2 Dressed for Success
DRESSED FOR SUCCESS
“OH, NO. THIS won’t work at all.”
I looked up, rainwater dripping from my hair and nose.
Standing between my footlocker and hoversteed Tilly, holding my green dress tunic before him like a particularly odious soiled rag, was a middle-aged man in the royal household’s black and white livery.
His oiled black hair and lily-white skin matched his uniform as if he had intentionally coordinated it.
My head spun. There was no time to process the news of Astrid’s survival and enthronement before the grand marshal called an adjutant to whisk me away.
The Imperial festivities were scheduled to begin in less than twenty hours, so there was not a moment to spare.
After receiving directions to the Royal Guards barracks, I’d hustled through the rain to find all my worldly possessions had preceded me and been put on display by this servant.
“That’s my dress tunic,” I snapped. “It’s standard-issue. What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s standard-issue,” the man, who I assumed was a valet, replied. “No self-respecting officer wears standard kit.” The Guards officers around the room chortled in agreement.
Tersely, I said, “No self-respecting soldier puts accessories before winning the war.”
Instead of the admonished silence I’d hoped for, I received more chuckles. “Some of us can fight a war and look good doing it,” one officer said. I felt my face redden but kept my upright posture. I would not cower before these guardsmen. I’d dealt with bullies like them before.
Hearing the annoyed tone of my voice, Tilly woke up. A small blue light ignited on her chassis, but I held an open palm towards the floor, my signal to stay. The light winked out, but I knew she was still watching, waiting to see if I needed help.
The valet threw my dress tunic on the floor. “Worthless.” He rummaged in my footlocker. “Now, this shows promise,” he said, pulling out my mess dress jacket. “Surely, you’ve modified this outfit.”
I strode forwards and snatched what had been my pristine dress tunic from the floor, folding and laying it neatly on Tilly’s saddle.
“I am a supply officer. I take pride in providing materials as designed. Imagine if the zeroblades I sent to the trenches varied in their quality or if I altered pyromagnetic cartridges for the troops. The result would be catastrophic.”
The valet waved my retort away. “Yes, yes, but there has to be something different about you. Even a supply officer must have personal preferences. Come now, what clothes do you find more comfortable? Sash or waistcoat? A special cravat? There must be something.”
I considered, drumming my fingers on Tilly’s rear cowling. What would Astrid like to see me in? I’d long since lost the sartorial accessories she’d bought for me at school. They were rotting in a closet behind enemy lines.
“To be honest, I’ve not worn my dress or mess uniforms for several years. If I’m comfortable in anything, it would be battle dress.”
“Well, that’s completely unacceptable. You’re representing the Queen.” The valet sighed. “I suppose we can modify your mess outfit. You need new collar tabs, cuff badges, and epaulets for your promotion anyways. You couldn’t have bothered to make Sky Captain before now and save me the work?”
I gave a bemused shrug. “I tried. To be honest, I was expecting a court-martial, not a promotion.”
“Why would you be court-martialed?” a Guards officer asked.
I gave him a sardonic stare. “As far as I can tell after a month of retreat, I am the surviving ranking officer from New Melbourne’s garrison. Someone needs to take the blame.”
A chilly silence fell upon the surrounding officers, and the valet cleared his throat. “Captain, I think you mistake which army you serve. This is not the Urgan Despotate – we do not condemn innocent scapegoats just because the guilty cannot be found.”
I snorted. “Sure. And superiors never pin their failures on underlings to escape punishment. You asked why I never advanced past Flight Lieutenant despite ten years at the star front?”
The valet had the good grace to look mildly offended by my retort. “That may be how things work in the regular army, but you’ll find we do things differently in the Royal Guards Corps.”
“Shame I’m still regular army, then,” I said.
The valet ignored me, lost in the details of my mess dress uniform. “Curse the stars, they give me so little time. I’ll never be able to design and tailor an outfit before you portal over.”
I shrugged. “So replicate a uniform. The army has my measurements.”
The valet gasped. Judging by the sudden and complete stillness in the room around me, I had said something truly offensive. Trying to explain, I said, “I need to update my rank insignia anyways – replicating a sky captain’s tunic would be faster than sewing new braid and bars onto my old uniform.”
The valet took a menacing step towards me.
“Young man, you are no longer a standard-issue soldier. You are a diplomat. If you show up at a royal function in a replicated uniform, the insult to our fellow negotiators would be, as you say, catastrophic. There are minute differentiations between replicated and tailored clothes, and the trained eye will notice. Whether you are worthy of negotiating with or not will be decided the moment you are seen.”
I laughed nervously. “It’s just a uniform.”
“No. It’s the first impression our allies and enemies will have of the Royal Commonwealth.
Before you open your mouth to speak, they see the way you stand and the clothes you wear.
Showing up in sub-standard attire is as firm an insult as spitting on the floor and about as damaging to our Queen’s reputation.
” The valet gave me a disparaging glance.
“I will do what I can to make you look as glorious as possible, but you must give me something. What is there about you, as an officer, which differentiates you from the other millions of cavalry captains out there?”
I wracked my brain, but where it came to fashionable uniform variations, I could think of nothing which represented me.
The artfully ruffled cravats I’d prided myself on during my school days would look alien on me now.
The overlarge belt buckles would seem a childish affectation.
I’d worn little other than battle fatigues for the past ten years, in various states of dress and undress, but I doubted stripping to shirtsleeves would serve as a viable alteration at a court function.
My puzzlement and dejection must have shown on my face because the valet sniffed.
“Well, I’ll do what I can. Now, let’s talk about your accessories.
” The valet walked over to the collection of extraneous equipment piled beside my footlocker.
A footman approached, carrying a neatly pinned collection of fabric panels which would soon become a uniform.
“We don’t have time for two uniforms, so I’ll start with your mess dress.
It’s more appropriate for a party anyways, but we need to decide. Sash or no sash?”
I may not have known what fashion would suit me, but I did know regulations. “A waist sash should only be worn with mess dress if the officer is to wear a sword and/or dirk with their uniform.”
“Precisely,” the valet replied.
“They’re letting us wear zeroblades?” I asked, incredulous.
The corner of the valet’s mouth quirked down in a small expression of disdain.
“Barbaric, I know, but the Imps seem to think swords are an essential part of their uniforms. No lancers, of course. Too easy to assassinate the Emperor, but the invitation specifically stated any and all blades are acceptable.”
A memory floated to the front of my mind – Astrid, lying under the covers, her obsidian fingernails gently tracing my flank as she told me, “No real noble would be suffered to live without a weapon.” The rules might be different for visiting dignitaries, but if I was to make a good impression, I should use what I knew of local customs. “Let’s have the sword, then. ”
Again, the valet frowned slightly with distaste, but he nodded. “All right. Sash it is. But what blade? You have three, none of them a courtly smallsword. We’ll get you one, but all we have available are out of company stores, and you don’t want to use a regimental-patterned blade. Too gauche.”
“Unfortunately, regimental patterns are all I have,” I replied, waving to the three blades at the valet’s feet.
Sniffing, he leaned down, picking out the different blades. “This dirk is probably your best choice, even if it is a bit small…”
“Good in close quarters,” I replied. “It pairs with the broadsword.”
“Two blades?” the valet asked, his eyebrows shooting towards his hairline. “Dear Captain, do you think you’ll need to fight somebody?”
I shrugged. “It is an Imperial party. You never know what they’ll do.”
The valet hesitated. “Well, I suppose it will do until we can get you a nice custom smallsword…”
Irritated by this servant’s demeanor, I decided to stand my ground. “Actually, I was never very good with a smallsword. If you could get me a matching broadsword and dirk, I’d appreciate it.”
“Young man—” the valet began, but I cut him off.
“You told me to not wear standard kit. Isn’t a cavalry sword and dagger non-standard?”
The valet pursed his lips, glaring at me. “Yes, but I meant something like a nice brocade neckerchief or a cunning hat. I suppose I should be glad you’re not insisting on carrying this monster across your back,” he said, toeing my sheathed greatsword.
“Don’t be silly. The greatsword mounts on my hoversteed,” I said with a hint of superiority in my voice. It felt nice to know something the prissy bastard didn’t.
“Yes, that’s another thing. Why do you have a hoversteed if you’re a junior supply officer?” the valet asked.
I bristled. “My rank entitles me to a hoversteed. I am a sky captain.”
The valet raised his eyebrow. “For the last twenty minutes?”