The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Citadel's private chapel, dedicated to the Twelfth God, was blazing with light. Huge candles, as thick as dragon bones, were crammed into the small space, making the golden walls glitter. The King, the old King that is, was laid out in front of the altar, covered with a silken cloth, his eyes shrouded with gauze and his name book clasped on his chest.

Larst was perched on a pew, one leg tucked up beside him, the other trailing to the floor. He didn't look up as Hawth came in.

"What are you doing, Larst?" said Hawth, stepping around the body of the King and sitting beside him.

He shifted a little, swinging his leg down, to make room. "Keeping watch."

Hawth looked around. There were three guards within sight. Two, either side of the open door. And one further down the passageway, so obviously not looking at them, he was practically giving himself neck strain in the effort. Watching, by the looks of things, was covered.

There seemed to be guards everywhere now. They decorated every corridor, as if overnight they had become the ultimate accessory. The Chancellor said they were there for their protection, but didn't say who they were protecting them from. As far as Hawth understood, the only people in the Citadel who could possible want them dead, was the Chancellor himself. Everyone else had left.

There'd been some confusion the morning after the assassination, as the news spread around the Citadel. Shouts rent through the rooms as various minor dukes argued amongst themselves, and the courtyard was jammed with carriages as the ladies fought to leave. There'd been some who tried to stay. Having found the council all retired to their country homes, a few ambitious souls thought to slip into the seats of power, but a few short words from the Chancellor had them fleeing with the best of them.

"Straw found us some rooms in the Eastern Tower," said Hawth. "One of the maids said they used to belong to a Lord. Wally-something. The bed is big enough for an army, but I made Straw sleep in the side chamber."

"Good," said Larst, his voice sounding very far away.

"Straw thinks he was a bit of a panderer. We found a pair of stockings under the pillow. Yellow ones. And they ain't his wife's. So the maid says anyway."

"That's nice."

"I can find you a different room, if you don't want to bunk up with us. There are loads. Nearly all empty. I did see some fancy looking lady this afternoon, but she screamed and ran away when I greeted her. There've been wagons going in and out of the gate all day. Most of the servants are gone now. You wouldn't believe the stuff that's been left behind. Jewels, papers, all sorts."

"Great."

"How long am I going to have to sit here before you notice what I'm wearing?"

Larst frowned and turned around. He blinked a few times, and so slowly he might have been a waxen statue left out in the sun, his eyebrows lifted and his jaw dropped.

"I..." he started. "You..." he tried again.

"Like it?" said Hawth, slipping off the pew to stand in front of him and do a quick spin.

"You're wearing a dress," he said, placing each syllable with care. "Why?"

"It's a gown actually. A Viola gown. Named after some courtesan, or something. Seems she was a bit on the curvy-side. That's why it's so, sticky-outy here, and really quite tight. And look, these are real rubies, can you imagine?"

"No. But I still need to know, why?"

"Why am I wearing a gown? Or why am I wearing a jewel-ridden gown, named after some Pryvian floozy, in the middle of the night?"