Duke Albold sensed the excitement building. It was on the faces of the castle servants, murmuring and giggling about their holiday plans. It was in the hustle of the stablehands, rushing to finish the hypergrifes’ grooming before midnight. It was in his own anticipation of finally proving to his mother that her abdication in his favor had been the right choice.
Duchess-emerita Rowena was not excited.
“Albold, I appreciate your marking the anniversary,” she said, her tone clipped. “But why not ‘Accession Day’? And this ‘holiday’ silliness, with everyone abdicating their responsibilities? I never shirked my responsibilities until you convinced me to retire.”
Albold sighed. “For the last time, Mother, not everyone is abandoning their responsibilities. Essential services will be maintained. And experiencing leisure together will unify the Duchy’s citizens, even you. Perhaps you’ll discover a new way to enjoy yourself in your well-deserved retirement.”
“Hmph,” Duchess Rowena said. “We’ll see. I find precious little enjoyment in imagining what disasters might befall.”
The Duchy of Braitor’s first Abdication Day dawned peacefully. Ready to celebrate, Albold leapt out of his four-poster bed. He managed the trip to and from the privy without the assistance of his lamp-bearer, only stubbing his toes twice. Dressing himself without his valet was ultimately successful, although it took at least three times as long as usual and resulted in an unfortunate number of buttons scattered across the carpeted stone floor. Albold briefly considered collecting the buttons for reattachment and decided that task was best left for the servants, tomorrow.
Passing the hallway tapestry depicting his great-great-uncle Engelhart with an enormous dragon, Albold made his way to the castle’s kitchen. By the time he arrived, the cookfires had gone out. Albold’s usual morning pastries and hot beverage were nowhere to be seen. The only food he could find was a pot of rapidly congealing gruel. Albold grimaced. Evidently, he hadn’t been quite effective enough in conveying his definition of ‘essential services’ to the Chastellain. Albold breakfasted on gruel and rushed to the audience chamber.
The chamber was chilly, dark, and empty except for Duchess-emerita Rowena, sitting in her place of honour beside the throne. Albold threw open the heavy velvet curtains, lit the hearth fire, and glanced around as he settled into the throne’s lumpy overstuffed seat. “Where is everyone?”
“Waiting for confirmation of their appointments by the Ducal Secretary. Isn’t that you, today?” Rowena replied.
“Right!” Albold had granted Osgart leave to visit his sister, assuring the Secretary that Albold could handle his duties. Sprinting to the antechamber, Albold found a restless crowd muttering about how they hadn’t expected to spend their holiday standing around waiting for the Duke. He called for a castle page to supply parchment and ink, remembered that the pages were among those he’d encouraged to ‘abdicate’ for the day, and ended up borrowing writing materials from an agricultural enchanter who was there to appeal the Thaumaturgic Council’s refusal to renew her license.
Albold tried several schemes to sort the appointments. Alphabetical order failed due to his poor spelling. His numeracy was better, but he’d never quite been able to grasp the twenty-five-hour clock and so temporally ordering the appointments also failed. He gratefully accepted a suggestion from the enchanter, using his self-deprecating humor to convince the petitioners to divide themselves into groups by category of complaint.
Rowena left her seat to chat with some of the waiting petitioners. She managed to hide both her surprise at the functioning of Albold’s organizational scheme and her embarrassment at being congratulated on the anniversary of her abdication. She admired the fine thread a member of the textile guild was producing with his drop spindle and soon found herself gifted with a pair of knitting needles and a ball of the spinner’s bletbeast yarn.
While Albold proceeded to dispense court justice, Rowena shook her head and muttered about how his ratio of wisdom to folly had at least improved over the past year. With Albold both hearing petitions and frantically scribbling notes, the entire process took longer; his stomach began to growl when the audiences were only half over. Rowena heard the noise and looked up from her knitting.
“Would you like me to call the kitchen for refreshments, Your Grace?”
While documenting a border survey dispute, Albold reminded his mother that the kitchen staff were celebrating Abdication Day.
The Duchess-emerita sighed. “Of course.”
Albold beckoned the next petitioner.
Audiences complete, Albold leaned against a kitchen counter strewn with the remains of lunch construction. Significant rummaging had turned up some day-old bread that wasn’t too stale and some unmoldy blet’s-milk cheese. His mother had been grudgingly impressed by his sandwich-making abilities.
“Overall, that went well, I think,” he mused.
“If you consider taking twice as long as usual, going well,” Rowena said, brushing the crumbs from her plate onto the kitchen floor.
Tight-lipped, Albold gestured to the castle balcony. “Come, Mother, let’s see how the people are celebrating their holiday.”
Albold flung open the balcony doors and led the Duchess-emerita outside. It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon: flowers were blooming, birds were singing, and maids, laborers, and grooms were lounging on the castle lawns enjoying themselves. A band of musicians played a jolly tune, and a conjurer plucked colorful handkerchiefs from a young child’s ear. The roving drink and sweet sellers were rushed off their feet.
“You see, Mother? All those smiling faces.”
“I’d be happier if they weren’t celebrating the end of my reign,” Rowena grumped.
“Mother, they’re celebrating your well-deserved rest. And theirs.”
Scanning the crowd and waving, Albold didn’t notice the sky darkening. Rowena tugged his sleeve. “Your Grace…” her voice wavered.
“Mother, really…” Albold followed Rowena’s gaze upwards and his mouth fell open. A silver dragon with glowing red eyes was swiftly descending toward the idyllic scene, flickers of flame escaping its nostrils. The birdsong went silent and the air chilled. As the crowd noticed the dragon’s shadow, the musicians abruptly stopped playing. Parents called for their children, and chaos ensued as running and screaming (not only by the children) commenced.
The last time a dragon had appeared in Braitor, Albold’s great-great-uncle Engelhart had held the throne. Aside from information on dragon pronouns, few details of the event had been preserved; however, the shift in the line of succession to Albold’s great grandmother implied that poor choices had been made. Albold wished he knew what those poor choices had been.
“Guards!” Albold shouted. He turned to Rowena. “Mother, what do we do?”
“You’re the Duke. I abdicated, remember?” With shaking hands, Rowena pulled out a knitting needle and brandished it at the sky.
Albold belatedly recalled that he’d allowed the entire Ducal Guard regiment to travel for the holiday, to attend a friendly hammerslam match in the neighboring principality. Their Sergeant-at-Arms was out of action in the castle infirmary. This was all up to him.
He waved at the creature above them, coughing at the dragon’s sulfurous breath.
“Hello! Welcome to Braitor! What is the purpose of your visit?” Albold shouted, whincing as he realized how much he sounded like an Excise Inspector.
“Give me all your gold!” the dragon roared. He belched flame and incinerated a handful of shrubs on the lawn’s periphery. A group of maids quickly organized a bucket brigade to douse the charred, smoldering hedge.
Albold knew he had to keep the dragon talking. “In return for …?”
“For not burning your people to a crisp!” the dragon bellowed. His eyes glowed bright as he descended toward the castle. The shrieks of small children and nervous adults answered the thundering sounds from above.
Albold took a deep breath. “And what would you do with our gold, O Magnificent One?”
“Hoard it!”
“What does that involve?” Albold replied conversationally.
“What are you doing?” Rowena hissed. “You can’t chitchat with a dragon!”
“Watch me,” Albold muttered, making shushing gestures.
Trickles of flame issued from the dragon’s nostrils even as the corners of his mouth turned up in apparent amusement, a predator playing with his prey. “Counting. Organizing. Guarding against intruders.”
“That sounds like a tremendous amount of work,” Albold said, sympathetically.
The dragon rumbled in agreement. He had descended to hover at balcony height. His eyes darkened to crimson. Next to Albold, Rowena trembled in the dragon’s regard.
“What if I could show you an alternative?” Albold turned his attention to the crowd below. “People of Braitor!” he shouted. A few of the running figures stopped, their faces lifted. “Be not afraid! Show our visitor the delights of recreation! Convince him that he, too, might temporarily put aside his regular activities to join us!” Rowena furrowed her brow in doubt.
As the townspeople held their breaths and Rowena backed away from the balcony’s edge, the dragon slowed his descent. Albold used a rope to shimmy down to the lawn. He moved among the crowd, exhorting them to resume relaxation. The musicians hesitantly began a new tune. Rowena extracted the second knitting needle from her pouch and restarted work on her lopsided scarf.
The dragon floated just above the lawn, inspecting a group of trembling grooms playing a dice game, a trio of children using the conjurer’s tied-together handkerchiefs as a skipping rope, and a page attempting to juggle balls of yarn. He snorted in amusement as a dropped ball rolled away, unraveling. The snort was accompanied by a shower of sparks, one of which caught in Rowena’s scarf. She calmly stamped it down and continued to knit, raising her gaze only to nod respectfully at the dragon. Albold and the people of Braitor carried on with their leisure, tossing only a handful of nervous glances at the looming dragon.
The silver creature made a sighing noise. “This does look pleasant,” he rumbled. “Rampaging can wait.” The dragon floated down to land gently on the lawn, a group of squealing maids scrambling out of his way. The crowd cheered in relief. Someone offered the dragon a frozen dessert on a stick. He politely declined in favor of a grilled cheese sandwich.
Rowena put down her knitting and descended to the lawn via the stairs. “A worthy idea, my son,” she said. “The people do need their rejuvenation. As do dragons, apparently.” She gestured toward the dragon, now blowing smoke rings for a group of fascinated children.
One corner of Albold’s mouth turned up in a lopsided grin. “Next year, I’ll plan the essential services better. Speaking of…” He motioned the drinks seller toward them. Purchasing two cups of barley wine, he handed one to his mother and raised the other in salute.
“Happy Abdication Day, Your Grace.”
Pauline Barmby (she/her) is an astrophysicist who believes that you can’t have too many favorite galaxies. She lives in London, Canada and hopes to someday visit her namesake main belt asteroid, minor planet 281067. Her fiction has appeared in Utopia Science Fiction, Analog, and Year’s Best Canadian Fantasy and Science Fiction, Volume 2. Find links to more stories at www.galacticwords.com.
I did not see that coming! Loved it XD