A Pussyboy's Royal Duty

Prologue

Maizer jumped as the door to his study flew open, the heavy wood slamming against the stone wall with enough **** to shake the mortar from the cracks. The king's royal physician, a short, stocky man named Huban or Huber--something like that--came charging into the room, his white linen smock smeared and splattered with dark blotches of blood.

"He's dead," the physician said, his voice trembling. "The king is dead!"

For a moment, Maizer couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't speak. The king was a young man, strong and vital--how could he be dead?

"What happened?" Maizer asked, rising from his desk.

"What do you think happened? The stupid son-of-a-bitch got drunk and fell off the balcony."

Maizer cringed, then frowned and gestured to the physician's smock. "I wasn't aware that a fall was so messy."

"It is when you fall the on the pikemen standing guard beneath your window."

"Mother of Mercy," Maizer muttered under his breath as he shook his head. He sighed. "All right. Prepare the body. I'll...I'll take care of the rest."

The physician bowed and turned to leave.

"Oh, Huber--"

"It's Hanar, sir."

"Apologies, Hanar." He was close. "Please send for the sorceress."

All the color drained from Hanar's face. "R-right away, sir."

Maizer watched him leave, then sat back down at his desk and ran a hand over his face. What a colossal pain in the ass.

~*~*~*~

The **** of a king meant a lot of paperwork for the royal steward. He'd dealt with the arrangements three times before--far too many for one man to have to deal with--and now he was faced with the fourth, but this time was different. This time, there was no one to help him make the decisions.

Maizer dripped hot, red wax onto an official letter and stamped it with the king's seal. He blew on the wax to harden it, just as he had a dozen times that night, but this time, his breath plumed white before him, a chill racing over his skin. The sorceress had arrived.

"It's about time you got here," Maizer said, setting the letter on top of the pile as the shadowy figure emerged from the darkest corner of his study. Shrouded in magic and secrecy, the sorceress had no name. No one had ever seen her. But in times like these, she was the only one Maizer could turn to. "You heard the news?"

"The spirits have informed me," she said, her voice thin and sibilant, like the wail of the wind through skeletal branches.

"Then you know why I called you here."

"You need a Vessel," she said, drifting closer to Maizer's desk. Maizer watched the hem of her gauzy, almost ethereal cloak. He could not see her feet move. "I have already found one. They will be here by morning."

"That's one less thing to worry about, I suppose," Maizer said, opening his desk drawer and pulling out a black velvet bag about the size of his fist. The stones inside clinked together as he tossed it to the sorceress, a withered, bone-colored hand snatching the bag out of the air and vanishing beneath her cloak. "Thank you for your service."

The sorceress bowed and melted back into the shadows.

"Oh, wait," Maizer called. "Is she of age?" But the sorceress did not answer. Maizer frowned down at his parchment as he picked up his quill again. She had better be. By morning, these letters would be in the hands of the wealthiest, most powerful families in Remaria, and every male who ever dreamed of being king would be on his way to the castle to try his luck at claiming the throne, and Maizer would be damned if he was going to put a child through that. With a sigh, he began to write.