Modern Magick

Royalty and Ruin: 4

I didn't, though Jay tried his level best to do so. We went in together, about two and a half minutes after the king and queen had joined their adoring subjects. Apparently Jay wasn't used to my being four feet wide at the ankles, either, for his foot became tangled in reams of silk and we almost toppled over together.

'Oops,' he said, which about covered it.

I waited while he disentangled himself from my dress. 'I'm a public hazard in this thing.'

'I can't think how there weren't more fatal accidents at the Old Court.'

Let me back up a moment. Their Majesties' private mansion, however fine, had nothing on the real heart of Mandridore: the royal palace. A mere seven or eight minutes in the coach was sufficient to convey us to this spectacular building, and as we waited behind the king and queen's coach I had ample time to get an eyeful of it.

Think Buckingham Palace. Then mentally increase it to about three times the size — not just in width or surface area but in height, too. Unsurprisingly, considering our costumes, the palace was resplendent in the architectural styles of the late sixteen hundreds: square, imposing, symmetrical, and ornate, with arches and pilasters and a splendid cupola.

But there were differences between the palace and the generality of seventeenth-century country house style, chief among them being the minor fact that the entire thing was built out of starstone.

Every last bloody inch of it.

Under the soft light of a rising moon, it positively wallowed in that lovely twilight-blue radiance and I felt sick with something like longing.

Unsure why. Living in a humongous, shiny-blue palace would have its moments, no doubt about that, but it would also get old. Footmen everywhere. Always having to dress for dinner; no slouching about in my old comfies with my hair in a mess. That horrible, echoing sense of loneliness that comes from rattling around in far too much space.

I digress.

They don't do red carpets in troll country, they do gold. All the gold. In Their Majesties swept, prancing elegantly up the gilded carpet as music swelled. We followed shortly after, and I was bemused to note that Their Majesties' courtiers seemed as pleased to see Alban as they were to see the king and queen. I'd underestimated his popularity. Again.

I will skip over the next half hour or so, which passed in a blur of silks and jewels and curtseys and titles. I tried to study the interior architecture but the tumult was too distracting; I received fleeting impressions of painted murals and statuary, rich carpets trampled by a great many feet, and other such Baroque fussiness.

Their Majesties looked around for Baron Alban, more than once. The Baron, inexplicably, chose to remain with us. This held true even at dinner, when I was seated on the Baron's right and Jay upon his left. He talked exclusively to us, which was probably rude of him but I appreciated the thought.

On my other side sat a majestic old troll, his silvery hair elegantly coiffed, his amber velvet coat elaborately decorated.

'You keep high company,' he said to me, nodding at Baron Alban.

'We've worked together a time or two,' I replied, grateful for his kindness in not ignoring me but also wishing he might save the polite chitchat for a bit later. The dining parlour at the palace was twelve miles long and the table several miles longer still, I'd swear. Every inch of it was crowded with dishes, and since one of those nearest to me was a kind of floating pudding consisting of a flock of meringue swans sailing over a lake of sweet cream, my priorities clearly lay elsewhere at that moment.