Best Served Cold

The foremost of the citizens looked like a bad caricature of wisdom-all hooked nose, snowy beard and creaky deep voice under a green felt hat like an upended chamber pot. “Madam, my name is Rubine, nominated to speak for the citizens.”

“I am Scavier.” A plump woman whose azure bodice exposed a terrifying immensity of cleavage.

“And I am Grulo.” A tall, lean man, bald as an arse, not quite shouldering in front of Scavier but very nearly.

“Our two most senior merchants,” explained Rubine.

It carried little weight with Rogont. “And?”

“And, with your permission, your Excellency, we were hoping to discuss some details of the arrangements-”

“Yes? Out with it!”

“As regards the title, we had hoped perhaps to steer away from nobility. Grand duchess smacks rather of Orso’s tyranny.”

“We hoped…” ventured Grulo, waving a vulgar finger-ring, “something to reflect the mandate of the common people.”

Rogont winced at Monza, as though the phrase “common people” tasted of piss. “Mandate?”

“President elect, perhaps?” offered Scavier. “First citizen?”

“After all,” added Rubine, “the previous grand duke is still, technically… alive.”

Rogont ground his teeth. “He is besieged two dozen miles away in Fontezarmo like a rat in his hole! Only a matter of time before he is brought to justice.”

“But you understand the legalities may prove troublesome-”

“Legalities?” Rogont spoke in a furious whisper. “I will soon be King of Styria, and I mean to have the Grand Duchess of Talins among those who crown me! I will be king, do you understand? Legalities are for other men to worry on!”

“But, your Excellency, it might not be seen as appropriate-”

For a man with a reputation for too much patience, Rogont’s had grown very short over the last few weeks. “How appropriate would it be if I was to, say, have you hanged? Here. Now. Along with every other reluctant bastard in the city. You could argue the legalities to each other while you dangle.”

The threat floated between them for a long, uncomfortable moment. Monza leaned towards Rogont, acutely aware of the vast numbers of eyes fixed upon them. “What we need here is a little unity, no? I’ve a feeling hangings might send the wrong message. Let’s just get this done, shall we? Then we can all lie down in a dark room.”

Grulo carefully cleared his throat. “Of course.”

“A long conversation to end where we began!” snapped Rogont. “Give me the damn circlet!”

Scavier produced a thin golden band. Monza turned slowly to face the crowd.

“People of Styria!” Rogont roared behind her. “I give you the Grand Duchess Monzcarro of Talins!” There was a slight pressure as he lowered the circlet onto her head.

And that simply she was raised to the giddy heights of power.

With a faint rustling, everyone knelt. The square was left silent, enough that she could hear the birds flapping and squawking on the pediment above. Enough that she could hear the spatters as some droppings fell not far to her right, daubing the ancient stones with spots of white, black and grey.

“What are they waiting for?” she muttered to Rogont, doing her best not to move her lips.

“Words.”

“Me?”

“Who else?”

A wave of dizzy horror broke over her. By the look of the crowd, she might easily have been outnumbered five thousand to one. But she had the feeling that, for her first action as head of state, fleeing the platform in terror might send the wrong message. So she stepped slowly forwards, as hard a step as she’d ever taken, struggling to get her tumbling thoughts in order, dig up words she didn’t have in the splinter of time she did. She passed through Scarpius’ great shadow and out into the daylight, and a sea of faces opened up before her, tilted up towards her, wide-eyed with hope. Their scattered muttering dropped to nervous whispering, then to eerie silence. She opened her mouth, still hardly knowing what might come out of it.

“I’ve never been one…” Her voice was a reedy squeak. She had to cough to clear it, spat the results over her shoulder then realised she definitely shouldn’t have. “I’ve never been one for speeches!” That much was obvious. “Rather get right to it than talk about it! Born on a farm, I guess. We’ll deal with Orso first! Rid ourselves of that bastard. Then… well… then the fighting’s over.” A strange kind of murmur went through the kneeling crowd. No smiles, exactly, but some faraway looks, misty eyes, a few heads nodding. She was surprised by a longing tug in her own chest. She’d never really thought before that she’d wanted the fighting to end. She’d never known much else.