The four officers raced across the room, their monkeys again blocking bullets with a feeble, futile, half-hearted "eek," of protest. Then they moved into the long, narrow banquet hall, dominated by the fully laden banquet table, whose occupants were arching their necks to observe the dinner show next door.
"Where are we running to?" asked young Hayl.
"Where isn't important," answered Fielder, "from is what matters."
They entered the dining room just as the inn's entrance door opened up and Aunt Madelia's reinforcements finally arrived.
Their monkeys sat backwards on their shoulders, ready to block incoming fire. Fielder and Melville jumped onto the table and ran along it, stepping on hands and plates, and trailing apologies and a few cautionary gunshots to their rear, "_____!-_____!" Broadax and Hayl ran straight underneath the table, barely ducking as Broadax's monkey dismounted and scampered along beside her, stepping on toes and not bothering at all to apologize. The captain and his first mate jumped down at the other end, joined by their midshipman, marine officer, and her monkey. They raced through the kitchen and out into the alley.
"Now there's something I thought I'd never see," said one old retired Westerness navy officer, putting down his silverware and turning to his dinner companion as Fielder and Melville thundered past.
"Wot's 'at?" replied his friend, a crusty old retired marine NCO, as he set his tipped wine glass back up and reached for the bottle.
"Those new .45 autos. I thought they'd never get them into service," the old navy officer replied, handing his wine glass over to be filled. "I'm happy to see that they seem to be working well."
As they raced down the alley Fielder asked, "Anyone know where this alley goes?"
"It goes away from all them people wats chasin' us!" answered Broadax. "An' away from yer crazy gurlfriend!"
"Good, good! In that case, I like this alley."
They cut around a corner, and ducked into the alley's alley. Then they froze, motionless and panting. Their wool dress uniform jackets looked good, but that was about all you could say for them on a warm night like this. After all the excitement and exertion they were now wearing several pints of cold, clammy water. Hayl felt an additional discomfort and humiliation as the contents of his bowel and bladder sloshed around in his boots.
"Oh man. Ohmanohman," gasped Fielder, starting to slide into a funk now that the impetus of danger was over. Glossing over the fact that it was his ex-girlfriend who had tried to kill them, he began to vent. "He takes us halfway across the galaxy, desperate battles at every turn, then, when we are finally safe, he gets us into one more battle, with our allies!"
"Yeah!" whispered Broadax, with fond admiration. "Excitin' stuff does happen around our cap'n, eh?"
"One of my favorite writers put it something like this," Fielder muttered in reply. " 'If complete and utter chaos were lightning, then he'd be the sort to stand on a hilltop in a thunderstorm wearing wet copper armor and shouting "All gods are bastards.' " Find anything to eat?"
"Aye, I grabbed a nice bit o' meat, ripe off the bone, wot seemed ta dropped down inta a feller's lap," she said, holding out her hand-ax with a large chunk of ham firmly impaled on it. "And ye?"
"Leg of . . . beef I think. The owner seemed to have lost his appetite. Bit heavy-handed on the sauce though."
"Mmeephk," contributed Broadax's monkey, holding sausages in its mouth and three hands, and a bullet-riddled belaying pin in another, as it used its four remaining legs to scamper back up on Broadax's back. Once there, it kindly handed a sausage over to the bewildered, reeking Hayl.
Young Hayl looked at them in wonder. He didn't think it was natural to worry about food when you're being shot at. Certainly his reaction, and the response of many individuals in similar circumstances, took place at the other end of the digestive tract. But these were veterans of many battles. They were warriors who could take a larger view of things. He even understood that they were doing these things to impress each other. Certainly he was impressed. The one acted like he was timid, but it was timid like a timber wolf. The other tried to make people think she was crazy, but it was crazy like a fox. And the captain tried to be calm, but he was calm like the sea.
"Here," said Melville absently, handing a lit cigar to Broadax, "only slightly used I think."
"Hot damn!" she said, taking the pilfered stogie lovingly.
"Daniel," said Melville, "I fired most of one full magazine in the initial barrage, another in the retreat. I'm pretty much down to one mag. How about you?"
"Yesh shir," Fielder replied through a mouthful of beef, "shame here, and my back-up gun is empty. Damn," he added, swallowing his mouthful and continuing in a reflective, muttered monologue, "I knew two extra mags wasn't enough. If you carry a gun, people call you paranoid. That's ridiculous. If I have a gun, what in the hell do I have to be paranoid about? If I carry more than two extra magazines, now then you know I'm worried. Grandma BenGurata always told me, 'There are three things in life you can never have too much of. Money, good looks, and ammunition.' But then, that's another reason why a handgun is better than a woman. Your handgun will stick with you, even if you're out of ammo."
Melville turned to Broadax and commented, "Speaking of someone sticking with you, nice job tonight. I didn't even know you had that little ax."
"It's like Mr. Fielder an' 'is handguns, sir," she replied with a smile and a blissful puff of cigar smoke. "A girl can't have too much cutlery."
They jumped as two figures silently materialized from the darkness beside them. "It's Westminster and Valandil," came a low voice. A voice they were very happy to hear.
"Lady Elphinstone sent us," continued Valandil quietly. "She said it looked as though a run-in with thy future in-laws was in the offing."
"In-laws? Dear Lord, that's right. If I were to marry Princess Glaive, those two demented aunts would be my in-laws! After tonight I'm having second thoughts about having anything to do with that crazy family."
"Aye," said Fielder quietly, "well said, sir. The better part of valor and all that. Stick with your pistol. After all, a handgun will function normally every day of the month."
"Aye," said Melville as they began to move quietly down the alley and away from the recent battle. "Perhaps it's all for the best. Damn I'm tired." It had truly been a roller coaster of a day.
"Yes, sir," drawled Westminster with a flash of white teeth. "Ah must agree completely with Mister Fielder. Women are far more trouble than they're worth, and your handgun won't mind if you go right to sleep after you've used it."
* * *
As they approached the Ship—their only real refuge, if even that was truly safe—Fielder conducted a quiet monologue. "In truth, we're all a little bit 'Hoka.' That's the genius of that genre. In our own minds, we are all playing little roles based on our favorite mythos, with ourselves as the heroes. You guys are trying to convince yourselves that you're living in the Tolkien mythos, but after tonight I'm not sure that's the right one."
"Aw, damn ye, don' say it," snarled Broadax through her cigar. "I wus jist gettin' ta like ye a little."
"Face it, you're a character in an entirely different kind of story. One word: Pratchett!"
"Nooo!"
"Leave her alone, Daniel," said Melville absently. "And see if we can get someone to tend to young Hayl here."
Hayl stumbled along beside them, bewildered and confused, still holding a sausage in one hand, and clutching at his slimy trousers with the other.
As they stood at the gangplank, Melville knelt in front of little Hayl and looked him in the eye, "You did well, boy. I'm proud of you, you kept alert, you didn't panic. The things that happened to you, and the way you responded are normal. We've all been there."
"Welcome ta the service of Her Royal Majesty, the Queen of Westerness," said Broadax kindly, turning her back on Fielder and pointedly ignoring him. "How's it feel ta be a sailor, lad?"
"Kinda crappy, ma'am," sniffed little Hayl, tears running down hi
s face.
"You get used to it," said Fielder, always pleased to find someone more miserable and frightened than himself. . . .
Chapter the 17th
True Thomas
True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;
A ferlie he spied wi' his e'e;
And there he saw a ladye bright
Come riding down by the Eildon Tree.
Anon.
Lieutenant Thomas Melville waited in the Royal Glen. It was a kind of park beneath the trees where the royalty had their flets. He was seated on a patch of moss, with his back against the broad brown bole of an immense tree. There were no medium sized trees here, nor small trees. Just ancient forest giants arching far overhead, and moss and ferns below.
It was hard to relax after the activities of the previous day. He'd come with Ulrich and a few marines, all of them armed, in case Aunt Madelia decided to come back for a second helping. The invitation that Princess Glaive sent him got him into the park, but Ulrich and his guards had to wait outside with the Royal Sylvan Guards. So he was alone, if you didn't count his monkey and his .45, both of which felt comforting.
He contemplated the worth of his many victories. Analyzing the cost. The scars. The deaths. The loss of innocence.
What a price he had paid. Mostly lonely, seldom alone. Always alert, ever vigilant. Because if he wasn't vigilant, if he wasn't ready, then his Ship, his men, all that he loved, could die in an instant.
He had traveled far since that landing on Broadax's World. So very far. War changes people. Sometimes it changes them into dead people. For those who live, war can fill the holes in men's hearts. Sometimes the pieces were good, sometimes bad. One way or another, some of the gaps in his soul were filled. But he knew the puzzle was yet to be completed. He lacked the final piece. Was she the piece that would fill the void in his soul? He was cynical, suspicious. Above all, he would not be manipulated.
He waited for a princess, but was she his princess? He surveyed his outer perimeter. How had she entered? Smiles and warmth. Not with me you don't. He had no patience with triviality.
He heard her coming. First a breath, then a whisper. Tinkling. No, chiming. A mellifluous ringing of many, tiny, perfect bells.
Then she came into view, riding down the forest trail. Princess Glaive.
She was riding sidesaddle atop her horse, a great hairy creature bedecked with bells that called to the forest like a chorus of angels. Her strawberry blond hair, strands of copper and gold, flashed in a brief flicker of sunlight. She was garbed in her traditional green, with black velvet trim and a yellow sash.
Her skirt was o' the grass-green silk,
Her mantle o' the velvet fyne;
At ilka tett o' her horse's mane,
Hung fifty siller bells and nine.
The forest was a verdant cathedral overhead. Lit like emerald stained glass, with speckles of sky blue and vivid rainbow flecks where birds fluttered. Their throats echoed the call of her horse's bells.
No. Not a horse. As she grew near, close inspection revealed that she was mounted atop a dog. A great, hairy, lap-tongued beast that proceeded to stride up and baptize Melville into the universal church of the happy dog.
"Eemph?" said his monkey as the dog dedicated the full attentions of its vast, pink, sopping salute to the monkey. The little creature would have been lifted from Melville's back except that it gripped tight to his wool uniform jacket with all eight hands.
Melville stood, shoving aside the dog's massive head, looking up at the princess.
Eyes aglow, she looked down at him. So diminutive, yet she knew no fear.
Their eyes locked. He raised the alarm. Defenses manned.
She stormed his defenses like the hosts of heaven. As a smitten man is wont to do, it seemed to him that she was sent from above.
He dropped to his knee with a self mocking smile and reached up to take her hand. "My lady, you are surely heaven sent."
True Thomas he pu'd aff his cap,
And louted low down on his knee:
"Hail to thee, Mary, Queen of Heaven!
For thy peer on earth could never be."
But was he truly in love? Or was he being beguiled, manipulated?
"Nay, True Thomas. I am but a Sylvan princess, come as my grandfather's herald."
There was a thrill of eldritch wonder when he heard her call him "True Thomas." Wait a minute, he asked himself. How'd she get inside my poem?
"O no, O no, Thomas," she said,
"That name does not belang to me;
I'm but the Queen o' fair Elfland,
That am hither come to visit thee."
His poetry had always provided him with a frame of reference. For some people there was background music or a theme song playing in their minds. For him it was poetry that provided his theme. Now it seemed as though she'd joined him in "his" poem. As if she'd tuned in to his mind and started speaking to him at that level. Was it empathy or was he being manipulated?
It was as though a lonely man played solitaire in an empty room for his entire life, then suddenly someone sat down and played the game against him. Against him? Or with him? A partner, or an opponent? That was the question.
"What word from the king, fair herald?" he asked, standing up shakily, still holding her hand.
"Lift me down from my steed, Thomas, and I shall apprise thee of deeds done and offers made." Then she slid down to dismount. He reached up and caught her by the hips, setting her down on the ground, light as the frothy swirl of silk that enveloped her.
Her mount turned its head to her and she pushed it away. "Be off with ye, Daisy."
"Daisy?"
"Aye," she said, watching fondly as the dog circled twice and lay down, scratching behind one huge, floppy ear, "she is a great hairy beaste, but I do love her. And now," she continued, looking up into Melville's face as she stood before him, "Thou must know that the Westerness ambassador encountered an accident on his way home last night. A distinctly Sylvan style of accident. Alas, he died of terminal stupidity. 'Tis the only universal capital crime. As always, the judgment was immediate, and final. There was no appeal."
Melville was suddenly gripped with amazement and horror. She looked so beautiful and innocent standing here in the peaceful forest. It was disconcerting to hear this seemingly gentle creature tell him so lightly, so blithely, of the diplomatic dispatch of an ambassador.
" 'Tis truly fortunate that the sad little man refused to allow his guards to be armed. It would have been a shame to have to kill them. They tried manfully to defend him, even though they despised him. What magnificent warriors you do craft in that vast star kingdom of yours, my Thomas."
He could read between the lines. Incessant could well have tried to confront the Sylvan king. In his madness and self-righteous indignation the little mouse might have tried to beard the lion. And he'd been crushed without hesitation. Truly these were alien peoples. He reaffirmed his determination to maintain his distance, to resist her wiles, as she continued.
"O Thomas," she said as she reached out and took his hand. Perhaps she understood some of what was going on in his mind. "My grandfather would not have had it happen thus. But the ambassador's manner was intolerable! In their anger, I fear that some of the King's Own Bodyguards took offense and killed him out of hand. Needless to say, their lives will be forfeit should Westerness demand it."
"Aye," he replied, for what more could you say. The Sylvan king killed the Westerness ambassador, and now he offers the lives of his bodyguards as repayment. Well, no one would miss Sir Percival Incessant, who, in the end, didn't live up to his name. And sometimes there was something to be said for the Sylvans' straightforward approach to life. "I'd guess that Westerness response depends on who writes the reports."
"Aye, indeed, Thomas," she said, nodding her pretty head soberly as she stood looking up at him, now pressing his hand with both of hers. "The ambassador's report had not yet been written. Thou art the senior naval officer, and as the military attac
hé Colonel Hayl is the senior member of the embassy. 'Tis thy report, and his report that shall be sent to Westerness. However, Sir Percival did write orders dispatching you to duty on the far side of the Westerness star kingdom. The fool. The only Westerness Navy Ship on this side of the Grey Rift, and he would send thee to the far side of the galaxy for ignominious duty. But, Thomas, 'twas written, 'twas seen and known by all, and it cannot be changed. Colonel Hayl believes that to change the order would be to exceed his current mandate and he cannot help us there. He says that if thou art to remain under Westerness authority, thou must go."
If I remain under authority. Is that where this is headed? Maybe Hayl can't change it, but maybe the king wants it to stay that way so that I'm faced with this dilemma and will rebel. Will I?
"Aye, my lady. Thus were deeds done, and they cannot be undone. You spoke also of offers made?"
"Sit next to me upon yon mossy bower, and I shall tell thee, Thomas."
He unbuttoned his jacket and spread it across the moss for her to sit upon. She watched with her head canted quizzically, and then laughed a clear, ringing laugh as she sat upon it. "Dear Thomas, we wear green to be one with our forest, to recline and repose without care. Now thou wouldst interpose thy jacket betwixt the Sylvan princess and her forest. Thou art truly dear and charming."
Then she took his hand and continued. "Now, Thomas, the first part of the offer is from me, not my grandfather. I offer thee my kiss. For if thou wouldst kiss me, I know that thou shalt be mine. I will not require it of ye, thou shalt not be bound, but I know that thou shalt desire to be mine."
Melville looked at her with wordless confusion.
She smiled and stroked his hair. "Thou knowest not our ways, my Thomas, so I shall spell it out. First ye must know that we are sorry for what my Aunt Madelia did last night. She is an eccentric woman."
Eccentric! he thought, So that's what they call it.
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