From the Guild of Mercenaries, we take the carriage to the district of the kilns. The air here is drier, thick with the smell of woodsmoke and wet earth. The Guild of Potters is a sprawling brick building, its chimneys belching smoke into the gray sky. I step out, Melina trailing me with her ledger, and Inaba looming silently behind. The interior is a hive of activity. Wheels are spinning, clay is being slapped onto tables, and apprentices are scurrying with trays of unfired gray shapes.

  A man with forearms the size of cured hams and a leather apron stiff with dried clay approaches. He wipes his hands on a rag, though it does little to remove the gray dust.

  "Albrecht," he says, bowing stiffly. "Guildmaster of Potters. We are busy, My Lady. Unless you need a chamber pot, we have a waiting list."

  "I am Princess Víl?," I announce, ignoring his gruffness. "And I have noticed a tragedy at the palace."

  Albrecht blinks. "A tragedy, My Lady?"

  "The King's table," I say with a shudder. "Chipped earthenware. Mismatched glazes. It is… distressing. It is unhygienic. A monarch cannot rule effectively if he is eating off pottery that looks like it was dug out of a midden."

  Albrecht grunts. "The King hasn't commissioned a new service in twenty years. He says the old plates still hold soup."

  "Well, the Fey Embassy wishes to present him with a gift," I say. "A full service. Three hundred settings. Dinner plates, soup bowls, serving platters, chargers, and goblets and whatever else he might need."

  Albrecht whistles. "That is a year's work."

  "You have two weeks," I counter, reaching into my purse. The sound of gold clinking together stops the nearest potter wheel. "I am paying double for priority, and triple for the rush."

  Albrecht’s eyes narrow, calculating. "What is the design?"

  "Simple, yet elegant," I say. "I want the base glaze to be Royal Blue. The exact shade of the Guard's new cloaks. Deep, rich, and commanding. The official color of Centis."

  "Done," Albrecht nods. "And the crest?"

  "The Royal Seal of Centis in the center, of course," I say demurely. "In platinum, not silver. I will provide the materials."

  "A fine plate," Albrecht agrees. "Fit for a King."

  "However," I add, my voice turning silky. "The border along the edge. It must be gold. Real gold leaf, fired into the glaze so it does not flake."

  "Gold rims are standard for nobility," Albrecht shrugs.

  "Not a plain band," I correct him. "I want a border. Intricate. Detailed." I pull a sketch from my sleeve, one I drew quickly in the carriage. "Dancing pixies."

  Albrecht takes the parchment. He stares at it. The sketch shows a ring of tiny, mischievous Fey creatures holding hands and dancing around the edge of the plate. They are laughing. Some are making rude gestures, but it's likely only obvious to another Fey. Our rude hand gestures aren’t the same as human ones. It is subtle, but undeniable.

  "Pixies?" Albrecht asks, looking up at me. "On the King's plates?"

  "It symbolizes… joy," I reply smoothly. "And the magic of our new alliance. It is a protective motif. In my culture, pixies ward off… sour dispositions."

  Albrecht looks at the gold coin I have placed on the table. Then he looks at the sketch. A slow grin spreads through his beard.

  "Dancing pixies," he agrees. "In gold. Circling the King."

  "Precisely," I smile. "I want him to see them every time he finishes a meal. I want him to scrape his spoon against them. I want him to feel just how warmly we regard him when he eats from dishes provided by the Fey."

  "We will need to hire extra hands for the detail work," Albrecht muses. "Paintresses. The deftest hands in the city."

  "Hire them," I say, dropping a second bag of coins. "Pay them well. And ensure the pixies look… lively."

  Albrecht pockets the gold. "Consider it done, Princess. We will fire the kilns night and day."

  I turn to leave, satisfied. "Oh, and Albrecht?"

  "Yes, My Lady?” he asks.

  "Make sure the King's personal plate has the fattest, happiest pixie right at the twelve o'clock position," I say with a wink. "I want it staring him in the eye."

  As we walk back to the carriage, Melina is shaking her head. "He is going to smash them."

  "He cannot," I reply. "They are a diplomatic gift. Smashing them would be an insult to Ellisar. No, Melina. He will have to eat off them. Every. Single. Day."

  I pause at the carriage door, a final wicked thought striking me. I turn back to the Guildmaster.

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  "Albrecht," I say, raising a finger. "One last detail. The underside of the plates."

  "The underside, My Lady? No one looks there." Albrecht looks confused.

  "Servants look there," I correct him. "And Oskar will look there when he inevitably flips one over to check for a maker's mark to see if it is worthy of him. I want an inscription. In fired silver script, right in the center."

  Albrecht grabs his charcoal. "And what should it say?"

  I smile, a predator observing a trap snap shut. "It should match the guards' cloaks. Write: 'Bounty provided by the Fey Embassy. A Gift from Princess Víl?.'"

  Albrecht snorts, a cloud of gray dust puffing from his mustache. "He will choke on his roast."

  "Then he should chew carefully," I reply. "See that it is done."

  Snorting, Albrecht nods. As we climb into the carriage,

  Melina’s mouth twitches slightly. “You know that he’ll need new silverware to go with the new plates. The King… he is currently eating with pewter that generations of angry monarchs have bent. And the few silver pieces he has are tarnished and mismatched. He cannot eat off Fey porcelain with bent tin spoons. It would look… ridiculous.”

  I turn to her, a slow smile spreading across my face. “Melina, you have the soul of a courtier. You are absolutely right. The contrast would be jarring. We must save him from such embarrassment.”

  I tap on the roof of the carriage. “Driver! To the Guild of Silversmiths.”

  The Guildhall of Silversmiths is a far cleaner establishment than the potters’. It smells of polish and metallic dust. We enter to the sound of a thousand tiny hammers tapping against metal. It is a rhythmic, musical tinkling that is almost pleasant.

  The Guildmaster, a wiry man with spectacles thick as bottle bottoms and fingers stained black with tarnish, hurries over. He adjusts his lenses, squinting at my dress.

  “Gunter,” he introduces himself, his voice high and reedy. “We do not sell retail here, Madam. The jewelry district is three streets over.”

  “I am not here for trinkets, Gunter,” I say, sweeping into the room. “I am Princess Víl?. And I am here to discuss the King’s cutlery.”

  Gunter sighs, a long, suffering sound. “Has he lost another fork? We told the Steward we cannot match that pattern anymore. The mold was broken fifty years ago.”

  “We are not matching it,” I declare. “We are replacing it. All of it. I want the old service melted down. You can use it to help make this set. I require a new service for three hundred. Solid silver. Heavy enough to know you are holding wealth, but balanced enough to dance in the hand.”

  Gunter perks up. “A new service? For the King?”

  “A gift,” I correct him. “From the Fey Embassy. But, Gunter, I do not want standard human designs. No boring crests. No simple fluted handles.” I walk over to a display table and pick up a sample knife. It is straight, dull, and uninspired. I drop it back onto the table with a clatter. “I want nature,” I say, turning to him. “I want the cutlery to look as though it grew from the table.”

  Gunter blinks behind his thick glasses. “Grew, My Lady?”

  “Precisely.” I take his chalk and sketch on his slate, enough for him to see what I mean. “The handles must look like twisted oak branches,” I explain. “Knotted and textured, yet smooth to the touch. The knives… the blades should curve slightly, like the leaf of a willow tree.” Gunter leans in, fascinated despite himself.“The spoons,” I continue, “must have bowls shaped like deep flower petals, tulips or lilies should do. And the forks… the tines should splay slightly, like the roots of a sapling reaching into the earth.”

  “That is… unconventional,” Gunter mutters. “The casting will be difficult. The polishing…”

  “And,” I add, ignoring his fretfulness, “intertwined in the oak branches of the handles, I want rose vines and roses of gold. Real gold, inlaid into the silver.”

  “Gold and silver mixed? It is a difficult bond to forge,” Gunter warns.

  “I have faith in your skill,” I say, placing a bag of Fey gold on the table. It lands with a heavy, persuasive thud. “And your motivation.”

  Gunter weighs the bag in his hand. “Flower petals. Oak branches. Willow leaves. Gold vines. It will be… organic. Very Fey.”

  “That is the point,” I smile. “When the King picks up his knife to cut his meat, I want him to feel the forest in his hand. I want him to know what he means to the Fey.”

  Gunter stares at me, a little shiver running through him, though he quickly masks it with a cough. “And the… branding, My Lady? The potters mentioned a specific request for the underside.”

  “News travels fast,” I note with approval. “Yes. On the back of every handle, where his thumb might rest, I want it engraved.”

  “The standard inscription? He asks.

  “The standard Embassy inscription,” I correct. “‘Bounty provided by the Fey Embassy. A Gift from Princess Víl?.’”

  Gunter nods, scribbling on a slate. “It will be done. Though I fear the King may find the oak knots uncomfortable if he grips his fork too tightly in anger.”

  I laugh, a bright, sharp sound. “Then let us hope he learns to relax while he eats. Have the first setting sent to the palace within the week. I want to see him try to bend a Fey-silver spoon.”

  It’s growing late, and time for us to return to the palace for dinner. I tip the guards at this new gate and have the carriage drop us off near a less-used entrance.

  I step out, feeling quite pleased with the day’s work. But as I enter the foyer, the atmosphere shifts instantly. The air is heavy, static, like the moment before a lightning strike. King Oskar is waiting. He is not lounging or lurking in the shadows this time. He stands in the center of the hall, legs planted wide, his hands clasped behind his back. He is not smiling. There is no wine cup in his hand, no lecherous gleam in his eye. His face is pale, his jaw set so hard a muscle twitches in his cheek.

  He looks sober. And he looks furious. I signal Inaba to hold back. This is not a physical threat. This… this is a battle of wills. I dip into a curtsy, low and perfectly respectful. "Your Majesty. To what do I owe the honor of such a greeting?" Oskar does not bow back.

  He steps forward, his voice low and trembling with suppressed rage. "Do you think I am a fool, Víl??"

  "I think you are a King with many burdens," I reply smoothly. "I merely seek to lighten them."

  "You are not lightening them," he hisses, closing the distance between us. "You are undermining them. You are stripping the gold from my crown and replacing it with your own coin." He gestures violently toward the door, where the guards are standing. "My subjects walk on your road. My sleep is broken by your light. And now..." He takes a step closer, his eyes cold. "Now I hear you are replacing my table setting. Why? Is my silver not good enough for a Viscount's wife?"

  "It is not about being good enough, Your Majesty," I say, keeping my voice level. "It is about the image of Centis. Foreign dignitaries will come. Other investors from places far outside Fey territory, drawn here by our activity. Your chipped dishes speak of poverty. So do your bent spoons and warped forks. As the head of the bank, I was hoping to help you make a good impression on them when they arrive."

  "Do not lie to me!" Oskar shouts, his voice cracking like a whip in the stone hall. "This is not about dignitaries. This is about humiliation. You are painting me as a pauper in my own court. You are making me look like a beggar living on the charity of a foreign Princess."

  I straighten, dropping the mask of the helpful guest just enough to show the steel beneath. "If the shoe fits, Your Majesty, perhaps you should ask why it pinches so much."

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