Kenric gently removing Oskar’s hand, “Think of it as a sauna, Your Majesty. Very healthy for the constitution. And... Víl? was very specific about the glass.”
Oskar: “Specific how?”
I walk over to the sample pane the Guildmaster is holding. I tap the bottom right corner with a manicured fingernail.
I point, “Look closely, Your Majesty. It is a new etching technique. Very subtle. Very tasteful.”
Oskar squints. Etched into the glass, catching the light so it glows, are words.
Oskar reads slowly, “Light provided by the Fey Embassy... A Gift from...” He chokes for a moment. “It is on the window? You signed my window?”
I beam at him, “I signed every window, Oskar. There are forty-eight panes. I wanted to make sure that every time you look out at your kingdom, you remember who gave you the view.”
Oskar sputters, “I cannot look out a window with your name on it! I will see it everywhere!”
Inwardly, I am chortling with glee. If you don’t like my name etched forty-eight times into the tiny corner of a pane of glass, just wait until the boots arrive, you oaf.
I give him my best smile. “Then I suggest you look inward, Your Majesty. Self-reflection is also a virtue and rumored to be quite healthy as well.”
I turn to Melina. ”I believe we are done here. The workmen know what to do. Oh, and Oskar?”
He looks up, defeated, as a workman pries a stone loose with a deafening crack. The longer he makes me stay here, the more remodeling I’m going to do.
I smile at him, “I ordered new furniture, too. That fainting couch was… unhygienic. I replaced it with high-backed oak chairs. Good for the posture and with the footstools, good for your circulation. Especially important in men of your vintage, Your Majesty. You’re welcome.”
As I turn to check on the workmen, I see Kenric and Jellema standing near the door, shielding their eyes from the blazing light of the new windows.
"He is going to need a Regent soon, at this rate," Kenric murmurs to the Duke. "Or a keeper. He cannot handle her, Hedde. You see that."
"I see a man outmatched," Jellema agrees. "He respects rank, Kenric. He fears rank. If you remain a Viscount, he thinks he can bully you. If you were an Earl... one with the backing of the Fey Bank..."
"Then make it happen," Kenric says, his voice hard. "You need a stabilizer in the court. Someone who isn't trying to steal the throne, just hold it steady. I am that man. But I need the rank to stand between her and him."
Jellema looks from the sweating King to my husband. "Bring me the contract for the Iron Mines. Show me the Bank is stable. And you shall have your coronet by spring."
I smile to myself.
I sweep out of the room, leaving Oskar standing in the debris of his privacy, illuminated by the incoming light of my benevolence.
Kenric catches up to me in the hall, grinning, “High-backed oak chairs? He won't be able to seduce a milkmaid in those.”
I smirk back, “Exactly. If he wants to be comfortable, he can stand. Preferably in the light, where I can see him. And if he hates seeing my name on his windows, he’s going to love the boots I ordered.”
“What did you do?” Kenric asks, warily.
“I ordered his guard new boots. Waterproof, lined, winter boots.” I wink at Kenric, “I might have made some modifications to the standard military heel.”
Kenric laughs, “He’ll be unhappy again.”
I shrug, “If he wants me to stop, it’s very simple. Let us leave for Herrenstien. I’ll be too busy packing to keep remodeling his palace and his army.”
Kenric laughs and shakes his head. “When do you go to Varpua?”
“I’ll know once Duke Jellema has some meetings set up for me to find someone to manage the port expansion. I’d like to talk to Oskar about implementing some ship maintenance. With the freshwater river here, if they can sail up river a bit, many of the creatures that stick to ship hulls die. It makes the maintenance easier and faster, which means a whole new industry for Centis,” I explain, “but I’ll need to talk to Duke Jellema about that and see if there’s a suitable location to build it.”
A few days later, the boots have been delivered. Like the cloaks, the delivery has been quiet and unassuming. Just a wagon and men lining up to receive parcels of winter gear, boots, gloves, hat and belt this time. The next morning dawns clear after a heavy snowfall overnight. The Palace Courtyard is a pristine blanket of white, save for the patrol paths of the Royal Guard. Oskar is on a terrace, looking down. Kenric and I are nearby, headed to the Bank.
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The morning air is biting, but the sun is bright, reflecting off the fresh layer of snow that blanketed Dobile overnight. It is a beautiful winter scene, marred only by the incoherent screaming coming from the King’s terrace.
Oskar leans dangerously far over the stone railing, his face a mottled red, “Stop! Stop walking! I command you to levitate if you must, but do not take another step!”
Below in the courtyard, two Royal Guards freeze mid-stride, looking up in bewilderment. They are warm in their thick blue cloaks and sturdy new boots, but they look terrified of their monarch.
Sensing Oskar’s agitation, I stroll onto the terrace, arm in arm with Kenric. I am wrapped in furs, holding a steaming cup of tea. “Good morning, Your Majesty. What seems to be the problem? You seem… agitated.”
Oskar spins around, his finger trembling as he points to the courtyard below. “You. You did this. You… You… You vandal!”
Puzzled, I look at him, “I merely slept, Your Majesty. I can’t possibly have vandalized anything since breakfast.”
I walk to the railing and look down. The snow is perfect for casting tracks. The guards have been walking their patrol routes for hours. The courtyard is no longer white; it is a tapestry of text. Everywhere a boot has landed, the heavy iron heel has pressed a reverse-engraved message deep into the snow, crisp and legible in the morning light.
A Gift from Princess Víl?. A Gift from Princess Víl?. A Gift from Princess Víl?.
Thousands of times. Over and over. The entire courtyard effectively screams my name.
I bring a hand to my chest, feigning modesty, “Oh, my. The die cutters at the Guild are truly masters of their craft. It is so… legible.”
Oskar is irate and bellowing like a bull, “It is treason! You are stamping your name on my sovereign soil! Every time they march, they advertise you!”
Kenric coughs into his glove to hide a laugh, “It is certainly… distinctive, Your Majesty. No one will ever steal the Royal boots. They would be easily tracked.”
Oskar grates out, “I do not care about theft! I care that my own army is stamping her name into the mud and snow of my palace! It looks like I have been conquered!”
Oskar leans over the rail again, shouting at the guards. “Take them off! Take the boots off immediately!”
The guards look at each other. Then they look at the snow, which is ankle-deep. Then they look at their warm, dry, sheepskin-lined boots. They do not move.
One of the guards speaks up, tentatively, “Your Majesty… it is freezing. And… these are the only boots we have that don’t leak.”
I step in smoothly, “Your Majesty… Oskar, be reasonable. You cannot ask your men to go barefoot in winter. That would be cruel. And think of the morale. They are warm. They are dry. They are grateful.”
Oskar is still fuming, “They are walking billboards! I can read it from the privy window! 'A Gift from Princess Víl?.' It’s everywhere!”
I shake my head, “It is a maker's mark, Your Majesty. Quality assurance. I simply wanted to ensure that if a boot failed, you knew exactly who to complain to.”
I lean closer, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Besides, if you order them to take them off, they will know you care more about your vanity than their frostbite. Is that a battle you wish to fight today? With the very men who guard your bedroom door?”
Oskar grips the railing until his knuckles turn white. He looks at the guards, who are waiting, miserable and cold at the thought of losing their gear. He looks at the snow, printed with my name a thousand times. He realizes he is trapped.
Oskar growls at me through gritted teeth, “I hate you.”
I beam at him happily, “I know. But look on the bright side, Your Majesty. When the snow melts, it will just be mud. And then my name will be stamped in the dirt. Isn't that what you wanted? To drag my name through the mud?”
Oskar makes a strangled noise in his throat, spins on his heel, and storms back into the palace, stepping carefully as if the floor itself might bite him.
Kenric watches Oskar departing and the looks at the courtyard, “You really stamped the heels?”
I nod, “Iron plates. Deep cut. They will last for years.”
Kenric gives me a sideways look “And the gloves?”
I sigh, “Unmarked. I’m not a monster, Kenric. I left their hands free to salute me. I told you he’d love the boots.”
Stopping, I turn to Kenric and gesture to the guards, “Is it me or do their uniforms look shabby now that they have cloaks, boots, belts, hats and gloves?”
Kenric nods, “They do but…”
“Then we shall have to rectify that oversight,” I declare.
“You really want him to make a good impression on these investors, don’t you?” Kenric asks.
I nod, “If Centis starts to look like it’s reversing it’s previous trend, then I can sell them shares in some of the things I’ve already financed as well as interest them in some of the things that are good investments that I don’t want the bank to carry.”
Kenric gives me a look so I explain, “Some things are simply too big, like rebuilding the riverside wharves and warehouse district. All our operating capital would be tied up. Other things aren’t things that I’m interested in. I want the bank to invest in things that Oskar’s neglected, like infrastructure which supports long term sustainable growth. Oskar spends on whatever Oskar wants, not on what Centis needs. This harbor project is prime example. It should have been done years ago, when Oskar still had the funds for it. Instead, he built his second and third hunting lodge for about the same cost. Now that he’s broke and his money is tied up in Vupis, I have all the liquid funds. Since I’m paying interest on those funds, I need to invest them. I have to collect interest in order to continue to be able to pay interest.”
Infrastructure is the polite way of saying all the things that won’t burn when the invaders show up. I don’t mention the hundreds of small loans that have been made so that neighborhood bakers can carry out small expansions like adding an extra oven to bake more bread, or the neighborhood seamstresses who want to buy the new sewing machines, or the washer women who want an extra basket.
Another week goes by, and Melina tells me that the Weaver’s Guild is done with the new velvet drapes. Out with the judgmental old men on their moth-eaten tapestries. In with the velvet drapes to pick up highlights from the burnt orange cushions and several of the creatures in the border of the carpet.
I agree to meet the Weaver’s Guild in the Throne Room. The air is thick with dust motes dancing in the shafts of light. The sound of hammering and the swish of heavy fabric fills the cavernous space. I am standing in the center, directing traffic like a conductor.
I point as the apprentices are scurrying, “Higher on the left! The drape must pool on the floor, not dangle like a dead bat!”
Master Wulf scurries around a ladder, shouting at his apprentices. They are hoisting the new drapes behind the throne dais. The fabric is heavy velvet, dyed the specific shade of “Mustard Gold” I selected. In the dim light, it looks rich. In the sunlight, it looks like an explosion in a spice factory.
Melina stands beside me with the ledger, “It is very… bright, My Lady.”
I smile brightly at her, “It is luminous, Melina, like a sunset. It catches the eye. Specifically, it will catch Oskar’s eye every time he tries to look away from his advisors.”
glittering oven of accountability. Forty?eight panes, all stamped with her name like she’s claiming territory.
just so and illuminated it like divine judgement. By the way, his expression resembled a man who found out his soup was made of his own tears.
high?backed oak chairs. For “posture.”
“A Gift from Princess Víl?.”
“not wanting their toes to die.” A compelling argument.
Oskar is one hot flash away from surrender.
The guards are loyal to whoever gives them the warmest boots.
And I, Ashenleaf Brightnote, have never been happier or more entertained.
- What do you think of the boots?