Sir George—he was, of course, the other rider—had by this point dismounted and led his horse over by the reins to see what was going on. Gretsella eyed him consideringly. She hadn’t specificallytoldthe horse not to beled, but horses usually took a broad interpretation of her instructions. Either this horse was particularly fond of its master, or Sir George was a rare example of a man who’d been so thoroughly witch-cursed as a child that some of the witchiness had stuck to him.
“What did you want to speak to me about?” Bradley asked, dismounting as well so that he could speak to her as politely as possible.
“The accountant in your dungeon,” Gretsella said.
Bradley blinked. “There’s an accountant in my dungeon?”
Sir George cleared his throat. “Mr. Kedge, Your Majesty. The former master of the Treasury. You had him imprisoned for thieving from the crown.”
“Oh,” Bradley said. “Thataccountant. What do you want with him, Mother?”
“To give him a job, probably,” Gretsella said. “I think that the palace accounts are currently being overseen by a flock of pigeons.”
Sir George recoiled. “You’d give Kedge a job? But the man is dishonorable!”
“Which is exactly what you’d want from a man who’s managing your money,” Gretsella said.
Bradley was looking between the two of them with a distinctly anxious air. “Well, I don’t really know—”
“Just haul him out of the dungeon, Bradley,” Gretsella said. “Give him an opportunity to explain himself. If you don’t remember him, you couldn’t possibly have spoken to him in person. Giving him another chance would be a very kind and just and kingly sort of thing to do.”
Bradley looked relieved. “You’re right,” he said. “A good kingshouldalways try to be just.” Sir George didn’t say anything—he wouldn’t, Gretsella assumed, want to contradict his king—but she noticed him eyeing her with something like respect for a worthy opponent. She winked at him. He ducked his head and tried to hide his smile with his hand.
As much as she could ever like a man who wore a soup tureen on his head, Gretsella had to admit that she didn’t mind Sir George.
Bradley, with his usual courteousness, begged his mother to give him and Sir George some time to get out of their armor and generally refresh themselves. Gretsella just ascourteously agreed, on the basis that they both smelled too awful to be spoken to indoors, and passed the ensuing hour or so prowling around the east wing of the palace, opening any doors that looked interesting and acting as if anyone who expressed any discomfort over having just been walked in on during a private moment was the one who was being strange and unreasonable.
Eventually, they all met again in the antechamber outside Bradley’s bedroom, where the king was accustomed to receiving his guests. Said guests were received at an enormous golden desk that made Bradley look depressingly like an actual puppet king when he perched himself on the large velvet-upholstered chair behind it. After a few minutes, two palace guards—one of them still appearing distinctly parroty around the beak area—marched in holding a surprisingly young man between them. This was, presumably, the dishonorable Mr. Kedge. He was small, blond, and wearing a rumpled and faded old black suit, like the village undertaker if the undertaker had recently been chased down a very steep hill. There was a strangely fervent gleam in his little blue eyes. There was a similar gleam in the former parrot’s eyes, though this was directed straight at Gretsella. She accepted his hatred as her due.
“Your Majesty,” Mr. Kedge said, and attempted an elaborate bow that was arrested by the guards who were still gripping his arms.
“Mr. Kedge,” Bradley said, and half stood out of instinctual politeness before remembering that kings weren’t supposed to do that and sitting down again, looking exhausted byhis current circumstances. “Uh, sit down, please?” Then, apologetically to the guards: “You’ll have to let go of his arms.”
The guards released him, and Mr. Kedge stumbled forward. He managed to land heavily in a large gilt chair that made him look even more like a dirty little boy at a funeral. “I await your pleasure, Your Majesty,” he said breathlessly.
Bradley looked embarrassed at having encountered someone who was even more elaborately polite than he was. “You used to be the master of the Treasury?”
Mr. Kedge leaned forward in his chair. “I was the master of the Treasury in name, Your Majesty,” he said. “And if you forgive me, Your Majesty, I remain so in spirit!”
“…Oh,” Bradley said.
It seemed clear to Gretsella, at this juncture, that she would have to take things further into hand if she wanted anything at all accomplished. She grabbed one of the gilt chairs and dragged it around to Bradley’s side of the table with a satisfying screeching, scraping sound. Then she sat down next to Bradley, leaned across the table toward Mr. Kedge, and said, “If you take your job so seriously, how did you end up thrown in a dungeon for embezzling from the crown?”
Mr. Kedge leaned even farther toward her in response, to the point that he seemed in imminent danger of toppling forward and braining himself on the edge of the desk. The blue eyes gleamed with certainty. “But Iwasdoing my job, madam! I only ever did as I was asked by His Majesty, the former king, madam, and he asked to have a percentage of funds received from the crown’s properties in the southern valleys sent to hisbankers in Borgravia every quarter while not making this clearly evident in the accounts, madam! I would never dream of questioning His Majesty as towhyhe wanted me to manage the numbers as he did. My only role was tomanagethem. And Ididmanage them! In their many thousands, madam! In all of their logic and certainty, in all of their golden, clinking virtue, I managed them! In all of their tidy columns, madam, and their every elegant row!”
“…Oh,” Gretsella said.
There was a moment of silence as she considered what she ought to do with this clearly dangerously insane individual. Mr. Kedge smiled gently back at her. She cleared her throat. “Would you manage them for anyone? And into any configuration? And figure out where the money was going if it seemed to be wandering off on its own, for example?”
“Iwould, madam,” he said, and then paused. “If I was provided with a salary. And my own suite of rooms. And a chain of office. The master of the Treasury isalwaysgiven a chain of office.”
“Anominalsalary,” Gretsella countered. “Since you’d be…on probation. But with the suite of rooms and chain of office.” The palace was full of empty rooms that they could use to house one small, strange man, and she was sure that they could dig up a chain out of a cupboard somewhere. Mr. Kedge looked as if he was considering her offer. She added, “And a special hat.”
Mr. Kedge visibly brightened. “A hat, madam?”
“A hat,” Gretsella confirmed. “A distinctive hat. So thatwhen you walk down the street, people will say, ‘There goes the master of the Treasury in his extremely distinctive hat that only he is allowed to wear, upon penalty of death!’ ”
“Mother—” Bradley began.
