What Danger is a Stranger?

                Hanging on a wall of many colours, papered by the finest decorators in the kingdom, was a mirror of quite unnecessary size. It occupied a frame of equally unrequired grandeur, laden as it was with precious gemstones, engraved as it was with works of art, and gilded as it was with the scarcest metals that money could buy. There were scarcer metals available, of course, but they had to be traded for with wool, and therefore didn’t fit the brief.
                Surrounded by such decadence that didn’t strictly need to be there, or more accurately, strictly didn’t need to be there, the mirror in the centre provided the only truly required characteristics of the item, namely the capacity for reflection. And reflect it did, broadcasting to the room the image of every quiet corner, every relaxed cubby, and every sleepy sunbeam contained within the five walls of King Biltus’ reclining room.
                Built by some ancestor of his or other, the reclining room had been designed to provide a dedicated space for monarchs to recharge and rejuvenate themselves. By irrevocable royal declaration, there were to be no vertical surfaces adjoining horizontal ones, so that wherever a person should choose to place themselves, they would be forced to adopt at least a slightly reclined posture. While many of the problems associated with this could be resolved with custom made furniture and careful selection of furnishings, the walls were an object of great focus by the royal architect. Many reasonable arguments about structural integrity had been met with several threats of the guillotine, and this spirited debate had finally led to the walls being given an outward slope, so that the room ended up as an inverted, flat-topped pyramid. Hidden beams groaned with sub-optimal load-bearing angles, and the adjoining closet was rendered useless for anything except the maid’s smallest bucket, but the vision was made into reality.
                King Biltus could see himself in the mirror, as always. It was reassuring for him to know that he’d not been secretly turned into a vampire overnight, and it allowed him to keep tabs on the backs of the heads that faced him. Neither of these concerns could readily be described as the most pressing in his life, but they were a comfort all the same and, he often told himself, the diminutive nature of his worries might be precisely because he could keep such a consistent watch on these things. In all likelihood he would never know the exact truth, but he enjoyed the reclining room’s many benefits all the same. Everything in there was peaceful. It was a calming, soothing spot for gentle business to be conducted and all worries to be left, neatly bundled up, at the door.
                Muddy water splashed high around the sensible, smart shoe of the frantically sprinting man. It made for a wetter, tinnier sound than the thumping of sole on cobblestone, but did nothing to break either the rhythm or the gait driving it. He barely even felt the icy, murky water soak into his tights; the unnoticed splashes of today would be transformed by time’s diligent hand into the mysterious stains of tomorrow. Sweating from how far he’d already run, breath laboured and noisy, and face flushed red with the exertion that had already been expended, he didn’t dare even think of stopping. With every graceless lunge to avoid an obstacle, and for each time one of the townsfolk looked at him aghast, with a mixture of shock, disapproval and fear, came a reflexive reminder of the danger that the king may be in.
                Vaulting over an old woman who’d stooped to shout at a wasp, and almost knocking off her stovepipe hat in the process, the man felt perspiration run in full droplets into his eyes. In his pockets, several watch chains rattled their links together, but the reassuring weight of each timepiece told him that none had been shaken loose by his desperate sprint. Time was something of which he had both plenty and almost none at all.

                “More toast, your highness?” Asked Mr Calthorn, head butler of the royal palace. In his neatly buttoned blouse, below the knee skirt and broad, dinner-plate-like shoes he was the absolute perfect cut of a man who knew how to serve breakfast, or any other meal for that matter.
                “Oh… I don’t know that I really need to have more toast.” The king deliberated, wiping crumbs from his chest. Eating at a reclined angle was calamitous for anyone who sought to keep themselves free of debris, and it played merry hell with the digestive process, but that wasn’t going to stop King Biltus. “But chef does make it so very well.”
                “It would be no bother to the kitchens, my liege. And you deserve to always have the finest toast available to you at any time.”
                King Biltus weighed this up earnestly. If Mr Calthorn thought it was deserved, then surely it was almost heresy not to make it happen. Of all the butlers in all the land, his sense of justice and what belonged where rightfully was second to none. It was he who had argued to return the solid brass statue of Dereck the Bilious to the Aldorae people, who had lost it in a rigged game of hopscotch against the king’s great grandmother many years ago. Following Mr Calthorn’s advice in that instance, despite the outcry and disappointment from the royal museum, had led to a lucrative treaty that saw everyone in the Esomile Kingdom, regardless of station, bequeathed their very own urn of antiseptic dust. Deaths dropped tenfold in the months thereafter, and if this much-deserved toast suggestion was anything like as important as that, King Biltus owed it to the world to take it.
                “Then yes, I say! More toast for everyone who wishes to partake.” He declared, benevolence coming easily when it cost him almost nothing. There was a generally appreciative sound from the rest of the room’s occupants which, despite its positivity, would have preferred to carry a declination.

                A sprint became a skid and subsequently a halt, narrowly avoiding the hard wood and steel wheels of a carriage cutting across the sprinter’s path. With a few choice words exchanged between man and driver, several of which were threats relating to the condition of the man’s nose being worsened, and the driver’s licence to know the time being revoked, the man continued his desperate sprint towards the palace. It loomed high above the other buildings of the town, beckoning him onwards and reminding him of his vital task. In its mighty shadow he pushed himself onwards.
                Legs that threatened mutiny and lungs that were close to refusing to work under these conditions, tried to stop him. The gentle incline towards the palace gates tried to hold him back. A number of people demanding that he get a grip on himself, and telling him to stop barrelling around the streets like a loose bull while shaking their jet black canes at him, sought to slow his dash. But all of them were trying in vain.

                “So as I was saying, my king, I really do think that you should consider forming a royal ballet. A kingdom is only worth as much as its state-sponsored dance troupes and we, it pains me to say, have but four.” Said Lord Beagleton, through a slice with butter and marmalade. “By that measure we’re barely a fiefdom compared to some of the other great powers.”
                Cheeks sticky with one of the fancier and more voluminous jams available in the pantry, the king pondered Lord Beagleton’s request. He was reminded, as he glanced towards the mirror, of a similar request a year earlier, when he had been petitioned to requisition a royal samba, the youngest of the dance troupes to which the lord referred. At that time the king, the king recalled, he had wondered over its necessity while wiping honey from the royal apiary off the front of his breakfast bib, which was a vital part of the wardrobe for anyone dining in the reclining room. The memory of that ex-nectar put him in fine spirits, and he was thankful to the Lord for that.
                “You raise a fair observation, Richard. As fair and golden as the honey of yore…” He said. Richard Beagleton wasn’t really sure what the king was talking about, but it was tonally consistent with praise so he accepted it at face value. “Bring me the details, the number of people, where we’ll find a ballet instructor fit for such a diplomatically vital charge, and we shall work out the details later.”
                “And what of a new briar patch to keep the ballet safe?”  Asked Madam Olga, Mistress of Thorns, from her position squatting atop of a chest of drawers. “We have a surfeit of bramble in the library, and could easily replant it in the dancers’ studio.”
                “Or outside it, presumably.” Suggested Lord Beagleton, with visions of spiralling ballet shoe costs as their thin, fine threads caught on tangled vines and cruel barbs.
                “Outside?” Said Madam Olga, incredulity contorting her face into a landscape more usually encountered upon a mud flat or old river bed. “I… I suppose that would be possible in theory but… but I just cannot fathom why one might wish to do so.”
                “Indeed.” Declared King Biltus. “Madam Olga has justified the interior bramble many times to us all, and I see no reason to re-tread old ground. The ballet shall have its bramble patches.”
                Lord Beagleton sighed, but offered no argument. The reclining room was no place for raised voices or confrontation, and the overwhelming relaxation it inflicted upon an occupant robbed them of any will to argue. He would have his ballet, and he would need to hire a skilled seamstress to keep bramble erosion at bay.

                A slip, a buckling of the knee and crashing impact onto cobblestone could slow the running man only momentarily. The adrenaline washing into every muscle and every unseen crevice of his body’s interior denied him acknowledgement of pain or injury, spurring him ever onward and forsaking anything that might hold him at bay. The gates of the royal palace were in sight, and soon his message would reach those by whom it was so desperately needed.
                A brief flash of his credentials were all that the royal guards received , his bright red face and ragged breathing informing them of the urgency of his plight as he sprinted past. Although they didn’t go as far as actually helping him, they wished him all the best in his endeavour, and quietly discussed among themselves how likely he was to twist an ankle on the palace stairs. They settled on ‘quite likely’.
                Door after door was shouldered open, even those which were designed to be pulled, but the complaints of the royal carpenter were a small price to pay for the time saved. Even the king would see that, as clear as day, when this news reached his imperilled ears.

                “Thank you, Mr Calthorn.” Said Lady Obscura. Her cutlass and flintlock had been set to one side, since it was impossible to comfortably recline with them strapped to her belt, but she still kept a small hammer in a holster on her chest, in case of any surprise attacks at close quarters. Mr Calthorn was in the process of diligently wiping it clean of the butter and pureed cabbage mix which she’d enjoyed on her toast, returning the head to its previous shine. Every dent on its surface told a story of some thwarted attack or stubborn mechanical fixture, a living history of Lady Obscura’s trials.
                “It is my pleasure, m’lady.” He replied, not strictly honestly. While it was most certainly his job to clean hammers, it was a far cry from how he would choose to spend his free time. That honour went to polishing spanners. He had already completed his round of the room, collecting small toast plates, condiment knives and used napkins from the sated assembly, and so, when his business with the hammer as concluded, he turned to the king.
                “Is there anything else you wish of me, your highness?”
                “No, no, thank you Mr Calthorn. You have worked admirably, as ever.”
                “Nothing at all?”
                “Nothing.”
                “Not even a little more toast?” He asked, turning and tilting his head slightly, to the angle most likely to reveal politely hidden desires.
                “You think we should take yet more toast? A fourth round?” King Biltus asked, eyes wide with the sheer hubris of the suggestion. Whatever hidden knowledge Mr Calthorn held around breakfast requirements for the day was terrifying indeed.
                “It could do no harm if it is what you would truly like, my liege. As ruler of all the Esomile Kingdom, surely none would deny you the right.”
                “Do you think that I should?” The king asked directly. Lord Beagleton dropped his head into his hands.
                “I think only that you should do what keeps you in happiness and fine fettle to conduct your royal duties, my liege.” Explained the butler. “You have provided such boons and kindnesses in your reign, and we all wish for that to continue. If more toast should be the gateway to your peak productivity then it is a negligible price to pay.”
                Rubbing many-ringed fingers over the royal knuckles, King Biltus tried to make sense of it all. Mr Calthorn had been the only person in the room to see the benefit of forgiving the war debt of the Republic of Strong Jawlines, pointing out quite rightly that King Biltus’ great grandmother had been the aggressor in the first place. Although that war had secured the Esomile Kingdom freedom to declare their own jaws strong, outside of the formal regulations and licensing bodies drawn up by the RSJ, it probably wasn’t reasonable to make them pay for the pleasure some hundred years later. If a man that insightful thought it potentially beneficial to have a fourth round of toast, then perhaps there was something in it.
                “I… I will accept good advice when I hear it, Mr Calthorn. More toast, please!” He said, despite the uneasy feeling it cast over his already bread-packed gut.
                “More toast!?” Exclaimed Madam Olga, her squat showing no signs of faltering. “How could it be possible! Why, I’d be more bread than woman!”
                “No-one is forced to partake of the hotter, drier bread products to come from the kitchens.” Pointed out the king, quite understanding her concerns. “It is simply a good faith offer for any who should want it.”
                More generally positive sounds, dishonest as they were, filled the reclining room. Mr Calthorn smiled.
                “I shall be back swiftly. Thank you, your highness.” He said with a bow, but before he could make for the door it was roughly shouldered open, despite being intended to slide upwards along the sloped, reclined trajectory of the wall. Into the room spilled the bedraggled, sweaty mess of Finkus Twitch, the Guildmaster of the Watchmakers.
                “What is the meaning of this disruption in the reclining room!” Cried the king, softly. Even outrage at improper door use was quelled by the soothing atmosphere of the room.
                “My liege! Grave news and grave danger!” Panted Finkus, doubled over and leaning on his burning thighs. “I bring terrible tidings.”
                King Biltus sighed heavily. This wouldn’t do at all.
                “You know how we enter rooms in the palace, Finkus. This isn’t some two-bit watch shop serving as a front for an illicit gambling ring.” The king chastised, unwilling to ever let go of Finkus’ failure to detect such a flagrant fraud within his guild. Had the shop featured even a single timepiece, then the deception would have been far easier to justify.
                “But liege this is too perilous to wait.”
                “The only peril I see here is the peril of us all forgetting our good manners, and that is not something that I shall willingly countenance.” Decided King Biltus. “Now please, if you would proceed like a respectable member of your guild…”
                Still suffering with hoarse exhalations and hurried inhalations, Finkus Twitch forced himself to stand up straight and look into the eyes of the king.
                “Good day, your highness. I hope it finds you well. I bring you, unfortunately, news most foul and-”
                “Am I the only person in the room, Mr Twitch?” Asked the king, channelling the spirit of his childhood etiquette tutor. “It is courteous to introduce yourself to them as well.”
                “But-… yes, liege. Good day, everybody. I am Finkus Twitch and I am Master of the Watchmakers’ Guild.” He produced a handful of pocket watches from the inner pocket of his blazer, and showed them around hurriedly. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintances. Now-”
                “Grand to meet you, Finkus Twitch! I am Lord Beagleton, of the Vorrishire Beagletons. We have the finest blueberry farms in all the kingdom and I would be delighted for you to sample some. We were just discussing the appointment of a royal ballet, and I’m sure that the dancers would appreciate a good timepiece to help get them to rehearsals on time.” The lord beamed. Normally he would offer a hand to shake, but from his reclined seat it all felt a bit too much like hard work.
                “A pleasure, sir, and I would be most grateful.” Finkus said, as quickly as he could, before turning back to the king. Mr Calthorn, approaching from behind with a handkerchief, started to mop the sweat from Finkus’ brow, making him lose his train of thought just for a moment.
                “And I am Madam Olga, Mistress of Thorns.” Said the serial squatter, still showing no signs of needing to stand. “I will be providing the brambles for this ballet school, and I tend to all of the plants who take defence into their own hands. Do the watchmakers suffer from an inability to deal with barbs, hooks and thorns of the floral variety?”
                “Uh, erm, no? At least, none have brought such concerns to my attention. But... but it is a pleasure to meet you, and I will let you know should any matters of that type arise.” He responded, trying to lean past Mr Calthorn and make eye contact with the madam.
                “Be sure that you do. I wouldn’t think of trying to mend a watch that was rightfully under the guild’s purview, and I shall expect the same courtesy. And it is just basic, common, decent, courtesy, from the members of your guild.” Said Olga, pointing at him with one long, scarred index finger to punctuate every syllable.
                “Of course, madam. Thank you.”
                “You’ve already met Lady Obscura, captain of the palace guard.” King Biltus said, holding a hand towards the lady who was idly fingering a flintlock. “I fear that you may have startled her with your entrance, just another reason why manners are important for everyone.”
                With the king looking down his nose, Lady Obscura nodding slowly, and Mr Calthorn taking a second handkerchief to the mud on Mr Twitch’s tights, Finkus gave her a weak smile.
                “Apologies for the start, m’lady.”
                She shrugged.
                “It’s you who would be sorry if I’d fired, so we’ll say there’s no harm done.”
                “And finally, you know Mr Calthorn, my head butler. He was just on the way to fetch a round of toast when your frankly disgusting state of dress prompted him to mop you clean instead. Would you care for some, Mr Twitch?”
                “Oh…  thank you, sire, but I fear there may not be time for-”
                “Nonsense! We are all taking toast, it has already been decided, so if time is all that held you back then toast you shall have as well. Mr Calthorn, please fetch a double helping for Mr Twitch here. It looks as if he’s had a hard morning and will need to catch up with us.” King Biltus announced.
                “Very good, your highness. I shall be back in a moment.” Said the butler, standing with his muddied handkerchief and giving a short bow.
                “Good. Now that we have the necessary introductions out of the way, I invite you to speak your concerns, Mr Twitch. Please, go ahead.”
                “I bring terrible news, sire, and it may put your very life in danger.” He said. Lady Obscura’s grip on the flintlock tightened.
                “Is that a threat, Mr Twitch?” She asked, scowling at him.
                “What? No! I’m here to warn the king!”
                “No need to snap at her, Mr Twitch. She’s just doing her job and she genuinely cannot tell when someone is threatening me or not.” Said King Biltus. “It keeps her perfectly on guard all the time, and I for one appreciate it.”
                “Yes, liege. Apologies for my tone, Lady Obscura.” Finkus conceded. Lady Obscura narrowed her eyes, trying to work out whether that was also a threat. “The danger comes from a mysterious stranger who’s been spotted at the edge of town. They seem to have occupied a house on the outskirts and they’re up to something. I am requesting a contingent of soldiers, two hundred should do, to remove this threat-”
                “A threat?!” The flintlock was raised again. King Biltus waved it down.
                “-before its mischief can be realised.” Finkus finished. The king looked at him with one raised eyebrow.
                “I hardly think that a stranger presents much danger, Mr Twitch. Why, when you entered this room, Lord Beagleton and Madam Olga were strangers to you. Would you have me set the military on them?”
                The lord and the madam looked to Mr Twitch, preparing to feel terribly hurt.
                “No, sire, of course not, but this isn’t just someone I don’t know. This is a stranger to town, a new arrival.”
                “And how do you know that? Not everyone is known to everyone else. Perhaps they’re a relative of someone who lives within my kingdom and they’re just visiting. I, for one, enjoy visits from time to time. Being a stranger, even from another land, is a poor metric for deciding who should be descended upon by two hundred soldiers.”
                “Alright, granted, but they were acting strangely, sire.”
                “What were they doing?”
                “Well… they were… erm… I didn’t actually see them myself, your highness.”
                King Biltus would have leaned forward, had he been in a less reclined chair. As it was, he just reclined himself more interrogatively. It was hard to describe to an outside observer, but everyone in the room would have agreed that this new reclined stance really felt like an intense posture for questioning.
                “Then how, I ask, do you know that there was a stranger in the first place, let alone that they were behaving strangely?”
                “The information was relayed to me by a shopkeeper at one of the watch shops I was auditing this morning. He had overheard two customers discussing that one of their friends had been told of a stranger in the Quiet District, who was acting strangely and was known to nobody in the area. I assure you, your highness, that the kind of people known by the kind of people who attend shops run by the kind of people I would be auditing as part of the watchmakers guild, are very reliable indeed. This information is as good as first hand.” Explained Finkus, with the confidence of a new parent describing how advanced their burbling child’s language skills were.
                “I see that you are wearing your auditing tights, so this has the ring of truth about it.” Conceded the king. “And the reliability of your guild is renowned.”
                “You can set your watch by us!” Finkus said, unable to help himself. Madam Olga chuckled darkly, while Lady Obscura’s grip on the flintlock tightened again.
                “Indeed. But reliable information about an innocuous person is still innocuous.”
                “I’m failing to explain how suspicious this person was, liege, and I beg forgiveness. You see, they wore a bold, bright cloak of red and gold around their body, with a tall, sloped hood that covered their face from either side. They wore a silver mask that obscured their forehead, cheeks and chin, but not the centre of their face, and they were asking a lot of questions about the town, about our kingdom, and about who moves where.” Explained Mr Twitch, rubbing his hands together anxiously. “It was peculiar and suspicious.”
                “Hm, it sounds like they are decadently dressed. A visiting noble, perhaps?” Observed Madam Olga.
                “I have not been informed of any visitors to the kingdom.” Replied the king. “But my permission is not required; travel between ports is perfectly permissible, especially for nobles I would suppose.”
                “I worry that they were trying to amass support for a coup, liege. Someone with obvious riches gathering information about the kingdom? It reeks of clandestine operations.” Persisted Mr Twitch.
                “Oh come now. King Biltus has done more for the people of this kingdom than any other ruler in living memory.” Protested Lord Beagleton. “Remember his revocation of the law against common people requiring a licence to have toes? It was an enormous quality of life boon for everyone. No more did the poor need to pay for the right to have balance, sandal sales went through the roof; it was masterful! No-one would rise up against this king.”
                King Biltus looked meaningfully at Finkus, waiting for any rebuttal, as unlikely as it could be.
                “You… you’re right, but a foreign power may still seek to steal the kingdom. Let us not forget that the stranger was carrying a dagger of design that none have ever seen elsewhere, which seemed to glow even in the daylight.”
                “Bah! Everyone of able body carries a blade at their hip and you know it! It is all of our duty to be prepared against another invasion by the confederacy of anthropomorphised animals.” The king dismissed with a scowl, furious at being forced to remember the smell of blood, fire and fur. The squirrel saboteurs climbing over the walls, the deer charging down rank after rank of Esomilian spearmen, while fox archers rained hell from above. Those dark times could not be allowed to reoccur. “No. It is natural that a noble should have something a little more ostentatious or rare. I will hear nothing more of it.” He said, seeing the tears in Lady Obscura’s eyes from the same harrowing memories.
                “No, liege. Of course. But this new threat-”
                King Biltus gave Lady Obscura a pre-emptive look.
                “- is very real, I know it!”
                “If you have nothing more to add to your case then I fear I must disagree, Mr Twitch.” The king said. Despite the overwhelming effect of the reclining room, the combination of the guildmaster’s unfounded fears and flashbacks of the animal wars were starting to try the royal patience.
                “I… but he…”
                “Yes?”
                Through the remains of the door stepped Mr Calthorn, with a platter of toasted bread and various spreads.
                “Ah, finally some good news! Do the rounds, please Mr Calthorn. Have you more to say, Finkus,  or are we done here?” The king asked.
                “He also had two bodyguards.” Finkus said hurriedly, while accepting a small plate and two slices of toast from the butler. King Biltus’ expression told of how reasonable it would be for noble to have guards, but Finkus threw up his hands. “Please, hear me out. He had two guards who were more unusual in appearance even than the stranger.”
                “In what way? This had best be impressive, Mr Twitch.”
                “It was a mixture of things, liege. The strange garb they wore was nothing from this kingdom, and it was simultaneously grand, glorious, rich… but also tattered and ruined. They had no shoes and no helmets or hats at all.” He explained. The king’s expression showed no sign of softening, even when he was given the royal syrups for his new rounds of toast. Finkus saw the most sinister spreading of condiment he’d experienced in his lifetime. “And they also had no flesh.”
                Mr Calthorn almost dropped the platter. King Biltus paused half way to his first bite, bread hovering mere inches from his mouth. Madam Olga finally stood, now towering a clear chest-of-drawers-height above everybody else.
                “What?” the king asked, simply.
                “No flesh at all. They were bone and bone alone. I… I think they were skeletons brought to life by what I can only assume to be foul magic.”
                “This, my good man, feels like the kind of information with which you should lead the conversation! I would find accompaniment by skeletons to be far more suspicious than a nice robe or simply being unrecognised!” Growled the king, struggling to sit up.
                “Apologies, sire. But you will take steps to remain safe in the face of this threat?”
                “Marmalade, sir?” Asked Mr Calthorn, holding a small jar and an even smaller spoon in front of the guild master.
                “Thank you.” Finkus said distractedly, spreading under the king’s gaze.
                “I will make a decision over what action is to be taken, but not a rash one. Was this stranger seen to commit any heinous crimes against nature?”
                “Erm, aside from being accompanied by the undead, you mean?”
                “Those skeletons could have come from anywhere, and they might not be a crime that he committed. Consider them being a family cadre of servants, or some relatives who decided they needed to keep closer tabs on their progeny, despite the loss of the softer tissues. We’ve seen stranger things happen before, and cannot rule it out. I fear that there are assumptions being made, and some people deserve the benefit of the doubt.” Clarified the king. “So has anybody witnessed criminal activity? Grave robbing, raising the dead, killing to make an army, that sort of thing?”
                “Oh. Well, no, sire. I can’t say that they have. Nothing of the sort has been reported.”
                The king scratched his chin, but inadvertently used the hand with a slice of toast in it. Mr Calthorn leapt into action, seeing the royal face more covered in syrup than ever before.
                “That is good. It speaks to the stranger’s reliable character.”
                “Or their ability to hide their actions, like a bramble patch might hide a cluster of blackberries out of spite.” Madam Olga observed. The king nodded.
                “He might be amassing an army of skeletons under cover of darkness. Who knows if they lurk in the woods beyond the town, or in ancient mines and crypts?”
                “We have no reason to believe that there are such stockpiles of militarised skeletons.” He dismissed. “Besides which, so what if there are? They are poor fighters in all likelihood, having no muscle or tissues to hold themselves together. They’d probably collapse the first time they’re nudged by a stout, flesh-adorned soldier.”
                “They would be unharmed by our archers, without organs to pierce.” Argued Finkus, thinking on the spot. He hadn’t thought that there’d be a need to convince the king beyond this stage.
                “But their bones would be exposed. Terribly exposed.” Said Lady Obscura, tapping her small chest hammer. “Breaks would be common and easy to orchestrate, I assure you. There’s a reason that we humans aren’t just skeletons by default.”
                “So they would be easy to overcome, we have no reason to believe they will be coming in the first place, and the stranger has not been observed to do anything untrustworthy.” Summarised the king. “It sounds like we have no reason to harass this person. Let us leave them be, and they may go about their business until we have cause to interfere.”
                “But he has dominion over all skeletons!” Cried Mr Twitch, through a mouthful of toast. He’d been unable to resist its heady aroma.
                “I have dominion over a legion of soldiers, Mr Twitch, as I have said. They are no threat. Why should I care?”
                “Because there’s a skeleton inside of all of us!” Said the guild master, finally circling around the crux of the matter.
                There was a pause in the room that drew everyone in as they considered the gravity of what Finkus had revealed to them. It was a pregnant pause, and getting out of it was very much of a labour.
                “Ah. Yes. I see.” Said the king, eventually. “I think perhaps that we should at least pay this stranger a visit, then.”
​
                Another round of toast later, because none should travel on an empty stomach, the royal delegation left the reclining room and made their way to the palace’s driveway, where the royal carriage awaited them. One and  half times as high as the other carriages seen around the town, and definitely more laden with secret squares of velvet with which to wipe one’s brow or chin as required, the royal carriage was a mobile haven of opulence fit to carry a whole retinue. At the fore were six near-identical chestnut coursers, led by a single skewbald pony. The pony had been a request of King Biltus’, as a reminder that the empire was led by the ‘smaller’ people who worked the fields, operated the mines, and could fit their arms up the chimney to give it a thorough sweeping.
                “Everything is prepared for you, sir.” Said Mr Calthorn, who, despite having attended to the king while he got changed into his travelling clothes, had somehow beaten them all down to the driveway to open the carriage doors for them. “I am afraid, however, that I must apologise most profusely that the royal tinker is yet to complete his work on the portable toasting device.”
                “Unfortunate as that is,” replied the king, breathing a sigh of relief for his distended stomach, “I understand completely that this kind of technological marvel takes time. The tinkerer shall have all the patience he needs from me.”
                “It truly is a marvel, your highness.” Agreed Mr Calthorn. “It is an ingenious invention which uses hot coals and metal bars to heat the bread in a completely mobile unit that would fit easily within the carriage. A single load of hot coals is enough to make toast almost constantly for up to two hours, thanks to advances in insulation. A real shame that we could not have it ready for you, but he’s yet to resolve the deadly carbon monoxide problem.”
                “That sounds like a problem worth solving.” Assessed the king.
                “Oh, I heard about that!” Cried Lord Beagleton. “If I recall correctly, the toasting unit unleashes enough gas to flood the whole room each time he uses it, and he passes out before he can properly investigate the situation.”
                The rest of the delegation chuckled.
                “What a delightful farce the life of the tinkerer must be.” Said Madam Olga. In preparation for the trip she’d brought a few small pots containing her hardier thorny vines.
                “I am prepared to make this journey without toast, Mr Calthorn, fear not. No monarch has ever been brought low by a sudden lack of heated travelling bread.” The king announced magnanimously, as he climbed up the steps and into the body of the carriage. Awaiting him, on the central table, was a wicker hamper.
                “There is some pre-toasted bread in the warming bag within that hamper, your highness.” Mr Calthorn said from behind. The king pursed his lips and wondered at when the butler could possibly have arranged this. It was starting to look more and more like Mr Calthorn had some inexplicable powers of his own, powers which might well have warranted more urgent investigation than this stranger. King Biltus put that concern aside for the time being, but decided it should have real consideration upon his return.
                “Thank you, Mr Calthorn. You are, as ever, impressively prepared.”
                The rest of the king’s party, whom he had invited along because it seemed rude to send them home so suddenly, piled into the carriage past the smiling, bowing butler. Even with the table and the frankly dangerous quantity of toast, there was enough space for all them to feel very nearly as relaxed as they were in the reclining room. True to her form, Madam Olga decided to take a position squatting on the table, while the others made use of the seating in the more usual way.
                Following Mr Twitch’s instructions, from his fourth-hand-that-was-as-good-as-first-hand information, the carriage rolled through the cobbled streets that had, less than an hour before, seen Finkus Twitch running along them as best he could. Outside, the same people on the streets who had cursed the guild master’s uncouth urgency and mud splashing, now cheered for the liberator king, who had decreed that coal was no longer to be eaten with every meal. No-one really remembered who had passed that law in the first place, but prevailing wisdom was that it had resulted from lobbying of King Biltus’ Grandmother by Baroness Byrnes, owner of the largest coal mine in the kingdom.
                It took nearly an hour for the carriage to wind its way out of the main township and into the slightly sparser semi-farmland in which the stranger had apparently taken up residence. Despite their best intentions and the screaming pleas for mercy from their own stomachs, each member of the royal party had succumbed to the temptation of pre-warmed toast from the hamper, reducing it to two-thirds of its original capacity by the time they were approaching their destination.
                “This is it, my liege.” Mr Twitch said, craning his neck out of the window to confirm that they were in the correct estate. It was quite a redundant thing to say, because it was the only house on the long, tree-lined driveway, and Finkus had been in near constant communication with the driver, but he felt it necessary to give the situation some gravitas and narrative punctuation.
                “It looks to be a lovely home, and well maintained.” Came the royal first impression.
                “Indeed, sire. I would not call anyone evil who could maintain such high standards of topiary.” Agreed Madam Olga, surveying the hedges beyond the trees with great interest. “I am particularly pleased to see a healthy population of both rose and bramble on these grounds.”
                “Quite so.” Said the king. “Good for blackberries and for keeping intruders out of the undergrowth.”
                “Intruders should be on the driveway, as we all know. Easier to travel and no risk of spoiling the lawns alongside their criminal activity.” Added Lord Beagleton, his own priorities as inscrutable as Madam Olga’s.
                The carriage slowed a little. From what Finkus could see, there was no obstruction on the driveway, but perhaps the driver was simply being courteous, in case of any grounds keepers wanting to leap from the trees and rush across the road without looking. A snorting, neighing and sudden lurching of the carriage, informed him otherwise.
                “What’s going on out there, driver?” Demanded the king, who had very nearly got toast crumbs all over his travelling jacket thanks to the disruption. He noticed that Lady Obscura had her flintlock in hand already. “Are we under attack?”
                “No, sire.” Called back the driver, sounding rather distracted. The sound of hooves crashing onto the stony driveway and further equine vocalisation made their way into the carriage. “Calm down, all of you! It’s just a gardener!”
                “It sounds like he’s trying to reason with the horses.” Lord Beagleton said, shaking his head sadly. “That’s never worked in human history, and I don’t see it happening now.”
                “It’s not like my carriage horses to be spooked by anything, let alone someone tending the grounds.” Grumbled the king. “There must be something else awry. Perhaps the smell of burning flesh on the air, or a series of wolves roaming the grounds.”
                “I’d hope that neither of those are the case, sire.” Said Mr Twitch. The king shrugged dismissively, and the carriage kept jostling and shaking under the action of panicking horses.
                “It’s no good, highness. I can’t calm them down and we’ll all come to harm if I don’t turn around.” The driver shouted.
                “Fine! Fine. I’ll get out here and you can take the carriage away. Calm them all down.” Huffed King Biltus, shooing urgently with both arms to encourage his party out of the carriage. Through the doors on either side they rapidly disembarked, leaving the remainder of the toast behind them, and coming to stand on the gravelly driveway of the stranger’s borrowed housing. Warm sunlight was spilling onto them through the trees, and would have given the whole scenario a gloriously bucolic aspect, had it not been for the seven panicking horses attached to an enormous wooden box.
                “We are out, driver. Do what you must.” He ordered.
                Working with impressive speed and control, the driver manoeuvred his horses and carriage around all of the royal party and through a several-point turn. In mere moments he was on his way back along the driveway, to the relative safety of a narrow, blind road outside of the estate. Standing on the gravel and now forced to use the legs with which they had all been born, rather than the carriage with which the king alone had been born, the royal party gathered themselves together and began traversing their way along the drive.
                In a spot of mercy by the horses, they had elected not to be scared of the grounds keepers until the house was relatively close, so the king and his retinue were not faced with a dreadfully long walk under their own steam. Ahead of them was the rather modest home of the estate, standing at only two storeys and with no separate wings of which to speak. If this was a visiting noble, they did not have particularly extravagant tastes when it came to structures.
                In front of the house, tending to some low shrubs and flowering plants, were the handful of grounds keepers to which the horses had taken exception. They didn’t seem to be doing a particularly bad job of their pruning, nor were they making loud noises or swinging large, sharp tools around, but apparently their quiet, dutiful work had been offensive to equine senses. The only even slightly unusual thing that the king could see, was that these particular individuals were very pale for grounds keepers, who traditionally spent a lot of their time out of doors. They also, on closer inspection, had quite thin fingers, and their clothes seemed terribly baggy in odd ways.
                Thoughts progressed through the royal mind. They could not outpace the nearest grounds keeper, who noticed the approaching party, turned towards them, and waved happily. There was a lot more bone visible than tradition would usually dictate.
                “Ugh! Skeleton!” Cried King Biltus.
                “I did warn you, sire.” Said Mr Twitch, who, despite his confident words, was cowering behind the king all the same.  Alongside him, the Mistress of Thorns and Lord of the Dance began to wonder why they’d agreed to come along on such a trip. It was only Lady Obscura who seemed at ease, casually handling her flintlock and small hammer.
                Not to be deterred by a little bit of a fear and revulsion, the skeletal gardener kept waving jovially at them. From what body language was available to it, it seemed to be relatively happy, and the royal retinue got the distinct impression that it would be smiling if it’d had the cheeks and lips for such a gambit. All they got in practice was the rictus grin of an exposed jaw.
                “Good day, gardener. I am here to speak to your master.” Announced King Biltus, steeling himself in the face of a warm greeting while flanked by his party. “Please, would you take us to him.”
                The skeleton paused for a moment, looked down at its hand as if for reassurance that it was behaving in the expected manner, and then started its jovial waving again.
                “Yes… hello there.” Said the king, a little exasperated. “Please take us to your master. I am the king of this land and I would like an audience with him.”
                Clearly a great believer in the inherent equality of all people, and not intimidated by social hierarchy, the skeleton continued waving undeterred.
                “YES HELLO!” Shouted the king, waving back sarcastically. “PLEASE TAKE US TO YOUR MASTER!”
                “That would be me!” Came a deep, smooth voice from the house. A man, fitting the description of ‘a stranger’ by virtue of being unknown to any of the royal retinue, was leaning out of a ground floor window. The hood of a red and gold robe kept most of his face obscured, but since they only had his clothing to go on for identification, it did more to confirm who it was than hide it. “Welcome to my borrowed residence, your highness.”
                “Thank you, sir. I must say that your grounds keepers are… not concerned with communication.”
                “Oh, she can’t speak. Can’t hear you either, come to mention it, so I’m afraid your words were a little wasted. But she’s trying to be friendly and greet you as best she can, at least.” Explained the stranger.
                The royal party looked back to the grounds keeper, still waving with as much enthusiasm as ever. Some guilt started to well up underneath the king’s indignation, and he muttered an apology to the happy skeleton. Normally he’d feel cowardly for merely muttering when the situation strictly called for a full-voiced apology, but since the grounds keeper couldn’t hear anyway he cut himself some slack.
                “No ears. Or mouth, or throat.” The stranger clarified, in case the delegation was at a loss as to the nature of the gardener’s sensory deprivation. “Please, forgive the lack of ceremony for greeting you, your highness. I shall be out immediately.” Said the stranger, before leaning back into the house and disappearing from view.
                “Awfully polite for someone suspected of preparing for a coup.” Assessed Lord Beagleton. In the face of the skeleton’s cheerful greeting, which showed no signs of abating, he had stepped out into full view and surveyed the gardening team. “And he only seems to be using skeletons for gardening at the moment. Not terribly nefarious.”
                “Unless they’re pulling out the thorns.” Madam Olga worried. She scurried over to the gardeners and examined their baskets of prunings carefully. As if perfectly aware of what she was up to, the other grounds keepers stopped what they were doing and stood politely to attention, bony hands crossed over their fronts with secateurs, sickles and trowels still grasped.
                “Anything amiss?” Asked Lord Beagleton, interestedly.
                “No… no, this is all fine. Just weeds and invasive things.” She reported, content with what she was seeing. “Carry on as you were.”
                For skeletons without the ability to hear, they picked up very well on the Mistress of Thorns’ permission to continue. With a series of respectful nods, they went back about their business tending to the flowerbeds and shrubs. Bone fingers clattered rigidly against their tools, struggling to grip soft, pliable stems, but they kept working diligently regardless.
                “Welcome, welcome!” Cried the voice of the stranger. He strode from the front door of the house, two guards walking a short way behind him. In full credit to Mr Twitch’s fourth-to-first hand information, they looked exactly as he’d described, garbed in the ruins of previously fine clothing. “If I’d known that I was having such esteemed guests then I would have prepared a more salubrious greeting for you.”
                “It is nothing about which to worry, good sir.” Assuaged the king. “Our visit was as unannounced as it was unplanned. You speak with King Biltus, ruler of Esomile Kingdom. I am joined by Madam Olga, my Mistress of Thorns, Lord Beagleton, my Lord of the Dance, Lady Obscura, my captain of the guard, and Mr Finkus Twitch, master of the watchmaker’s guild.”
                Each of the royal retinue gave a short bow as they were introduced to the stranger, and he smiled politely underneath his shadowy hood as he looked from one to another.
                “That’s a very specific and eclectic mix of nobles for your greeting party, liege, but that does not make it any less of an honour to make your acquaintance.” Said the stranger, rubbing his hands together. “I am Nocturnox the Raiser, a summoner of sorts who finds use in that which has always been under our noses, but lies forgotten and disregarded all the same.”
                “Skeletons. You mean skeletons.” Finkus guessed, pointing a triumphant finger at Nocturnox as if he’d sleuthed the greatest mystery known to the Esomile. The king gave him an approving nod, which did nothing to disabuse him of that delusion.
                “Er, yes. The skeletons. I thought that was rather obvious from the ones you’ve met already, and the others following me around.”
                “Indeed. Well, Nocturnox the Raiser, it is good to meet you. I had hoped to discuss the matter of your…” King Biltus searched for the words. “…mastery over these creatures of bone.”
                “Please, highness. There is no need for one such as you to stand on ceremony with me. Many address me as Nocky.” Said Nocturnox, with a shallow bow and a thin smile.
                “Erm,” said the king. Respecting his wishes felt like the polite thing to do, but Nocky really didn’t feel like a name he wanted to use. Such were the trials of monarchy, he supposed. “as you wish, Nocky.”
                Lady Obscura visibly shuddered at the sound of the name.
                “I will, of course, answer any questions you might have. I’m sure that any concern could be assuaged with sufficient explanation of my, ahem, machinations.” Said Nocky, rubbing the knuckles of one hand with the fingers of the other. “But please, won’t you come inside? I would be no kind of host at all if I let you stay out here, and, between you and me,” he continued, dropping his voice into a loud whisper “I worry that Mary’s arm might get tired if she doesn’t stop waving.”
                “Yes, that would be most agreeable. Lead the way, please.” Accepted King Biltus, still aware of the bony greeting in his peripheral vision. As he and the retinue followed Nocturnox into the house, the other grounds keeper skeletons paused their work and joined in the waving, paying particular attention to Madam Olga. She felt suitably flattered.
                “I assume that you hail from one of the lands unexplored by the Esomile and their allies.” Said Lady Obscura to the back of Nocturnox’s head. She would have addressed his face had he been looking at her, but since he wasn’t walking backwards that was unlikely to happen.
                “I’m from a ways away, yes. I get around a lot, you know. My works take me into all sorts of places, some of which you would scarcely imagine.” He answered, stepping through the wooden front door and into the homestead. “Excuse the décor, please. I’ve been terribly busy with… well, I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that home furnishing hasn’t had my time or attention.”
                “Opulence isn’t everything.” Answered the king, mustering all the diplomacy he could while trying not to think of the shrine to ostentation that was his palace. He’d recently had the North Sub-wing of the Secondary West Wing redecorated because the gilding on one of the staircases was starting to tarnish.
                “You’ve given it a certain… minimalist charm.” Observed Lord Beagleton, drinking in the faded wallpaper and total absence of any coat-, shoe- or hat-racks.  There was a modest cane rack to one side of the door, but it was already full with rusted swords that all looked as if they’d been buried with someone, so he kept his in hand. At the very least, he appreciated the bare wooden floor boards very much; they would be perfect for a small, auxiliary dance studio if any members of the ballet or samba happened to be stuck in the area. It would be something to discuss with Nocturnox after the skeleton situation had been resolved.
                “Your words are kind, Lord Beagleton. That kindness must run all the way to your bones.” Smiled the Raiser, making innocently unbroken eye contact with the lord.
                “Erm, I suppose so…”
                “That’s your problem, Beagleton. Too many kind bones and not enough thorns. You always need me around to get your thorns in.” Accused Madam Olga. She was setting a small, potted bramble down on one of the windowsills, and watering it with her pocket watering-can. “You’ll need to water this every day for the first week, and re-pot it after two, Nocky. It’ll thrive.”
                “What a wonderful gift” Nocturnox said, crossing to the windowsill and caressing the bramble gently with one hand. “A flower that wears its bones on the outside, even in life. How beautiful. But we can’t stand here by the door. Please, come with me to the drawing room. Would you like Solomon here to take your jackets?”
                One of the skeletal guards held out both arms, which were only partially covered by the tattered sleeves of their semi-decayed clothing.
                “I’m contented to keep my jacket on.” Decided the king. He knew that Mr Calthorn wouldn’t be pleased if he returned with rotting fibres on his best travelling clothes. Unfortunately, Mr Twitch was already half way through removing his own jacket, and he stared wide-eyed at the king with instant regret. He’d not realised that refusing was an option, but there was no backing out now without seeming either offensive to Nocky and Solomon, or sycophantic to the king. Deflating a little, he continued handing over his jacket and lamented the condition in which it might be returned.
                Nocturnox led his guests through a door to one side of the hallway, delivering them into the drawing room as promised. From behind them, the unmistakable sound reached their ears of a skeleton dropping someone’s jacket onto the floor, earnestly believing that to be the next step of the process.
                “There was no coat-rack in sight.” Lord Beagleton whispered to the guild master. “It’s a mistake we’ve all made in the past, if that’s any consolation to you.”
                It was not. But Mr Twitch nodded appreciatively in any case.
                “This is certainly… eye-opening, Nocturnox.”
                “Nocky.” Corrected the Raiser.
                “Nocky then, yes, fine, sorry. But would you mind please explaining what these drawings on the walls are?” Asked the king, as if something was amiss in the drawing room.
                Nocturnox the Raiser, wearing a perfectly innocent face of bewilderment, cast a theatrical set of looks around the room. Papers and parchments covered every surface, from the furniture to the walls, to the windowsills, and he gave them some performative inspection.
                “Just maps of the region.” He said.
                “Maps of the Esomile Kingdom’s graveyards by the look of it.” Lady Obscura assessed. She started to walk around the room, moving between each of the parchments and documents with a suspicious appraising eye.
                “Er, yes. Well noticed! That’s exactly what they are.” Confirmed Nocturnox, happily.
                “And why might you have those?” Asked the king, calmly.
                “Oh… no reason in particular.” Nocturnox the Raiser claimed, accepting a mug of tea from one of his skeleton guards. “Merrick here has tea for everyone. Please help yourselves.”
                “Without wishing to sound suspicious or ungracious, Noctu- er, Nocky, it seems like someone with powers over the bones of the dead might have certain interests in the location of graveyards.” Explained the king, taking a mug from the offered platter.
                “Just like I have a great interest in the largest and densest briar patches in the empire.” Added Madam Olga.
                “Interests? Well, I suppose I see where you’re coming from… I like the sculpture work of old tombs and it’s nice to visit a lot of them.” He explained, taking a small sip.
                King Biltus narrowed his eyes, staring into the smiling, hooded face of Nocturnox.
                “There are all sorts of documents on historical wars here, my liege.” Announced Lady Obscura, facing a table of papers. “Analyses of past warfare within the kingdom, details of previous invasions, treatises on the largest burial grounds and battlefields from our past… a lot more sources of bones for someone who knows how to use them. And this… whatever it is.” She finished, pointing at a dome of silvered glass, almost like a serving platter, on top of a small side table.
                Nocturnox’s smile didn’t flicker.
                “Well, Nocky? Are you able to explain those?”
                “Of course I am.” Chuckled the necromancer, taking a seat on one of the soft armchairs in the room. “You’re all welcome to take a seat if you so wish.”
                “Thank you.” Said Finkus, who was half way to lowering himself onto a hard-backed chair before he noticed that everyone else had remained standing. From the corner of his eye he saw a slow, pitying shake of the head from Lord Beagleton. Resignedly he completed the motion, and felt dust start to grind its way into his auditing tights.
                “I have a keen interest in history, so while within the borders of the esteemed and noble Esomile Kingdom, I felt that it would be a wasted opportunity not to visit some sites of interest. If there’s a historical society or guild of archaeologists I would be incredibly interested in joining them for an expedition or two. Or a lecture on any foreign powers who managed to breach the capitol’s defences, invade the palace, that sort of thing.”
                “I know the Archaeologist’s Guild Master. We could set up an introduction.” Said Finkus, forgetting himself in the excitement of being useful. King Biltus shot him a disapproving look, but it was intercepted when Merrick leaned down with a mug of tea. Mr Twitch accepted it graciously.
                “That would be most helpful of you. I could learn so very much from your experts and enthusiasts.” Smiled Nocky. He took a sip from his drink.
                “So you have maps of my kingdom’s graveyards, battlefields and burial sites, as a man who can raise bodies from the ground and bend them to his will, but it’s just coincidence. You just want to learn about history?” Summarised the king, eager to get the conversation back on track.
                “Possibly among some other things, if opportunities for other interests arise, but yes. That’s all true.”
                “And the dome? What’s that if you don’t mind my asking?”
                “Ah, that’s something I’m working on at the moment. I hate to be withholding but I’m afraid I can’t say too much more for now and I must request that you don’t peek under it, for fear that what’s inside will spoil. You’ll become acquainted with it in time, however, and I feel that you’ll be most pleased with it.” Smiled the necromancer. He flexed and rolled the fingers of one hand excitedly, while the other kept a firm grip on his mug.
                “It looks like there’s a forge being built out here, highness.” Said Lady Obscura, cutting short any further enquiry. She was standing by the room’s rear window, overlooking the bulk of the gardens. True to her words, a team of skeletal builders was hard at work adding blocks and mortar to a half-built kiln. It was surrounded by wooden crates, and cuboid blocks covered with tarpaulin. One of the skeletons outside had clearly noticed that they were being watched, and began to wave at her gregariously. “Seems like a blacksmith’s forge to me. Could be used to make a lot of weaponry.”
                “Could it?” Asked Nocturnox, innocently.
                “Yes.”
                “Well, wonderful. Always nice to have a few extra feathers in one’s wing.”
                “You mean to tell us that your legion of the damned were building a forge, and you had no idea about it?” Asked the king, not completely sounding like he believed the testimony.
                “Oh goodness no. I knew they were up to something forgey out that, but it’s just for making gardening tools. One of the skeletons was a loriner in life, and I thought it would be nice for her to ply her trade once more, with what little memory she’ll have.” He explained. “No brain, you see. That’s where memories live, if I have the right understanding of things.”
                “Alright, look. I just need to ask this, it’s just a question and in no way an accusation, but you’re not planning a coup are you? By walking the battlefields and graveyards of my empire, raising an army of skeletal warriors, and then forging weapons with which they might assault the palace and pillage the land?” Asked King Biltus directly, cupping the warm mug of tea in both hands. Nocturnox sat up straighter in his chair and placed one hand flat on his sternum in shock.
                “Oh no! Gosh no. Perish the thought, nothing could be further from my mind.” His smile had completely faded to horrified surprise at the very notion that the king had raised.
                ”Alright, that’s the correct answer.”
                “Why do you ask? Do you think it would work if I did?” Nocky asked, the shocked hand from his chest becoming a pensive hand on his chin.
                “What do you mean by that?”
                “Nothing sinister! It’s just professional curiosity from the fact that you asked. Do you think that I would be able to launch a successful coup with an army of skeletons? Is it something I should be aware of?”
                “… no.” The king decided, narrowing his eyes with unconcealed suspicion.
                “Are you sure? I mean, if there is a risk of that, then I’ll need to take measures to make sure it won’t happen. Can’t let myself accidentally orchestrate such an invasion with a careless turn of phrase, like… oh, I don’ t know… bring me all that this land has to of-“
                “Don’t finish that order!” Threatened Lady Obscura, flintlock in hand and pointed directly at the tea.
                “Oh good heavens, that wasn’t an order!” Laughed Nocturnox, which was quite something for a man at gunpoint. “No, if I’m ordering the legions of bony soldiers to do anything you’ll notice the blackened flames of the netherworld playing around my body, and my voice comes out all strange with echoes and the like. But since you mentioned the idea, I think they probably would have an easier time with taking up arms than tending to the flowerbeds. I mean, they certainly try their best with the planting but… well, they don’t have any nuance to their sense of touch. No skin, no soft grip. I’m afraid to say that they crush more seeds than they sow.”
                “Lamentable indeed, that your gardeners struggle with seed.” Madam Olga sympathised. “I only hope that bulbs fare better.”
                “Aye, the bulbs do seem to take root more readily. It’s nice to put something back into the ground for once, rather than removing it.” Nocturnox said, with a dark chuckle.
                “For what it’s worth, Nocky, an invasion of skeletal warriors would fail.” Lady Obscura said, making sure that the question was answered in no uncertain terms. “Between our muskets, our flintlocks, our hammers, and the remarkable training of the Esomile army, no undead could ever hope to overwhelm them.”
                “A comforting reassurance against any poor choice of words I might make.” Nocturnox said, breathing a sigh of relief and relaxing into his armchair again. A small plume of dust rose up from the upholstery.
                “And if you did happen to raise the dead that lie beneath the palace, there’s the king’s contingent of the palace guard with whom to contend.” Added Mr Twitch. Lord Beagleton slapped him on the back of the head, causing a tea spillage onto the thigh region of the tights.
                “Oh a personal contingent of palatial guards! I love that. Please, your highness, tell me more. How many are there, where do they patrol and how often? If you’ve got a map of their instructed routes to hand then I would be fascinated to take a look.” Cried Nocturnox. He placed his mug of tea down and snatched up a paper and pen, ready to make notes.
                “Nocky please! Of course I won’t be telling you details of my security. You must be able to see how suspicious that sounds!”
                “Suspicious? Really?” He asked, aghast. “Well… I suppose I can see how one might interpret my statement that way if they were looking for it… I was simply looking to share knowledge. I also have a personal contingent of honorary guards who look after me and my home. I would be more than happy to show you their orders and how they keep my own domicile safe from wild animals or those poor misguided few who might be turned against me. We might have useful advice for one another.”
                “Will you share the knowledge of what lies beneath the dome?” Asked Lady Obscura.
                “Absolutely not, although it pains me to deny you once again.”
                “Then we must be equally guarded with the information we possess.” Pointed out the king.
                “It is a shame that you feel this way. As I have said, I will offer you equivalent information on my home’s security. Well, I say my home. It has been rented to me by the mayor of Dullsbrooke. He was reluctant at first but I can be very… persuasive.”
                “Using skeletons?” Asked the captain of the guard, flatly.
                “Using kind words, assurances of taking good care, and a show of human decency! Honestly, just because I could, in principle, use a legion of the undead to persuade or coerce someone doesn’t mean that I would do it.”
                “Aha, well, that rather brings us to the crux of the matter, Nocky. The real driving force behind the urgency of my visit and these questions.” Said the king. He cleared his throat, then remembered he was holding a cup of tea and took a sip from it. “You’d not plan to use your dominion over all skeletons to take dominion over us, would you? The skeletons inside our still living bodies, I mean. I need your assurances on that before I can feel comfortable.”
                “Why, that had never before occurred to me, your highness.” Cried the necromancer, slapping both hands to the sides of his face. “What a terrible thing that would be to do to a person.”
                “So that’s a no, then?”
                “It would be awful. Just awful.”
                “Meaning that you would answer the question with…” Led the king.
                “With assertions that such actions would be sickening. They would be the darkest plots and schemes of one who sought only destruction and power in the world. The machinations of a foul practitioner of the necromantic arts, who used them for evil instead of good. It would take a truly cruel, totally dishonourable and utterly unethical person to do that to anyone, let alone use it to force a royal court to submit.”
                “And therefore you would not do it?”
                Nocky threw his hands into the air with despair, but expertly managed not to spill his tea.
                “Do you think me terrible and cruel?”
                “I do not, but you are avoiding answering the question.” Persisted the king, his own hands now shaking on the mug. Thankfully, he’d already imbibed enough to prevent a disastrous spillage.
                Nocky frowned slightly, then closed his eyes and shrugged.
                “It upsets me that you need an explicit answer, highness. But I can understand why one might feel a sense of unease when presented with a stranger such as myself. I…” He stopped himself, and looked ponderously at the king. “…I think that we are both victims of the same moods and prejudices here, your highness. You have the weight of a whole kingdom on your shoulders, and that is surely what forces these suspicious notions to enter your mind. I can understand how those pressures will force reasonable people to ask uncomfortable questions and distrust strangers by no fault of their own. Perhaps, if you do not mind me making the suggestion, you are in need of some toast?”
                Silence sat like a blanket of dust on a tomb. Nocturnox in particular could see how eerily accurate that comparison truly was.
                Of all the words he could have uttered, the necromancer had made the one suggestion which would hang in King Biltus’ ears most of all. In an instant he was reminded of the wise and reliable Mr Calthorn, whose wisdom in ceasing to store the kingdom’s poisons in porous containers in the public aquifer had done wonders for public health. In an instant, the actions of the kind, curious man with a gift for skeletal diplomacy took on a whole new light.
                “Thank you, Nocky. I think that maybe I would benefit from a round or two of what still lies within the carriage.” He said, voice a little shaky as he finally took a seat. “You are astute and you are kind, and I was wrong to be suspicious of you. I can see that now.”
                Mouth agape, Lady Obscura looked between the king and the necromancer, seeking out the signs of some domination spell, but there was nothing to see.
                “It is gracious of you to say so, highness.”  The summoner said, sipping again from his tea cup.
                “I trust that you do not need to show me what lies under the dome. And I trust that your forge makes tools only. You are, of course, welcome to visit me at the palace where I can return the hospitality that you have shown to us. Come along everyone, we should leave Nocky here to his business until such a time as he is ready to receive guests properly.”
                “You’re no bother at all, your highness. My home is your home.”
                “And mine yours.” Replied the king. Lady Obscura kept a close watch on Nocturnox’s mouth for any sign of a wry, devious smile at the king’s words, but nothing came.
​
                A skeletal runner, who made a loud, clattering sound of bone on gravel as he rushed down the path, alerted the king’s carriage driver that the party was ready to leave. It was clear from the sounds of screaming, panicked horses that he had found his target quickly. The king’s party bade their farewells to Nocturnox the Raiser, apologised for intruding on his erstwhile home, and repeated their offers of a visit to the palace at his earliest convenience. With earnest thanks he accepted, and promised that he would be there before they knew it.
                As the carriage began to rumble its way out of Nocturnox’s driveway, the necromancer stopped his waving from the door, rubbed his hands together, and let out a piercing, throaty laugh. It had been building for some time, but over many years of raising the dead publically he had formed the necessary habit of restraint, making sure that he was out of earshot before launching into one of his meatier cackles.
                Rushing back into his drawing room, he whistled and pointed for two skeletons to move aside his table of parchment and notes, revealing a heavy trapdoor. Knowing their duty, the skeletal staff heaved it open, exposing a torch-lit cavity below. Hastily, Nocturnox descended the ladder of carved stone handholds and sat down at the writing desk of his subterranean plotting chamber. Across its surface were diagrams of the human bone structure, ageing pieces of skull, and fingerbone quills. He pushed them all aside for space.
                As quickly as he could, he wrote page after page of notes, detailing what he’d learned of the palace’s underground corpse store, the presence of dedicated palatial guards, and the attitudes of the royal courtiers, before any of it could be allowed to drift from his memory.
                “Soon my dark plans will be complete.” He chuckled to himself. “I shall be within the palace grounds before any can stand in my way or raise the alarm.”
                Alarming agility saw him climb back into the drawing room and cross over to the silvered glass dome.
                “How easy it would have been for one of them to lift this and spoil everything. A good thing indeed that they have manners, eh, Solomon?”
                The skeleton knew he was being addressed, but had no idea why. He settled on a joyful wave as the most appropriate response. Such was Nocturnox’s good mood, he waved back.
                “Shall we have another peek? I am dreadfully excited to see the king’s reaction when he wakes up to this, looking at him from the end of the bed.”
                Lightning crackled outside, which was unusual for such a bright, sunny day but quite common in the vicinity of the necromancer. The weather kept a close eye on him, and tried to keep things mood-appropriate where it could. With one long-fingered and skinny hand, Nocturnox grasped the glass dome and smiled down upon what it revealed.
                ‘Happy birthday, King Biltus.’ Read the icing on the cake. Nocturnox the Raiser, necromancer and baker extraordinaire, felt sure that it was be the greatest surprise cake the kingdom had ever seen.