by Mark Bowsher
‘Yeah,’ said the guard. ‘They get a few hours off. In fact, we have to enforce it. Or else the whole palace’d fall down!’ Krish really didn’t want to be about to see that.
Krish also noticed that there were no staircases but occasionally he saw the ceiling open up and the bodies (which appeared to be wearing tiles on their fronts so people in the upper levels didn’t have to walk on slippery flesh) would pass down some expensively robed advisor who proceeded to march off without a word of thanks to the obliging prisoners.
Then ahead of him he saw a long line of anxious-looking citizens. They all held boxes or packages made up to look as fancy as the holders could present them, but none seemed all that impressive. And from the way they all shuffled nervously on their feet he wasn’t sure they were that convinced of their gifts’ worth either.
‘Hope yer brought a good ’un, kid,’ said the guard. ‘’E’s not in the best of moods.’
Krish had no idea what he was going to do. He had no gift. He hadn’t been able to bring anything with him at all. The devil had said it would disintegrate.
‘Just a quick briefing first, kid,’ the guard said as he stepped aside rather abruptly. Another subject holding a gift suddenly landed on the spot where the guard had been moments before and Krish found himself hoisted into the air and up to the first floor before he knew what was happening.
‘Next!’ The command was infused with boredom. The speaker came into view as Krish was hurled into the room, the floor which had delivered him closing up underneath him. A grey-haired lady in a black robe and cap peered over small round glasses at a book on a lectern consisting of one exhausted-looking prisoner holding up a slab of wood at a forty-five-degree angle for the woman’s papers to rest on.
‘No grovelling, no foot-kissing, no persistent bowing, no averting your gaze in awe and anyone uttering that tiresome line about “not being worthy of His Majesty’s divine excellence” or words to that effect will immediately be sentenced to ten years in the south-facing wall of the royal lavatory, no questions asked. Is that understood?’
‘Erm…’
‘Good. What’s your gift, boy?’
‘I, er…’
‘Well, you’d better have one! A few more no-hopers today and we’ll have to consider an extension of the north wing and do you have any idea how much paperwork that would involve?’
‘I…’ He was distracted by the fact that he could feel the floor tile beneath him breathing gently.
‘No. Didn’t think you would. Arms up please.’
A stern-faced and equally bored-looking wizard had entered the room. Krish put his arms up, the wizard pointed his outstretched arms at him and he found himself engulfed in a cloud of purple smoke.
‘He’s clean,’ said the wizard before departing.
‘Good,’ said the woman in the black cap. ‘You’re not an assassin. We don’t get many. Shame really. Tends to get a bit exciting. Oh, well. I suppose you’re a fool then. Enjoy your new career as a fixture and/or fitting.’ She was ushering him away before he could say another word and he soon found himself lowered back into the main corridor again.
Krish joined the queue and tried desperately to think of something he could offer as a gift but his mind wasn’t a lot of help.
‘Excuse me?’ Krish tried asking the tiny, starved-looking man in front of him. ‘What are these gifts… for?’
The man was a little confused that Krish didn’t seem to know already but answered anyway. ‘For a few square metres of farmland, a few more scraps of food, a pardon for a loved one perhaps, if you’re bold, or whatever little thing you can beg for. Without actually begging of course. They say he hates begging.’
Krish realised he didn’t have much hope for a quantity of Myrthali in return for anything, let alone nothing.
The queue seemed to be moving quite fast and in half an hour or so he found himself at the front, just a few shaking citizens ahead of him. He was becoming dizzy with hunger, swaying a tad on his unsteady legs. He killed the time by mentally listing all the foods he’d eat when he got home – Mars Bars, thick slices of Hawaiian pizza, mashed potato smothered in barbecue sauce…
His gluttonous fantasies were interrupted by the occasional muffled cry of disdain or mocking laughter from the adjacent chamber.
‘His Majesty!’ called out a guard by the entrance to the throne room. ‘King Obsendei!’
CHAPTER 9
THE KING & THE LADY OF THE NORTH
The wall of entwined bodies ahead of him opened up and he stepped into a gigantic chamber. The enormous, echoing room was twice the length of any cathedral he’d ever visited during all those boring visits to France and Belgium with his family, and twenty times as high at least. The roof of the chamber formed a narrow spire that was so tall that he couldn’t see the top. From the darkness hung a line of prisoners that culminated in a chandelier of inmates hanging upside down, each holding a candle. He had vertigo just thinking of what it must be like being at the top of the spire.
‘Noooo!’ The word brought Krish crashing back down to Earth (or wherever he was) and his eyes were drawn to a man wearing a long, simple robe and a large, extravagant, bejewelled wooden crown, a shining convex oval of silver as its centrepiece. The King had grey eyes above a large, sharp nose and a short, frayed beard of iron grey streaked with white. Just seeing those eyes immediately sent a stab of fear through his already suitably intimidated soul. Surrounding the King were various advisors, noblewomen and noblemen.
To one side of them was a circle of guards and in the circle were about a dozen men and women, all dressed in ludicrously colourful gowns of garishly bright colours, many of them loose-fitting and rather revealing. They lounged about on beds of pillows being fanned by servants, eating fruit and drinking from goblets, and several were bathing in jewel-encrusted golden bathtubs. All of them had the most beautiful clear skin and they all had completely shaved heads, the men no beards or moustaches, which he guessed must be some kind of fashion for the ultra-rich in this land. Each of them seemed too preoccupied with preening themselves to pay much attention to the goings-on in the rest of chamber. Each of them wore a wooden ring on a necklace.
The King hadn’t yet seen Krish as he was preoccupied with throwing a music box to the ground, a few notes escaping from the chimes within the box before it shattered into a pile of tiny, silent pieces.
‘I could order a hundred orchestras to play me that tune all at once if I desired! You really think that your pathetic little music box would amuse me?’ The King’s voice was old, hoarse and deep. The voice of a man who had issued a thousand orders of execution and the odd merciful pardon, when it amused him. ‘And as for these…’ A repulsed expression as he held out in front of him some of the purple root vegetables – cleaner and less knobbly than the ones Krish had seen earlier – as far away from his upturned nose as possible. ‘Hardly worth tossing in the direction of the condemned for an afternoon snack.’ He threw them to the ground and a wall tensed, trying to stifle its appetite. The King let out a large sigh. ‘But I suppose it’s quicker than summoning a maid.’ He waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the guards.
‘Grub’s up, boys and girls!’ grunted a guard and a nearby wall collapsed and scurried in the dirt, fighting furiously to get a bite of the dust-coated vegetables. The commotion was over in seconds and the prisoners were ushered back into position.
‘Put her in the north wall!’ cried the King.
The shaking subject kneeling before the King was dragged away, her face streaked with tears.
Krish didn’t know whether he was glad there were three people still in front of him or whether he’d rather get it all over with sooner rather than later. He decided that he was glad of the three ahead of him… who all seemed to wear similar, plain black robes. And they all appeared to be glancing at each other occasionally, as if they were waiting for a cue. A second later, they received their prompt.
‘Next!’ bellowed the King.
&n
bsp; ‘Your Majesty!’ The first of the robed figures had a rich, lyrical voice. One that was accustomed to addressing a crowd. All three figures stood up straight and threw aside their robes in perfect unison, revealing brightly coloured costumes of red, yellow and blue beneath.
‘We are the most magnificent!’ said the first.
‘The most stupendous!’ said the next.
‘The most magical—’
‘No you’re not,’ said the King, turning away from them and rolling his eyes.
‘Wait…’ The voice came all the way from the far side of the chamber. A low, flat, quiet voice, but still everyone paid attention. An old woman in a simple grey robe, like a faded version of the robe worn by the magician at the market but made of finer material. This woman, who must have been a magician as well or maybe even a wizard, had clearly worn her garment for decades but kept it in better condition than the magician from the market. Unlike most of the court her skin was pale as porcelain with a hint of grey, unlike her straight hair, hanging down just below her shoulders, which was deep orange with the odd streak of blue. Her eyes were ancient, calculating and, unless Krish was very much mistaken, rather bored of court life. She was as tall and as straight as a post. In one hand she held a staff which appeared to be made of the roots of a tree. At the top a misty, rectangular crystal was entangled in the roots.
The wizard moved across the chamber in a perfectly straight line, her attentive old eyes never leaving the lapel on one of the performers’ outfits.
‘What is that?’ The court watched in silence as the wizard’s staff moved a millimetre or so towards the performer’s lapel. Krish saw that there was a pinprick of light at the centre of the crystal and it became brighter the nearer it got to the performer.
‘That…?’ said the quivering performer. ‘Er… erm… my brooch is not magical… it’s just—’
‘Not the brooch… that.’ She was pointing at a dark blue patch on the performer’s sleeve.
The performer’s eyes widened for a moment before she looked away, clearly not wanting the wizard to know she was on to something.
‘It’s… I couldn’t get it to match…’ said the performer. ‘The other uniform. The market had sold out of blue dye so I treated the yellow—’
‘How?’ the wizard asked so simply, so quietly, but the whole court could hear and was hanging on her every word. The performer’s mouth hung open but not a sound escaped.
‘What’s your name?’ asked the wizard.
‘Marteese. Marteese Shek, Madam Eshter,’ answered the performer.
‘You ran out of dye, didn’t you, Marteese Shek?’ said Madam Eshter.
‘Yes,’ said Shek.
‘So you used a spell to turn the yellow dye blue?’
‘I-I-I-I did not use any magic in the court!’
‘You defiled His Most Noble Majesty’s court with a magically enhanced garment.’ Eshter’s eyes seemed too tired to ever blink. ‘You know the punishment for performing magic in the court of the King?’
‘I-I… Please! I didn’t perform magic here! I—’
‘I am just stating facts.’ Eshter turned to face the King. ‘It is His Majesty’s choice.’
The King sat on his throne, slouching, a hand holding up his weary head. He considered for a moment.
‘The south wall,’ he said simply.
‘He’s going soft in his old age,’ a new voice from across the chamber muttered as the performers were dragged away.
‘What did you say?!’ the King spat out across the chamber.
‘Nothing, Your Grace.’ The voice was warm and beautiful, just like its owner, who stepped away from the group of nobles to stare at the King with the kind of smile that encourages people to shower her with gifts. Her straight dark hair and red and gold dress were immaculate. Her large brown eyes were stunning in their calmness but the cunningness behind them was clear for all to see. There was a fire in them waiting to erupt.
‘Vira, Lady of the North!’ cried the King. ‘You have no authority to question how I punish my citizens!’
‘I am only thinking of you, My King.’ Her smile was unwavering. Her rich, low voice washed over the crowd, who seemed enchanted by her beauty. ‘I want only for you to reign supreme. For all your people to respect you. Fear breeds respect, Your Eminence. There was almost a revolt after the Four-Year Famine. If you had listened to my advice, O Fortunate King, perh—’
‘I did not lose their respect,’ interrupted the King. ‘They did not revolt. Your war was unnecessary.’
‘Of course, My Lord. You are always right. I was merely suggesting that, with a stock of arms rusting in your stores, we could find an opposition, incite war, sell them arms through a third party at a premium, pay a small band of mercenaries to skew the final battle in our favour and exit the conflict with our pockets lined.’
The King was slouching on his throne again. His expression suggested that his brain was throwing all Vira’s words around in his head, having no insight as to which order they had just arrived in.
‘War sounds exhausting,’ he said. ‘If coffers empty I will raise taxes.’
‘If they revolt—’
‘Are you a wife of mine?’ shouted the King. ‘Are you a husband of mine?’ He clutched at his necklace and Krish noticed that from it hung a dozen wooden rings and he realised that the bald beauties in the circle of guards must be the King’s spouses. It was clearly okay for a king to have many wives as well as many husbands in this land. ‘No! You will know your place, Vira, Lady of the North! You are not in a council meeting now.’
Vira’s eyes remained calm as they locked with the King’s. A coy smile lingered on her lips as she took a step back.
‘Of course, Your Noble Magnificence,’ said Vira. ‘I will save my thoughts on these matters for a meeting of the council. I forget of course that His Illustrious Majesty has reigned over us gracefully for such a time that he no longer has an appetite for war. And the noble Eshter has served you for many of those years.’ Eshter winced a little, her hand gripping her staff tightly. ‘And long may your reign continue. I have no doubt that the vicious rumours that Your Most Magnanimous Majesty is too old and lazy to do anything more than spend the people’s money and allow his kingdom to rot, will die out long before His Masterful, Much-Revered Majesty ever does.’ The bow that followed from Vira could well have lasted a whole year.
The King groaned. ‘We will make this meeting of the council brief. R’ghir! Lord of the East! Report to me on the state of affairs in that scrap of my kingdom you preside over.’
One of the nobles stepped forward. He did not look quite as comfortable addressing the King as Vira did. Krish observed that both R’ghir and Vira wore golden, quarter-circle necklaces.
‘Things are going smoothly, Your Grace,’ said R’ghir. ‘The citizens of Terl are an affluent people, as you know, living high in the Lean Mountains, and they grumble little about your new altitude tax as they can afford to pay it. The money is simply rolling in.’
‘And what of your district, Hesh, Lord of the South?’ said the King to another noble.
‘Oh, all is well, My Liege,’ said Hesh. ‘The harvest in Melkur was plentiful this year. The people are happy; their bellies are full.’ Hesh also wore a necklace. Krish noticed that each corresponded to a point of the compass.
‘And you, Elwynt, Lord of the West,’ said the King to yet another noble. ‘What news of the Undertowns?’
Elwynt was a large, pale man, more hesitant even than R’ghir and Hesh as he stepped forward. ‘Er, My Lord, My Most Noble Majesty…’ he began. ‘The, er, peoples of the Undertowns are wise in the ways of the tax loophole. Many, although loyal, most loyal, of course, to Their Beloved Majesty… many argue that as the law states that His Majesty’s kingdom encompasses every corner of the land that the light falls upon, that they, with a sky of rock over their heads, should be exempt from—’
‘They have shafts! They see sunlight!’ interjected the King.
‘Oh, yes, Your Majesty,’ continued Elwynt. ‘And they greatly appreciate that, My Lord, but some feel… reluctant to pay taxes and are not easily persuaded.’
The King inhaled slowly. He looked from Vira to the Lords R’ghir, Hesh and Elwynt and then back to Vira.
‘So,’ said the King. ‘My kingdom is… profitable overall. R’ghir, Lord of the East, you will raise the altitude tax by five per cent. Hesh, Lord of the South, well done. Elwynt, Lord of the West, in future you may find swords more persuasive in extracting taxes. Vira, Lady of the North, speak of war again in this chamber and I will reward you with a necklace from which will hang a jar containing your tongue. This meeting is adjourned.’
The King glowered at the grinning Vira as she and the three lords took their places once more. He now turned his attentions to Krish for the first time.
‘And what have we got here?’ The King’s eyes bored into Krish for a moment as he scanned him from head to toe.
‘Your Majesty…’ All eyes were on him. The echoes in the chamber seemed much louder than the tiny words he had uttered. There was a prickle in the air. Krish looked about and felt exactly what that disturbance in the air was. Sweat. The perspiration of thousands, maybe millions of prisoners, each with their eyes upon him. Each breathing in and out cautiously, filling every moment of comparative quiet in that dreadful palace with the sounds of the undercurrent. The sound of breathing. Slowly, calmly, in and out. Droplets of sweat falling from their near-naked bodies into the furnace-like atmosphere and evaporating into the formidable sense of dread hanging in the air of the colossal chamber. That prickle of heat. That sense of millions as tense as anyone could possibly be trickling down through the very air. The tension from the million eyes that stared at him from above.
The King sat on his throne, toying with his beard and eyeing him curiously.
‘Your… Most Exalted—’ He’d heard that word used in a film, but before he could be impressed with himself he was interrupted.
‘You’d better make with the gift, boy!’ one of the advisors jeered at him.
