Chapter 7

 

The Grand Palace of Rowana was considered by all reliable authorities to be a botched and vulgar imitation of older, more distinguished follies, and even the kindest assessor would allow it to be no more than a second-rate stab at Lucinian neo-classicism. Its commanding hilltop situation – the original, ancient structure having been little more than a large watchtower – could trick the eye into believing that it was a much larger pile than it proved on closer inspection; an effect that was enhanced by the otherwise redundant collection of domes, pillared facades, and marble reliefs in which the unfortunate keep had been smothered.

        The not-very-extensive interiors had been similarly improved by the recent incumbents, and the great hall in particular was a cacophony of peeling stucco, fluted columns (pasteboard), faded frescoes, dusty drapes, and replica furniture in the fashion of thirty years ago, upon which the present courtiers endeavoured to make themselves as comfortable as possible. A clear avenue marked by a long, intricately woven blue and silver carpet ran down the centre of the chamber, to a throne of dark, elaborately carved wood, bearing a multitude of creatures and devices, not a few of which embraced a maritime theme. This throne stood before a blue curtain, embroidered in silver with the arms of the ARN, and above them, in gold weave, the royal crest of Albinor (crowned right-facing dragon, rampant, holding trident in left front claw). On either side of the avenue, the ‘loyalist’ daemon courtiers lounged in the aged armchairs, against the walls, upon the rugs, and a fair few of them upon the equally listless bodies of other daemons, who stroked them in a languid fashion whilst keeping their rapt red eyes firmly fixed upon Lord Lycon and the strangers.

        These new arrivals stood at the hall entrance, with the avenue lying before them. There were about fifty courtiers within the hall, as far as Palgrave could reckon, men and women alike clad in close-fitting but ill-shaped garments of black silk, adorned with copious amounts of jewellery. No doubt, he reckoned, acquired in their adventuring days, before they had settled into their present respectability, such as it was. A few of them wore fashionable wigs and make-up with their scanty regalia, but only, it seemed to him, in a spirit of rather crass parody. Most of them bore their hairless, sallow, shining skin, their tapering ears, and their gaunt but graceful figures, to full, natural, striking effect. Some were holding musical instruments, and Palgrave had heard some idle tunes and chatter as they had approached the hall. As they entered, however, a palpable silence had instantly descended, and all active interest was now focussed in their direction. If he was at all dismayed at this none-too-promising reception, Calderon was doing a creditable job of concealing it, whereas Prentis looked fit to have suffered a heart attack on the spot. Palgrave had no idea how well he himself appeared to be bearing up, but doubtless not as well as Lord Lycon, who was grinning broadly and tactlessly. He was the first to break the silence:

        “Well? Shall we run the gauntlet, mates?”

        If that was a seaman’s idea of a joke, Palgrave was proud to consider himself a lubber. Not that it had visibly provoked the watchers, as he feared it might have done, unless they were simply awaiting a more opportune moment. Unfortunately, there was no question of indulging such morbid speculations, as both Calderon and Lycon had started forward, at a brisk stride, and Prentis, after a momentary hesitation, was on their heels. A second later, having girded up his loins – if that was the expression he was after – Palgrave was in swift, but stately pursuit.

        He soon regretted it, reasoning that had he but waited a few seconds more at the rear of the hall, he would certainly have seen that wretched female daemon detach herself from the left-hand mob, and trip over to the avenue. Possibly, even before she had found the time to snatch away Prentis’s hat. At the very least, it might have given him time enough to shout a warning. As it was, all he saw was a chaotic flash as the hat made its departure, and Prentis, naturally if foolishly, giving chase, only to be lost within a tight little throng of daemon ladies which enclosed around him in an instant, their male companions looking on with vague, lethargic amusement. Calderon and Lycon had kept on walking, seemingly indifferent, and had now reached the end of the avenue, but Palgrave had frozen mid-way, paying as keen an attention to the side-show as its instigators. Before he was called away, rather sharply, by Calderon, the last point of interest was the sudden materialisation of Prentis’s frock coat, in a rather sorry and button-less state, arcing away from the mob and landing at his feet. Reflecting on that, Palgrave decided he had seen enough, in any case.

        “Don’t worry,” he heard Lycon muttering, as he drew up behind them, sweating profusely. “Just playful high spirits. I imagine.”

        “I’m not worried,” replied Calderon, much to Palgrave’s revulsion, which – all due respect notwithstanding – he would have expressed but for the intervention of a low, level, familiar voice, coming from behind the embroidered curtain:

        “Nor should you be, My Lord.” A thin, black-gloved hand protruded between the drapes and gently widened the gap, to admit the passage of its stunning bearer. Attired in her full court regalia, the Royal Regent Gloriana thoroughly eclipsed her tawdry surroundings. Her voluminous dress of layered silver fabrics spread out to a diameter of four feet and more, and a scaffold of gem-encrusted, wire-supported haberdashery projecting from the neckline region should have totalled up to quite an encumbrance, yet all her motions were marked with an easy, fluid grace. An equally exquisite silver crown was attached to an elaborately dressed and bejewelled jet-black wig, in the fashionably towering style, but what lay directly beneath this was what instantly drew Palgrave’s attention, not to mention his astonishment: the ‘mutilated’ regent had the most perfectly beautiful face. Her skin was clear and pale, and most becomingly touched with a light pinkish hue. Her features were flawlessly regular, although rather impassive, and the lower half of her countenance was very vaguely obscured with a light veil, which did little enough to conceal her perfectly sculpted mouth. Her eyes were clear and bright blue.

        And that, he thought, cannot possibly be right, as this lady looks no more like a daemon than my dear old mother, may the Goddess spare her soul. His mistake flashed upon him: the mask was a marvellously contrived crime against sanity. To all intents and purposes, it looked as though Her Highness had flayed it off the head of some unfortunate young lady, vitrified it, and added that otherwise pointless veil for the express purpose of drawing attention to the permanent, morbid immobility of her borrowed mouth. The effect of this upon Palgrave’s imagination was to elevate Her Highness’s regalia from the realms of mere beauty to some sublimely demented realm of nightmares and delusions, and as she sat before them, speaking from behind that rigid, waxen facade, it was as much as he could do not to shiver with repugnance.

        “Indeed, your companion will come to no harm,” she continued, in measured, emotionless tones, while Calderon listened, Lycon grinned, and Palgrave tried to find somewhere he could respectfully fix his gaze without betraying any horror or morbid curiosity. “These fair ladies will sport with him a little, then we shall arrange for him to enter our service. A small gratuity, I feel, if we are to enjoy amicable relations.” She had lapsed into an undertone of contempt, however, which was hardly encouraging on the diplomatic front. To make matters worse – or at least as far as Palgrave considered them – Lycon was on the point of departing:

        “My Liege-Lady,” he declared, with amused hauteur. “I present to you the ambassadors of the Lucinian Union. Lord-Delator Robert Calderon, second son of the Duke of Melthorpe and Chairman of the Executive, and Mr. Thomas Palgrave, secretary of the aforementioned, who hasn’t bowed to you as yet but we’re quite sure that’s he’s on the verge of doing so.” Palgrave, awkwardly and urgently, amended the fault. “I leave them to your pleasure. For I must endeavour to make myself useful around the place, lest I should drive our poor Lord Corin to apoplexy.”

        “Better if you did,” muttered Her Highness, resentfully. “His dedicated obstruction I could easily live without. Very well. You may go, My Lord.” Lycon thanked her, rather ironically if Palgrave was any judge, backed away for a few respectful steps, then turned on his heel and marched from the hall. Looking back along the length of the room, Palgrave noticed a vaguely familiar, rather sprightly figure, dressed in silk fragments and a stolen tricorne hat, from which she and her colleagues seemed to derive considerable amusement. The rightful owner of the hat, however, was nowhere to be seen.

        “Spare your concern, Mr. Palgrave,” Her Highness commanded, not contributing to his ease. “If I desired either his death or yours, or your master’s, I should have given my gunners orders to have cut you down at the city gates. You may take this omission as a favourable sign. You do not seem concerned, My Lord. Was he such a poor servant to you?”

        “Well, now that you mention it, Your Highness” answered Calderon, “I think that he might have been a spy.” Palgrave was getting too accustomed to shocks for this little item to have any great impact, although he noted with considerable interest the subtle intensifying of Her Highness’s voice as she answered him, leaning a little closer. The glassy eyes of the mask were quite incapable of narrowing, but he instinctively felt that it was all going on beneath.

        “Do you, indeed? Tell me: would that be merely an unworthy, paranoid intuition, or have you some evidence against this poor boy?”

        “Regrettably, I cannot disclose my sources.”

        “Can you not? No matter. He shall be as we are, and there’s an end to it.”

        “One of you, Your Highness?”

        “Not of our court, but broadly speaking. Of the daemons, yes. The blessed, if you will, My Lord.”

        “Indeed? How, exactly, is this to be done?”

        “That, My Lord, would be telling.”

        “Does it matter so much, Your Highness?”

        “Perhaps. Our ways are closely guarded. But why so interested, My Lord? Do you wish to become as we are?” Palgrave heard some disquieting and rather malicious giggles from the edges of the room, and keenly felt that he could not have responded to this enquiry with half the composure that his master preserved:

        “It is an honour I do not aspire to, Your Highness.” It was a lovely piece of diplomacy, perfectly bland and pompous, and Palgrave was almost offended that it was not appreciated as he felt it deserved, by the illustrious lady:

        “Oh, very good! How very typically Lucinian of you! How I wonder that with such admirable restraint, the hostilities with your Arriman neighbours show no signs of abating after seven centuries. And that your ever-so-reasonable citizens should be eternally stealing from and murdering one another on a daily basis. How should one account for such a mystery? Particularly when we daemons, without any of your wonderful ideals of chastity, and prudence, and denial, were able to thrive for millennia in peace and prosperity. Could you account for it, My Lord?”

        “I doubt it, Your Highness, although I, for one, have had little time for idealism. I feel there is much wisdom in what you say.”

        “Do you, Lord Robert?” she asked, her mood perceptibly lightening, momentarily. “Or is that empty flattery? Well, perhaps it is just possible that you are a man of greater vision than your selfish and avaricious national creed might imply. And I would not have you a complete pessimist, My Lord. By all means, reject the inhuman dogma of your wretched ruling senate, but trust that all may be well. I have every faith that some day, we may speak in friendship.”

        “Not any chance that could be today, then, Your Highness?”

        “I doubt it, My Lord,” she replied, a little sadly. “Not while you still represent the Union, which I hold to be responsible for this fiasco. For did you not unilaterally revoke the Concession Laws, and abandon this protectorate of yours to poverty, forcing the people to take to piracy in order to feed their kith and kin?”

        “We suspended some of the Concession Laws, until they would undertake to stop raiding our freight trains and plundering our mining settlements.”

        “And so the people suffered, because your creature, Queen Rowan, got above herself. She was educated in the Union, was she not? Where she learned to idealise power, and to rationalise greed, and you installed her here as your puppet. She learned her lessons a little too well, though. So why should you complain? You should be thankful that we, who have the greatest grievance, have undertaken to clean up your horrific mess.”

        “Ah. So you mean to continue the occupation?”

        “You would prefer it if we abandoned these people to another of your pet parasites, I imagine. Somehow, I think not, My lord. But do not trouble yourself unduly. I have no military designs upon your precious Union.”

        “And the Albinor– ?”

        “As unambitious as they are unimaginative. They care nothing for conquest, and most of their sailors will be only too glad to get back to their families, I can assure you. For their part, this was pure self-defence.”

        “In all honesty, Your Highness, I see no difficulties. And Lord Lycon, if I may venture, is an honourable man.” She started somewhat at this comment, and Palgrave thought that he heard a short, derisive hiss from between her concealed teeth. Calderon either missed it or affected to, as he continued: “You are obviously a ruler of great vision and sincerity. May we not work together to rebuild this realm?”

        “To what end, My Lord? To fill it with miserable shadows and spectres of your culture, such as this hideous old pile, and those even sadder wretches who were so broken and deluded that they opposed their own liberation, at the cost of so many of their lives? No thank you. Undoing your work will be a laborious enough task without your interference. If, however, you are in the business of improvements, I suggest you look to your own cities, where my people are held in contempt and treated as slaves and vermin.”

        “I grant you, the immigrant situation is by no means ideal–”

        “Fine words, from a man doubtless unaccustomed to routine poverty, humiliation, and losing friends and relations to lynch-mobs. Should news ever reach me of better things, I will be only too pleased to engage your services. As things stand, you may depart at your leisure, unless you have anything else to raise?”

        “Only the matter of our captured soldiers, Your High–”

        “Released, Lord Robert. Your brave lads are high-tailing it back south even as we speak. I suppose you must have passed them on the train. If that has been your concern, then I can only suggest you book a window seat on your next excursion.”

 

Back in their wretched, but welcome quarters, having made their awkward departure from the palace, Palgrave cautiously observed that everything seemed to have turned out as well as might be expected.

        “You think so?” asked Calderon, wishfully but hopelessly, gratefully collapsing upon the first convenient bench. “Then you don’t attach any significance to that charming little display of ‘power with love,’ or so to speak, with our sneaking little chum Prentis?”

        “To tell the truth, not much, sir. You think that was all a put-up job?”

        “Based on the fact that he was expecting – nay, welcoming it – I see no other reasonable opinion. He must have contacted her as soon as we arrived, and she considerately fixed it all up for our benefit. Or perhaps it was his payment for service, and our reactions were just a bonus. Whatever, it was confirmation that he was spying for her, and there’s some comfort: you must find it reassuring, Palgrave, that any strategic information of ours that she got out of him will have been through my hands – I always permit a few known moles the run of the department for these purposes – and will thus be incomplete at the least, and wildly inaccurate at the best.”

        “Clever stuff, sir. No need to worry from that quarter, then?”

        “Well, she was certainly sincere in claiming no military designs against us. Otherwise, from what I can gather, she means us as much ill as she can possibly contrive. Know anything about mineralogy, Palgrave?”

        “Not my field at all, I’m afraid, sir.”

        “Hmm. Well, I wouldn’t pretend that women are my field, but of the few I’ve had any length of acquaintance with, I don’t recall any of them being obsessed with cobalt. Would you say that was usual?”

        “I wouldn’t have said so, sir. Thinking about it a lot, was she?”

        “Rather a lot, it seemed to me, and with quite a sense of urgency, although I can’t say that I really caught the train of thought. What she expects to do with cobalt, I’ve no idea. She’s not short on ambitions – none of which I care to dwell upon – but if there’s a connection, it escapes me.”

        “I couldn’t say myself, sir, but she did study alchemy at the Lyceum. Maybe there’s something in that.”

        “Did she, now? Well, that’s got some possibilities, assuming they still have the department. Wouldn’t happen to know that off-hand, would you?”

        “It was absorbed into natural science, sir, but they still have a professor.”

        “Fair enough. And the nearest telegraph station?”

        “Dead Gorge City, sir, about a day’s ride away. It’s a mining settlement, and as foetid a Klondike as you could ever hope to avoid, but if they don’t have an apparatus knocking someplace about the depot, may the Goddess strike me dead.”

        “I do hope not. Take this down, would you? ‘To Professor of Alchemy so-and-so, stop. Need to know uses of cobalt, particularly warfare-related, most urgent, stop. Matter of federal security, stop. RSVP to Lord-Delator Calderon, stop.’ That should cover it. And send at least two guards with it. Make it four. I want to be absolutely certain that gets sent out, and that the reply reaches us here. In the meantime, I guess I’ll see if I can’t manage a word or two with our friendly local firebrand, Lord Corin, and find out the measure of his contempt for us.”

        “Is he that important? He doesn’t seem to have many friends around here.”

        “She can’t stomach the thought of him any more than Lycon could, I’ll grant, but those two aren’t exactly the perfect team. Both know, or at least feel they can’t survive without the other’s support, but neither seems to care very much for the relationship, and they have derision for one another in spades. In my thoroughly humble opinion, if they don’t make a show of reconciliation and unity pretty damn sharpish, they might as well send out the invitations for all to witness their spectacular slide down the greasy pole. Still, that’s their problem. I hope.” He breathed deeply, and stretched his frame out along the bench, before continuing: “You know what, Palgrave? I’d give ten thousand gold marks right now to be back in the army, and trust the powers-that-be to tell me who the enemy are, what they look like, and what I can do to them with a clear conscience. Now that I am the powers-that-be, I’m at a loss on all three counts. Potential enemies aplenty, but not a shred of evidence!”

        “Well sir,” Palgrave ventured, tentatively. “If you feel that way about it, begging your pardon, maybe we ought to just err on the side of caution, and have the northern militia clean this place out. I’m not sure as anyone would even think of holding you to blame for it.”

        “No, but I should certainly feel obliged to bow to Her Highness’s opinion of me, and if the representative of one of the oldest and most distinguished nations in the world can’t be trusted to exercise more reason and restraint than that deranged little pirate queen, it doesn’t say much for us. Don’t you think?”

        Palgrave muttered his agreement with little enough conviction, and set out with the message.