Star entered the room immediately. “How may this one aid you, my Lord?” it asked.
“A bath and breakfast,” he said. “Or maybe the reverse order?”
“This one will serve breakfast in bed, as all the Great Ones take it,” Star said, and he thought that he registered a hint of reproach in its voice, as if he had offended it merely by suggesting that he take his meal any other way.
He sighed and got back into bed. Eating in bed had never appealed to him. Too much chance of crumbs or a spill that would require that the servants take the bedclothes apart and clean them ahead of the weekly schedule. But . . . people in the Capital didn’t have human servants anymore, now did they? And no one cared if the Dolls were inconvenienced. “What sort of breakfast is there?” he asked.
“Whatever my Lord wishes,” Star replied. “The kitchens will make it.”
“Bread, fruit, butter. Are there egg pies? A small one of those if there are. If there aren’t, just cooked eggs, three of them. Ham, cheese, and a bit of white or black sausage if you have it. Beans. Tea, I don’t care what kind.”
Star froze again for just a moment. He was beginning to realize this meant he had said something it didn’t expect, or perhaps it was speaking to other Dolls. Maybe the ones in the kitchen? It came to life again. “That is not the usual amount of food, my Lord,” it said carefully.
“I’m apparently awake much earlier than anyone else,” he pointed out. “If I just nibble a pastry and drink a glass of wine I’ll be faint by lunchtime. Is anyone going to want me this morning? What about this afternoon?”
“No one presents themselves in public before luncheon,” Star told him. “This afternoon you will be expected to appear in the Great Hall with the rest of the Court, whether or not you are called upon.”
Because of course I will. The Emperor needs to remind us daily that we serve him, not the other way around.
“Your breakfast has arrived, my Lord,” Star said, interrupting his thoughts. “As has Beltran’s.” It left the room and returned with a heavily laden tray.
If he had not been so hungry—and why that would be he had no idea after that huge dinner, but maybe all the head-work he was doing to maneuver around in the intricate Court dance had used up all the energy from dinner—he would never have considered eating that much food. When the Doll put the copper (of course) tray down across his legs, it was so laden that if it had not had its own set of supports, it would have been uncomfortable. There was an entire pot of tea, a delicate cup to drink it out of, a tart-sized egg pie and three boiled eggs, a slice of ham, a chunk of yellow cheese, slices of black and white pudding, a dish of white beans with butter atop them, a hand-sized loaf of bread, a dish of butter, and a sliced apple. He took his time eating, pondering what he should do with the day. And then it occurred to him; if there were no more human servants, what had become of the child-hostages?
“Can I see where the hostages are now?” he asked Star, who simply waited for his next order, standing beside the bed. He supposed that if he had asked the Doll to cut up his food for him and feed him, it would have done so.
It went still, then replied, “There seems to be no reason why my Lord cannot.”
“Then after my bath and I get dressed, I’d like to,” he declared, and for the benefit of whoever might be scrying him, added, “I had good memories of that time and the kindness of the Emperor.”
The Doll winced, just a little, probably at the blatant lie. But it did not call him out, and he was certain it did not report the lie to whatever it was reporting to. “Then this will be so,” it said. “Will Beltran be coming?”
“I think that’s a good idea,” he said. “Now, what about luncheon? Does the Court eat together?”
“Yes and no,” Star told him. “There is the option to be served in the Grand Dining Hall, but no one takes it amiss if one desires to eat in the privacy of one’s apartments.”
What in the seven hells do these people do with their lives? he wondered. Then something occurred to him. “What does Merrin do?”
“He generally is served in the Grand Dining Hall,” said the Doll.
“Can I ask to be seated with him?”
“One can ask to be seated with anyone else at luncheon,” Star said. “But seats are assigned at dinner.”
“Then get me seated with him, and make sure I’m there in time for us to meet.” He had decided that it might be useful to prop up the “country bumpkin” image with Merrin, who would, of course, know what life looked like at the Valdemar manor . . . or so he thought. Plant some ideas, plant some deceptions. Give him the impression that he’s still spying on me for the Emperor. Give him some more useful stories. Useful to me, anyway.
He heard soft sounds suggestive of a bath in the room between his and Beltran’s, and figured that his Herald had given his Doll fewer breakfast options, and so had finished earlier than he had. When the sounds ceased, he asked Star to take the tray away. “I’ll have that bath now,” he said.
The third Doll, Clover, was already drawing the bath when he made his way to the room. So what one knows, all of them really do know. Kordas brought the Ducal Crest in with him; no better time to “recharge” the thought-masking device than when relaxing in a hot bath. He traced his left thumb in circles around it. “Clover,” he said, “I’d like to have something made for me, if you don’t mind.”
The Doll replied, “This one will attend,” and leaned in toward Kordas slightly, as if intent to hear.
“There is a shirt I wear. There,” Kordas went on, pointing at the stormcloud-dyed undershirt. “It has special significance to me, but it has not aged well. It’s a bit ratty, in fact. Could you make me more shirts like that, but new? I know that may seem weird.”
Clover rocked back a little, like someone might do if they were laughing hard. “It shall be done. And this one assures you that such a request is far from ‘weird’ compared to many of the uses Dolls are put to.”
Kordas set the Ducal Crest aside, sitting up in the tub. “I don’t think I can imagine.”
Clover replied, “This one opines that may be for the best. Dolls are versatile, and are sometimes modified for specific tastes.” The Doll laid the shirt out on a towel stand and examined it closely. “This one assumes the shirt is of sentimental value. It is threadbare, but appears . . . beloved.”
“Sometimes we humans need to remind ourselves who we are. Our minds are limited, compared to particular others. We mark ourselves, or wear things to help us focus when we might otherwise find our minds in panic. The storm shirt is like that for me.”
It reminds me that whatever I may appear to be on the outside, and even whatever I show my closest friends, what I am inside is a lethal thunderstorm, and if I don’t keep constant control, I destroy.