Doctor Who: Royal Blood (Glamour Chronicles, Book 1) Read online

  The great palace doors were guarded by four men in heavy armour. The young officer went ahead to speak to them and Clara, thinking over the young man’s words, said suddenly, ‘Doctor, have you been here before and forgotten to mention it?’

  ‘What?’ The Doctor, who had been playing with some kind of device or other, palming it around in his hand, stopped and put the thing away. ‘Not that I remember. Why?’

  Clara nodded to the young man, now in quiet conversation with the palace guards. ‘I thought that maybe he had recognised you.’

  The Doctor shrugged. ‘I suppose I might come here next.’

  Clara sighed. ‘What does that even mean?’

  ‘It’s perfectly straightforward—’

  ‘It’s all right. Really. I get it.’ She nodded at the guards. ‘Look, they’ve got swords. That’s not very high-tech.’

  ‘Look again, Clara,’ the Doctor said softly.

  She peered at them. ‘I am looking again. Long thin things, presumably pointy and sharp inside those jackets.’

  ‘Those “jackets” are actually “scabbards”.’

  ‘Mm, I think I prefer “jackets”. Keeps them cosy. What am I missing?’

  ‘Plenty, I should think.’ The Doctor smiled. ‘But those swords? They aren’t metal, for one thing.’

  ‘No?’ Clara stared at them more closely. Long, thin, pointy…

  ‘No,’ said the Doctor. ‘I think they’re lasers.’

  ‘Really? Like light sabres?’ Clara was impressed. ‘That could actually be quite brilliant.’

  ‘Not if you’re on the receiving end. We’ll try not to test them, yes?’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  The young man, finishing his conversation with the guards, gestured to them to follow. As they walked towards the palace doors, the guards fell back, saluting them as they passed through.

  Clara said, ‘You’re quite sure you haven’t been here?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘It’s just everyone seems to be showing you a great deal of respect…’ Clara laughed. ‘Oh, hang on, now I do believe you haven’t been here before.’

  Inside, the building had the same air of faded glamour; the great arched windows had cracks and chips in the small panes of glass; many of the tiles underfoot were broken; and the gold worked into the walls was peeling away or completely gone. They came to another guarded doorway, and the young lord went ahead to speak to the guards. The older officer followed him, much to the young man’s clear irritation.

  ‘Is it me,’ said Clara, ‘or does everything look like it’s falling down? I don’t mean in a Michael Douglas way—’

  Suddenly, the young man lost his temper. He banged the flat of his hand against the wall.

  ‘Or perhaps I do,’ said Clara thoughtfully. The older officer came back towards them, but Clara watched as the young man got himself under control. When the older man reached them again, Clara said, ‘Your boss doesn’t seem happy.’

  The soldier smiled. ‘The young lord? Oh, Lord Mikhail’s not happy about anything.’

  ‘Probably doesn’t like you muscling in all the time.’

  ‘Clara,’ said the Doctor, ‘let’s leave this for the moment.’ He turned to the officer. ‘I assume you’re taking us to the Duke?’

  ‘Where else? You’re expected. Have been for some time.’

  The young man, now fully under control again – in fact, if anything, a little too stiff, led them through the doors into the hall.

  ‘ “Expected for some time?” ’ Clara frowned. ‘Doctor, you’re absolutely sure this place is new to you and you’re new to them?’

  The Doctor looked uncomfortable. ‘I think so…There’ve been a lot of places.’

  Clara sighed. ‘I bet you my digital watch we’ll be seeing the inside of the dungeons within the hour.’

  As they passed into the hall, they were announced. ‘The ambassador and his servant!’

  ‘ “Ambassador”?’ said Clara. ‘Give me a break!’

  But the Doctor had the trump card. He burst out laughing. ‘ “Servant”?’

  —

  For months at a time they can exist in silence, doing no more than what is necessary to keep them going. To keep them searching, searching…for something they can barely remember. They have forgotten what. They have forgotten why. There is only a single word…

  And then, suddenly, the instrumentation springs into life. Lights flash. Alarms sound. A sighting! A reading! A trace! A tiny chance that here, in this new place that they have never visited before, they will find some answers. They will discover the object of their quest…

  The universe is vast, and holds many secrets. They could search for ever, and they will. But today, they have come to this particular world, and on that world they have a particular destination. They are coming to the land that lies between the mountains and the sea…

  —

  I have thought many times, over the years, of writing down what happened in those last days. At first, I would not have dared – it would have given us away, if found, but, later, I always came back to the same difficulty: who would read such a history? Who would care to read about the end of a lost and unlamented land, written in a lost unspoken tongue?

  I am old. There is nobody in this world to whom I could speak who would understand. Conrad is long dead; the young lord is gone. I am the last, unless those strange wanderers who passed through Varuz in those last days remember something of us yet. But when I think of them, and reflect upon them, it seems to me that they were cloaked in a kind of deliberate forgetfulness, as if their pasts were not to be admitted, keeping them mindful of nothing more than the present…Do they remember? No, I am not convinced that they remember. I am not convinced that they remember us at all, or, if they do, we are only part of a succession of adventures and rapidly passing events, that merge like ripples on a stream. Only I remain constant, it seems, with my memories, which are now fading. The days pass, and I feel my strength slipping away from me. And I find that I must write down what happened – for myself, so that I can leave this world knowing that some record survives me of those days. Perhaps one day, somebody will find it. Perhaps the secrets of an unknown script will intrigue them, and they will seek to decipher what I have written. Perhaps my story will move them. Perhaps, for the brief time that they give me their attention, Varuz will live again, as it was once; or as it could have been. As my memory has made it.

  I take heart from this. So I will write down all that happened, in those strange last days that followed after the holy man came to Varuz…

  Chapter

  2

  The hall into which they had been brought was high-ceilinged and many-pillared, and, at the far end, was a slightly raised dais upon which two plain black seats had been placed. A man sat on one of these, and a woman on the other. Both of them were richly dressed. Slightly to one side, and a step or two down from them, was another man, dressed all in black. The young officer, Lord Mikhail, gestured to Clara and the Doctor to follow him down the hall towards the trio.

  Their footsteps echoed on the stone flags, and Clara was very conscious of the eyes of the three people upon them. ‘Nice digs,’ she said to Mikhail.

  ‘The Great Hall,’ the Doctor said, grandly.

  ‘You’re still absolutely sure that you’ve not been here before?’

  ‘Well, what else is it going to be called?’ said the Doctor. ‘It’s never the Mediocre Hall or the In Urgent Need of Renovation Hall. It’s always the Great Hall. Although looking round this one…’

  ‘A lick of paint wouldn’t do any harm,’ Clara agreed.

  When they reached the dais, Mikhail bowed and said, ‘My lord Duke; my lady Duchess. Your guests.’

  Clara glanced between Mikhail and the woman. Up close, the similarity between him and the woman was clear: his dark hair was military-short and hers was long and held in place beneath a jewelled cap, but both had golden tints that glinted in the light. His long fingers were
curled around the hilt of his sword; hers, ring-encrusted, sat twined upon her lap. They were obviously related – but how? Clara wasn’t exactly getting parental vibes.

  Mikhail, turning to the Duke, said, ‘My lord—’

  But the Duke lifted his hand to stop the young man from speaking. ‘We thank you for your service in bringing our guests, Lord Mikhail,’ he said. ‘You may leave us now.’

  The young man hesitated. He clearly wanted to be present throughout the following encounter, and he glanced over at the Duchess, as if looking for support. Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head. The scarlet flush passed over Mikhail’s face again, but he bowed, turned, and left.

  ‘Families, huh?’ said Clara, to nobody in particular.

  The Duke, frostily, replied, ‘Lord Mikhail has a strong will. A flaw in many young men.’

  ‘It’s not really any of my business,’ Clara said. ‘But he seems to mean well.’

  The Duke, however, had turned his attention to the Doctor. ‘I am Aurelian,’ he said, ‘Duke of the Most Ancient, Serene, and Noble State of Varuz.’ He reached out to rest his left hand upon the arm of the woman next to him. ‘My wife, the Duchess Guena.’ He nodded to the man standing beside him. ‘And the Lord Bernhardt.’

  In the silence that followed, Clara studied each them in turn. The Duke was fortyish, square and strong and obvious. His wife was about the same age, all the more beautiful for the small lines around her mouth and eyes, which were sharp and intelligent. Bernhardt was so undistinguished as to be practically part of the shadows. Clara was impressed. She imagined he must put a lot of effort into doing that.

  The pause continued. ‘What are they waiting for?’ whispered Clara.

  ‘Search me,’ the Doctor whispered back, then, clearing his throat, he said, ‘Sorry, was I meant to be saying something at this point?’ He waved at them. ‘Hello yourselves!’ Then he frowned. ‘Was that meant to be more formal?’

  Bernhardt stepped forward and studied them both closely. Then he turned back to the Duke. ‘My lord,’ he said quietly, ‘this is not the ambassador.’

  ‘No,’ said the Doctor, ‘I’m not an ambassador. Well…No, let’s not complicate things. I’m not any ambassador you’re expecting. Probably. No, not probably. Not at all.’

  Bernhardt glanced behind them and Clara became conscious that there were people moving in softly. ‘Doctor,’ she murmured, ‘light sabres at seven o’clock.’

  Quietly, Bernhardt said, ‘So who are you?’

  ‘Doctor,’ Clara said, more urgently, ‘they’re getting closer—’

  ‘All right—’

  ‘If you’ve been here before and insulted people, I’ll take a laser to you myself—’

  ‘Calm down, Clara—’

  ‘So start apologising, or something. Anything. Now!’

  ‘I come in peace!’ cried the Doctor.

  Aurelian lifted his hand. The guards – and their lasers – got no closer. Slowly, Aurelian rose from his chair. In wonder, he said, ‘I know you. I know who you are.’ Stepping down from the dais, he walked towards the Doctor and then knelt before him. The Doctor gave an embarrassed laugh.

  ‘You’re loving this, aren’t you?’ said Clara.

  The Doctor patted Aurelian awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘You know, I don’t think this is entirely necessary…’

  But the Duke’s head was bowed. ‘We are honoured by your arrival,’ he said. ‘Honoured that you have made the long and difficult journey in such dark times to come to us. Please,’ he said, standing, and clasping the Doctor’s hand in his own, ‘take my seat. You are most welcome here. All I ask for – if I may – is your counsel.’

  The Doctor made himself comfortable in the chair. ‘Well, for starters, I think you should keep an eye on that young man. Who is he? He’s not your son, is he?’ He looked from Duke to Duchess. ‘A nephew, I bet. You didn’t pinch his throne did you? That never turns out well. Before you know it everyone’s been poisoned—’

  ‘Doctor,’ said Clara. ‘We’re doing so well.’

  Bernhardt stepped forwards. ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘you have the advantage. Who is this man?’

  Aurelian, rising from his feet, turned to Bernhardt. His eyes were shining. ‘Don’t you see, Bernhardt? He is a wanderer, a pilgrim.’

  ‘He’s got you down,’ said Clara.

  Guena look down at her husband. ‘A holy man?’

  ‘Or perhaps not,’ Clara concluded.

  The Doctor shrugged. ‘A holy man?’ he said to himself. ‘I can run with that.’

  Aurelian reached out to clasp the Doctor’s hand. ‘I cannot think when one of your kind last came to us here beyond the mountains!’

  ‘Not in my father’s time,’ said Guena. She was looking at the Doctor with what Clara could only call ‘suspicion’, and Bernhardt, too, seemed less than convinced. ‘The last duke was my father. He would have told me if a holy man had come our way, before my birth.’

  ‘The path through the mountains is not easily taken these days,’ Bernhardt said. ‘How did you find your way across?’

  The Doctor tapped his forehead. ‘Oh, you know. Excellent sense of direction.’

  Clara watched Guena and Bernhardt exchange a look. But Aurelian was completely enamoured. ‘We must speak,’ he said. ‘Dark days are upon us—’

  Suddenly, in a rustle of silks, the Duchess stood. Turning to Clara, she said, ‘Come. Let us leave the men to their talk.’

  Clara frowned. ‘I think I’ll stay, if it’s all the same to you.’

  Guena held out her hand, heavy with numerous spectacularly ornate rings that looked like they weren’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer. ‘Come.’

  Clara turned to the Doctor, who jerked his head. Go on, do your thing.

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake,’ muttered Clara. With a deep sense of grievance, she followed the Duchess away from the Great Hall, and the discussion that was about to happen.

  —

  A holy man? I did not believe it then, and I do not believe it now. In my wanderings since we left Varuz I have met men that could indeed be called ‘holy’; men with such capacity for serenity that simply to be with them was to wash one’s spirit clean. This was not such a man. This man burned like fire. Yes, fire might purify, but that was not the kind of peace that we desired. I did not doubt that this was a remarkable man; no, not for one moment did I doubt that. But holy? No. Was he a man of wisdom? Certainly, for long life and rich experience and a sharp mind upon which to reflect upon these experiences constitute wisdom. Certainly this was such a man. But this man was a maelstrom. And Aurelian, of course, wished above all for him to give his blessing to whatever ventures he might divine.

  Poor Aurelian…

  I should speak, perhaps, of Aurelian, the last Duke of Varuz, since there is no one else who remembers him now, and I shall try to be fair, for he was not an evil man – no, not by any means, but a desperate man, and one who set himself upon a course of action that could not succeed. In a different time, perhaps, or without the burden of rule, he would surely have been remembered as fearless and strong, a great hero. He was all these things throughout his life. But the times were not his. The times required compromise, humility, sacrifice – and these were by no means Aurelian’s gifts. I do not mean to say that I possessed these qualities, for all of us were proud during those times, and desired more than we could ever have. No, it was not all Aurelian’s fault. Guena was too proud, and I was insufficiently wise. We all of us were the wrong people, at the wrong time, and it seemed to us – to my wife and me – that all we could do was choose between the lesser of two defeats.

  When the women departed to talk about their own business, we too left the Great Hall. Aurelian, leading, took us to an antechamber beside the Hall where he kept his maps and made his plans and dreamed his dreams of a country brought back to glory. Here, he showed our visitor – the Doctor, he called himself – the land between the mountains and the sea. Here were the high passes, which Conrad’s sc
outs now controlled; and here the waterways, which Conrad’s ships now controlled. And here was all that remained under our jurisdiction: the rough wild country to the north; the empty plains, which had once been rich farmland, to the south. The few small towns and villages. And the river and the city, our last stronghold.

  ‘This must have been a beautiful country once,’ the Doctor said. ‘But even from my short time here I can see that all is not well.’

  Aurelian was grieved; indeed, we were all grieved to see our land crumbling in our care.

  ‘We struggle,’ I said. ‘All across the land the people struggle. Once, we were rich, yes. But these days we are poor.’

  Aurelian’s eyes were flashing. ‘Aye, and we all know who to blame!’ He pointed on the map to the land beyond the mountains. ‘We are besieged!’

  ‘Besieged?’ The Doctor thick eyebrows rose for a moment; then he turned his attention back to the map, where Aurelian had pointed. ‘So what’s over there?’ he said. ‘Beyond the mountains? Who’s besieging you?’

  ‘Conrad,’ Aurelian said. ‘That is Conrad’s country. From there, he rules almost the whole world.’

  ‘Almost?’ said the Doctor.

  Aurelian smiled. ‘Except for Varuz. He does not rule the land between the mountains and the sea. But he seeks to conquer us.’

  ‘Conrad has a great strength in arms,’ I explained, pointing to the mountain passes. ‘His men patrol the borders. They prevent entrance, and exit, into Varuz.’

  The Doctor stared at the map. ‘And he’s hoping…What? To starve you out?’

  ‘The winter is over again without him succeeding in that aim,’ I said. ‘Summer is coming, and we may feed ourselves from the land a little longer. My thinking is that Conrad will not wait for another winter. He will enter Varuz with the good weather.’

  The Doctor gave me a very sharp look. ‘You know this for sure?’

  ‘I conjecture,’ I said.

  ‘Conjecture, eh?’ He stared back down at the map. ‘So what do you want from a holy man? What do you want from me?’

  Aurelian gave his broad and handsome smile. ‘What do I want? I want your blessing, of course!’