The next morning, Snillek woke before first light. She had to stare at the canopy of her ridiculously huge bed before piecing together where she was. What she was. Right. Up, reluctant princess.
Her lady's maids had strict instructions to wait in the sitting room until Snillek had opened the bedchamber doors. They would already see more of her than anyone else, but this gave her a chance to get into her wig, long-sleeved shift, and fake eyelashes so she wouldn't be too much of a shock for them. Tippa and Allech knew the hair was fake—they were too experienced not to—but they'd accepted that it was temporary while her own too-short-for-a-princess hair grew out.
It worked for now. When Kipcup finally advised her to start shedding some of her disguise. The wig could stay for a bit. It wasn't too bad. Those farking eyelashes, though, would be the first to go.
Even dealing with too much chipper once she'd let them in was bearable, to a certain extent.
"The yellow and green, highness? For your first court session?" Tippa stood in the dressing room doorway with one of the gowns in the obligatory, awful royal colors.
"Ah. Hmm. Maybe something a little more understated today. Some of the court overindulged last night."
Tippa did not giggle. Too proper for that. But she did return with a less-frothy gold gown trimmed in dark green. A nod to the royal house colors in less eye-watering shades. Allech piled the wig's strands on her head in a style that reminded Snillek of a missile's nose cone, but she would never tell him that. Court styles were his skillset, not hers.
By the time her maids had finished with her, breakfast of tea and nibbles waited in the sitting room. Tiny rolls, tiny dumplings, tiny cut vegetables. I guess a princess isn't allowed to get crumbs on her dress. She didn't mind grazing on small things, though, since her insides were flopping around like fish on a sunny rock.
Too restless to sit patiently, Snillek left her suite early. Kipcup would most likely also be early and might have advice for her. Maybe some warnings. Possibly an agenda for that day's session. Did court sessions have agendas?
Her thoughts distracted her so badly that she barely had mental energy left to gather her skirts in her hands when she reached the stairs. Had she been more alert, more situationally aware, she would have stayed on her feet.
She stepped down on the second riser, and something rolled under her right foot. Flailing, she tried to catch herself on the next step down, but another round object lurked there, rolling out from under her left foot. Arm thrust out, she missed the railing and only had time and sense to curl up as she hurtled nose over heels down the stairs.
Booted footsteps sprinted toward her. Shaking, Snillek took a quick inventory. Claws in. Horns in. Wings folded. Tail in. Holy shells and shards.
"My lady!" Her door guards had reached her first. "Are you hurt?"
"Give me a minute," Snillek grumbled as she pushed herself up into an undignified sitting position with her knees splayed wide. That's all right. Stupid gown covers everything. "Just bruised, I think."
Gently, she moved one of her hovering guards aside to see if she could spot what had caused her fall. Little glass orbs in cheerful swirled colors lay scattered all over the stairs. Marbles. Someone had booby-trapped the shards-forsaken stairs with marbles.
"Get those cleared away before someone gets hurt," she ordered with more gruff bark than she'd intended. Too late to take back. The guards scurried to obey. "And see if anyone knows who left those there."
She would've rather been asking the questions herself, but she had court.
"Highness!" Kipcup careened down the hall at a run. Snillek didn't think she'd ever seen him do that before. "They told me—"
"I'm all right. Promise. Just took a bit of a tumble." Snillek nodded up toward the stairs. "Stepped on a couple of marbles."
Kipcup's head jerked up to where the guards were gathering little glass balls. "Did you now? You must be more careful, highness."
If there hadn't been so many people milling about, she had the feeling he would've said more. Instead, he fussed over her hair and gown, put her back together respectably, and offered his arm to escort her to the audience room.
Behind the enormous doors, the courtiers already buzzed about, but unlike the previous evening, no one approached her. She took her throne in regal isolation and waited for the rest of her ministers to arrive while she listened to her court natter about fashion, parties, and wine. Not exactly what she expected in a policy-making body of government.
As she zoned in on individual conversations farther from the throne, she thought those might have been more serious: Lady Norelca in heated conversation with Lord Krakentarp, Kipcup having words with Lord Brightmitt involving many sharp gestures.
Eventually, Lady Higgenblot steamed in, and her arrival marked the beginning of session. Kipcup hurried over to the throne to take his place and hand Snillek the verge of office. Verge. That was the fancy stick's name. There was no agenda. People shouted over each other and shouted each other down. Lord Snavelpy thundered at Lord Brightmitt that no one wanted to hear about his damnable planetary satellite net anymore, and Lord Terrapinch shrieked at Lady Norelca concerning educational funding. At least Snillek was fairly certain that's what the shrieking had been.
As far as she could tell, no one listened to anyone else, no agreements were reached, and nothing got done. When she tried to ask questions, they were apparently the wrong questions, and the entire court stared at her as if she'd grown several extra heads. When she whispered to Kipcup to ask what she should do, he merely asked her to wait, to be patient and get a feel for the issues the first few days.
"Your highness," Lord Brightmitt finally turned to her, voice trembling. "May I at least send you the proposal for the planetary net?"
"Princess Retilla rejected it, boy, and Princess Siel will, as well," Lord Snavelpy shouted, ending in a hoarse cough. He'd probably shouted too much. "Leave the girl alone."
Kipcup leaned down to speak in Snillek's ear. "It's time, highness. Call the session."
Not certain what might or might not be a political disaster if she did it, Snillek banged the verge on the floor three times. "Court is adjourned. You may take your leave."
The doors opened, and the courtiers fled. Snillek sat on the throne for a few moments in the blessed silence.
"I've decided something about court sessions, Kipcup."
"Highness?"
"They give me a rotten headache."
Her mother's death hadn't been an accident. The more time Snillek spent in the palace, the more she agreed with Kipcup's closely held suspicions. Not that she could prove anything. No one knew why the emperor eagle statue had fallen. No one had any idea how marbles had found their way onto the stairs outside Snillek's royal suite. No one had seen anyone string the wire across the hallway—too high for a human neck, just right for hers.
So far, the attempts—and that wire pretty much clinched the fact that these were no accidents—still didn't take into account quite how much sturdier she was than a fragile human. For her, they'd merely been an annoyance, but they were a danger to human staff and courtiers. She wished her strengths lay more in detective work. Some paladins' did. Snillek was just a brute.
At dinner in the grand hall that evening, she made a huge mistake. One of the nobles had asked about holidays she'd celebrated as a child, and she got a little maudlin talking about Winterfest. She recognized the error as soon as the words left her mouth, knowing by now that they would pounce on any personal tidbit from her like a school of starved aras fish.
"When is Winterfest, highness?" Lady Higgenblot asked, all solicitous smiles and wide eyes.
Oh no. Can I just not answer? No. That would be horribly rude and some kind of direct cut. "Let me think. Ah." Snillek had to count the days quickly. "Three weeks from tomorrow."
"Delightful!" Lady Higgenblot clapped her hands like a small child. "We should celebrate here for you! Lord Snavelpy, don't you think that's a wonderful notion?"
"Wonderful," the elderly Minister of Agriculture muttered into his soup. Snillek couldn't help but sympathize with his lack of enthusiasm.
Lord Brightmitt leaned over from his seat two places down. "I think it's a lovely idea, Eleclar. Would I be stepping on toes if I asked to organize it?"
"Not at all, not at all, Mattim. Very sweet of you."
This was how most interactions with her court went. Her ministers and counselors talked around her, and she was expected to step in during disagreements. She thought she might be getting the hang of it. At least the being-talked-around part.
Sometimes she had to speak up, though. "No. I appreciate the thought. Really." She swallowed hard when all those bright, attentive human eyes turned to her, Lord Kipcup practically vibrating on her right, waiting for the moment he needed to jump in. "It wouldn't be home. So I'd rather you didn't."
She was trying to be diplomatic. Not so blunt. Apparently, it wasn't blunt enough, since all the courtiers in earshot started making excited plans. Snillek sighed and picked up the goblet a server had left a few minutes before. Some kind of wine, she thought as she gave it a tentative sniff. Odd, she didn't remember previous wines having that odd metallic scent.
"Kipcup." She leaned over to murmur in her advisor's ear.
He stopped mid-drink of his own wine. "Highness?"
"Should the, ah, vintage smell like this?"
Delicately, he took her goblet and sniffed. "The bouquet is as it should be for a late-summer Aptician blend. But your senses are no doubt more acute than mine. Perhaps some impurity in the goblet. Apologies, highness. I offer mine instead."
They switched, and his smelled fine, so he must've been right. Snillek shrugged and sipped. Yes, that was wine, all right. She couldn't tell one from another. Beside her, Kipcup drank and sniffed. Then gasped.
Snillek turned to find him clutching his chest. "Hey. Are you—?"
His goblet fell as he lurched up from his chair, grabbing for the tablecloth as he went down. Little shrieks and exclamations peppered the grand hall as Kipcup hit the floor, dishes raining down around him. Faster than the guards running toward them, Snillek went to one knee to clear everything out of the way of his convulsing limbs.
"I need a med team in here! Now!" she bellowed, and one of the guards skidded into a turn to dash for the nearest emergency services box.
Gently, guards and the medics who arrived at a sprint separated her from Kipcup as they ran diagnostic scans and lifted him onto a gurney. Before Snillek could think of another thing to say, they'd whisked him away to the palace's medical wing.
Lady Higgenblot bobbed a quick curtsy. "Highness, are you well?"
"I'm fine. What—"
"Highness, are you hurt?" Lord Terrapinch interrupted.
"Really, I'm fine. It's—"
"Highness, what happened?"
Snillek gritted her teeth so she wouldn't snarl at them to shut up. "I think it was poison."
Gasps and babbling broke out in the gaggle of courtiers hemming her in. Cries of Poison and Surely not and How could that happen competed with the constant inquiries after her health. It was like standing inside some high-tech sound weapon. Snillek couldn't think, couldn't move.
"Highness." Lord Brightmitt spoke near her ear. "You'll need a personal advisor while our dear Roncil is indisposed."
Several thoughts collided in her head, which meant she could only stare until she could corral them. Was it poison? Maybe he has a medical condition? What in all rotted shards is Brightmitt suggesting? And Roncil? Kipcup's name is Roncil? Of all the things he told me, and he neglected his own rotted given name.
When she finally got her thoughts in a row, she whirled on Brightmitt. "Back. Off. If you're applying for a job, this is not the time." To the hovering royal guard, she barked out, "Secure that goblet! I want it thoroughly tested." Finally, she filled her lungs and bellowed, "Everyone else, clear the farking hall!"
Courtiers scattered, mincing, jogging, and flat out running from the room. In the sudden silence, Snillek could finally hear her breaths coming harsh and loud. Smoke had started to curl from between her teeth. She stomped out before the guards caught on that their monarch was leaking smoke, picked up the hem of her stupid dress, and stomped up to her royal suite, where she slammed the door.
Stupid conspiracies. Stupid courtiers. Snillek kicked her slippers off. One ended up on top of the bed canopy, the other hanging from a chandelier. Stupid humans. She fought with the fussy buttons down the front of her gown. Stupid inheritance. Stupid planet.
With a roar, she ripped the front of the dress open and lost control of everything at once. Her wings ripped out the back of the dress. Her horns ripped off her wig as they extended. Her tail lashed, tangled in the ridiculous train.
"Stupid Flamescale tail!" Snillek threw her head back and roared again. Fire unleashed from her mouth to singe the ceiling.
"Highness, are you under attack? Highness!" Frantic pounding and shouting came from the door, guards and personal staff trying frantically to get in.
Rot it all. Her clothes were destroyed. She was standing half-naked with her foot claws digging into the carpet. They couldn't see her like this. That much she knew. The door was starting to buckle from people throwing themselves against it. Snillek grabbed the chest closest to her, which happened to be the one with her armor (but better than nothing), got a running start, and leaped out the window with her wings spread to catch the wind. Behind her, the door slammed open.
Several humans screamed loud enough to reach her ears as she clutched her trunk and flew away.
The grove where Snillek had landed—maybe clearing would've been more accurate, since it was only just large enough to land in—didn't contain any humans. Lots of avians and insects screamed and chittered, but it was still blessedly quiet compared to the court.
At least none of the avians called her highness.
Dressed in full armor—every weapon from the trunk strapped on—Snillek was ready for anything… and had no idea what to do. She thought about calling Papa for advice, but she'd made such a hash of things in record time. He'd be so disappointed.
As she was gathering the courage to call one of her Aunties—who would be more caustic and less disappointed—the three-note chirp of her personal link sang out. Where is the rotted thing?
She rooted through her trunk, searched her pockets, and finally found it buried in the ruined snarl of her princess dress and wig. The ident for the caller made her heart lurch.
"Kipcup? Are you alive?" Oh, yes, good opening.
A sharp wheeze came through the link. "Highness?"
Even with his difficulty breathing, Kipcup managed to convey his disapproval.
"Um, yes? Seriously, are you going to be all right?"
Wheeze. "The doctors assure me…" Wheeze. "I will recover." Wheeze. "Highness, what have you…" Wheeze. "Done?"
What I wouldn't give to have his sniff back instead. "I lost my temper. Managed to get to my room before all the Dzedek came out, but they broke the door down while I was flying out the window."
The wheezes continued for a bit, soft and painful sounding. "Highness. They think… you were… stolen… by a dragon. The dragon… Flamescale."
Snillek groaned and dropped her head in her hands. "Shells and sacs. What in all rotted bits am I supposed to do?"
Somehow, Kipcup's wheezing managed to sound judgmental. How does he do that?
"You must… go and… rescue yourself. From yourself."
"I have to what now? That doesn't make any sense."
More wheezing. Poor Kipcup probably had to gather breath before each speech foray. "Brightmitt has… petitioned… your Order. For… you. Dragonborn… for dragon… quest."
There had to be more to this. Had to be. "But dragons are fictional. Just something in human stories."
"Tarribotian… wildlife." This time when Kipcup stopped, there was a hissing sound, most likely from an inhaled medication. He did sound better when he spoke again in short sentences. "We didn't have time. To cover. In the hinterlands. There are dragons."
"Real dragons? That come into the cities and carry people off?"
"Real, yes. Not in cities. Not for… centuries." Wheeze. "Bring back proof. Of dragon beaten. Be Siel again. In time for. Winterfest."
"How am I supposed to do that? Throw a decapitated dragon's head in front of the court and say, oh, sure, I rescued Princess Siel, don't know where she's got to. She was right behind me a second ago? But don't worry, she knows you've been planning Winterfest festivities, and I know she wouldn't want to disappoint you?"
"Figure it out, highness." Wheeze. "I'm far too tired."
"Sorry. Yes. Shells, Kipcup, I'm sorry." Snillek huffed out a breath. "That this happened to you. That you're in pain. That I'm not exactly the princess you needed. I'll figure it out somehow."
"Thank you, highness. You are more. Than you think."
He cut the connection and left Snillek sitting in the dark, wondering how her life had gone so ridiculously wrong. Not the time for brooding, though. The assignment from the Order would come through soon, and she would need to take up her paladin mantle convincingly. She sent her retrieval code to Spark and settled in to sleep for a few hours.
Kipcup would be horrified that she'd slept outside. In her armor. On a rotting log.
Spark settled on the stone courtyard outside the palace's main doors the next morning, and Paladin Snillek, fully helmed and armed, strode down the ramp with the sunlight striking blinding glints off her armor.
Look the part, Grand Master Templarton had always said. We know you can do the fighting bits, but inspiring confidence is what generates return clients and referrals.
She did try—bad moments of being covered in chimera slime aside.
The palace guards came to attention as she approached, and she had her speech all planned. No one would see her face, and the helmet would change her voice enough to prevent recognition. Before she could reach the top of the stairs, though, the doors flew open, and a herd of courtiers flooded out.
A scurry of courtiers? A din of courtiers?
They all babbled at her at once until Lord Brightmitt held up both hands for silence. "Paladin Snillek, we are grateful for your speedy response."
Remember, you don't know any of these people. Just another job. "I understand you have a kidnapped princess?"
"Yes, it was horrifying," Lady Norelca sobbed. "Ransacked her bedroom and made off with her."
"I see. Who did?"
Brightmitt shot Lady Norelca a dark look. Apparently, no one else was supposed to tell the story. "A dragon. From the palace staff's accounts, a huge one."
"A dragon." Snillek stood with her arms crossed, hoping she conveyed an air of skepticism. "Aren't those just in kids' stories?"
Lady Higgenblot put a hand on Snillek's vambrace. "These are native wildlife. They resembled the fairy tales enough that the first explorers called them dragons."
"So you've seen them, ma'am?" Snillek cocked her head.
"Oh mercy, no." Lady Higgenblot's hands flew to her cheeks, while Brightmitt scowled at her back. "They don't come out of the wilds. Ah, not until this one."
"Did any of you see the dragon?"
The lords and ladies looked like they wanted to answer, but all shook their heads. From behind them, one of the guards raised her hand. "I did, Paladin Snillek. Just a glimpse, but I did see it."
Snillek tried not to bark, but she was losing patience. "What did you see, soldier?"
"Red wings." The guard held her hands apart. "At least three meters across. A thick tail with red scales. The huge claws on its hind feet. And the poor princess hanging off its front claws."
"I need to be blunt here. Do you think she was alive?"
Several of the courtiers gasped. They did a lot of gasping. The guard, sensibly, ignored them. "Couldn't say, Paladin. It was just a glimpse, and they were gone into the night."
"If you had to guess?"
"I'd say yes. We heard her bellowing just before we got the door down. She called the dragon Flamescale."
That's not the most flattering description. "Bellowing?"
Brightmitt finally made his move to regain control of the conversation. "Our princess is half Dzedek. She's rather martial."
The stout pride with which he said this surprised her. "I see."
"Will you take the commission, Paladin?" Brightmitt actually clasped both hands in a pleading gesture. "The court will beg if necessary."
"Ah, no need for that. I accept and will do my best to retrieve your ruler." By all the holies, this is such a farce.
She listened to the rest of the vague information they could give her—direction of the dragon's flight, where dragons could be found, what the histories said about them—then thanked them, got back in her ship, and flew away into the sun. All textbook heroic and dramatic. Of course, they missed Snillek banging her head against her ship's console as the capital faded behind her.