The Princess Beard

by Kevin Hearne

  “So this should be a relatively easy delivery. The captain says the otters should just playfully gambol down the gangplank and take up residence,” Al said, joining them.

  “And then we move on to Bustardo,” Tempest sighed.

  Morgan turned to look at her, concern in her eyes.

  “Are you scared?” she asked.

  Tempest chuckled. “Of law school? Of course not. I know I’m smart.”

  “Not of law school. Of the…other lawyers.”

  Al shuddered. “Law school? That’s where you’re going? Aren’t there enough sharks in the sea already?”

  Tempest whirled on him. “Oh, so you’re one of those people who think all lawyers are terrible and bloodthirsty and only want riches and fancy carriages?”

  “Um.” Al’s lips twitched. “Is that not true? We didn’t have any lawyers in the Morningwood, but we had tons of lawyer jokes in case one ever showed up. Which they never did. Because we also have bouncers for that sort of thing, and the king has them all firmly bounced.”

  With a nod of understanding, Tempest said, “Well, my father is a sentient, meat-eating tree who sold me to a demigod, and after a few hundred years of washing his socks, I was released through a single conversation with a lawyer. No fancy carriage, no piles of gold, and he wouldn’t even accept payment. He was just a halfling who hated injustice. If not for his kindness, I would still be in a tree house in the Pruneshute Forest, carrying platters of bratwurst for Phlatulense and Skrophula, the pixies who rented a branch.”

  “I’m glad to know people like that exist,” Morgan said. “The halfling—not the pixies.”

  “We still write letters, Faucon and I. Or we did, when I was on land. He’s now a politician in the Skyr, if you can believe it.” She lowered her voice. “A little too obsessed with pigeons—and I mean literal pigeons, not in the sense of the slang term—but a very kind halfling. Oh! We’re here.” She leaned over the railing and shielded her eyes from the sun. But there was something very wrong.

  “Um, shouldn’t there be otters here?” Al asked. “Isn’t that the whole point?”

  But Morgan being Morgan, she was already clattering down the gangplank, the first to set foot on Otter Island. Or, as it appeared currently, Paucity of Otters Island.

  “We have otter-sign down here. There are empty clamshells everywhere, and all the rocks are oily,” Morgan called from the shore. “But there is indeed a distinct dearth of otters.”

  As if on cue, there was a great purring sound from the hold, and a veritable tide of wriggling brown bodies busted through the trapdoor and galumphed sinuously onto the deck. The romp of otters lived up to its name as they wiggled and chittered and scurried down the gangplank and onto the rocky isle, swarming around Morgan and picking up clamshells as if inspecting a new house they were thinking about buying.

  “Could ye not stop them?” Captain Luc wailed. “If therrrre be no otterrrrrs on Otterrrr Island, maybe dangerrrr still lurrrrks about?”

  Old Milly Dread lurched up from the hold, covered in otter paw prints and looking even more bedraggled than usual. “Couldn’t stop ’em, Cap’n!” she wheezed. “They gone wild! The churls have gone wild!”

  Feng stepped beside Tempest, and Luc fluffed his feathers in annoyance. “Can’t help things as don’t wish to be helped,” he grumbled.

  “Well, some creatures are pure instinct,” Tempest reminded him. “They know home when they see it, I suppose.” And the otters did indeed look very at home as they gamboled in the surf, diving and splashing and flapping their feet as they floated on their backs while holding hands.

  “Speakin’ o’ home, and seein’ as how therrrre’s no way to get the silly beasts back on the ship, we’ll be shoving off to Bustarrrrdo next, lass. And you’ll be leaving us?”

  Tempest was gratified by the disappointed tone in his voice, and she smiled; it was nice to be wanted, even if she was terrible with knots. “That’s the plan,” she said. “Although it’s been a lovely trip, and I’m so glad I got to play at being a pirate for a while.”

  At that, Luc’s feathers went to max ruffle, and he flapped his wide wings and pinned her with a vicious glare. “You’ve not been playing at being one o’ us! If you do yourrrr job on the pirrrrate ship, you’rrrre a pirrrrate thrrrrough and thrrrrough! It’s a mindset, not a carrrreerrrr! And you’ve got the potential!”

  The captain cawed, settled down, and softly apologized to Feng for accidentally whapping him upside the head with his wings. He then returned his one eye to Tempest.

  “What I mean to say, lass, is that you’ll always be welcome to rrrride on The Puffy Peach.”

  Overcome with feeling and unable to hug a parrot of authority, Tempest could only nod and look down, one finger absentmindedly rubbing the spot of bark she’d earned healing old Cappy. Since she’d been on the ship, no one had made any reference to her healing skills, and she wasn’t sure if it was because they didn’t know much about dryads, because they assumed she was a human with an insane wig collection, or because Luc had threatened their lives, the crusty sweetheart.

  “Thank you for everything,” she finally said. “It’ll definitely be hard to leave.”

  With a grunt, Luc steered Feng away, right as Morgan bounded back onto the ship with Otto still wrapped around her neck.

  “Well, the otters seem settled, although Otto refuses to leave me. I kept putting him on the ground, and he would just claw his way up again.” She patted the otter absentmindedly, and he purred. “They certainly don’t sense any danger here. But I found this.”

  The object Morgan held up looked a bit like a battered old hat that several otters had tried to either kill or mate with. It was full of holes, scratched near to death, and very moist. A tiny patch inside read only ANG.

  “What do you think it is?” Tempest asked.

  “A hat that several otters have tried to either kill or mate with. But with everything else we’ve learned, I can only assume…that the Mutae Mercantile Association otternapped them to turn them into EATUM. And one of those MMA agents left his hat behind.”

  “Then we can’t leave our otters here! What if the MMA comes back? The poor things!”

  Morgan tossed the scrap of a hat overboard, and they watched several otters give it come-hither looks.

  “We can’t make them leave. This is their home. We just have to get to Mack Guyverr and stop whoever’s in charge, so the otters can safely live out their lives here, where they belong.” She cocked her head. “And maybe we should get them a few more hats. They, uh, really seem to like hats. I don’t know if it’s the soaked-up scalp sweat or the hair grease or what.”

  The crew pulled up the gangplank, and Tempest and Morgan watched Otter Island, once again replete with otters, recede into the distance. The otters did indeed look much happier than they had been while trapped on the ship, frolicking and fishing and selecting their clamshells with infinite care. That task over, Tempest went to the ship’s prow and squinted. There was an expanse they had to cross, and parts of it were deep enough to allow cavemouths to swim up underneath them. But Captain Luc said it was rare for ships to be eaten in the southern reaches of the sea and that the cavemouths liked to feed up by the Proudwood Lighthouse since it was more of a bottleneck and the traffic was more reliable. That did not prevent the entire crew from clenching every sphincter they possessed for several days of sailing until Captain Luc declared them safe. They could see the coastline up ahead, and with it, Bustardo. Tempest just knew that she would feel at home there, as the otters did on their island, although she didn’t know that there was anything she liked as much as they liked old hats.

  * * *

  “Are you sure you have everything you need?” Morgan asked the next morning at dawn.

  Tempest looked out at the bustling city of Bustardo and took a deep breath.

  “I don’t have much. And the town will have everything
else. Luc gave me my wages. He didn’t have to, but he did.” She jingled the fickels in her coin pouch. “Although he did dock me half a fickel for tying bad knots. He said I was the least knotty nymph he everrrr knew.” Her smile started to wobble into tears, and Morgan put a hand on her shoulder.

  “You’re going to do great,” she said, every word full of conviction. “You’re going to make great friends, live in a cool dorm room, study amazing subjects, ace your tests, and become the best lawyer in Pell.”

  Tempest looked past the busy docks to the twisty old city. On the other side of those crooked buildings was the ferry station that provided transportation across a wide lake, taking students to the enormously grand castle that housed the Bogtorts School of Law and Order.

  “I am going to do great!” Tempest felt hope lift in her chest. “I’m going to be a great lawyer.”

  “Don’t forget to write!”

  “Oh, I’m pretty sure you have to write, if you want to be a lawyer. Writs and things?”

  Morgan grinned. “I mean to us. To me. We’ll want to know how you’re getting on.”

  “Of course.” Tempest felt tears welling up again. “I hear Bustardo is known for their mail flamingos. They’re enchanted to deliver mail anywhere in Pell.” Her brow scrunched down. “Although you’d think that that would be preferable to the Pellican Postale Service, if it worked well. I mean, after you buy a flamingo, you don’t need to buy stamps, just shrimps. But I guess people need jobs more than flamingos do? Ah, well. I’ll find out soon enough and hopefully send you progress reports.”

  They had another clinging hug, and then Alobartalus was pumping her hand and wishing her well, and Vic was nervously handing her a folded piece of paper and a teacup and clopping to the other side of the deck to swab something with his rump turned.

  She walked down the gangplank, shoulders back, and felt the now-familiar pudding-like quiver of sea legs meeting solid ground. Once she was out of view of the ship, she unfolded the paper Vic had given her.

  Good lucke, it read in beautiful calligraphy. We will be rooting for ye! XO, Vic.

  Tempest cocked her head. Had the centaur asked someone else to write it for him? It definitely didn’t seem his style. And the teacup, painted with willow leaves and quills, held a beautiful tea cake decorated with a dainty briefcase made of modeling chocolate. When she turned to look at the ship, she saw the prow of The Puffy Peach but no sign of the centaur or any of her friends. They’d be shoving off later that night, and then she’d have to depend on some random flamingo to find them again.

  The cobblestoned streets of Bustardo proper were charmingly uneven and labyrinthine, with tall, colorful buildings and each new street or alley promising all sorts of wonderful things Tempest had never seen before. The Grey & Gray Cloak Cabinet called to her, and she wished she had the time to stop in at Bark Polishers Anonymous or taste the jiggling confections at the Lords and Ladles House of Aspic. Darling pushcarts sold flowers and churros and silver cups of punch, while gap-toothed waifs offered violets, matchsticks, or whispered directions to the nearest tooty bar. But before Tempest could commit to shopping, a flamingo swooped down low enough to fwap her in the back of the head with its gangling legs, and she hit the ground on her belly with a startled “Oof,” her hands flying up to protect her face. When she opened her eyes again, she found a sharp cream-colored envelope lying on the cobbles. In superlative calligraphy and a rich navy-blue ink, it read:

  Tempest Willow

  Halfway Down Blue Booby Ave.

  Lying on the Ground, Looking Silly and Unlawyerly

  She picked it up and stood, pulling her hood back over her hair and finding a shadowy alley to hide in while she figured out what was happening. Was someone playing a joke on her? Were the flamingos in Bustardo especially aggressive? Or was this just how mail worked here?

  Tempest cracked open the wax seal and read the letter inside.

  RE: TEMPEST WILLOW

  It is understood herewith that you expect to enroll at the Bogtorts School of Law and Order. Pursuant to Edict 179, you will require:

  One (1) set of school robes (all black, no tassels)

  Beginner’s package of textbooks from Quibble & Quarrel’s Booke Shoppe

  One of the following: Mail Flamingo (can be male or female); Emotional-Support Horse (max 36”, must wear diapers); Singing Crayfish (no pop music)

  Report to Dock 76.4 at exactly 12:21 P.M. today or you will be counted in absentia.

  Tempest looked at the sun and realized she would have to hurry. Slipping the letter into her cloak pocket, she walked up the street in a purposeful, lawyerly, unsilly way.

  As if the school administration had known the exact route she would take, she first encountered Madam Merkin’s House of Jerkins, where she was led to an orange crate sitting before a three-way mirror. An old halfling woman bumbled around her, measuring all sorts of things that had nothing to do with robes, such as the length of her nose and her ability to do a backbend.

  “A dryad,” someone said in very rude tones. “Bogtorts will let in anyone these days.” Tempest looked over to find that the next mirror station was taken up by a human woman who had pale skin, beautiful blond hair, and ice-blue eyes. She, too, was being measured for her robes.

  “Law is about equality, and I’m just as equal as you are,” Tempest said, holding up her chin.

  “Sure, until you get old and try to eat someone. So clever, how the law includes statutes protecting the rights of cannibalistic trees. Back home in Dower, we chop down willows before they can do anyone harm.”

  “That’s funny. Where I come from, we chop down nasty racists before they can do anyone harm.”

  With a mighty flounce, the woman hopped off her box and stuck her nose in the air, showcasing a wide array of pitch-black nose hairs, suggesting that the blond hair on her head was colored with magic or possibly several hours in a salon.

  “I’ll see you at school, then, I suppose,” the woman said. “If the Sifting Scarf even lets you in.”

  Before Tempest could ask what a Sifting Scarf was, the woman was gone, and Madam Merkin was handing her a heavy box tied with twine.

  The very next store was Quibble & Quarrel’s Booke Shoppe. Pushing through the door, Tempest found a bustling business with quaintly uneven wooden floors and bookshelves stretching up to the ceiling, which was hung with dozens of brass measuring scales. Inquiring at the front desk, she was given a large bundle of leather-bound books with gilt-edged pages, and Mr. Quarrel promised he’d have them sent directly to her room at the university.

  “But how will you know where my room is?” she asked.

  “Magic!” he warbled.

  “Really?”

  “No. We use indentured goblin servants.”

  Tempest deflated a bit and decided to carry her own books. It felt wrong, going to law school to help people while expecting someone else to carry her goods for her without getting paid.

  Now weighed down by two heavy boxes tied with yet more twine, she huffed and puffed uphill toward the last thing on her list. Pervin’s Pet Shoppe was intriguing to say the least, with wide windows cram-jammed with birds of all colors and sizes. Stepping within, Tempest was overcome with the dire stench of literal tons of animal excreta, plus the equally horrific odors of their various foods and unchanged water bowls. She passed a seething, muddy vat of crayfish, each singing its heart out and making her wish she’d bought the Easy-Hear No-Fear Earmuffs that Madam Merkin had urged on her for a ridiculous upcharge. She didn’t even venture toward the corner where the miniature horses waited, knee-deep in emotional-support plops.

  No, she went straight to a display of flamingos, anxious to feel that heart tug that would suggest she’d found the flamingo meant just for her. From far away, the flamingos were
a shifting panorama of shivering pink, but up close, they were a mess of neuroses. Feathers plucked here and there, eyes emitting green gunk, beaks rimmed with gummed specks of paper and rogue stamps. She stretched out her hand to the most healthy- and friendly-looking flamingo, and it bit her finger hard enough to draw blood.

  Her stomach churning, Tempest read through her letter again and was disturbed to notice that the wording had changed. It now said:

  One of the following is required of all students, because only weirdos don’t want pets: Mail Flamingo (can be male or female); Emotional-Support Horse (max 36”, must wear diapers); Singing Crayfish (no pop music)

  Tempest swallowed hard. If she couldn’t even pet the flamingo in the pet shop, how was she supposed to keep it as a pet? Did they sell flamingo cages? Should flamingos be kept in cages at all? Could flamingos perhaps be crate-trained? But she was determined to go to school and to fit in there, so she walked out of the shop ten minutes later leading the beautiful but angsty flamingo on an expensive rhinestone-bedecked leash and carrying another twine-tied box of various flamingo foods, treats, water softeners, vitamins, and feather unguents. She was starting to get a twine rash.

  It took some time, tugging her recalcitrant flamingo through the heavy crowds and up the street to the ferry station. She ended up using up all her flamingo treats, and the darned thing, which she’d named Mingo, did insist on pecking her with its pointy beak every time it decided it required another treat. The ferry station was even more heavily crowded than the streets, and Tempest was more tired than she’d been in months and couldn’t wait to sit down. School shopping, she realized, was a hundred times harder than being a pirate.