The Diminished. Kaitlyn Sage Patterson

late, Bo.”

      I squinted at the clock. It was thirty seconds past the agreed-upon time.

      “My most sincere apologies, Your Majesty.”

      The Queen crinkled her sharp nose and adjusted the crown of Alskad atop her graying hair. She was an intimidating woman, with skin that never lost its light brown glow, iron-gray hair and a habit of wearing wide-shouldered capes that made her body look nearly square. She was said to have been shockingly beautiful in her youth, though age had left her more arresting than lovely.

      “You’ll need a chair. These things tend to last for hours and hours, and you’ll not want to be standing the whole time.” She pointed at a cluster of chairs in an alcove between two sets of large casement windows. “Drag one of those over. Not the blue one. The cushion’s as thin as a sheet—you’ll be sitting on nails all day.”

      Three guards tried to take the chair from me as I crossed the room, but I waved them all off with a smile.

      “You lot leave him be. He’s a brawny young thing.” Queen Runa laughed. “No need to start coddling him until he’s actually the crown prince.”

      I felt a flicker of unease at the implication, and—as if they could sense my discomfort—Patrise and Lisette swanned into the throne room, alight with jewels and draped in brightly dyed silks and furs. Though it was well known throughout the empire that I would soon be named Runa’s heir, Lisette and Patrise nevertheless took every opportunity to remind me that they, too, were singleborn and eligible for the throne. Of all the singleborn in my generation, only Rylain, my father’s cousin, refused to play this game, and I was forever grateful to her for that generosity of spirit.

      Runa raised an eyebrow, and Patrise and Lisette bowed deeply.

      “Sorry to be late, Your Majesty,” Patrise drawled, his voice all lazy vowels and grandeur. “We were doing our best to decide what to get our Ambrose for his birthday.”

      “I wanted to get him a pony,” Lisette said, pouting, “but Patrise insists that little Ambrose is far too mature for such things.”

      “A set of knives, perhaps, to protect him from his many enemies,” Patrise said. “But we wouldn’t want him to prick himself accidentally, now would we?”

      “Enough,” Runa snapped.

      Patrise and Lisette collapsed into each other, giggling. I settled my chair on the dais, a step behind the throne on Runa’s right, and glared at Patrise and Lisette as they waved for guards to bring chairs for them, as well.

      The Queen turned to me, her tone low, but firm. “Ignore them. They only enjoy baiting you because you give them a reaction. If you are to lead, you’ll have to learn to rise above the petty antics they use to entertain themselves.”

      I nodded, but a voice in the back of my head wondered how she could speak about the rivalries between the singleborn so lightly, when they were so often punctuated by assassination attempts.

      Runa continued. “I hope that you and I will have many more years to prepare you for taking the helm of this empire. But if there is one thing I’d ask you to keep in mind from the very beginning, it’s that we, as monarchs, are here to protect our people. Remember that both the poorest urchin and the wealthiest merchant deserve our equal and undiscriminating respect.”

      “Of course, Your Majesty.”

      I tried to focus on the Queen’s instructions, but it was hard with Lisette and Patrise looking over her shoulder and laughing behind their hands. I clenched my jaw and forced myself to look away from them.

      “Too much of Alskad’s idea of merit has become predicated on a person’s wealth, rather than their character. As we hear petitions today, I want you to keep in mind how money plays into each person’s story, and, more importantly, how it plays into your reaction.” She glanced over her shoulder at the other singleborn and raised her voice. “And if the two of you could manage to resist teasing Bo while in the presence of our subjects, you might actually learn something worthwhile.”

      Without waiting for a response, the Queen signaled to the guards, and they flung open the throne room doors. A stream of people entered the room, each stopping to make their courtesies to the Queen as they entered. There were people from all walks of life: members of the nobility I recognized from the endless social engagements that were the norm when I was at court, merchants dressed in extravagant imported Samirian silks and common folk whose clothes had plainly been mended over and over again. Some of them came with petitions, others just to watch the spectacle and collect gossip with which to tantalize or lord over their peers.

      The Queen’s secretary bustled through the crowd, approached the dais and presented her with a list written in a neat hand. Runa scanned the list, raised her hand and waited for the room to fall silent.

      “First, I will hear from Jacobb Rosy. Mister Rosy, if you would, please approach the dais.”

      The petitioners shifted and moved, and Jacobb Rosy came to bow before the Queen. He was a man in his middle age, of medium height and build, with unblemished light brown skin and dark, wavy hair. He was utterly unremarkable, but for the brilliant yellow suit he wore. The jacket was cut long, as was the fashion, ending just above his knees, and trimmed all around with black ermine. Embroidered bees climbed the legs of his slim trousers, and an enormous onyx brooch ringed with diamonds was pinned to his lapel. He spoke in a clear alto, loud enough to be heard throughout the entire room.

      “Your Majesty, I am deeply honored that you have chosen to hear my petition today.”

      Runa raised one eyebrow, and I studied the man, looking to see if I could spot his tell. Most people did everything in their power to present themselves as the victim when offering their story to the Queen.

      “I hear the petitions of all my subjects, Mister Rosy. What troubles you?”

      “Your Majesty, I am on the verge of losing my shop. You see, for the last decade I have designed and created clothing for the fashionable people of your empire. My wife, with the help of a shopkeeper, ran the business in order to give me the freedom to focus on the creative side of the work.”

      “It sounds like you’ve created a comfortable and successful life for yourself.”

      “It was, Your Majesty. But now, without my wife’s help, the burden of the business has grown to be too much, and with taxes due, I am likely to lose my livelihood.”

      Runa’s face took on an expression of sympathy. “I’m sorry for the loss of your wife, Mister Rosy. How long has it been?”

      The man squirmed, gazing down at the toes of his mirror-polished black boots, and fell silent. He hadn’t walked to the palace, not with the gray slush of snow still clinging to the streets. He’d taken a carriage. So either he’d not yet sold off all the luxuries typically enjoyed by the merchant class—which was likely, given his clothes and the jewels on his lapel—or he had enough money to pay for carriages and jewels, but had squandered what he should have saved for taxes.

      “How long?” Runa pressed.

      Lisette snickered, and Runa shot her a hard look.

      “She’s not dead, Your Majesty. She left me.”

      “And she didn’t see fit to remain a partner in your business or find a suitable replacement?”

      “How could I trust her to have my best interests at heart if she was so willing to give up everything we’d built together?”

      “This is not the haven hall, Mister Rosy. I am not in the business of arbitrating marital disputes. However, if your predicament is due to neglect on the part of your business partner, there may be some grounds for leniency on the part of the crown. Will you give me your ex-wife’s name, that I may call upon her for her side of this dispute?”

      The man blanched. He seemed to be wilting. His shoulders drew inward, and he refused to meet the Queen’s gaze. He muttered something unintelligible