The Board had no power over City life, other than the power to decide whether a proposal submitted to them already fell under a preexisting Precedent. If it did, then it could be approved and recorded as such. If it did not then the Board, in their sole discretion, could decide whether to approve or deny the proposal, their decision creating a new Precedent to be set down in the Books for all time. Being such a body, therefore, they were powerless to formulate and propose any policies of their own, a fact which had helped to ensure their survival since Far Ancient times.
Archfrantic Thunderbrow, the current Highseat of the Board, was a huge elderly man with a thrice-pronged long white beard, a purple wig studded with diamonds and rubies, and sharp brown eyes.
‘Your Oneness,’ he boomed, when the Board were all seated behind a heavy plain wooden table before Hardknot, who remained standing.
‘Your Sirrels,’ replied Hardknot, with a respectful bow of his head to Thunderbrow and the five additional permanent members of the Board. ‘I have requested this closed doors meeting to alert you of the gravest conspiracy, and to humbly seek approval for my proposal.’
‘Proceed,’ boomed Thunderbrow.
‘A treacherous plot to obtain the Crown by force, led by Lord Chillhide and a group of once noble persons, has been uncovered.’
This brought a general and genuine gasp of astonishment.
‘These villains hold amongst their number,’ continued Hardknot, ‘the loyalties of the Duke of Westnaine, the Earls Rumball, Vealmouth, Northwall, Oakbeam, and further elevated personages. They are ready to have the King’s Army move against the Palace, should their Nomination of Lord Chillhide not be approved by this Board.’
‘We have indeed received a Nomination for Lord Chillhide,’ interjected Archfrantic Hogstone, Primary Recorder for the Board, ‘as have we received several further Nominations, including one from the Church for the Baron Pencille. Are you certain that such a…travesty, is in fact, a fact?’
‘Sadly, I am, Your Great Sirrel.’
A heavy mood fell over the Board as they reflected upon such a calamitous accusation.
‘How has this information been made known to you?’ asked Thunderbrow at length.
‘For some time,’ continued Hardknot, ‘I have been aware of secret collusion between a powerful group of nobles intent on gaining the Crown. And this very day, I have been given proof from an unimpeachable source, of a clandestine meeting at which Lord-Marshall Highgate, Commander of the King’s Army, was also in attendance. If this meeting was unrecorded, as I have little doubt will be the case, then these nobles have broken the dictates of Precedence. And why have they done this? Because they dare not have their true intention known; to steal the Crown by force, should that prove necessary.’
Thunderbrow turned to Hogstone.
‘Has such a meeting been recorded?’ he asked.
Hogstone shook his head slowly from side to side.
The Board turned away from Hardknot to discuss the development in urgent whispers, Hardknot holding his silence, sure that no more words would be needed. At length, the Board turned to Hardknot once more.
‘This accusation,’ boomed Thunderbrow, ‘coming as it does after the death of the King and the casting of the Queen, concerns us deeply. We thank you for bringing this matter to our attention, Your Oneness.’
‘It was my duty to do so, Your Great Sirrells,’ said Hardknot bowing.
‘However,’ Thunderbrow continued, ‘given the gravity of such an accusation, it is the Board’s decision that we must proceed with caution.’
‘Caution would be wise,’ said Hardknot. ‘But the danger such a threat poses at this perilous time, also demands action.’
‘Indeed it does,’ wheezed the Archfrantic Whiteknees, a man so old his eyes had closed some years ago beneath thick folds of aged skin. ‘And what action would you, Lord Hardknot, recommend to the Board?’
‘The Palace Guard, under the command of General Forgewell, are of undoubted loyalty,’ said Hardknot. ‘They wait only for your approval to arrest the conspirators and have them taken to the Turret. There to await your full investigation of this matter.’
All heads went together once more, until at length such an order was approved to be set down in the Books of Doings; but with one caveat. ‘Not one hair on a single head is to be harmed,’ said Thunderbrow gravely, ‘until this Board can ascertain that the treachery you suspect, bears up to full examination. For if it be so, the Precedent for such lofty personages as you have named, is clear and terrible indeed.’
Hardknot bowed to accept the order and left the Board as he had hoped; in a state of high anxiety. Once all the conspirators were safely in the Turret, the rest would be easy.
He summoned General Forgewell, Commander of the Palace Guard, to meet him in the King’s Private Chapel. When Hardknot arrived, the small room lay empty, the stale air silent as a grave. Dark clouds had taken hold of the sky above the Palace and the stained-glass windows were bereft of colour. He stared at the small Tabernacle of Unification on the altar, its ornate gold and silver carvings illuminated by a single lilac glowick. He walked towards it. The key was still in the lock, and for a moment he was tempted to take out the hateful Words contained within and burn them to ashes. His heart raced at the prospect. But now was not yet the time for so open a confrontation.
Forgewell marched into the chapel and bowed before him.
‘You came alone, General?’ asked Hardknot.
‘Yes, Your Oneness.’
‘And the Palace Guard?’
‘Still on high alert, Your Oneness, as you commanded.’
‘This will be a difficult day for the Kingdom, for there is great treachery afoot.’
Forgewell took a step closer. ‘Treachery, Your Oneness?’
‘Powerful nobles have hidden designs upon the Crown. They have also secured the means to use them. They plan to use the King’s Army to steal the Palace, and thereafter install their chosen Nominate, by force, as our King.’
Forgewell stared aghast. ‘But such treachery…can surely not be endured!’
‘Indeed it shall not. And you, General, have been approved by the Board of Doings this very day, to strike it down.’
‘I am yours to command, Your Oneness.’
Hardknot nodded, his face stern and his grey eyes dark with a cold energy. He walked to one of the pews and sat upon the amber wood, its surface worn to a glass-like sheen by an age of posteriors. ‘The traitors are small in number,’ he continued, ‘but powerful and well-placed. They plan to strut like brillbirds, without care even for Precedent.’
‘This is monstrous!’ cried Forgewell.
‘You must take the ringleaders by force to the Turret, there to await their fate. Your action must be swift and unstoppable, but harm no one. At this moment in time they suspect nothing; you will be unopposed and with surprise on your side.’
‘It shall be as you command,’ said Forgewell boldly. ‘And the names of these traitorous wretches?’
Hardknot spoke the list of names once more.
‘Highgate!’ exclaimed Forgewell, when he had finished. ‘The Commander of the King’s Army is amongst their number?’
‘It is so.’
Forgewell’s eyes glazed over as his mind struggled to catch up with the magnitude of such news. ‘Tomorrow before dawn,’ he said slowly at length, as if thinking out loud. ‘And Highgate first. Without their commander, the King’s Army will not move, and all the conspirators will be powerless. And then the rest, swiftly done.’
‘As you think best, General,’ said Hardknot standing once more. ‘And when all are taken and safely confined in the Turret, each in isolation and despair, then we shall have need of a new Commander for the King’s Army. I shall personally recommend to the Board your immediate promotion.’
Forgewell stared into the unflinching eyes of his master, failing to mask the trace of a smile. He bowed one last time, turned, and marched away.
When Hardknot at las
t arrived back at the Hivedom, a palpable atmosphere of uncertainty filled the sweet air. Whilst the death of King Samel had little direct impact on the lives of those who toiled in the service of Honey, a casting was a deeply troubling event. The Royal Honeybees needed a Queen to serve; without it, they quickly became restless. Once this happened it would not take long before anxiety would penetrate the psyche of even the youngest hives, bringing with it the inevitable reduction in output. Hardknot understood such things, just as he knew that a new Queen, Lasivia, would be revealed to the honeybees as soon as she was of age; just a single day more. But despite this fact, he felt strangely unsettled.
He went immediately to that area of the Hivedom given to his Hivecarls. The long rows of identical stone barracks were as cold and unforgiving as their occupants’ nature. He stood upon a small rise and observed the warriors as they trained on the Hexangle, a large area of rough ground bereft of plant life. He marveled at the swiftness with which their huge double-edged axes could cleave an ox in two. Just as with a sand viper, Hivecarls would only strike in anger at living prey. It was a horrific spectacle seen by very few, but one Hardknot found filled with a terrible beauty.
Their commander, a tough old warrior of few words named Heldhard, reported to his master.
‘Ready,’ he said, when he stood upon the rise next to Hardknot; the huge axe resting on his shoulder was covered in blood and gore that dribbled to the soil below.
‘A relical, known by the name of Bartolamy, needs to be rescued and brought to the Hivedom,’ said Hardknot. ‘Have a troop prepare for combat. They must be kept ready to leave at a moment’s notice.’
‘Done,’ answered Heldhard, walking away.
When Hardknot arrived in the Hivedom’s fields of clover, Morthern Yule, the most senior of the Royal Beekeepers, rushed to speak to him. For over thirty years Yule had tended to the wellbeing of the hives in his care, and whilst Hardknot recognised Yule’s skills in the welfare of Royal Honeybees, he also knew him to be a simple man who did not dwell on things that did not concern him. In this way, he was typical of the men that Hardknot promoted to positions of responsibility within his Hivedom. Honest, hardworking and reliable, but uncomplicated and totally loyal. There was, therefore, little room for doubt that Yule was telling the truth.
‘There be no doubtin’ it, maarstur’, Yule said in his thick agricultural accent. ‘This ‘ive be in the process of reformation.’
‘And which hive?’ demanded Hardknot.
‘’ive five-forty-three, maarstur. A well established and ‘omely crew, of that thur be no doubt, and one that until lars’ night were as uniform as day an’ night. But thur be no mistakin’ the signs.’
Hardknot headed immediately for the hive, Yule trotting behind him with a glum look. No one wanted to be the bearer of bad news, and certainly not when the recipient of that news had to be Lord Hardknot, Keeper of the Royal Honeybees.
Hardknot stared into the mass of bees as they danced before him. Yule was right; the nature of the errant activity confirmed the early stages of reformation. He barked an instruction and a beekeeper immediately doused the hive in thick warm smoke, and as they did so, Hardknot and Yule peered intently into several of the neighbouring hives. Whilst not so advanced, the reformation was already clearly spreading.
Hardknot stood upright, lifted his head, and gazed over the Hivedom deep in thought. There was only one explanation for what he could see; the honeybees in hive five forty-three had found a new scent. But how they had done this was beyond his imagination.
Hardknot ordered that every hive within fifty paces be doused with smoke and around the clock watches set to ensure that the level of activity remained within safe parameters. He would inspect them again in the morning. In addition, every single hive in the Hivedom was to be inspected for signs of reformation. If any were found, then his instructions were to be repeated. Every hive within fifty paces to be doused and monitored. Yule bowed humbly, the prospect of what was sure to be a long night accepted with stoic resignation.
Hardknot remained in the fields for some time as the flurry of activity grew around him. Several hundred beekeepers were required to care for the Royal Honeybees, and Yule ensured that his master’s instructions were immediately carried out to the full. The Blue Sun finally disappeared, the last rays of sunset adding an eerie quality to the scene. He observed the shadows as they lengthened and then evaporated into the vast fields, his mind turning in circles as he tried to find some meaning to what was happening within his domain. He remained until nothing could be seen and no answer could be found.
He went to the Grand Hive and headed downwards into the Deep Hives, his feet thudding noisily on the hard metal stairs. In an underground world seen by very few, hundreds of small hexagonal cells stretched more than one hundred layers deep into the ground. The Drollkeepers that inhabited the corridors that served the Surrogates kept within them, one to a cell, pushed their trolleys to and fro in an endless cycle of feeding. Once depleted, mechanical lifts permitted the trolleys to regain access to the Hivedom above. Here they were wheeled to the Dispensary for refilling with one of six grades of honey: Statutory, Standard, Superb, Sublime, Supreme, and Royal, with each trolley having a very specific requirement to be fulfilled. In an average season, most of the honey produced in the Hivedom was statutory grade, with smaller quantities pro rata of the other honey grades; the smallest quantity by far being the most precious honey of all, Royal Honey. The cylinders that lined the top of each trolley reflected this order, the Statutory container dwarfing its companions and the cylinder that held the Royal Honey being no bigger than a small jar.
This powerful golden liquid was far more valuable than any precious stone, and on the days that it was extracted and graded the entire Hivedom entered a day of celebration. The hive that had produced the Royal Honey had a golden crown placed upon it, so that all might praise the Royal Honeybees that had delivered this most wonderful gift. The Beekeepers were then charged with extracting a quantity of Royal Jelly from within this hive, an essential ingredient in the cultivation of Deyenalum, a complex organic compound and a key ingredient in the development of Drollups. Once the beekeepers had filled their trolleys with honey, they were permitted to refill their infusers with deyenalum, the precious liquid being drawn into small glass syringes with careful precision. Then it was back to the lifts and down into the Deep Hives once more.
Beside the hatch to each cell a chart gave the dates, grades, dosages and mix ratios of honey to be fed to the surrogate contained within. Great care had to be taken to ensure that these instructions were followed to the minutest detail, as even the slightest error could lead to the creation of a drollup fit neither for one purpose nor another. Once recognised, rejected foetuses were removed from the womb and consumed in the furnace. They were still entered into the Log Book of Delivery, however, and woe betides any drollkeeper whose name appeared too often next to a tick in a column headed with the single word “Terminated”. When fully developed, the drollup birth was induced and the infant taken to the Hivedom Nursery to be graded and completed, the delivering surrogate being quickly readied once more for fresh implantation.
Hardknot reached a wide balcony and stared over the railings and into the huge drop before him. The view never failed to inspire him, for here, with one sweep of his head, the true scale of the operation could be seen. He gazed over the layers of cells as they fell away and out of view, the drollkeepers with their trolleys hurrying here and there and the collective noise of thousands of wheels rattling upward towards him. But even above their constant din, there was not a single moment when the cry of a surrogate in labour as her infant drollup was forced toward birth, did not rip through the air. Rising and falling, sometimes one, sometimes several together, the sound piercing the ears with a despairing intensity. To Hardknot the suffering was music to his ears, each final exhausted cry the evidence of yet another successful addition to his quota.
A nearby scream woke him from his
reverie. He followed the desperate cries until he came to a cell within which a drollup was about to be born. The surrogate had been strapped to her bed in the prescribed manner; her legs pinned open with large clamps that, along with several other medical instruments, were kept on the lower level of the drollkeepers trolleys. Hardknot studied the woman’s face, the beauty of her youth now lost in a confusion of sweat and pain. As a child of a Sister of St. Salacious and a noble client, her heritage was likely of note, but that was of no consideration in this place. He moved to the foot of the bed and studied the charts. She was beyond her prime, with thirty-eight births in ninety-three months. On average a surrogate was expected to deliver no more than forty drollup foetuses at most, before utter exhaustion brought their heartbeat to a merciful end. But that number could vary, depending on the strength and will of the surrogate and, of course, the grade of drollup she had been required to produce. A glance at the output chart quickly confirmed the heavy burden that had been visited upon the occupant of this particular cell. Amongst her quota Hardknot could see no fewer than twenty-six heavy lifting drollups, a remarkable achievement from a single source, and one that gave ample explanation for the deeply lined face and sunken cheeks now visited upon the features of one who was yet to see her twenty-sixth birthday.
The attendant drollkeepers caught each other’s eyes. Delivering a foetus under the watchful gaze of His Oneness was a dreadful prospect, and fingers that were well-practiced in the arts of procreation suddenly became thumbs that would have struggled to pull a cork. Hardknot watched with professional interest, oblivious to the woman’s rising screams as her womb was finally raided of its contents. The tiny half-formed infant was held into the light, the short stubby legs, long thin arms and wide flat hands, clearly designating it as a cleaning drollup. It was wrapped in honeyed linen and quickly placed in the warmed incubator, the drollkeepers clearly relieved that the birth had proceeded without complication. Hardknot meanwhile moved to the head of the bed, the woman having finally succumbed to unconsciousness.
The Lords of Blood and Honey (The Kingdom of Honey) Page 11