The Madness of Kings Read online

  About half of them did anyway. Some even took offense at her missive, loudly.

  It would be her last attempt at meaningful local reform.

  Castle Totus handled the Feast about the same way as the smaller fiefdoms did, only on a much larger scale. Cousin Kenson leaned heavily on the feast portion of the festival, and practically ignored the god Nita entirely. There might be a blessing from the High Hat of the Totus chapter during the ceremony, but rarely more than that.

  Battine was a big fan of large parties. But the hypocrisies of her own blood made this one difficult to enjoy.

  Still, she did make a promise to the queen. It was made on the occasion of their mother’s passing, back when the Feast was thirteen months away and after Batt had been drinking Choruscam wine for much of the evening. So it was hardly fair that she be held to it.

  Really, the mistake was relaying the promise to Mr. Haupid, who was unaccountably pleased with the news. He probably wrote to the queen’s man, immediately, to make sure nobody forgot.

  Now Battine was stuck holding to the rash, drunken promise. Because the only thing less wise than promising her sister something was reneging on that promise. Porra Alcon was difficult but manageable as an older sister; Queen Porra was a terrifying force. Even Kenson was a little afraid of her.

  It took nearly an hour to exit the lands avowed to Lady Delphina, less because it was vast than because direct routes to the King’s Highway didn’t really exist. It was also narrow in some spots and steep in others.

  But once Battine reached the King’s, she was free to prod Eremis into a proper gallop.

  Riding through the countryside was an enormously satisfying thing, in a way that a dirigible could never be. One took an airship to survey the countryside, to drop heavy things on people one didn’t like, possibly to get to someplace faster under exigent circumstance, and probably if one wanted to feel like one was above or better than the people on the ground.

  At least, that was how she saw it. This likely put her in the minority among her family and especially among her gender. Almost none of her female cousins even rode. Which was madness.

  The King’s Highway was swift. The road was level, generally unobstructed, and largely untraveled on this, the first day of the feast. Battine made excellent time, managing to reach what she considered the halfway point—the aforementioned inn with the nice roast duck—at just past twelve. Uninterrupted, she’d arrive in court by fifteen. Since the day one feast was scheduled to begin at seventeen, she’d have at least two hours to exchange pleasantries, wash off the road dirt, and change into one of the three dresses in her saddlebags.

  That would not do. She had every intention of being inconveniently late.

  The inn was called the Nine Fingers. The symbol on the placard was an abstract of a Septal temple foregrounded by a pig on a spit. It was a garish contrast, getting across its point in the most blunt and unattractive way possible: here are the devout and also, here is food.

  She brought Eremis to a halt, slid off, and handed the reins to a boy standing out front for just this purpose.

  “Water and feed her, please,” she said, tossing a dorin his way.

  “Yes, milady,” he said. “Begging pardon, but are you with those others?”

  “Which others might those be?”

  “Inside. They come in at half past.” He pointed, not to the entrance, but to the five horses already tied up in a row behind him. “I’m asking because they say no guests while they’re dining.”

  “Well,” she said, “isn’t that rude?”

  “I wouldn’t know, milady.”

  Battine checked out the saddle on one of the horses. It bore the crest of the Horace family.

  What are they doing in Totus? she wondered.

  “Thank you for the warning,” she said, tossing the boy a second coin. “I shall have to introduce myself.”

  “Yes, milady. Thank you, milady.”

  A large man was standing just on the inside of the entrance to the inn’s dining room. He had on light leather armor with the Horace crest above his heart. He kept one hand on the pommel of his sword. The other one was holding the chicken leg he was in the middle of eating.

  “Good day,” she greeted.

  “H’lo,” he said. “Kitchen’s closed.”

  The innkeeper manifested from a curtained entrance on the left, assessed the situation, and promptly disappeared back into the curtain.

  “Is this because you’ve eaten all the food?” Battine asked.

  “Special guest.” He looked over his shoulder. “He’s almost done, if you want to wait.”

  “I don’t want to wait, actually. I’m really very hungry.”

  The man shrugged.

  “Right.” She drew her sword halfway out of its hilt. “We can either cross swords in this poor keeper’s hearth, or you can allow me to pass. Before you answer, have a look at the crest on my hilt.”

  He squinted.

  “It’s the Alcon family crest, you idiot,” she said. “You’re speaking to Lady Delphina. Now are you going to let me through?”

  He shrugged again, stepped aside and allowed her to pass. Battine was a tiny bit disappointed; she hadn’t sparred with anyone in ages.

  The inn’s dining hall only seated some two-dozen guests at any time, and Battine had never seen it more than half-full, so borrowing it for a private meal was probably not enormously impactful to the Nine Fingers’ bottom line. But it was annoying, and more than a little rude, especially since it was done by someone who was in the wrong kingdom. They weren’t even on the right continent.

  She’d only taken two steps into the room before being intercepted by two more armed guards. They jumped in her line of sight; the one on the left already had his sword completely out, which was just bad form. She looked past them.

  “Fergo Horace, you little shit,” she shouted. “What are you doing in my valley?”

  Fergo put down his goblet and stood, looked her over and smiled.

  “It’s Lord Aginot now,” he said. “How have you been, Batt?”

  Chapter Two

  “Mostly, I’ve been hungry,” Battine said. “And the man you put at the door is nearsighted. You should do something about that.”

  “That would be a waste of time,” Fergo said, “he can’t even read. Get over here.”

  Battine and Fergo shared a long hug, and then he pulled a chair from the table for her and waved the barmaid over.

  “How long has it been?” he asked.

  “You weren’t even showing your Horace yet,” she said with a laugh. “I only barely recognized you.”

  There was another man at the table that Batt hadn’t noticed at all, right up until he laughed at what she’d just said.

  He was decidedly different from the rest of Fergo’s little band of polite invaders. Where Fergo was dressed in light mail and boots and his men were a mix of leather armor and steel, this man wore denim pants, a cotton weave shirt, and a light jacket whose base material she couldn’t identify. Instead of boots, he wore shoes made of fabric and rubber. Interestingly, he had white hair, which didn’t correspond at all to his face, which belonged to a young man. It had the odd effect of making him look simultaneously distinguished and virile.

  “I’m sorry,” the man said with an engaging smile. “That was funny. Showing his Horace. I’ll have to remember that.”

  “Batt, this is my guest, Damid Magly. Professor Magly, this is Lady Delphina. By the way Batt, congratulations on the title. I meant to send word.”

  Damid Magly stood and presented her with a cursory bow. It wasn’t customary to bow before a lady; she couldn’t tell if he was aiming for sincerity or mockery. She extended her hand, which thankfully he elected to shake and not kiss.

  “A professor without a hood,” she said. “How curious.”

  “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said. “And I’m not a Septal scholar; a hood would be inappropriate.”

  “The profess
or teaches at Callim University,” Fergo said.

  “It’s in Inimata,” Magly said. “Which is on the continent—”

  “Geo, yes, I know,” Battine said. “I’m familiar with the world map.”

  Professor Magly smiled and nodded. He seemed amused by a thing he chose not to say in response.

  “It’s a lay school,” he added. “I meant only to distinguish it; I know you don’t have those around here.”

  “You speak excellent Falshen,” she noted.

  “Thank you. My native language is Endish, but both are Eglinates. It’s not a difficult transition. Not like, oh, Ghshtic.”

  “It isn’t difficult,” she said, in Endish. “I agree.”

  “Impressive,” the professor said, also in Endish. “You could pass as an Inimatan.”

  Fergo laughed.

  “Show-off,” he said. “Batt learned the common tongue before any of us. I think she planned to leave on her Haremisva, but just forgot to when it came time.”

  The barmaid arrived then with mead for the table, took Batt’s order for duck, and scurried off to the kitchen.

  “So,” Magly said, “if I understood correctly Lord Aginot…You didn’t look like this as a child? Like a Horace, I mean.”

  “He didn’t look as much like this,” Battine answered. “Now? No different than the rest of them. Pity.”

  “Only I’m much more handsome,” Fergo said.

  “And less humble,” Batt added.

  “That’s fascinating,” Magly said.

  Fergo Horace, Lord Aginot, had brownish-blond hair, powder blue eyes, white skin, and a round face. The same was true of all of the men in the Horace line. They were also all the same height and had the same fundamental physique.

  Telling them apart—especially the ones who were around the same age—meant parsing micro-expressions. They became more distinctive as they aged, both because the world was imperfect enough to impart the occasional scar, and because some of them got fat over time.

  In truth, it was nearly impossible to distinguish Fergo from his four cousins who were around the same age. If asked to explain how she knew it was him and not Gar, Luotix, Phenton or Iolin, Battine probably would not have been able to put it to words.

  “I think my hair was browner as a child, wasn’t it?” Fergo asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “And you had to grow into your ears.”

  “And you’re an…Alcon?” the professor asked Battine. He hadn’t taken his eyes off of her since she’d sat down. She couldn’t tell if this was because he liked the way she looked or if he found her interesting in the same way one might find a caged animal interesting. Consequently, she didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended.

  “I was born into the Alcon family,” she said. “But I’m not an Alcon.”

  Fergo cleared his throat. “Damid, you remember Luell? Phenton’s young bride. She’s an Alcon.”

  In any other part of the world, this would have made no sense at all; in the Middle Kingdoms, it explained everything. Luell Horace, Lady Borgenshaw, was formerly Luell Alcon, Battine’s cousin. Luell looked like every other gendered female of the Alcon family: black hair, black skin, copper-brown eyes, and high cheekbones framing an angular face. (The men could be described in exactly the same way, although—and this honestly may have more to do with upbringing and clothing choice than anything else—where the women tended to look elegant, the men looked lithe and rangy.) The important point, then, was that Battine didn’t look like Luell—her skin color was lighter, her hair was the wrong color, and she was not quite as tall—which meant she wasn’t an Alcon.

  “Oh!” the professor exclaimed. “I’m so sorry. That was rude, wasn’t it? It wasn’t supposed to be. That is, I hadn’t set out to offend.”

  “It’s all right, I’m not offended,” Battine said. “I’m an unblessed; it’s not a secret.”

  “Alconnot,” he said.

  “You have it.”

  His embarrassment flipped over to curiosity immediately. “What was that like?” he asked. “I find this fascinating.”

  She looked at Fergo, who shrugged. This is how he is, he seemed to be saying.

  “I was raised an Alcon,” Battine said. “And up until the start of my fifth year I was an Alcon. It was fine.”

  This was largely true, but she was omitting volumes. There was an historical precedent of late-blessings, where a child initially appears unblessed, only to have their bodies change as they age. To Battine’s understanding, this had never happened with something as fundamental as skin shade, but when she was younger, she still held onto the hope that one day she’d awaken to darker skin and naturally black hair. The greatest tragedy of her childhood was that this never happened.

  With one or two exceptions, none of the adults in her life at that time—her father and mother, aunts and uncles, or teachers—treated her as inferior in some way, even though they had to know she would be named an Alconnot on her fourth birthday. She still grew up convinced she was inferior in some way. “Unblessed” was, after all, a negative term.

  She didn’t feel like discussing any of that with a stranger. Or with anyone else.

  “What are you doing in Totus, professor?” she asked, changing the subject. “Check that: what are all of you doing in Totus?”

  “I’m a guest of the court,” Fergo said. “Our cousin extended the invitation.”

  Battine laughed. “Who is Kenson arranging for you to marry, I wonder?”

  “Amusing you’d think I would know one way or another,” Fergo said. “I’m told discussions are underway with the Jerrols regarding my future spouse, but who’s to say? Here’s hoping those negotiations last for years.”

  “I’m afraid I’m to blame for Lord Aginot’s presence,” Magly said. “I asked King Honus-Elisant to arrange the introductions. Lord Aginot has been kind enough to act as my escort and tour guide.”

  “How curious,” Batt said. “What are you a professor of, Professor Magly?”

  “Please call me Damid,” he said. “I’m a sociologist, but my expertise is in Middle Kingdoms culture.”

  “He’s interested in how odd we are,” Fergo said. “Although he’s polite enough not to come right out and say that.”

  “No, now that’s not fair.” Damid said. “This is a scholarly pursuit. Honestly. I know there’s a history of…sociological tourism, let’s call it, in the kingdoms. I’m not one of those.”

  Battine had met only a handful of people from outside of the nine kingdoms. She wouldn’t think to apply sociologist to any of them, but tourist definitely fit.

  Totus—and her sister kingdom Orch—were actively hostile to outsiders. Not violently so; more in an aggressively impolite manner. People going about their day-to-day didn’t care to be gawked at, have their image captured by devices that were locally forbidden, or just generally treated like an oddity in a zoo. And that was what always happened. Thus, outsiders tended to discover that all the inns were suddenly full, and their roadside dining options curtailed by decidedly odd business hours.

  Batt assumed the other kingdoms behaved in much the same way.

  “Well,” she said, “you’ve earned Elisant’s trust. That’s no small accomplishment. He’s…Fergo, what’s the word I want?”

  “Uncle is an ass,” Fergo said. “It’s the only un-Horace-like thing about him.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Batt said with a smile.

  Their reunion continued for only another five minutes, because then Fergo realized how late it was, and at the same time learned that Battine didn’t care if she was late.

  “We can make up the time,” she said, even though he was right that the day growing short while the distance to the castle was not. “The highway’s near-empty on the day of the feast.”

  “I’m afraid Professor Magly rode his very first horse just last week,” Fergo said. “We can only go so fast.”

  “Do they not have horses in Inimata?” she asked.

  �
��They do,” he said. “I’ve seen pictures. But the closest I’ve ever been to riding one before now was a motorized cycle. And I fell off of it.”

  “Well then, I look forward to passing you along the way.”

  Interestingly, she didn’t pass them on the highway, even though she rode Eremis hard the whole way; harder, probably, than she would have if this was just a matter of reaching the castle before the start.

  Battine and Fergo used to race one another in the courtyard of the Great Temple, between study sessions. She could have blamed her accelerated pace on that small echo of her past, but it was likely much simpler: She was just naturally competitive. It could’ve been anyone in that inn; provided they were also heading to Castle Totus, she’d have pressed to beat them there.

  It was not quite sunset when she crested the final hill before the castle.

  Notwithstanding the view of the valley from her bedroom window, the moment when all of Castle Totus first comes into view was probably the most breathtaking in the entire kingdom. It stood upon a natural rise atop a foundation of granite, behind a high wall and a sprawling open field. The oldest part of the castle—the part that predated the Collapse, she’d been taught—was the five-turret middle section with a vast single column in the center of the roof’s back third.

  It was called the finger: An architectural echo of the design of the Septal temples, which sported nine such columns. (There were nine kingdoms, and thus nine castles, and thus nine individual fingers, since all of the castles had the same central column. Many felt this meant that the Middle Kingdoms were in fact one massive Septal temple.)

  Like the temple’s fingers, the one atop Castle Totus was hollow and served no apparent purpose.

  The newer parts of the castle radiated out from the center, effectively tripling the size of the overall structure. These were buildouts that took place across some seven thousand years, with allowances made for reconstruction—rather than new construction—when some of the older portions collapsed, proved themselves capable of doing so, or otherwise displayed some manner of unexpected design flaw. For instance, there was a period somewhere around the fifth millennia in which new construction used wood. Then there was a fire. After that, the Alcon line stuck with stone.