Middenly Charms

© 2017 by Walter Reimer


A hearty thank you for the use of characters by  EOCostello set in  tegerio’s Realm of Faerie universe!

Thumbnail arts by  tegerio, with color by  Major Matt Mason!



Part 22.


I figured that the Wolf Queen had things in paw, as she took the little cub by the paw and had him show her to the house where he and his mother lived. Several adults and the two constables trailed after her.

Either way, I might not get in trouble with the Crown Prince over this.

Maybe.

I retraced my steps to the Temple and gave a polite bow to the altar-stone. I was sure that the Great Alpha would appreciate the courtesy, and I hoped that Fuma wouldn’t mind. It’s just as well that I can’t howl (well, apart from pain when I step on things in the dark – ah, the joys of parenting). I decided to ask a few questions of the monks who were busily cleaning the plaza. Several were sweeping mosaics clear of windblown leaves, while others were polishing the memorial brasses.

One was howling softly and tunefully as he scrubbed at the top of the altar-stone, erasing two rather distinct wolfess-footprints. I waited until he was finished and asked, “Do you have many people try to stand on the altar?”

The wolf dunked the coarse rag he was using into a pail of soapy water before turning to face me. “Nae,” he replied laconically. “Had ane try it last year.”

“What happened?”

He scratched his nose. “I can show tha where his kin booried his ashes. Yon Wolf Queen, she gotovlukki.”

“Beg pardon?”

“She gotovlukki.”

“Huh?”

He tossed the rag into the pail and said clearly, “She. Got. Off. Lucky!”

I conceded that this was very true. I thanked him and I went off in search of the Sexton.

I found him talking with his two superiors. The High Archimandrite doddered a bit, and I estimated his age at about two thousand or more. His mate appeared to be just as old as he was, and she reached out and belted him one against the back of his head when she saw me, the blow nearly dislodging his ceremonial headdress. “Mnnah, ahm, Hrothgar, here is th’ Master o’ Elfhame.”

“Och, mmm, uhm, aye?” The wolf mel turned and looked, in the wrong direction. “Where?”

The Sexton rolled his eyes and turned the old fellow around, who teetered dangerously and almost lost his tall miter. The Archimandrite blinked owlishly and finally spotted me. “Oh, ahm, hello young fellow. Why are you dressed up as a deer?”

“I am the Master of Elfhame,” I said patiently.

The elderly wolf goggled at me, and brightened a bit. “Och! Th’ Master of Elfhame! Guid, guid, guid – there’s room fer all ta feel th’ comfortin’ tongue of th’ Great Alpha.” He grabbed me by one antler. “Coom along, an’ we’ll start wi’ yer catechism – “

The Sexton gently separated the wolf’s grip from my antler. “Here, tha gert fool ye, yon Master’s here fer th’ letter.”

“Letter?” the aged lupine asked.

Which netted him another clop to the head, courtesy of the High Mehitabeldrite. “Th’ letter t’them flamin’ Mephitists, tha nyaff!” She punctuated this with another slap to his head, only to have the fellow sag forward, his features slack and mouth open. “Och, tha’s torn it.”

“Um, is he all right?” I asked as the High Archimandrite started to drool.

The High Mehitabeldrite gave an exasperated sound and faced her counterpart, gently slapping his head from side to side. “Mm, mnnah, it’s like our weddin’ night, sure. Tis like yon game we play oop in’t mountains, where tha tries to get th’ wee stane in’t feral bear’s eye.” She smacked the heel of her paw against his forehead between his eyes, and she stepped back as he stopped drooling and blinked at her. “Hrothgar? Hrothgar, are tha hale, ye gert ninny?”

Hrothgar, for his part, blinked slowly at her for a few moments, then gave a broad and very suggestive grin and reached for her. “C’mere, Meredyth . . . “

She held up a paw and his nose collided with her palm. As he clutched at his muzzle she demanded the letter again, and Hrothgar took a gilded silver scroll-tube from a sleeve of his robe and gave it to her with a meek, but hopeful, expression.

The scroll-tube was decorated with reliefs of the Great Alpha, seated on Her altar while furs of every description sat around, listening to Her. It wasn’t capped or sealed, and I asked, “May I read it?”

The Sexton nodded as Hrothgar started to (very slowly) pursue Meredyth. Apparently reseating his brains had triggered a desire for venery, and I resolutely ignored what they were doing as I slipped a vellum scroll from the tube.

It was written on both sides, and I squinted at the writing before my ears stood up. “Two drams honey, one pound of fish, four sets small-clothes heavy starch?”

The wolf blinked at me before snatching the scroll from my paws. “Och, a richt pair these twa are,” he grumbled and turned the scroll over. “Here’s the richt of it, Master o’ Elfhame,” and gave it back to me.

“from their magnificences . . . ” I frowned. “This is all in lower case.”

A nod. “Aye, His Magnificence is required t’write in’t miniscule.”

I read on. “the high archimandrite and high mehitabeldrite, servants in the holy pack of the great alpha, to their eminences the primate, the high bishop, and the archi-bishop of the two doors . . . " I cleared my throat. “Your, er, Magnificences?”

The High Mehitabeldrite turned to me, easily keeping her mate at bay by holding him by his right ear. “Mmnnnah, aye, Master?”

“The third member of our hierarchy is titled the Bishop of Albric and Persoc Tor.”

She gave me a dismissive wave of her free paw. “Don’t be a silly-billy, buck. He can’t be in two places at once, it’s nae done.”

I rather doubted that. Jerome, Bishop of the Two Tors, was quite an expansive fellow. If any of the trio could straddle two seats, my bravoes would be on him. I went back to reading.

“archi-bishop of the two doors, greetings and commiserations. a. hoping this letter finds you as it leaves us, hrothgar and meredyth.”

I lowered the scroll. “That’s it? Just the letter ‘a?’”

Hrothgar paused in trying to grope his mate. “We’ll, mmm, we’ll start off, mmm, small.”

Without another word I rolled up the vellum, slipped it back into the scroll-tube, and put it in my Elfintory, with a promise that I would give it to the Triumvirate as soon as I got back to the capitals. I actually felt good about the morning’s adventures.

And at discovering that, despite all of the difference between the Empire and the Grand Duchy, both sides had their fair share of twits.

I stepped out of the Temple precincts and paused for a moment, debating my next course of action. The Wolf Queen, naturally, could take care of herself; what did I want to see next? I glanced up and down the street and was about to pick a random direction (a very Elfly thing to do, by the way) when I picked up a scent.

Books!

As you might have divined from earlier episodes of my life, I have a hunger for books that really can’t be sated. Crown Prince Gawain may call me a scroll-sniffer, but he’s a fine one to talk. There was a bookseller just up the road from where I stood, and part of my assignment was to gather as much information as I could about the culture of the Gray Horde. What better way than to immerse myself in papyrus and vellum?

So I squared my shoulders and set off down the street, barely noticing that a short wolf with slicked-back headfur and an animal-hide jacket had fallen in beside me. “Tha t’Master o’ Elfhame?” he asked around a lit tube of pipeweed that dangled from the corner of his mouth.

“Guilty.”

“Heh. Name’s Angus. Where tha off ta?”

“Bookseller’s,” I replied. “Why?” I was trying to stay casual, while my ears swiveled to catch the sound of anyone trying to sneak up on me.

“Me an’ m’mates, we want t’stand tha lunch, an’ talk.”

“Talk?”

“Talk.”

Well, no harm in talking. “Let me spend some time in here,” I said as I paused at the door to the bookshop, “and I’ll be happy to accept your offer of lunch.” I extended a paw. “Deal?”

He took it, and we shook on the deal. “Aye. We’ll be at t’Crown an’ Doxy.” He loped away, and I went inside.

Ahh, the warm and homey smell of old books greeted me like an old friend. The door struck a small bell as I entered, and it rang again as it closed behind me.

Compared to some of the shops I’ve visited in Faerie, Licksburg, Eastness and Vulpes-Vulpes, this one was quite clean, with books, scrolls and codices arranged by subject. A far cry from the Literary and Historical Society’s library, where things are arranged or classified according to either capricious whim, accident, or outright malice (and that’s the Elven end of the operation; I think the building’s magics assist them).

“Hello?” I ventured. There was no answer, so I started perusing the stacks, painfully aware that I had only a limited number of gold bravoes on me. However, concerns about money fled as I started looking at titles and glancing at random pages.

There was a current edition of the Great Alpha’s Prayer Book, and I made a mental note to ask the Sexton at the Temple if I could get a complimentary copy. The Gray Horde prisoners up in Elfhame might appreciate an updated edition. There were histories, anthologies (there was an entire series dedicated to Gruoch the Mate-Slayer), stories for children, poetry (a lot of that), and codices on law and the government of the realm.

I wished that I’d brought more of my own money, or maybe a cask or two of [Three and a Half] to barter with. Maybe I could ask Prince Erik to persuade his sister to let me copy a few manuscripts from the High Lair’s library, which I hadn’t seen yet.

A harsh, sibilant voice rasped beside me, “I know where to get it, if you want it,” and I almost jumped out of my fur. I turned to see a greying wolverine grinning at me. “We’ve lumps of it round the back.”

“Er, lumps of what?” The mel wagged a finger at me and started to chuckle before turning and waddling off to the back of the shop. A younger version of the fellow was standing at the doorway, and he let the elderly wolverine pass.

“Tha’ll forgive him; he’s deef an’ mad. Tha’rt Master o’ Elfhame?”

“Yes, and I’m interested in buying some books.”

A bushy eyebrow raised. “Och aye? Books, tha’rt wantin’?” He made a show of looking around at the stock and said, “They’re all sold. Guid Mornin’ t’ye.” He placed a gentle paw on my elbow and started to guide me to the door.

I blinked, too stunned to resist. “All sold?”

“Aye! Nae a single ane, in an unsold state.”

“But I have money.”

At the mention that I was in funds, the wolverine paused. “Money?”

“Yes.”

“Actual money? Tha ain’t here t’jist read ‘em an’ walk oot?”

“No,” I replied.

The wolverine suddenly smiled. “Why th’ Netherhell didnae ye say so?”

The upshot of the encounter was that I purchased a total of thirteen books, at a cost of two gold bravoes, all of which were tucked securely into my Elfintory. I made a mental note to revisit the bookstore, and to arrange things a bit more coherently in my Elfintory. Things tend to get tossed in higgledy-piggledy after a while.

Thus fortified, I asked the storekeeper for directions to the Crown and Doxy. The older wolverine started cackling as I left, which I thought was a bit odd.

The public house was in a slightly seedy part of Crag of Dens on the north side of the city, the sign showing the aforementioned doxy holding the aforementioned crown in such a way as to preserve what little modesty she might have wanted to keep. I paused, cast detect-magics, and was satisfied to note that there wasn’t anything magical lying in wait for me.

I opened the door and entered the dimly-lit, smoky depths of the pub.






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