Excerpt: A King's Man

The King's Man

by Nix Winter

If the palace was a ship, it would be some ship at the bottom of the ocean, one sturdy skeleton settled into another, until there were more rooms than a person could count, more lives swimming through the windows than was ever really intended to be in such a small space. Like some sea bottom graveyard, those that got into the palace usually had no plans to be going anywhere else. It made Faith's feet itch just a little every time he closed the door to his room. No ship had ever been quite like his room either, with warm polished maple wood floors, a matching four poster bed, two fire places, each the size of a dining table, and enough gold painted onto the other bits of furniture to pay for a couple of really decent ships.

Tall glass doors opened onto a wooden balcony, bowed and railed like the balcony out the back of his room on The Gale. High enough in the West Wing, from his balcony, he could see all the way out over Low Town to the harbor, and the hundreds of ships bobbing, dancing under the mid-day sun. Hands on the warm polished railing, Faith wondered if really could pick out The Gale from here. His first mate would be taking care of provisions, sorting out the last minute details of their mission, but that would be for tomorrow. He turned his back to the harbor and strode back into his room. A man could wear several names and this morning he was Consort, not Captain nor Lord High Admiral.

Even after years of being the King's Consort, the unmoving ground beneath his boots made it hard for him to judge time, gave everything a slightly dream-like feel. The lack of servants meant the day was likely younger than he thought it was. He rubbed the base of his thumb, willing away nerves and impatience. Time just moved differently with the flow of the ocean, and sometimes it felt that it moved not at all on still ground. He'd made up his bed, put on the black velvet pants and flowing white linen shirt that his valet had left for him, washed his hair with the pitcher, over the balcony before that, and really there wasn't much left to do before he got down to business for the day. The day wasn't going to have enough candle marks in it anyway, not to really make sure everything went well.

The Lord High Admiral's family was coming to the palace.

There would be five hundred and nineteen guests at the ball to celebrate his birth. Only three really mattered as he paced. His two mothers could save or sink a soul with just a glare and a sharp word, but his father, who was immune to both of them, could never stem the flow of meaningless words. He was quicksand. They were lightening, and Faith was pretty sure that his well being in the world was made of glass.

Determination swirled up within him. Glass was best for plates, and plates needed sandwiches, and no where in all the world was the bread better than the palace kitchens. Snickering softly, he opened the servant side door to his room, peeked into the narrow hall like a boy about to skip out of lessons, smiled at the silent emptiness and let himself out of his room. Quickly, he ran down the stairs, flight after flight. The kitchens were a good twenty-five floors down, just above the laundries. The servant stairs let out in a large, rather drab looking dining area, that he knew from experience doubled as a staging area for all manner of things that had to go up into the palace. He also knew that getting down into the servant's areas was easier than getting back up. He'd come to accept that he was bred on the lull of the ocean and the palace servants were bread on drab and counting off objects, all manner of objects.
The kitchens though, were different than the staging area and the servants that scurried around like ants in the walls. There a brick arch way, down another set of scrubbed brick stairs made redder by the glow coming from the great bellowing ovens. It took enough people to crew a frigate class ship to man the kitchens. Dozens of bakers, that and more children peeling vegetables, fruits, doing little jobs that probably never came to a close, and all the other jobs that Faith didn't even have names for. Dogs ran on wheels, turning rotisseries, and always worried the dogs had to run more than they wanted to, but it wasn't really his domain. The head cook, a woman who could think about more things in one moment than Faith ever wanted trying to get into his thoughts at one time, promised him that the dogs were well cared for and never wanted for food.

Hands in his pockets, pockets he'd insisted on, even though a proper lord wasn't supposed to have pockets, he'd been told quite solemnly, he ghosted into the kitchen. He sidestepped a hand cart of dead birds, slipping down an isle between tables where people were working on ornate food sculpture things that were probably for the ball, but he still wasn't sure exactly how they were supposed to be edible. He'd just about made it to another table, where a dozen roast turkeys were being sliced, when the Head Cook caught him.

“Your Lordship.” She said, words like dripping ice.

He pursed his lips, arched blond eyebrows, tried to fix a serious amount of innocent in green eyes and turned with a smile. “Susan Cady!” He held out his hands, “A more lovely and welcome sight I could not have hoped for.”

Every bit as tall as he was and twice his width, short brown hair standing all on end, she glared at him with gray eyes that tallied him up to little more than an unwanted intrusion that had yet to manifest it's true calamity. “Your Lordship.” She bowed with perfunctory politeness. A peculiar and slightly predatory silence rippled out from her through the immense kitchens. “I thought we'd discussed how to get food sent up from the kitchens.”

“Yes,” he said, head tilted. “I didn't think a sandwich would be such a great difficulty, with the bread still warm and all. You're making the bread pudding?”

“Yeah,” she said, “Enough servings to set His Majesty's table.” From her tone, she'd probably rather have served stone soup.

“It's my mother's recipe,” Faith pointed out, standing up just a little bit straighter. “She'll be sitting at the table with the king, tonight.”

“Aye! But she didn't cook anything today, did she?”

Faith smirked. “Oh... I don't know. Maybe she'll bring some treats with her. It is my birthday.”

Susan's eye twitched.

“Come on,” Faith said, taking a step closer. “I know I could have a sandwich sent up, but the bread would not be warm and I've been to every city in the world, but no one makes bread as good as you Susan Cady. It's the celebration of my life today and I so longed for your bread.”

“Alright, Your Lordship. Bread, turkey, we'll fix you a sandwich. The Lady's recipe is not all bad,” Susan begrudged.

“You have cranberries for the sandwich too? And fresh milk?”

“You don't eat like a lord.”

Some girl whispered just a touch too loudly, “That's why he's not got arms like a lord.”

“Hush you!” Susan growled and sucked the oxygen out of all the conversational fire. “Back to work! We have a ball today, people! Work!”

While conversation stayed at low tide, the clatter of knives and the slap of food on food surged back up. Faith drew a long breath, sucking in the sweet scent of cloves, honey, cinnamon, turkey, ham, bread, and foods he couldn't separate out, but all of which smelled like he'd landed in the most favorable afterlife his ancestors were ever likely to offer anyone. “This place smells so good.”

Susan gently took hold of his arm pulled him towards her own central area. “You'll get the best experience over here, Your Lordship. Do you want some potatoes too? We did send breakfast up for you, you know?”

Faith melted into the chair she'd offered him. He closed his eyes and sucked in another good breath of the place. “Aside from Nate's or Yee's rooms, this is the best place in the palace.”

She made a small holy sign. “I'm sure their Majesties would disagree. The kitchen's are hot and filled with sweat and blood.”

“If they ever got down here, I'm sure they'd see who wonderful it is. What did you think of that coco I brought back?”