Royal Floating Palace

Imagine you are a craftsman, an artist, a scientist, an engineer, the best in your generation. You trained for years, studying under the previous masters, honing your talents with endless practice. You produced works of surpassing excellence, works combining wild genius and perfect technique, until you were ready to make your masterwork, your legacy to the ages. You worked for ten years – ten sleepless, obsessive, glorious years – ignoring the outside world, ignoring everything except the fire in your soul that drove you to this act of creation. Finally, exhausted and emotionally shattered, your masterwork was done, and you proudly presented it to the King of Drinax.

Now, between all the possible fields of creation and study, from sculpture and painting to weapon-smithing to astronomy to molecular biology, let us assume there are a dozen such masterworks in every generation across a single planet. These masterworks are things of such staggering genius that they will be remembered for centuries. A dozen from each generation of artists and creators… from every one of thirty worlds that owed fealty to Drinax… for more than fifty generations. If you take, say, the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel or Taj Mahal as your baseline, then the Floating Palace of Drinax is crammed with around 20,000 such works of staggering genius, along with ten times as many lesser works and treasures from across the stars. Add onto that all that they looted from the Sindalian empire and from other worlds, including the Ziru Sirka.

Walking into half the rooms in the Floating Palace is like being hit in the face by a firehouse of baroque beauty. Where do you look first? At the onyx floor inlaid with a map of the subsector made from artificial diamonds that are lit by hidden lasers to perfectly match the colours of every star, or at the dozen Hiver scented sculptures imported at great expense from the far side of Charted Space, or the first printings of the entire works of the Sindalian poetess Shing Za Zoha that spill from the bookcase that was carved from the living heart of a genetically engineered amber-plant, or the vaulted ceiling decorated with animated holograms of the Seven Glorious Deeds, the Nine Celestial Virtues and the Eight Seasons of Drinax?

The splendour is so great that it distracts you from the absurdity. The Floating Palace is absurdly overcrowded. Every ballroom and feasthall is home to a dozen families; children play among the works of art and technological wonders. The people ‘make do’ amid the greatest collection of art in the whole sector, stringing washing lines between golden statues, and using ancient tapestries as blankets.

When the Aslan destroyed Drinax and the survivors crowded into the Floating Palace, the divide between noble and commoner vanished overnight. Back then, there were some twenty thousand survivors, split evenly between the titled aristocracy, courtiers and other nobility, and the servants and lower classes. Two hundred years of interbreeding grew the population to some forty thousand, and every single one of them has inherited at least one title. These titles are not used from day to day, but Drinax clings tightly to formality and ritual, so every plumber and hydroponic farmer in the Floating Palace can list their lineage and titles.

The Floating Palace is the size of a city, a flying Gormenghast of plas-steel and carbosamite. It is easy to get lost in the endless maze of hallways, monumental chambers and spiralling towers. The palace mixes the wonderful and the absurd at every side. To take a prosaic example, the bathrooms are all made of shimmering silver, with delicate fountains sculpted by microgravity generators in the walls into the shape of nymphs and dolphins, with baths large enough to drown in that that sing to you as you bathe – but because the Floating Palace is no longer visited by water-barges from the planet below, the inhabitants must collect rainwater in barrels to fill the ornamental lakes and reservoirs.

Similarly, the Palace had a hundred ornamental gardens but no farmland beyond the hydroponics; a hundred palatial galleries and ballrooms but no factories beyond a few small workshops. The inhabitants of the Floating Palace may have all the ball-gowns, starched military uniforms and glittering jewellery they desire, but there is a distinct lack of vacc suits and engineering overalls.

Notable locations on board the palace include: The Dragon Throne: Looted (or so the legends say) from the Sindalian Throne World of Noricum before it fell, the Dragon Throne is older than the fabled Iridium Throne of the Imperium (a fact that the courtiers of Drinax never fail to point out to visiting ambassadors). The Dragon Throne is made from fragments of fused hull-metal from ships defeated and captured by the Star Guard over the last three thousand years; even though every ship only contributes a scrap of metal, the throne has still grown into a huge, ugly monstrosity like a dragon’s skull. King Oleb only drags the thing out for formal occasions, preferring a more comfortable grav-couch most of the time.