#11 of 100: A Pleasing Performance
Plots abound at the princess's banquet as many suitors try to win her hand.
Oops, over 4000 words. Also I forgot the narrator’s voice quite early on. Also its 11:56 as I type this.
In the centre of the banquet hall there is a flurry of colour and limbs as acrobats spin and jump over one another, vibrant silks trailing behind them. The musicians are tucked away in a corner, their talent residing in being heard, but not seen. Servants are weaving through the long feasting tables, silently whisking away empty plates and presenting new delights. Up there, on the dais, sits the princess and her family, watching over the proceedings and exchanging occasional polite remarks with the would-be suitors vying for her hand.
All the finest nobles from across the country are here, as well as some from foreign lands. Although this is not a party thrown with the sole aim of finding the princess a partner, her unmarried status is on everybody’s lips. She is, after all, the sole heir to the Donmar throne. With the recent death of the King’s consort and the rumours of the King’s ill health, her beauty is suddenly being written into songs by bards who make it very clear who their patrons are.
Now that the scene is set, who do you wish to follow more closely?
The obvious choice is Princess Eleanor Vesterberg herself. Her gracious demeanour and constant mild smile doesn’t give much away, does it? Perhaps you prefer to go a generation back and peek into the mind of King Alexander Vesterberg, gaining insight into world politics and all the events leading up to this moment. Or you may be more interested in an optimistic suitor: Carolina Castolini. Her father is Peter Castolini, now more infamous for the murder of his brother and his subsequent imprisonment than for the decades he spent building up his trading company. She hopes to win the princess’s hand to redeem her own name, more than anything else. But if you’ve spotted the assassin, currently disguised as a servant, you might be more intrigued by her plans. Jocasta Meer is a novice, and this is quite a public space for her second ever kill. Look, her hands are shaking as she pours a glass of wine for a man already horrifically drunk.
But wait, the music doesn’t sound quite right, does it? Something is missing. Let’s move through the huge double doors carved with laurel leaves and sneak off to the main courtyard. The sound of revelry is faint here, and pockets of shadow hide secret lovers and conspirators. The glow-worm lanterns that flank the main gravel path give an otherworldly feel to the huge, extravagant plants and the marble statues of the Vesterberg ancestors.
“I’m not drunk,” someone cries out, as their vomit decorates a rare flower and seeps into the soil. “It was the food!”
Ah. It is Athena Cawl, the missing lyre player. She should be in the main hall, but wandered out to nosy around. She is mostly telling the truth: she isn’t particularly drunk, only a single glass of wine has passed her lips. She is, however, quite happy to appear drunk to any onlookers. That way, if she is caught by anyone being where she shouldn’t be, she hopes for some leniency.
She was a last minute replacement for another, more popular musician, but the head of entertainment at the palace refused to pay her the same. In exchange, she has only done half of her required performance, and aims to find some valuables elsewhere in the palace to make up the money she feels she is owed.
Guards block most of the corridors out to the private wings of the palace, but Athena finds a corridor that leads to the servants' mess room, and from there another, much smaller courtyard. This one has no statues, although a large bird cage provides many vibrant birds to gaze upon.
Athena looks up. It would be entirely possible for her to climb onto the roof, and then drop down somewhere else, although this would scupper her defence that she is lost and merely in search of a lavatory. She pokes her head around the nearest corridor. She can hear some of the servants bustling about, but she cannot see anyone moving in her direction. In a move that would make the acrobats proud, she steps onto the back of a bench, grabs onto an ornamental head jutting out just below the roof, and clambers up.
A few birds squawk and flutter away, but otherwise she has managed to remain unnoticed. She crawls along the slimy tiles, keeping herself as low as possible. She has only just realised there are three watchtowers, and while her position is a little obscured by higher roof sections and the darkness of the night, she could be spotted at any moment. Regretting her decision but reluctant to go back, she slithers over to the nearest lack of roof and tumbles down into yet another courtyard.
A metal table with translucent amber glass atop it dominates this small garden. In the weak light from the nearby lanterns Athena spots a plate with some leftover olive pits, and moves closer to inspect it. The plate is made of silver, and embossed around the edges are little birds carrying olive branches. It must be worth a fortune. She flings the pits onto the grass and tucks the plate under her shirt. It is quite obvious she is trying to hide something, but she is too caught up in the thrill of stealing from the palace to think logically.
She darts out of the courtyard and into the colonnade that encloses it. She searches through one of the large cabinets resting there and finds more plates, although these lack the same decorations.
“The crockery in the other one is more valuable.”
The princess has entered the scene.
Princess Eleanor Vesterberg had excused herself from the party and strolled through the palace looking for a place where she could no longer hear the tedious frivolities. She thought the breakfast courtyard would be empty of annoying suitors and the myriad of staff that infested the place. Her father had insisted she take a guard with her, and she obliged, to keep the old man happy. When they come across the thief, her guard moves to restrain them, but the princess thrusts out an arm to block his way. Dutifully, he steps back.
Seeing a thief at work is the highlight of her night. She does feel a twinge of disappointment when she realises the thief is just a chancer and not a professional - the young woman’s clothes are damp and discoloured, and a plate is clearly outlined under the shirt.
The woman gives a deep bow to her and the stolen plate clatters to the marble floor.
“Don’t mind me. Please, continue.” The princess says. She gestures to the thief, who doesn’t move a muscle.
“Would it help if I turn away?” She adds. “I’ll sit here while you rummage through that other cabinet, and I’ll yell whenever I can hear you.”
A wide, mischievous grin spreads over the young woman’s face, and she can’t help but mirror it. Eleanor sits down in the courtyard, her back turned to the thief. Her bodyguard's lips are thin in disapproval, but she knows he won’t disrupt their game.
The princess hears the tiniest squeak of the cabinet door being opened, but lets it pass. However, only a few seconds later there is an overt sound of metal striking against metal.
“I heard that!”
She then hears the thief scamper towards where she sits, and turns to see a plate in her hand.
“Performance anxiety,” the woman says slyly. “I get that when there’s more than one person listening to my every move.”
Eleanor sees her eyes flicker to the guard. Feeling reckless, Eleanor dismisses him with a wave.
“But my lady, your father -”
“Just hurry along to another room. If I get murdered you can tell them that you were only following orders.”
When he marches out, Eleanor gestures for the woman to step into the lamplight. She frowns, trying to place the face.
“Wait, you were one of the musicians, weren’t you? The lyre player at the back.”
“Athena Cawl, at your, um, service.”
Musicians have always held a certain allure for Eleanor. They are the closest she can come to ordinary people in her day-to-day life, and she always scans the music corner of a party for any interesting people who she might have a dalliance with. Athena’s beauty had caught her eye, but only truly stuck in her mind because she left the other musicians halfway through a song. She had managed to sneak away without anyone stopping her, even the palace’s head of staff had his attention diverted elsewhere.
“How delightful! Which do you prefer, lyre playing or thievery?”
“The thievery is a first for me, my lady. Which of my performances pleased you more?”
“I would need a one-on-one demonstration of your lyre playing to decide.”
Eleanor gestures for Athena to sit down next to her. She enjoys their back and forth, and enjoys even more the tinge of fear in Athena’s eyes. They both know she could have her arrested at any point, even put to death if she was feeling particularly malicious. Yet the woman did not run, nor did she plead for mercy. This makes her far more intriguing than the sycophants back in the dining hall.
“Why don’t you -”
Someone in one of the guard towers starts ringing a bell, its loud dong can be heard throughout the palace. Eleanor can hear screams and shouts in the distance.
“Come.” She orders, and the pair of them march off down a corridor, almost walking straight into the bodyguard who has come rushing back.
“Something’s happened!”
“Yes, I can tell something has happened, you nitwit!” Eleanor replied. Her heart is racing as she gathers up the hem of her dress and starts sprinting through the maze of rooms, the other two trailing behind. Something has happened to her father, she thinks, something has happened to her father and she wasn’t there and everything will turn to mud because she was flirting with some nobody.
The three of them burst into the banquet hall to find food and drink scattered across the floor, and all the musicians and dancers gone. Half the invitees are gone too, but the other half are all crowded tightly around the dais, and Eleanor can’t see what is going on.
“HEY!” she yells, in a particularly un-regal voice.
“Make way for the princess!” her bodyguard booms. Some of the guests spot her and move away, and finally she can see what has happened.
Her father is bleeding, but alive.
King Alexander Vesterberg is tired. He has been tired for a very long time. There is a weariness that has nestled itself into his bones and seeped into his very soul. He had managed to keep up appearances while his wife was alive, but after her death all he has wanted to do is abdicate and give the kingdom to his resourceful, if sometimes wayward, daughter.
He had spent the evening muttering in his daughter’s ear about each and every potential suitor that had been invited - their lineage, their known hobbies, the rumours surrounding them. He knew Eleanor didn’t much care for the idea of marriage and showed a distinct lack of interest in anyone who came up to greet the family, but he couldn’t stop nudging her and suggesting suitable matches. No wonder she had abandoned her own party. His own actions were his downfall, he thinks. If he hadn’t pestered Eleanor she would have spotted the assassin and alerted the guards.
His manservant is pressing a cloth against his bleeding arm while nobles crowd in on him. Although he isn’t seriously injured he feels too weak to shoo anyone away, and just sits in his chair, listening to the gossip about the supposed vengeful servant.
“The assassin has been moved to the dungeons, your highness. She hasn’t spoken a word yet, but we’ll get the truth out of her.” His head of staff says, standing by his side and gesturing for room. Guards have arrived to disperse the guests, but most of them aren’t budging. They murmur condolences and offer help, but whilst he is in pain their voices all merge into one another.
“She wasn’t one of the…” Alexander gestures vaguely. “Was she one of the…?”
“Servants? Not a palace servant, certainly. I hired extra staff, but I spoke to them all to determine their faithfulness to the crown. I’m almost certain she wasn’t one of them.”
“HEY!”
He hears his daughter’s vulgar shout, followed by a guard's booming voice. Some of the guests part ways for them. Within seconds his daughter kneels by his side, taking the cloth from the manservant and inspecting his wound.
“You had me worried for a moment,” she murmurs to him. Beside her stands a young woman dressed in entertainers clothes that are damp and dirty. He smiles weakly at his daughter. He remembered doing exactly the same at her age, much to the chagrin of his parents. He couldn’t scold her for having fun.
“Can we please be given some space?” Eleanor calls out, and the guards start actually doing their job and ushering people away, by force when necessary. “What happened?”
“Woman with a knife, dressed like a servant. She came up to me, I saw the flash of the knife but I… Then one of our guests, out of nowhere, leaps over and stops the woman.”
“Me. That would be me. I’m only sorry I couldn’t have been there a second earlier.”
One of the suitors who has stayed close the whole time bows her head at Alexander and his daughter. Alexander gives a pained smile, remembering his words about her to Eleanor earlier that evening. Carolina Castolini. Lovely girl by most accounts, but then the same was said of her father, who stabbed his brother nineteen times over some financial dispute. I certainly don’t want you mixed up with someone like that.
“You saved my father.” Eleanor says, then rises and bows her head to the woman as if she is also royalty. “You have my everlasting thanks.”
The entertainer by her side gives a loud snort. The scene is still for a moment. Then the palace doctor arrives, medical bag in tow. Alexander is unsure what took her so long, but decides not to quibble. She suggests they move to a private wing, but Alexander shakes her head.
“Gods, doctor, it is just a scratch, you can bandage it here, can’t you?”
He wants to appear unconcerned and full of vigour in front of the guests, but the truth is he feels so weak he isn’t sure he will stand upright if he moves from his seat. So he sits there with gritted teeth as the doctor cleans the wound and gets out the needle and thread. The guards have dispersed most guests now, while others have left of their own accord now that the immediate excitement of attempted murder has passed. Alexander recognises that many of the invitees found his potential demise more thrilling than the expensive show he had put on. He motions to the guards to remove the rest of the guests, besides Carolina.
He is pleased to see his daughter striking up a conversation with his saviour, though he can hear the cautious element in her voice. It has occurred to everyone there that a private invitation to dine with the royal family is the correct course of action, but his daughter is dancing around it. He is pleased at least that the entertainer has skittered away to collect her lyre.
“Carolina Castolini, would you do us the honour of dining with us later this week?” He murmurs, once the doctor has finished patching him up.
The woman perks up, eyes bright with delight.
“Of course! It would be a pleasure to speak some more with you, and with your enchanting daughter.”
She has a mellifluous voice, Alexander muses, and now a track record of noble behaviour, unlike the various louts who have attended today. He makes a mental note to push her forward as a worthy partner to Eleanor. Her father’s crimes aside, the family is wealthy and has excellent international connections, and stubborn suitors will not feel too snubbed that they were passed over for someone who saved the King’s life.
At that moment the musician returns to the group, and plonks herself down on the corner of the table, in a distasteful, attention-grabbing way. She starts to pluck at her lyre. Skilled though she is, now does not feel like the time for it. Alexander opens his mouth to have a guard drag her off, but then he spots Eleanor’s smirk.
“No music for the moment, thank you,” he growls at the woman.
“Perhaps it is time to see what the would-be assassin has to say for herself. I don’t think I can sleep without knowing what has gone on here,” Eleanor says, then rises and loops an arm around the musician’s arm. “I think we need someone to keep our spirits up, though.”
Alexander is thankful that all the other invitees have gone, but the slight against Carolina is yet another vulgarity his daughter has no doubt picked up from all her other liaisons with the lower classes. He has let her off easy too many times, he thinks to himself, and if she persists with such a lack of decorum she will struggle to maintain a stable kingdom.
He does not wish to highlight her behavioural issues in front of her potential marriage partner, so he merely nods and struggles to his feet. His manservant hovers nearby, ready to assist him in walking, but after a brief wobble Alexander feels solid enough to move on his own. The strange assortment of people make their way to the dungeons, flanked by the royal guards.
Jocasta Meer has never been in chains before. She tries to focus on the gentle clinking sound they make as she sways her arms, to avoid thinking about the future. The life-changing amount of money she was promised for killing the king was enough that she could free both her siblings from their debt bondage and buy a nice little vineyard on the outskirts.
She suddenly feels very confused at the chain of events that have led her to the palace dungeons. She knew she wasn’t a skilled assassin. For a few years she had been an enforcer, breaking bones when someone told her they needed breaking, but had only actually killed a single person before. It had been some silk merchant, and she had been ordered to do it quietly in his sleep but had ended up stabbing him nineteen times while he gurgled blood and clutched at her clothes. Someone else had been framed for the crime, which had smothered her with so much guilt she hadn’t worked for months. The money she had received for the kill had been frittered away on drink, and she had gone back to being penniless, until this ridiculous task had been assigned to her.
Her body was bruised and aching from the beating the guards had given her before they chained her up in this dingy little cell. They hadn’t spoken to her, and no words came to her mind either. An assassination attempt on the King wasn’t something she could talk herself out of.
“Make way for the King!” One of the guards called out. Shuffling out of the gloom came her victim, his clothes smattered with blood and a bandage wrapped around his arm. He was followed by the princess and, oddly, a musician still carrying her lyre. Jocasta gave a weak smile as she imagined being put to death to jaunty music. A third woman came in with them, dressed in noble finery.
When she had made her attempt she had stripped the idea of the King being an actual person from her mind. She had never been engaged in politics, but she had never met a pleasant rich person, so killing the king had felt more like killing a figurehead. Now, up close and removed from the terrifying instance of pulling a knife on him, the King seemed so very weak. Defenceless even, if not for all the guards that were now stationed around the room. Age would soon take him. Her intervention had been meaningless.
“Would you be so kind as to tell us your name, and why exactly you decided to try to murder my father on this otherwise enchanting evening?” The princess’s manic smile seemed wider than humanly possible, and her dangerous tone made Jocasta even more terrified.
“Jocasta Meer.” She saw no reason not to tell the truth. She was dead either way. “I got nothing against…”
She gestured to the old man, who was now swaying on his feet. A guard dragged a wooden chair from another room and placed it behind the King, who eased down into it. Tears welled in Jocasta’s eyes. It wasn’t that she felt pity at the man, she thought, no monarch could possibly be a good person. It was just the pointlessness of her own actions that tore at her heart. She bit her lip and continued.
“I was hired last week, don’t know who by. Servant of someone. They handed me a staff outfit, told me to get here, and said after the second dance performance I was to go up and, you know. They said they’d sort out what happened afterwards, that I don’t got to get caught. That even if I did get caught, they’d sort things with my family.”
“Your family?” The king wheezed.
Jocasta shrugged. She wasn’t interested in telling them all her sob story. She realised the person who hired her probably lied to her anyway. She had thrown her life away for nothing.
“Wait, so they gave you an outfit to wear?” The musician piped up. Everyone turned to her. “And they told you exactly when to make the attempt? Why after the second performance?”
“Everyone would be drunk by then? I don’t know, I don’t know. But they were very precise. They told me to make sure I came with a jug or plate or something, so I didn’t look too dodgy.”
“Then what happened?” The musician asks. Her eyes are narrow with suspicion. Jocasta cottons on that she thinks the whole thing was a set up. She herself was just a pawn. It would explain why someone would seek her out despite her lack of experience.
“What is this?” The princess asks the musician through gritted teeth.
“A performance I promise you’ll appreciate,” the woman replies, a cheeky smile blossoming on her face.
It was flirtatious, Jocasta realised. The woman was using her interrogation as an opportunity to woo the next in line to the throne. She gives an empty laugh as her tears drop down onto the cold stone floor. She swallows, sighs, then answers the question. If she is executed, so be it, but she can at least help to take down the bastard who set her up.
“So I go up there, put the jug on the table. I had my knife tucked into my trousers.” She closes her eyes to remember the events. Even though it had only been an hour before, it felt like a lifetime. “I get close to, well, to my target. You know. I get my knife out and jump towards him, and then… Then there’s some noble.” She opens her eyes and sees one of the congregation before her edging out of the door. “That one. That one there.”
She tries to point to the noble woman, but the chains around her wrists prevent the movement. The woman is out of sight now, her shoes clattering on the stone floor as she runs. The guards haven’t worked out what is going on, but the musician drops her lute and sprints. Jocasta closes her eyes and leans up against the wall. There is nothing left for her to do now but wait for death.
Carolina Castolini runs up the stone stairway to the main floor of the palace, then yanks off her shoes and runs barefoot. Guards stare at her but don’t move, unaware of what is taking place.
“Fire!” She yells. “Fire! The King is in danger!”
The idiot guards bark orders at others, and some rush down the stairway to rescue the King, leaving her free to flee the palace and, with any luck, get on the first ship out of the city.
The night has not gone well for her. She thought she had planned everything beautifully. She had hired the useless assassin who had botched her uncle’s murder, knowing the woman didn’t have the skills to actually carry it out. She had watched the hopeful assassin all night, then weaved through the hall at just the right moment to fling the knife out of her hand. The woman had managed to draw blood - even better, Carolina had thought. Genuine danger. Genuine rescue. She had hoped to kill the assassin before the guards got to her, and she had also hoped the princess would witness her bravery, but those seemed like minor blips.
Then some nobody had glommed onto the princess and started asking questions.
The same nobody that is racing after her. She glances over her shoulder and sees the musician hurtling towards her. Carolina sprints back through to the banquet hall, jumping over tables and shoving aside the servants who were clearing up. She hurls herself through a courtyard, and then through the reception room, still hearing the thump of the musician’s boots behind her.
Out through the reception room and she sees the palace gate gleaming in the moonlight. Just as she is about to pass them -
WHUMP.
She is hit bodily and thrown to the ground, the musician grappling on top of her to hold her in place. They are both panting, exhausted by the chase, but Carolina still tries her best to whack her pursuer in the face, and when that doesn’t work, she pulls out one of her hair pins and jabs it in the woman’s eye.
“Ow! Gods!”
The woman’s grip on her loosens, and Carolina bucks her off and stumbles to her feet. A second later she is dragged back down, the woman clinging to her ankle.
“Never been in a street fight, clearly,” the woman pants.
Carolina kicks and spits and flails, but now the woman pinning her down seems to gain strength, while Carolina has only grown weaker. After a few minutes of the tussle, a fleet of guards approach, and among them: the princess.
Carolina goes limp as the musician rises to her feet and bows at the princess.
“Which of my performances pleased you more?”
Your writing goal isn't just ambitious; the writing is really fun too. Well done
Enjoyed all the intrigue! Also some great character voices.