The emperor’s old clothier
I had an idea for a fractured fairy tale some time ago, but I don’t write those things, so I’ll toss it out for those who do. I think it’d be publishable, done right; I’ve seen similar in best-of fantasy anthologies. Though I don’t have the patience to do it right, it’s nagging at my brain, and I wish somebody would write it. So.
The young emperor inherits (along with his empire) his predecessor’s old clothier, who is the narrator of the story. This clothier, he knows his stuffs. One blindfolded touch of a new fabric, and he can tell you its precise fiber content, how it was woven and by whom, and what process was used to dye it. (Sometimes even the color.) It’s not magic. He was taught by the best, and he’s learned all his life long, learned from his work as he did it.
(Here would be space for some satire on court fashion. I’ll leave it to a real writer to pull that off.)
He is unceremoniously dumped from his high position when a pair of new clothiers come to town, promising marvels. As word of them filters back to him, he knows immediately that they’re charlatans. They make hash of weave, cut, color, weight, technique, and everything else the old clothier spent a lifetime’s education and experience learning. He doesn’t even need to hear about the magic, the ferreting-out of fools and so forth. Just what those two windbags say about clothing is enough, to one who knows.
What stings at first is that the emperor didn’t even bother to consult him; he wouldn’t have minded sharing his position nearly as much as he minds the emperor’s eventual disgrace, which he can see no way to forestall. At length, the old clothier reflects that perhaps he ought to have expected no different. Why should the emperor respect skill or experience? He has none, has worked for none; he gained his empire by dint of being the son of his father. He’s been surrounded all his life by fawning toadies looking for advantage, and would-be Machiavellis weaving spider-schemes in corners; how should he have learned to value honesty?
When the promises become dangerous, the old clothier tries to make himself heard. No one believes him, of course; he is only the jealous loser. Not an iota of the evidence he can muster arrives at the emperor’s ear; when he challenges the charlatans, he is dismissed with uneasy laughter.
Heartsick, the old clothier stays home for the emperor’s disgraceful promenade… and I’m not quite sure how the story ends, really.
As I said, I’ve had this rattling around in my head for some time. It started screaming for escape right around the time of the Miers nomination, of course.