by A K Blake
“Oh ho, not pulling any punches, huh? That whisky kicked in fast. Eh, the uniform really didn’t suit me.”
“I thought you looked fine.”
“Fine? My, that’s really very gallant of you.”
She laughed. “Can I safely assume Citra won’t be joining us?”
“Dieda, no! I’ve had enough of that woman’s boot on my neck for several lifetimes, thank you.”
There was a pause. He tapped his finger against the edge of the empty shot glass. “If I’m honest, I’m a bit surprised you remembered me. You must have met a lot of new people by now. Tell me I haven’t somehow managed to carry to the palace with me a distinct air of bumpkin.”
“Well it’s hard to forget the person who knocked you out with a tranquilizer and helped you commit medical fraud. Although I take issue with ‘bumpkin’ as well, since I’m actually from those woods.”
“Well, yes, you don’t carry around an air of bumpkin, you simply are one. And yeah, those were the good old nights. I remember them quite unfondly, I’ve got to say. Although, it looks like you’ve done pretty well for yourself in the end.”
“I’ve made do.”
“Sure have.”
He looked at her in a way that she recognized, though she was unsure was how she felt about it. The matra and the whiskey had simmered, doing nothing to help her sort things out. There was a warm, tingling feeling, spreading from her stomach and her tongue, a sensation for which she could not confidently pinpoint the origin.
“Well in any case, it’s actually nice to see a face I recognize.”
“Glad to hear it, since I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. Looks like we’re stuck with each other.”
“So we are.”
***
Before she knew it, sunlight had begun piercing through the dim. Unable to find Lux, Iona walked back alone, a silly smile on her face.
Her spore pinged just as she reached her door panel, a new fish from the group of Progressives she’d been spying on. Groaning, she opened the message mostly out of habit. One thing she’d learned was that people were a lot less interesting in their private lives than she would’ve thought. Reading through so much petty drama and self-aggrandizing, bureaucratic nonsense had quickly started to wear on her. However, she noticed with tempered excitement that this vampire was higher up in the Progressive hierarchy than her previous catches. Collapsing onto her bed, she began paging through his account. The first message was, as all the others had been, mundane and unrelated to Eris. Sighing, she began peeling off her ball clothes as she moved to the next one. And the next.
She was fully naked, about to give up and fall asleep when she saw it. Buried in an otherwise innocuous message about updates to the Policibots was a vitriolic rant, a screengrab image from another message, this one from none other than the Chief Minister of the Progressive Party, Representative Eris deManthus himself:
...why we’re even in this mess. That old hag is so stuck in her ways. Probably her so-called husband’s fault. The way Basilla acts, she can’t have been bedded in at least a century. Only Dieda knows how he ever managed to produce the little princeling. So much for the ravenous nature of southies. Aren’t they supposed to be animals in bed? No surprise we got a broken one…
She felt a sharp pain. Looking down, she realized her fists were clenched so tightly against her palms that her nails had drawn blood. Hatred and triumph coursed through her in equal measure. This was it. The world needed to know what a vicious, disgusting excuse for a man Eris was. While she knew there were many who agreed with him about the royal family, it was all in the shadows. Discussing Her Majesty in such a degrading manner in public would surely be unthinkable.
Pulling up a message she had prepared many weeks ago, back when she’d expected things to go faster and smoother, she pasted in the image of Eris’ message. It was through an anonymous, auto-expiring account. She was glad she’d already worked out the difficult task of routing the message through various addresses in other countries in an attempt to hide its origin. That wasn’t the kind of thing one wanted to do drunk. Assuming she’d done it right, it would look as if the message had come from any number of far away places before reaching its destination, the wrist of an editor at a well-known news source. It wouldn’t be impossible for a very skilled hacker to track it back to her, but it was the best she could do. Anyway, she doubted anyone would try that hard. Wasn’t she handing them the story of the month on a silver platter?
Chapter 14
Iona awoke the next twilight with a dry mouth and a pulsing headache. She had fallen asleep on a wave of elation. The outlook now, however, was slightly less bright. Scrabbling for a glass of water on her bedside table, she knocked it over instead.
“Dieda take it.”
Groaning, she inched her feet toward the edge of the mattress, dreading the feeling of the cool floor against her toes. She hit the ground, and her head began to throb. Maybe she would stay in bed a bit longer. Lifting her spore from the table, she fell back onto the mattress, unlocking it with her fingerprint. There was a waiting notification, but she let it stew as she pulled up the news, scanning for information about Eris. There was nothing, just some blurb about his attending the jubilee. Cursing, she opened the alert.
Your presence is required by Her Majesty Queen Basilla Sarton Forbaris deCarthe in the Royal Chambers tonight (01-10-6052). See the attached directions and entry protocols. You will comply with the directives, complete them, and present yourself punctually at midnight in business casual attire. Contact your immediate supervisor with any questions.
Attached was a document that outlined where to go and what identification and security checks were required for entry to the Queen’s private quarters on the third floor. The only access point was a special elevator with heavy security clearance. She would need to submit to a biothermal scan of herself and her bags. She would be required to present her palace ID, as well as her digiscan and retinal scan. She would have to sign a document, stating that she would not disclose, whether privately or to the media, any information seen, heard, or otherwise gathered in Her Majesty’s chambers.
It was no small list of instructions. Looking at the time, she realized she’d overslept as usual and now she had less than an hour to complete it all. Panicking, she jumped out of bed, then yelped as she stepped directly onto the spilled water. This was not an ideal start to her second in person appointment with Her Majesty.
***
In the end, she was late, late to meet the Queen. Her Majesty’s assistant was, if possible, more upset than she was, his blue eyes wide and nostrils flared in an anger so controlled it was even more terrifying than if he had yelled. Iona had a feeling she had put herself on his bad side, something no one had to tell her she did not want to do. Yet, for all her own sweating and his fury, the Queen herself seemed not to even notice. Iona could hear her speaking with someone as they approached a half-open, heavily ornamented door on the top floor.
“..told you I don’t want to. I hardly see why it matters, it’s not as if it’s going to prove anything to anyone.”
“It’s not about proving anything, Phian. It’s about changing the perception. Public sentiment is not won in court, it is carefully cultivated, like a garden. You must trim swiftly when necessary, but the most important part is constant and delicate attention”
“Yes, yes, I’m aware of that. But doesn’t this seem a bit heavy-handed? You call this ‘delicate’?”
The assistant opened the door, widening the crack but keeping his back to Iona, so that she was prevented from entering. He cleared his throat.
“What is it, Tezin?”
“The giver is here to see you, Sire.”
“Yes, alright, just send her in. There’s no need to interrupt, it’s rude.”
“Apologies Your Highness. It was my mistake.”
The look he gave Iona upon returning to the hallway made it clear, however, that he did not think it was his mistake. He pushed the do
or open with a carefully controlled hand.
“The Queen will see you now.”
***
The Queen’s private chambers were not what she had expected. Fuzzy blankets and throw pillows coated the furniture. Atop them and underneath them, pinning them down like paperweights, were books, hundreds of them from what looked like every genre and era imaginable. There was one that caught her eye, with a hunky, heavily muscled vampire on the cover embracing a generously endowed vampiress. Clearly Her Highness was a very avid and impartial reader.
Every available surface was cluttered with pictures, electronics, figurines, works of art. It was all, technically speaking, clean, if one meant free of dirt and crumbs, but it certainly did not give off the kind of pristine image that the Queen presented in public. The architecture, too, was a mesh of ancient and modern: a great rock fireplace converted into an electric heater; an old fashioned veranda with one-way transparency glass to prevent paparazzi and terrorist drones.
Seated amongst her things was Her Majesty. During the intervening weeks in which she had only seen her from afar, Iona’s memories of Basilla had taken on a sort of gilded nostalgia: Once, when I met the Queen. Now, finally seeing her in person again, it was a sort of shock . Perhaps it was the banal surroundings or simply that she was no longer experiencing the bewilderment of a first meeting, but Her Majesty seemed somehow lesser than before, her skin a bit looser, her shoulders a more bowed. As if to punctuate this, she let out a rattling cough.
Wrapped in several layers of blankets, a steaming china cup and saucer in her hand, she could have been anyone’s grandmother, a harmless old biddy, complaining about the cold in her bones. Yet, even still, there was something inherently imposing about her. There was the same savage force that was ever-present, the same fierceness of intensity in her eyes, same defiance in the angle of her chin. Only a fool would mistake this woman for weak.
It was a fierceness that could be seen, transmuted into the quick, simmering rage of youth, in her son. He stood opposite his mother, his long limbs clad in a hunter green military suit. Gold-tassel epaulettes enhanced the spread of his shoulders. A double line of shining buttons paraded down his chest, drawing the eyes to his flat chest and trim waist. They complimented nicely the shine of his eyes as they glared out over his sculpted cheekbones. Whereas the Queen looked somewhat diminished from their previous encounter, the uniform had if possible magnified the Prince’s already formidable features. He gestured impatiently to a ribbon with a metal ornament hanging from his chest.
“It’s a jubilee medal, Mother, not a combat medal or even a service medal. You couldn’t possibly find something less authentic if you tried. This is certainly not going to change anyone’s opinion about me. If anything, it will give them fuel for their bigoted fires.”
“Nonsense, it’s not about what the medals are for. No one checks that sort of thing. It’s all about the pictures. You look good in military dress, and it will present a strong front. The people need that right now.”
“Mother—"
“Listen to your mother.”
The voice was deep and slightly accented, reverberating and taking up space in a way that commanded attention. Preoccupied by everything that was happening, Iona had not realized there was anyone else in the room, though now she wondered how she could have missed him. Looking up from the massive tome he had been reading, A Treatise on Politik and Strategy in the Seventh World War, was the Consort Rex.
It was difficult to tell from his seat on the couch, but Iona thought that he was likely a bit shorter than his son, though his chest was much wider. While some of it had given way and begun to sag, the muscles in his arms and torso belied a strength that had not yet deserted him. He wore his peppered, tightly curled hair shaved close. Though one eyelid drooped a bit lower than the other, there was a comeliness in the proportions of his face, something about his round cheeks and bright eyes, that inspired trust.
Iona had made the mistake once of calling him “the King.” It had been at lunch with Lux and some other givers. They had turned to look at her almost in unison. After a moment, Lux explained, with an uncharacteristic edge to her voice, “He is not the king, he is the Queen’s husband. His title is Consort Rex.” She had snapped her napkin out and turned back to the other givers in what was meant to be a conciliatory way, nodding and smiling as she said, “There is only one monarch in this country.” Iona had avoided naming him entirely after that.
The Queen sighed and looked up, seemingly realizing for the first time that Iona was there. She made an impatient beckoning gesture and held out a mug that had been sitting on the table next to her. She looked back at her husband and continued the conversation without missing a beat.
“The people are worried about war, and the last thing we want is for them to see us as weak, or...foppish. Military dress is traditional, old-fashioned. It makes people feel safe. Maybe if they believe we can protect them they’ll stop listening to this Progressive babble about mad science and child soldiers.”
Iona walked forward, careful not to step on anything or knock something over. Her Majesty paid her no attention.
“Foppish, is it? I think that’s a bit uncalled for. And they’re hardly children, Mother.”
“They are to us.”
Iona placed her arm over the cup and depressed the “Drip” button. She watched, feeling a bit dizzy, as the glass began to fill with warm, red liquid. The Queen turned to her husband and son.
“Would you like some?”
The Consort Rex pursed his lips and shook his head.
“I’ve already drank,” the Prince said.
“Yes, well, it’s a big night tonight. You’ll want to keep up your strength.”
Iona’s vienguard flashed a warning message and, a few seconds later, shut off. The room spun a little. She wished she’d remember to bring the energy bars Lux had left for her. Helps with the dizziness, although there’s nothing as good as a transfusion.
Her Majesty raised her glass in a toast to the rest of her family. “To five hundred years of ruling. To happiness, headache, and heartbreak. A merry jubilee to me.”
“Good health.”
“Good blood.”
Together, they all murmured, “Happy jubilee.”
There was the distinct sound of a throat clearing as Tezin reappeared in the doorway.
“Yes, well, go on if you must!”
“My humble pardons, Majesty, but I believe there’s something here you should see.”
He approached the Queen, spore detached and in his hand. Iona strained to get a glimpse of as he passed. The Queen sighed, taking her time getting settled, though her attitude changed noticeably as she read. She straightened, an incredulous expression seeping across her face.
Noticing Iona’s stare, Tezin rounded on her, blocking her view with his body as if to shield the Queen from her gaze.
“You are dismissed,” he hissed, “The guard at the elevator will show you the way out.”
Iona turned to go. Yet she hardly minded, as she was quite sure she already knew what the clamor was about. She hadn’t been able to make out the long block of text on Tezin’s spore as he passed, but she had recognized a logo, one that matched unmistakably that of the news outlet to which she’d forwarded Eris’ message. Daring to linger outside the door for a moment, she stayed just long enough to hear Basilla let out a bark of laughter.
“Well, my dear husband, I must warn you that it doesn’t make for pleasant reading. But if we’ve been praying for a little political capital these past nights, it appears Dieda may indeed have kept us in the corner of her thoughts. Even for Eris, he’s outdone himself.”
Even for Eris.
Iona practically floated onto the elevator, her face flushed with a smile all the way down.
***
The nights of the jubilee were color themed, in keeping with customary anniversary hues, five consecutive balls, each more exhausting than the last. If it weren’t for the unbridled
joy of watching Eris dragged through the mud on every news channel and in every political publication, Iona thought she might go mad. He’d stayed away from interviews, but seeing his smug face plastered across the screens while the polished, professional vampire commentators derided his behavior brought her immense happiness. It was hard to tear herself away.
Yet, upon entering the Great Hall she was forced to admit that the display was worth a break from her obsession. Night one was green, for Rebirth, and the room burst with color. Blue and green sparkled from every corner, gauzy fabric billowing under the orb-shaped lamps, so that the light rippled like waves. Guests gathered in their themed clothes, milling about under the lights like gaudy sea creatures. After a few moments she found Kaius, who turned deferentially to greet her.
“Hello, Iona. You look lovely.”
“Thank you, you look...difficult to miss.”
He grinned, decked out unselfconsciously in a chartreuse suit, the pants and elongated coattails of which appeared to be modeled after the scales of a snake.
“I believe the word you’re searching for is handsome.”
“Is it? I’m not sure. Perhaps later it will come to me.”
He laughed as he signaled the bartender. “Maybe a drink will help to jog your memory.”
The Queen arrived early for once, resplendent in an emerald suit with a train skirt that split at the center. In another departure from her usual appearances, she was accompanied by Their Majesties the Prince and Consort Rex. Iona felt their presence before she saw them, a strange ripple of energy that passed through the crowd. There was always a jolt when the Queen arrived, a sudden straightening of postures and adjusting of accessories, a swift flood of whispers that her ears strained to catch. Yet there was something different this time, an undertone of mockery, a snickering hint of disrespect.
She unconsciously felt her shoulders rising, elbows drawing inward before she had quite realized why. Something about it felt hostile. Turning from the bar, she looked up toward the far end of the hall. The Prince was wearing the military dress she had seen before, jubilee medal gleaming from the left breast of his jacket. He made a show of mingling, going around shaking hands. In his direct presence his people were awed, overly respectful. But in the furthest corners, she could see the masks drop. They were sneering, royal representatives and dignitaries, not even caring to hide their nasty expressions of glee. The laughter drained from Iona’s face. It seemed she had given them too much credit.