The Blue Prince

An odd metallic sound out in the corridor resolved itself into the unusual but inescapably distinctive sound of somebody hitting a saucepan with a wooden spoon.

Gerulf peeled his eyes open and sat up, reluctantly shaking off sleep. He'd gotten to bed rather later than usual last night and was paying the price for it now. There was a steaming basin of water on the rug by the fire, Zita having done her usual pixie-like job of whisking in and out of his room without him noticing. Surely he must have slept far longer than he intended, if she'd decided to bring it in rather than waiting for signs of life from his room, but the light through the curtains told him it was barely dawn.

He rose from his bed and stretched, then settled on the rug to do his exercises. As he did so, the odd sounds from the corridor increased in range and volume until he began to truly wonder if some terrible emergency was under way. No screams though, no sounds of panic. Although...it was surprising to realise how poorly he'd kept track of time since he'd been in the Prince's House, and wasn't it now Saturday?

The first Saturday of the month?

Inspection day, the very thing that Mrs Burry had gone to trouble to warn him about.

the maester, Master Rein, disapproves great strongly of the Prince’s men, her note had said. please to be aware that you should be wary of him, as he has been known by many to be much vengeful towards some as he disapproves of.

What should he expect though? It would be of little use to try to stay out of the building for the day, he considered, working through his daily regimen of press ups. Even if Maester Rein knew nothing of his existence, given his evident profound dislike of the 'Prince's men', he would likely check Gerulf's room and find it inhabited. Besides, the staff had little reason to go to any lengths to protect Gerulf, unless of course they disliked or feared Rein, which wouldn't be surprising given Mrs Burry's letter.

Mrs Burry; that was the very person to go to. Gerulf finished his exercises, washed and dressed, then opened the door just in time to hear a tremendous crash, followed shortly by a wail of abject horror. Peering into the corridor, he saw one of the maids standing, her hands clenched into her hair, over a shattered platter and some scraps of food scattered on the floor. Just as he opened his mouth to offer assistance, Zita flew out from another room and rapidly had the girl soothed, the remains of the platter scooped into her apron and another member of staff rushing towards them with a mop.

His unit of Brigadiers could have used a Zita.

“Good morning. Can I be of any help, there? It's the day for this inspection, is it not?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light and friendly. The other maids were staring at him, all wide eyed, but Zita looked quite relieved at his presence.

“I'm sure there's plenty of things you could help out with, if you don't mind it,” she replied cheerily. “Go and ask Mrs Burry what needs doing. I think she's in the kitchen. Was she still there when you left, Merry?”

This last was directed at the maid with the mop, who looked horrified at the prospect of having to speak in front of Gerulf. As if he'd suddenly notice she was there and go for her.

“Y-y-yes, Miss Zita,” the girl stuttered, then seemed at a loss.

“I shall go and ask her, then,” Gerulf responded, in what he thought was quite a gentle and unassuming tone. Yet it caused both of the younger maids to attempt to fit themselves behind Zita, peering at him from over her shoulders. As he walked down the corridor to the kitchen, he could vaguely hear Zita hissing at them both in annoyance:

“...not going to bite, you know...”
“...alia said...”
“...terrible gossip, don't even...”
“...but what if he hits...”
“He won't!”

Nice to know somebody had faith in him.

The kitchen door stood open, spilling warm air and the sounds of fervent cleaning into the corridor. Gerulf peered around the frame before going in, not a manoeuvre he was accustomed to, but a necessary one, if the quickly reigned in gasps were any measure. Mrs Burry stood at one end of the large, ruthlessly scrubbed table, a sheaf of papers in one hand and a wooden spatula in the other. The latter was being used to point at people and waft them in the various directions she was telling them to go. Scurrying people filled the room, coming and going through the various doors into the scullery, the storerooms, the stable yard and...they would have been going out into the corridor too, but several had drawn to a halt upon seeing Gerulf standing there. Suddenly feeling awfully self-conscious, he stepped back, holding the door open further, trying with all his might to look harmless.

Two middle aged women and a teenage lad, all laden with piles of linen, shuffled warily past him, carefully avoiding eye contact. He grit his teeth and told himself he was not irritated.

In the sudden void of noise that his entrance had created, Mrs Burry turned to look up at him and smiled, brandishing the papers.

“I've told the lads in the stables you'll lend them your hands for the time being, if you don't mind that is,” she said, waving the spatula in the direction of the stable yard door. “Best you're out there than scaring all my girls.”
This raised a high pitched, nervousness titter from somebody in the room, the noise rapidly followed by an ominous clatter and a glare from Mrs Burry. Gerulf uttered a polite agreement an left.

The sun was out from behind the clouds, for the time being at least, and the day had the crisp, biting feel of that last, clinging part of autumn, before winter truly got it's teeth into the year. Frost gilded the grass and the moss that grew between the slabs in the yard. No snow yet, but Gerulf wouldn't be surprised when it came.

The large main doors of the stable were both wide open, and Gostislav emerged just as Gerulf entered, leading a stout, grey pony. Gerulf wished him a good morning, and rushed into the building before he could receive the reply, which doubtless would run to several minutes of verbal meandering that could have been summed up in three or four words. It was warm and pleasantly earthy smelling inside. Two stable lads were brushing down one of the coach horses in the open pen at the end of the building, and at the other end the door to Timur's small office stood open, the man himself sitting at the desk sorting papers into neat piles.

Gerulf climbed the two small steps that separated the office doorway from the rest of the stables and rapped on the open door.

“Just a moment, Gostislav. Bloody merchants...”

“It's me, Timur,” Gerulf said, and the older man turned and gave him a distracted smile.

“Ah, hello there lad. What can I do for you?”

“Mrs Burry suggested that I could help you out here, get me out of the way while the rest are getting ready for inspection.” He stepped into the office and leaned his hip against the edge of the dusty, cluttered desk. He'd no idea what had led him to put on his older clothes that morning, but he was glad he had done. Good to be back in something other than blue, at any rate.

Timur looked thoughtfully up at him for a moment, then rose from his chair. “I should have expected that, I suppose,” he said, half to himself. “Not surprised she wants to keep you tucked away. She's taken a shine to you.”

“What do you mean?” Gerulf asked, fairly sure he knew already.

“Mean that that Maester or whatever he wants to call himself isn't at all approving of His Majesty the Prince keeping fellows such as yourself around. Especially as he keeps you living in his little corner of the palace. S'true that most of the lads have been hired in your situation left because they got bored, or the Prince didn't get along with them...but more than one's been scared off by the Maester on inspection day.”

“What does he do to them?”

“Oh, nothing harmful. But he's a clever man. He knows just how to strike at a fellow to put him off balance. Mark my words, you're far better off out here. He's too good for the stables, always sends one of his guardsmen to make the inspection o' this place.”

Gerulf thought this over for a moment, then nodded, and accepted the scrap of paper Timur handed him. It wasn't in his nature to hide out like this; if this Maester Rein was likely to take exception to him, he'd rather know it right up front and deal with it. But...he'd been in the palace for a few days, while Timur and Mrs Burry had been there for years. If they both thought he was better off there, he was sure that he was.

He looked down at the note, which was in even worse handwriting than Zita's. Luckily, Timur began going through it with him.

“Ask the lads out there to show you where the tack room is. There's a rack of bridles on the wall that need a clean, they'll show you where everything can be found. When you're done with that, give the tack room a sweep and then come back here. You can give Guiscard a hand with the hay bales. Alright, lad?”

“Certainly,” Gerulf replied. “Nothing I've not done before.”

“Good. No questions?”

Gerulf's mouth started moving before he'd even thought about whether he wanted to ask the question or not. “You said more than one man was scared off by Maester Rein...How many exactly?”

Timur's mouth turned down in a worried grimace as he studied Gerulf's face, finally seeming to make a decision.

“All of the ones who lasted long enough to see an inspection day,” he said grimly.

*

The tack room was close and dusty, and smelled richly of leather and polish and horse, once again taking Gerulf's mind back to days long past at the army encampment. Many a day, when Captain Galen had run out of chores for him, he'd ended up doing odd jobs in the stables in return for a little riding practice on one of the horses, a habit that had served him well when he joined the army proper, as he'd needed far less training than many of the other new recruits.

The doors of the tack room opened onto the stable yard, and were drawn to rather than fully closed, to let a little fresh air in, and to allow Gerulf to hear some of the goings on outside. Every so often there was a flurry of motion from the direction of the house, as people rushed to and fro trying to get ready. Now and then a horse or pony was led across the yard on their way to the pasture, and once in a while it sounded like other animals were being brought from the main stables, no doubt to benefit from Timur's expertise as a blacksmith. Apart from the tightly controlled havoc in the Prince's House, the day could have been quite peaceful...and yet Gerulf could not shake of a sense of foreboding. Perhaps it was simply the worries of Mrs Burry and Timur, or perhaps it was something more.

Perhaps it was the distinctive sound of armed men, marching across the yard towards the very spot where he sat.

He set aside the cloth and tin of leather oil he'd been using, and hung the part-cleaned bridle that he'd been working on back on it's hook, then rose to his feet, half expecting the footsteps to veer away and for him to be left feeling like a fool.

But no, seconds after he'd risen, the door was opened by a guardsman. The man was a little older, and perhaps a little heavier set than most he'd seen around the palace, and as well as the usual blue and grey livery, he wore a white sash across his chest. A signifier of rank perhaps? The man looked Gerulf up and down, an unreadable expression on his face, then turned to two other figures and nodded, silently.

As the guardsman moved out of the door frame, Gerulf found himself the subject of great scrutiny by two other men; one was another guardsman, wearing the same white sash, while the third man on the party was something else all together.

He was tall and narrow bodied, dressed in a fussily neat suit over which flowed a knee length robe, similar to those worn by magistrates, all in shades of reddish brown and cream. His grey-speckled dark hair was oiled tidily back, showing pale, thin skin at his hair line. Of the appearance of his face, Gerulf could not say, for he was wearing the most curious thing, a dark fabric mask which covered his face from brow to chin and from ear to ear, held in place by sturdy strips of cloth.

The guardsman who had opened the door, in the seconds Gerulf had been allowed to take his visitors in, had snapped himself to strict attention and drew breath to speak, clearly and rather more loudly than was necessary.

“Maester Rein, may I present the servant of the Prince's House, Gerulf!” he boomed. The thin man, the Maester, nodded coolly, and seemed approving as Gerulf bowed.

The man wasn't supposed to come out here in person. His presence couldn't mean anything good.

He stepped forward. “I understand from his Majesty Prince Jaromil that you are here from the Provinces, Gerulf,” the Maester said smoothly, his tone making the statement not only a question but a demand.

“Yes, my Lord,” Gerulf replied, allowing a little of his old accent to slip into his voice. “I come from the village of Breant in the North Well province.”

The Maester nodded solemnly at this insignificant bit of news. “A mining region I understand?” he said, sounding barely interested. “I suppose it is a great deal different, living here.”

Gerulf sensed it was a leading question, but where it was intended to lead him to, he wasn't sure. Perhaps he should aim for appearing dim once again.
“It certainly is, my Lord. I've never seen anything as pretty as all these paintings and curtains and things!”

Maester Rein stared at him, his dark eyes piercing through the eye-holes of his mask, measuring...assessing...

Maybe it hadn't been the best idea to play stupid. This man was clearly more perceptive than Prince Jaromil.

“And how do you find your duties with the Prince, Gerulf?”

“I find them very agreeable, my Lord,” Gerulf replied cheerily. “He's a fine fellow to work for.”

Rein nodded. “You know Gerulf, I always take care to make sure that those who live in this palace and it's...outbuildings know their place. I trust you understand that you are rather low in the order of things here?”

“Oh yes my Lord, have no fear. I know what I've to do.”

“Do you, indeed?” Rein murmured. He stared evenly at Gerulf's face for a few moments more, and Gerulf could tell that he was studying the scar. Would he ask about it? Would he decide to use it as some kind of reason to get rid of him?
He felt a tension in his stomach that he couldn't discern the reason for, but should he be sent away from here now, should he be forced to leave...

“Good day, Gerulf,” said Rein imperiously, his robe fluttering as he turned away. “I trust you will keep your duties to our beloved Prince Mihai at the forefront of your mind.”

“Yes, my Lord, I shall!” Gerulf replied, as the guardsmen turned to follow their master. “I'm glad you have faith in me, my Lord!”

Something in the Maester's body flinched, just very slightly, and for an instant Gerulf thought he might turn back. But no, he kept going, across the yard and back into the kitchen of the Prince's House, the door of which was being held open for him by another white-sashed guard.

Gerulf was glad that that was over with. Now if only he had the slightest idea what it had been.

*

Some intolerable time later, after Gerulf had shut himself back up in the tack room and doggedly finished his tasks, Timur and Gostislav came and sought him out, worried but relieved to see him intact and in no real distress. Timur had a quick look at the now gleaming bridles (confusion always made Gerulf focus more on such tasks) and pronounced them to be fine, and then the two of them led him back to Timur's office, Gostislav mumbling all the way about having never seen the like.

In the stable, most of the stalls were empty and the stable hands were out. It was dusty and warm and quiet, and Gerulf let himself be sat down in Timur's small office and tried to sort out his thoughts. Was he worried? Was he afraid? Had there been a threat in Rein's words that he'd genuinely been too stupid to see?

Was he in danger?

Surely not, all his instincts told him. The man had no reason to take against Gerulf, beyond the fact that he obviously had a distaste for Prince Mihai keeping a male lover at the annex, but surely no man would consider that reason enough to seek harm against another.
On the other hand though, Rein was a powerful man. And if Gerulf had learned anything in the short time he'd been in the palace, it was that things could be very different to how they initially appeared.

That was a point...

“I have to ask...” he started, interrupting Gostislav midway through an explanation of what constituted a well formed hay bale. The other men just turned to him calmly, clearly having been waiting for him to speak.

“Why does he wear a mask? Maester Rein, I mean? Surely it's improper for him to disguise himself like that.”

Timur sat back in his chair and appeared to be thinking, appeared to be quite puzzled by the question, in fact. Gostislav, standing at his shoulder, however, launched right in.

“Well, there's many a tale about that mask, lad,” he began, rather theatrically. “For one, I don't believe he's ever seen without it on a full moon.”

“He's never seen without it at all, you old fool,” said Timur.

“No, no, hear me out, now. You see, he straps it on tighter at certain times. You can tell because it squashes his hair down more. I reckon...” he leaned closer to the other two men, glancing over his shoulder to check the door was closed as he did. “I reckon that he only really needs to wear it some of the time, and the rest of the time he wears it so that folk don't get suspicious when they see him with it on!”

Gerulf digested this. “But why does he need it in the first place, if that's the case?”

“Ah, who knows lad. Perhaps there's something terrible afoot. A curse for instance, that-”

“It's always bloody curses with you, isn't it.” Timur snapped, his voice sounding thick like he was trying to stifle a laugh. “Tell the boy when exactly you've seen him with his mask tightened up.”

Gostislav game him a thin stare, then turned back to Gerulf and said earnestly “It's usually first thing in the morning, but-” and any defence he could have made of his weak theory was drowned out by Timur's bout of laughter.

“He's just gotten up, you fool! He takes it off to sleep! Ha!”

“Now there's no call to talk to an old man like that,” Gostislav replied, moodily. “I was just trying to answer the lad's question.”

Timur sighed and rubbed his hand over his mouth. “The truth is, Gerulf, that we don't know. For all that he runs the palace and does so much work directly for 'is Majesty the King, most of us don't see a lot of him, and when we do...well, he isn't the type of man you feel you can go and ask a question of now, is he.”

“I see your point,” Gerulf replied. “Still, he's pretty well known around the country. Hell, around the whole Empire! And yet I'd never heard a thing about him wearing a mask. Has he always done it?”

“Aye, at least for the last ten years,” replied Timur. “That's how long I've been here. Much longer than that actually, because the other staff here had gotten used to it by the time I arrived.”

“Strange,” Gerulf mused. Timur clapped him on the shoulder.

“Well, all over now, for this month at least. And it sounds like you didn't get too bad a deal of it, if all he did was ask you a couple of questions.”

“No, you're right.”

“I should go back to that Mrs Burry and let her know what happened,” Gostislav suggested. “She may be worried. Fine woman that. A widow, you know.”

Timur shook his head disgustedly and muttered something that sounded like 'lecher', then got up to shoo Gostislav out of the office. He and Gerulf walked across the yard together towards the kitchen door. The havoc inside seemed to have died down now, to be replaced with the familiar sounds of food preparation and chattering kitchen maids.

“Thanks for helping,” Gerulf said, before he opened the door.

“Not any trouble,” Timur said quietly. “Be careful, won't you lad.” He walked away.

Gerulf shook off the unsettled feeling, and went inside.

*

Mrs Burry and Zita were, at least, happy to see him. Rather too happy for his comfort, if he was honest, as it seemed they'd both been prepared for him to somehow disappear into the aether having faced the wrath of Maester Rein. As he explained to them though, said wrath had been rather more subtle and restrained than he'd expected, and as such he'd been able to weather it quite acceptably.

He decided against confiding with them his concerns that Rein might have ideas for the future, as there was surely no reason to worry them.

The rest of the staff at the Prince's House, on the other hand, were not at all pleased to have him back. Not only did it seem they'd rather hoped he would have been forced to leave, the fact that Maester Rein had actively gone out of his way to talk to Gerulf alone put their collective back up terribly. Walking along the corridor back to his room, he felt like there must have been some great, shadowy pall cast over him, threatening doom on all who stood near. That, at least, would be some explanation for the way in which the other servants scurried to hide in doorways and escape around corners as he went by.
Maybe that was the Maester's plan; to get rid of him by making him a pariah.

Wouldn't work. Zita and Mrs Burry liked him, and it wasn't like he needed that many attachments to get by anyway. Thinking of which, there were a few old friends in the city he ought to write to, let them know where he was working now. Old Friedhold would certainly be curious...

As he closed the door of his room behind him, he was sure he heard a sigh of worn out relief from the folks out in the corridor.

It was still quite early in the day, though it felt like he'd been in the tack room for hours, probably due to the dimness, which always affected his perception of time. Only one in the afternoon, by his pocket watch. He heard the bell for service from the Prince's apartments ring, and another flurry of activity as several of the staff rushed off to carry up his Majesty's luncheon trays. That meant it wouldn't be long until it was time for the staff to eat, and thus it wouldn't be long until Zita came by and he could debrief with her.

Sure enough, not half an hour later, there was a brisk tap at his door. He let Zita in and relieved her of the tray she'd brought, and almost the second her hands were empty, she propped them on her hips and pulled herself up to her full hight in order to look Gerulf straight in the collarbone.

“Well?” she said firmly. “What happened?”

“Not so very much, in fact. He found me, gave me a good stare and asked a couple of questions.”

“Questions? Usually he just snaps! What did he ask?”

“Ah, I don't even know,” Gerulf sighed, sinking into his chair. “He was clearly trying to get at something more than was obvious, but...I couldn't get a hold on it. I don't know what he wanted from me. I played stupid.”

“Perhaps that's for the best,” Zita said uncertainly, fussing with the edge of the bedspread. “I think-”

She was interrupted by a tap at the door. Gerulf rose again, casting her an apologetic glance, and opened it to find-

Armas.

Oh the day did nothing but improve, did it.

He felt, rather than heard, Zita flinch, and Armas peered past Gerulf to see who was in his room. Upon seeing her there, his face became concerned for a moment, before he carefully blanked it, and leaned back slightly to look Gerulf in the eye.

“I've a message from his Majesty, Gerulf. If I may be allowed to relay it in privacy.”

This pointed statement was not lost on Zita, who bustled out of the room, casting a cool look at Armas as she went.

Gerulf remained standing, but forewent looming this time. “What is it you need to tell me?” he asked, as Armas closed the door.

Armas glanced around the room distractedly, his lips thinly pursed.

“You were...spoken to by the Maester today, were you not?”

“Yes. And what of it?”

“Gerulf, I'll put this simply,” Armas replied in a rush. “If you wish to tender your resignation then you may do so, but I must say that for a man of the military to be so-”

“What? What do you mean?”

Armas narrowed his eyes at him, a gesture that lost all impact after the fourth or fifth outing, and puffed up his chest a little.

“IF you should wish to tender your resignation, His-Majesty-Prince-Mihai will accept it only in writing and only delivered via myself, but-”

“I don't understand,” Gerulf interrupted, feeling his face heat with annoyance. “Am I being told to resign?” That couldn't be, it simply couldn't.

“What? No, but-”

“Ah, but you expected me to, yes? After the Maester bullied all my predecessors into leaving.”

Armas' put out expression told him that, yes, this was indeed the case.

“How did you know about that?”

“Some of the other staff told me,” Gerulf replied, enjoying Armas' splutter of astonishment. “What's more, there's a few things I'd like to ask of you. For one, what is the matter with the Maester that he wears that mask?”

Armas gasped. “What...It is not for you to question the habits and dress of the Maester!” he cried. “And certainly not-”

“What exactly does he do, anyway?” It seemed that the best tactic for dealing with Armas was to just keep bulling ahead and let him catch up a bit at a time.

Armas sighed. “Maester Rein was appointed guardian of the Palace by His Imperial Majesty King Guiscard, after the King was rendered bedridden by his injuries from the battle of Guara. His duties centre around the state and function of the palace and its various inhabitants and the care of their Majesties the Royal family.”

“Right,” replied Gerulf. “So what does he do?”

Another sigh, this one a touch more vigorous. “He is in charge of the running of the palace, it's staff and arrangements for the security and comfort of their-”

“Their collective Majesties. I see. Would that not usually be the Queen's duty though?”

Armas gave him a measured frown and turned up his nose. “Her Majesty the Queen is not a housewife, Gerulf. Watch what you ask!”

Armas didn't like not knowing the answer to things at all. Especially when they were the kind of questions he'd wondered about but never asked. Gerulf considered whether that should worry him, and decided to err on the side of caution.

Armas visibly told himself to calm down, and slipped a small envelope out from his waistcoat pocket, proffering it in Gerulf's rough direction.

“Your first half-week's pay, Gerulf. Your duties will not be required tonight as His-Majesty-Prince-Mihai will be dining with Her Grace Lady Adara and her daughter this evening.

Gerulf accepted the envelope with a smile. “My thanks. By the way, were you and his Majesty by any chance...worried at the fact that I might leave?”

That expression on Armas' face was a delight.

“Ahem! His-Majesty-Prince-Mihai expects to see you tomorrow evening, having bathed. I still abhor the idea that you had not bathed yesterday before seeing him!”

“I wash every damn morning,” Gerulf replied calmly, “And you specifically told me last night that I wasn't to bathe.” He let his lips quirk up slightly. “It turned out he wanted to try me dirty.”

The conversation was punctuated by the slam of the door, closely followed up with Gerulf's laughter.

Gerulf sat and he ate his somewhat cool lunch, and had just taken out his writing things to compose a letter, when there was yet another tap upon his door. He'd never been so popular. He opened it to find Timur, looking more dusty and rumpled than usual against the backdrop of the neat corridor.

“Afternoon lad. You play cards?”

*

It was getting on for late at night, and Gerulf was seated in a rather cramped room off the stables, elbows propped on the table and hands cupped around his cards. Damn weak hand, but the other fellows were so drunk by this point that it made very little difference.

Timur sat opposite him, a dopey smile on what Gerulf could see of his face, his head tipped dizzily to one side as he carefully adjusted the fan of cards he held. On the other two sides of the square table sat two cheery fellows that Gerulf had only hours ago been introduced to, both members of the Palace staff. To his left was Birger, a quiet but pleasant natured old fellow, a veteran of the Palace Guard. He'd steadily drunk his way through the evening in a calm, methodical manner that would have left most of Gerulf's old unit deeply impressed. On Gerulf's right was Hisham, an under cook in the main Palace kitchens. He had the appearance of a man from Merca, but spoke with a stronger, more typically Nerimule accent than Gerulf himself.

Perhaps it was the alcohol, (though he hadn't really had that much, or at least in comparison to Birger) perhaps simply the feeling of quiet, competitive camaraderie in the small room, but Gerulf felt a question that had been drifting in his mind all day bubble up to the surface and emerge from his mouth.

“What's about those guardsmen who wear a white sash? I hadn't seen any of them until today.”

“Oh?” Birger responded, looking up as sharply as he could while balancing a very full shot glass. “Where did you see them?”

“With Maester Rein, when he did the inspection.”

“Ah, well, those would be the Elites, lad. You never heard of them?”

Gerulf racked his brains. There's been people referred to as elite in the military, but never any kind of unit. “No, I don't think so.”

“I'm not so surprised. Well, think of the palace of having three groups of guards.”

“Alright,” Gerulf replied, forcing himself to pay attention.

“Firstly, you have the Palace Guard, my lads and me, led by Captain Vahan. Ex-military fellow, you'd like him. We guard the boundaries of the palace and it's general populace. Then there are the Queen's guard. They specifically protect the Royal Family. Called the Queen's guard because they can't be called the King's guard; all guard are the King's guard. They have members assigned to each member of the family and the rest guard their personal chambers and properties. You'll have spotted them, their uniforms are white where ours are blue.”

Gerulf nodded, remembering having spotted a couple during his wanderings in the palace the day before.

“Then you have the Elites, with their sashes. They're for special jobs, like guarding the Family when they are on journeys and such. Technically they're under the charge of Vahan, but really it's Rein gives them their orders. They've a little more specialist training than most of the guard, a little more experience in the field. All ex-military, of course.”

“The rest of the guards aren't?”

“Well, a lot of the Palace lot are, though not necessarily from long-term runs at it. Heh, some of the Queen's guard are just from well-to-do families who've placed them there 'cause there isn't anything else to do with them. They just stand there with a halberd and try to look like they know what they're doing!”

Hisham stirred himself enough to laugh at this, then had to move fast to stop himself from sliding off his seat.

Gerulf racked his brain again, which was getting harder each time he did it. He'd seen members of the Queen's Guard several times in the palace itself, but never once in the Prince's House, not even the ones standing outside the main door.

“How many guards are assigned to protect Prince Mihai, Birger? I've not seen them.”

“Ah, well...the young Prince is a different matter. Don't know why, but he doesn't have an assigned guard, just some of our palace lads. I suppose the thinking is that so few people know of him, there's little danger of him being killed. Probably little comeuppance if he was, if you take a long view.”

Timur's perfectly evenly spaced fan of cards slipped from his hand as he dozed off. Gerulf looked at Birger's solemn face and nodded slowly.

He'd didn't think he'd ever heard anything so sad.




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