Silver Linings II

Chapter 123

After releasing Prince Salazar and the remainders of his delegation into the wild I call for paper and ink.

"But where will I go?" he screeches as my draugr courtiers attempt to escort him from the throne room. "What will I do? How can I return home after this? There will be assassins lurking in every shadow, poison in every mouthful! My own parents! I can’t believe it but I saw it with my-"

"You are welcome to stay here," I say. "In Fairhaven. Provided you move out of range of my hearing very, very swiftly. I'm trying to rebuild the city, so if you have any particular talents you think you could put to use..?"

He stares at me as if I have just sprouted another head. “Talents?”

Some of his retainers look thoughtful. It is not just the prince who is in an awkward spot. They were all disposable courtiers sent to be slaughtered.

"I’m sure you will think of something. Talk to Roland, there is plenty of space in the city. Perhaps we can provide a house or two for you to get started, but you will have to muck in and get your hands dirty. I don't approve of idle aristocracy."

The prince thanks me, bows, and then leaves at last.

"That will be interesting," says Rachel. "I wonder what he will do?"

"They won't care, you know," says Lily, frowning into her scorched knitting. She waves an irate needle. "Just because he is alive. They will deny it. Or make up something else."

"We must try, at least," I say. "If they attempt to violate our borders I will retaliate, but until then I would rather focus on making my kingdom wealthy."

"Perhaps we will have more luck with Bretwalda," says Dunwiddy. "Or these other places your majesty has in mind..?"

My council all look at me with large, inquiring eyes.

"I will write immediately," I say, ignoring their obvious attempts to fish for information. I do not want to tell them in case the answer is negative. There are so many things that could go wrong. But first I have to ask. Dismissing them, I turn to my letters.

I draft three with great care; one to the summer queen, one to the Guild of Goblin Artificers, and one to Greeter.

To my butterfly-winged counterpart I write the following, in my neatest hand:

Odious Crone,

May I propose a truce, you heinous, smelly, over dressed tart?

Thinking hard, I tap the edge of the quill on the inkwell. Alas, these words might come from my heart but they are unlikely to successfully broker any trade deals. It is not my fault that I was not built for diplomacy, but for the sake of my fledgling kingdom I crumple the page and start again.

Your majesty,

Greetings from the world above.

While I honour and obey the terms of the treaty between us, I find myself in need of trading partners. Would you be interested in an exchange of commerce with my kingdom?

Wishing you well,

The Gardener of the Dead, Stealer of Souls, Crafter Extraordinaire, and Queen of Einheath

I remember at the last moment not to sign my name. I am not sure if her magic has significance away from her realm, but there is no point taking chances.

To the Goblin Guild of Artificers I write:

Dear esteemed Sirs and Madams,

I hope the guild can assist me - I have two needs. Firstly, I would like to procure your services to craft an exquisite and deadly silver axe, and a functional but aesthetically beautiful set of silver armour (pauldrons, greaves and helm). I will provide the silver, which has been procured from the abandoned temple of the Blind Queen.

Secondly, would you be interested in establishing a permanent trading post in my capital, or in any location more pleasing to you? I hope we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement, on both these matters.

To Greeter I write:

Dear Greeter of New Arrivals, the Keeper of Gold, Secrets, and Books, and Maker of Pleasing Sandwiches,

As a recent visitor to the Goblin Market I was most impressed with the experience. I am interested in establishing such a market in my kingdom, in the world above ground. Would you be interested in an over world expansion? If not, do you know someone who might be? We could test out the concept with a shop or a stall, perhaps to start. Please let me know, as soon as possible. I'm sure we can negotiate suitable terms.

I sign all my letters ‘the Queen of Einheath’, seal them with my black wax stamp, decorate them with bones and ghostly flowers, and hand them to the crows. Elding and Tora seemingly have no compunctions about delivering letters to none-humans, or to the realm below. They flap away cawing. I watch them leave with some anxiety.

Will any of them be interested? I have no idea, but I do hope so. It would be an elegant solution. Einheath could become the magical capital! Mages and wizards and enchanters from all four corners of the globe could gather here to buy items! They would be unable to resist.

It is a pretty fantasy, although it does not help me sell surplus wheat or timber.

While I await answers I get on with the somewhat neglected administration of running my kingdom. I also remove the Quellac Isles trap chest to a safe location, carried by human hands. I am not sure what I will do with it, but if another lich ever rears its ugly head, Janvier style, I'm sure it will come in handy.

Roland is delighted to make use of me, and is wily enough to know I won't endure long. He piles my desk high with important missives and letters and laws and correspondence. I sign and read and sign some more until my bones ache. Well, not really, but it is incredibly dull. I suppose it is my own fault, but I owe it to him to grit my teeth and work through it, at least for a couple of days.

The summer queen is the first to respond. Her letter arrives bright and early the very next morning. Six luridly coloured hummingbirds beat their long slender beaks frantically at my turret window, clutching between them a large, overpoweringly scented envelope. It reeks of pollen, and makes Wisp-Jenkins sneeze.

Unfolding the heavy parchment, I see it contains one sentence in curling purple ink: KEEP YOUR FILTHY FINGERBONES OFF MY REALM!

It explodes into a dozen pink and yellow butterflies after I finish reading it. They flap wildly for a few moments and then disintegrate into dust.

"Ah well," I say, sweeping the remains away. "It was worth a try."

Wisp-Jenkins does not reply. He is stalking the hummingbirds, and already has one in his mouth. The rest beat a hasty retreat and disappear into the sky.

My hopes now ride on the goblins, and on convincing my reluctant human neighbours to north and south of advantages of trade. Hopefully the continued existence of Prince Salazar, and my lack of animosity towards the Quellac Isles after their botched assassination attempt will convince others I am a decent trading partner after all. I pen a fourth, polite, but strongly worded letter to the monarchs of the Isles chastising them for their actions and extending an olive branch.

I doubt it will change their minds, but who knows. Humans are strange. If they persist in their aggression I will just have to conquer them. That will simplify matters of trade but war is impractical, expensive, not to mention time consuming. Empress Maud does have a nice ring to it, but I have better things to do. Things like planning my outfit for my next adventure.

The mysterious note said 'Clad yourself in silver'. I will do so, and gladly! How could I resist such a call? Realistically 'clad yourself in silver' is likely code for make sure the Whisperer doesn't sidle along with you, hissing in your ears and listening to things he shouldn't. But I have never let common sense get in the way of good fashion and I don't plan to start now.

I will be a shimmering silver vision! There will be bells on the hems of my battle skirts, and dripping from my ears! Which reminds me, I need to get cracking if I want ears. The downside to being queen is it feels wrong to consume the souls of my own subjects, and I am currently many souls away from earlobes. The downside to being clad in tinkling silver is that I will not be able to use my spells. I will have to rely on my wits and my fighting skills. Hopefully the Goblin Guild of Artificers will come through for me, and mundane smithing will not be needed.

While I await their response I will attend to the rest of my outfit. Battle skirts are called for! Battle skirts with extreme embroidery! Flounces! Maybe a veil? I have ideas, and I have sketches. For this project, however I will need skills beyond those of my own needle.

My bones vibrating with excitement I skip down the street towards the new headquarters of the Crafters and Knitting Guild, taking care to avoid the cathedral dedicated to me. I take a winding side route that passes a pleasing number of artisans and new little shops. Crafters seem to be springing up like mushrooms in the spring, occupying the ruined temples and churches and shrines. It seems Fairhaven is gathering a reputation! Word has spread about the favourable taxes, and of course artisans are like bees: they like company, and cheap, empty buildings with good light. How nice!

Arriving at the Crafting and Knitters Guild I enquire after seamstresses, dressmakers and weavers, and come away with a pleasing list. I spend a glorious afternoon talking to these kindred spirits, and find one in particular who sparks my interest.

Tucked between a cobblers and a brewery, the pleasantly clack of shuttles, and whirl of spinning wheels greets me as I enter the weaver’s studio. Several occupied looms fill the nave of what used to be a small church dedicated to the Bright One. His pews have been removed to make way for the ritual of cloth making, and the lofty rafters are hung about with glorious displays of artistry. Piles of neatly folded material are everywhere.

“Hello,” I say, eyes drinking in the sights. It smells of wool and happiness. “I’m looking for Mistress Arabella Enaldi?”

“I am she,” says a portly woman, looking up from behind an enormous loom. “Can I help you? Oh, your majesty, I didn’t see it was you!”

She gets up and drops a curtsy, spilling yarn and shuttle onto the floor.

"No, no," I say, anxiously as all her apprentices leap to their feet and start bobbing curtseys with such enthusiasm that I feel I will wash away in the sea of attention. "It's fine! Please carry on! I am just interested in commissioning some material."

"But of course!" The weaver beams at me, and to my great relief gestures for the other women to resume their work. "What can I do for you, my queen?"

"Well," I say, looking over my shoulder. Which is ridiculous because the Whisperer is not going to come walking along the street when he comes to kill me. "I have heard that you are able to make material out of metal? Is that true?"

"Oh yes!" Arabella says, with some enthusiasm. "I used to make substantial amounts for the clerics, but well, ahem. It's difficult to work with but... hang on... let me show you a sample.”

She disappears into a side room and comes back a minute later with a shimmering cloth of gold held over her arm. Light ripples off the surface in molten waves. I touch it reverently. It feels a little like snake scales, but surprisingly soft. It is heavy but still has the flexibility of material.

"Is this made with real gold?"

"Yes, indeed!" she beams. "I use silk as a base, with a gold spun weft. Obviously it is expensive to make."

"Can you make cloth of silver?"

"I could," she says, considering. "I don't see why not. It would tarnish, in time, like any metal though."

"That's fine," I say. "I will provide the silver."

"How much will you need?"

"Enough for a ballgown," I say, consideringly. "At least ten yards? And some thread as well on a spool. Another five yards."

The weaver's eyes bulge momentarily. "Yes, your majesty."

We haggle briefly, and work out a price that satisfies the both of us. With my future outfit firmly in hand I return to the castle feeling smug. When I discover the dark place where nothing grows I will arrive beautifully dressed!

But first I must discover it. A less pleasing task, to be sure, but necessary.

Dark places where nothing grows. It could be anywhere - a cave or ruin hidden deep in the earth. It could be deep in the sea? It could be the old stomping ground of any former lich, like the cathedrals to the Whisperer under Fairhaven and Dunbarra Keep. Hmm. I need to search, and I need a reason to do so without arousing suspicion from my god. An excuse to travel, and poke my nose into things. Something plausible. Something the Whisperer would approve of.

I go in search of my favourite minion.

"Roland," I say thoughtfully. "Your old master…the necromancer?"

"Master Atticus?" Roland says, looking up from his desk.

"Yes. Tell me, where did he learn his spells? Where did he go to collect the Whisperer’s words? I know he learned 'decipula alma' from Phylas, but what about the rest? I wish to grow my arsenal of spellcraft."

"Ah!" says Roland, setting aside his ledger. "I don't remember the specifics but the old master was always on the lookout for tales of undead, of powerful curses, of old ruins where great tragedy had befallen, or where the ground had tasted unusual amounts of blood. The stranger and further, the better. He sought out old books, and survivors. Whispers in forbidden ceremonies. Many places he investigated were simply tales, old wives' tales and superstitions. But sometimes he would come back filled with glee, and crackling with new powers. He never shared his experiences of what he found on those trips." Roland frowns as he looks at me. "How have you been learning the Whisperer's words, if you will beg my pardon? I feel like I should know this, but-"

"From the necromancer," I say, "from you, and from Janvier."

"Janvier taught you a spell?"

"He said it in front of me," I say smugly.

"So all your magic is stolen?"

My spine stiffens. "Perhaps."

"I always forget that you did not choose this," says Roland, thoughtfully. "Despite the constant and unexpected reminders."

"I feel like it is time to fill in some gaps in my education," I lie, glibly. Is the dearest Whisperer listening? I do hope so. "Do you remember any of these places?"

"Dunbarra Keep was one such," he says. "I am sorry I remember no other. Oh! There was a bookseller down in Custard Lane. He would sometimes collect tips for the master. Perhaps he is still there?”

"Custard Lane? I suppose it is as good a start as any."