A Clatter of Chains

by A Van Wyck

  He might be fulfilling a guardsman’s duty but he did so quite separately from the rest of the Royal Guard. For starters, he was the only one required to do more than one shift per day. And at random intervals too, so as to prevent predictability. This meant his schedule was kept secret, from everyone including himself. That meant he sometimes got as little as three bells’ sleep between shifts. There was nothing worse than being roused just bells after he’d crawled into his newly appointed bed, mind fuzzy and eyes filled with grit. At least the guard captain didn’t seem to take any special pleasure in torturing him with the erratic shifts. But it rarely was the captain who came to wake him. The captain’s underling, Lieutenant Muro Heiss, delighted in announcing himself with the toe of a polished boot.

  At first he’d thought the sneer-faced officer’s grudge to be personal, or perhaps the product of a supremely sadistic nature. But it seemed not all of the Royal Guard were relieved that he’d found himself in the opportune place at the exact moment to save the princess’s life. And if the lieutenant’s boot wasn’t proof enough, it had become apparent the very first time he’d thought to take his midday meal at the Guard barracks.

  The rest of the palace was still in the dark concerning the nature of the disturbance that night – the invigilator’s unique way with people had insured that. But no amount of near-death threats could stem the spread of gossip in a society as tightly knit as the Royal Guard. The bare bones account of his adventure was now the Guards’ guilty secret. He hadn’t understood that at first – it had had to be explained to him.

  The mess hall had been busy with the midday meal rush. Even so, he’d been surprised when, making his way to one of the long tables, someone had jostled him. Hard enough to send his laden plate of meat and bread clattering loudly across the floor. He’d found himself the unwelcome focus of a spreading pool of attention. Eyes had tracked him as he knelt to scrape up the mess. Burning with embarrassment, hoping to avoid further scrutiny, he’d wedged himself at the nearest table. Only to have half the occupants rise, some abandoning their meals, as they made their way elsewhere. He’d sat, hiding his head between his shoulders, chagrined gaze glued to the table. The hubbub had resurged by painful increments.

  When someone had brushed his shoulder sitting down next to him, he’d expected nothing but further hostility. So the fresh plate of food, skidding to a halt under his nose, had come as a surprise.

  He’d looked over to see a young man, lean of face and frame, seated next to him. Instead of the expected glare, the young man’s expression had been open and pleasant, his armor gleaming, the straps new.

  “Don’t mind them,” the guardsman had consoled, casting a meaningful glance at the hall around them. “They’re just a little upset with you right now.”

  “I don’t understand,” he’d admitted in a whisper, just quietly grateful for someone halfway civil to talk to. “They don’t even know me.”

  “Oh, they wouldn’t have liked you, even if they’d known you. It’s not about who you are. It’s about what you did.”

  He’d blinked at that.

  “What did I do?”

  The young guardsmen had given him a bemused look.

  “You saved the princess,” the man had said, making it sound an obvious reason for all the antagonism.

  “Isn’t that a good thing?” he’d frowned.

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

  “But–” he’d sputtered, “–they’re the Royal Guard! Shou–”

  “Hush!” the guardsman had urged him.

  “Shouldn’t they be relieved I saved the princess?” he’d tried, lowering his voice.

  “You’ve just answered your own question.”

  His frown had deepened.

  “I have?”

  His guest had nodded.

  “They,” the man had stressed, “are the Royal Guard. Not you. Do you have any idea what it takes to become a royal guardsman? Dedication, loyalty, perseverance and aptitude. It takes years of determined effort to even be considered for the Guard. The palace prides itself on taking only the best. You have to, literally, beat the applicants away with a stick. Being accepted is about the highest honor a common-born military man can aspire to.”

  The guardsman had paused for that to sink in.

  “And then along comes you: no more than a boy, a foreigner and a damned scribe to boot! You’re here for all of what, one day? And you save the princess? You? That was their job. Not yours. And not only didn’t they aid you, they tried to stop you. And they couldn’t even do that. Can you imagine the disgrace?”

  His guest had taken his horrified expression for assent.

  “That was Fenrith you sat down next to, by the way,” he’d added wryly. “You knocked out his front teeth.”

  He’d hidden his face in his hands, his skin suddenly cold and pasty.

  “I keep saying ‘they’,” the man had continued reflectively, “I suppose I should say ‘we’. I’m a little new, so it’s sometimes easy to forget.”

  At this reminder, he’d raised his head slowly to regard the guardsman, looking for signs of the same antagonism he could now finally put a name to. The man had chuckled at his apprehensive expression.

  “Don’t worry. Those of us with more sense are just glad you were there.”

  “And the rest?” he’d swallowed nervously.

  The man had popped a piece of bread into his mouth as he’d shrugged.

  “They’ll come around or they won’t. Either way, nothing you can do about it.”

  For the first time since he’d sat down, he’d hazarded a glance at the only other two men who hadn’t vacated the table with his arrival. One had been engrossed in his food, either oblivious or completely indifferent. The other had met his eyes and though there’d been nothing friendly about the expression, there’d been no overt animosity either. The man had given him a noncommittal nod and he’d quickly dropped his gaze.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” his guest had continued, “Fenrith is only upset about his teeth. He’d been courting one of the kitchen girls, you see, and with the loss of his teeth the young lady has lost interest. He can’t even tell her what really happened, so she naturally assumes he fell down drunk.”

  He’d been mortified, the skin of his neck aflame.

  “Relax,” the young guardsman had bid him uselessly, “he doesn’t blame you. None of us who were there that night do.”

  At this new information, he’d searched the young man’s face, looking for familiar features. But most of that night had been reduced to a blurred recollection of panic and pain.

  “You were…?” he let the question trail off, eliciting a confirming nod nonetheless.

  Dusting scarred palms free of bread crumbs, the guardsman had leaned over to offer a hand.

  “I’m Dennik.”

  “Marco.”

  He’d shaken the guardsman’s hand somewhat hesitantly.

  “Pleased to meet you. Again.”

  Despite these shocking revelations, he’d been enormously pleased, reflecting on the unexpected offer of friendship.

  “Can I ask you something?” he’d questioned tentatively.

  “Sure.”

  “Do you have a torch?”

  That had been a very embarrassing explanation. But he’d made a new friend. His first in this foreign country.

  You couldn’t really count the princess, despite all the time he’d now spent in her presence. In their rare moments of privacy, she spoke to him again like she had that first day on the stairs. Easily and without guarding her words. Still, thinking of her as a friend seemed somehow disrespectful.

  Coming back to himself, he shifted from his right to his left foot again, trying to make the movement inconspicuous. He always felt he was interfering in her business when the delegates or petitioners who came seeking an audience with her sent their searching gazes in his direction. Those first speculative glances when they entered a room seemed unavoidable. After all, he wa
sn’t dressed in palace livery – following Dennik’s explanation he’d declined the Guard Captain’s offer of armor – and he was much too young to pass for the bodyguard he was impersonating. He shuddered to think what gossip his near constant presence must be kindling on the generally unkind tongues of the royal court. He tried to weather the shrewd scrutiny stoically, striving to remain as unobtrusive as possible in the least conspicuous corner of the room. But he couldn’t not breathe.

  Aware that he shouldn’t be daydreaming, he scanned the room – again. Both doors to the antechamber remained firmly closed and guarded from the outside. He let his eyes rove over the collection of windows, the mere fact that they were half a dozen stories off the ground having already proven an insufficient deterrent. The heavy drapes, floor to ceiling, might have seemed conspicuous. But he’d already checked them. Twice. That left only the wall cabinet – unlikely, unless the assassin were a child or a midget – and the big table. Hopefully the five people (six if you included the princess) seated there would have noticed an assassin hiding among their chair legs. But just in case, he cocked his head, listening for the telltale crackle of leaves or buzz of flies. Nothing.

  Unnoticed for the moment, he studied the people seated at the table. They were either the ruling body or the spokesmen for some mercers’ chapter – he hadn’t really been listening.

  Guild, he reminded himself. Kingdom mercers are organized into guilds, not chapter houses.

  They were three men and two women, their elegant dress and manner at odds with their businesslike tones. They batted facts and figures across the table, sliding scraps of parchment and random scribbles at each other as if to emphasize their various points. The table looked like the aftermath of a whirlwind locked in a library. In their midst sat the princess, who was the recipient of twice as many pieces of parchment and scribbles as anyone else. He had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. It wasn’t that they were speaking Renali. His Renali was excellent. It was just that the words they were using made no sense in context, leading him to believe they were discussing that most dreaded of all subjects: economics. Although, from the way they were exchanging grudging nods and sitting back in their chairs, he guessed their meeting was winding to a close.

  “So,” the princess was saying, “are we all agreed, then? Four across the board for the first term, coming down to three and a half thereafter, with a guaranteed minimum of two and two-thirds for the following two terms?”

  “And,” the mercer on her right, an older woman with startlingly red lips, interjected, “exclusive rights to any and all produce of the Dal Jorrs valley for the next two terms.”

  “Under the condition,” the princess nodded, “that accurate tally be kept and made available for inspection by royal auditors on demand, yes, as we’ve discussed.”

  “Then I believe we are agreed,” spoke up the hefty gentleman on the left, the one with the thick fur coat that went so badly with his skinny legs. There were nods all around the table.

  “Well then,” the princess stood, drawing the assembled mercers to their feet, “ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your time.”

  They bowed.

  “As always, our privilege, highness,” the furred man assured.

  The princess remained standing until they’d all gathered their papers and filed out, waiting for the door to close behind them before collapsing onto her padded chair.

  “What else do we have, Ghelis?” she sighed, rubbing tired eyes with a dainty hand.

  The attending scribe consulted a thick sheaf of notes, ink stained fingers flitting among the rustling parchmentuntil finally stabbing at an entry.

  “I believe that was the last one for the day, highness,” the man intoned, graveyard voice utterly ambivalent.

  “Oh, good,” the princess enthused, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You may go, Ghelis.” She treated the dry-toned man to a sincere look. “Thank you.”

  Rising, the stick figure bowed low. He watched as the scribe collected writing utensils, folding tray and chair beneath one dark wing before ghosting out the door, leaving him alone with the princess. The heavy portal sighed gently closed.

  “Ugh,” she sighed, letting her head droop against the padded chair back, arms spilling over the armrests to swing in exhaustion. For all her tireless effort, she wasn’t immune to the tedium of these sessions.

  She rolled her head to the side, bringing him into her field of vision.

  “You look dead on your feet.”

  Caught off guard, he made some effort to stand straighter. He’d only been able to catch a few precious bells worth of sleep before this shift. His ribs were still tender from Lieutenant Heiss’s wake-up call and there must be circles under his eyes. But he didn’t think he looked that bad.

  “With respect, highness,” he returned, trying to sound energetic, “I’m not the one who has been working too hard.”

  Helia hear that for truth. All he had to do was stand here and look alert. She had to field all the difficult politics and logistics. Which were actually meant to be overly frustrating and unnecessarily complex. The good natured monarch gave his eldest first pick of assignments and she, in turn, made sure to delegate all the meaningless drivel to her sister. And there was a lot of meaningless drivel.

  “You concern yourself over me needlessly, Master dei Toriam,” she said lightly, flapping a gracefully dismissive hand at him.

  “If that were true, highness,” he countered carefully, “I wouldn’t be spending half my nights standing guard outside your door.”

  She frowned.

  She was ill at ease, he knew, with this arrangement her father had foisted upon her. She’d argued that Marco should be protecting her father, not herself. “The first time my sister and I have agreed on anything in years…” she’d said. But the king had apparently put his foot down, the little Persuading Swan seemingly powerless where her own safety was at issue.

  “Does your newfound responsibility chafe, my vigilant protector?”

  Despite her light tone, he could see the sudden stress in her shoulders. As if she were sparring and preparing to parry a blow.

  “Of course not, highness,” he rushed to reassure. His own frustration had nothing to do with her and he couldn’t bring himself to resent her even a little bit. Lieutenant Heiss, on the other hand… “It is an honor to be entrusted with such a grave responsibility as your safety.”

  That was nothing but the truth and a fair echo of the sentiment among the Royal Guard.

  She studied him for a moment, gauging his sincerity. He’d been witness to her incredible leaps of insight – if she hadn’t been Renali, he’d have suspected her of being an empath. He weathered her weighing regard. Whatever she saw in his expression must have reassured her. She smiled wryly.

  “Still,” she continued in a different tone, “I feel Father has been working you too hard. I shall speak to him about it.”

  Oh, no.

  The last thing he wanted was to look like he was reneging on his compact with the king. The orin, hanging at his belt, was a constant source of pride. And a reminder of the sacred covenant he’d undertaken.

  “Please, highness,” he stuttered, trying to keep the pleading from his voice, “do not worry yourself over me.” He could see he was going to have to do better than that. “I am perfectly content with my assigned duties. And my assigned shifts,” he threw in.

  “Hmm,” she mused, narrowing her eyes at him. A mischievous glint slowly informed her thoughtful expression. She flashed him a lopsided smile.

  “You doubt my ability to arrange a day off for you?” she challenged.

  Helia’s mercy, when had he said that?!

  “I don’t doubt her highness’s ability to do anything!”

  Truth. Except perhaps when trying to convince her father to take him as bodyguard instead.

  “I don’t need–” Her sudden severe frown cut him off. “I mean,” he tried again, “her highness really need not trouble herself.�
�

  “Oh...”

  He didn’t like the way she said it. It boded ill for someone and he had a sneaking suspicion it was him. He held his breath as he watched her stare at nothing for a moment, deep in thought. He knew he was in trouble when her clouded expression cleared in the blink of an eye. “Well, then,” she announced, her momentary bad humor completely evaporated.

  Skirts billowing, she swung herself from the chair like a toddler. “If you don’t want a day off…”

  When she turned to him, she was the Princess Dailill, responsible and dignified. Her eyes flashed.

  “Let’s see if I can’t get one.”

  He swallowed hard.

  “A day off,” Dennik scoffed, watching the mostly vegetable-stew gloop off the spoon and back into the plate, “that’s a good one.”

  “Huh?” he paused with a piece of softened bread halfway to his mouth.

  “Well,” his friend explained, seeing his confusion, “she’s the princess isn’t she? Apart from looking beautiful and marrying whoever her father chooses for her, she can pretty much do whatever she likes, can’t she?”

  “She’s not like that,” he scowled at the guardsman.

  “Oh, I know. Very responsible, the both of them. My point is, she doesn’t need to ask for a day off. She’s the princess. Any and every day she chooses can be her own personal holiday. So if she takes a day to go horse riding… what are you going to do?”

  Well, he couldn’t protect her from the palace if she was off horse riding, so…

  “Go horse riding?”

  “Exactly. And that would be your day off. So, you see? It’s still about you.”

  His spoon dropped from his suddenly lifeless fingers, speckling his shirt with bits of carrot. He didn’t notice.