“Áberd!” said Firgen. “Where on earth are the pink fancies? I definitely ordered four of the finest pink fluffy cakes.”

“The kitchen is out of sugar and the pastry chef refused to serve you with an inferior product, no matter how much I begged,” said Áberd.

“Bollocks, Áberd. Go back and get the cakes. If I wanted mollycoddling every day, I’d order an entirely different species of servant to attend me.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“What is it?”

“A few minor disturbances, Sire.”

“Do they currently prevent you from visiting the kitchen?”

“No, Sire.”

“Then bugger off.”

There was a quiet creak of tight clothing, a click, and Áberd was gone.

What was up with the man? I’ve never been able to decide what was better: a servant with initiative and confidence, or a mindless drone who had to be ordered to do every task. The first breed interrupts his thoughts, the second requires me to think for two. Each is equally inefficient.

I suppose the first version is better, but the abrupt change to my diet ever since I popped three of my teeth out, especially the disappearance of the sugar bowl, is making me cranky. Dammit all! I am allowed to be cranky. I am sixty years old, my knees hurt, and most importantly, I’m the bloody King- being sufficiently irritable is an important measure of pride and respectability.

Áberd returned. He placed three small blue iced cakes topped with sugared rose petals before Firgen.

“Do I look like I frolic with naked men in the palace fountains?”

Áberd cleared his throat, “These were originally intended for Lady Rhodomel, Sire. Apparently she also shares your love of such delicacies. She arrived for the ball yesterday and is enjoying a tea party with various other noble ladies who also arrived early. They were the only cakes I could acquire on such short notice.”

“What are we, a charity?”

“Yes, Sire. That is the entire point of the looming social event.”

Firgen waved at the cakes “So these would be your fault.”

“It would appear so, Sire. Would you like me to remove the offensive decoration?”

Firgen held one of the cakes between his index finger and thumb and lifted it to his eyes. The guilt at consuming such a magnificent piece of art troubled him for as long as it took to make the first bite.

“No need, Áberd. Can’t have you getting your grubby mitts all over them.”

“Sire.”

“Well, what was it you needed to tell me?”

“My apologies, Sire. I wouldn’t normally trouble you with idle gossip.”

“Nonsense Áberd, that’s the best kind. Besides, how else am I supposed to hear these things, no one gossips in front of the King, paranoid bastards. All I receive are faces full of false smiles. Can’t imagine why, I haven’t executed anyone for years.”

“I imagine it has something to do with throwing the closest sharp object at any dissident within range, Sire.”

“Did you say something, Áberd.”

“No, Sire.”

Firgen sighed, “Áberd, you were doing better when you only said ‘Sire’. Opinions and initiative are lethal.”

The valet said nothing. Firgen wasn’t sure how he did it, but Áberd currently appeared even more blank than usual.

Firgen brushed the crumbs from his hands and stared at Áberd.

Áberd yawned behind his splayed, spindly fingers.

Firgen gave up trying to intimidate him and glared at the empty teapot instead, “Could you add some rose hips to the clarea mix? Keeping a uniform theme is important.”

Áberd opened two small draws in the cabinet behind him and removed two small clay pots. Firgen was sure he spotted Áberd giving a tiny, brief, smile.

Inside the first was a spice mix of cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, and cloves for the clarea water. The second was filled with wrinkled rosehips. Teaspoon, glass, and ceramic chimed as Áberd measured out the ingredients into the teapot with irritating slowness, but the musical tones were most pleasant, especially the rising, gurgling note of the hot water as it was poured into the pot.

Áberd positioned himself behind and to the left of Firgen, just out of his sight. He spoke in a quiet voice.

“There has been a large increase in dissent amongst the masses over the last few weeks, Sire.”

“Is that what you wanted to tell me? There’s always dissent somewhere, Áberd. Be more precise.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“And if you’re going to talk, take the seat in front of me. I can’t talk to someone if I can’t see them. Are you trying to give me a crook in my neck?”

Áberd shuffled a moment before he glided across the room and sat, “Thank you, Sire.” He straightened his already straight doublet.

Both the valet’s expression and posture screamed discomfort. Firgen rolled his eyes.

“I wouldn’t be concerned either,” said Áberd, “were I not receiving the distinct impression the trouble is an orchestrated affair.” He lifted the lid of the teapot and gave the mix a vigorous stir.

Áberd poured Firgen’s tea and returned the cup alongside a small jar of honey and a silver teaspoon.

“No need to restrain yourself,” said Firgen. “Do fetch yourself a cup and a cake.”

Áberd returned to the sideboard.

“Do we have naysayers on the streets, malicious rumours in the brothels, and hushed criticism singing from the market stalls?” said Firgen.

Áberd returned, painted ceramics balanced on one arm, “I wouldn’t know about the second, Sire.” He placed the tea cup and plate on the table and sat. “In one sense it is business as usual. Apple crate protesters come and go with the season, yet rather than complain about injustice, taxes, and the end of the world, this year their message is different. They are not only clothed, but dressed in quality fabrics and well tailored outfits. I would liken it to a street performance more than anything else.”

Firgen scratched his ear and slid the cake plate towards Áberd, “You have my attention.”

“The message is, I do apologise for this, the King is unable to protect the populace from the recent spread of violence, the Húskarlar are little more than incompetent peacocks, and the time to rise up is soon, for a-” Áberd paused for a moment. Firgen thought he looked like he was about to bite a particularly sour apple, “-Saviour is coming.”

“A little over the top, don’t you think?”

“It does seem a little egotistical. I didn’t pay much attention until Lady Rhodomel interrupted last night’s game demanding her husband do something about the ‘noisy chaff’ and the ‘plague of theatrical persons’ in every town she passed.”

“And what do the people think?”

Áberd shuddered slightly, “I don’t think the people pay much attention, but there is enough truth to their words that the crowds around their stands become larger, and are jeered less, every time I go into the city,” said Áberd.

Firgen nodded, “And all it would take is a single incident, deliberate or otherwise, to turn this into a major problem. Even a continued lack of progress would be sufficient.”

He swirled his tea and watched the thick strands of honey slop around the bottom of the cup beneath the less viscous tea.

“I can’t throw them all in a dungeon without due cause as it would provide justification to their claims, but neither can it be left to sort itself out. Perhaps I should step out for a walk and see this for myself.”

Áberd looked like he wanted to express an opinion.

It has been a pleasant chat but I can’t give the man too much encouragement otherwise there will be more dietary control incidents.

“That will be all, Áberd.”

“Sire.” Áberd left, leaving his cake and tea untouched.

Firgen reached over to Áberd’s plate and pinched the cake.