The Axe and the Throne (10 page)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Grace, prosperity, health, and wealth.” Cassen sat at his vanity, staring into its oval of silvered glass as he repeated his morning affirmation. He scowled at the plump-bodied reflection and moved his face closer until their two noses almost touched, then pinched a bit of raised, reddened skin on his cheek with a look of contempt. “But not clarity.” His expression shifted theatrically to sadness, and he pouted with his twin visage, comforted by the thought that he did not suffer alone.

Into Cassen's outstretched hand, a servant boy placed a small glass container. Cassen noted with a feeling of accomplishment the fear on the servant's face, seen unbeknownst to the boy in his reflection. With a finger Cassen dabbed a bit of the minty cream upon his blemish, refreshed by both the scent and coolness of it.

Layer upon layer of long silk flowed around Cassen as he stood, enough to adorn a palatial suite with curtaining. He may have felt light and airy under such delicate fabric, but the appearance was anything but…and it was something of which he was well aware. Nonetheless, his servants were acquainted with the haste with which he was able to strike them when the need arose, a fact evidenced by how quickly the fair-skinned boy moved to retrieve the glass of ointment from Cassen's bent-wrist hand.

“Now run along, my little keepers. I require my daily self time.” His servants bowed with obedience and left the room as fast as one may walk.
Yes, run along and tell everyone what a horrible mood a pimple put Her Highness in.
Cassen allowed his demeanor to change upon their departure, exhaling a deep breath through loose lips and letting his body relax as he sunk back into his chair.

How many decades will you allow to pass without advancement?
Cassen looked again upon his disappointing reflection, unsure of whether he should continue his deserved berating or instead remind himself of just how far he had risen. Determining that both acts were a form of wasteful self-indulgence, he decided instead to evaluate once again whom it was most responsible for impeding his ascent.

Cassen was the
Duchess
of Eastport, and as such, answered only to King Lyell of House Redrivers, ruler of Rivervale and Adeltia. By custom he should have answered also to the King's First, Derudin the Wise—
Derudin the Charlatan
—but Cassen had managed to escape the need to so much as speak with the old wizard in a way in which only he could.

Cassen's insistence on being addressed as Duchess was particularly disagreeable to Derudin. Years past, in a High Council meeting, Derudin had referred to Cassen as “Duke Cassen” prompting Cassen to interrupt and correct him. Derudin could have simply grunted his disapproval, as was his wont, but had instead proclaimed, “I am Derudin, born of Erober, tempered in the fiery mouth of a mountain broken by dragon's breath. Over one hundred years ago, I alone crossed the Devil's Mouth. I and all other men with reverence for the Ancient Laws will call a man by a man's title and no other.”

“My dear Derudin,” Cassen had said with a coy look. “I never thought you so brazen as to hatch a scheme to get me to remove my underclothes for you with so many witnesses. I am quite sure I would not match the definition of what you nor your
Ancient Laws
consider a man.” Cassen did not need to shift his gaze to know the looks on the faces of the other council members would have mostly been those of poorly hidden amusement. A bit of fear may have been mixed in as well—fear of what Derudin the Wise might do in reprisal. A conflagration that would fill the room perhaps, scorching all in attendance to death merely to be rid of the fat man and his silks. Cassen had no such fear, however. He'd dealt with worse men—far worse. Derudin did not frighten him, nor did he believe there to be any truth to the tales of his ability to conjure lightning or flames, or that he could do any form of magic save for amusing children and dolts with some sleight of hand. Derudin was a fraud, a man elevated to greatness by wizardly garb and a white beard, a man not so different from himself if he were to be quite honest.
But not as clever, not by half.

No fireballs had erupted, and Derudin simply left the room without further words. Since both men curried great favor with the king, Lyell decreed that they would attend alternating council meetings except when dictated by extenuating circumstances. But Cassen had no trouble finding reasons to attend the majority of meetings. His command over Eastport meant he controlled a handsome portion of the kingdom's income, and there were always problems of great import when it came to the kingdom's coin. Gradually, Derudin attended fewer and fewer meetings of the High Council until he was no longer expected to appear at all. He remained the King's First and still had the king's ear and trust, but it was well known that commoners joked, if Derudin was the First, Cassen must surely be the queen.

A gentle knock sounded on Cassen's door followed by a servant boy announcing with what he must have thought to be distinguished inflection. “Young Lady Amalee here to see you, Duchess.”

The boy's voice was like vomit in Cassen's ears. He could tell from the sound of it exactly where in Eastport this new addition to his staff was from—a shithole in the northeastern section of the city sheltered to darkness by the King's Arm, the Wall to End All Wars.

“She may enter,” Cassen said.

In walked a young girl, old enough to have flowered but not so old as to be called a woman. She was dressed in commoner's clothes and had the fresh, enticing look of a girl who belonged to a neighbor and was off limits due to social decorum, age, or both. The boy servant shut the door behind her, sealing her inside with Cassen as he turned to face her with steepled fingers.
I will have to remember to replace that boy.

The girl held her wrist at her stomach while staring at her feet, avoiding eye contact. Cassen looked her up and down, examining her as one might a horse sans the touching.

She then performed what must have been a nervous attempt at a curtsey, appearing to Cassen more like she was about to piss on his carpet.
I will find a home for this one
, he thought,
but she will first require some work…as do they all.

“Turn,” he commanded. The girl hesitantly obeyed. Not much in the breasts, but the firm, plump buttocks made up for it, he decided.
A loving home indeed.

“What is your name, young one? Your
real
name.”

“Amalee Stonesmith,” she squeaked.

The speed with which he was able to reach her and smack her on the cheek seemed to startle her more than that of being struck. Tears welled in her eyes and began cascading over her bottom lids, but she did not sob or turn away.

“Your name is
Lady
Amalee. You have no other name. You have no common house name.”

Cassen embraced the girl, and after a moment the sobbing began. It was a soft and practiced embrace, like that of a mother to her daughter—for that was his role to play in this charade.

“Your name has not changed much, but I would rather you not consider it changed at all. Know that you have always been a lady. You will forever act as a lady should. It is true, you will be a servant to whatever master I can find for you, but you must erase from your mind the notion that you were ever less than what you now are, a
lady
.” Cassen paused and raised the girl's chin with his hand. “Remember that, my lady daughter, and I will keep you safe and well cared for.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crella felt her pulse throbbing in her temples as her eyes went to the near perfect bosom of the woman at her doorstep. The suckling infant did little to cover the flesh of her single bared breast, a specimen tauntingly more ample than Crella's own.

“I assure you, you are mistaken.” Crella showed the young woman a wan smile and spoke calmly. “My husband has no need for the services of whores.”

As she closed the door behind her, Crella was forced to confront the falsity of her words. There may not have been a married man in the kingdom more in need of such services than Alther—but that would be no excuse, had he made use of them. Crella strode with a mask of feigned serenity to her husband's quarters. She knew she would find no evidence of impropriety there, but still her mind was full of images of harlot's clothing strewn about.

The room was in utter disarray. That was, in her opinion at least, for there was a pillow askew on a chair, the drapes lacked a certain amount of symmetry in the way they were drawn, and worst of all, a thin layer of dust had started to gather on the armoire. Hard to detect by the untrained eye perhaps, but Crella could see undeniably that dust was beginning to take.

With the aid of a purposefully deep breath, Crella felt herself calming. Had her husband truly been responsible for the multitude of pregnant and nursing women that visited their door, he would not have committed the act here. Nonetheless, the predictable sight before her somehow assured her of what she had already concluded: that the whores were sent by another, most likely Lyell. It was not enough that the king had stolen her kingdom, killed her aunt, and forced Crella to marry his son; he sought to demoralize and degrade her without end. But after sixteen years of provocation, Crella was not so easily brought to anger.

She looked again at the room.
Aunt Adella would have had her servants impaled for this disgrace. Perhaps her husband as well, should she have had one.
But Crella was not her aunt, nor was Crella the queen.

Alther was like to have recently sat in the chair to finish lacing his boots, peered out the drapes to check the weather, and not allowed a servant entrance for a dusting in well over a day—and it was just this lack of concern for decorum that infuriated Crella, nearly more than his father's persecution of her. As if it were not enough that Alther had left to do the one thing she detested most, having begged him to stop on countless occasions, but hunting was in the blood of the men of House Redrivers.
It is a vile Northman tradition, the killing of wild animals for sport.
Indeed, when he came home from a hunt, he knew by now to keep well and good away from Crella, lest he know her wrath.

Alther was no Northman in truth; the temperate climate of Rivervale could scarcely be considered northerly. Adeltian nobility, still bitter after having surrendered their kingdom, enjoyed labeling Rivervalians as such as a means of reproach. Puerile though it may be, Crella reminded herself that she had surrendered more than just a kingdom.

Crella shouted for her small staff of two, and they soon appeared before her.

“How is it that I have come to discover the conditions of these quarters without also finding you doing what is necessary to remedy them?” she demanded.

Crella noted the honest worry in the eyes of the two old women, but she did not soften her own countenance. To be any less than dutifully firm, even with these two, would be an error. “Show an ounce of weakness to one, and all will take from you a pound,” Aunt Adella had told her. It was a lesson Crella did not truly grasp until she later found it to be true.

The two servants dragged themselves inside as quickly as their decrepit bones could manage and began to haphazardly wander about the room shifting things in and out of place trying to both look busy and guess what tiny detail Crella wanted attended to.

“The pillow, please.”

The elder of the two servants returned to the chair and righted the pillow, brushed it with a lint comb and righted it once more, still failing in her effort to ensure exact placement. Crella sucked at her teeth as if it was all she could do to not discipline the crone for having performed the task improperly but was letting it pass to demonstrate her leniency.

These hags are simply not up to the task.
It was true, a younger staff with keener eyes and more dexterous wrists would have seen the room cleaned twice as quickly and to a higher level of perfection. She had witnessed it firsthand while visiting her friend. Nora, married to a successful spice merchant, had her palatial estate cared for by a staff of three lady servants. Those dove-like girls flew around with fastidiousness, making sure every corner was cleaned, every pillow turned, every inch of fine fabric free of stray hair and lint. To say it irked Crella that the wife of a merchant would have a domicile better cared for than the princess and wife of the heir to the throne would be an understatement. She and Alther could easily afford the young servants, but there were other complications Crella sought to avoid. She did not like the idea of such creatures buzzing around her husband. One did not have an eye as keen as Crella's without spotting more than just motes of dust and asymmetry. She saw the way men peered at the lovely birds from the corners of their eyes like wolves in a henhouse.
Rabid wolves in a chickhouse, more the like
.

But there was more to it than the potential for her husband to stray. Gibes aside, his Rivervalian lineage made him more trustworthy than the Adeltian men Crella had come to know since the end of the war. Just as she did not believe him to partake in whoring, she did not truly fear that he would take a lady servant to bed.
What difference would it make, should you see him peering at them?
It was a conversation she'd had with herself already.
You do not love the man.
Nonetheless, the thought of seeing in his eyes that he desired another was not a welcome one. Crella could read a man by his eyes, and Alther's hid very little.

She could not so easily read a
duchess
, however. Crella had nothing but contempt for the pasty Duchess of Eastport. His every feature, from his grossly short-cropped hair to his pastel silken slippers, turned her stomach for reasons she could not fully define. Hiring lady servants meant having to meet with Cassen to select the workers and discuss the terms, and she had no desire to speak to let alone do business with him. Cassen had served as an apprentice to Crella's late uncle, Calder, the former Duke of Eastport. It was a time of which she would rather not be reminded.

It was certainly not customary for a duke or duchess to be involved in what was tantamount to running a high-end maid service; however, Cassen was certainly not a duchess bound by common custom. It was a bit of a mystery to all as to why he would continue in the lowly business of servant management, but none could argue with the quality of his product. His lady servants were the best trained, fastest working, most obedient of servants. They were also the most expensive. They shared nothing in common, it seemed, with their ostentatious proprietor. They were paragons of civility and were renowned throughout the kingdom for pleasing—most of all—their masters' wives with their demure nature and tireless work.

But I would be their master
, she thought,
not Alther. How nice it would be to have some daughterly company in the home.
Crella had felt the absence of her daughter more than she had expected since Ethel left to attend school in the Adeltian Throne. Headstrong though she was, Ethel had at least begun to dress and act the part of a lady, giving her mother some reprieve. Crella would have much preferred that Ethel had joined her in embroidery, but with Ethel's living room chair empty at nights, there was no denying how much Crella wished to have her daughter there with some book in her lap.
A lady servant is no replacement for a daughter
, she conceded sullenly.

Crella glanced around the room a final time, watching as one of the women fought her own curved spine in an attempt to reach under Alther's bed.
Such a shame,
Crella thought in surrender,
but I must simply endure this imperfection.

And yet the next day, Crella found herself being escorted by one of Cassen's many boy servants to his grand chamber's door. She could not live with the state of her home any longer and required professional services…
for my sanity
, she reasoned.

“Her Majesty Princess Crella to see you,” said the boy after three fast and gentle knocks. Cassen was predisposed to addressing people with titles above their station, something he must have trained his boys to do as well. It was flattery to some, but others more rightly took offense. At best it was delivered with playful mischief, but Crella knew it to be a tool used to put off-balance and provoke—and she would be neither.

“Your Grace, you honor me.” With the words, Cassen performed a nimble curtsey in spite of his corpulence. He was covered by his usual silks, wrapped around him in some haphazard fashion. His jowls were weak and saggy, but his face appeared thinner in person than memory served.
Perhaps he is ill.

“Please,” said Crella, already uncomfortable in his presence. “I am here against my better judgment to employ some of your ladies.”

“Ah yes.” Cassen's face was aglow, not put off in the least by her quip. “But I must insist you understand that it is I alone who
employ
my ladies, I who house and protect them. They perform their services from the moment the Dawnstar first ascends in the east until it disappears to the west.” Cassen raised a finger. “They return under strict curfew in spite of any commands to the contrary. You and yours may be their master for a time, but I will forever be their employer, their guardian…their mother.”

“All of that is fine. As one would expect of someone in my position, I am quite busy with no time to discuss every intricacy of your…
business
.” It was true, Crella did have a tea sipping scheduled with Nora for later that night. “I wish to hire your ladies for their services and with haste. If that is too much to ask I will find services elsewhere.”

Cassen appeared to have found this most amusing, letting out a silent giggle with raised shoulders. “Oh, Your Majesty must not mean the women of Shal'sezar! They will remain in your company overnight if that is what you and your
husband
desire, but I must insist, if cleanliness is what you seek you must look elsewhere. And I do believe there is little where else to look.”

Crella felt the heat building under her skin.
This pig of a man insults me to my face.
Why the king allows him to remain in power is beyond my comprehension.
Though his insults were indirect, the intention seemed not. She sought to calm herself in the way her husband always suggested. Alther did not respond to her tantrums like most men—in kind with rage of their own, or worse yet with the back of a hand. He would show a stolid smile and tell her that in times of rage one should seek the void. She never had allowed him to know she ever took this advice, and receiving it only angered her further. But she now sought to clear her mind and let her muscles relax, finding she was able to better retain her composure.

“Duchess Cassen, I have no wish to trade insinuations and insults as it is neither becoming nor entertaining. I will see your lady servants for selection or be on my way.”

Cassen studied her so intently it made her wish to shy away. “My sincerest of apologies, Princess Crella. I meant no disrespect. A mother is ever so protective of her daughters. You must understand.” Cassen clapped his hands twice and a long procession of lady servants streamed waiflike into the room. “These are among the ladies in training not yet assigned to masters. As you must know, there is a lengthy period of waiting between selection and the completion of training, after which services can begin. I wish that I could have before you fully-trained ladies from which to select; however, it seems demand far outstrips the supply, and it is all I can do to find, train, and house enough ladies for this small corner of the kingdom.”

Crella braced herself for the hatred she would surely feel toward these girls when she laid eyes upon them. A few were very young, but most had surely flowered. They were all so innocent and naïve, like a row of frightened deer staring politely downward—not at their own feet, which would be rude, but aimed at the knees of those who would command them.
Already quite well trained, it would appear.
These were not
ladies
, in her opinion; these were obedient girls. The hatred she thought she would feel was not present, yet she still felt Cassen's use of the term lady to describe them quite disrespectful. True ladies earned their titles properly, through birth or marriage.