Thronegarden

by Andrew Dickerson

  The lower levels held the castle’s workforce, folk that would be very interested in Rat’s fresh news and might be willing to offer him something in return for his services. Rat snuck through a hidden portal into the furnace where materials were turned into everyday objects from cutlery to weapons, boats to cradles, and even now the fires raged higher than a grown man. There was one master of each skill present in the furnace, and at all times at least one of them would be supervising the workers. Today, it was Phestus, master armorer to the king who noticed Rat’s arrival with an inquisitive glance.

  “What do you want, boy, can’t you see I’m busy?” Phestus crowed.

  Rat was actually happy to discover Phestus on duty; despite his gruff manner he never beat or mistreated him like some of the other masters.

  “I have important news right from the top,” Rat divulged. “You had better wake everyone up.”

  “If you think I am going to risk the ire of my peers on the word of some guttersnipe then you’d best think again.” Phestus shrugged his large shoulders, which almost entirely enveloped his neck.

  “I received the information directly from the king’s advisor,” Rat bragged.

  “Which one?” The master armorer showed a slight curiosity.

  “Orion.”

  “Bah, it sounds barely worthy of my time.”

  Phestus was not a smart man though a practical one; he understood the ramifications of failing to act on directions from above, although he was certainly experienced enough to know that not all messages were of value. With a look of disdain, he reached a dirty hand into his pocket where he rooted around before pulling out a small bronze coin. Rat looked at the money with undisguised greed, knowing that coin could buy him food for the next two days.

  “I swear, boy, if you be trying to trick me, I will make you walk on hot coals.” Phestus dropped the coin into Rat’s outthrust hand.

  “Queen Etherelle is throwing a surprise birthday party for Princess Damselfly, and she has demanded that it be the grandest celebration anyone can remember.”

  Rat enjoyed the astonished look on Phestus’s face as he received the royal message. Grasping his reward, he took off as the master armorer charged about waking every soul to begin their arduous mission.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  As Rat was departing, his wrist was grabbed by a strong hand belonging to none other than Master Farcroft, the blacksmith.

  “I just delivered a message to Phestus, and now I am going to deliver it elsewhere,” Rat explained.

  “What is that in his hand?” Tarq the master builder asked, smoothing out his apron.

  Before Rat could answer, the bronze coin was ripped from his hand by Mayden the master brewer.

  “What poor wretch did you steal this from?” she slurred, being known to sample her own produce more than one should.

  “Phestus gave it to me for the information I brought. I did not steal it,” Rat argued.

  “Ah, a liar and a thief.” Farcroft shook the boy painfully.

  Rat felt tears come to his eyes, staring at the masters who all looked at him suspiciously when everything he said had been true.

  “You better not be sneaking into my stores again,” Mayden accused, although Rat knew that it was she, who drunk the stores and never remembered it afterwards.

  “I think we should find some respectable work for the boy, rather than have him running around looking like a stray dog,” Tarq the master builder suggested.

  “He can scrub some pans for me,” Mayden announced. “That will teach him for stealing my precious ale.”

  “I didn’t steal anything,” Rat complained, trying unsuccessfully to break free from Farcroft’s grip.

  The blacksmith had spent decades working in his forge, meaning he had arms of steel leaving Rat helpless to escape.

  “What is this news you bring, boy,” Master Lokei the shipwright asked evenly.

  The role of master shipwright was an infamous one with Bakka himself once holding that position. Now few ships were made in Thronegarden, though the office still held authority. Lokei was an unusual fellow with a watchful eye and sharp mind that often made his peers uncomfortable.

  “Queen Etherelle has ordered there be a birthday party for her daughter, the Princess Damselfly and she wants it to be the best celebration ever,” Rat revealed.

  This information had a peculiar effect on his audience with Lokei simply lifting one eyebrow in surprise while the other masters scattered in a frantic panic.

  “What about my coin?” Rat shrieked.

  Farcroft who had forgotten about the money and was already racing off to his own forge threw the coin into a dark corner where Rat spent several minutes before finally retrieving his prize. As the furnace roared into life, Rat disappeared before he found himself in any further trouble.

  The only place in the castle Rat had not entered were the royal apartments; however, he had only entered the Hall of Bells once and that had been under Master Pariah’s supervision. Rat spent several minutes banging on the master of bells’ door before giving up and heading off towards the next level. Rat was glad to move on as his memory of being inside that room still filled him with dread. The magic of bells was an ancient art of magic which even Master Pariah admitted he understood only a small fraction of what the bells could do. The most famous bell, Sereth ‘the voice of death’, had been part of Death’s timepiece since records began, although it was agreed that the watch was made by Bakka, the greatest smith who ever lived, it was equally accepted that the bell was not. After the Fairy King stole the timepiece, he silenced Sereth and after breaking it, all time had stopped.

  The sun remained setting so that the residents of Thronegarden could barely remember what the moon and stars looked like. Rat had forgotten what rain smelled like and the grounds were barren.

  The people slept in shifts and no one had died since.

  The stairs narrowed in a spiraling pattern as Rat descended deeper into the castle; many of the stones had cracks, which needed to be carefully navigated to avoid a trip or fall. After surviving the treacherous staircase, Rat was greeted by a high scream as he exited into the salon. Madame Hart the master stylist rushed over to him wearing a mask of powder and rouge that exaggerated her dismay.

  “Good gracious, what is this fashion statement,” she shrilled, tugging at Rat’s greasy, unkempt hair and filthy rags.

  “What is that smell?” Lady Petticote the perfumer sprayed a mist of lavender before her like a bubble. “Did something die?”

  “No, it is this disgusting boy,” Madame Hart replied, covering her mouth, which was smothered with red lipstick.

  “It would take a miracle to do anything with that birds nest he wears on his head,” Mistress Taverner the hairdresser expressed.

  “The boy is not even wearing shoes,” Colter the shoe maker despaired.

  “Those clothes are tattered and ill-fitting, a disgrace to the industry,” Greyduke the tailor sighed nonchalantly.

  “Perhaps if we combined our skills, we could rescue the situation,” Madame Hart mused.

  The group armed with combs, measuring tape, perfumes and mirrors converged on Rat maliciously, leaving the child to stumble backwards until his back was literally against the wall.

  “You can’t do it now,” Rat advised.

  “Why not, child?” Lady Petticote asked. “It should have been done a long time ago.”

  “Queen Etherelle has ordered a great celebration for her daughter Princess Damselfly’s birthday and everyone is needed to help by royal proclamation.”

  The whole congregation gasped with shock. Madame Hart’s rouged cheeks seemed to almost burn with excitement.

  “Well, why didn’t you say so sooner, you, horrible boy,” Mistress Taverner scolded.

  “How can the child have a birthday party when none of us are getting any older?” Greyduke the tailor questioned.

  “All children should be entitled to a birthday party,” Mad
ame Hart softened. “Especially our little princess.”

  “Does that include me, madame?” Rat asked.

  “You?” Madame Hart choked. “What are you still doing here? Get out of my sight. We all have much work to do.”

  “Wait when is this birthday party to begin?” Master Colter enquired.

  “As soon as the princess awakes,” Rat replied over his shoulder as he ran for cover. There was another series of distressed cries as Lady Petticote rushed to find a new scent, Master Colter searched through his samples for the softest leather to make a new pair of shoes and Madame Hart hastily sought an outfit from the wardrobes that would be suitable for the occasion. Rat did not understand their reaction as none of them would be invited to the party itself, only one person from outside the royal apartments had ever been asked to enter the inner sanctum and that had been as a nursemaid for the princess when she was born. After a couple of years, the nursemaid was sent away now the child had grown, but Damselfly had cried for two days straight until the nursemaid had been brought back and since then she had never left the child’s side. Rat dreamed of being the second person to enter the royal chambers. He did not know how but one day he would find a way to get past those ornate golden doors.

  As Rat reached the performers’ level, he was assailed by the smell of saltpeter. A blast of hot air nearly burned his eyebrows and a haze of heat blurred his teary eyes.

  “Apologies, dear boy, I was not expecting company,” Nova the pyromancer said as he patted Rat’s smouldering rags.

  “I… I… I have a message.”

  “Don’t worry about that now,” Nova interrupted enthusiastically. “I need an audience for my new show,” the performer entreated.

  Rat was dropped heavily into a chair while Nova, dressed in a bright orange coat with a large collar, prepared for his latest performance. Rat tried to speak about his news though his tongue seemed to be tied in knots, and before he could do anything about it, Nova had begun to breathe fire. Nova was extremely talented; capable of creating shapes within the fire, he produced a dragon followed by a phoenix and last of all a fiery peacock. Rat was still in a state of shock, having nearly been incinerated. However, Nova took this expression as a challenge and began a barrage of tricks, which illuminated the whole room.

  “What is going on in here?” a voice broke the spell and Nova puffed out a ball of smoke guiltily.

  Once the air cleared, Rat could see it was Pan the juggler who had interrupted the private performance. He was dressed in multiple colours like many of the troupe who plied their trade in the arts.

  “Is Nova trying to burn down the castle again?” Harlequin the dancer added haughtily, stretching her beautiful neck to look down on the sorry pyromancer.

  “You didn’t force the boy to sit through another one of your tragedies, did you?” Polter the first acrobat criticised.

  “I always thought they were more like comedies,” Geist the second acrobat laughed.

  “Perhaps the boy would prefer to hear one of my songs instead,” Lark the singer suggested with a well-practiced smile.

  “Well, actually I…” Rat stumbled.

  “Hear that, Lark, he doesn’t like your melodies,” Pan stirred.

  “Well, I never,” Lark sulked, her golden hair falling in waves around her cherub face.

  “I am sure the boy has his own reason for being here.” Pilgrim the bard brought a sense of normality to proceedings.

  Pilgrim was a poet laureate, expert story teller and the leader of this merry band of circus performers.

  “Is there news?” Pilgrim asked confidently.

  “Yes, very important news,” Rat stuttered. “Queen Etherelle has declared that there be a surprise birthday party for her daughter the Princess Damselfly.”

  “They will want music.” Lark brightened. “Now where are those minstrels?”

  “They will need dancing.” Harlequin puffed out her chest with pride.

  “Wouldn’t be a birthday party without juggling,” Pan crowed.

  “Yes, we must all prepare,” Pilgrim conceded.

  Rat slipped off his chair before heading for the exit. A friendly hand on his shoulder stopped him.

  “If I may be so bold.” Pilgrim produced a letter from his white robes and offered it hopefully.

  “Of course, sir, I will do my best.” Rat accepted the correspondence.

  “Thank you.” Pilgrim smiled dryly. “Now I must prepare like the others.”

  Rat did not need to look at the letter to know it was for Pilgrim’s wife; she was the wet nurse who looked after the princess and in her duties had to be separated from her husband. Rat often took letters for the couple, meeting the nursemaid outside the royal apartments when no one was around. Slipping the note inside his pocket, Rat continued his journey downwards into a darker and damper atmosphere.

  Rat’s favourite place in the castle was the kitchens; all the residents food including the royal family’s, was made here. It had the highest number of workers, causing a constant hive of activity. It was always warm, and a sweet aroma arrested Rat whenever he made it down here. As a lowly orphan, Rat never had enough to eat; he largely bartered, stole or traded for what little scraps he could find and had to be satisfied with that. Rat had a wealth of scars on his young body from Kale the baker’s spatula, or Swelter the butcher’s boot, and by far the worst of all was head cook Skowl. It was critical that the kitchen was made aware of the planned celebration; however, Rat decided it could wait until after he had eaten. Gripping the bronze coin tightly, he wandered down the line of tables which were full of seeded bread, still warm from the stone ovens, eggs stood in regimented rows beside freshly cut sides of meat. Smoked ham, cured pork, stuffed chicken, all waited to be prepared as Rat found himself salivating with anticipation. As Rat continued his exploration, he discovered dried biscuits, nuts, aged cheese from the castle cellars and delicious sponge cake. Though the lack of time had damaged their recent crop yields, a scattering of hardier fruit and vegetables was still available. Potatoes, carrots, leeks, raisins, figs and an assortment of berries were carefully guarded along with the essential spices by each individual cook.

  “I don’t allow vermin in my kitchen.” Skowl snuck up behind the ravenous boy, holding a rolling pin with unconcealed malice.

  Rat was so struck with angst that his only response was to hold up the bronze coin as a kind of sacrificial offering. Luckily, there were some old, hard biscuits that Skowl had been about to send down for animal feed; she swiped the coin before handing the boy three small biscuits. Rat immediately stuffed two of the biscuits into his mouth with relish. They were too hard for his teeth at the beginning though they soon softened in his mouth, and he enjoyed their sweet taste. It was the first time for a while that Rat could assuage his hunger. Risking Skowl’s wrath a second time, he went to pass on his important message. Now, one thing about the kitchen, which everyone knew without question, was Skowl was in charge; no one did or said anything without the wise old cook finding out and then there would be trouble.

  “I have an important message from above,” Rat squeaked nervously.

  “Queen Etherelle has declared that there be a great feast for her daughter the Princess Damselfly’s birthday.”

  Skowl turned to look at the boy with watery grey eyes, holding the rolling pin casually at her side, although Rat could not take his eyes from the weapon, which he had felt many times before.

  “When?” was the cook’s only response.

  “As soon as the princess wakes up,” Rat replied.

  The whole kitchen had gone eerily quiet as neighbours passed on the message until every worker had heard the news and now all of them waited for instructions.

  “Well, what are you all standing about for? We have a birthday party to cater for,” Skowl roared.

  With Kale the head baker and Swelter the head butcher adding their own threats to the cacophony, Rat sought to escape the kitchens and head to the lowest levels of the castle where the
animals were housed.

  Unlike before, Rat found the staircase heavy with traffic going up and down with couriers hauling barrels of cheese, flasks of ale and whole joints of meat to the kitchens. Once news spread, it would become like an ’ants’ nest buzzing with activity, something that Rat was keen to avoid. From a young age he had a fondness for animals and that feeling was reciprocated. Rat was able to calm a horse when no one else could; he was able to handle the fiercest hounds without fear and train a bird of prey without being taught. Rat’s closest friend in the castle was a black crow he had named Midknight. He had nursed the injured animal from a young age after it was attacked by a falcon and this created an unbreakable bond. Rat wanted to visit Midknight, intending to share some of his hard-earned fare. Unfortunately, he had to pass through the farming enclosures where animals were bred and kept for food. Rat’s unique gift with animals meant he was in constant demand to help with guarding the new lambs, delousing the cattle or feeding the constantly hungry pigs. Although Rat would sometimes be rewarded with a saucer of milk or discarded pieces of meat, it was always a chore for him unlike his time spent with the animals kept for sport or leisure. Dodging the aggressive geese who even Rat could not pacify, he drifted past the distracted laborers and thought that he had escaped attention for once when the dogs started barking. They all recognised his scent and competed for his affection with a cacophony of noise loud enough to startle the animals and handlers alike.

  “I thought that was you, boy.” Master Bullan, a large middle-aged man with a squinting eye, appeared out of nowhere.

  “I can’t stay, Master Bullan, I want to see Midknight before bed,” Rat said, kneeling down to pet the royal hounds who licked his face and hands greedily.

  “Perhaps you could spare some time tomorrow first thing,” the Master of Hounds suggested although it was more of a demand.

  “Sure, no problem,” Rat shouted over his shoulder as he took off for the lowest inhabited level of the castle.

  Finally, after a short run the dogs’ barking faded, the strong aroma of farm animals permeated and a drop in temperature assured Rat that he was now close to the castle’s foundations. Centuries ago, the castle had been built on a lake; boats had been made under the castle and used to travel between gardens. Bakka, the great smith, had been born to a shipwright in this very castle. In the intervening years, the lake had dried up leaving only a few underground caches of water that were utilized as subterranean wells to keep the residents in fresh water. Now the only way to travel between gardens was via the Garden Gate, which had been Bakka’s greatest achievement. Since the royal horses were so valuable and easily spooked, especially by the dogs, they were kept down here. Despite the slightly cool, damp temperature they were doted on by a vigilant staff who made sure they were always prepared for a hunt or ride. The Master of Horse was a burly man named Balius who had large forearms and an iron will. He could break in any stubborn stallion although he often relied on Rat’s skills with the shyer creatures that he easily lost patience with. All the horses had been stabled so there was little work to be done and Rat passed without notice. Finally, he reached the aviary where a dim light revealed his path. Birds were kept in pairs tied by jesses to wooden perches that mimicked their natural habitat. Rat felt the ’birds’ eyes on him as he passed although he felt no fear; he had known many of the creatures as hatchlings and helped the friendly falconer Robin most days. Robin was the closest thing to a mother he had ever known; she also shared his love of birds and was an expert trainer. Rat passed a pair of goshawks, slipped by the sleeping peregrine falcons and brushed by some watchful kestrels. At the back of the aviary was a single crow: Midknight. Although not a bird of prey, Robin had agreed that Rat could keep the bird after nursing it back to health. Midknight and Rat were both orphans, alone in the world, so, of course, they became best friends and kept each other company. The bird squawked at his approach though the noise was probably to do with being hungry rather than happiness at seeing Rat. Midknight wore a metal cap on his head and had a crooked beak. His injuries had left one wing weaker than the other, meaning he would struggle to survive in the outside world. He was quick enough to snap at Rat for food though. The boy took out his remaining biscuit that fit nicely in the palm of his hand and divided in two. Midknight greedily devoured his portion and when he discovered there was nothing else forthcoming went back to sleep. Rat, finishing his own piece which barely touched the hunger in his stomach, curled up on the floor amongst a thin layer of straw and soon fell asleep.