At the very least, the assembly hall where the Queen held court was always gloriously lit. The ceiling was made entirely of glass, held up by wrought-iron arches as if the room was once intended to be a greenhouse. The coral marble walls were interrupted every eight feet with tall, thin windows which gave the impression of a gilded birdcage. Often, these windows were cracked open, so that the room was properly ventilated. In the summer, it was nigh on unbearable to stand inside, sweating and trying not to sleep while standing up.
In the centre of the room was a long navy carpet, embroidered in silver at the edges with miniature replicas of the Queen’s family crest, two sea serpents curled around a trident, with a background of a glorious opal. The Queen’s house, founded by sea magicians, went back four hundred years. It baffled Idris how they had managed to come to power a full week’s ride from the nearest beach, but he supposed power was nebulous that way; the capital city of Veridia did, however, grow up around two of the widest freshwater rivers in the whole kingdom.
The giant vases between the iron columns sported fresh spring bouquets of giants’ tulips, their heads larger than toddlers in lurid shades of pink and lilac, combined with wild grasses and held up by honey roses. Dotted here and there were large glass orbs filled with green resin, which, if court was called at night, would blaze with a bright purple fire. Between the vases, petitioners to the court lurked, watching each face that passed as they searched for the Queen. She would not be here yet, though. Guards were posted by the door beyond the throne, meaning she was in the private meeting hall beyond the assembly room.
Idris walked the carpet, focusing on his designated spot on the far left of the throne. As he walked, the crier called, “Sir Idris of Gleesdale, in service of Her Majesty Cressida of House Naga, Court Necromancer.”
The petitioners shuffled and turned, but Idris merely kept walking, placing his cane down hard to support his right side on his journey to his designated place. He always arrived early, if he could help it. When the crier announced him, it only made the other courtiers stare harder.
Each podium for the members of the court had a small round table, for drinks or snacks or private communications from other courtiers or the Queen herself, and had adornments around the legs pertaining to who it belonged to. Idris’s was always wrapped with black clematis. There were no scrolls or notices for him, so he relaxed into his stance beside the table, leaning on his cane in a way he hoped was surreptitious. While everyone knew he carried it, he liked them to think it was for show.
He watched court arrive from his perch at the front. Magus Arundale, as always in the red robes of the highest in the magicians’ order, took his place close to the Queen’s throne. Judge Kurellan stood on her direct right-hand side, at his table draped with magpie feathers. There was the Court Physician and her attendant nurse, and Commander of the Guard. There were accountants and architects and debt collectors and historians, a total of twenty high court positions in all, most of whom belonged to the kingdom’s noblest houses and most esteemed magicians’ guilds. Almost all in Her Majesty’s court practised some kind of aria magic, save Kurellan, the High Librarian and the Keeper of Coin. Idris had known them all since he was twelve years old.
As the final trains of people trickled in, the crier called, “Queen Cressida of House Naga,” and all conversation stopped. The door at the back of the room squeaked open, and the Queen strode in.
Cressida had always been confident. She shunned outward displays of decadence that were designed to make her look larger-than-life or extravagant. Instead, it was her demeanour, the straightness of her back, the sharpness of her gaze, that announced her position. Gone were the mile-long gowns of her predecessors, the neck-achingly heavy crowns and jewellery. At court, Queen Cressida wore her house colours of navy and silver, and her family heirloom opals in a delicate waterfall around her neck. Today’s dress was a figure-hugging creation of silk and silver lace, which clung to her shoulders and wrists like fish-scales. Her mermaid-black hair sat curled atop her head, pinned in place with an elaborate silver sea serpent hairpin which encircled the hair as if the creature was cresting a black wave.
She sat in the throne, placed her hands on her lap and inclined her head.
Court had begun.
As was customary, court started with petitioners. They were announced in a lottery, and issues ranged from the mundane to the absurd. When appropriate, courtiers took charge of the matter at hand – High Librarian Gregoria dealt with a request for historical maps of a site that the architects wanted to requisition for a new dam, assisted by Court Architect Manfred, and the Commander of the Guard solved a dispute between rival guard posts about supply trains. Usually, Idris merely listened to these worries. It was rare indeed for anyone to petition the court about matters pertaining to necromancy. The Queen yeaed or nayed each request, occasionally asking further questions to determine her decision, and petitioners went away satisfied.
Petitioning took two hours. By the end of the first hour, Idris’s right leg already ached, and he could feel the sweat on the small of his back and on his brow. He had just reached for his kerchief when a farmer strode up and said, “Um, if it pleases the court, I have a request regarding the… the, um…” and he lowered his voice and said, “what do we call ‘em? Thralls?”
Idris’s ears perked up.
“I believe this is a matter for me,” he said.
The other courtiers turned openly to Idris, and he cleared his throat and nodded to the farmer.
“Good sir, I do believe we met in the winter,” he said, remembering the man’s red hair. “The grain farm, east of the River Noctis.”
“Ah, yessir,” said the farmer, bowing deeply. “Pleasure, sir.”
“Likewise. Tell me about your thralls. I believe they should have another winter of service in them.”
“Oh, they did right fine over the winter and early spring, for certain,” said the farmer earnestly, wringing his hat between his hands. “But, uh… then it got wet out in the fields, see, and…”
“And the thralls got wet, and now they are starting to smell,” Idris finished.
“Quite, sir.”
“I don’t mean to be crude, sir, but… are they decomposing in the warm weather?”
“A touch.”
“Then here is what I suggest,” said Idris. “A nice dry place, perhaps a barn, for them to work for the remainder of their time. At a steady rate of decomposition, the aria should leave them within the month, and they will drop down quite harmless, at which time I will send the wagon to collect and dispose of them. We will put it in writing before you leave.”
“Thank you kindly, good sir,” said the farmer, bowing again. “But, begging your pardon, what should I do for workers for planting season and harvest? The boys I once hired all joined the army, and I don’t have good farmhands for the season, and no gold yet to pay any new ones.”
It was the wrong time to be raising new farm thralls. All winter, Idris had travelled the outlying farms, fields and workhouses, adding newly-raised men to their ranks to replace the soldiers lost in the war. He left explicit instructions for their care and the correct tools for the owners to direct the thralls, but he supposed it was easy to forget to maintain them when they did not need to sleep, eat or drink.
“I will ask some favours,” said Idris, glancing at Queen Cressida, who smiled and indicated he continued, “and I will send five strong, good farmhands, paid for from my personal coffers. Your work will not suffer. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. And in the future, do remember to house your thralls in the wet season to properly dry out, to prevent premature decomposition.”
“Oh, thank you, sir, most generous,” said the farmer, flushing red and bowing again. “I outright forgot, sir, what with things the way they are. I’ll send my best ten sacks of grain come harvest to make beautiful bread for you, sir.”
“I do so look forward to the autumn, then. Please stop by the scribe before you leave, so I can have a contract drawn up.” A junior scribe hurried up to Idris to take the proper wording down while the next petitioner came up, and before the scribe left, Idris said, “Remind me to check on the other places I raised thralls in the winter and remind them of procedure for taking care of the corpses. I do not have the man-power nor the time to raise two-hundred new thralls.”
“Of course, Sir Idris.”
Once the final petitioner was dealt with, the Queen stood and addressed the high court.
“Judge Kurellan, General Lys, Commander Bartold, Sir Idris, please join me. All else, thank you for your time, you are dismissed. Oh, Magus Arundale, if you would be so kind as to accompany us, also.”
Idris frowned to himself, but he bowed his head to his counterparts as they departed and followed Queen Cressida to the private meeting room, wondering what Kurellan had up his sleeve this time.
The private meeting chamber in the back of the assembly hall was more comfortable. It had chairs, first and foremost, and Queen Cressida made sure Idris was seated before the rest of the party followed suit; an attendant took his cane and held it tight. Idris stretched his leg, feeling the weight, and tried not to wince at the stiffness in his hip. Kurellan sat opposite. The military men sat together, leaving Magus Arundale to settle beside Idris. The table had a map of the kingdom laid out on it already.
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“Refreshments, gentlemen?” Cressida said, as she sat in the chair at the head of the table. “I have a delightful blossom tea from the Imperial Majesty. Iced, of course.”
The attendant brought the tea over; Kurellan eyed Idris contemptuously as Idris drizzled honey in his cup.
“Your Majesty, the matter at hand?” the judge said, turning his gaze to her. She arched an eyebrow at him over the rim of her glass.
“Ah, yes. Proceed, Kurellan. I’m told you’ve had poor Idris languishing in the dungeons, again,” she said, with a hint of her much-disapproved-of humour. Idris pursed his lips and watched Kurellan’s cheeks flush red.
“’Languishing’ is a strong word,” said Idris, feeling it best for his position to humour Kurellan for twenty minutes. “No, we have been hard at work.”
“I hardly think multiple palace breaches are cause for much mirth, Your Majesty,” said Commander Bartold, a burly man with a raspy voice.
“Yes, let the necromancer earn his keep,” muttered General Lys, who was leaning so far back on his chair that Idris was surprised it was still upright. “May as well do something useful, right, boy?”
“Sir Idris is a valued member of the palace magicians’ court,” interrupted Magus Arundale pointedly, “so treat him with the respect he is due, Lys. I recall you being much more grateful not two years ago for his services.”
General Lys curled his lip. He had not been grateful, rather embarrassed at Idris’s intervention on the battlefield. Idris supposed it had to sting, watching men you had trained and allowed to die be raised to die again. Idris hadn’t much enjoyed it, either. The experience had been rather humbling for both involved, but only Idris emerged from it with his reputation boosted.
“Well, let us not reopen old wounds,” said Cressida lightly, putting down her tea. “Kurellan, how goes the investigation?”
“There have been suggestions from the corpses that Bartold’s men leave behind that someone is looking for high quality weaponry,” said Kurellan. “While I would prefer to have live subjects to interrogate, the necromancer has provided some assistance in making the dead speak true.”
“Only some,” said Idris, in a voice he was sure only Cressida heard, and she smirked.
“Weapons for ten, the last one said,” Kurellan continued, ignoring them.
“Ten?” snorted General Lys. “Hardly cause for concern.”
“If we had a good corpse,” said Kurellan, casting a surly look at Bartold, “we could get them to lead us to their hideout -”
“Unlikely,” said Idris, in a voice for everyone, now. “While it is rather easy to raise a body in the strong arias of the dungeon, once they leave, the control I have over them is weaker, unless I have a full set of apparatus readily available to me. The strain on my energy, as well as the mechanisms I would have to control to make the corpse remember, see, hear, walk – it is difficult to do, and would likely require more trial and error than you would be comfortable with.”
“You raised six-hundred men on a battlefield and bid them fight,” said General Lys, slamming his chair back onto all fours.
“With respect, the battlefield’s aria was deafening, and the command to ‘fight’ is rather simple,” Idris said. “Without a strong and consistent aria, the prospect is poor.”
“Three-minute wonder over here,” muttered Kurellan. Idris sighed sharply, frustrated that the old man was still aggrieved over absolutely nothing, and placed down his tea.
“If you would present me with a better specimen -”
“I only get what Bartold’s idiots send me -”
“Then do not blame me for the failings of others -”
“Boys, boys,” said Cressida, surveying them, and the men fell silent. “Kurellan,” she said, “with less of the finger-pointing, please? Tell me what you want.”
“I want to send out small patrols,” he said, moving counters onto the map, “to scout some of the smallholdings outside of the palace. If we have dissidents marching, we’ll find a messenger or another of these thieves on their way to the barracks.”
“On the evidence that the boy wanted ten swords?” she checked.
“I think,” said Idris, sitting up and looking at the map, “what His Honour is trying to say, is that with the five thieves we have managed to interrogate, if they all came for the same thing, then that is weaponry for fifty. The answers from each corpse were rather similar, like some rote learning they had been forced to memorise, some nonsense about a sick mother, and the timing of these attempted thefts has been rather precise. It does suggest that there is someone organising this. And, if they have come to the palace, it is probably true that they are searching for steel in other areas, as well.”
“We have a peace treaty,” said General Lys.
“Peace treaties only cover the parties who signed them,” said Cressida, frowning over the map of her kingdom. “If we do have some disgruntled peasantry, it is better to deal with them now. I am not sure a force is necessary, Judge Kurellan, but Bartold, can we increase patrols in the lower areas of the city and the surrounding countryside?”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
“And do try not to murder the next suspect we have,” she added. “I am sure Judge Kurellan is rather tired of traipsing down into the cold every other week, aren’t you?”
“May I present a new question?” said Magus Arundale. The Queen nodded her approval. “How are they getting into the palace armoury? There are weaver wards two feet thick on the palisades and walls, and on all vault doors. There should be no intruders.”
“Would you send the weavers to repair the wards?” said Cressida. “If there is a hole in the defences, I would like it plugged.”
“I shall, Your Majesty. At once.”
“I am adamant that some display of military and judicial might will dissuade these attacks,” said Kurellan. “A small force, maybe twenty, will -”
“Kurellan, if I say yes, will you let this lie?” Cressida interrupted, her ocean-blue eyes hard, now.
Idris watched Kurellan’s response carefully. It was all the judge had wanted for months, as if he was the only person who saw any cracks in the kingdom’s armour, but the realisation that the Queen was irritated by his persistence was likely a shock. To his credit, Kurellan stayed polite.
“Your Majesty, I only wish for the safety of the kingdom. The war was a toll on us all, nobles and peasantry alike. If there are rebels trying to break the peace, I want them to understand that we are committed to maintaining it.”
“Maybe not a force,” said Magus Arundale. “Perhaps a diplomatic attachment to the neighbouring counties.”
“We do not have men to spare,” said General Lys.
“Send the necromancer,” said Bartold, tapping his foot.
Nobody spoke. Idris blinked, stared at Bartold. Send the necromancer, like he was some trained animal that came and went when called.
“Why?” he said at last. “What would sending me accomplish? My presence would not comfort anyone.”
“Kurellan,” said Cressida, her face thoughtful now, “yes, I think... here is what we will do. Idris, you will accompany the judge and a small diplomatic contingent to our outer border. There, you will meet with Captain Farley and requisition his men to be on the lookout for these dissidents. If he requires more archers or scouts, you can raise some for him. That way, the border is strengthened and we will hear no more of Kurellan’s tedious conspiracies. Satisfactory?” she said to Kurellan, with a jovial air.
“I...” Kurellan looked like it was much less than satisfactory, but he nodded and bit his tongue. “Yes, Your Majesty. You are most gracious.”
Idris said nothing. He wanted nothing less than to go on this dull jaunt to nowhere – with Kurellan, of all people. Making himself known amongst the soldiers again was not his idea of useful work. The soldiers did not trust him, and he did not blame them.
“Very well, then. Lys, Bartold, make sure Kurellan gets your finest men to assist him with his assignment; Magus Arundale, I trust you know what supplies and crystals Sir Idris will require to accomplish his work. That will be all, gentlemen,” said the Queen. “You are dismissed. Oh, but Idris,” she added, as he held out his hand for his cane, “stay a moment, will you?”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” he said quietly. General Lys snorted again; Kurellan’s eyes pierced Idris like spears.
“I expect you at your best, necromancer,” he said, his knuckles white on the back of his chair.
Idris smiled placidly. “Of course, Your Honour. As always.”
When Kurellan finally left, Cressida let out a breathy laugh.
“My,” she said, “he is upset, isn’t he?” Idris sighed and sipped his tea. “Oh Idris, don’t pout.”
“I almost think you’re doing this to prove a point,” he said. She tutted and rolled her eyes at him.
“You don’t think some vision at the border is useful?”
“I don’t think spending more time than necessary with Kurellan is good for my health,” he corrected. “You know he hates me.”
“Come now, Idris, nobody hates you,” said Cressida, and changed her mind when he raised his eyebrows at her. “I don’t hate you.”
“You’re not allowed to hate me. You’ve known me too long.”
It was no secret that Cressida and Idris grew up together, or as together as palace living allowed. When he arrived at the complex aged eleven, he was the only child her age, and they did most of their lessons at the same time. Even as a young boy, Idris was shy, but Cressida’s gregarious nature soon drew him out of his shell. They did everything they could side by side – aria magic, picking wild currants, even getting fittings for official robes. If Idris had been fortunate enough to have a sister, he would have picked Cressida for that role every time. When he finally graduated from Magus Arundale’s aria school, he was appointed as her necromancer the very next day, aged only seventeen. Together, they had weathered the war, thanks to her clear head and his natural aptitude for logic – and, of course, the fact that House Naga had not had a Court Necromancer for almost a hundred years.
It bothered Cressida’s father, while he was alive, that Idris was there, but Cressida would not have him pushed out. Suitors for her hand in marriage did not much appreciate his presence, either. Once, they had floated the idea of just marrying each other for the kingdom’s sake and sleeping in separate beds, but Idris could not imagine the courtiers approving of the Queen marrying a necromancer, especially once it became clear that they had no intention of producing heirs together. The very idea sent them both into hysterical fits the instant they suggested it.
This arrangement suited them both fine. Times like this, it suited Cressida better. But, she was the Queen, and he could not deny her.
“It will be three weeks, maximum,” she said, patting his hand. “Then, I will order Kurellan to stop with his snooping, and you can go back to your pleasant garden reads and crystal pondering, like usual.”
“You make it sound like I don’t do anything.”
“I know you do, Idris, I’m teasing.” She smiled. “I have messages from all across the kingdom, thanking you for your help in the fields and warehouses. I would send them to you if I thought it would do you some good, but I know you love feeling misunderstood, so I keep them.”
“Very droll, Your Majesty,” he said, with a playful smile.
“Oh, and do not think I am unaware of your mouse-raising in the gardens. The children are very fond of you.”
“I live to serve.”
“You will join me as my escort for the festival, won’t you?” she said, standing from her seat to fetch his cane. Idris saw her hand go for it and immediately felt embarrassed.
“Cress, you shouldn’t be -”
“I shouldn’t give you your cane?” she said, frowning.
“You do not serve me. You know this.”
“Oh, hush, misery,” she said, taking it from the attendant and holding out a hand to help him up. “I do what I please, and right now I would like to accompany you back to your chambers. It is a lovely day, and I am tired of being indoors.”
“People will talk.”
“Let them. I shall walk with my best friend all afternoon if I so desire. Come on, up.”
Sighing, he used the edge of the table to stabilise his left side, and allowed Cressida to place his cane in his right hand and link her arm through his.
“This is why there are rumours,” he said, testing his balance. She smiled, rested her cheek on his shoulder for a brief moment.
“Don’t call me Cress in public, idiot,” she said, nudging him in the ribs.
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
“Lead on, Sir Idris.”
The second horn blast sounded. Court adjourned.