off down the road. The city certainly had a novel design, he thought, as he crossed the first bridge that spanned the canal. Down below on the still water, long thin boats ploughed their way along the waterway as they took passengers around the inner complex that threaded its way throughout the centre of the city.
Before too long, Courtenay found himself crossing another bridge to the inner Royal Circle. The multi-towered University with its white stonework sat proudly on the other side of the bridge. Slightly to his right, and beyond the University, lay the Royal Palaces themselves, and, accompanying them was the sprawling Cathedral with flying buttresses providing additional support for the high towers that loomed over the square. These buildings too were fashioned from the same white blocks of granite and large stained glass windows broke up the façade.
He followed the road around to the left and sure enough, just as the boy had said, the flag of the Commonwealth fluttered above a smaller building that he knew could only be the Petitioner's Office.
This was a new experience for him, he had never had to lower himself to act in the same way as any commoner coming to see the Queen, and, not knowing what to expect as he entered, Courtenay passed through the green double doors and into the business rooms. A wide hall lay out before him and closed doors lined the walls, each accompanied by several armed guards, their red uniforms and gleaming helmets sitting proudly on their heads, a sword hanging by the side of each. At the far end of the room had been positioned a large dark wood desk, behind which sat a clerk. The man was busy scribbling, a natural rhythm to his working as Courtenay watched, broken only by the lifting of his pen now and again to dip it into the inkwell set into the desktop. Whether the lack of petitioners before the desk was because no one wanted to speak with the Queen, or whether it was down to the efficiency of this particular clerk he could not tell as he approached the desk accompanied only by his echoing footsteps.
Courtenay stopped at the desk, waiting for a moment or two as the clerk ignored him and continued to write. He cleared his throat to try to attract the man's attention and after a few moments more the man looked up from his work, looking Courtenay up and down.
'Yes?' the man asked, eventually.
'I wish to petition for an audience with Her Majesty.'
The clerk slammed his eyes as he looked at Courtenay. 'Obviously.'
Courtenay imagined from the reaction of the clerk that this process was in all likelihood going to be a painful experience, but as far as he could tell he had little option but to try to pursue it to the end.
'What do I need to do?' he asked.
The man reached down to the right hand side of his desk and opened a drawer, pulling out a sheet of paper and placing it on the desk before him. He huffed as he slowly slid the drawer closed. He dipped his pen in the bottle of ink, and then looked up at Courtenay's face.
'State the nature of your business.'
'I wish to petition Her Majesty for an audience, ' Courtenay repeated.
'Why else would you be here?' The man slammed his eyes again, apparently already bored with the process. 'Regarding?'
'I wish to appeal to Her Majesty for the granting of asylum within the Commonwealth.'
'On what grounds?'
Courtenay paused, considering what reason he might state. If there were options he didn't know, and in truth he was unsure precisely what to say.
The clerk looked up at him waiting for him to speak. 'On what grounds?' he repeated.
Courtenay settled for one of the reasons tumbling around in his mind, and said, 'Political.'
The clerk scribbled more notes on the paper, and looked up at Courtenay once more. 'Can you be more specific?'
'I do not understand.'
'The words ''political asylum'' tell the Palace nothing. There will need to be more information on the application than that.' The clerk leaned back into his chair and sighed.
Courtenay waited for a moment and looked around the room. There was no one close enough to hear but he leaned forward a little, lowering his voice.
'I am a political fugitive fleeing from the persecution of the Empire and seeking asylum under the protection of Her Majesty. Is that a good enough reason for you?'
The man nodded, obviously satisfied with the expanded answer, and looked down, scribbling more information on the sheet of paper. 'And your name is?'
'My name is Lord Robert Courtenay.'
The man raised his eyes from the sheet of paper, looked up at Courtenay, blinking several times and his eyes narrowed a little. Then he lowered them to write more. He continued his scribbling as he said, 'And why is it that you feel that a personal audience is required for the Queen to consider this request?'
Courtenay stood to his tallest height and pulled his cloak around his shoulders, twisting his head from side to side as he encouraged his clothing to sit more comfortably.
'Because,' he said, 'I have information concerning the security of the Commonwealth that I would expect Her Majesty to find most enlightening.'
The clerk looked up at Courtenay again, glaring at him. 'Specifically?'
'I cannot tell you.'
'That is your choice,' the clerk said, staring back, 'but there is no other way for you to gain entry to see Her Majesty.'
'It is a matter only for the ears of the Queen.'
'There is due process to follow, My Lord. I will need to give more of a reason than that which you have provided.'
Courtenay lowered his voice, gritting his teeth as he replied, 'I will not give details here, in public.' He glanced around him, trying to give the impression that what he had to say was of the highest importance. 'And I will not discuss it with someone who is no more than a...' He stopped, thinking better of what he was about to say. 'I will not discuss it with you,' he settled upon.
The clerk huffed. 'Very well,' he said, turning the page around and sliding it across the desk towards Courtenay. 'Sign here,' the man said, handing over his pen, 'and write an address beneath your signature where you can be contacted, if necessary.'
Courtenay scribbled his details and signed the page, handing the pen back to the man. 'How long will it be until I know when I can see her?'
'If,' the man replied, 'Her Majesty decides to grant you a personal audience, then it will be posted on the board outside these offices.'
'If?'
'Yes,' the man replied. 'If.'
'How will I know that the notice is there?' Courtenay asked.
'You will need to check each morning.'
'I will need to check myself?'
'Yes. Of course. We have no intentions of running around the city looking for petitioners.'
'But how long before I know?'
'Up to a week,' the clerk replied.
'A week!' Courtenay sighed. 'Is there any way to speed up the process? Surely, there must be.'
'Not unless the Queen thinks you have a petition which is important enough to be heard with that kind of urgency.' The man smiled back at him. 'Or interesting enough,' he added.
Courtenay huffed and turned his back on the clerk, his cloak billowing behind him, before striding across the hall towards the exit.
12
The Twenty-Fifth Day of Hi-spring,
Imperial Year 2332
Courtenay gazed at himself in the mirror. His vest was a little grubby but it was the only one he had and it would have to do. He gripped the razor as he lifted his hand to draw the blade across his stubbled chin then stopped to looked at his face again. His cheeks were hollower than he remembered them to be before he left Highport and he could see the bones of his face beneath the skin drawn tight over them. It was always this way when he had been on the road; his appetite faded and he lost weight. Whether it was the dense biscuits that suppressed his hunger or some other reason he wasn't sure but a few good meals over the next few days would soon put that right.
He returned to his shaving and after he was done, he wiped the blade on the side of the steel bowl to remove the worst of the soap, bef
ore washing it in the dirty water. A towel lay next to the bowl on the table and he picked it up, drying the steel blade and then resting the tool down. He picked up the towel and as he wiped the soap from his face, two loud thumps pounded against his door. Courtenay turned, frowning as he pictured in his mind the fist thumping on the other side. Throwing down the towel, he made his way across to the door and turned the handle to open it.
A soldier in a red tunic and black trousers stood in the hallway, his shining silver buttons gleamed in the little light that made its way from his room through into the corridor.
'Lord Robert Courtenay?' the soldier asked.
'Who wants to know?'
'I am Lieutenant Grinberg, My Lord, adjutant to the Commander of Her Majesty's Household Guard. The Queen has granted your audience.' He paused. 'This morning. As soon as you arrive at the Palaces, in fact.'
'So soon?' Courtenay replied, stepping back into the room to grab his shirt. He slipped it on and glanced back at the soldier. 'I had been given to understand by the petition clerk that it might take some time.'
Grinberg smiled and shook his head, chuckling. 'The clerk is a bureaucrat, My Lord. He has no formal authority. So, naturally, he resorts to the only weapon he has in his armoury to give the illusion that he has some say in the matter of who gets to speak with the Queen.'
'Oh?' Courtenay said, fastening the buttons on his shirt. 'And what weapon is that?'
'To make things as awkward as possible for everyone else, My Lord.'
oOo
Courtenay was not usually one prone to bouts of nerves,