Chapter Text
“He keeps a sword in it.”
The private secretary cuts the the press secretary a dry look. “Show a little creativity! Of course he doesn’t keep a sword in it.”
“Well, what then? He’s awfully jealous of it. It’s got to have something rattling around in there.”
“Long barrel, lightweight; clearly it’s an air gun,” the private secretary sniffs, trying to crimp down a smile. The press secretary barks out a laugh.
“No, no,” says the director of policy. She makes a little gun shape with her fingers and pretended to shoot the director of communications. “The body of the cane is empty. He’s just got one little derringer in the handle and he pulls it out to fire it. An air gun would still be too heavy.”
“Has anyone ever dared to ask why he needs it?”
“He told me he’d fallen off a horse once and it stomped through his left femur,” says the director of policy. The room winces. “I mean, I think he was lying. He was using it as an explanation for why he’s always pushing for innovations in internal combustion.”
“Explains his relish for horse meat, though.”
“I don’t think it’s that he relishes it,” the private secretary says, lacing her hands together over her folders. “But that he rather approves of economical recipes. Hence the, ah. Loss of subsidization for the old racehorses’ home. Anyway, it’s certainly not germane to the cane.”
“You’re all wrong,” the director of communications says through his teeth, tamping the tobacco into his pipe. “The whole thing is a weapon. If he goes upside your head with it, you’re not getting back up.”
“Ha! What’s it made of? Lead?”
“Only in the form of shrapnel.” The director of communications wedges his pipe into the side of his mouth and digs through his pockets for his matches. “The tube is full of gunpowder and he can pull off the handle to unspool a wick. One of these days you’re going to see him ‘accidentally’ drop that thing and if you’re smart, you’re going to find whoever pissed him off and make them beg forgiveness on hand and knee before he blows parliament to kingdom come.”
The scattered snickerings snap off as the door to the office swung open. The staff shoot to their feet.
“Laughter? Joy?” booms their monarch. He marches in and stops with his hands on his hips, surveying them severely beneath a pair of prominent eyebrows. “In my castle? What is the meaning of this!”
The staff bow, one or two upward twitches still perishing on their lips, the odd shoulder bobbing with amusement.
“Pastime, my Lord,” the private secretary croons, almost setting off the press secretary again. “Mere speculation and exaggeration.”
“Very well, but I’ll have no more merriment while we’re in the room, understood?” The king nods solemnly and glanced behind him. He addresses someone in the corridor. “The worst of it is over, now. They’re chastised and shame-faced. You can feel quite at home.”
The chief of staff appears in the doorway, adjusting his eyeglasses as he surveys the interior. “I am all gratitude, sire. It is kind of you to remember how much happiness upsets me.”
“Yes, yes,” the king says, waving a hand and pulling out a chair. He sits, lacing his fingers across his chest. “What won’t I do for your comfort.”
The chief of staff slips into the room and gently closes the door behind him. He laces both hands on the handle of his cane, giving the assembled group a knowing look.
“Gentlepersons, good morning.”
“Good morning,” they chorus.
“Enough ceremony,” the king mutters. “Don’t let him bully you. You’ve all long-since proven yourselves to have fine manners. Cop a squat.”
At this language, the chief of staff points a somewhat dead-eyed gaze into the middle distance and slightly hollows his cheeks. He typically assumed the air of a man entirely unaware that his eyeballs were flexible enough to roll in the first place; this was as far as he ever got.
The staff cop their squats, except the chief of staff.
“What’s on deck?” the king inquires, producing a pair of reading glasses and buffing them on a handkerchief. “My shadow tells me that we have a rather full slate today. Jules, you go last and stay after… I think we’ve got a pile to get through.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
The chief of staff clears his throat. “It is with regret that I say I cannot join you for the conversation. My presence is demanded elsewhere and His Majesty has graciously excused me for the duration. I leave the safe transit of this meeting in your capable hands, with—” He turns bodily to point himself towards his monarch like a needle finding North, “—one exception…”
The chief of staff bends at the waist to put his mouth by his monarch’s ear, cupping a hand to conceal his lips from the view of even these trusted eyes. The king listens with a calm, thoughtful expression to the deathly silence of his top advisor’s whispered words. The press secretary cracks a smirk, earning a pair of thin lips from the private secretary.
Message concluded, the chief of staff reaches into his jacket and withdraws a sealed letter. He passes it seamlessly into his king’s hand and straightens up once more.
“Now,” the chief of staff says, retreating to a spot near a table set with a pitcher and glass cups. “Please excuse my absence, all, but we will surely connect later in the day. If I may beg leave of you, sire—”
“God’s good Christ,” the king huffs. “It’s decades we’ve spent together, man. Is it completely necessary for you to call me ‘sire’ with every other breath? Everyone else has the good sense to call me ‘my lord.’”
The chief of staff twitches up an eyebrow as he reaches for the pitcher and begins to pour out a glass of water. “Respectfully, sire, I prefer to use a more formal form of address.”
“Why?”
The edge of the pitcher clinks on the glass rim. The flow of water stops with the cup half-empty.
“It shows proper respect,” the chief of staff says, cleanly nipping off each consonant. He sets the pitcher down, takes a sip, and promptly pours out another iteration of the same. Cane in one hand and fresh glass in the other, he gives the room and its mute occupants a cool scan before crossing the floor to deliver the drink to the coaster before his king.
“And as your obedient servant,” he adds, “I prefer to maintain the time-honored customs. If that doesn’t displease you, sire?”
The king looks him up and down, pressing his lips together in a sarcastic smile as the chief of staff folds both hands on his cane head once more. The director of communications puffs on his pipe and gives the director of policy a look.
The king shakes his head. “Throw a ‘my liege’ or two in now and then, would you? It’ll keep it fresh.”
The chief of staff shifts his weight to his good leg, clasping his cane as he bent at the waist and extended his bad foot forward. “So please you, my liege.”
“Get thee hence,” the king says to the chief of staff.
The chief of staff stands and inclines his head, more seriously this time, and addresses his staff.
“If any of you need me, you know how to contact me. Good morning.”
“Don’t make anyone cry,” the press secretary suggests.
“I can’t promise that.”
The chief of staff exits the room and closes the door behind him. The rest of the staff begin to shuffle their papers, looking for the quick notes they’d prepared for their monarch to review.
“Perhaps we should start with communications,” the private secretary suggests.
“Certainly. But first, I have two notes,” the king says. “One, it was actually a cannon ball that took his leg out, and he lies about it constantly to keep people guessing. So far I think there are some 50 rumors in circulation. I’m trusting you all not to dull his edge with the truth, so this doesn’t leave the room, right?”
Their rapid agreements bubbles over one another. “Oh… yes, sir.” “Of course, my lord.” “Certainly, sir.” “What, a moving one?”
“Then, two… of course it’s not full of dynamite. You’d know that if you ever handled it. His cane is quite hollow and he uses it to fire blow darts.” Their king adjusts his glasses on his nose, kindly ignoring the high-pitched wheeze of the press secretary holding her face in her hands. “What’s next?”