2A carriage bowls along, drawn by four great cats – electric-blue and storm-purple, they snarl and snap as they race ahead. Electricity dances between their claws and drips from their mouth as they surge forwards smoothly. The carriage they pull is a closed landau, ebony wood and stormy metal. The wheels strike fire from the roads, but the carriage is well-sprung, and plush. In the distance, a city – prismatic in colour, a profusion of silvery spires and rainbowed towers, a city of glass, almost, towers to a louring sky. The skies shine silver, thunderheads boil up from the scudding clouds, threatening, storm-purple.
The door closes with a soft click; a lithe figure settles in opposite the carriage's occupant. "We're making good time, he observed. "A half-parsang to go, by the coachman's reckoning."
"Good. Helio-" The carriage suddenly cants, shifts violently to one side; there's a crash of splintering wood. "What the devil – Hel, go and see-" but the lithe figure of Heliotrope is already gone. The wind of the landau's passage whips around the plush interior, setting the elegant decorations aflutter. The remaining occupant of the landau sighs – purple vapour gusts, suddenly, before being banished by the winds – and long, elegant hands feel across the shining metal of his cane.
There's a flash, out of the corner of the eye; suddenly, a portion of the road leaps to lightning. Another flash, a copse of trees turns to waxy flame. Yet again; but this time nothing, the projectile caught in Heliotrope's iron grip. There's a roar, a word lost in thunder, and the carriage blurs, thundering along the causeway once more.
Heliotrope's grin is wide as he swings himself back into the carriage, still holding the projectile. "What excitement, sir," he says. "What fun! What a way to liven up an otherwise extremely boring trip!"
"Yes, yes, now let me see that." Peremptorily, an alabaster hand is extended; the projectile glitters in it after a moment.
It twists and turns, an evil silver little thing, its poisonous charge glittering blue. "Progress once more," comes the light, hesitant voice, and purple vapours boil and writhe, filling the air with a heady, cloying scent. Not unpleasant, just curiously penetrative.
The breath of the purple paragon was death, insidious, creeping poison. Never said to his face; the purple-born lord was far too feared for that, nevertheless it was whispered behind the closed doors of libraries, when cigar smoke hung heady on the air and smoky port blazed in crystal glasses.
This, then, is the prism city, where the Rainbows meet and plot and scheme and plan, where social circles determine society politics. It towers to a powder-blue sky, obedient to its mistress, the current Queen Prism, a twisting profusion of slender spires and rainbowed crystal, brash Pyrroman crimson to secretive Ruthven purple, shifting and changing in accordance to their favour at Court.
Today, though, there are storms, and the prism towers shake and shiver, their crystal voices adding to the carillons of the palace bells. The purple powers of Ruthven are strong tonight in the Queen's light, and bruise-purple clouds mass and boil above the city. Lightning flickers and flashes; raindrops hammer the prismatic stones of the streets. Society ladies hiss and cluck, umbrellas open like flowers, carriages swish through pooling water.
Gargoyles, ranged across the city's dreaming parapets, gush raindrops, they pour down yammering pipes to foam in the sewers; the grandeur of the city's fountains are lost in nature's display.
The Ruthven landau – black and purple – slices through the storms, powerful repelling spells forcing the water to shimmer and bend around it.
Inside, all is muted; the only loud noise the ticking of the clock and the steady drumbeat of the raindrops. Even the thunder sounds distant. The carriage's occupant angles his head to the rain-beaded glass and stares out at the city cloaked in rain, the storm-lashed parks where trees wail and flowers dance while the lake whips itself to white fury and fountains overstep their bounds. Litter whirls up from the bins in gleeful dust-devils, only to be smashed back down by the sucker-punch of the driving rain.
A silver serpent's-head cane shifts aside one of the heavy purple drapes; the thunder-light strikes rich fabric and corpse-white skin. Lips – bloodless, but nevertheless painted a rich, plummy shade, part in what might be a smile. "My my," his voice observes – it is light and melodious, a cadence rather than a speech, though somewhat hesitant – "what a grand welcome. Her Majesty the Queen Prism thinks so highly of the Ruthven, to paint her city in our colours."
"Indeed, sir," murmurs the other occupant of the carriage, carefully laying plum satin gloves on immaculately-pressed trousers. "One must wonder what Her Majesty wishes the aid of House Ruthven for."
"Cynic."
"You are the scion of Ruthven, sir. The reviled House, spoken of only behind closed doors, in incense-thick chambers. Of course Her Majesty wants your...unique, shall we say...services."
"The palatinate poison?" Plum-coloured silk rises, a purple-edged mouth covered as chiming laughter ripples. Purple vapour shimmers at the edge of sight. "Oh, please. We are not a blunt instrument."
"As you say, sir."
The carriage jolts over a cracked paving stone, setting the crystal interior a-chime. Ruthven frowns. "They could take better care of the roads," he observes acidly, but there is no time for a retort as the landau – drawn by tempest-cats in furious array – swings onto the Royal Concourse, a rain-slicked expanse of moonstone flags lined with guardsmen in dripping finery.
Ruthven settles back, but the carriage swings to a halt rather than racing at a gallop towards the Prism Palace gates. His eye slams open. "Heliotrope?" he orders softly; his servant rises soundlessly and leaps athletically down from the landau. The rain is very loud.
"Is there a problem, commander?" Heliotrope's eyes are cold and frosty purple, his plum satin gloves shimmer like wine.
"All vehicles proceeding up the Royal Concourse require an invitation from Her Majesty the Queen!" his voice booms out as though he's on a parade ground, his eyes – such as can be seen behind a respirator - stare straight ahead.
"This is the Ruthven family landau. Ruthven has been summoned by the Queen; surely you know this. We have no time to tarry with you guardsmen." Purple vapour swirls on the edge of sight; the commander is nervous.
"I have my orders, sir. I am charged with the safety of the Royal Concourse and-"
He's stopped in his tracks, suddenly. The tempest-cats drawing the landau, already charged by the storm, have sensed Heliotrope's irritation. Painful blue light blooms on the leader's jagged fur; its mouth opens and spews a raging torrent, a lashing cat o'nine-tails of electricity at the guards.
They scatter like ninepins; the bolt has blown a smoking crater in the silky moonstones, and guards come running from further up the Concourse.
Heliotrope is unmoved, the commander is shivering. Both turn, startled by the click-clack of highly polished shoes and a metal cane against the rain-slick flagstones. Ruthven himself has dismounted from the carriage.
"Hold," he orders the tempest cats, almost negligently: they quiet at his voice. His top hat shimmers as though it's underwater, the rainwater flying away in all directions from its glossy, blinding brightness.
"I believe you are looking for this, commander," Ruthven states coldly, negligently holding a slip of card between wine-gloved fingers. Compared to the hulking bulk of the commander and his guards, he looks very young, the message clasped between two fingers. White on white, a prismatic message, the hallmark of the Queen. Her seal shimmered on its back.
The commander reached for it, his fingers twitching. Ruthven turned away. "Ah, ah, ah," he cautioned. "You have seen the invitation and the seal, at considerable inconvenience to myself. No more authentication is required."
"I, ah, have to ascertain the seal is, uh-"
"Commander, cease playing politics. Someone has paid you – probably that brat Pyrroman, if I'm any judge – to waylay me. I would advise you to cease meddling in the affairs of your betters and get back to what your job actually is. Now, am I going to be allowed to drive on, or do I have to have the tempest cats blast a way through and then apologize to the Queen as to why I'm late?" Ruthven raises an eyebrow. "One of these ways gives you at least a semblance of a future career, the other does not. I trust you'll make the right decision."
Ruched greatcoat swirling, young Ruthven remounts the landau steps and spreads his voluminous cloak once more.
After a long moment, Heliotrope bows ironically to the commander, murmurs an order to the tempest-cats, and the carriage is once more bowling along the Concourse, now closely watched by nervous guardsmen.
"You were very patient, sir," observes Heliotrope.
"The Queen would not look kindly on having to find a new Commander of the Concourse, Hel. Plus, we would be even later, and to no good effect. The Queen prefers her attack dog to arrive quietly." He smiled ironically as the landau swished between the open palace gates and swung to a stop on the forecourt.
An equerry in blinding silver and white leapt forward to open the door and hand down the scion of Ruthven and his silent, terrifying servant. Or rather, since this was Ruthven, nervously fling open the door and leap back, scared of the palatinate poison and its purple vapours.
Ruthven sighed as Heliotrope rose and nimbly vaulted down from the carriage, eschewing the steps and making the equerry shiver violently. He himself descended more slowly, out of necessity and elegance, his cane clacking on the metal stairs. "Stop showing off, Hel," he ordered, and began to move across the forecourt.
The equerry – a pale, horse-faced youth with a shock of Pyrroman hair – ran after him. "Sir, the Queen-"
"I know."
"She has asked for me to convey you-"
"I have met the Queen many a time before. I know the way."
"But sir, protocol demands that-"
"Protocol can go hang. Her Majesty has something urgent enough to warrant pulling me away from Stormhold. We can forego the power-play niceties and grovelling. Oh, and if it was your patriarch who tried to bribe the Commander of the Concourse, advise him not to pull something like that again."
"Or else," added Heliotrope, grinning wickedly before following his diminutive master across the rain-beaded forecourt and up the flight of stairs to the Prism Palace proper.
The equerry gaped after them.
The palace lobby was a large and vaulting chamber, filled to capacity every hour of the day by tides of the nobility and servants in the white-and-silver of the Prism Palace. Tallboys, divans, lowboys and bow-legged sideboards ranged about the room, complemented by solid silver statuary in exquisite filigree and tall stands of heady flowers; Ruthven had no eyes for the finery. Instead, he stared at the sea of people for a moment, and then a thermic lance of a glare snapped out of his eye; it was that, more than the purple vapours which swirled about him at every breath, which cleared a path through to the butler, who turned with implacable grace to face the young head of Ruthven House.
"Ah, Mr. Ruthven," he said calmly. "We have been expecting you."
"Rather earlier than now, I'd wager," he said sourly, palatinate gusting; several of the footmen took involuntary steps back.
The butler acknowledged this only with a slight inclination of his head. "Your usual suite, sir?"
"I wasn't aware I had one," he observed dryly. "Whatever the Queen has prepared for me."
"Your seal, sir?"
Ruthven blinked. "What?"
"New security measures, sir. Sorry about this."
Ruthven sighed. "Oh, very well." He extended a languid hand; lightning-fire, brilliant violet, burst from his fingers and drew the intricate crest of House Ruthven in the air; it hung there, shimmering, for a moment before dying away. Showy, but then if one didn't give a show, here one was nobody.
The other people in the room backed away further; the silver rang and rattled, and sparks leapt from filigreed points. The air stank of ozone, suddenly, the smell of the storms.
The butler smiled. "Very good. I shall have your cases delivered post-haste. Her Majesty is waiting for you in the Black Study, by the by. Good day, Mister Ruthven."
Ruthven inclined his head. "Good day, Mr. Iris."
ض
The Black Study was aptly named. A midnight-blue carpet drank all light, ebony panelling opened the room onto the void itself. Intricate carvings, black on black, were only hinted at by the soft lights. An iron table rose, tortured, out of the floor, a baroque profusion of faces and fantastical beasts. Chairs, silent soldiers, ranged about it.
Huge picture-windows gazed out at the storm; they were thrown open, and rain wetted the carpet to black and shimmered on the dully-glimmering books.
Lightning flashed, thunder rolled. The figure behind the desk was suddenly thrown into high relief.
Ruthven closed the doors behind him with a soft click. "Spare me the theatrics," he said softly. "And forgive my lateness. The Commander of the Concourse is getting ideas above his station."
The Queen inclined her head; obedient to her will, the lightning ceased. Darkness fell with terrifying suddenness. "And how stands my eastern bulwark?" she asked, ignoring Ruthven's excuse.
Ruthven's fists clenched inside purple gloves. "Your principality stands firm, as ever."
Now it was the Queen's turn. "Spare me the empty platitude. Stormhold and all her attendant Colours are Ruthven's; all of Prism knows it in truth if not in name. Sit, sit."
Painted lips curve up into a smile, and Ruthven sinks gratefully into a chair.
They stared at one another for a long moment, neither speaking.
"So," said Ruthven, finally. "Her Majesty has need of her attack dog again."
"Indeed." The Queen sighed. "I tire of playing games with you, Ruthenne. You know why you're here."
Ruthenne Ruthven steepled his hands before him. "Not the particulars," he observed lightly. "But normally, ma'am, you are quite content to sit at a distance when you unleash your hounds. This leads me to believe it is something rather more serious than the usual malcontents and criminals you tend to ask me to investigate."
He leaned back. "Given that we're in the Black Study, the Prism Palace war council room, I would surmise that the Colours' ancient enemy is on the march again. Tellurian?"
The Queen flicked a flimsy sheet of paper across the desk. In accordance with her black mood, the skies darkened further and a raging torrent of rain and wind hammered down, punctuated by lightning bolts. Ruthenne's eyes scanned the dense text, and then he flicked it back to his monarch.
"As I suspected. No major bulwarks have fallen?"
"No attacks, as yet. Our gentlemen inside Tellurian Prime tell me they're just gearing up, getting ready. As we must."
Ruthenne smiled like a knife. "Correction. One attack. Either your gentlemen have been compromised, or that information is simply out of date."
"Attack?"
Ruthenne reached into his voluminous coat and drew out a slim, silver projectile, filled with an electric blue liquid. There was an intricate symbol on the counterweight. He held it out to the Queen, weight-first. It glittered on his palm, shimmering under palatine vapour. "Someone threw this at my landau when we were within a half-parsang of the capital. Colour make," he sighed, "but that's the mark of Progress, and one of Tellurian's potions right there." He twisted the projectile slightly, enough so that fingerprints – Heliotrope's – could be seen pressed into the metal where they had snatched it out of midair.
"How did you-"
"Survive? I had Heliotrope, and of course this." His hands felt along his cane, swift and sure, twisting some hidden catch, and the metal fell away to reveal a shooting stick in the truest sense of the word. "Never had cause to use it, but there we have it."
The Queen recoiled. "You use Progress technology?" she whispered, voice thick with revulsion.
"Hardly," replied Ruthenne, cold as arctic ice. "Merely the guiding principles. Everything from the metal to the propulsion system is pure Colour. Clean and unsullied. Unlike Tellurian's get, this does not pollute the world."
He swung it down with eerie, final grace; another click and metal sheathed the gun once more, hiding it from all eyes. He looked into the Queen's eyes with his own; not even she could stand the baleful glare of the single eye for long.
"I am your attack dog, ma'am, as all of Ruthven has been. Do not question or look too close at my methods, and all will be well."
The Queen waved a hand, admitting defeat. "Have you any thoughts on the Commander of the Concourse's replacement?"
Ruthven's eye widened. "Pardon?"
The skin about her eyes crinkled; the closest she ever came to a smile to Ruthven. "I cannot have my attack dog delayed when told to come post-haste, and certainly not at my own gates. Come, you must have some ideas."
Ruthven shook his head. "Nary a one. Unlike the Colours, I spend little time here. I know very little of the people here, saving your presence, majesty. And one has to ask; what would your advisors say if they knew your closest counsel was a Ruthven, and the boy-head of the family at that? Now, if that is all, I must return to Stormhold."
The Queen shook her head. "No. Stay a while – you will find that new Commander for me. Since you have not spent much time in the Prism Palace beforehand, you have a perfect excuse for poking around all the mundane places and talking to all the insignificants."
Ruthenne's head tilted. "No-one is insignificant, ma'am. It might be wise to remember that."
"As you say, my counsel. Now go. I will call if I need you."
ض
Ruthenne stalked through the halls of the Prism Palace, heading for the anteroom where Heliotrope waited patiently.
As soon as he stepped through the mirrored doors – swung open by the ubiquitous footmen; Ruthenne briefly curled a lip at the waste – Heliotrope was on his feet.
"Do we leave?"
"No," snarled Ruthenne. "The Queen has ordered me to find a new Commander, and to get to know the Prism Palace better. Blasted woman."
"She's not much older than you," Heliotrope reminded him.
"'Che! She's got all the Queens Prism in that head of hers. I always get Queen Battleaxe, I think."
"Very well, sir. I shall liaise with Mr. Iris. What is our itinerary, sir?"
"I must inspect all the sparring courts, and the guardsmen, and the defences, see how everyone does, look for leadership ability and loyalty...the usual."
"What fun," observed Heliotrope, deadpan.
"Quite. Mirror back to Stormhold, would you? I'll need rather more things than I have now if I'm to stay here."
Heliotrope coughed. "Perhaps it would be better for sir to spread around some of the purple Ruthven gold? Fashions here are considerably different than Stormhold's own-"
"I will bear the banner of Stormhold proudly, even here, Hel. That is the end of the matter."
"Sir."
ض
The palace throne room was an endless regression of crystal and silver, receding back to infinity. Every Colour and Spectrum had contributed to the palace, and this vast room, and all the myriad architectures fused together into one vast, baroque mass. Pyrroman's fire-towers, blocky and powerfully-built, Helios' fanciful, arching buttresses, Emmersen's twining spires, strangely organic, Artica's gothic arches, others.
At the very end of the chamber steps clambered upwards, elegantly sweeping, moonstone carved into vast dragons which supported the Prism throne, a vast chair carved from prismatic crystal that shimmered every colour of the rainbow and none.
The very centre of the room was separated from the rest by a broad stripe of blindingly white carpet, edged in rainbowed silks. It was down this silken road, the gauntlet of nobility, that young Ruthenne Ruthven walked, resplendent in Stormhold fashions – storm-purple, midnight black, dusky twilight, others, all swirling and shifting.
He didn't hear – or pretended not to – the whispers of the gathered nobles, the shivering gossip. True Rainbow solons harrumphed in displeasure, murmuring their discontent behind moustaches, beards and into glasses of port, but others; the younger Colours, other members of the Spectrum, they grew uneasy as the silent, rigid scion of the House of Ruthven proceeded up the carpeted gauntlet. Something major must have called Mr. Ruthven from his citadel in Stormhold city – his dislike of the shimmering Prism capital was well-known.
He approached the foot of the dais steps, planted one of his immaculately-booted heels on the milky, shimmering moonstone and crystal.
High on the Rainbow throne, the Queen Prism stares down at Ruthenne, his head bent in supplication. The foundation of the Prism kingdom, though the others did not know it, 'twas on Ruthven's stern and unyielding support that the foundations of the kingdom – and the Prism Palace – had been built.
"Summoned, I answer the call from the Rainbow Throne to Your Majesty's pleasure. Thus let all men and spirits, seen and unseen, all of Colour and Spectrum, take note that the House of Ruthven is unfailing in her duties, now as in time immemorial." There was no supplication in Ruthven's tone; it was as though one king met another at the base of the dais.
"The Rainbow Throne is grateful for Ruthven's answer to Our royal call, and the Queen Prism once more notes with pride the scion of Ruthven's support and the strength of the eastern bulwark. Rise, Mr. Ruthven, and take your place among our noble supporters."
Ruthenne raised his head to look his monarch in the eyes. A concession extraordinary to the man, his left was still covered by an elegant eyepatch. Queen Prism had seen a part of the covered eye only once, the ruin of the face beneath the fabric, and never wanted to again.
His foot made the crystal ring as he set his weight – and the elegant shooting cane – upon it. He swept an elegant bow, court greatcoat swirling like the leading thunderheads of a storm, and backed confidently away from the Queen's wavering gaze. A causeway opened for him; no-one will contest against Ruthven and the palatine vapours that pour from them, not here, so openly.
Not yet.
Ruthven backs further into the crowd, and the ranks of bodies close somewhat.
"Ruthe!" Ruthven's head snaps up at the familiar voice and the familiar, affable call. A smile – a genuine one, albeit small – blossoms across his face as he finds the source.
Prince Winter, most people called him. The icy ruler of House Artica, Duke of Coldharbour, Suzerain of Cold Seas and Count of Blue Skies, Lord Cidra Artica.
He glittered like the heart of winter; white hair, only faintly touched with blue at the edges, blue lips, eyes of a startling, icy sapphire, long, elegant hands – these always drew attention, perfectly manicured as they were and shining faintly. "Your Highness," grinned Ruthenne, sweeping an elegant, facetious bow. "How stands Coldharbour?"
"Well, well, and how stands your stormy bastion?"
"The same as ever; storm-lashed and wet."
"Just what I like to hear. Enough of these tedious pleasantries, Ruthe; what are you doing here?"
"Direct as ever, Cidra," Ruthenne observes. The arctic lord gives a laissez-faire shrug.
"And why not? I dance often enough the court dance to treasure a chance to speak plainly when it comes my way – especially in such an appealing guise."
Ruthenne laughed. "Flatterer." Purple poison boils from his mouth, the floor quickly covers in a fine violet mist. Cidra stands unmoved; everyone else shifts nervously away. "And why is that such a bad thing, dearest Ruthe?"
"It's not, it's not. You quite brighten the day, dear Cidra. Shall we sit? I don't feel up to standing around for hours after that carriage journey." It wasn't really a suggestion, and the wintry prince took it as it was meant; an order.
Cidra deftly pilots them through the noble tides to the ottomans ranged about the room. "So, how was your trip?"
"Deadly," replied Ruthenne, deadpan. No need to mention the evil little projectile – let him think it was boredom that nearly killed Ruthven's ruler.
"And your purpose here?" he asked, laughing. Cidra knew little – as did everyone else – of Ruthenne's role for the queen.
"Originally? The Queen wished my counsel on matters of Stormhold and her attendant Colours. Now? She wishes me to become more acquainted with the Prism Palace. And speaking of, I don't suppose you could show me the Guards' training grounds? I need to talk to them about security."
Cidra raised a disbelieving, barely-there eyebrow. "You? Worry about security? No-one will touch you with a barge-pole, and certainly not with that char of yours – what's his name now...begins with a P."
"An H, I think you'll find, Cidra," sighed Ruthenne. "Heliotrope."
Cidra airily waved away Ruthenne's observation, sending ice crystals dancing. "Nearly the same." Delicately, the Winter Prince coughed. "Are you attending dinner like that?" he asked quietly.
"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" asked Ruthenne defensively, clutching his ruched cape about him.
"Oh, nothing, dear Ruthe. Nothing at all. It's just...well, here, those clothes are more suited for a period ball."
Ruthven's eyes narrowed. "Period ball, you say? Hmm."
"Stormhold is the eastern bulwark. I'm sure fashions take their time to reach you," he said placatingly, correctly interpreting Ruthenne's fuse-like 'Hmm.' "I can recommend a good tailor," Cidra ventured tentatively, and shied back as the thermic lance glare strobed out of Ruthenne's good eye. "Sorry! Sorry!"
Ruthenne waved him into silence. "No, no. Heliotrope said the same thing."
"You permit him a lot of leeway, you know," observed Cidra, wryly. "If you don't watch out, you might turn into one of those people who are absolute slaves to their valets."
Ruthenne smiled a wintry smile worthy of said prince. "I highly doubt that. Now, tell me of this tailor before I change my mind."
ض
The door to the select – and tiny – tailoring shop tinkled behind the diminutive form of Ruthenne, hangdog at the back of Cidra and Heliotrope.
The proprietor hurried forward; gas sconces brightened at his approach, marking him a Pyrroman by genetics if not by birth. "Ah, y'Highness, it's you, chilling my shop as ever. And what can the suzerain of cold seas want from me? I just did you that seal-fur greatcoat, and not two weeks ago."
Cidra's eyes were bright and dancing as he beheld the young – though obviously talented – tailor. Brilliant red hair confirmed Ruthenne's initial suspicions, but the eyes were a brilliant, sunny gold, behind the monocle and loupe. A tape-measure necklace hung about his neck.
"Oh, it's not for me," he said with a fey smile. He stepped back grandly, and ordered Ruthenne forward from his skulking position. Gracelessly, the young master of Ruthven stumped forwards and glowered at the tailor.
The man's eyes beheld the brooding Ruthven with a critical gaze. "I see," was all he observed, before the tape measure flashed and hummed about Ruthven's still and silent form.
"Am I correct in assuming this is for the court?" asked the tailor, his hands busy. Cidra nodded, smiling, as Heliotrope paced restlessly about the room, fingering the fine fabrics and admiring his reflection in the shining brass.
"...very small, petite figure..." murmured the tailor, close to Ruthenne, who stiffened. The man absently reached up with his measure to catch his neck, and Ruthenne turned away from the tailor, only to have his chin caught.
In a flash, Heliotrope's hand was there, squeezing cruelly tight on the tailor's, forcing him to let go.
"What the-" exclaimed Cidra, half-rising, his face choleric for the usually ice-pale man.
Ignoring Cidra, Ruthenne faced the tailor, who was now nursing his hand. "No!" he ordered, and then raised a hand before the man could respond. Purple vapour rolled forth from his mouth as he exhaled sharply; the tailor flinched back, recognition dawning in his eyes. "If you wish to measure, please tell me and I shall hold my breath. You would not wish to die, a young thing such as yourself."
"Ruthe," warned Cidra. "Don't frighten the poor man."
Ruthenne turned back towards the cowering tailor. "Pray, continue." His head angled up, proud and arrogant.
Gingerly, the tailor creeps back to his measurements, and then scuttles, once finished, crabwise to the safety of his desk.
Ruthenne sighs. "I won't bite," he snaps; the tailor shies further, but recovers some of his professional mien.
"And...what sort of look is sir going for?" asked the tailor delicately.
Ruthenne shrugged impatiently. "I don't know. Cidra and my servant dragged me here because my clothes look like they come from a period ball, apparently. Just...give me something I have at least a chance of using outside of the Prism Palace." Ruthenne folded his arms stubbornly.
ض
It was three hours later. Cidra and even Heliotrope had left – for coffee – knowing that Ruthenne was having the time of his life arguing with the tailor over the fabric, the colour, the cut, the accessories...
The once-immaculate shop was now littered with figured lengths of sumptuous fabrics, and the tailor – Sarein, his name was; definitely a Helios mother, Ruthenne had decided, which fitted with what he knew about the Pyrroman clan – was still dancing around with manic energy. The gas sconces were flaring and flashing, reacting to his excitement, and the open windows served the dual benefit of taking the edge off the heat and also dispersing the palatinate poisons that boiled from Ruthenne.
It was finally the lace which made Ruthenne snap. "Enough!" he yelled, his fingers twitching – how much he wished to throw lightning at something; it always made such a satisfying sound. "I will let you have that dupioni silk lining, I will yield on the subject of a Colour-printed cravat, you can give me as many jewelled pins as is fashionable, you can give me that heavy overcoat with the stupid name – it might actually be useful – and I will even allow for an illusion-woven shirt, but I will not wear lace! Is that clear, Sarein? I don't care if Duke Pyrroman himself dresses up in yards of the stuff, I will not touch it with a barge-pole!"
Sarein tried to give Ruthenne puppy-dog eyes. They weren't working. Years as the Queen's attack dog in the underside of the glittering Prism capital and all her attendant Colours had burned off any response to such things – after all, even the whores in the red-light district had given them to the even-younger Ruthenne when he wouldn't go and 'play' with them. Ruthenne smiled his wintry smile as the memory came back to him. Leering whores, faces turned devilish in the garish red light, poured carelessly into their scraps of clothes, faces made up like dolls.
Hungry.
Resistance collapsed. "Oh, all right," said the tailor. "I will have these ready in-"
Ruthenne produced a bag full of chinking, purple-tinted crowns. Sarein's eyes went wide. "Three days," he said hoarsely.
Ruthenne nodded curtly. "Very good," he said coolly. "Don't let me keep you." And Ruthenne Ruthven strode out of the tiny shop and onto the sun-drenched street, with many a glower at the cheery skies. Helios was strong again in the Queen's power; the sun had a particularly rich golden colour and all the clouds looked gilded.
Ruthenne hated it.
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The sun was low and red in the sky by the time Ruthenne, Cidra and Heliotrope returned to the Prism Palace. Late as it was, the fact that there was any sun at all signalled to a tired, hot and bothered Ruthenne that it was going to be one of those short, balmy nights where anyone alone tossed and turned restlessly and slept either not at all or a fitful and tiring sleep, and those with someone rutted until the rosy blush of dawn told them someone knew what they were doing.
Needless to say, Ruthenne was one of the former, and he knew it. Slumping dejectedly to his sumptuous bed, with its storm-purple sheets, blankets and hangings – Queen Prism had been playing with her kingdom and it now resembled some harem bed rather than the solid, imposing medieval construction it had been when Ruthenne arrived. He sighed heavily, resigned, then called for pen and paper, a message to the Queen.
It was short and to the point, when he finished writing in a beautiful serifed script. Rain tomorrow.
Not an elaborate request, or a plea, just an order, laid down in black and white, Ruthven's seal crackling on the paper.
He slipped it into an envelope and handed it with a weary smile to his servant. "The Queen?"
"The Queen." Heliotrope shimmered out of the secluded suite on his errand, while his master flopped back onto the layers of silk and tried to get comfortable in this airy, fine room, a far cry from Stormhold.
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Ruthven purple was strong in the sky once more when Ruthenne rose. The gauzy drapes at his window were drenched, and the intricate, inlaid marquetry floor slick with moisture. Thunder shook the very foundations of the palace, and Ruthenne smiled up at the angry skies, where sheets of lightning roared and played.
"Much better," he purred, letting the rain bead his icy skin in translucent pearls.
"I am glad to see that my master has survived another night in the Prism Palace," whispers Heliotrope, gliding forwards. "Sir really should not stand soaking in the rain after a night like the last."
Ruthenne shot the manservant a glare which should have flashed him into a clinker statue. "Sir is quite capable of taking care of himself, thank you very much." Ruthenne sneezed suddenly, making him double over.
"Of course you are," sighed Heliotrope, gently leading his young master inside and quietly closing the windows with a soft click, for all Ruthenne possessed enough power to blast half the Prism Palace to pieces and that it was shimmering just under his skin.
It gave him an odd, marbled look.
"I have run a bath, sir." Heliotrope looked rather pained. "I am afraid it is rather more primitive than what we have in Stormhold. As is the, ah, necessity."
"No jets?" groaned Ruthenne.
"No taps, sir. One had to call for Prism servants to fill the tub. I would suggest haste. And the lavatory really does not bear thinking about. Can I suggest you hold on until we can return home?"
Ruthenne's face took on an odd, unhealthy shade as he thought about this. He flicked his fingers at the corners of the room; the quiescent wards he'd laid before sleep – and Heliotrope's own, subtler designs – burst to the lightning-fire of his power, forming doming shields which quickly faded into a faint sparkle as Ruthenne wove his spells of silence and redirection; he was very thorough.
"Very good, sir," said Heliotrope, with a smile.
Shields safely up, and hidden from any and all prying eyes, Ruthenne vented his spleen. "Look at this," he shrieked, stabbing an accusing finger towards the steaming, sunken bath, a collection of jugs beside it. "And this!" he waves manically at the lavatory, which is a far cry from the porcelain and granite construction in his own palace. "My God, the Prism Palace is backwards!" he roars. "I can't believe this! The heart of the Colour Empire, the glittering jewel of Prism, the very wellspring of Spectrum, and still we shit in these...these cesspits! Hasn't bloody Queen Prism heard of, oh, I don't know, sanitation, or perhaps hygiene? At the moment, I'd even settle for the concept of reliable plumbing!"
It may be drawn from this that Ruthenne Ruthven was an innovator, and, to say the least, that he was not pleased with arrangements.
"Somebody needs to tell Her Colourful Majesty up there and the head of the Royal Household to stop being so bloody Progress-phobic that they turn up their noses at a perfectly good idea from Earth!"
"As opposed to turning their noses up at the smell," added Heliotrope, helpfully. "I tried to place flowers, but they dissolved."
Ruthenne smiled weakly. "Thanks for the gesture, Heliotrope. I think we'd better open a window before I take my bath, don't you?"
"Sound idea, if I may say so, sir."
There was a short pause. "Shall I join you, sir?"
"Why not?" There's a smile in Ruthenne's voice – one anticipating a backrub, or perhaps something more.
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