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  marmelmm!

The Scriveners Three are are © their respective parents, and damned if they aren’t the most compelling arguments ever known for eugenics.


Part 26.


I turned a corner and found myself in another courtyard, and saw Prince Erik seated at a small table, writing something. “Good day, my Lord,” I said. “Are you busy?”

“Not at all, Master,” he said, capping his inkwell. “No one’s tried to kill me lately.”

“The day’s not over,” I pointed out. “Any idea who it might be?”

He shrugged. “Obviously someone concerned about where I am in the succession, and determined to do something about it. It’s not the Sàmhach ach Marbhtach, I’m fairly certain of that.” At my inquiring look, he said, “The Silent but Deadly. About three or four hundred years ago, they were the Grand Duke’s team of assassin mimes.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Mimes?” He nodded and I asked, “What happened to them?”

“According to the histories, he discovered that they were silent for a reason. They were about as Unseelie a bunch as you’re likely to find.” He shrugged. “It’s a question for philosophers, I suppose – just how evil an Elf can become and still be able to speak of it.”

Time to change the subject a bit. “You know, I have to wonder about all these little courtyards.”

He, too, seemed grateful to shift the conversation away from the Unseelie. “There’s a reason for that, Master. Part of it is to keep us aware of the Grace and Glory of the Great Alpha’s Creation, and part of it’s tactical. Any invading force can get split up, herded into the courtyards, and slaughtered piecemeal.”

I nodded and glanced up. “My Lord?”

“Yes?”

“You might want to move about six feet to the right – now,” and he complied as a rather familiar sculpture, of an island with a fire-mountain on it, crashed into the chair he’d occupied a second before. The fire-mountain was belching something foamy that mimicked molten rock and smoke, but I spared this little demonstration of alchemy scarcely a thought. Like a good squaddie, I was looking at the top of the tower the sculpture had come from.

Prince Erik followed my gaze as I caught sight of a pair of ears. He put a finger to his lips and I kept quiet.

The pair of ears was followed by a lupine face, and Prince Erik bellowed, “Hengist!”

“Aye – ow!” Hengist half-turned, rubbing the back of his head. “’Ere, Horsa, tha shouldnae do that.”

“Ye ravin’ loon!” came the hissed rejoinder, apparently from Horsa. “Ye’re nae s’posed t’let anyone ken we’re oop here.”

“He already kens we’re oop here.” A wolf, probably Hengist, appeared and waved at us. “Hullo, Erik!”

The noble wolf scowled. “Both of you get down here. Master, would you do me a service?”

“Yes, my Lord?”

“Find two guards. Have one attend me here, and send the other to get Laird Blackears.” There wasn’t any need to reply; even though Prince Erik lacked the [teashor]-voice, he was a noble in his native country. I saluted and took to my hooves.

When I got back with a guard, Prince Erik had things well in paw. Both paws, actually, each one grasping an ear belonging to two lopeared twits. He gave them over to the guard as Laird Blackears made an appearance. The huge wolf thundered, “WHAT’S TH’ MEANIN’ – “

“The meaning of this, Laird Blackears,” Prince Erik interrupted, “is that your sons have tried to kill me.” He nodded toward the remains of the sculpture, now awash in a puddle of deliquesced foam. “I intend on having them both thrown into the dungeon – “ The two miscreants promptly whined as his grip on their ears tightened “ – until they can answer to their charges.” He looked up at the wolf. “Anything to say?”

I half-expected to see smoke erupt from the Laird’s nostrils as he snorted like a bull. “Pair o’ bluidy numptys. I’ve nae objection, m’Laird,” he grumbled. “I’ve a third son, Donnchadh – “

“’Twas his idea, Da,” Hengist supplied helpfully, and he whined as Horsa reached out and slugged him.

Laird Blackears seemed to deflate a bit as he gave what must have been a very long-suffering sigh. “’Tis obliged I am, Highness, tha ye didnae kill ‘em thaself.” He gave a perfunctory bow and stormed off.

The guards stepped forward and took the two would-be assassins in paw, with Prince Erik and I trailing behind. As we left the courtyard he asked, "How many furs, Master, can honestly say they've been nearly killed by their cenotaph?"

"Not many, I'm certain," I replied as we entered the one part of the High Lair that I didn’t want to visit.

I have to confess to some surprise.

The Gray Horde wolves being what they were, you’d expect that the dungeons would be quite a ways under the main complex, somewhere between one-third and halfway to the Netherhells, and decorated in all of the latest torture implements. The truth was rather different, with the first level just a bit underground with a number of small windows overlooking the spike-filled moat.

It was lower down, I was assured later, that things got nasty.

The Blackears brothers were consigned to a cell on the upper level of the donjon; Prince Erik was having a chat with the jailer regarding their accommodations, when my ears swiveled at a voice that was speaking in Standard Elvish. With a Persoc Tor accent, at that.

"It was a fair cop," said the voice, "but Society's to blame."

"Shouldn’t they have arrested them instead?" enquired a second, higher-pitched voice.

"Blame it on Rio," chimed in a third voice, "ie rgw niyaw v'vw dein Uo'bwn'."

For a nauseating second, I thought that there was a wyvern in there, but the cell seemed fairly small for that. That flash of thought must have been unguarded, for one of the sub-jailers nodded his head at me.

"Had a full-on dragon penned in here, way doon, back in’t Long Ago. Boorned th’ High Lair frae inside-oot, so yon ballads say. Would t'Alpha that there WAS a dragon-kind in there. Shooot th' lot of 'em oop."

"Who?" In spite of myself, I was curious.

"The second postman . . . !" called out that second voice, and the sub-jailer savagely shoved the butt-end of his pike between the bars.

"Bluidy eedjits. I dinna ken what they speak of, ninety-nine times oot of hundred, but it fair busts the ears of myself hearin' it. SHADDOP, the lot of ye!"

"Do you mind if I have a look in there?"

The sub-jailer withdrew his pike, and gave me an astonished look. From inside the cell came a query.

"Are you a cute mouse babe?"

"Only if I transmogrify - "

"AAAAAAH!" yelled the sub-jailer. "Dinna be goin' on aboot that, air the peace I'll ne’er get. Ye wanna ken Madness? Go on," he snapped, fumbling with some keys. "Isnae me wits that are in danger."

He threw open the heavy wooden door to the cell, after unlocking, and ducked out of the way, shooing me in with the back of his free paw. So, shrugging, I went in, passing a notice tacked to the outside of the cell.

"THE SCRIVENERS THREE"

From initial appearances, they didn't seem that threatening. There was a somewhat short canine that, for some reason, was dressed in the fashion of a religious pilgrim. Quite enthusiastically, since his flowered shirt was a riot of mismatched colors. There was a mink that, improbably, had a longish beard (ever seen a mustelid with a beard? Up until that time, neither had I), which didn't quite go with a faded doublet that had very thin vertical blue and white stripes. Lastly, there was a bear built on the principles of stacked circles, who was wearing the livery of an ant-cart driver. His cloak and hat were festooned with all manner of small buttons.

This last-named fur was the first to greet me.

"'G-KI!"

I blinked in response to that, not sure of what to say. He grinned, and repeated himself.

"'G-KI!"

Confused, I turned to the others for some enlightenment. It was supplied by the canine.

"He suffers from Carpal Brain Syndrome."

"He . . . whuh?"

"Carpal. Brain. Syndrome."

"What in the Shining Land is that?"

"The same affliction," snarled the mink, "that affects post-ball umpires and the VOTERS OF WRITING AWARDS!" So saying, he began to hop up and down.

I looked rather alarmed at the bear, and then back at the canine, who seemed to be the only (relatively) sane one of the bunch. "Is it catching?"

"Well, it's got a good beat, and you can dance to it." The mink had recovered rather quickly from his rage. His muzzle, though, was closed expertly by the canine's paw.

"Carpal Brain Syndrome does make you do weird things. Like voice support for oddly-colored senile furs, but please excuse such a boring digression into Lowfolk politics." He eyed the mink, who seemed on the verge of arguing that point.

"Vw eufgr v'xj. Vkiisbij ninwbr."

I was a lot slower on the uptake than the other two, and thus didn't quite duck in time when the bear began producing a violent series of hideous noises that could only be described as what you'd get if you rolled a four-fifths empty beer barrel down a flight of steps. What little plaster there was that was on the walls turned black and crumbled.

"Oooooh, oooooooh!" he said. "This donjon food. What was I thinking?"

"As I was saying," continued the canine, "Carpal Brain Syndrome is rather indistinguishable in symptoms from that produced by drinking forty glasses of strong spring wine." He eyed me rather hopefully. "If you have some on you, I could demonstrate."

I folded my arms across my chest, to show him that he wasn't having it on. "So what are you lot charged with?"

"IT'S LIES!" shouted the mink. "LIES, D'YE HEAR? It’s ‘cultural references,’ and not ‘stealing gags wholesale!’"

"Repackaged old jokes, eh? What about you?" I turned to the canine, who shrugged.

"Couldn't keep my story-lines straight. Happens when you have four or five plots running, I said, adding a resigned look (65-q)."

"Straight," opined the bear, who had recovered somewhat from his affliction, "is the last thing you should call yourself."

The canine sniffed in rebuttal. "Sirrah, I, myself, am perfectly straight. It's the femmes in my life what are bent. Especially the Succubus." This last, rather cryptic statement was not explained or elaborated upon, thank the Lady.

The sub-jailer poked his nose around the corner. "If tha sees an artist a-drawin' anteaters wit' clysters, we want words with him. Been 'angin' 'round wit' this lot."

"Does he, too, have CBS?" I asked.

"No," responded the mink, "but I'm pretty sure he's got a nasty case of either the Mutuals or the NBC."

"Or the Dreaded Lurgi," added the bear.

I was starting to get the sense that justice in the Grand Duchy was not all random. I turned back outside, both for information and some fresher air.

"What's the likely punishment for that lot?"

"Dinna ken for the hoond an' bear, an' the 'Teg,' if we catches 'im, but the mink . . . aye, th' punishment fits the crime there." He clanged the cell-door shut, and snarled at the occupants through the window, gleefully. "It's the Sofa Wolf for ye, me laddie."

The mink began yelling and cursing. That was one of the things, by the way, that turned me against being a professional scrivener of tales.

“What are they charged with?” I might have to bring their predicament up with Sir Dagobert. The jailer went over to a portfolio and started moving pages of papyrus about.

“Charges? Lessee . . . mind, charges ain’t strickly necessary . . . och, here we are. Two-timin,’ four-flushin,’ six-shootin,’ writin’ an’ publishin’ – with intent, an’ . . . aggravated mopery with intent t’gawk.”

I was impressed. The first three charges were pretty serious, and the last one used to be punishable by death under King Sartorious, who would condemn the malefactor to be ”hung by the neck until he cheered up,” but the writing and publishing bit made me quirk an eyebrow. “Writing and publishing is a crime here?” I asked.

“It isnae,” he replied, “or we’d nae get anything done, would we na? Nae, yon three nyaffs put a book aboot. ‘Twere judged harmful t’young wolves, it was.” He shuffled pages and closed the portfolio. “Still on sale doon in’t town.”

My ears dipped. “It hasn’t been taken out of publication?” I asked.

He shrugged. “They’ll be gettin’ roond to’t,” and our ears perked as an argument broke out in the cell regarding the desirability of cat-femmes, vixens and skunk-femmes, with great emphasis on their physical charms and (assumed) loose morals.

I resolved that, like the Gray Horde’s government, I’d ‘get roond’ to telling Sir Dagobert about them.

Eventually.

The book, however, intrigued me, and I decided to revisit the book shop to see if I could get my paws on a copy.

After lunch, I plunged into the High Lair’s library and filled another chap-book with notes before taking my purse from my Elfintory and checking on my funds. I still had a few gold bravoes, with more silver and a smattering of coppers. I couldn’t go on another buying spree, but I could manage if I was careful.

I had also learned what the Sofa Wolf was, and I could see why that mink had been so agitated.

The Crown & Doxy had good food, so I figured I could have dinner there. With my itinerary for the rest of the day set, I left the High Lair and headed into the city.

The bookseller’s eyes gleamed as I stepped inside his shop. “Master o’Elfhame! Waning-day greetin’s t’ye.”

“Thank you. I’m wondering if you have a book by a group of twits – er, authors, called The Scriveners Three?”

The wolverine’s face fell about a furlong. “An’ here’s me, thinkin’ tha had better taste.”

“Is it that bad?” I asked. “The jailer up at the Lair said that the authors were on a charge.”

“Aye, richt enow. I’ve a few copies here,” and he poked a small stack of scrolls with a contemptuous finger.

“How much for a copy?”

“An’ are tha so daft? I’ll gie tha th’ lot fer a copper, just t’get ‘em oot o’ m’shop.” He sneered. “Bluidy dustfurs won’t touch ‘em.”

I paid – for one – and then bought a few more works of fiction and collections of kennings. The book couldn’t be as bad as all that, I reflected.

Could it?

After leaving the shop, I took a seat on a bench and opened it with some trepidation. Interestingly, the last three pages were quite blank, with a note from the authors that the reader should write their own ending. I shook my head at that, flipped back to the start, and began to read.

I gave up after two pages, alternating between laughter and the feeling that my brain was trying to escape through one of my ears. The left, I think. It was almost as bad as the time that the Ashearth Sisters had tried to explain their philosophy of life to me and Brother Cellini. He, at least, had had the advantage of pulling his head into his shell.

I rolled The Adventures of Grrgnrr the Barbarian up and stuck it well into the back of my Elfintory before taking a few deep breaths. After a few minutes of persuading my brain that I still needed it, I decided that several beers would be beneficial, so I headed for the Crown & Doxy.





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