It was whilst watching the way of the wild unfold before him, when Balthazar had one of his clever ideas.
‘You don’t have much sport down here do you?’ he asked.
‘Sport?’ said the Rat King.
‘Yes. You know, like dog fighting or something?’
‘Dog fighting?’
‘The humans like to pit hungry dogs against each other until they tear each other apart. It’s entertaining. Apparently.’
‘We don’t have the traditions of the furless ones. Not down here. We wouldn’t want them anyway.’
‘Ah yes, but, the humans do it with dogs because dogs are their slaves.’
The Rat King crunched a red grape between his jaws, it squelched, and was chewed up into the oozy cheesy bile. Balthazar tried not to vomit.
‘Where are you going with this?’
‘You could have a contest of your own,’ said Balthazar. ‘You could make the humans fight each other, to the death, it would be most entertaining for your kin. And it would be within keeping with the rat code, for the strong walk over the weak, no? I’m sure your kin would understand if you had to let the victor go, he would be the strongest after all.’
The Rat King didn’t look sold just yet, but he was warming to the idea.
‘They would eat each other for our entertainment?’
‘Humans don’t eat one another, not these ones anyway. The man has gunpowder, two guns I believe. I would suggest a duel by pistol. You don’t want them to stoop down to your honourable level and fight like rats now do you.’
‘No. They are not rat kind, they are furless scum.’
‘Exactly. I must say, you’ve out done yourself with this idea Your Most Rotteness. You get to be remembered as the chieftain who made humans fight like dogs. I get to have this witch hunter chap killed. Your fellow rats get the thrill of the sport and the spoils to feast on. And the boy gets to leave, all within the rat code.’
The Rat King stopped his open-mouthed chewing to contemplate. Then he stuck another piece of cheese into the mix.
‘What makes you so certain yours will win. The big one smells, sniff sniff, big.’
‘The rat code isn’t very precise, I’m sure the rats of old wouldn’t mind if we twisted the situation to our advantage.’
‘Huh?’
‘Just speak and I shall arrange it.’
‘A duel?’
‘Yes. A duel.’
The Rat King swallowed and reached for another snack to find he had no more cheese or grapes to bide his time with. He sat up, as well as a lardy rat can sit up, stared Balthazar in the face and grinned a yellow ratty smile.
Above the catacombs and sewers night had fallen on Laburnum. The Brewery Quarter was very much alive, but north, in the splendid part of town, households were quiet and the streets were emptying.
Except at the Palace. The huge golden gates were wide open and a procession of Lords, Ladies, magistrates and other charming nobles were arriving in golden encrusted carriages.
The Lords’ Banquet was an evening of extravagance. It happened once a year to mark the union between Parliament and the Monarch, and it was always the most talked about affair.
Cassandra didn’t care for traditions. Now that she was older, a space had been reserved for her next to her mother at the head of the table. But she wasn’t there.
Instead, she was lost between the pages of the Zolnomicon, reading it like someone obsessed.
Before the Realm of Logic, poetry and fiction were popular pastimes. Men and women of the past would write nonsensical things and tell nonsensical stories. It was all a bit nonsensical, and as with everything as such, went out of fashion horrendously. Cassandra thought that perhaps this text was from that bygone era, when things hadn’t had to make much sense.
But though the book was senseless, she felt shackled to it, unable to eat properly or sleep properly until she had finished it and found some sort of purpose for it. For all things must have a purpose, books most of all. It was part of the Academy’s teachings in the Codex of Logic: All that exists must have reason to.
It seemed to be a collection of absurd formulas and unscientific experiments written by at least nine individuals. There was a substantial amount, enough to rival a volume of The Empire’s Encyclopaedia. It made no sense whatsoever that so many people would have sat down to put together a book of its design for no reason at all.
She was determined to get to the bottom of it. But then the door knocked. It was a gentle knock – not Martha then.
‘Come in,’ said Cassandra, hiding the book beneath her pillow.
‘Princess. Your mother requests you downstairs,’ said Rufus, the royal bodyguard.
‘She sent you? She is eager.’
‘Martha is preoccupied, there are a lot of guests to look after.’
‘Do I have to, Rufus.’
Rufus opened and closed his mouth a few times. He entered the room and shut the door behind him.
‘You don’t want to?’
‘No. I hate this banquet, it’s just a bunch of silly old men stuffing their faces, drinking their fill and chatting about nonsense for hours on end. I don’t know why mother puts up with it. If I were queen, the first thing I’d do is put an end to this stupid night.’
‘Hmm…’ Rufus mused. ‘It is important for the Queen and the Lords, this banquet. It marks a peace between Parliament and the Monarchy. You’re too young to remember the civil war. The horror it brought to this great nation. Father against son, brother against brother. The fighting in the streets. The blood running through the canals. The unrest. The mob. The constant lynchings in the Guard’s Square. Every day. Every night.’
‘Rufus, forgive me, but I don’t think lavish food and exotic wine ended the war.’
‘No. Your grandfather did,’ said Rufus, sagely. ‘Even though he didn’t want to, he sat down with the Lords and agreed a truce: that the Empire would be governed not by one but many – by working together. That’s what this evening symbolises: the Great Peace.’
‘Hmph.’
‘As a future Queen, an heir to a great family line, you have to be seen there, at the table, breaking bread with them, though you may not like to do it.’
‘It’s just…’ Cassandra tried, then said, ‘I know…’
‘What are you doing in here anyway? Just sitting around, staring out the window?’
‘Yes… something like that.’
‘Reading again then?’
‘Yes…’ said Cassandra, hastily adding, ‘but nothing unusual.’
The bodyguard smiled.
‘You will be a great queen Cassandra. Even greater than your mother I think, though, let’s keep that between us.’
‘Hmm!’
‘Always reading. I can’t remember the last time I saw your mother read a book. Then again, she has little time for it.’
‘Mother says I shouldn’t get caught up in my reading. That the real world is about getting experience.’
‘Well. She’s right in that respect.’
‘Maybe…’ Cassandra sighed. She really didn’t want to go downstairs, especially now that she was late. Everyone would notice her arrive at the table. Somebody would probably draw attention to it. It was going to be embarrassing.
‘What say tomorrow, in the morning, I let you ride Cornelius?’
Cassandra brightened.
‘Really?’
The Princess didn’t have a horse of her own yet and always had to practice on the Royal Stable’s ponies when she had a riding lesson. She had insisted time and time again that she was ready for a real horse, but her mother wasn’t fond of them. The Queen had broken her arm in a fall when she was a girl, and grossly overprotected Cassandra because of it. But occasionally, without her mother’s knowing, Rufus would let her ride his noble steed, Cornelius. The black stallion powered up and down the Palace Gardens like a monster, but was passive in temperament and never got too riled up like the other stallions in the stables.
‘We won’t tell your mother about it either?’ Rufus winked and put his hand gently on the Princess’ shoulder.
‘Ok,’ said Cassandra, beaming.
‘Come on, up you get. Such a lovely dress too, be a shame to waste it up here with your books.’
Cassandra rose, adjusted her dress and checked her hair in the mirror. The book would be safe under the pillow, Martha was too busy to be making beds and tidying rooms.
‘I have to dash off. There’s all these City Watchmen around the Palace tonight. They’ve been here for days, presumably to oversee the preparations. I’ve told your mother they will just get in the way but she doesn’t want to talk about it.’
‘Oh… yes… I’ve noticed them.’
Rufus hesitated at the door.
‘You don’t know anything about it do you?’
‘What, the City Watch? No. Not the foggiest,’ Cassandra lied.
‘Strange.’
The Palace was the grandest building in the city. It wouldn’t have been much of a palace if it wasn’t. You couldn’t go around calling any old place a palace, even if the Queen lived there, it had to have a certain amount of panache.
But though the Palace had enough panache to deck its halls and rooms ten times over, it was rarely used to its full potential. Martha and her brigade of maids had enough on their hands just fighting back the plagues of dust and moths. There wasn’t time to light every candle, burn every gas lamp, polish every piece of silver and shine every face of wood.
It was as if the Palace was a flagship of the navy, running on a skeleton crew who could barely keep it in order, let alone afloat.
Only when important visitors came was there a glimmering of its true magnificence.
The Lords’ Banquet was probably the grandest event in the Queen’s Diary. Every Lord, magistrate, chancellor and generally anyone with a title before their name, was invited. Though, it was mainly just the Lords who attended. And only about half of them ever turned up on the night. The ones who didn’t show were sure to give as little notice as possible, which in most cases was no notice at all.
But this year, more Lords than ever had made the trip to the royal dining room, and the Palace was in full swing in all its glory and panache.
There was a long table that ran down the centre of the room. Each side sat over a dozen pompous gentleman, wittering on about taxes, foreigners, political philosophies and pheasants. One end of the table was entirely set on remembering a lost recipe for pheasant soup. The wine wasn’t helping.
Down the blistering white table cloth, across the scraping plates and chinking glasses, over the extravagant flower arrangements, the freshly lit candelabrum, platters of bread and forgotten napkins, at the heart of the organised chaos sat the Queen, in a royal plum dress. She was surrounded by chattering Lords all engrossed in their own conversations and in no hurry to include her in their ramblings. Beside her, the only empty seat at the table, where Cassandra quietly slipped in.
‘Ah, Princess, so lovely of you to finally join us,’ said Lord Darby, drawing as much attention as he could.
‘We’ve saved you a seat,’ said Lord Marston.
‘Come for the pudding have you?’ said Lord Quincy.
‘Or is it the wine, she’s after? Trust me, she’ll need it,’ said Lord Everett, setting off a bout of laughter around him.
‘We are a boring lot aren’t we?’ said Lord Quincy, ‘I for one don’t blame her.’
‘No, Lord Quincy. I don’t think that,’ said Cassandra, ‘I was just very busy studying that’s all.’
‘Ah! Get thee to the Academy!’ said Lord Everett, looking down either end of the table. ‘Where are those clever fellows when you need them.’
‘Oh they don’t come to these things,’ said Lord Quincy, ‘too busy.’
‘Precisely. Too busy like our Princess here, we should sign her up.’
‘The Academy doesn’t take women as scholars,’ said Cassandra.
‘No of course not, but you’re the Princess, I’m sure they could make an exception,’ said Lord Everett.
‘Don’t you have to have your… you know… chop chop,’ said Lord Quincy.
‘Well, M’lady has made a head-start in that department, ha-ha,’ Lord Everett said, again setting off a bout of laughter around him, though, this time, it was shorter lived.
‘Lord Everett. You are a guest in my household, and I do not want such foul talk spoken at my dining table, least of all when it concerns my daughter.’
‘I was just having a joke, Your Majesty,’ said Lord Everett taking a reserved sip of his guarded pinot noir.
‘I like jokes. I do not like your jokes. They are not amusing,’ said the Queen.
‘Each to their own…’
The conversation at the centre of the table died a cold death.
‘I know a joke,’ said Lord Quincy, at the volume of someone who can’t hear his own voice.
‘Oh must we?’ said Lord Marston.
‘Yes! Yes! There was a dinner party, much like this one, and everyone was having a spectacular time, and then one of the guests calls over the cook and says “See here, cook, I believe I’ve found a button in my salad.” And the cook says, “That’s alright, sir, it’s part of the dressing.”’
There was a raucous of laughter. Some a little more enthusiastic than others. Cassandra too found herself laughing, though more at Lord Quincy’s snorting than anything else.
‘Very good,’ said the Queen, dryly.
‘Oh I’ve got plenty more where that came from!’
‘No, Lord Quincy, please, your talents are best observed in small quantities.’
‘I second that,’ said Lord Marston.
Conversations sprung up around the centre of the table, while Cassandra was brought out a speedy main to catch up with everyone else.
Spiced duck with apricots, cherries and polenta medallions, served in a rich, red wine jus, that looked a little like… pigs blood. She quickly regretted coming down.
‘Don’t worry, Princess,’ said Lord Quincy, ‘the starter wasn’t anything to talk about. But this dish, this is simply exquisite.’
‘Call me old fashioned, but I prefer a more Varcian palette, if I could choose,’ said Lord Darby.
‘There’s nothing wrong with Five Isles cuisine,’ said Lord Quincy, turning to the Queen, ‘quite a treat, Your Majesty.’
‘It’s the spices. They spice everything and it does give my tummy an ache,’ continued Lord Darby.
‘But it’s so exciting, not bland like our own foods. We have to cover everything in gravy just to keep from choking.’
‘You know, they only use the spices to preserve the food, it’s awfully hot in the Colonies, stops the meat from rotting. And, should it rot, stops it from tasting foul.’ said Lord Darby.
‘Is that so? What do you think Queeny?’ came the slurred voice of Lord Everett.
The Queen raised an eyebrow. She wasn’t accustomed to being asked her opinion on food, nor was she at being referred to as Queeny.
‘This isn’t strictly colonial food,’ said the Queen. ‘It’s a fusion, I believe. The Witz are very good at mixing traditional Varcian dishes with flavours from the Five Isles. Personally, I am very fond of it. Though, if I said I wasn’t fond of it, I fear the restaurant would close down and the chefs there would never see the inside of a kitchen again.’
‘Haha. All too true, Your Majesty,’ Lord Quincy chuckled.
Cassandra wasn’t afraid to speak her mind.
‘The duck’s too chewy for me, and the cherries too sweet, and… this sauce… what is it? It’s very sour, very sweet, very salty and very spicy. They all cancel each other out so that it doesn’t taste of anything really.’
‘Ah! There we go. An honest review,’ said Lord Darby. ‘If I may be excused, Your Majesty, I might just pop out for some air. As I said, these spices are not well received by my stomach.’
‘You may, Lord Darby.’
‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’
Lord Darby rose and was immediately pounced upon by a waiter, who helped him out, tucked in his chair and folded his napkin for him.
‘Your Majesty,’ said Lord Marston, who was sat to the Queen’s right, ‘I had hoped to discuss matters of finance during this meal. I’m afraid all the conversation has swept it under the rug.’
‘Yes, where it belongs I should think. Well go on, Lord Marston, you’ve got me trapped. I suppose you bring word from the Chancellor?’
‘From the Bank directly, Your Majesty. They are most displeased with your… efforts of evasion.’
‘Evasion? I am not evading them, Lord Marston. I am right here if they wish to talk.’
‘Yes, well… they say they’ve tried on numerous occasions to discuss the crown’s debt with you and–’
‘No, Lord Marston, I believe they are mistaken and so you too are mistaken. They have tried on numerous occasions to talk to me through my House of Lords, such as they are doing now, and I will not speak about the crown’s finances, except to the Treasury’s Chancellor and to the officials in the Varcian Bank. I do not need every Lord in my Parliament bickering on about the country’s money and how best to spend it. Certain things are best kept between those whose job it is to discuss. You can tell them, as I have told them before, should they wish to discuss the crown’s finances, then they are always welcome at my door.’
‘Right… Certainly…’
‘Trust you, Lord Marston,’ said Lord Quincy, ‘to bring up money during the grand meal. We’ve got better things to talk about anyway. Like what’s for dessert? Anyone know?’
‘And wine? Could we get some more wine?’ said Lord Everett waving over one of the staff. ‘Yoohoo, hallo there, could we get another bottle of red.’
‘Lord Everett, I think you’ve had enough for one evening,’ said the Queen.
‘Enough for one evening? Moons collide, I haven’t had enough for an aperitif!’
‘Perhaps you ought to step outside, Lord Everett,’ said Lord Barton from two seats down.
‘Barton, come now my man.’
‘Perhaps you should,’ said the Queen, icily.
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