Chapter 121

Knit One, Gurl Two

I fly my broom down to the highest turret of Castle Rock and land on the roof. No doubt I could have landed in the courtyard, or at the big doors by the ornate entrance but after my discovery in the temple district I am feeling rather self conscious. Instead of striding in the front door like the queen I am, I cover myself in a cloak slip in a side window. On the other hand this approach allows me to admire the work done of the castle unhindered. It is looking decent. Roland has done as I ask and allowed for plenty of balconies, greenhouses, and gardens, such as the limited space of the hill top fortress allow. It is still a work in progress, but it has potential.

I cast a jaundiced eye at the moat. Gone is the ice, but the water is a murky sludge that looks like half the town is emptying their chamber pots into it. They probably are. Maybe I need to put some through into a more appropriate sewage system since the living are so incredibly gross. In the meantime the moat would look a lot more attractive with some water lilies. And perhaps some electric eels or people eating fish that would discourage invaders, as a nod to its primary function? I don’t know much about fish, but surely they must exist? Oh, some gleaming jellyfish, if I can find out where they come from. Although on second thoughts the gleaming jellyfish seem more at home in the air than they do in the water.

A lot of the castle is boringly utilitarian, but my draugr workers are getting there. If I want it finished to my high standards I will need to spend some time in Fairhaven, but that is only reasonable.

It takes some effort to avoid the castle staff, of whom there seem to be many. Thank goodness I had the foresight to request secret passages for my ease of movement. It would be handy if I knew where they were, but I suppose a secret passage that you could find in five grumpy minutes would hardly be worth its salt.

After some time I arrive in the revamped throne room. I can see that Roland has concentrated his energy here, and to grand effect. It is occupied by my toy queen in her white wig, my best minion, and the rest of my council.

“Roland,” I say, striding forward. “It’s looking very good.”

And it is. The obsidian dais is truly imposing, and the enormous dragon skull looming overhead is a delight. Someone has tied a host of black ribbons to its jaw, so it looks like it has a velvety, rippling beard. Underfoot the Whisperer’s sand crunches. I told Roland not to move it, to let the bloodstained sand serve as a bleak reminder of the Whisperer’s power, but you would think it would have blown, or been tramped away by now. Presumably the Whisperer is likewise keen on the aesthetic. Or he just likes throwing his divine, desiccated weight around.

More pleasingly someone has carved a garden into the dark stone, elevating the obsidian wall decorations from imposing to glorious. It looks like a nightmare to dust but some things are worth the inconvenience. Also queens don’t dust. I have people to do that for me.

The shattered walls have been replaced by pillars, with more of that exquisite sculpting, this time flowering vines that twine up and around. Large windows look out over the city, keeping the worst of the wind at bay.

My favourite minion jumps up as I enter and turns to greet me with a broad smile, and then a hastily remembered bow. A ripple of curtseys and bows goes around the room. I wish the floor would swallow me whole, but it doesn’t. Still, I managed to stand like a queenly pile of bones by reminding myself that I have daisy stitching on my blacks silk bloomers.

King Dunwiddy, looking as tatty as ever leaps up and wraps me in a bear hug that makes my bones clatter.

“We’ve missed you Queen Maud!” he yells in my ear.

Roland’s lips and ears droop in unison as he takes in my skeletal state.

“A difficult trip, your majesty?”

“No indeed,” I say, beaming at him, and disentangling myself from the overly familiar beggar king. “A most satisfactory one. Jenkins is now a lich!”

“Jen-Jenkins?” says Roland. “A lich?”

“Who’s Jenkins?” whispers an old woman. For a moment I can’t remember who she is, then I remember. It is Lily from the Knitting Guild- she with the devastating steeking skills and sharp business acumen.

“Jenkins is her cat,” says Rachel. The fire mage does not bother to whisper, and gives me two thumbs up instead.

“Aye,” I say, a little embarrassed. To cover the moment I sweep into the room and shoo Hester off my throne. “Thank you dear,” I say.

The dressed up draugr bobs a courtesy, and then hovers nervously by the door.

“What should I do now?” she says.

“There’s no need for two of us,” I say. “Not right now. So take your wig off, and that rather nice dress and come back as Hester for a bit.”

Looking relieved, the puppet queen bustles off.

It occurs to me that she might have thought I would dismiss her, but it seems like the arrangement has been successful so far. And I will not be staying that long I hope. Not this time anyway. Not when I have so many mysteries to uncover. I will however need to find a skeletal version of myself before I go. The difference between us right now is just too stark, but at least it should be easy enough to find a short skeleton.

I thump my bony posterior onto the throne, and wince as my coccyxes hit stone. Roland snaps his fingers, bless him, and a draugr attendant rushes forward with a plump velvet cushion. Someone has embroidered little black anatomically correct hearts around the edges. Being queen really does have its advantages.

“Please tell whoever made this,” I say, gesturing to the cushion. “That it is quite lovely.”

“Thank you,” says Lily, knitting ferociously. A faint blush stains her usually stern wrinkled cheeks.

Roland lowers his voice, and leans closer so that no one else can hear. “I’m glad you made it in time, I was getting worried.”

Guilt squeezes my innards. I rely on Roland too much. He knows I appreciate him, but what will happen to all my draugr if I kill the Whisperer? Even if I somehow miraculously survive, will they? This is a dark train of thought.

I pat his hand. “Me too. I’m sorry I was so late.” Straightening, I look around at my council. “All right. How fares my capital? And when does that blasted trade delegation arrive?”

“They are already here, your majesty,” says Dunwiddy. “They have been served refreshments and we are formally convening at four.”

Convening. I don’t like the sound of that.

“The capital is well. Fairhaven is healing,” says Rachel. “Commerce is returning to the city, along with the people. Rumours about your majesty are swirling, but the lack of um, the lack of…er…”

“Slaughter,” says Lily.

“The lack of casualties have convinced a lot of people that you are indeed a benevolent ruler.”

I snort. “The clerics were all murdered less than a month ago!”

“Ah yes,” says King Dunwiddy, steepling his fingers and leaning forward on the large wooden table. “But not by you! And nobles have always fought nobles. Politics and what-not. The common folk are in your pocket!”

“The clerics were not universally liked,” says Rachel. “The Blind Queen’s Acolyte’s were always self-serving, the Bright One’s pompous.”

“The Wavewalker’s healers are missed,” says Lily, her needles clicking. “But the witches council is endeavouring to fill the gap, with help from the alchemists, and the herbalists. There are apothecaries on every street corner. And the new hospital your majesty commissioned.”

“Crafting station one,” I murmur.

“Pardon?”

“Speaking of the clerics,” I say, tapping one fingerbone on the armrest of my throne. “I visited the temple district on the way over.”

“Ah, you did,” says King Dunwiddy, and clutches his rather ample belly, as if to hold in a laugh.

“The Crafting and Knitting Guild have moved into the Blind Queen’s temple,” says Roland. “I thought you would approve of that.”

“Yes, yes,” I say. “I do. A sensible use of the space. And the… er the people in the Bright One’s cathedral?”

“Oh, you saw them?”

“Clearly.”

“People need someone to worship,” says Lily briskly. “Not having clerics simplifies a great many things but it does leave a hole. It’s human nature.”

“I can think of worse people to worship,” says Rachel. I am grateful I do not possess cheeks or blood because I would be the colour of a ripe cherry tomato. “As long as they don’t start murdering each other indiscriminately.”

“I don’t do that!”

“I didn’t say you did, your majesty.”

“Worshipping you is a lot less problematic than worshipping the Whisperer,” says Lily. pointedly. Everyone glances guiltily at the bloodstained sand. Rachel makes a small gasp, but the old woman is relentless. “And having an entire population devoted to human sacrifice might make us less desirable as a trading partner.”

“The crux of the matter,” says Dunwiddy. He takes a wild swig of whatever is in his tankard before him.

“I will worship him enough for everyone,” I say softly. Softly enough to make sure it will reach any lingering divine ears. A whisper hisses across my skull like a tiny viper. He heard. “Anyway, this seems to be a bit of a tangent. Tell me what I need to know about this trade delegation? What should I expect?”

A couple of hours later, well briefed and impeccably dressed, I seat myself demurely on my throne awaiting the trade delegation. I arrange my skirts just so, and cross my legs neatly at the ankle.

“Ready,” I say to Roland, “you can let them in.”

With my councillors arranged about me, and a rictus grin on my face, I am indeed as ready as I will ever be. Everyone assures me this is important, and Janvier’s gold won’t last forever, so. Here we are.

A sudden weight settles on my lap, startling me. I let out a small yelp, and then look down into the smug, self satisfied furry face of my cat.

"You should teach me this spell," I say, scratching Jenkin’s slightly translucent chin with my fingers. His body is both there and not there. I can feel it, but every now and then my fingers dip through his skin as if he is made of mist. It is comforting. Holding court with Jenkin’s on my lap makes me feel much more normal. "I assume your body is safe in the cupboard?" I murmur.

Jenkin's purring intensifies which I take as an answer in the affirmative.

"Is that...Jenkins, your majesty?" asks Lily.

"A projection of Jenkins," I say. "A spirit form? It’s some kind of magic he has worked out for himself. I'm not entirely sure. But yes this is Jenkins.”

Lily makes a small, prune shaped ‘Ooo’ with her mouth, which I can see Jenkins appreciates very much. He is positively radiating smugness.

The doors at the end of the throne room open.

A courtier in rotund pantaloons steps through and blasts us with a few notes from a discordant trumpet.

“Second of his line, Far Shooter, Long Strider, Survivor of the Battle of Equizeniene! Second heir to the Quellac Isles.” Why ever did he think he could pull off orange with that complexion? “I present to you His Royal Highness, Prince Salazar Quentin Eustace the Younger!”

My attention shifts to an imposing young man with bronze skin, and an impressive fop of black curls. I can tell this is the prince from the strut and the extravagant lacy shirt. Oh, and by the way he is followed by a scurrying mass of attendants and ministers.

He strides up to the throne and gives an exaggerated bow. The rest of the party follows suit, till I am looking at a sea of bent backs, and well coiffured hair.

“Your majesty, Queen Maud!” he declares.

“Ahem,” says Roland.

“What? Oh.”

The prince is still face down, waiting, I assume for my permission to rise.

“Welcome Prince Salazar!”

The Quellac trade delegation straightens, and we stare at each other with great mutual interest. I know I cut an imposing figure, the white of my bones stark against the obsidian throne, and the night of my dress, and resist the urge to preen. Jenkins feels no such modesty.

A look of consternation crosses the prince’s face. There are various mutterings in the crowd.

“What?” I say, like the ill bred peasant I am.

“Forgive my rudeness, your majesty,” says the prince. He pauses, the words seemingly stuck in his throat. An advisor whispers feverishly in his ear but the young man shrugs him off. “Forgive me but-I was under the impression that you-”

“That I what?”

“I was under the impression that you had more skin!” he blurts.

There is an icy silence.

“It comes and it goes,” I say with dignity. “Last week I had as much as you.”

This does not seem to reassure him.

Prince Salazar turns to his advisor and an angry conversation ensues that I cannot quite hear. I tap my toe impatiently. Surely this is not courtly behaviour?

“Prince Salazar,” I say at last. “We are here to discuss trade relations between our two nations, yes? I do not see what the amount of skin has to do with it.”

“Forgive me, your majesty,” the Prince says, and he seems truly distraught, wringing his hands in their lacy sleeves. “I’m not sure I can in good conscience, propose to someone without a skin.”

On my right Dunwiddy spits out a mouthful of ale.

“Not ready to what now?” I ask.