He took several tentative steps, glancing up fearfully, his arms partially raised as if to ward off a blow. A thin, brittle-looking man wearing a powdered wig, a brilliant yellow tunic, and striped orange britches, he stood taller than Amilia.
“Good day to you, my lady,” he greeted her with a bow as soon as he had cleared the activity. “My name is Nimbus of Vernes and I have come to offer my services.”
“Oh,” she said with a blank stare. “I don’t think—”
“Oh please, I beg of you, hear me out. I am a courtier formerly of King Fredrick and Queen Josephine of Galeannon. I am well versed in all courtly protocol, procedures, and correspondence. Prior to that, I was chamberlain to Duke Ibsen of Vernes, so I am capable of managing—” He paused. “Are you all right?”
Amilia swallowed. “I’m just in a hurry. I’m on my way to a very important meeting with the regent.”
“Please forgive me, then. It is just that—well, I have—” He slouched his shoulders and sighed. “I am embarrassed to say that I am a refugee of the Nationalists’ invasion and have nothing more than the clothes on my back and what little I have in this satchel. I have walked my way here and … I am a bit hungry. I was hoping I could find employment at the palace court. I am not suited for anything else,” he said, dusting his shoulders clear of the snowy debris that drifted down from the scaffolds.
“I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m not—” She stopped when she saw his lip tremble. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”
“Quite some time, I am afraid. I have actually lost track.”
“Listen,” she told him. “I can get you something to eat, but you have to wait until after my meeting.”
She thought he would cry then as he bit his lip and nodded several times, saying, “Thank you ever so much, my lady.”
“Wait here. I’ll be back soon … I hope.”
She headed off, dodging the lathered men in leather aprons, and slipped past three others in robes, holding measuring sticks like staffs and arguing over lines on huge parchments spread across a worktable.
The throne room, which also showed signs of renovation, was nearly finished and only a few towers of scaffolding remained. The marble floor glistened with a luster, as did the mammoth pillars that held up the domed ceiling. Near the interior wall rose the dais, upon which stood the golden imperial throne, sculpted in the shape of a giant bird of prey. The wings spread into a vast circle of splayed feathers, which formed the chair’s back. She passed through the arcade behind it to the administration offices.
“What do you want?” the clerk asked Amilia. She had never liked him. His face looked like a rodent’s, with small eyes, large front teeth, and a brief smattering of black hair on a pale, balding head. The little man sat behind a formidable desk, his fingers dyed black from ink.
“I’m here to see Regent Saldur,” she replied. “He sent for me.”
“Upstairs, fourth floor,” he said, dismissing her by looking back down at his parchments.
On the second floor, plaster covered the walls. On the third floor, she found paneling, and by the fourth level the paneling was a richly carved dark cherry wood. Lanterns became elegant chandeliers, a long red carpet ran the length of the corridor, and glass windows let in light from outside. She recalled how out of place Saldur had seemed when he had visited the kitchen. She looked down at her dirty smock and recognized the irony.
The door lay open and Regent Saldur stood before an arched window built from three of the largest pieces of glass she had ever seen. Birdsongs drifted in from the ward below as the regent read a parchment he held in the sunlight.
“You’re late,” he said without looking up.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to get here.”
“Something you should understand: I’m not interested in excuses or explanations. I’m only interested in results. When I tell you to do something, I expect it’ll be done exactly as I dictate, not sooner, not later, not differently, but exactly how I specify. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” She felt considerably warmer than she had a moment earlier.
The regent walked to his desk and laid the parchment on it. He placed his fingertips together, tapping them against each other while studying her. “What’s your name again?”
“Amilia of Tarin Vale.”