by Tom Holt
“Let me stop you there,” Buttercup said firmly, lifting the cloth off the top of her basket. “Now, we both know you’re not really a little old lady, in fact you’re a horrible, smelly, incurably stupid wolf, and this can only turn out one way. Unless,” she added brightly, “we find a way to break the mould, overcome the limitations of our stereotypes and work together to resolve this situation so it doesn’t end in blood on the grass. So,” she went on, as the wolf made a faint whimpering noise, “in this basket I’ve got a bouncy yellow ball, a rawhide bone, a soft toy that goes squeak when you chew it and a generous helping of Doggybix Chicken Crunch. And,” she added, “a hatchet. So, it’s up to you. Which is it going to be?”
“Um,” said the wolf helplessly. “All the better to see you with, my—”
“Oh come on,” Buttercup snapped, grabbing the bouncy yellow ball and throwing it at the wolf, who ducked. “Don’t you understand? You don’t have to say it. We can—”
“Yes I do,” mumbled the wolf.
“—dawn of a new era in human/wolf, sorry, what did you just say?”
“I got to,” said the wolf. “Not up to me, see? Got to do as I’m told or it’s—”
“Yes? What?”
Painfully and carefully, the wolf mimed a ferocious human scowl. “Bad,” it said, in a voice two octaves deeper than usual. “Bad boy.”
Buttercup looked at it. “If you don’t say the words, someone will be cross with you?”
The wolf nodded eagerly. “Very cross. Bad boy. All the better to hug you with, my dear. Wrf.”
“Who’ll be cross with you?”
The wolf backed away, shaking its head. “Can’t tell. Mustn’t tell. Very bad.”
“Look, you stupid creature, I’m trying to help—” Too late. She must’ve got too close and triggered some instinctive reflex; the wolf sprang, missed her as she swerved out of the way, and landed in a heap on the ground with Buttercup’s axe head socket-deep between its eyes.
“Dammit,” Buttercup yelled, and gave the dead wolf a kick in the ribs with her dainty little foot. Then she discovered that a tear had somehow found its way onto her cheek. She wiped it off with her sleeve. “Damn,” she said, and put the stuff back in her basket.
Quite a good haul from the cottage, including a fine electroplate teapot and five spoons, a set of lace doilies and a wooden carving of a pig inscribed A Present from Innsbruck. She dumped them in her basket and slammed the door behind her.
“Buttercup? Are you all—?”
“Not now, William. Just not now, all right?”
The woodcutter’s head drooped. “Sure,” he said. “I was just passing, and I thought—”
“Go away.”
He looked so sad as he plodded away, trailing his axe behind him through the leaf mould, that she called him back. He bounced towards her like a happy dog. “Yes?”
“Here.”
His eyes shone. “For me?”
“Well, yes.”
“Hey. Um. What is it?”
Buttercup forced a smile. “If you squeeze its little tummy,” she said, “it makes a squeaking noise.”
“Hey. Oh, wow, so it does. This is so cool.”
“That’s fine, William. You enjoy it. Somewhere else, please.”
“Thanks, Buttercup, you’re the greatest.”
She waited until he’d gone, and the squeaking noises had been subsumed into the gentle murmur of the forest. Then, from the bottom of her basket, she took a small grey rectangular object, like a thick, undersized roof tile. You, she thought, it’s all your fault.
Quite why she was so sure, she had no idea. But it was so obvious. Something was wrong, so very wrong; the world can’t possibly work like this, it’s insane. And the grey tile thing clearly wasn’t from around here, she had no idea what it was for or even what it was made of–not wood, not metal, not clay or bone or anything like that–but, equally clearly, it was for something, because a hell of a lot of work had gone into making it, not to mention a hell of a lot of cleverness—
Too much cleverness, in her opinion. She hadn’t shown it to anyone, needless to say. She knew exactly what the reaction would be. That’s a wizard thing, it must belong to Him, don’t touch it, you’ve got to give it back. Fair enough; except she happened to know that it didn’t belong to the wizard. It belonged to the prince, the handsome but incredibly irritating young man who, in his spare time, when he wasn’t hunting, practising falconry and chatting up gormless young peasant girls, ran the country. Was, not to put too fine a point on it, the Government. Was therefore at least nominally responsible for how things were run around here. Whose fault, therefore—
She shook her head. Much as she’d like to believe it, she couldn’t. He just didn’t look the type, somehow. Not that she had the first idea what The Type was supposed to look like; just not that.
In the distance she could hear music; the Elves, most likely, doing whatever it was Elves did. Nobody knew, far less cared. That, of course, was a large part of the problem. Nobody gave a damn, so long as things went on more or less the same way as they always had–her father and uncles, planing down trees into forty-foot planks; the woodcutters, felling lumber and killing wolves; the Elves, floating around being ethereal and snarky. Spring flowers all year round. The occasional earthquake. The way things had always been, as long as anyone could remember. The way things should be. Maybe.
Behind her, she could hear the sound of galloping hooves. She frowned, and started to count under her breath. Seven, eight, nine, thump. She nodded, turned round and walked back along the path.
“Ah,” she said. “I’ve been looking for you.”
He was lying on his back, directly underneath the overhanging branch that everyone else who rode through the forest knew all about. Close nearby, a milk-white horse was nibbling primrose leaves.
“Ooh,” he moaned. “My head.”
“Should’ve looked where you were going,” she said crisply. “Now then, about the balance of payments deficit—”
“Help me up,” he said pitifully. “Please.”
She grabbed his hand and yanked him upright. He winced and flexed his arm. “Thanks,” he said.
“Don’t let your horse eat that, it’ll get colic. I’ve been thinking, and though every single wolf I’ve killed in the last six months has had a teapot and a big box full of tea, nobody around here grows the stuff, the climate is completely wrong, so presumably it’s all imported. Which in turn implies—”
“Tea?”
“Yes, you know, tea. Just add boiling water and serve. Except, if you’re a wolf, how can you drink the stuff? Can’t hold the cup, can’t get a claw through that little itsy-bitsy handle. So why—?”
“You’ve got tea in this godforsaken country?”
“I just said so, didn’t I?”
The prince looked stunned. “I asked the palace kitchens, and they looked at me as if I was mad.”
“Ah,” said Buttercup, “but you’re not a wolf, are you? That’s my point. My dad and my uncles don’t use the stuff, the woodcutters don’t drink it, and neither do the little old women gathering firewood, the poor but honest shoemakers, the Elves, the goblins or the dwarves. And that’s about it, there isn’t anybody else.”
“Yes, there is—” the prince started to say; then a thoughtful look passed over his face and he fell silent.
“So,” Buttercup went on, “obviously it’s worth someone’s while to freight in tea all the way from Mysterious Cathay or wherever the hell it comes from, just for the wolf market. And, since the wolves don’t make anything or perform any useful services they can provide to the tea importers by way of exchange, presumably they pay for the tea in hard currency. Which means, “she went on, after a quick, deep breath, “you’ve got large amounts of cash leaving the country but no significant exports, which must mean that any day now you’re going to have one mother of an exchange rate crisis, leading to massive devaluation of the florin, galloping inflation and fiscal collap
se. Well? Are you listening to me?”
“The wolves have tea?” the prince said. “Do you think they’d sell me some?”
Buttercup grabbed him by the ear and pulled his head down until they were nose to nose. “Yes,” she said. “The wolves have tea. And it’s wrong.”
“Um.” He tried pulling away gently, but she had a thumb and forefinger of iron. “Look, would you mind not—? Thank you. Ow.” He straightened up and took a long step back. “No one told me,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re supposed to be in charge. You ought to—”
“Yes,” he said gently. “I know. And I’m trying.”
The anger seeped out of her like oil from a Land Rover. “Try harder,” she said, but her voice was practically the coo of a dove. “And if you want tea, I’ve got some.”
“You have?”
“Plenty.”
“Good God. Would you possibly consider—?”
“Two florins a pound.”
“Done.”
She blinked twice. Two florins. She believed in the existence of two florins in the same way as she believed in the sea: never seen it, never expected to, just sort of took it on trust that it was out there somewhere. “Um, all right. How about a nice teapot?”
“Excuse me?”
“To make the tea in. Tea’s not much use without a teapot, is it?”
“Er, no, I suppose not. You’ve got a—”
With a shy smile she threw the cloth off her basket. “There you go,” she said. “Solid, um, silver, not a mark on it, five shillings and I’ll throw in the spoons. Well?”
He shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “Um, thank you.” His hand was feeling for a pocket that wasn’t there. Then he remembered, and took the purse from his belt. “Now, just a—”
“The florins are the thin shiny yellow ones,” Buttercup said helpfully.
“Ah, yes, right. I knew that.”
“Of course you did. The shillings are the slightly thicker silvery ones with the thistle on the back.” And your face on the front, she didn’t add. “So, five of those ones and two of those ones, all right?”
“Sure. There you go. Sorry, you were saying.”
“Was I?”
“About the wolves. And the balance of payments deficit.”
“So I was. Um.”
“And the answer to your question,” the prince went on, his hand tightening around the box with the tea in it like a vice, “is that we get large amounts of hard currency from the wizard in exchange for, well, stuff, so although there are localised imbalances in some sectors, overall there’s a slight net foreign exchange surplus which we’re applying towards regearing our sovereign debt position vis-à-vis King Mordak and the dwarves. Or at least,” he added ruefully, “that’s what they keep telling me. OK?”
She nodded. “Yes, fine.”
There was a yearning look on his face that would’ve melted a heart of stone. “You wouldn’t possibly have any coffee, would you?”
“Any what?”
“Ah. Never mind,” he said bravely, “tea’s just fine. All they’ve got up at the palace is either wine or beer, and I don’t really like any of that stuff. Gives me a headache.”
“The woodcutters make a sort of posset out of fermented birch sap,” Buttercup heard herself say. “Mind you, it’s not very nice.”
“It sounds horrible.”
“It is.” A long moment passed, silent apart from the distant violins of the Elves. “You said you were looking for me.”
“What? Oh yes.” He stopped and frowned. “What’s that awful noise?”
“Excuse me?”
“Over there somewhere. Sounds like—” He stopped dead and didn’t finish the sentence.
“Oh, that’s the Elves. They do that.”
“Really? Why?”
“We don’t like to ask.”
“Ah. Do they do it a lot?”
She nodded. “All day and all night. They do shifts. It’s cultural or something.”
She had a horrible feeling she was blushing, which was something she simply didn’t do. But then again, she’d never met anybody quite like him before, someone with money. It spoke to something deep inside her, and its voice couldn’t be stilled. One day her prince would come; she’d known that all along, resigned herself to it, built her entire life alongside it, like the people who build villages on the lips of dormant volcanoes. But, of all the things she’d expected or dreaded her prince would be, she never thought he’d be rich. Princes tended not to be, in these universally threadbare parts; probably because of the screwed-up economy and kingdoms dividing because of dragon slayers, and all that. You could tell them apart from the woodcutters by their white horses and the fact that their hand-me-down clothes were brighter colours and embroidered with frayed gold thread. This one, however, had a purse practically bursting with florins. That put a completely different complexion on it. She smiled.
“You wanted to see me about something,” she prompted.
“Yes, right.” The smile seemed to be causing difficulties with his speech, so she switched it off. “I was wondering.”
“Yes?”
“Can you cook?”
It took a moment for her mental spin doctors to swing into action. Then they assured her that honesty and down-to-earth practicality were refreshingly different, tending to reinforce the view that this prince wasn’t like the others. Which was a good thing. Even so. “Yes,” she said.
“Great. Can you do doughnuts?”
“Whatnuts?”
His face fell. “Bagels?”
“What’s a bagel?”
“Fried onion rings?”
A moment later, her hand hurt; a sort of stinging, burning sensation. She imagined it was worse for him, but she didn’t care. At least he’d shaved recently. Must be hell to slap stubble. “Ow,” he said. “Sorry.”
I just whacked my handsome prince across the face, she thought. My rich handsome prince. But there are limits. He was babbling apologies, something to do with not being from around here and not realising how strongly people felt. For pity’s sake, she thought; as though mere geography could make any difference. She grabbed her basket and was about to storm off when one of those annoying thoughts dropped into her mind, and she hesitated. She turned and looked at him.
“You don’t know, do you?” she said.
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t know. About—” She had to nerve herself to say it. “The O-R things.”
“Well, no. That’s what I just said. Clearly, I’m woefully out of touch with regional sensibilities.”
She made herself focus on the dear little gold discs in his purse, and took a deep breath. “Just so you won’t make the same mistake again,” she said. “We’re a pretty broad-minded lot around here, but food with a hole in the middle is out. Forbidden. Not something we even talk about. What’s the word I’m looking for? Taboo. OK?”
He looked curiously desolate, as if he’d just found out that the pile of brown stuff he’d just stuck his finger in wasn’t chocolate blancmange. “Any sort of food with a—?”
She nodded quickly. “Yes,” she said. “It’s anathema and an abomination and all sorts of other really nasty things beginning with A, and if you don’t want to have a thoroughly unpleasant encounter with a pitchfork, you won’t mention it again, ever. Got that?”
He nodded sadly. “Yup.”
“That’s all right, then.” It wasn’t, of course, but still. “So, cooking. Yes, though I say so myself, I’m not bad at it. Roasts, stews, good strengthening soups—”
“No, that’s fine,” he said, turning away. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
“Scrambled eggs on toast?”
“Really.” He fumbled for his horse’s reins. “And I didn’t mean to upset you like that. See you around.”
His foot was in the stirrup. The thought of all that money, on the point of riding out of her life for ever, tore her heart like rotten cloth. “I do a stonk
ing bread and butter pudding,” she called out, but he was already too far away to hear.
Fool, she thought; and then, meaning him, or me? Both, she decided. Him, well, because he was one. Her, because she’d just belted a man with all that money and driven him away because of some arbitrary old taboo that made no sense at all when you came to think about it dispassionately—
Food with a hole in it. Yuck.
She made a massive effort and stopped the squirm in its tracks roughly halfway down her spine. Why, she asked herself, why does the very idea of food with a − let’s not go there − make me want to throw up and then scrub every inch of my skin with sandpaper? And was it possible that somewhere, in a faraway land of which she knew nothing, there were people who didn’t see it that way?
She felt something in her left hand and opened it; two gold coins, five silver ones. Her running-away fund. For years, with every passing day, every slaughtered wolf, she’d dreamed about it, the moment when she’d have saved up enough money to leave, go away, go as far as she could get. Two florins; was there enough distance in the whole world to use up two florins? I can do it, she thought, I can go now.
And there was that voice again, nattering away in the vacant lot between her eyes and her ears; yes, but where? And what if you got there–Ultima Fule or Far-Distant Cathay–and it was just like here? Screwed up; weird; wrong. In Far-Distant Cathay, she had good reason to believe, there were great plantations where they grew tea for wolves, and where was the sense in that? And there seemed to be places–he came from one–where they did food with holes in, which was just gross. What if simply being somewhere else (being somewhere else without her two lovely florins, because she’d have spent them getting there) made no difference? That’s the problem with running away, said the little voice. No matter where you go, you have to take yourself with you; and if yourself is constitutionally incapable of leaving well alone and not worrying if the rest of the world is weirder than ferret ragout, where the hell is the point?
Get stuffed, little voice. You’ve done nothing but make trouble ever since I first heard you, and I’m not going to listen. I’ve worked really hard for this, and anywhere’s got to be better than here, and—