Master of Formalities

by Scott Meyer

  Wollard made a deliberate effort to give his voice a bouncy, non-threatening tone. “So, hypothetically speaking, might the person with whom I’m certain you weren’t communicating be the same person with whom you’ve never confirmed or denied having a romantic relationship at the Academy of Arbitration? I believe this individual’s name may or may not have been Keln.”

  After a short pause, Phee said, “If such a person existed, they could be someone with whom I might chose to communicate.”

  Wollard nodded. “Ah, I see. Or not. And, if such a person existed, would he or she understand that when you both graduated from the academy you forswore any future romantic relationships, as such an entanglement would inevitably result in a Master of Formalities having greater loyalty to his or her partner than to the ruler with whom he or she works?”

  “Keln knows—” Phee stopped herself, then said, “That hypothertical person would know that.”

  Wollard said, “To know and to understand are not the same thing.”

  Phee looked Wollard in the eye and said, “I understand that.”

  The frustration in her voice and the emphasis she’d put on the word I told Wollard the whole story. “Ah, I see. One person doesn’t have the strength of will to stop contacting a second person, and the second person has enough strength to not initiate contact, but not quite enough to ignore the first person’s overtures. Do you also understand that such a situation will only become more painful the longer it persists?”

  “I’m beginning to.”

  “And do you comprehend how much you have to lose, Phee? Apios is the most influential world in this sector, arguably in several sectors. Her bulk farms supplement the supplies of countless worlds. Lady Jakabitus is the unquestioned ruler of Apios, I am her Master of Formalities, and you are my protégé, for the moment.”

  Phee stiffened, then looked up at Wollard and asked, “Sir, am I to be rebuked?”

  Wollard laughed, which didn’t reduce her tension. Then he put a hand on her shoulder, which did.

  “Of course not, Phee. That would be a punishment far greater than the crime of which you have not even been formally accused. You won’t be reprimanded either. I don’t even intend to note this conversation in the log. I am only trying to impress you with the importance of being attentive and undistracted whenever dealing with others. Looking up precedents, consulting the Formalities, and referring to related correspondence are all acceptable uses of your papers in a meeting. Anything else is bad form, and if we don’t adhere to the Formalities, how can we expect others to?”

  4.

  His Lordship Frederain Jakabitus sat in his customary ringside seat in the gymnasium, where his only son, Rayzo, was training for his sports meet that afternoon. The meet meant that this day’s practice was more important than most, but it made no difference in Frederain’s demeanor. Rayzo was the most important thing in the galaxy to him, and he took a keen interest in his training.

  “Come on, boy! You must be better than this! Pitiful! You look pitiful!”

  The palace training facility was absolutely state of the art, but the game that the Apiosans had dubbed sports was, in fact, fairly primitive.

  The room had long ago served as the palace’s formal dining hall, and was still ornately decorated around the edges. In the middle, there was a large circle, meant to simulate a sports arena. A protective railing surrounded the sports mat—a raised, padded, circular platform with a five-foot gutter between it and the row of seats for any spectators who might be present. The mat was painted with three concentric rings, and several lines radiated out from the center.

  In the middle of the mat, Hartchar stood in her light, loose-fitting training attire, her red hair tied back in a long ponytail. One of her feet was planted firmly on the mat; the other was planted on Rayzo’s throat. She looked down at him impassively, watching as the boy, who was pinned on his back, failed to escape despite his squirming.

  Rayzo was young and was not blessed with a large frame, but his physique showed that he spent a great deal of time training, not that it was helping him at the moment. His black hair was saturated with sweat. He wore only a pair of shorts, which were emblazoned on both the front and back with a prominent number one. Rayzo switched tactics and grabbed Hartchar’s ankle with both hands, trying to shift her foot with all his might. Then he kicked his legs wildly, trying to gain some leverage. It was all to no avail; she didn’t move an inch, and neither did he.

  “Pitiful!” Frederain shouted again, through his prodigious moustache. He rose from his seat and leaned his ample, middle-aged bulk over the railing to get his head closer to his son. “I refuse to believe this is the best you can do. A boy your age, this is pathetic!”

  Rayzo looked away from Hartchar’s calf, casting a glance at his bellowing father.

  Frederain continued, “When I was fourteen, I could have cast her into the gutter long ago!”

  Hartchar shifted her gaze to His Lordship as well.

  “You’re a Jakabitus!” Frederain shouted to the boy. “Act like it!”

  “Pardon me, Your Lordship,” Wollard said. He and Phee had entered the room unnoticed.

  Lord Jakabitus stopped midshout and sagged back down into his seat. He was not an old man, but he was neither as young nor as energetic as he claimed to have once been, and the exertion of Rayzo’s training had taken its toll. His uniform was askew, and his thinning black and gray hair and sizeable all-black moustache were disheveled, though not as disheveled as his son’s hair.

  “Ah, good morning, Wollard,” Lord Jakabitus said.

  “Good morning, Milord. I trust Master Rayzo’s training is going well.”

  Lord Jakabitus leaned closer to Wollard and lowered his voice, lest Rayzo overhear. “Yes, the boy’s doing well.”

  “Good,” Wollard said. He lowered his voice as well, but made a point of smiling broadly to increase Rayzo’s chances of sensing the congenial tone of the conversation. “Here’s hoping that his hard work pays off at the sports meet.”

  Lord Frederain Jakabitus raised his voice back to a normal level. “Yes, I certainly hope he does well. We have a prophecy to fulfill.”

  “Indeed,” Wollard said.

  “So, what can I do for you, Wollard?”

  Wollard braced himself. “Her Ladyship has requested that you come to her office as soon as possible.”

  “Fine. Tell her I’ll be there after practice.” Lord Jakabitus turned back to the mat. “Come on, boy! Do something! Anything! I mean, really . . . well, not that! That didn’t work before, why would it work now? Think!”

  Wollard coughed, then said, “My apologies, Your Lordship, but Lady Jakabitus was quite clear that you should come as soon as possible.”

  “Was she?”

  “Yes, Milord.”

  Lord Jakabitus watched his son writhe beneath his trainer’s heel for another moment, groaning halfheartedly when Rayzo’s next bid for freedom failed.

  “I promise, Milord, it is a matter of highest importance,” Wollard assured him.

  “So is this. Joanadie should remember that this is her son’s life I’m supervising here. And it looks,” he added loudly, “like he’s going to spend that life entirely under Hartchar’s right foot!”

  Wollard and Phee exchanged a quick look, then Wollard leaned down to speak quietly to Lord Jakabitus.

  “Milord, the topic Her Ladyship wishes to discuss involves your son.”

  “Does it?” His Lordship asked, interested.

  “Indeed, Milord.”

  Lord Jakabitus stood up, smoothing the material and straightening the epaulettes of his formal training attire. “Well, that’s good. Nice to see her taking an interest. Perhaps she’ll even attend the sports meet today.”

  “Perhaps,” Wollard said, “but one shouldn’t get his hopes up, I’m afraid. I believe the implications of the topic Her
Ladyship wishes to discuss are a bit more long-term in nature.”

  “I see. Well, off I go. Mustn’t keep Joanadie waiting. Wollard, may I ask a favor?”

  “Always, Milord.”

  “Rayzo’s training is going to go on a bit longer. Will you stay and shout encouragement at him, you know, like I always do?”

  “I’ll do my best, Milord.”

  “Thank you, my friend.” Lord Jakabitus turned back to Rayzo and Hartchar. Neither of their situations had changed.

  “Boy, I’m afraid I have to go. Wollard has agreed to take over for me. I’ll see you at lunch, and don’t worry—if you’re not there, I’ll tell Barsparse that you’ll be taking all your future meals under Hartchar’s instep!”

  Lord Jakabitus left. Phee turned to Wollard.

  “I know, Phee, but I assure you, I did not lie to His Lordship,” Wollard said in a hushed tone. “The matter Her Ladyship wishes to discuss does directly involve their son.”

  “Yes, Wollard, I quite agree. That was very well handled on your part. I’m just looking forward to watching you encourage Master Rayzo in His Lordship’s stead.”

  “Yes,” Wollard said. “I did tell His Lordship that I would, didn’t I?”

  “Indeed you did!”

  Wollard smiled in spite of himself. Knowing what he had recently put Phee through, he didn’t blame her for enjoying his discomfort. In fact, he was more than a little pleased that she seemed to have shaken it off instead of dwelling on her embarrassment.

  Wollard took a deep breath, faced Master Rayzo, who was still struggling fruitlessly, and said, “I must say, Master Rayzo, that seems a difficult predicament!

  “Yes! Yes, um, try pushing her ankle the other direction,” Wollard continued after a moment. “That might . . . oh, no it did not. It very much did not. Apologies, Master Rayzo. Take heart, you will emerge from this trial a stronger person, I guarantee it!”

  On the mat, Rayzo’s head turned away from Hartchar’s lower leg, his gaze seeking out Wollard. Wollard worried that he was being a distraction, but he had agreed to fill in for His Lordship, and a Master of Formalities must keep his word. Rayzo’s eyes then shifted to the door.

  “I must admit,” Wollard said, “I would fare no better were I in your shoes, or—in this case—under Hartchar’s shoe.”

  Wollard became aware of the sound of feminine laughter. He looked at Phee, but she was containing her mirth, if just barely. Shly, the deliverer of liquid refreshment, had appeared beside Phee and was holding her small silver grav-platter, her portable bulkfab, and several empty glasses. Wollard noted with satisfaction that Shly’s high degree of training was asserting itself. Neither the tray nor the beverage was moving in the slightest, despite the fact that she was convulsing noticeably with laughter.

  “Phee,” Wollard said, “you take over for a moment, but bear in mind the dignity of our post.”

  Phee winced but did as she was told. “Master Rayzo,” she shouted, “you are displaying great endurance! That is to be commended!”

  “Can we be of any assistance, Shly?” Wollard asked.

  “I hope so, Wollard. I’m here with Lord Jakabitus’s post-training restorative beverage. Encouraging Master Rayzo always leaves him parched, but I see that His Lordship is not here.”

  Lord Jakabitus liked to finish every training session with a glass of a specific concoction of his own devising. It was a unique blend of fruit juices, electrolytes, and mild intoxicants that helped him recover, physically and mentally, from the rigors of Rayzo’s training.

  Rayzo drank water, as per His Lordship’s orders.

  “Your current course of action seems ineffective,” Phee called out helpfully. “A change of strategy is crucial!”

  Rayzo struggled with Hartchar’s foot, but his eyes were locked on Shly, and had been since she entered the room.

  Phee continued, “I would point out that Hartchar’s weight is not evenly distributed between her feet at the moment! Perhaps that can be used to your advantage.”

  It was enough to transfer Rayzo’s attention from Shly to Phee, then up to Hartchar.

  Hartchar shot Phee a quick smile. Then Rayzo’s hands pulled at the knee of her weight-bearing, non-throat-crushing leg, causing it to buckle. Hartchar rolled gracefully and sprung right back up, ready to attack, but Rayzo had already regained his feet and adopted a defensive posture.

  “Well done, Master Rayzo,” Hartchar said. “Now you know how to get out of that problem. You made the classic error of trying to attack the foot I was using to hold you down. Remember, strike your opponents where they are weak, and they will seldom use their weaknesses as a weapon.”

  They circled each other warily, Rayzo dividing his attention equally between Hartchar across the mat from him and Shly standing behind the rail.

  Shly pointedly kept her attention focused on Wollard.

  “Do you know where His Lordship has gone?” Shly asked.

  “Yes, I apologize, Shly. I became distracted. His Lordship is on his way to Lady Jakabitus’s offices. Her Ladyship and His Lordship have important business to discuss. I doubt you can beat him there, even if you use the servant’s lift, but you may yet reach him before their meeting gets started.”

  Shly curtseyed. “Thank you, Wollard. Phee.” She nodded to Phee. Before moving to leave, she glanced at the mat, where Rayzo was standing in a posture designed to both help fend off Hartchar and look as manly as possible from Shly’s point of view. He glanced over to see if Shly had noticed him, then promptly looked away to hide the fact that he had noticed her. His attention refocused on the empty space where Hartchar had been standing, but it was too late. His legs were swept out from under him and he was plummeting face-first toward the mat. The air was forced from his lungs as he hit the ground. He immediately felt the familiar pressure of Hartchar’s foot, this time pressing against the back of his neck.

  “There, Master Rayzo,” Hartchar said. “You’re pinned again, this time facedown. What now?”

  Rayzo looked at Shly, who was looking back. Without comment, she silently turned and carried her drink tray to the exit.

  “One might have predicted that, Master Rayzo,” Phee yelled, “but there’s little to be done for it now! What’s past is past!”

  5.

  As with the servants’ hall and every other part of the palace, the kitchen was designed for a bygone era when a far larger staff was needed to fulfill the needs of the ruling family. It was a cavernous space, the mirror opposite of the servants’ hall. Every surface was covered in gleaming tile and filled with shining cooking apparatuses. The vast space echoed with the busy sounds of two chefs working.

  Much of the equipment was seldom used; in fact, the majority was never used. One small corner of the room contained the tiny fraction of the devices that saw regular use. There, amid clouds of steam, waves of heat, and flashing knives, Chef Barsparse and Sous Chef Pitt were preparing the ruling family’s lunch. Nearby, grav-platter at the ready, Ebbler watched in rapt attention, waiting to do his part.

  Shly entered, stopped next to Ebbler, and said, “Pardon me, Chef?”

  Barsparse continued stirring a pot with one hand and shaking a pan with another. She didn’t look up, but said, “Yes?”

  “Her Ladyship has requested that you meet with Wollard at the soonest opportunity.”

  “About?” The question was brusque and direct, but Shly knew that Barsparse was not a rude person, just busy.

  Shly said, “It’s not for me to say.”

  Barsparse’s hands kept moving, but her head swiveled to look at Shly. Pitt stopped chopping whatever root vegetable he was breaking down before doing the same.

  “But do you know what it’s about?” Barsparse asked.

  “I think it has to do with a change in meal arrangements.”

  Barsparse frowned, but her hands continued working at
full efficiency. “The meal arrangements?”

  “Yes,” Shly said, “And perhaps some sort of feast.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Something His Lordship said.”

  “His Lordship?”

  “Yes, you see, I was delivering His Lordship’s post-training restorative, but His Lordship wasn’t in the gymnasium—”

  “It’s good that you were there anyway,” Ebbler said. “Master Rayzo’s training day isn’t complete until he’s watched you deliver the beverage. How’d he look?”

  Shly muttered, “Distracted, as usual,” then continued. “His Lordship was meeting with Her Ladyship in her offices, so I followed. They were having a pretty intense conversation. I gave His Lordship his drink, and as I was leaving, His Lordship said, ‘If you think this is what’s best, it is what we’ll do, but I don’t know how Rayzo will react. We should tell Barsparse about the change in the meal plan and the feast.’ Her Ladyship agreed, and told me to ask you to meet with Wollard.”

  Barsparse nodded. “Yes,” she said, “I’d say your supposition is correct.” Her hands were still working furiously, but her face was calm and contemplative now, as if she were already planning the menu for the mysterious feast. Pitt looked angry. He sneered at Shly before shifting his eyes to Barsparse, who merely glanced at the vegetables he was not chopping and raised her eyebrows. Pitt’s knife flashed into furious action.

  After thanking Shly for the information, Barsparse went back to the work she had never fully left.

  Ebbler and Shly watched the chefs work for a moment, then Shly leaned in close to Ebbler and said, “All of this effort, three meals a day, every day. It’s a wonder the Jakabituses don’t just get their food from bulkfabs, like everybody else.”

  “All of the ruling families and most of the wealthier Bulk-Barons have chefs, Shly. It’s one of the few big luxuries left.”