“The pillars,” I say.”The big ones. I want a specific carving near the base.”
He sighs, already knowing what is coming.”Let me guess. An inscription?”
“A seal,” I correct.”In gold leaf. 'Illumination provided by the Fey Embassy. A Gift from Princess Víl?.'“
Joris grins, pocketing the coins.”It will be a pleasure, Princess. We will make the King's tallow dips look like gutter trash.”
“That,” I say, signaling the guards to open the gate,” is entirely the point.”
The sun is high when the Guild of Artisans finally installs the signs. They are magnificent. Heavy slabs of polished dark wood, banded in iron and hung from the stone pillars of the main gates. The lettering is laid in gold leaf, shimmering in the light.
On the left: Hloir? Aralli? Royal Fey Embassy. On the right: Hloir? Aralli? Royal Fey Bank.
They are written in both the Centis tongue and the flowing script of the High Fey. To the humans, the Fey script looks like elegant decoration; to any Fey, it reads as a territorial marker. Here lies the power of Ellisar. Tread carefully.
I am admiring the artistry when a heavy cart rumbles into the courtyard. It is Albrecht, the Master Potter. He jumps down, looking anxious, wiping his clay-stained hands on his apron.
“Princess,” he puffs, bowing.”The plates are formed. The firing begins tomorrow. But... the platinum. For the Royal Seal. You said you would provide it?”
“I did,” I say. I gesture to Melina, who brings forward a small, unassuming leather pouch.
Albrecht takes it. He nearly drops it.”Gods! It is heavy.”
“Platinum is dense, Albrecht,” I say.”And durable. Open it.”
He loosens the strings and peers inside. He pulls out a small ingot, staring at it in the sunlight. It is pure and unblemished, shining with a cold, white light.
“This is... this is enough for ten services,” he stammers.
“I want the seal to be thick,” I instruct him.”I want Oskar to feel the ridge of his own crest when he scrapes his fork across it. I want him to know that the metal in his plate is worth more than the table he sits at.”
Albrecht grins, tucking the ingot back into the pouch.”And the inscription on the back?”
“Do not forget it,” I warn. ”If I turn over a plate and do not see my name, I will turn over the Guild.”
Albrecht laughs, a hearty sound. ”It will be done, My Lady. The King will be eating off your charity by the Feast of Herta the Martyr.”
He rattles away in his cart, leaving me to survey the courtyard. It is clean, expansive, and currently empty. It needs life.
“Melina,” I say, turning to my lady-in-waiting. "We need to celebrate the opening of the Bank. A Grand Opening. A garden party, right here in the courtyard.”
Melina looks around at the stone walls and the guards. ”A party here? With the construction?”
“We will use tents,” I say. ”Silk pavilions. Flowers. Music. I want every noblewoman in Dobile to attend. I want them to see that the Fey Embassy is a place of safety and luxury.”
“I can arrange the food,” Melina says.” Rekke has already offered to cater. But... organizing a guest list of that size? Managing the protocol? I am a lady's maid, Princess, not a socialite.”
“Then we need a professional,” I decide. ”Who organizes the best parties in Dobile? Not the stuffy court dinners, but the ones people actually enjoy?”
Melina thinks for a moment. ”There is Birgit. She used to manage the Queen's garden parties before... well, before Oskar cut the entertainment budget. She lives in the merchant quarter now.”
“Send for her,” I command.
Birgit arrives within the hour. She is a bustling woman with graying hair tucked under a severe cap and eyes that miss nothing. She walks into the courtyard, looks at the paving stones, looks at the walls, and then looks at me.
“The acoustics are terrible.” This is the first thing she says. ”And the wind coming off the river will blow the wigs off the Baronesses.”
I smile. I like her immediately.
“I can fix the wind,” I say. ”And we will hang tapestries to dampen the sound. Can you fill this space with three hundred people by the end of the week?”
Birgit snorts. ”For a Fey Princess? I could fill it with three thousand. Everyone is dying to see inside these walls. The curiosity is thicker than the mud used to be on this street.”
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
“Good,” I say. ”I want tents in green and gold, just like their uniforms. I want musicians who know how to play something other than dirges. And I want the wine to flow like water.”
“And the guest list?” Birgit asks, pulling out a notepad. ”The usual court roster?”
“Invite the men,” I say. ”But this party... this party is for the women.”
I lean in closer to Birgit and Melina.”I need a specific setup. I want a large pavilion in the center for dancing and eating. I want a tent for the men to gather with their whiskey and their cards. But I want a smaller, private tent near the Vault entrance. Make it look like a 'Ladies' Retiring Room'. Comfortable chairs, heavy curtains for privacy, perhaps a healer or a seamstress on hand for... emergencies.”
Birgit raises an eyebrow. ”And what sort of emergencies are we expecting?”
“Financial ones,” I say softly.
I look at Melina. ”This is the most important part. You must circulate among the ladies, Ina, Grethe, Lilli, all of them. You must whisper it to them. Tell them that the Retiring Room is not just for fixing a hem.”
I tap the sign that reads Hloir? Aralli? Royal Fey Bank.
“Tell them that inside that tent, there will be a clerk, Gerhardt, I think. He will have a ledger that no other man will ever see. Tell them that the Fey Bank does not require a husband's signature. Tell them we accept deposits of any size or any type, including jewelry, coins, plates, or any other valuable they may have. And tell them that if they deposit it here, it stays here. Safe. Untouchable. Theirs.”
Birgit stares at me. Her mouth opens, then closes. A look of fierce understanding dawns in her eyes. She knows the laws of Centis. She knows that every woman in this city is one bad marriage or one dead husband away from poverty.
“A secret ledger,” Birgit whispers. ”For the women.”
“We call it the 'Widow's Fund',” I say. ”Or the 'Running Away Fund'. I do not care what we call it. I just want them to know that for the first time in the history of Centis, they have a place to put their money where Oskar and his cronies cannot touch it.”
Birgit snaps her notebook shut. Her face is set in a grim, determined smile.
“I will need extra heavy curtains for that tent,” she says. ”And loud music near the entrance. To drown out the sound of coins clinking.”
“Get whatever you need, “I say, handing her a bag of gold. ”Make it beautiful, Birgit. Make it the event of the season. I want every woman in Dobile to walk out of here with a full stomach and a secret account number.”
Sighing, I look at Melina. “We still have to visit the potters to view the glaze samples and the silversmiths to see how they’re doing on the designs.”
Melina nods, “I have the scrap of cloak wool that you asked for.”
The heat in the Guild of Potters is stifling, a dry, dusty warmth that tastes of baked earth and woodsmoke. It is a stark contrast to the crisp autumn air outside, but I do not mind. Heat is the smell of progress.
Albrecht meets us at the door to the main kiln room. He looks exhausted, his face streaked with soot, but there is a gleam of triumph in his eyes.
“Princess,” he greets me, wiping his hands on a rag that is now more gray than white. ”You are just in time. The first test tiles have cooled.”
“I trust they are satisfactory?” I ask, stepping carefully over a pile of raw clay.
“See for yourself,” Albrecht says, leading me to a worktable near a window where the light is best.
Laid out on the table are several square tiles, each glazed in a variation of blue. Albrecht hovers over them like a nervous parent.
“Getting the exact shade of 'Royal Blue' is difficult with mineral glazes,” he explains, pointing to a tile that looks almost purple. ”Cobalt can be unpredictable in a wood-fired kiln. Too much heat, it goes black. Too little, it looks gray.”
I reach into my bag and pull out a swatch of heavy wool, a cutting from the cloaks I provided to the Royal Guard. I lay the fabric next to the tiles.
I dismiss the purple one immediately. I push aside a pale, watery blue that looks like a bruised sky.
Then I point to the center tile. It is deep, rich, and lustrous. It is the color of the midnight sky just before total darkness, or the deepest part of the ocean. It matches the wool perfectly.
“This one,” I say, tapping the tile with a fingernail. ”This is Oskar's Blue.”
Albrecht lets out a breath. ”That is the expensive mixture. High-grade cobalt oxide mixed with a touch of copper.”
“I did not ask for the cheap mixture, Albrecht,” I remind him. ”I asked for the correct one.”
“It shall be done,” he nods. ”Now, the gold.”
He hands me a small saucer. It has been fired with the blue glaze, and around the rim, a band of gold cavorts.
I bring it closer to my eyes. The detail is exquisite. The paintresses have outdone themselves. The pixies are not just generic winged figures; they have personality. One is sticking its tongue out. Another is thumbing its nose. A third appears to be mooning the observer, though it is subtle enough that one might mistake it for a dance move.
“They are... spirited,” I note with a smile.
“My paintresses enjoyed the commission,” Albrecht admits, a twinkle in his eye. ”They said it was refreshing to paint something other than vines and grapes.”
“And the seal?”
Albrecht hands me a dinner plate. It is heavy, substantial. In the center, raised in relief beneath the glaze, is the Royal Seal of Centis, coated in the platinum I provided. It gleams with a cold, hard light against the deep blue background.
“It is perfect,” I say. ”Oskar will not be able to cut his meat without scraping his knife against his own crest.”
I flip the plate over.
There, in fired silver script, sharp and legible against the unglazed ceramic foot, is the inscription: 'Bounty provided by the Fey Embassy. A Gift from Princess Víl?.'
“Excellent,” I say, handing the plate back to him. ”It is heavy enough to be a weapon, and pretty enough to be an insult.”
“We begin full production today,” Albrecht promises. ”The kilns will not sleep for a week.”
“Good,” I say. ”Because I have a party to plan, and I want the King to have his new dishes before the first cork is popped.”
I turn to leave, but pause at the door. ”Albrecht? If you have any 'seconds'—plates with bubbles or slight imperfections, do not destroy them.”
“No?”
“No,” I smile. ”Send them to the barracks. I think the Royal Guard would enjoy eating off plates that match their cloaks. It builds morale.”
Albrecht laughs. ”You are relentless, My Lady.”
“I am thorough,” I correct him. ”There is a difference.”
“The silversmiths?” Melina asks, “If we hurry, we may make it before they close.”
The Guild of Silversmiths is quieter than the potters’, filled not with the roar of fires but with the high-pitched tink-tink-tink of finishing hammers—the air tastes of hot metal and polishing compound.
Gunter meets us, looking even more harried than he did at our first meeting. He is wearing magnifying lenses over his regular spectacles, giving him the appearance of a startled owl. His fingers are stained black, but he is smiling.
“Princess,” he bows. “We are on schedule. Though my apprentices are complaining that their fingers are cramping from the vines.”
“Art is suffering, Gunter,” I say, sweeping toward the display table. “Show me.”
He unrolls a velvet cloth. Inside lies a single place setting.
Your turn:
- What do you think of her policy of aggressive kindness?
Let me know your answer in the comments.