When the Writing Won’t Obey

Before my eyes opened, before my conscious mind connected this with the events of the night before, my hand was under the pillow, grabbing the burner, and I’d brought it out, pointing it in the direction of the voice.

“Patrician!” the voice was outraged, rather than shocked, and there was a tinkle of glass, a noise of porcelain, and I opened my eyes to see a man I only very vaguely recognized pouring out coffee into a cup – I knew it was coffee because I could smell it – and setting out toast and who knew what else.

Then I realized the room was full of people. And by that, I mean exactly what I said. Full of people. People swarmed in every possible corner, doing things I only half understood. A team of three people, for instance, seemed to be removing all the suits from the closet, even the stuff that had been Max’s from the drawers.

I turned my attention and – mindlessly – my burner on them. “What are you doing?”

The nearest man, holding an armful of suits, dropped them on the floor. He might also have pissed himself. I don’t know. I didn’t look. But his face had that mortified look, and his eyes crossed slightly as he looked at the burner. I turned the burner safety on, and put it back under my pillow, then crossed my arms. “I said, what are you doing?”

“T-t-t-” the man said.

“Taking your suits, Patrician,” the man behind him said, looking somewhat doubtful. “I mean, your predecessor’s suits. I mean, Mr. Remy said–”

“Where in hell is Nathaniel Remy?” I asked, because I hadn’t seen him in the crowd, and realized only now that this seemed odd, since he’d fallen asleep in front of my door. I snorted. His master’s door indeed.

“Nat- Nat- Nat-” the man who’d dropped my suits said.

“Do you wish to speak to Nathaniel, Patrician?” Sam’s voice from near my bedside table. I turned to see him holding a bunch of those papers that could only be signed by the touch of the thumb with the right genetics, the kind of thing my father seemed to always be doing.

“I want to know why he’s interfering with my clothes!” I said, and then realized that I was yelling at a man who was twice my age, who looked incredibly tired, who’d spent half the night up helping defend the house, whose underlings had got wounded and possibly killed, and who had always been kind to me. I said immediately, “I’m sorry, Sam. I’m not a morning person.”

“Do you wish to keep those clothes?” he said. “Nathaniel didn’t make those decisions. I did. I noticed that the clothes you were wearing don’t fit you, and I presumed from the fact that you were wearing what the last Good Man wore before ascension that you didn’t like the more… vital suits he chose afterwards? We had some clothes made, though far from a complete wardrobe, and I thought–”

I waved my hand. “Sorry.” I looked at the terrified man, and waved at him, “Carry on, never mind me.” Then turned back to Sam. “Who are all these people? Why are they in my room this early in the morning?”

Sam cleared his throat, “Those people,” he pointed. “Are making sure that your windows are secured, and the balcony door too. Last night, they used a disrupting device that unlocked the back door. We must make sure–”

“Fine, fine.”

“Those people are making sure that any drinks in the drink table are replenished. Those people,” he pointed to five people by the window. “Are merchants of the seacity, whose business is disrupted by our present… situation, and they would like to talk to you. And those people,” he said, pointing to four men by the entrance to the bathroom. “Are waiting to help you bathe and dress.”

I opened my mouth. Then I closed it. I’d read about rulers in the middle ages and shortly after. I’d read about rituals called the levee, in which everyone who had business with the king came to see him rise, and talk to him while he went about the necessary wakening things. I remembered being highly amused by stories of how courtiers would loiter around while the king answered a call of nature, or turn a blind eye while the king’s latest fling slipped out of the king’s bed and through the door.

It wasn’t so amusing to be in the position of those poor kings, though I supposed, now that I thought about it, that the government of the seacity and its territories was much like the government of one of the medieval countries. Certainly I was the ultimate and absolute ruler. I didn’t know why I was surprised. But I knew why I was upset. I’d be damned if I’d wake to this every morning. Perhaps my fath– whatever the hell he’d been to me, had enjoyed it. Perhaps it made him feel how important he was. Maybe he liked that.