealized Allel. In her memory it was golden and green and comfortable compared to the black splotch Garrick made on the landscape.
Hundreds of slim refinery towers jutted into the air, spewing gray-brown smoke. Around the city’s perimeter, actual machines of war – surface-to-air missiles – were at the ready, willing to kill special species and even human beings to defend the fuel. If this is what the world had once been like, no wonder the human race had nearly destroyed itself.
Surely it was better to be less powerful and more beautiful, like Allel.
Counterclockwork
Edmund stood at Celia’s window with his coffee, watching Jannes on the turret deck about twenty feet below.
The former regent had retired, but she liked to say she wasn’t dead yet. “I see Garrick’s chalice is back in Red City.” She always brought her gridcom tablet to breakfast to share the latest news. He knew she also had regular direct communication with the Emissary, which she did not share.
“I hope Mallory is well.” Of course that would be Counselor’s first thought.
He didn’t turn around, but he felt both Celia and Counselor watching for his reaction. “Good,” he said. “The sooner she completes the contract, the sooner we can bid on her.”
Jannes set a basket on a plank extended from the wall’s cage walk. The basket contained something to tempt one of the monsters, probably a couple of rabbits.
“I have a bad feeling about that contract,” Counselor said. “And not just because I wanted Mallory for Allel.”
“Counselor is right.” There was more than irritation in Celia’s voice. “Garrick has wanted to disband the Concords from their beginning. This lost princess story is all about a power grab.”
“It might just be hype,” Counselor said. “The king wants to put her on a pedestal, like one of his art acquisitions.”
Counselor could read the true character in any individual person, and yet politics was a mystery to her.
“What are you watching, Edmund?”
“The man I want you to see.”
She joined him at the window. Jannes had moved away from the basket, but he stayed in the raptor cage. So far so good: A peregrine slipped
down from the clouds, surfing the wind current on a heading toward the basket. Jannes’ new device went into action and hurled a baling net from the raptor cage. It intercepted the bird, caught and enclosed one wing, and emitted an electrical charge.
The raptor twisted, beat its good wing against the air, and fell in a bizarre pattern toward the water. Another baling net shot past it. From the clouds, a second peregrine fell and plunged into the bay close to where its mate had gone down.
“Great gods, Edmund. That’s fantastic.”
“It was Jannes’ idea. He’s as smart as he is brave. I want you to tell me if he is loyal.”
“We need to use those nets in the fields – or better, construct a perimeter around Allel’s entire border.”
“That’s the idea. Jannes thinks they’ll learn to avoid Allel altogether.”
“Raptors are the least of your problems, Edmund. I tell you Garrick is planning to restore the Imperium and put his own sorry carcass on the throne.”
“Why are you so upset, Celia? Is that what you and the Emissary had planned for me, but Garrick got there first?”
From Celia’s expression, he hadn’t hit far off the mark.
“Sting me,” Counselor said.
“Great gods, Celia. Allel owes you a debt it can never repay, and I am grateful you were here to keep the throne safe when our father died. But nothing useful will come from meddling. With Red City or Garrick.”
Jannes had pulled the basket off the ledge and was on his way inside the citadel. “I’m going down. I’ll send Jannes to you this morning, Counselor.”
He bent over Celia and kissed her white hair. “What we have in the vault will do far more good than all the games you play with the Emissary. Let Garrick be distracted with this princess fantasy. No one will buy it in the end.”
“You’re wrong there, Edmund.” Counselor’s voice was low and strong. He called it her knowing voice. “Kings and princes always pay good money for the story that maintains their power.” Maybe she knew more about politics than he gave her credit for.
Jannes was waiting at the lift. Edmund pounded the code into the panel. “Good test. That was a sweet second hit.”
