Brian McClellan - Servant of the Crown

“Predictable and sloppy,” Erika said clinically. “You can be as fast as lightning and a good duelist will still beat you. How about this; you teach me to shoot and to use my powers, and I’ll teach you how to fence. Deal?”

Tamas had never been so easily beaten in his life. He tried to cough out a reply.

“Excellent,” she said. “I have time this afternoon. Let us begin.”

Three weeks after his first visit to the Iron King, Tamas was summoned once more to Skyline Palace.

The summons was more immediate-that very evening-and Tamas wondered how the king’s people knew he was in the city, or that he had been in Budwiel last time. Snow had fallen on the city but the palace and its gardens seemed to have been missed by the storm. The bushes were wrapped for the winter and the smaller fountains drained, the gardens much quieter than his last visit.

Inside the palace he was led past the royal chambers and into the king’s billiards room. Like all the rooms in the palace it had vaulted ceilings. The walls were red, the floors black marble, and the light provided by gas lanterns at regular intervals.

Manhouch studied the single billiards table in the middle of the room. He stood on the opposite side from Tamas, a cue held lightly in both hands. He did not look up when Tamas was quietly introduced by one of the royal concubines.

Tamas dropped to one knee ten feet from the table. “My lord summoned me?”

“Yes, he did,” the Iron King said distantly. “You may stand.”

Tamas adopted an attentive stance and wondered whether this would be a repeat of the last time. Was this another visit to annoy the royal cabal? Or was this finally something else?

Perhaps he’d changed his mind about helping Tamas with his hearing?

Manhouch slowly paced around the table, squinting at the one red and two white ivory balls. He tapped the end of the cue gently in one hand before he stopped and lined up a shot. The cue ball ricocheted along the flat walls of the table a dozen times, brushing the other two with each carom, barely moving them.

It was the type of shot that would have won him the night at any officer’s club.

Last visit Tamas had come away thinking that, despite the cabal sorceries that kept him young, the king seemed his advanced age. Slow, impatient, perhaps weakened by age. But now, watching him prowl around the table, his eyes focused, step light, Tamas reconsidered that opinion.

Manhouch XI still had many years left to him.

Tamas watched him take two more shots, considering each for several minutes before setting his cue to the cloth, each shot more masterful than the last. After that third shot Tamas dare to speak up.

“How may I serve you, my lord?”

The king pointed the cue at him. “You may serve me by standing just there and not speaking unless spoken to.”

What was he, a schoolchild? Tamas felt his cheeks warm and a flare of indignity. “Yes, my lord.”

The old king took several more shots over the next twenty minutes. There was only one in which he scored less than six counts on a stroke, and when it happened he swore quietly to himself.

Tamas had seen similar behavior from senior officers. They would call a man in and ignore them for some time, going about a leisure activity like solitaire, letter-writing, billiards, or what-have-you for some time before addressing the subordinate. It was meant as an intimidating tactic. Something to make the victim feel insignificant.

Of course, the king didn’t need to make it clear he was more important than you. The king, if Tamas guessed correctly, was sending an entirely different message. And it was to the royal cabal. Tamas could very well have been as important as a piece of paper.

Tamas let his mind wander to Erika. She has occupied his thoughts quite a lot the last few weeks. More than she should, that was for certain. They had trained nearly every day for at least a few hours, either shooting out in the glen or dueling in an abandoned warehouse in the factory district of Adopest.

She had learned the basics of controlling her powder trance almost immediately, and Tamas had no doubt that she could defeat any two men at a time with her newfound speed and strength. It was remarkable, really. He had never met a woman of that age with such grace and confidence. And the way she smiled at him made him wish that he was half as good a student for her dueling techniques as she was for shooting.

After his tenth shot, Manhouch glanced at the grandfather clock at one end of the billiards room and nodded to himself. “That’s about right,” he said. “You may go.”

Tamas ducked a bow. “Thank you, your majesty. My lord, if I may?”

“You may,” Manhouch glanced at Tamas with some annoyance. “But if you’re about to say anything that isn’t advice in improving my game, I suggest you not.”

“I think it is, my lord.”

Manhouch set the cue on the far end of the table and rolled it beneath his fingers. “Oh, is it? Well then this is something I had better hear.” There was a note of bemusement to his tone, as well as danger. Be careful , it said. You are a worm to me.

“My lord,” Tamas said, swallowing hard, wondering if he were about to commit career, political, and possibly literal suicide all at once. “I’d call your memory back to a couple of weeks ago. I mentioned a hearing in which my status and rank were up for review, and a request that you step in on my behalf?”

Manhouch snatched up his cue, looking somewhat disappointed. “And I told you no. That’s quite enough, Captain. Do not lie to me again.”

“I didn’t, your majesty,” Tamas rushed ahead. “If no one represents me at the hearing I will lose my status and rank, and I will be no more use to you.”

Manhouch paused lining up his next shot, watching Tamas like a cat watches a mouse.

“The cabal will have won,” Tamas finished, his mouth dry.

“I don’t know what you think you know, Captain. But you’ve overstepped your bounds. Leave.”

Tamas tried not to seem as if he were fleeing, but he couldn’t help a hurried step as he left the king’s billiards room.

Tamas left his horse with the boy at the stable down the road from the small house he rented in a northeastern borough of Adopest.

It had begun to snow on his way back from Skyline Palace. Three inches lay on the streets when he left the stable and he guessed there would be that much or more again in the morning, turning to muddy slush with the daily traffic. He could sense that it would be a miserable winter and wished that he was on campaign in sunny, warm Gurla.

There was a chill deep in his bones. He didn’t think even a warm bath would get it out. He had made a terrible mistake with the king. At the very best all chances of future favor were gone. At the worst? He might not even have to wait for a hearing. He could awake in the morning to a message that his rank had been withdrawn and he was back among the non-commissioned soldiers.

The thought left him sick to his stomach, and at first he barely noticed the figure that hurried up from behind and fell into pace beside him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Erika brushed the straw out of her hair and straightened her bicorn. “I was waiting for you in the stables but I fell asleep.”

“I can see that. But what are you doing here?”

“I thought we could go shooting.”

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, trying to decide what she was getting at. She noticed the look and gave him a sly smile. “It’s almost midnight,” he said.

“You said I would have to learn to shoot at night.”

“And it’s snowing.”

“Adverse conditions,” she replied, her smile widening to a grin.