by SL Figuhr
“How can we be sure you have not turned traitor?” one demanded.
“If I had, would our Sire not have already demanded our execution?” Aranthus replied, mustering a glare as his thudding heartbeat slowed.
The guards took a moment to think. One replied, “He has not had time to give the orders. Until then, we cannot let you pass.”
The chamberlain spluttered, hands tossed up in the air in disbelief. Behind him, the rest of the personal guards clinked and clanged as they shifted.
“Imbeciles! Out of the way!” was what he finally managed to get out.
The guards on duty resisted, despite the anxiety and uncertainty on their faces. Aranthus had a feeling the fear which had first gripped the king all the past months and still held him in its sway was now infecting the rest of the palace staff. The knights behind him muttered, apparently not keen on engaging their fellow men who refused them entrance.
“Fine!” Aranthus snapped out, worms of worry twining in his gut as he backed up, keeping his eyes on the two men before him who had lowered their pikes. Their intent was clear.
The eunuch was not about to let himself be skewered by a couple of jumpy men. It would be better to accept the king’s wrath later after he managed to calm down, than to die now. He drew himself up, outrage in every line of his person.
“When His Majesty has calmed down, send a slave to inform me so I may attend our king.”
The guards still kept their wary stance as the chamberlain and the men behind him turned and walked off down the hall.
* * *
“I want my guards! I cannot be unguarded! Where’s my chamberlain? Someone get me Aranthus!”
A slave slipped outside, grateful for the clean air and a chance to escape the king’s growing madness. The two guards on duty cast sideways glances at the slave. Before one could make a comment, the man trotted down the corridors, passing more guards who stood at attention, ostensibly to keep marauders at bay.
It took the slave nearly three-quarters of an hour to find Aranthus, by which time he was sweating profusely in fear of what kind of punishment the king would order for him due to how long it took to find the chamberlain.
When both men arrived back at the royal bedchamber, His Majesty was in the middle of a full-blown rage. One of the guards opened a door, and an empty clay bottle which had been thrown shattered behind the men, who had ducked to avoid the unexpected missile.
“Your Highness. I am here. What is the will of my king?” Aranthus entered, speaking soothing words, oozing deference as he knelt with head bowed submissively.
“I want my guards. Do you not hear those noises? Bandits! Assassins are trying to get in and kill me!”
The chamberlain noted this was not one of the usual fits Maceanas had. This one appeared to be much worse. He spotted slaves and harem women cowering behind or under what furniture was too large to be tossed about. An especially fierce gust of wind rattled the wooden shutters over the windows. The king shrieked in terror and commenced tossing the remains of chairs toward them. Most of the pieces bounced off the walls, to land harmlessly on the floor. But one or two hit their mark and the tinkle of shattering glass could be heard.
The king gave a long scream, hands reaching up to grip his hair. “Guards! They’ve made it inside my room. Help me.”
The two men poked their heads inside, as the slave cowered behind Aranthus’s bulk.
“He’s gone right mad, hasn’t he?” one of the men muttered to his fellow guard.
“I think I’d rather be outside patrolling than dealing with this,” the other muttered back.
The chamberlain sucked in a worried breath, but pasted a calming smile on his face, while quietly instructing the slave, “Find the royal physician and tell him to come at once. When you have done that, send a messenger to bring the advisor here. Tell her it is of the highest priority.”
The slave bolted, glad to be out of the stinking room and the mercurial moods of the king. The guards watched him go with no small amount of envy on their part.
Aranthus proceeded farther inside the chamber, talking in soothing tones as one would to a frightened child, hoping the physician hurried.
* * *
Illyria and Eron arrived at the palace to find the halls and corridors filled with gossiping guards and palace slaves. One of Mathias’ men escorted the pair. Greetings and questions died at sight of the fierce expression on the advisor’s face, and her firm pace which had people scrambling out of her way.
“Should I find any of you not going about your duties when I return, I shall find more work for you which will keep your idle hands busy and still your wagging tongues,” the duchess snapped out without pause.
Behind her, the crowd straightened from their curtsies and bows, hurrying to act busy. The guards at the entrance to the royal wing snapped to attention, already pulling the doors open for her to pass through.
Once shut behind, one man whistled low, commenting, “I'd give a week’s pay to see that fight.”
Illyria arrived to find the inner guards holding the doors open eagerly for her. Commingled voices reached her ears clearly. She swept inside, adroitly avoiding the debris which littered the floor.
A thunderclap of sound from her slamming her hands together put a halt to the arguing.
“Majesty, I am told you have concerns regarding your safety?”
The king hurried over and gripped both her hands in his tightly. “Thank the Great Spirits you are here. I need more guards. Don't you hear them? The bandits? They're trying to get inside and kill me, just as they did my family.”
Behind him, Aranthus rolled his eyes and the physician snorted loud enough to make his own opinion known.
“Then we should not linger here where they can find you. I will send for more guards before we move you to safer lodgings,” she replied.
“They should already be here! It’s treason! They are in league . . .”
The advisor cut him off neatly. “Nonsense. They are no doubt busy chasing the bandits away. I will send my own guardsman to personally bring more men here.”
The king glared suspiciously at the man standing slightly behind her; he bowed solemnly, the barest hint of a mocking smile hovering about his mouth.
Lowering her voice, and turning her head, Illyria said to Eron, “Take the royal physician with you and have him bring a drink which will put His Majesty to sleep. If he objects, remind him I will replace him first chance I get.”
Eron gestured to Dr. Greggson, and together the two men exited the room while she worked on getting the king to at least sit down until reinforcements arrived. Aranthus hurried to straighten the heavy chair His Majesty favored. The king sat, hands clutching the armrests, jumping at every little sound.
Advisor and chamberlain drew off a few paces, yet still in sight of the king.
“Dr. Greggson is bringing a sleeping draught. When it takes effect, I want His Majesty’s chambers thoroughly scoured clean. We will work on getting him bathed and properly barbered when he wakes.”
Aranthus sucked at his teeth. “He will not like your duplicity when he wakes. He may strip you of position and title.”
“A chance I am willing to take. His unsettled mind is affecting the staff and, in turn, those who shelter here. We have enough problems with food and wood stores running low, without added problems.”
“I will do as you wish.” His tone implied that despite his fondness for her, he would make sure any blame landed on her alone.
It wasn’t long before Eron and the physician returned. It took ten minutes of soothing and coaxing before the king would drink the concoction presented him. Once he did, it took a further fifteen minutes for him to grow drowsy and compliant enough for the men to lead him to the royal bed and lay him down. The sheets stank of sweat and sex, but they covered the king up anyway.
“Ladies,” Illyria turned to the harem women present as snores rose from His Majesty, “if you would be so kind as to return to your roo
ms, I shall be along shortly to speak with all of you.”
The women fled, most grateful to get out of the room, only a few irritated they had to take orders from the elegant woman.
“When he wakes, what then?” Aranthus wondered.
“Dr. Greggson, how long has the king’s . . . preoccupation . . . with being attacked grown since Nicky and Rablias’s treachery was exposed?”
The man thoughtfully stroked his beard, eyes narrowed. He still hated the new advisor for making him treat the unwashed masses, but had seen enough of her efforts to weed out those taking advantage of their positions to tread with care.
“I have been spending most of my time treating the townspeople”—he still voiced his complaint—“instead of the king, so I am uncertain. He has these fits; they come and go. Usually, if I am around, I can stave them off before they get to this level.”
She ignored his jab. “Have you an apprentice?”
“I wouldn’t trust him with so delicate a task as His Majesty’s health. But he knows enough to be effective in other areas,” Dr. Greggson blithely replied.
The twisted smile she gave was the only comment to his blatant maneuvering to get out of treating the townspeople. “Very well, doctor. I release you from the dreary duty of caring for the peasants. In return, you will keep His Majesty calm and complaisant. Use what you must, be it drugs, wine, or women. I’m sure, since you have achieved your goal of no longer having to waste your . . . talents . . . on the citizens, we will not have a repeat event of what just happened. Your apprentice can take over treatment of the townspeople. If I hear any word His Majesty is roaming the halls unsupervised while in the grip of madness, I shall hold you solely responsible. We must not let any harm come to him, nor let him be the cause of any during these states. I trust we understand each other?”
His face bloomed red at her implications. “Implicitly,” he gritted out, bowing stiffly before excusing himself so he could gather his supplies.
Aranthus had already sent the exhausted slaves who’d been inside the room to take a rest and meal break. New slaves filtered inside, and began the laborious task of cleaning and straightening the royal suite. Illyria and Eron stepped outside and walked a few paces down the hall.
“Why don’t you just kill him the way you’ve done with everyone else?”
“I need my puppet a while longer, until I have replaced key positions with those who will be loyal to me. If the doctor keeps him drugged and quiet, he will serve my purpose.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The royal treasurer and his underlings had broken off work to eat a late midday dinner in one of the gloomy outer rooms which made up their offices. He didn't like the sudden prying into his accounts, as he thought of them, by the upstart little foreign girl, no matter who had ordered it.
He was confident she hadn’t discovered the methods by which he carefully bilked the crown of its income and gave it to himself instead. His wife had sent a slave with a meat pie, a flagon of ale, and a sweet pastry made of dried summer fruits. As was Tanner’s right, being in charge, he sat in one of two padded chairs before the crackling fireplace. Anson sat in the other across from him. The rest of the workers sat shivering at their high-legged desks. They each took turns warming themselves by the round wood burner placed in the center of the room.
It was this mood of smug satisfaction the sudden appearance of His Majesty and the duchess, with royal guards, ruined.
Some of the underlings jumped, spilling food or drink. Tanner choked on a swallow of wine before he could sputter out, “What the— Who the hell!”
“Kneel before the king!” Aranthus bawled out.
Diners scrambled to swallow down their meal, and hurried to make their obeisance.
Boot heels clicked on stone as a person stalked over. Tanner could see his own face in the highly polished black leather. A scroll dangled before his face; he took it as the king’s slurred voice commanded, “Rise, as you were.”
A frantic scraping of wood on stone commenced as the workers obeyed. They sat but did not eat; instead, they stared avidly at the woman advisor. Today’s events would make for exciting retellings at home. The duchess and the king stood out against the drab gray stone and dark wood furniture in their finery.
“Confiscate everything. If it has writing or numbers on it, I want it,” the duchess ordered, turning to Maceanas.
“Stop right there! No one touches the royal books without my permission,” Tanner bellowed before his underlings could obey.
“You dare saith thus to your king?” His Majesty bellowed in anger. “You will do as you are told.”
Tanner hurriedly unrolled the scroll, eyes pinging back and forth across the page. His outrage and panic grew. He had to keep calm, though, if he wanted to survive this unwelcome and unannounced inspection.
“Majesty,” he began, only to be rudely cut off.
“Keys. Now,” the duchess snapped at him, holding her hand out for them while the bulk of the guards fanned out to search the rooms, grabbing tablets and parchment, even scraps of paper, stuffing it all into sacks they carried. Those who weren’t so engaged closed and barred the doors and stood with their backs to them.
“These keys cannot and will not leave my person. As I,” he emphasized, confident the king would support his decision, “have been commanded by His Majesty.”
An amused smile lifted one corner of her mouth as her eyebrow quirked in unison.
“And your king is commanding you to do as my advisor wishes. It has been far too long since I last saw my treasure,” Maceanas announced, eyes wandering about the room.
Anson noted the king’s pupils were dilated, and a faint scent of herbs and wine wafted from his person. He narrowed his eyes in sudden suspicion. The scent was familiar—one he had smelled before when his child had been given a calming drink before a nasty cut on his head had been sewn shut. He tried to catch his supervisor’s eye, but the man stared intently at the advisor.
Tanner forced down his growing panic as that damn woman addressed the workers. “Finish your dinner, and afterward I will be speaking with each of you. You will not be allowed to leave the premises until some questions have been answered.”
The treasurer’s displeasure grew. “Outrageous! There is no need . . .” At sight of the royal scowl, he realized he dared not protest further within the king’s hearing range.
“My apologies, Sire. I shall need my assistant and one of the copyists to help with the locks and traps. If Your Majesty will follow me, please.” He bowed low before turning and entered the first of many chambers which led farther inside.
Five minutes of locks and disabled traps later, the great carved and gilded doors of the vault swung inward. The royal treasurer touched his torch to a pool of liquid which shimmered in its stone trough on each side of the open doors.
Flame ignited and raced along the surface, following the channels which waited. They all stood and watched as the vast space slowly revealed itself under the line of flaming oil. At the far back, the separate lines of fire met in a large round bowl with a highly polished bronze disk behind it which reflected the light toward other disks positioned about the room. The ceiling was lost in darkness, and the rough walls revealed the space had been chipped out of the mountain.
Illyria could not understand what type of system the treasurer used to group things, unless it were one called “utter chaos.” Chests, barrels, sacks, and other storage items lay in piles. Amid all the clutter stood worn, ancient statues, some made of marble, others of precious metals and jewels. She half expected a dragon to come roaring out from behind the large bronze disk at the back of the room.
“I trust there is a method somewhere in all this, of which I am merely ignorant?”
The displeasure in the advisor’s voice caused Tanner and his second-in-charge to shift and dart looks at each other.
Beside her, the king frowned. “I do not recall ever seeing my wealth so . . . diminished.” He took a few steps for
ward, sweeping the area with narrowed eyes.
“The Royal Harvest Ball was more expensive than those held in the past, especially with the addition of the peasantry.” Tanner made excuses.
The king’s eyes swung toward the advisor.
“I am unaware of there being enough townspeople left after the raid which would have caused a significant depletion of funds for the ball. If I might, when was the last time you visited the royal vaults, Majesty?” Her Grace delicately probed.
Maceanas’s brow furrowed in thought. “It has been . . . well, awhile,” he admitted. The king stepped down the three stairs into the chamber itself. He strode over to a collection of chests spilling a mixture of silver, gold, and bronze coins.
A smug smile creased Tanner’s face, as he made a hand gesture meant to signify: there is your explanation.
The advisor wasn’t about to let him off so easily. “Which says the crown’s expenses have been exceeding income. The other explanation is the records I hold.”
“You are mistaken, and no doubt poor at arithmetic, as all women are.” Tanner’s tone was patronizing. “The only expenses fulfilled today or in the past have been of the normal variety.”
The duchess brought up a leather folio she had been holding by her side, undid the clasp, and let it fall open on her left arm. The flickering light caught the half-crown she wore as her head dipped down, selecting parchments. Tanner’s resentment grew. Lord Nicky, utter bastard he had been, had never dared to wear any sort of headgear which even hinted at being a crown the way that damn woman was.
“For your consideration, Sire: a total of Lord Nicky’s expenses during his tenure as advisor, per year.”
Aranthus took a copy, as did Tanner.
She brought out even more parchments, naming them as she passed them out. “What Nicky claimed to be yearly personal versus official expenses according to the records he kept. Also, the same for the sheriff’s office, and Jake.”