The Rise of the Raccoon Queen
Or The Big Grey Fluffy Butt Matter


A Story of Faerie
© 2021 by M. Mitchell Marmel


(Additional characters by E.O. Costello and W.D. Reimer. Mr. Foxy appears courtesy of  steamfox)

Thumbnail art by  tegerio, color by  marmelmm

Part Three.


Tali:

I was pretty confident that I hadn’t violated any of the Corps policies regarding ‘alerting civilizations lower than Level IV of advanced tech.’ What I had said was the truth – what I do with tech, they do with magic . . .

Wait a minute.

From some of my reading I had seen where an Elvish King, Thorstein or something, had ruled that all Elves must tell the truth; hence the repeated “Elves don’t lie” assertion, maybe. The implication is that Elves can lie, but there have to be consequences for it, and since this alternity runs on magic, could lying have some sort of erosive effect?

Could that be the reason for the Gaps? I put my reading glasses back on (get it?) and started going over one of Winterbough’s monographs on the subject. Don’t look at me like that; the glasses don’t just translate, they record what they’ve translated. I’m not about to rely on my own memory for this project.

Even with my latest suite of augmentations.

After a while my stomach started to grumble, and I looked up at the windows. Noon, already? I set aside the book I was reading and stretched.

Huh. I’d only read a fifth of the books on the shelves. Lovely, Tali; at this rate Jesi and Franq will have families of their own by the time I got finished – if, of course, they haven’t already and are keeping secrets from their long-suffering mother.

Matt would be thrilled, though.

Well, enough of that. Time for lunch.

I set the book aside and took note of where I’d left off and headed downstairs. The first member of the household I encountered was the minkess automaton, so I asked her where I could go for lunch. All I got was a swish of a tail (nice tail) and a finger pointed in a general direction, but plainly outdoors.

“If I may, Ma’am,” and I turned to see the ermine femme, Nippy. “I believe that [Little Toy] is directing you to the [Sheaf of Arrows] public-house.”

A bar? Goody!

“Thank you very much, - “

“Nippy, Ma’am.”

“’Nippy?’ Unless my memory’s failing, isn’t that a general term for a housekeeper?”

The ermine’s placid demeanor never changed. “It is the name I took when I first entered Service, Ma’am.”

I figured that I’d be all day asking questions and getting cryptic answers, so I shelved it for later. “Well, thank you, Nippy, and you as well, minkess.”

The minkess, [Little Toy], (?), swished her tail and gave a soft purr. Nippy said, “You’re very welcome, Ma’am, but I would like to offer some advice.”

“Yes?”

“If you go into the Ladies’ Parlour, Ma’am, stay away from the doilies.”

“The doilies? What’s wrong with them?”

“I’ve never been in there, Ma’am, but I have heard from Miss Ring and others who have been. If I may be so bold, I deem it to be worthy and useful advice.”

I smiled. “I’ll accept the advice, Nippy, and thank you. I’ll be back after lunch,” and after getting slightly more accurate directions I set off in search of food and drink.

The [Sheaf of Arrows] was a dark, comfortable, homey place, and after having a bit of chat with the barkeeper I got a mug of porter and took a seat while my lunch was being prepared. The beer was excellent, a dark hoppy brew that made you paid attention to it. I settled back in my chair and looked up.

A gold sable gazed down at me, and I damned near choked on my drink. “What is that?” I asked, and several of the bar’s habitués informed me that the poor girl had been transmuted into a gold statue.

To my horror, one of the roebucks said, “[It is so, stranger to the small and beautiful Vale that we all stand in with the hooves and/or footpads of ourselves, that it is well-met to be polite and mannerly to the sable-femme of the sun-metal that resides above the hearth of the Sheaf, for it is equally so that the eyes and ears of herself the sable-femme who bears the cognomen Siobhan are not mere ornaments, and the unkind talk would wound.]”

“She can hear and see?” I gasped. “She’s still alive in there!?” I was assured that she was (with an additional note that scratching her nose was a kindly act), and I hastily drank off the rest of my beer.

Knowing the melting point of gold, I seriously hoped that the place never burned down, or, if it did, her rescue was the first priority.

When my lunch was ready, I got another mug of beer to go with it and was let into the snug. I paused and looked around the room with interest and dangerously injured sensibilities. The barmaid agreed with me that the room was an affront to good taste, but the doilies prevented anyone from clearing the place out and redecorating. They seemed to have some sort of sense of danger. I thanked her and took a seat at the table.

The one with no doilies on it.

Lunch was a feral chicken stew so thick you could stand the spoon up in it, with a plate of freshly-baked bread. It was delicious, and I debated whether to have seconds. I decided against it (have to maintain my girlish figure) in favor of a slice of honey cake.

Yummy.

While I ate, I set my eyeglasses up to replay what I’d been reading that morning. You can’t blame me for looking at the Jane scrolls; all work and no play makes Tali very cranky.

“Hmmph.”

My ears flicked and I turned to see a short grayish tod-fox standing in the room. I hadn’t heard the door open or closed, so I figured he apported in. He was wearing some sort of outlandish getup that included a wide starched ruff around his neck. A walking stick was gripped in one paw.

I finished swallowing the bite of honey cake before I asked, “May I help you?”

“Arrah, sure an’ ye’d be doin’ yerself a foine favor, lass, if ye’d cast away that,” and he pointed his shillelagh at my eyeglasses. “Och, an’ all th’ other fripperies ye’ve got about yer person.”

Well, so much for concealment. “And who might you be?”

He drew himself up, but remained short. “Oi, is it? Oi might be an Elf, an’ as Elves Don’t Lie, tis the’ sweet and pure truth that Oi am an Elf, an’ what’s more yer elder an’ bether.” He thumped one of the doilies with his stick, and it promptly became two doilies. “Arrah, tis Estvan Silverbrush, Oi am.”

“My name’s Tali, Mr. Silverbrush.” I gave him my best winning smile. “May I buy you a drink?”

“Wisht! An’ is it that yer attemptin' to suborn the loikes of me with one wee drinkie?” He shooed the pair of doilies away and sat down. “Sure an’ ye’ll be afther buyin’ me TWO drinks, next!”

I suppressed a laugh, pocketed my glasses, and stepped out of the room to get a refill for me, two pints of porter for the tod, and two more portions of honey cake. Diet suspended for the moment.

He was still scowling at me as he drank one pint, secreted the other somewhere – possibly this ‘Elfintory’ I’ve heard about; it’s sort of a personal-access pocket universe, and there’ll have to be a research study of that; Lowchan could use one to replace her bag of holding – and started eating his slice of honey cake. Midway through, he gave a gagging noise. “Devoices,” he sneered. “Tis as un-Elfly a thing as ever Oi’ve seen in th’ Shinin’ Land since me feetpads fairst touched soil, an’ that was a budget o’ yairs ago, to be sure.”

“I’m not an Elf – “ I started to say.

“An’ Oi know what ye are, Missy. Been t’ the Lowfolk world, Oi have. Full o’ gimcrackery, that other place is; all wheels an’ gears, all goin’ widdershins until there’s a reel in me skull, an’ not the koind with fiddle-musick, oither. Tis not loike nuffin’ a true Elf would have any truck with.”

I have to admit that I was intrigued. So much, in fact, that I didn’t catch when he took my slice of honey cake and stashed it away in his Elfintory. I took my glasses from my pocket and laid them on the table, where they could record what he was saying. “You’ve been to the Lowfolk world?” I asked. “How very interesting. Tell me more about your adventures, Estvan, please?” I batted my eyelashes at him.

He blinked, shook his tail a tiny bit, and glowered at my glasses. “An' what class of a thing is that, me foine beauty? Sure an' Oi'm not going to take the bread out of the mouths of the brats of a scroibe, a race Oi admire.” He turned the power of glower on me. “An’ tis a foine thing that yerself’d be tryin’ Woiles on me, who is an’ remains yer older an’ bether. Oi’ll have ye know Oi’ve had Woiles practiced on me by empresses an’ queens an’ such. With varyin’ success, but that’s noither here nor there.”

“Suit yourself,” and I put the glasses back in my pocket. I wagged a finger at him. “And no more tricks, please.”

“Sure, an' why would ye be afther spoilin' an auld tod's innocent fun?”

"Because I'm here on business," I explained.

“Hmmph. Sure an' a business moind is un-Elfly.” Our ears flicked at the sound of a sudden commotion in the common room, and he suddenly grinned. “An' here's another of me species to back me words.”

The door to the snug banged open, and framed in the doorway was another fur I recalled from the End of Eastness Affair, a tall and very attractive wolfess wearing scanty ornamental armor and carrying a huge edged weapon I took a moment to recognize.

Long pole, two axes at either end, one smaller than the other . . . ah. A double-bardiche.

“You!” she said, aiming the smaller blade at Silverbrush. “I am NOT posing on a ‘Leopard tank.’”

“An' whoi not?” Estvan countered. “Give th’ furs what they want. Fairst principle o’ entertainment, ‘tis.”

“Who knows where that leopard has been?” she asked. She saw me gazing up at her; our eyes met and she nodded.

“He's in the tank. Have him sober up,” came a lower, sleepy voice, and a red fox slipped around the Wolf Queen (that’s who the wolfess was, as if you didn’t know) and into the room. He wore thick-lensed spectacles and had a generally somnolent air about him. He gave Estvan a smile. “The word gets 'round, don' it Gov'nor?”

Estvan said, “Now ye leave a lad who's had a few alone. 'tis not Elf-ly to disturb someone's slumber when they afther havin’ a morning-head.”

The Wolf Queen frowned and jabbed an accusing finger at the second fox. “Well, this fox says I'm pissy. Sides with the Master.”

“We kin lets him sleep it arf above th' #4 boiler. Don't mind thet bangin' sound,” the red tod said.

Estvan frowned. “Th' only boiler Oi like is for me tay - with a wee bit of strawberry jam, moind.”

Talk of drink made the second tod brighten considerably. “The Auld Chief had a habit o' hidin' bottles of Duggan's Dew on Mac Clintoch in th' Coal bunker. OH! Wot a Bright an' pretty flame thet made!” He pantomimed an explosion with his paws. “FOOOSH!”

“Shockin' waste of good refreshment, that 'tis.”

“Aye!”

“Furs who misuse good dhrink loike that shouldn't be allowed to have it,” Silverbrush averred. “It should be given to them furs that appreciate it. Loike meself, for example.”

“Shure an' th' burnt fur on me arrrms I says.”

“Are ye a burnt fur, then?”

“Nay! Just singed.”

Estvan shook his head. “Sure an' them's hard lads, Oi hear.”

“'Arrd in th' 'ead sommot is, Say I.”

As the two foxes began to wander farther afield from my own topic, the wolfess and I took the opportunity to leave the [Sheaf of Arrows].

While we still had a moiety of our marbles intact.



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