Family Matters
© 2022 by M. Mitch Marmel

Thumbnail art by  tegerio, color by  marmelmm


Part Eighteen.


Winterbough:

The rest of the day and night was occupied mostly by two things: avoiding Anastasia and doing research in my library. Which didn't quite work out, as I found out the book I needed had been abstracted some time before by her. She'd been reading it at the time I Apparated it, so there was that.

So you can imagine that I was not in the best of humors the next morning. My visit to [The Sheaf of Arrows] was mostly business, and insufficiently pleasure.

This was in probable contrast to Estvan Silverbrush's visit there. He was ensconced in front of the fireplace, enjoying both a thick ham sandwich and the view of Siobhan on the mantel. Catching sight of me, he bestowed upon me a ham-flecked, toothy grin. "Yourself, begob! An' in day's vigorous youth . . ." He tailed off when he saw me scowling at him, and tapping my hoof. "Arrah, phwat am Oi afther bein' accused of doin', now?"

I pointed to the Does' Room, by way of answer, and didn't lower my paw until, with much grumbling, the old tod got up from his comfy chair, collected his stick, and ambled over to the snug.

After closing the door of the Does' Room behind me, and after waiting until the fox had seated himself extravagantly upon one of the sofas, I pointed at him. "All right, you old buster, you want to know what you're being charged with? Trouble-making in the first degree."

"Sure an' that's not a croime fer an Elf."

"No, but it's a crime what you're doing to my sanity. It was you who put the notion of a Challenge around and about, isn't it?"

Estvan grinned slowly, and wiggled his eyebrows. "Sure an' yer man can't prove it, can he?"

I crossed my arms over my chest. "I think we can eliminate just about every Elf in the Shining Land with a pawful of exceptions, Estvan." Points were ticked off on my fingers. "One. This is a matter involving Elfhamian law and custom. Obscure Elfhamian law and custom. I'm reckoned one of the leading lore-masters of the Vale, and I had to research what the Netherhells this was all about. Two, and this follows on one, the rules of the Challenge are set forth in Elfhamian, and only that language, as far as I know, which eliminates Elves who don't know either Elfhamian or Old High Elvish, which is nearly all of them. Three. There hasn't been a Challenge issued in the Vale in seven generations, which is a damned long time, even by Elf-kind. Four. If we eliminate me, and if we eliminate Dennis Horne, the Steward of Elfhame, who didn't know about it either, that pretty much leaves three candidates. Prince Roland, who actually speaks the language and knows of the existence of Sixth, having among other things met him at GHQ..."

"Indeed? An' what transpoired then, moight Oi ask?"

"If you must know, one of Sixth's frogs mistook the Marshal's nose for a bit of tiffin. . . "

Estvan began to chuckle, which led to a whoop of laughter, until I told him to pack it in, whereupon his mirth slowly subsided.

I continued. "Now, while the House of Irenaeus has some interest in the affairs of the House of Rosebush-Aspen - see the Prophecy - that doesn't count in this instance, since Sixth isn't in the line of succession. There might be some interest in the line of succession to the Mastership, but that's not in my family by right, and Sixth has no claim on it other than sentiment. So the case against the Marshal is weak."

"Now, there's the potential of Sir Lucian Ravenmad. Ravenmad's a scholar, knows the Vale, has the age and wisdom for it, and potentially the sentiment."

"Potentially, nothing, me fawn. Sir Lucian has a heart as big as the Shoining Land, ye mark my wards." So saying, Estvan took a juicy bite from his sandwich.

"Even if we allow for that, his motivation is slender . . . compared to the last suspect in the matter. Namely, yourself."

"Me?"

"Yes. YOU. You're old enough, having infested the Vale since time out of mind, something I've never really realized until recently. You speak Old High Elvish fluently."

"Oi should think so!"

"You've had more than a few run-ins with the [Eldest] over the centuries, and I know the way your mind works."

"Faith, ye know only . . . "

"I *KNOW* the way your mind works. Including by interrupting and trying to divert me. You want to take the piss of some of the older roe-does. Fine. I'm not hugely against that, except when the trouble has the potential to cause me grief. As it did last night. I had a series of very awkward discussions with my mate last night, which could more fairly be classified as monologues, and which ended up with me sleeping in my chair in my study . . . "

Estvan ear-flattened a bit at that, reflexively, before reasserting himself.

" . . . but more to the point, I know that you are fond of Sixth . . . "

"And whoi shouldn't OI be? He's a foine young Elf. Superior of his soire in shewing respect to his elders and bethers."

"Inclusive, most likely, of trying to do him a ‘good turn,’ as you often say. Oh, and there's one other clew."

"Phwat's that?"

From my Elfintory, I produced a small codex, one that had the sigil of Eleanor of Elfhame on the cover. "This wee book, as you might put it, has a small stain of mustard and ham on the back of it. Shame! Don't you wash your paws before you handle old and rare books?"

Estvan was about to cram the last, massive bit of his meal into his gobbogue when I said that, and it brought him up short. Seeing my look of triumph, he sighed. "Arrah. They shouldn't be afther producin' so many Victor Vulpi, Master Conveyancer scrolls. Puts Oidears in the moinds of certain furs." He put down his sandwich on the table, and sighed. "All roight, all roight, Westersloe me boyo. Ye have me to rights, ye do. But whisht! Shurely ye don't want some class of a doe-in-law loike that the [Doe-Moot] was goin' t'foist upon yer? 'twould be hard and joyless country, a breakfast-table with the likes of the Sumac gracin' it, squintin' afther ye."

"I'm not arguing with you about that, Estvan. It's just . . . "

I sighed, and pinched my eyebrows. "Estvan, I'm trying to run things here so that there's a maximum of peace and quiet. Fuma knows how things are in the Capitals, and I have more than my fill of getting mixed up in Statecraft. So when things suddenly crop up - without me knowing about it beforepaw - and I have to deal with a lot of annoyed does and an extremely annoyed doe that I try to share a bed with, it's very wearying."

"Sure an' if Oi told yer beforepaw, 'twould take the fun out of it."

"So that's a confession, is it?"

"Not a confession, no! 'tis a statement of sweet and pure thruth." Estvan grew slightly grave, and raised a finger. "Protégé of moine ye have been, me fawn, but the joy of yer loife, an' yer namesake, has been me protégé since he was a wee lad, still in his spots. He's afther callin' me Uncle, and 'tis a toitle Oi bear proudly. He's as adept with frogs as Oi am with baytles, an' make of THAT statement what ye will!"

I shuddered, that's what I made of it.

"So naturally, Oi want the very best for young Westersloe [Frog-Master]."

I held up the codex again. "So you went and did a bit of research to find out - "

"Not to foind out. To assist the Lady." So saying, he rubbed his knuckles against his scalp, juggling his bit of sandwich and his stick as he did so. "That's me story, an' Oi'm afther stickin' to it."

"I'm not doubting your devotion to Fuma for one minute, Estvan. Sanity, yes. Devotion, no."

"So what's me punishment, then? Ye have the roight of justice in the Vale."

"Thank you, I may not be at your level of scholarship . . . "

"Who is?"

" . . . but I have read the Deed of Gift . . . "

"Ye still haven't had the does show their teats to ye, have ye?"

"NO."

"Your loss, but then, your rights . . . "

"Will you please, please, please try to keep me in the know when you're planning some class of a japery here in the Vale? If only to preserve what little sanity I have left?!"

"Och. 'tis Elves loike ye that take the magick out of the Shoining Land. All right. But only because Oi think fondly of ye, me fawn."

"And not because of your ability to charge up whisky-cured ham sandwiches on the slate here at [The Sheaf]?"

Estvan had been reaching for his sandwich, again, and that brought him up short. "Shurely," he whined, "ye wouldn't be afther denoin' bread an' foire . . . ?"

"Oh, for Fuma's sake . . . well. Having put this whole circus in motion, I'm sure you're going to stay for it."

"Wouldn't miss it fer anything! Phwen does the fun start?"

"Tomorrow."

"Arrah! Quick work, that."

"Best to get this over with." I opened the codex, and pointed to a section. "The backers of each candidate get to choose one task for the challenge, and if there's a tie after both challenges, then the commons of the Vale as a whole . . . "

"Bucks included, then?" Estvan wiggled his eyebrows.

"Yesssssss, bucks included . . . the commons gets to pick a third and tie-breaking task. As it happens, I know the task that the [Eldest] have picked for Belladona Sumac."

"Rolling pins enther into it, Oi fancy."

"Yes. A distance and accuracy test."

Estvan sniffed disdainfully, but otherwise ventured no opinion.

"Now, who's the backer for Una Sawyer, then? I don't think any fur has raised their paw . . . "

"If it's volunteers ye want, whoi, Oi'm yer tod. 'tis a demonstration of cookery, Oi'm afther thinkin'. 'tis fair an' traditional."

That brought me up short. Frankly, I was expecting - or suspecting - something different. But it did confirm to me (beyond ham-stained fox fingers) that Estvan had been reading that treatise of Eleanor's, since the precedents cited in it all mention kitchen-skill as a common Challenge.

It was also moderately clever, in that it struck straight at the core of the does' self-image. Clean houses and first-class cookery (inclusive of making sweet persimmon jam) were two of the things that made an Elfhamian doe, an Elfhamian doe. This was not a Challenge they were going to argue against.

On the other paw, it did make me wonder, since it was something that the does could coach young Belladona on.

Well, he was Una Sawyer's backer, so that was that. "Fine. I'll tell Anastasia, who'll tell the [Doe-Moot], and from there, the word will get out." I turned to go.

"Arrah, Westersloe," a voice called after me, "lenient in yer justice, ye are."

I heard the noise of a sandwich-remnant being galumphed, and then some strange spluttering noises. Turning to close the door of the Does' Room, I saw Estvan coughing and spitting out doilies.

Now, how do you suppose a doily got into Estvan's sandwich . . . ?





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