Áberd sped along the palace corridors, unable to sleep as ideas for the ball churned within his mind. Perhaps a pleasant view will help. He navigated the palace to the keep, then climbed many, many stairs.

Years of passing secret missives under tea cups, and keeping the King’s wardrobe up to date, paled in comparison to his current task. He slipped through an ancient door and onto the battlements. Two Húskarlar nodded at him and Áberd returned their greeting with a brief bow.

Breathing the crisp, clean air, Áberd gazed between the crenulations at the city. Soft lamplight illuminated the most important streets and thousands of windows spilled light into the night. The city’s murky silhouette hid the mishmash of historical architecture and filthy roads. It was well past midnight, yet snatches of laughter and the clip clop of hooves still drifted below.

The King’s personality had inspired an entire industry and architectural movement. With his failing wanderlust, Firgen no longer toured the country dispensing justice, forcing petitioners to come to him and leading to a boom in extravagant housing over the past thirty years.

The wealthy vied for the best residence in the same space, each piling more and more house on top of previous additions, usually with disastrous consequences as lower floors sunk into the mud.

While King Firgen’s personality had shaped the city, Queen Wenthelen’s death, aside from the current competition, had wrought a second change: no jousts, no feasts, and no royal balls. The King was the only person who wouldn’t care how important the upcoming ball was, even though he was the host.

The rough lichen scratched at Áberd’s fingers as he rested his hands on the crenelations. The night air cleared Áberd’s mind and he relaxed.

Screw the King and his capricious whims, I’m going to make this the best royal ball Rícewelig has ever seen. The aristocracy will be so amazed they will throw their money at the King until he drowns in it!

Áberd blew on his hands and shivered. I need to visit Earl Ilberd Rhodomel. He won’t retreat to his quarters until he knows his wife, lady Éaðmédu, is asleep. If I leave now, I might catch him.

Áberd hurried to the treasury. As I helped lord Rhodomel court his first wife, I should assist him in finding a replacement, but he always refuses. Loyalty is a great trait for a treasurer, but it doesn’t help his social life.

He arrived at a thick, arched door guarded by a full squad of ten Húskarlar, armoured in their distinctive boar-crested helms and sturdy coat-of-plates. Those back-spiked crescent axes on their belts are elegant, vile things.

A young man opened the wicket for Áberd and entered the soul of the kingdom. Brass oil lamps hung from the walls and ceiling, giving the room a warm, fuzzy glow. To his right, a marble fireplace adorned the centre of the wall, surrounded by overburdened bookshelves. More shelves lurked on his left, framing a studded oak door to the records room. Three, small desks, smothered in paper, flanked the oak door, guarding the records room with the terrifying power of bureaucracy.

Earl Rhodomel sat behind an imposing desk, nine feet long and six feet wide of solid mahogany, inlaid with soft bulls leather and gold. Two leather armchairs squatted before it. Behind the desk lay the vault, secured by a steel door, and another squad of Húskarlar.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“Hello, Áberd.” Ilberd wore a saffron coloured, silk bliaut; a thick, fox fur pelisse encased his short, chubby body.

“Good evening, my lord.”

“You’ve always been a stickler for protocol,” said Ilberd, a small smile on his lips. “We’ve been friends for years, but you never call me by name.”

Áberd chuckled.

“What will it be this evening: Cards, Dice, Backgammon? Perhaps a glass of brandy?”

Áberd slid over to a bookshelf on the right of the fireplace. He pushed a small knot in the wood. It depressed with a slight click. A section of books swung out, revealing a gentleman’s bar, complete with crystal decanters and fine glasses.

He poured Ilberd a glass of rose infused mead and helped himself to a small glass of apricot brandy. Áberd placed the glasses, and two full decanters, on a silver, filigree tray, closed the shelf, and brought the drinks over. He sunk into the left armchair.

“To all good things,” said Áberd.

“And may we be blessed by them all,” said Ilberd. They sipped their drinks, the quiet disrupted only by the rustling hauberks of the alert Húskarlar.

Ilberd tossed back the remainder of his drink and picked up a decanter; it clinked against the rim of his glass with a pleasant chime as Ilberd poured a second glass, “Out with it, Áberd.”

“We’re having a royal ball.”

“Ah, so it’s true!” said Ilberd. “One of the clerks came in with the news at seven o’clock. I’ve never seen one of them so breathless and I run them ragged.”

“The first one in thirty years,” said Áberd. He couldn’t match Ilberd’s enthusiasm.

“Why are you so hung up about it?”

Áberd swirled the sweet, fragrant brandy around his glass, “This one was my idea.”

“And the King listened?” said Ilberd.

“He always listens.”

“Don’t be so prickly,” said Ilberd. “Acted on, if you prefer.”

“Of sorts. He put me in charge.”

Ilberd laughed, “Brilliant, just brilliant. Serves you right for trying so hard all the time.”

“Excellence is a state of mind,” said Áberd, “not a task.”

“That makes as much sense as a puking, fen-suckled piglet. You’re a perfectionist Áberd, I’ll make you admit it one day.”

“Likewise, my lord.” Unable to spy a coaster, Áberd folded his white handkerchief, arranged it on the desk, and settled his glass atop the handkerchief. “It’s not the Ball that fazes me, it’s the planning and the responsibility.” Áberd clasped his hands and rested them against his stomach, “I’ve always wanted to plan a ball, and now I can, I don’t know where to start.”

Ilberd nodded.

He could at least try to hide his amusement, “Can you help?”

“What do you need?”

The last time I saw him so excited was his wedding day, “An assistant, planning advice, and money.”

“You know how to pick your friends, Áberd. You’ve come to the right man.”

“It’s one of my many talents.”

Ilberd’s face slackened as he began moving money in his head. Áberd tidied the drinks and departed. Ilberd never noticed.