The King's Blood

returning to his bed and his place in the Kingspire would be more of a homecoming, the end to his time in exile. If anything, he felt less at home now than he had before.
    When he’d been his own man, back before King Simeon had died, there had been days spent in his library, immersed in a translation, his mind utterly focused. He would forget to eat. He would forget to rest. Everything in him would come to a single point, a perfect kind of clarity. And when, as inevitably happened, something broke the trance, he would discover that he was hungry, thirsty, exhausted, and in the ragged edge of pissing himself. And even when all his bodily needs had been satisfied, he would still feel displaced, still reaching for that next word or phrase, the nuance that best captured what he thought the original author had intended. Everything around him—walls, chairs, people— could seem unreal.
    The Kingspire, and in truth all of Camnipol, felt odd and unstructured. Out of joint. His mind and memory were aimed behind him, at a dusty, stinking ruin. Days in darkness with nothing to do but play simple puzzle games by the light of a candle and talk to a part-Cinnae banker. Cithrin bel Sarcour. Part of him was still there, with her, in that darkness. All the rest was distraction.
    Geder knew he was the most powerful man in Camnipol, in Antea, quite possibly in the world. He could command the death of kings. The men who had mocked him once lived in fear of him now. It was everything he’d wanted. Everything he’d hoped for. Only now, he found, he wanted more. He wanted to wake in the morning and dress himself. He wanted to sit in his library and read until he slept. He wanted to sit and talk with Aster, or with Cithrin. He wanted to feel her body against his again.
    And why not? Why couldn’t he have these things? And more than that, why shouldn’t he?
    The chief valet was an older man with powder-pale skin and a fringe of hair around an ages-peckled pate. He answered to Geder’s summons immediately, bowing his way across the chamber.
    “You called for me, Lord Regent?” he said.
    Geder felt the unease in his belly and tried to put it aside.
    “I don’t… I’ve decided I don’t want to be dressed anymore. I don’t need people to put my clothes on me or bathe me or trim my toenails. I’ve done all of that myself for years, and I managed.”
    “The dignity of the regency, my lord, like the dignity of a king, is not—”
    “I didn’t call you here to be lectured,” Geder said. “You’re here so that I could tell you something. I don’t want people to come dress me in the morning. Bring the clothes, draw the bath, and get out. Do you understand that? I want my privacy, and I’ll take it.”
    “Yes, Lord Regent,” the older man said, his lips pressed together in disappointment and disapproval. “As you see fit.”
    “Is this a problem?”
    The man practically vibrated, conflicting impulses warring behind pale and watery eyes.
    “Tradition, Lord Palliako, and the dignity of the throne argue against a man of your stature and position acting as his own servant. It diminishes—”
    “Strip,” Geder said.
    “My lord?”
    “Your clothes. Take them off.”
    “I don’t—”
    Geder rose up, gesturing at the impassive faces of his personal guard.
    “I have men with swords at my command. I am the regent of Antea. I sit the Severed Throne. When I tell you to do something, I’m not opening a debate. Take off your clothes.”
    Trembling, his cheeks burning scarlet, the old man undid his robes. His undershirt was a pale yellow silk. His under-garments showed a spot of blood at the flank where the old man had a small round scab, a blemish that would not heal. His pubic hair was the yellow of white cheese and his belly sagged. Geder stood up. There was neither disappointment nor disapproval in the man’s face now.
    “Why my good sir,” Geder said. “What ever is the matter? You don’t seem to enjoy this.”
    The servant didn’t speak.
    “Do you?”
    “Lord?”
    “Do you enjoy this?”
    “I do not, my lord.”
    Geder walked up, putting his face inches from the old man’s. With each word he spoke, the servant winced.
    “Neither. Do. I.”
    Geder turned on his heel, walking out of the room. Behind him, he heard his personal guard following and the soft sounds of the servant picking up his fallen clothes. And that simply, it was done. The ritual morning humiliations were over, and no one was going to laugh