A Most Fitting Wardrobe, My Liege

Content Warning: Alcohol, minor language, and poignant sarcasm.

***

Once, in a faraway land, there lived an Emperor. To his court, he was a good liege, and all his ministers loved him and fulfilled his wishes dutifully out of that love. Unfortunately, unlike previous tales, this story is not about him.

Let us instead direct our attention to two of his lowliest subjects, the brothers Weaver and Tailor, who were sitting together in the grimiest of public houses on their street. Their father had once owned the most prosperous textile manufactory and tailoring company in the Capital and had passed it down to them. Sadly, times were tough. After a costly war with a neighboring kingdom, a few embargoes, and gross mismanagement of the imperial economy, things for the average citizen of the Empire were not so cheerful. Weaver and Tailor could barely afford the price of wool never mind the priceless lager each of them held in their hand.

However, neither had eaten much since the morning, and whenever they were at the public house, Tailor got brazen. When this happened, Weaver kept his head down and let his brother rant on. In a place like this, hardly anyone cared what was said anyway.

“The bleedin’ Emperor’s got a set of clothes for every hour, they tell me! I could stock my store for a hundred years with the amount of fabric he has sewn for him daily. You know how long I’ve been wearin’ this chemise and trousers for? Since last Tuesday! Tuesday!”

Tailor drank a quarter of his mug in one gulp. His speech was becoming increasingly less coherent.

“The economy is in shambles and the Emperor buys up all the linens and silks and leaves nothing for us! You know, I have an idea fer ‘im. We can make him a suit with invisible thread, ‘cause that’s all we have left nowadays. But here’s the kicker, if you can’t see the thread, it means one of two things, yer a simpleton, or yer not fit for office!”

Tailor lost himself in laughter. Instead of laughing the rest of the patrons mumbled amongst themselves, some nodding. Weaver could only hold his head in his hands and hope none of this got back to the Emperor.

Unfortunately for Weaver, this did -in fact- get back to the Emperor. Though, by some measure of providence, the story had changed from Tailor’s drunken babble to an apparent passing fad in the aristocracy. Anyone who was anyone was supposedly wearing this magic fabric that could tell you who was fit for office via the arcane principle of relativistic opacity. Tailor and Weaver only discovered this the moment a mysterious stranger knocked on the door of their residence, which also happened to be their factory and shop, at exactly four-thirty in the morning.

Tailor was an astonishingly deep sleeper, so Weaver was the one to answer the door. Still dressed in his three-month worn pinstripe sleeping gown and night cap, he swung the door open.

“Yes?” he said tiredly.

A man dressed in the most fashionable fabrics imaginable stood at the door.

“I, messenger of the imperial court, beseech ye, fine makers of local textiles and tailoring, to accept a commission on behalf of the imperial Emperor himself.”

Weaver rubbed his eyes, “‘Imperial Emperor’ is a tad redundant; don’t you think?”

“The Empire is run on redundancy, sir!” the messenger said, bowing suddenly and steeply like a tin soldier, nearly catching Weaver’s nose with his forehead.

“Well, we would love to take a commission, but, you see, we are clean out of fabric…”

“A delivery has been arranged for sunrise,” said the messenger, “silk, golden thread, magnificent dyes, all according to the Emperor’s specifications. Use what you wish, return the rest. These materials are under strict loan only! This should be sufficient for constructing your famous magical thread. His Majesty’s most trusted Minister will be here to inspect the cloth by noon.”

“Noon, that’s a little soon…”

“May I also add that acceptance is compulsory under the highest degree of punishment?”

The messenger nonchalantly drew his finger across his throat.

Weaver’s eyes widened, “We will see the Minister at noon, then. Good morning!”

Weaver slammed the door in the messenger’s face. Tailor gasped through a snore and woke up.

“Now you’re awake!” Weaver said, then telling tailor about the Emperor’s commission.

Tailor sat there stunned, “The materials are here at sunrise?”

“Yes!” said Weaver.

“Good,” Tailor fell back asleep.

Weaver spent the rest of the night sitting in his bed, worrying about making a suit of magical fabric. When the sun’s first light began to shine on the city, the two brothers donned their best clothing -the same shirt and trousers as last Tuesday- and waited outside. The sun was nearly on the hill and no delivery came. Tailor agreed to watch the shop while Weaver went into town to investigate.

When Weaver came back, he was nearly in tears.

“Oh, brother mine, the news is dire! There was a ten-carriage pile-up on the bridge and all the Emperor’s silk and gold thread and dye went into the river! It’s half past ten and the Emperor’s Minister is coming at noon! Whatever shall we do?”

Tailor thought for a moment, putting his hand to his chin like he always does when hatching far-fetched schemes.

“Brother,” said Tailor, “there may be a way to save us, yet! Set up both looms in the factory, the flashy ones our aunt got us for our fifth birthdays!”

“But brother!”

“No but’s, and’s, or’s, or however’s! I have a plan! The chances are a million to one, but it just might work!”

The brothers set to work preparing the looms, placing them exactly in the middle of the workshop as to make them just conspicuous enough. It was eleven-fifty-eight when they sat down. Tailor instructed his brother to begin working the loom as though there was fabric on it. Weaver protested but began working furiously when he heard a distinctly authoritative knocking at the door. Tailor went to fetch the Minister.

When Tailor opened the door, the Minister walked right past him.

“Show me your work,” he said.

Tailor did his best to politely walk back in front of the Minister and lead him to the workshop. Tailor sweated profusely as the Minister opened the door. The Minister beheld Weaver working an empty loom. Weaver sat there, operating the treadles with a hitherto unknown zeal and passing the shuttle between an imaginary warp. Tailor, leading the Minister with a practiced smile, ushered him into the room. Tailor then sat down at the other loom and began copying the movements of his brother, although a bit slower as he kept talking to the Minister.

“Come closer to me, yes! The technique is one we’ve adapted from commercial acquaintances in… Calcutta, yes,” he explained, “it requires an immense amount of fabric, as you can see, we are using it all. However, surprisingly, the result is lighter than… a cobweb! Yes, a cobweb.”

Tailor sweated harder. He looked over to see the Minister staring at him, his eyes nearly bulging. Indeed, it seemed the man had stopped breathing altogether.

“Minister?” said Tailor, a hint of panic in his voice, “do.. you… like the fabric? See the colors? Oh, it’s as beautiful a bolt as we have ever made. Don’t you agree, milord?”

The Minister’s eyes began watering. He forced a desperate breath inward and gasped, “Yes… I truly can’t believe my eyes… it’s the most beautiful thing that I most definitely have seen, I mean that I am currently seeing… in this exact moment of time… with my own two eyes.”

Tailor truly could not tell if the Minister was convinced, or even what species of shock or anger he was currently experiencing.

The Minister collected his breath and asked, “Of course I will need to confirm with my colleague. The Emperor has sent the Exchequer of the Coin for a second opinion. He should be along momentarily.”

Tailor cursed himself, as he left the front door wide open to attend to the Minister. Weaver squealed audibly and began weeping, and -by some superhuman degree of panic- began working the empty loom even faster.

The Minister looked over, “What’s wrong with him?”

Tailor laughed nervously, “Oh, you know us craftsmen, we treat our work like our children. Weaver, especially, can get very emotional over the colors. They are beautiful this time around, the best for our Emperor, always!”

The Minister laughed nervously, “Of course, my good man, of course.”

“Oh, yes,” sighed Tailor, “that blue could make you cry. Oh, and the way the gold sheens in the light! And the way it accents the royal purple.”

“Purple… yes, a luxurious combination to be sure,” said the Minister.

By then, the Exchequer came in and walked up to the Minister. Then he noticed the looms and became extraordinarily quiet.

“Minister,” nodded the Exchequer, “am I seeing what you are?”

The Minister suppressed a tear, “Yes? Yes! You know, all the blues and purples and golds right there, like the man said just before you arrived -a fantastic arrangement.”

The Exchequer looked at Tailor, “You there! What is this magical garment supposed to do, again?”

Tailor gulped, “It’s not the garment, it’s the cloth itself milord. If you see it, you have the grand privilege of seeing it. If you don’t, it means, well, no offense, but you’re not of proper nobility or intelligence for office.”

The Minister nodded, his face reddening again.

The Exchequer’s eyes widened in horror, “Yes, the blues and golds, and what is that?”

“Purple,” said the Minister.

“Purple,” said the Exchequer, “And am I crazy, but is that yellow accenting quite exquisite?”

“That’s not yellow,” said Tailor, “it’s…”

“Royal mustard!” blurted Weaver, who then went back to ‘weaving’.

Tailor, the Minister, and the Exchequer exchanged glances.

“Yes,” said the Minister, “that is quite clearly mustard.”

“Yes, we used it to add some shading to the gold,” said Tailor, “we like intricate patterns here. It also divides the blue and purple nicely.”

The Minister and the Exchequer exchanged looks, seemingly trying to convince the other that they too saw it.

“Very well,” said the Minister, “I trust you can accommodate his Imperial Majesty for a seven o’clock fitting tomorrow morning? We want the suit and train for his two o’clock procession in the crown square.”

“Of course, milords,” said Tailor, “we await him eagerly!”

***

Then later the following afternoon, they stood out in the street.

“Can you believe he sat through the whole fitting?” asked Tailor.

“He even looked at himself thoroughly in the looking glass. I can’t unsee that,” replied Weaver.

“Well, hopefully his Imperial Majesty chooses a different outfit, otherwise we are about to see it again! I don’t know about you, but I didn’t get any sleep last night,” said Tailor.

“Your snoring would have kept me up,” said Weaver, “if it weren’t for this crippling existential dread you’ve given me!”

“Brother mine! It was this or the block, you know that!” Tailor said, pointing to the avenue before them.

“Something tells me the block might still be an option,” said Weaver.

The street before them began quickly filling up with people. The city’s men-at-arms cleared the way as the Emperor’s retinue processed down the street. Weaver and Tailor could spot the exquisite canopy over the Emperor’s train above everyone’s heads.

“God save us, here he comes!” whimpered Weaver.

The crowd was extraordinarily quiet. Apparently, as the brothers had deduced, everyone in the Capital had heard the legend of the cloth and collectively decided that they could not see it but did not want to let on. In fact, many of their friends and neighbors had heard of their ‘masterpiece’ and allowed them an elevated view of the procession on the front steps of a baker’s shop.

“Is this actually going to work?” whispered Tailor.

It was then they could see that the Emperor was indeed wearing his new attire. Weaver winced and attempted to look away disgusted, but ultimately could not. Tailor smiled, thinking that everyone was just going to let this happen and say nothing.

This was until he heard a little girl shout unbelievably loudly, “Dada! He hasn’t got any pants!”

A few of the common folk sniggered and chuckled, enough that the crowd -and the Emperor- could hear. The Emperor’s eyes silently tracked the source of the laughing.

Then the girl’s father said, “By Jove, you’re right, sweet! Our Sovereign Majesty is wearin’ his birthday suit!”

Then the crowd erupted in raucous laughter. People were falling over in the street as the Emperor’s train diligently held his imaginary cape. The Emperor, clad in nothing but his crown, orb, and scepter, kept moving forward along the route as though nothing was happening. His lip quivered in abject rage.

Tailor gulped, “We should go.”

“Where to?” said Weaver.

“Italy is nice this time of year.”

“Yes, a lot of demand for draperies, I hear.”

They ran.

This is the end of our story of the Emperor and his new attire… from a certain point of view at least.