"Of the King," I joke. "And perhaps one or two of badgers. For thematic consistency."
Ina laughs. It is a genuine, warm sound.
"You are wicked, Víl?. Now, go. Go build your walls and bully your masons. Leave the invitations to me. By the time the King steps off his carriage, the Mayor will be weeping with gratitude, the Guilds will be tamed, and the seating chart will be a masterpiece of diplomatic aggression."
She shoos us away.
As we leave the room, I hear her calling for a footman.
"You there! Boy! Fetch me the Master of the Musicians' Guild. And tell him if he suggests playing 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair' one more time, I will have him deported!"
I look at Jellema.
"She is terrifying," I say admiringly.
"She is a Duchess," Jellema corrects. "And right now, she is the most dangerous weapon we have."
The day before the King’s arrival, the first wave of nobility begins to trickle into Varpua. They come in carriages that rattle on the cobblestones, looking annoyed that they had to leave the comforts of the capital for a "fishing village."
I am standing on the steps of the Old Admiralty, now gleaming with its new slate roof and iron-banded doors, watching them arrive.
"Duke Webbe is here," Sander Vane announces, stepping out of the Embassy wing with a clipboard. "He just passed the city gates. And… the scouts report he is fully armored."
"Armored?" Kenric asks, adjusting his sword belt. "Is he expecting a siege?"
"He isn't here to be friendly, Kenric," I say, my voice cold. "He is here to posture. He called me cattle in my own home. He threatened to sell me to the fighting pits. He is wearing armor because he is a coward who thinks steel makes him a man. It happens to have the unforunate effect of making him look like a turtle."
A few minutes later, Webbe’s cavalcade enters the square. It is excessive. Twelve outriders, a carriage for his baggage, and Webbe himself riding a massive white destrier.
He is indeed wearing ceremonial plate armor. It is polished to a mirror shine. And strapped to his left arm, held high so it covers his chest and saddle-bow, is the shield.
It is THE shield. The shield I gave him.
He has it strapped to his left arm, holding the reins high so that the shield rests prominently against his front, covering his torso and saddle-bow.
He looks furious. His face is flushed, his jaw set in a grimace of perpetual disdain. He glares at the fishmongers and the sailors as if their very existence offends him.
He is not wearing it as a tribute. He is wearing it as a claim. By carrying my image, he thinks he is parading a trophy. He thinks it looks like I am serving him.
But he is a fool.
Beside me, Duchess Ina gasps. Then she makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a strangled cat.
"Víl?," she whispers. "Tell me you didn't."
"I did," I say, my face a mask of serene diplomacy.
To Webbe, he is displaying the "Fey Bitch" he intends to conquer. To the crowd, it looks like the Fey Princess is the only thing keeping the Duke’s manhood intact.
The shield is the masterpiece of craftsmanship I commissioned before we left Dobile. It is painted in enamel and gold leaf. It depicts a scene of "Divine Protection." In the background, there is a storm. In the foreground, standing tall and fierce, is a painting of me. I am wearing my Fey armor, my hands raised in a gesture of shielding ward.
However.
The composition is… specific.
Because of the way the shield is curved, and the way Webbe has to hold it to manage his horse, the painted figure of me is positioned perfectly. My painted hands are cupped defensively. And my painted face, mouth open in a battle cry, eyes fierce, sits directly, undeniably, at the level of Duke Webbe’s crotch.
To the casual observer, it looks like the Princess is heroically guarding the Duke’s virtue.
To anyone with eyes, it looks like I am about to take a bite out of his manhood.
"He… he doesn't know?" Kenric asks, his voice trembling with suppressed laughter.
"He thinks it is a tribute," I explain softly. "When I gave it to him, I told him, 'My Lord Duke, let this shield remind the world that the Fey Embassy stands firmly in front of your most vital interests.'"
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"Vital interests," Ina chokes. She has to turn away, shaking with silent mirth.
"He really doesn't know?" Duchess Ina whispers beside me, her fan covering a smirk that is pure malice.
"He is too arrogant to look in a mirror," I say softly.
Webbe rides closer. He spots me on the steps. His eyes narrow. There is no warmth, no fake courtly greeting. There is only the hatred of a man who was humiliated in his own negotiations.
He reins in his horse. He does not dismount. He wants me to look up at him.
"You," Webbe spits, his voice echoing in his helmet. "I see you have taken over another ruin. Fitting."
"Duke Webbe," I reply, my voice projecting clearly across the silent square. "I see you are still wearing my gift. I am touched. Most men would be too proud to admit they need a woman to protect their... assets."
A group of fishwives near the fountain stare. One of them points. Another covers her mouth. A ripple of laughter starts to spread through the square, low and dirty. The crowd titters. A sailor laughs openly.
Webbe’s face turns a violent shade of purple. He slams a gauntleted fist against the shield.
Clang.
"This is not protection!" he roars. "This is a spoil! A reminder that Vupis takes what it wants!"
"You took nothing, Webbe," I say, stepping down one stair. "I gave that to you. Just like I gave you the road you rode in on. Just like I gave you the credit you are using to feed your men."
I point a finger at him. "You called me livestock, remember? You said I was cattle to be herded."
I gesture to the shield on his arm. "And yet, there I am. In Fey steel. Protecting the only part of you that matters to your lineage. Tell me, Duke... if I am cattle, why are you hiding behind my skirts?"
The laughter in the square grows louder. It is not respectful. It is the jeering laughter of a port city that hates pompous lords.
Webbe’s hand goes to his sword.
"Careful," Kenric warns, stepping in front of me.
"Let him draw," I say to Kenric, not breaking eye contact with Webbe. "If he draws steel on Fey soil, Sander will have him in irons before he clears the scabbard. If he doesn't, I'll bleed him here. Immunity does not cover stupidity."
Webbe hesitates. He looks at Kenric. He looks at the dozen heavily armed mercenaries, Torvald’s men, who have quietly stepped out of the construction site, holding sledgehammers and crowbars.
He realizes he is outnumbered. He realizes he is in my city.
He snarls and kicks his horse, forcing the beast forward.
"The King arrives tomorrow," Webbe hisses as he passes. "And when he does, we will see who owns this city."
"We will indeed," I say.
As his horse trots away, the shield bounces. My painted face slams rhythmically against his codpiece.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
"Oh, gods," Jellema whispers, appearing at my elbow. "I can't look. It's hypnotic."
"He has been parading that in Vupis for a month," I tell them. "My spies tell me the local tavern has invented a song about it. It is called 'The Princess and the Python', though I fear they are being generous about the python."
"He hates you," Ina observes, watching him go.
"The feeling is mutual," I say, turning back to the heavy iron doors of the Bank. "He thinks he is a wolf. He forgets that I can kill a wolf."
"You are a monster," she tells me. "A brilliant, twisted monster."
"He insulted my bank," I say, smoothing my skirt. "Called me livestock, and he tried to cheat my husband at cards. I felt he needed a chaperone. I just decided to be… hands-on."
"Hands-on," Kenric groans. "I am never going to be able to look him in the eye again."
"Good," I say, turning back to the square. "Look at the shield. That is where the power lies."
"Sander," I call out.
"Highness?"
"Check the accounts. If Webbe tries to buy so much as a loaf of bread in this city on credit, decline the transaction."
"On what grounds?" Sander asks, poising his quill.
"Insufficient funds," I say, walking into the cool darkness of the Admiralty. "And moral bankruptcy."
The Old Admiralty does not look like a bank tonight. It looks like a cathedral dedicated to the worship of winter and wealth.
Holger has outdone himself. The massive tension-glass roof he installed over the Great Hall is not just clear; it is enchanted to amplify the starlight. The hall is bathed in a cool, ethereal silver glow that makes the slate floors look like a frozen lake.
Inside, Merovech has populated the room with sculptures of clear ice. There are swans. There are ships. And flanking the head table, there are two massive, snarling badgers, their claws rendered in terrifying detail, catching the candlelight and refracting it into rainbows.
"It is... cold," King Oskar complains as he sweeps through the Gold Door, pulling his fur-lined cloak tighter.
"It is 'Atmospheric', Your Majesty," I correct him, curtsying low. "We wanted to honor the season. And heat is bad for the gold. It makes the coins sweat."
Oskar blinks. "Does it?"
"Metaphorically," I smile.
Duchess Ina’s seating chart is a masterpiece of manipulation.
The King is seated on a raised dais in a high-backed velvet chair,Ina’s "Throne." As planned, it faces the massive arched windows that look out over the dark harbor and the skeletal silhouette of the new pier.
His back is turned firmly toward the massive iron door of the Vault. He cannot see the money going in; he can only see the industry going out.
To his right sits Duke Webbe, still red-faced from the incident with the shield. He is drinking heavily. To his left sits the daughter of the Wool Merchant, a girl of nineteen with wide eyes and a very low-cut dress, who is currently listening to Oskar explain the intricacies of a stag hunt with rapt attention.
"He is distracted," Kenric murmurs in my ear as we take our places at the side of the dais.
"He is captivated," I correct. "Ina is a genius."
I scan the room. The Guild Masters are here, looking uncomfortable in their stiff collars. Their wives, however, are delighted. They are eating candied ginger and gossiping with Duchess Ina, who is holding court like a queen in exile.
And moving through the crowd like a shadow in a silk vest is Dominico.
He is posing as the Sommelier. He carries a bottle of rare vintage wrapped in white linen. He moves with a fluid grace, pouring, smiling, and watching.
I catch his eye. He gives a microscopic nod. The perimeter is secure.
The first course is served,oysters on crushed ice, provided by the Fishermen's Guild (who are now very eager to please Sander Vane).
Duke Webbe stabs an oyster as if it were a personal enemy.
"This building," Webbe grumbles, looking up at the glass roof. "It is dangerously transparent. A trebuchet stone would shatter it."
"We do not anticipate siege warfare in Varpua, Duke Webbe," I say pleasantly from across the table. "Unless you brought your catapults with you?"
Webbe glares at me. "I brought my sword. That is usually enough."
"Usually," I agree. "Though I noticed you left your shield in the cloakroom. A pity. It was the talk of the square."
Oskar looks up from the Wool Merchant’s daughter. "The shield! Yes! I saw it on the way in. Magnificent work, Víl?. A true tribute to the martial spirit of the Fey."
Webbe chokes on his wine.
"It is... a unique piece, Sire," Webbe manages to wheeze.
- The only man in the realm who can ride into town fully armored
- … and somehow still look like he lost a fight with a wardrobe
- … while proudly displaying a shield that unintentionally reenacts a Fey?inspired burlesque performance on his codpiece
He is not.
He is a walking “before” picture.
performance art.
- Complain about temperature
- Misunderstand metaphors
- Attempt to flirt using whatever charm he thinks he has
- Display the intellectual agility of an undercooked turnip
His personality remains unchanged.
Immaculate.
The lighting?
Stunning.
The mood?
Sharp enough to slice through Oskar’s sense of self?importance (which, granted, is made of very soft material).
- Diplomacy
- Threats (polite)
- Threats (impolite)
- Social warfare
- Weaponized aesthetics
- Culinary hostility
Oskar should take notes, but he cannot write them—his quill would file a workplace complaint.
Her competence continues to make the rest of the nobility look like underperforming houseplants. She is the final boss of etiquette and she knows it.