Post by wordy on May 30, 2011 18:43:28 GMT 10
A Day in the Life of a Master of Ceremonies
by Kit
A/N: There is also the podfic version, in which there are Many Disreputable Accents.
A clear mind is a happy one, fit to the tasks of the day and the burdens of a man’s station. I find that if waking up is gradual, yet clean, the rest of the day proceeds with this cleanliness, no matter the toils that, scheduled or otherwise, inevitably occur.
Waking up in the early weeks of the Palace’s yearly page infestation is the figurative equivalent of being splattered with mud. Or wine, when there is no salt on hand. Their voices, tutored and rough, all echo down to my chamber. This cannot be helped. The Master of Ceremonies has abided here since Jasson the First, when there were still plans to have its bulk cross over the Olurun. 106 men—and two women, if rumour is to be accounted—before me have dealt with the detritus of pages.
Hmph. This account is far too poetical. Suffice to say that any morning starting with, “Nealan! Pants” does not bode for a good day.
***
“Upton! Upton.”
The problem with Assistants is that there is always a time when they think they may use your first name over breakfast.
“Teodrin?”
“Upton, it’s the portrait.”
Currently, the Royal Galleries contain 1, 361 official portraits, ephemera being discounted. There is, however, only one piece that provoked this variety of histrionic emphasis. “What of it?”
“It’s Master Rain, Upton. You know that I did press upon him the vital concerns with...uh...presenting His Royal Highness in the best light to the Yamanis, but, Upton, it’s quite dreadful. He’s—“
“—out with it, Theodrin.” My porridge has long cold.
“He’s in white, sir.”
“White?”
“And some royal blue, of course, but yes. White.”
Mithros save me from this world in which we all must live.
***
“Master Rain, Thank you for arriving so promptly.”
Volney Rain is a close companion of the Wild Mage and Master Salmalin, and so it should not surprise me that he is disreputable. He has as close a relationship with paint and oil as Daine sometimes has with guano. And yet, I am always surprised.
“You seemed mightily upset.”
“I am...disconcerted, sir.”
The small man shifts, offended, silver hair flying about his face in an unwashed cloud. “Hmph. The painting isn’t good enough for their majesties? It is a likeness. I was—mmph—specifically asked not to pretty him up too much, and Roald can’t help his chin.”
“I did not call you here to discuss His Highness’s bone structure!”
His eyes are wide. I can feel a pulse in my forehead. Perhaps I was too vehement. Deep breaths.
“I called you here,” I tell him, “Because if we send that particular image of Primce Roald to the Yamani Islands, sir, it shall be that image they shall blame for their next earthquake.”
“Hmph! That’s a bit much Master Oakbridge, really. It’s—“
“—there are customs, Rain. Not silly superstitions that can be ignored. There are great, cultural chasms we must cross on bridges spun from politeness and adherence to each other’s norms. And, sir, it is literally a grave mistake to paint anybody wearing white if they are to be seen in that particular country.
He blinks. My pun is lost on him. “You...you want me to change his shirt?”
“Yes, Rain. If you would be so good. Change his shirt.”
***
How nearly six hours of my day could be lost in placating my Assistants and impressing obvious societal norms upon halfway vagrant artists, I have no idea, but afternoon classes come as a sneaking shock.
So many faces, sitting before me. Young and dull and entirely unwilling to be shaped.
The probationer looks as blank as the stone that has been flung at her as an unfortunate namesake. I do know why His Majesty capitulated. His position was becoming untenable—but looking at Probationer Page Keladry now, after hearing the whispers from my bedroom walls, I can only think that he was breaking his own protocol in doing what he did. As, of course, Kings have right to do. But a broken thing is in sharp pieces nonetheless.
And any page who smiles as I lecture on The Eighty-Three Steps in Appropriate Submission is not attending to the lesson.
“What amuses you, probationary page?”
“Nothing, sir.” She stands well, her fingers bruised, but clean.
“But you are amused,” I say. “It was quite clear. You must share the joke with us, probationary page, now, if you please.”
“Master Oakbridge—” oh, save me.
“Lord Wyldon shall school you properly in the matter of excuses. I will accept no more evasion, probationary page.” And probationer she is, so I shall use the title. I can see it makes the lanky Queenscove youth twitch. One would think a boy apparently caught without breeches that morning would be more subdued. Keladry has barely blinked.
“Sir,” she says. “The writer is my father.”
Boy. Girl. All cocky and sure they are as bright as jays. There. Oh, there. Piers of Mindelan. Of all the texts I might assign—“what of that? The child does not have all his father’s knowledge.”
“Excuse me, Master Oakbridge.” Queenscove. I have not slept enough for this.
“But Kel doesn’t have all her father’s knowledge. Not his.”
Keladry shifts and looks fit to step on his foot. As if petty squabbling distracts from insolence. “The majority of you are lads. Proper usage calls for male pronouns when males are part of the group.”
“Except,” Always an except from boys bred to one profession and certainty that they belong in another. Worrisome, troublesome boy who shall cause only worry and trouble to himself in his turn. “You addressed Kel alone, which calls for the exact term.”
I have had exactly the wrong amount of sleep for this day, and it is barely begun. Punishment work is the barest and cheapest of balms.