Heroes: A Raconteur House Anthology

by Honor Raconteur

  “Very well then, Mr. Barkvalve. But just so you know, Jebben. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I don’t want you to go.”

  Jebben held the barkvalve to the light. “It’ll be fine, Papa. I see the place. Can I go?”

  “Should he use the barkvalve or should you do it for him, Mr. Barkvalve?” The king’s voice trembled as he spoke.

  “He already knows how to use it,” said Twiggs. “Better, I think, that he do it.”

  Suddenly there was a commotion in the king’s main audience chamber. A loud voice demanded. “Take us to the king and that sneaky gnome or I’ll make you a head shorter.”

  “Yes, Jebben,” Twiggs said hurriedly, briefly forgetting the boy was royalty. “Go now! Before it’s too late.”

  The prince glanced at his father, who nodded. “Yes, go now, Jebben. Remember, you’re a gnome through and through.”

  Jebben smiled at his father and winked at Twiggs before squeezing the ends of the barkvalve and disappearing through a keyhole of light that momentarily illuminated the room and then vanished.

  In that precise moment the door was thrown wide and in strode three grollops. “What was that?” asked the smallest of the three. “Did someone just use a wayport? I know waylight when I see it.”

  Zizweck, Twiggs groaned. How did they find out so fast?

  Before the king could reply, Twiggs said, “Not a wayport, but a device I created.”

  “What kind of device?” asked Zizweck.

  “One that allows for travel anywhere that you’ve seen,” replied Twiggs.

  “Terrible, sneaky little gnome!” Zizweck’s eyes were menacing. “You will tell us everything, but not here. And why here? What business have you with the squatty king?”

  Twiggs wasn’t prepared for this conversation. He’d hoped never to have it. But now he had to think quickly. “You demanded the smartest engineers. After all of your questioning our intelligence, I figured I would prove it to you. So here I am, and unfortunately, here you are.”

  “The gnome is smart,” conceded Gleedge.

  “Smart, perhaps yes,” replied Zizweck, whose eyes never left Twiggs. “But he has not answered my question. He is feeling safer here, but here there is no safety. You will answer my question, little gnome. Whether here or at Sarking Wuld, it matters not to me. Perhaps we will take the king with us and have our speaking with him when you are visiting with Grazbosh or one of the other examiners.”

  Twiggs shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. The truth heard once should be enough.” He turned to the king. “I have to tell them. They will eventually wring it from both of us.”

  The king cringed. “Yes, Mr. Barkvalve. Tell them the truth.”

  “I used a device to travel here from Sarking Wuld. It’s not a wayport. It’s more than that. And it took me years to make it. But I gave it to the king’s son who used it to travel to the world of men. He has it with him.”

  “The world of men!” Zizweck’s eyes grew large. “Squatty king, why did you send your son to the world of men?”

  The king looked resolutely into the grollop’s eyes. His voice wasn’t bold, but his bearing was. “To protect him from what’s going on here.”

  “Hmm,” considered Zizweck. “So I’m to understand that you, little gnome, traveled here to show us how smart you are? And then you gave this precious device you created to your king’s son to protect him? How big of a fool do you take me for?”

  Zizweck walked around the table and toward Twiggs. “There are holes in your stories. Fill them in or there will be holes in you, little gnome, this king, and many other gnomes.”

  Twiggs rubbed his forehead with his hand. Could he really convince them that the story was complete? Zizweck was far from daft.

  “Is it so hard to grasp that I am loyal to my king and I didn’t want the only one of these devices in existence to fall into your hands? Is it so hard to understand that the king wanted to protect his son from the threat of your people so we sent him with it into the world of men? Would you, in all of your wisdom, have done differently?”

  Zizweck looked ready to throttle him. “Naughty, smart little gnome! You will make devices for us. Many of them. And you will show us how to create them. But you will not have years. No, I think not years. You will have a month to create the first one. And we will spur you in your efforts. Mark me in this, little gnome. If you delay, Grazbosh will help you to work faster, but that is not all. We have other ways of causing you to work with haste.”

  Zizweck didn’t have to say it. The grollops would start taking lives if he didn’t work fast enough. But at least Jebben had a month. Hopefully the boy was as a sharp as he seemed. Perhaps he would be a quick study and tracks and trains would start to populate the places that were now lost to them. Perhaps he would even find a solution to the grollops menace.

  Ah, but he was putting too much pressure on the lad. For now Twiggs had to keep his wits close and somehow keep the grollops appeased.

  “I will do as you ask,” Twiggs stated flatly. “I will not disappoint you.”

  “You had better not, little gnome. And if you manage to escape again, we will hang both of your friends at Sarking Wuld and then find more gnomes to hang. Do we understand one another, smart little gnome?”

  Twiggs met the grollop leader’s eyes, not entirely sure how to account for his courage. “Your expectations are quite clear, Grollop.”

  Zizweck turned to the king. “What is that you are drinking?”

  The king sighed in resignation, “Imperial Gold.”

  “Ale?” the grollop asked, his nose twitching.

  “Ale,” the king stated flatly.

  “We will take a barrel back with us. If we like it, perhaps we will allow you to supply us. Does this sound like a good arrangement, squatty king?”

  “I can only reply yes,” the king said miserably.

  “Good. Where is your servant? He will know where it is kept, yes?”

  “Sprog!” The king yelled. “Attend! Now!”

  The cup-bearer entered the room with his night cap and night shirt in complimentary disarray to one another.

  “Yes, sire?” he asked. Then he spotted the grollops and his eyes went wide.

  “Bring the casks of Imperial Gold from the storeroom. These creatures wish a sample of it to take with them. Be quick now!”

  Sprog was only too happy to leave the premises. Moments later, he and two guards carried a cask each of the ale. “This is all we have up from the cellar, sire.”

  “Good lad, Sprog.”

  The king turned to the grollops. “As you’ve requested.”

  The grollops scooped up the casks.

  “Come, little gnome. Your labors begin when we return to Sarking Wuld.”

  “Do you have a train here in the Dreggenfort?” Twiggs asked.

  “No little gnome, but we have a wayport.” Zizweck held up a silver disk with slits and indentations in it. “This one is not connected to a train. We have figured out some of your technology. But you deter me, little gnome. Can one travel through a wayport into the world of men?”

  “If we could,” replied Twiggs, “we would have made many such journeys.”

  Zizweck measured him for a moment. “Very well, little gnome. If you are lying, Grazbosh will take you apart piece by piece.”

  “I find it hard to work that way,” Twiggs said sarcastically.

  “We are not fools, little gnome. If you tell us the truth and give us what we want, and quickly, you may keep all of your fingers and toes. Otherwise, Grazbosh may require them of you.”

  “I’m very much attached to my fingers and toes,” Twiggs replied needlessly.

  “Let’s be off then,” Zizweck replied impatiently. “I expect your friends will be relieved to see you. They are hanging upside down in the Black Pens, but we can change that when you get back.”

  Twiggs cringed. Dewey was probably crying like a baby. “Very well, then. Yes, let’s make haste.”

 
; He moved around the table past the king to join the grollops. As he did so, the king’s considerable bulk blocked him long enough to take the other barkvalve and slip it into the side pocket of the king’s robe.

  The king nodded at him as he stood by Zizweck.

  Twiggs responded with a barely perceptible nod.

  “We will be seeing you again, squatty king,” declared Zizweck. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

  “I don’t doubt you will,” replied the king.

  Zizweck turned a switch on the wayport and aimed the light at his companions and Twiggs. A moment later they were traveling at wayport speed.

  They arrived at Sarking Wuld. The stink was unmistakable.

  “Grazbosh,” shouted Zizweck. “Cut the little gnomes down. Their slippery companion has returned.”

  In the pale light of the courtyard, Twiggs could see Dewey and Ogford trussed unceremoniously to a pair of X-shaped poles joined together.

  Both flopped to the earth with a groan.

  “Sorry, lads, I never meant for it to go like this,” said Twiggs.

  “Why’d you leave us, Twiggs?” asked Dewey as he rubbed the back of his neck.

  “You’ll know soon enough. You’ll know a lot of things soon enough.”

  “I have just decided that we need three of these devices in a month, smart little gnome. Three. Any deficiencies will be visited upon the heads of your companions. Those are my new terms.”

  Zizweck leered at Dewey and Ogford. “Are smart gnomes fast learners? I wonder?”

  “What’s he talking about, Twiggs?” asked Ogford.

  “I think we’re about to have our first lesson about it, Oggy.” Twiggs regarded Zizweck. “Where would you like for us to work? We will need sufficient light and a way to write many things down so that they may be learned.”

  “The gnome is giving orders now,” mocked Zizweck. “I suppose you will also need some Imperial Gold to help you think too.”

  Ogford perked up. “You have Imperial Gold with you?”

  “Why, yes, little gnome we do,” grinned Zizweck. He nodded toward the casks he and his companions carried. “But there is only enough for us to sample.”

  Ogford sighed. “I think more clearly with some ale in my belly.”

  “If you are still here in a month, perhaps then we will waste some Imperial Gold on you, gnome. For now, you are dead to your kind until you have proven yourself. And we don’t waste good ale on dead gnomes.”

  Vinkbort and Gleedge laughed appreciatively.

  “Where to, grollop?” Twiggs asked impatiently. “We’re wasting time.”

  “Your fervor is admirable, little gnome. You would do well to not lose sight of it.”

  Zizweck handed the cask of ale to Vinkbort. “Safeguard this or you will be hanging upside down.”

  Vinkbort chortled. “Always playing at being superior, Zizweck. You take care of your business and I will take care of mine.”

  Zizweck scowled at the larger grollop. “Come with me, the three of you. The next month of your life will either be a prelude to another month of your life or to your death.”

  Dewey groaned. “Twiggs, what have you gotten us in to?”

  “The fastest learning curve of your life, I expect.”

  “Great,” muttered Ogford.

  “Shall we just toss these two onto the scrap heap and go find two more?” Zizweck asked Twiggs.

  “No,” he replied. “Both of them are sharp and they’re gnomes through and through.”

  38 Berkeley Square, London

  Thursday, April 20, 1899

  I have, by virtue of arriving more than fashionably late, avoided the receiving line entirely. This is by design. I intend a more candid introduction to my host this evening once his obligations as father of the bride are discharged. As it is, I run a great risk in approaching him tonight, so I am content to play the patient guest and use the interim to gather allies to my cause: urgency in the long term, but patience in the short, as my king was wont to say. So, having handed my hat and cape to the earl's footman, I pause a moment at the garlanded balustrade to survey the battlefield below.

  A chamber orchestra plays something forgettably Viennese in one corner. At the far end of the ballroom, a few of the guests hover near the man-sized wedding cake, held at a polite distance by servants in eighteenth-century livery. Tables along the near wall display lavish gifts to the newlyweds arranged around a particularly ostentatious display of diamonds from the Prince and Princess of Wales. Otherwise, everywhere I look, I see the stiff upper lips and broken hearts of Lady Peggy's former suitors strewn about the ballroom and out onto the lawn, all seeking solace from the lesser flowers of British nobility.

  I do not wait long to descend the stairs after I am announced, only long enough for some of the earl's guests to look up since I have in mind to pique rather than to sate curiosity. I am but a baron in this grand assembly of nobility, but I am a mystery to them. So they appraise my bearing, my taste, and my place in the social register. Above all, they mark the brooch at my lapel in place of the expected flower, and they wonder. Wonder will lead them to gossip. By the time I speak to the earl, he will have heard all about me.

  “Ah, there he is, at last!” Admiral Sir Joseph Paterson waves to me. “Briton, dear boy! Thank goodness you are here,” he exclaims when I am nearly upon him. “I did not see you at the cathedral, and I was about to send my man for you.”

  “My apologies, Sir Joseph. London has come to a complete stop for this wedding. My carriage did not budge ten feet in an hour, and at last, I was obliged to walk.” I do not tell him that I had had no intention of setting foot in Westminster Abbey and only set out from my lodgings after I was certain the wedding was safely past. I walked, indeed, but just from the end of Berkeley Square, where my carriage let me out before taking its place amongst the rest to wait.

  I raise my hand in a salute to the admiral, but I catch myself. “Ah, forgive me, sir. Old habits, you know.”

  The gesture has the desired effect, and the old sailor beams. He claps a hand at my shoulder, and all is forgiven. “No harm done. It is I, after all, who should be saluting you. As to the wedding, lovely enough as these things go.” He shrugs and leans in conspiratorially. “Of course, if you've seen one wedding at Westminster...”

  “A Welshman?” An older man standing beside Sir Joseph, another admiral as it happens, lights an elegant Turkish pipe which draws my admiration at once. He does not raise his eyes to me, being intent upon his tobacco, but despite my best efforts, control of the conversation shifts inexorably towards him. The man's face is familiar, but I cannot place him.

  “Welsh by blood,” I reply, “but a Sussex man since birth, sir.”

  “Oh, I forget my manners!” Sir Joseph puts his hand on my arm and turns. “I confess I am a bit flustered in the presence of such bravery. Please forgive me. Meredith Adlington, Baron Briton, allow me to present Admiral Sir Nowell Salmon, Her Majesty's Admiral of the Fleet. Lord Adlington Briton is late of the Caroline under Captain Wiseman, and a fellow recipient of the Victoria's Cross, Sir Nowell.”

  Indeed, there it hangs upon his mess dress jacket, a Victoria's Cross dangling smugly from its dark blue naval ribbon. I manage to conceal my irritation. I try my utmost in life not to grant the gods more opportunity to vex me, but in my eagerness to engage the earl, I have overstepped, and the Old Ones in their mirth have placed before me a genuine recipient of the award which I affect. I can hear them chortling.

  “An honour, Lord Admiral.” I bow slightly.

  “Likewise, Lord M'redith Adlington,” he says, pronouncing my name in the Welsh way, which at once pleases and unsettles me. A man of lesser experience might take it for flattery, but I know it for a test. He could only have surprised me more if he had called me as my king did long ago: Morgetiud ap Aeddan.

  He examines my dark hair and blue-grey eyes, the youthful trim of my beard, the cut and fabric of my tailcoat, even the very bones of my face, as if he doubts th
at I am either a baron or a Welshman, much less a decorated naval officer. Indeed, he scrutinises every part of my person so intently that were I a maid, I should blush.

  “You seem young,” he says at last. As challenges go, this is but a feint, yet the blade is drawn.

  “You flatter me, Lord Admiral,” I smile. “I am older than I look and certainly older than you were when you earned your cross at Lucknow.” I bow again and let just the barest hint of boyish exuberance into my voice. “I confess, sir, I have followed your career with great respect and am struck nearly speechless to be in your presence.”

  “Nearly,” he growls at my parry and riposte. Thus do I learn he is immune to simple flattery, and in spite of the difficulties this poses for me, my admiration for him grows.

  He puts his pipe to his lips and looks closely at my brooch. He hopes to know it for a forgery, but the brooch is genuine, with a miniature of the Victoria's Cross at its centre. My agent purchased it a year ago from a widow in Gloucestershire, along with her late husband's actual medal and her silence. I was quite generous.

  “But you have me at a disadvantage, Lord Briton. I have been present for every Victoria's Cross awarded to sailors in the last forty years. All seven.” He looks up to see the effect of his words on me, but I show him nothing. “Yet I have never before today heard your name.”

  There it is, and not at all veiled. As direct a challenge as he would dare, under the circumstances. My heart pounds in my ears. If I cannot convince Salmon of my authenticity, I will lose far more than just my opportunity to speak with Rosebery.

  “Sir Nowell.” Paterson clears his throat, unsettled by Salmon's rudeness. “This is hardly––”

  “Extraordinary!” I say over him, looking between the two admirals. “Every recipient, even whilst you were in India and Africa.”

  The Admiral of the Fleet breathes fragrant smoke out through his whiskers like a hoary English dragon. “China and Japan, as well.”

  “And how auspicious for those graced with your presence.” I smile. “Would that I had been among them. I was obliged to receive my medal in a private audience, though I am pleased to say, still at Her Majesty's gracious hand.” I meet his gaze, letting him grasp my meaning before I go on. “Under the circumstances, you understand...”