by Sam Hooker
Predictably, like lemmings over a cliff, the assembled bootlickers followed suit. The sounds of clattering silverware and monstrous gnawing drifted into the kitchens, setting the stage for the future nightmares of everyone who heard. The entirety of the court had devolved into the children’s table, casting etiquette aside because that, apparently, was the fashionable thing to do in North Uptonshire.
Volgha was impressed. She’d never seen the point to all of those forks anyway, and cast her own aside. She managed to relax for a moment and enjoy her meal. Santa had, against all odds, managed to win enough of the White Queen’s favor to not land them in the dungeon. One step closer to the pearls.
By the time after-brunch cocktails were served, everyone had three courses of culinary marvel festooning the front of their attire.
“Tell me, Baron,” began the queen, gesturing at him with a wine glass so forcefully that it splashed all over him, “is this how all meals are held in your hall?”
“Not exactly,” said Santa.
“Oh?”
Volgha elbowed him in the ribs. “Only the special occasions, right, Baron?”
“Oh, right,” he replied. “Special occasions only.”
“Delightful,” said the queen. “I’d love to visit North Uptonshire someday soon, to see more of this outrageous fashion! Are your designs very popular?”
“Oh yeah,” said Santa, “all of the locals love my stuff. No one can afford it, though, so there’s not much to see.”
“Really?” The queen cast her glass aside in excitement. Predictably, the sound of breaking glass then sounded throughout the room, and all of the wine bearers found themselves in the grip of a collective existential crisis.
“Yeah,” answered Santa “That’s why I’m usually the only one wearing my designs. Well, me and my valet, that is.”
“I must have them!” The queen stood up onto her chair. “Exclusive designs! Cost is no object! A dozen for me first, obviously, and then one for my sister. No more of those awful black rags for her!”
“Hey!” Volgha started to take offense but decided there were more important hills upon which she might die. Her sister was distracted, and that was the best thing that could have happened.
“And then Lord Chamberlain, then my wig powderers, and the butler. You’ll need to meet them individually for measurements, I presume? Then there are the banister polishers, the ice sculptors, and Tickler, of course.”
I’m glad I’m no longer at court, said Osgrey. He doesn’t decorate trees, does he?
Volgha smirked.
“A meeting with Tickler will require some special planning, Your Majesty,” said Chamberlain. “Shall I call for him?”
“Obviously.” The queen rolled her eyes. “But for now, I simply must have this hunk of man to myself for a while!” She was clutching at Santa amorously, in an unexpected turn of events.
“Your Majesty,” Santa was leaning away from her advances as adamantly as possible, “I’m not sure that we should—”
“Of course we should! Why, is there a Baroness Klaus?”
“Well, no—”
“Yes!” Volgha’s blurt might have been timed more poorly, but at present, she couldn’t see how.
“Want him for yourself, eh?” The queen glared at Volgha, and sneered. It was her look that preceded tirades and public executions.
“No,” said Volgha. “Maybe. What?” She looked around, desperately searching for a distraction. Where were the levers that released the doves?
“Well you can’t have him, I saw him first!” The queen was trying to crawl into Santa’s lap, though the sheer enormity of her dress was a sufficient impediment.
“No you didn’t,” said Volgha, reflexively slipping into the standard sisterly mode of debate. “I told you about him! I invited him here!”
“Well, he’s far too noble to slum with you in your little hut. He’s a fashion designer, for crying out loud!”
“My cottage is lovely!”
“I’m the queen here!”
Volgha called Alexia a swear word. Unfortunately, it was one she knew.
“Guards!” Half a dozen mail-and-leather-clad guards rushed to the high table. “My sister had forgotten her place. Take her to the dungeons!”
“Stop!” Volgha used the same glamour she’d used to stop Loki and the queen from chasing her through the hallways all soapy and naked, the one with the fiery eyes and shadowy tentacles. The guards—sensibly—hesitated.
“Fine,” said Volgha, “you win. But I’m not going to any dungeons. I’m going to my room, and I’m taking the baron’s valet with me.”
“Really?” said Krespo with a worried look.
“Really?” said the queen with an incredulous look.
“Really?” said Santa with a fearful look.
“Yes,” said Volgha. “Really.”
Quickly then, urged Osgrey.
The queen didn’t contradict her, so Volgha used the momentary pause to leave the high table of her own volition. She snapped her fingers for Krespo to follow her, which he did with haste, his high heels clip-clopping a staccato retreat across the stone floor. She gave a quick glance back at Santa who, for the first time since she’d met him, looked very much the rabbit, and not a bit the wolf.
11
“I don’t know what you have in mind,” said Krespo as they hurried down the hall, “but you should know that I don’t have a lot of experience with women.”
“What? No!” Volgha looked at Krespo with disbelief. “I need you to help me get my sister’s pearls.”
“Oh.” Krespo sighed with relief. “I thought you meant to—”
“Please don’t finish that thought. Where did you get that idea?”
“I thought everyone got that idea!”
He’s right, you know.
“Never mind,” muttered Volgha.
“But what about Santa?” asked Krespo. “We have to go back for him!”
“Santa can handle himself.” Of course, it wasn’t himself that required Santa’s handling. Things hadn’t gone according to plan, not that she’d had much of a plan beyond getting in the door. She knew that Santa could pass for nobility, and he was smart enough to distract his sister for a while. She was making up the rest as she went along.
“Why did Santa bring you, anyway?” asked Volgha. “I assumed he’d bring some muscle, one of those Faesolde guys.”
“Thanks a lot.” Krespo seemed offended. “I don’t imagine he anticipated having to fight his way out of here. He brought me because I made the outfits.”
“On your own?”
“Yes, and he needs help getting in and out of them.”
“That makes sense. So you’re a tailor?”
“Among other things,” said Krespo.
They continued their walk down the empty hallway, the percussive barrage of their high heels inventing heavy metal as they went.
“Were you trained as a tailor then?”
“Not exactly,” replied Krespo. “I learned the basics in the course of my schooling, and filled in the gaps with some Applied Thinkery.”
“So you used magic to put his outfits together?”
“As far as Thinkery is a bit like magic,” said Krespo. “It’s certainly a lot faster than doing it by hand. I can throw together a complete outfit in a matter of hours.”
“Oh, that’s good to hear,” said Lord Chamberlain, as he stepped out from a doorway just ahead of them.
“Lord Chamberlain,” said Volgha. “How did you—”
“I took my leave while you and Her Majesty were engaged in dispute. I needed to arrange a meeting between Tickler and the baron, and as luck would have it, he’s available now!”
Volgha knew very little about Her Majesty’s Tickler. No one really knew anything about him, and it was kept that way for a very good reason.
The White Queen, like all of her recent ancestors, was a renowned libertine. She was famous for seeking out pointless diversions, often to the point of
neglecting dire affairs of state. Lord Chamberlain personally handled much of the business of running the kingdom and was very good about keeping that fact under wraps.
One of the least publicized extents of Lord Chamberlain’s power was the fact that he was, by royal decree, the legitimate ruler of the kingdom while Her Majesty was engaged in diversion in the royal ticklarium. The queen often threatened the lives of anyone within earshot while she was being tickled. It was half the fun, really. Unfortunately, when she gleefully screamed, “Off with his head!” the order would be carried out by the nearest guard without hesitation. She couldn’t—or wouldn’t—restrain herself, and they had lost several Ticklers before they arrived at the current solution.
The way Volgha understood it, no one but the Tickler himself knows his identity. He only appears when summoned by the big gong in the ticklarium to perform his appointed duty. During this time, all of the White Queen’s power is transferred to Lord Chamberlain, who oversees the diversion. While the queen is shouting orders to her guards to perform acts of murder, torture, or other incivility, Chamberlain politely but firmly countermands said orders.
Throughout the rest of the castle, the work proceeds in earnest. In addition to the general feeling of safety from unwarranted threats, all of the queen’s subjects are grateful for the opportunity to get their work done in an uninterrupted fashion. At any other time, they may have been called off to play the part of pony, footstool, or human cannonball in one of Her Majesty’s diversions or another. But participating in a bit of fun, required or not, was no excuse for not having finished making the tea, hanging up the washing, waxing the catapult, or any of the other tasks necessary to keep the castle running at optimum efficiency. Work was left unfinished at a servant’s peril.
Thus it was a positively gleeful half hour or so for the servants, until Chamberlain brought the diversion to a close. The mysterious masked Tickler—who was naturally the target of most of Her Majesty’s threats—would be given a moment to collect his implements and sprint for the door before power reverted to Her Majesty.
Tickler’s identity was kept so secret because, according to Her Majesty, he was the most wicked and naughty little knave in her employ, and she would not rest until his head was on a pike, at which point a new Tickler would need to be appointed at once, curse his wicked hide. She’d once gone so far as to demand that Lord Chamberlain divulge Tickler’s identity, after what she considered to be a particularly brutish session. To avoid perjuring himself, he’d reluctantly done so.
After that, it was Her Majesty’s turn at reluctance. On pain of never being tickled again, she signed the royal decree that rested power with Chamberlain in future sessions, as it was the only way a new Tickler could be hired. Since then, not even Chamberlain has known who wears the mask.
“I can also light a candle in the ticklarium,” said Lord Chamberlain, “which will compel Tickler to meet me there if I need anything from him outside the queen’s diversions. I was just going to do so when I happened to find him in there, double-checking Her Majesty’s restraints.”
“Smart lad,” said Volgha.
Chamberlain nodded his agreement. “And a fortuitous coincidence. He has time for his measurements now, although the baron is … well, engaged at the moment. But if his assistant here can do it, we’ll seize the opportunity!”
“Oh,” said Krespo.
“A fine idea,” said Volgha through clenched teeth.
Chamberlain stepped in closer to Volgha, to speak with her in a hushed tone. “Don’t worry, it will only take a moment, and then you and the baron’s assistant can tiptoe off to your little tryst.”
“Um, right.” Volgha’s cheeks turned bright red. “That’s why we were sneaking around, definitely.”
“Oh I’m not judging,” whispered Chamberlain with a smile and a wink. “I think we should all get to do what makes us happy every once in a while, don’t you?”
“Well said.” Volgha smiled, yearning to crawl under a rock and die of embarrassment.
Old pervert, said Osgrey. I always thought there was something odd about him.
Chamberlain directed her to a bench nearby. “Feel free to wait here.
“Right this way, young sir,” said Chamberlain, unaware that elves live for hundreds of years. Krespo was most likely far older than Chamberlain’s great-great-grandfather would have been.
“Er, right. Thank you.” Krespo gave Volgha a worried look as he was led into the ticklarium. Chamberlain closed the doors behind him, nodded to Volgha, and sauntered off down the hallway to solve the next in a string of crises that were his life’s work.
He’ll be fine, said Osgrey.
“How do you know?”
Tickler’s not dangerous. If it’s still the fellow from the livery, he’s probably in more danger from the elf than the other way around.
“I thought no one knew who the Tickler was!”
Largely true, replied Osgrey, but knowing the unknown is my job, remember? Or rather, it was my job. It’ll be yours soon.
Volgha had forgotten about the Warden business in all of the deception. Just the stress of stealing the pearls was gnawing her stomach with worry. She tried to clear her mind and focus on worrying about Krespo. One debacle at a time, that was all she asked.
Though it felt like an eternity, it had probably only been a matter of minutes before Krespo emerged from the ticklarium with a handful of notes.
“Hey!” Volgha jumped up when she saw him. “Did everything go all right? Was he suspicious?”
“Well, he was wearing a mask,” said Krespo. “That’s a little bit suspicious in its own right.”
“Suspicious of you.”
“Oh. No, it went fine. I got the measurements I need, and there’s a very nice bolt of wool back at the workshop that will—”
“Forget about that,” said Volgha. “We’ve got to get to my sister’s pearls!”
Krespo put his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes.
“We can go and get the pearls,” he said, “but don’t tell me to forget about the measurements or the wool when I’m doing you a favor!”
“No you aren’t!” She pointed a very stern finger in Krespo’s face. “You owe me a favor, and I’ll tell you what it will be. You don’t get to decide!”
“Fine,” said Krespo, “we’ll just get the pearls and go. Then the next time you come to visit your sister, she’ll say, ‘Where are those fancy new outfits I ordered from that well-dressed Baron?’ What will you say? ‘Oh, sorry, I made him up to steal some jewelry from you, isn’t that awfully funny?’”
He has a point, you know.
They were right. Yet another thing standing in line for her to worry about later. Santa was actually going to have to come through with the clothing order!
“You may be right,” Volgha acquiesced.
“I am right,” said Krespo.
“Can we please discuss the terms later? We’re losing our window of opportunity!”
“So long as you promise me that between the pearls and the clothes, once all of this is said and done, my favor to you will be paid.”
“Fine,” said Volgha. “I get the pearls, my sister gets her clothes, and we’re square.”
“Right,” said Krespo. “Now, where are we going?”
They didn’t speak as they walked through hallways, up stairways, and through the royal solarium. The guards posted at the hallway that led to the queen’s apartments stopped her, not recognizing her under the ringlets and silks and makeup. She’d had to resort to a little glamour to convince them that she was the queen’s sister. It was the first time she’d ever had to cast a glamour to make herself look more like herself. The guards let them pass so that Volgha could return the queen’s dress.
Once down the hallway, past the sitting room, the bedroom, and into the wardrobe, they had to work fast. Volgha really did intend to return the awful dress, and her own was somewhere in there. Her Majesty’s laundry staff wouldn’t have been foolish eno
ugh to do anything with it.
The wardrobe was enormous. It had many rooms, each with six walls, arranged like a honeycomb if you could look at it from the top down. Each room represented a different section, but nothing so mundane as “evening wear” or “formal wear”—it was much more nuanced.
Volgha headed straight for the Last Year’s Travesties room, and sure enough, there on a peg was her dress and hat. She shuffled out of the pink and green war crime she’d had to endure since brunch, glad to be rid of it. Her own went on easily enough, but the hat was going to have to work its way past a horde of ringlets, and they didn’t have that kind of time.
There’s more clothing in one of these rooms than I owned in my entire life! exclaimed Osgrey.
“Where are the pearls?” Krespo asked.
“No idea,” said Volgha. “Better start looking.”
After an exhaustive search of Informal Mourning, Krespo had moved on to Spring Severe, then Wartime Casual, and was now tossing drawers in Experimental Plaids. Volgha had decided to start at the other end, making her way from Competition Gardening to Medium Fancy Tea Party, and had just started digging through Seaside Picnics: Beef Entree, when she heard a whump, followed by footsteps.
“Quick!” she hissed at Krespo. “Hide!” She dove for the back of the nearest closet and hoped that Krespo had heard her. Getting caught digging through Her Majesty’s wardrobe would not go well for either one of them.
“H-Hello?” The voice was entirely lacking in baritone, as though it had come from a child. An older child, though, one who hadn’t been called “adorable” in quite some time. One well on the way to becoming a youth and developing an interest in loitering near garbage cans. Volgha didn’t move. She hoped that if they were both quiet for a moment, whoever it was would—
“Um, yes?” It was Krespo. Volgha thought a swear word very vehemently, though she gave it no voice. The little fool had signed his own fate, and it wouldn’t be long before the guards had them both.
“Tickler,” said Krespo’s voice, “is that you?”
“None other,” replied the voice of the junior miscreant, with a bit of panache. “Isn’t the queen’s sister with you?”
