“Secretary. It was approved by the finance committee last week.” A lie. “You must have been absent.” A truth.
“What the bloody hell do you need a secretary for?”
“You have Mateus; what precisely do you use him for?”
“I have a company to run!”
“And I have preparations to make if I’m to fulfill my own rather key role in that company.”
He gives me an appraising look, then drops his arm and allows Saber into the lift. “He’s a bit shabby,” the King says.
“I’m taking him to be liveried now,” I say, a bristle of defensiveness in my voice against the very insult I bestowed upon Saber not an hour ago. “Allowances must be made for one’s first day.”
“Yes, you do know something about that, don’t you, sweet cheeks?”
The back of my neck prickles. My weekly lever has gone flawlessly for months, but the King never misses an opportunity to mention that first one. “Would you press L for me, please, Your Gracious Majesty? I’m taking him right to the staff tailor.”
The lift starts up with scarcely a bump and I turn to my fiancé. “What is it you were so anxious to speak to me about?” I ask, knowing that whatever it was, he won’t breathe a word with Saber standing at my shoulder.
Sure enough, he flicks his lace-bedecked hand airily and says, “We can discuss it later.”
“Perhaps you should make an appointment,” I say as the doors open to the lower level of the palace—almost in sight of the hallway where His Majesty once strangled a woman. “Saber can help you with that.”
The King shoots an angry look at my new employee, but Saber—rising rather beautifully to the occasion, if I do say so myself—stretches out one foot and, with a swirl of his cloak, bows low over it and murmurs, “Your Royal Highness,” before following me out of the lift.
SABER ENTERS THE livery office with the expression of a man mounting the gallows—an attitude that doesn’t improve when the tailor begins to poke and prod him with devices that must, judging from his usual mode of dress, be utterly unfamiliar. A lifetime of fittings has inured me to the beeps and clicks of laser calipers and nanostitchers, but through Saber’s eyes I can see how the uninitiated might confuse such mundane objects with surgical devices—or instruments of torture.
I get the impression that Saber might prefer instruments of torture.
As his shirt comes off to make way for the red-and-gold livery, butterflies trouble my tightly bound stomach. His skin is a bronze—no, a deep sienna that complements his dark brown hair, sharp cheekbones, and angular eyes that speak of origins in the East, though I’m not sure exactly where. Several centimeters above the inside of his left wrist I notice a black tattoo—a disjointed symbol that looks like the mutant offspring of Mandarin hanzi and a quick-response bar code. My Lens makes no attempt to subtitle it, however, suggesting that it’s neither of those things. Perhaps a religious symbol?
The tailor proves as unaccustomed to fitting surly Parisian criminals as Saber is to being fitted, and the two come nearly to blows when Saber steadfastly refuses to remove the pair of shorts that apparently serve as his undergarments. I intervene again when the tailor brings in a pair of heeled slippers and Saber looks as though he might actually bolt.
“No, no,” I say. “A pair of riding boots would be more suitable.”
“Thank you for that,” Saber breathes when the tailor scurries off after the requested footwear, grumbling about mismatched outfits and the besmirching of his reputation with the Historical Society.
I intend to speak as I meet Saber’s eyes—to say something snarky about being a gracious taskmistress—but the genuine gratitude in his expression drives the words from my head and I avert my eyes with a blush.
It’s going to be a long two months.
“M.A.R.I.E. keeps track of us in three ways,” I explain as I lead him toward the Queen’s Rooms, several changes of fresh-fabbed livery in his arms. “Biometrics, radio tags, and audiovisual addressing. Anyone who isn’t broadcasting an authorized key to the local feed is automatically treated as a visitor, meaning they get extra attention from the audiovisual addressing. It’s easy to misdirect if you know how to DOS it with your Lens, but…” I notice that I’m getting a penetrating look from Saber. “What?”
“You’re smart,” Saber says, continuing to regard me with furrowed brow.
Unsure quite how to respond, I roll my eyes. “I didn’t dream of being a Queen when I was taking all my advanced programming classes.”
“I figured…whatever. You have state-of-the-art technology, blah, blah. Continue.”