by Liam Perrin
"I'm Philip son of Philip, and I request to be knighted."
Arthur nodded, "Any special talents? A matter of curiosity and convention of course, not a requirement."
"I'm terribly disadvantaged your majesty."
"Disadvantaged... as in unlucky?"
Philip nodded, smiling. Merlin looked skeptical.
Arthur looked at Merlin, then whispered something to him. "I'm thinking of a number Philip son of Philip, between one and ten. What is it?"
"Seven," said Philip.
Merlin lifted his great eyebrows and said, "That's the number the king told me he was going to be thinking. That seems pretty lucky to me."
"...On the other hand," said Arthur, intrigued, "if you were going to try to prove yourself unlucky, and you really were unlucky, you'd end up looking peculiarly lucky with each effort."
Merlin sat down on Arthur's throne and ordered some tea. Philip, who'd exuded an anxious kind of confidence before, started to look nervous.
Arthur continued, "If you were instead lucky and wanted to hide it for some reason, you'd show up looking unlucky on every test. The possibility remains that you're of average luck, claiming to be unlucky, and you just got lucky this once."
"We could ask him again," offered Merlin. It was clearly the last thing Merlin wanted to do.
"Yes, let's."
"Why don't we?" mumbled Merlin.
Arthur whispered a number to Merlin who actually brightened a bit then said, "Excellent choice sire. Another number between one and ten please Mister Philip son of Philip."
Philip answered immediately, "Eleven, sir."
"Extraordinary!" said Arthur.
Merlin's face fell. "That's the number," he said.
"Only someone very unlucky could have guessed that. Step forward young Philip."
Arthur drew Excalibur. Philip knelt, and Arthur said, "I dub thee Philip the Exceptionally Disadvantaged. May your enemies always doubt the extent of your unluck, and may that doubt, somehow, be their undoing."
Philip half-turned and gave Thomas a thumb's up.
"Next and last in line please!" called Merlin.
Still working through what had just happened, Thomas didn't immediately realize that Merlin was talking to him. Philip motioned with his head, but it wasn't until Arthur cleared his throat that he put it all together and hurried up to stand before the king. Most of the court had had their boredom in the proceedings compounded hourly throughout the day, and they'd managed to express their continued disinterest with refinement. That is to say, their eyes had been on the action, but they weren't really watching. But now evening was falling, and everyone wanted to go home. Having arrived at the last candidate for the day, their attention suddenly manifested and focused itself squarely on Thomas.
Thomas's worry, however, focused on a handful of people that were watching him even more keenly: Arthur, Merlin, Philip and two others. One of these was the girl Thomas had seen in Guinevere's procession. He tried not to make eye contact with her, because any time he did, his insides responded in ways that didn't feel at all secure. He was having enough trouble keeping his insides arranged properly at present, thank you. The other person was one of the attendant knights. Most of the knights yawned, or stared a thousand yards away, or rubbed absent-mindedly at slightly less shiny spots on their armor. This one, though, watched Thomas with a friendly smile. He had riveting pale gray eyes and a shock of silver hair that seemed familiar but out of place somehow; Thomas was sure he'd met him somewhere.
Merlin gave a little cough, "Your name and request please." Merlin seemed excited, but Thomas knew it was just about being finished soon – at least it made him pleasant for the time being.
Thomas cleared his throat and straightened up, trying to appear confident and respectful at the same time. As a result he mainly felt off-balanced.
"My name is Thomas of Fogbottom, and I wish..."
Everyone waited. He could feel the eyes of the courtiers on the back of his head. The oddly-familiar knight's brow furrowed just a bit. Philip cleared his throat. Arthur smiled encouragingly. Merlin raised an eyebrow. Guinevere pinched the skin between her eyes. The girl from the procession was probably doing something too but Thomas refused to look.
One of the courtiers behind him whispered helpfully, "You wish to be made a knight!"
Thomas closed his eyes and took a breath. This was it; this was the last chance to back out and just do what his parents wanted. When he'd imagined this moment he'd anticipated things like nausea, uncontrollable quivering, and sheer panic, but now that he was in it he felt peculiarly calm. He was very much in control and though he was clearly making the decisions, he felt as though he was watching himself carry them out from somewhere outside himself.
Sorry Father, he said to himself.
"...and I wish to made a knight."
There was a split second that felt to Thomas like freedom, and then he began to wonder what he had done.
"Excellent," said Arthur, then the dreadful question: "And do you have any special talents? Mind, it's not a requirement."
The words "not a requirement" echoed in Thomas's mind. They bounced around a few times in there before they lodged in a spot and formed a plan. The plan that formed went roughly like this: it would be unwise to reveal the Sword of Remarkable Stench unless absolutely necessary, and since it doesn't seem to be necessary, it must be unwise to do so now, so don't.
"Talents? No, not particularly, 'fraid not, um, your majesty" said Thomas and, trying to get past the subject as quickly as possible, gave an awkward little bow.
Arthur frowned. Eyebrows dropped all around. Philip whispered, "What are you doing?"
Arthur turned to Merlin. "Well, this is new. I don't think we've ever had anyone come through completely devoid of talent. What do the rules say?"
Thomas felt a heat spreading inside his chest that he recognized as panic. "Not a requirement?" was all he could get out.
"Oh I know we say that. But now that someone's gone and actually raised the point, I'm not certain we mean it, exactly, as such."
Thomas's heart dropped.
Merlin unfurled a long scroll and scanned it quickly. "Ah, here..." he said to himself, then read with authority, "'General candidates for the position of knight and/or knight errant must furnish their own talent.'" Then he said, "Hmm..." and looked puzzled. He mumbled for a moment, "...thought for sure... not a requirement, per se... Aha! 'If a candidate cannot provide a talent, one may be appointed to him.'"
Arthur looked pleased. "Ah yes, that's it. Good show Merlin. Now, which talent would you like Thomas of Fogbottom?"
"Pardon?" Thomas wasn't following this at all.
Arthur spoke patiently, like a man who'd had lots of practice repeating simple instructions to people who, for reasons unfathomable, continued to find them unsimple, "You'll have to choose a talent if you want to be a knight. I'm afraid it's a requirement, of sorts."
"You can do that? Make someone good at something... just like that?"
"Well, no, it doesn't exactly work that way. It would be best if you pick something you're already good at."
Thomas paused. Everyone looked at him, waiting for his choice. "But isn't the point...?"
Merlin interrupted, "I don't see that it says the candidate has the liberty of choosing the talent. We could speed this along."
"Splendid idea," said Arthur. "What do you suggest?"
Merlin took a good look at Thomas and stroked his beard. "How about 'able to grow hair of great length?'"
Arthur frowned approvingly. "Not bad at all. Easy to prove, one simply needs to stay clear of the barber." He turned to Thomas. "Thomas of Fogbottom, I–"
"Wait!" said Thomas.
Arthur paused with his mouth open in mid-vowel and raised his eyebrows. He closed his mouth, then opened it again and said, "Yes?"
"I do have this... magic sword."
"Yes!" whispered Philip. Merlin glanced at him, and Philip quickly composed himself, smiling
innocently.
Arthur's eyebrows hiked up another notch. "A magic sword?"
Thomas wasn't sure which would be worse, if the sword stank the place up proper or if it failed to do anything at all. Despite his searing panic, Thomas felt morbidly curious about his own ill-made fate – it drove him forward.
Thomas nodded. "Like none that's ever been seen or dreamt of." Might as well pile it on now, he thought. If I'm going to fail, I might as well fail spectacularly.
"Well why didn't you say so lad? Magic swords are serious business! Right then, we need to go about this properly. First off, where and under what circumstances did the sword come into your possession?"
A buzz of excitement spread across the hall. All the knights were watching now, and the closest courtiers were actually hushing those in the back.
"I... Well," Thomas shot a glance at Philip, who winked. "I found... I mean, I captured... a giantess, named Gorgella, who'd been... Or rather, she was living in the mountains... at the source of a stream that fed our lands."
Arthur had been nodding him on and now he was positively beaming. "Oh good show Thomas," he said. "Poisoning the water and your village's crops no doubt, and you took it upon yourself to rid this plague on hearth and home." He paused. "Captured her though eh? I'd have slain her, but it's a start. What happened next?"
"Well, I took her to an old... to an enchanter... who rewarded me... with this sword of his creation." Thomas patted the hilt.
"Absolutely wonderful. This is the kind of thing I'd been hoping for all day. You knew it didn't you? Waited, last in line, then fooled me with the bit about being talentless. Smart boy. Good show. Alright then, let's have it, shall we? What does it do?"
Thomas basked in Arthur's approval. He smiled, "Hmmm?"
"The sword. What is its power? Show us!" Arthur was still smiling. Thomas imagined he wouldn't be doing that much longer. Thomas sighed. There was simply no way out. He glanced at Philip, and what he saw made his heart leap – hope pierced Thomas like a spear.
Philip was standing there, sporting a smile identical to Arthur's and doing one other absolutely brilliant thing: He was pinching his nose.
Elated, Thomas turned to Arthur, straightened up, cleared his throat, pinched his nose with his left forefinger and thumb and winked at Arthur.
Arthur, intrigued, pinched his own nose. Guinevere and Merlin followed suit pinching theirs. Those of the knights, ladies-in-waiting, and courtiers nearby who were paying attention got the hint and copied. The procession-girl's eyes glinted with curious amusement. Thomas grinned at her and clenched his intestines.
When he saw that the stage was set, he drew a deep breath and the Sword of Remarkable Stench in one smooth motion, swung an arc around his head on the way up, pointed it skyward and commanded in the best, most commanding voice he could muster, "YO HO HO!"
Nothing happened.
Dread washed over Thomas from head to foot.
Wait for it, thought the sword.
The procession-girl's eyebrows drew ever so slightly closer together.
Thomas wanted to crawl under a rock somewhere and never come out.
There was a sound then like none Thomas had ever heard. He imagined it sounded not unlike someone plucking a single string on a lute – if that lute were the size of a small mountain, and that mountain had dragons on it... lots of dragons, and they were all breathing fire right at you. And then the world turned inside out for anything with open nostrils.
§
The people in Arthur's court who were holding their noses watched as madness unfolded before them. Thomas was simply flabbergasted. Philip looked on amazed. Guinevere and The Girl grimaced. Arthur and Merlin, who'd seen many strange sights – and been personally responsible for more than a handful of them – counted what happened that day as one of the singularly strangest.
The courtiers who weren't initially holding their noses tried desperately to plug them now, but it was simply too late. They swam in memories of places and emotions long repressed. Several courtiers crumpled into fetal positions and called for their mothers. A dozen courtiers leapt through the windows into the courtyard and dashed out of Camelot never to be heard from again. A handful stood staring in the direction they'd been looking, trembled, and quietly wet themselves. One man named Alfonzo ran in circles shouting, "Not the French! Not the French!" A knight who hadn't been paying attention flailed at his nose then gave that up and began punching himself in the face repeatedly. Another knight with watery eyes and a slight tremble calmly removed his helmet, slowly turned it over, and after a moment of heroic resistance, vomited into it with gusto.
"Tahmuss," Arthur said nasally, "cahn you tuhrn thiss ahf?"
"Oh right," said Thomas, and quickly lowered the sword and sheathed it. Immediately, the effect evaporated.
If the sword had had appendages and a face, it would have crossed its arms and grinned.
The courtiers who'd crumpled picked themselves up and dusted themselves off, carefully. Those who needed a change of clothes politely excused themselves and headed for the door. Alfonzo stood slumped, vacuous and drooling. He spent the remainder of his days in the care of a nearby convent, mostly knitting for fundraisers and such. The knight who'd been punching himself was escorted out, holding his face and bleeding profusely. Everyone moved slowly. Each eyed his nose warily, like it was a wild animal crouching in the corner. It didn't seem wise to make any abrupt moves in its presence.
Philip was the first to release the pinch on his nose. When he didn't run screaming, the rest slowly let go of theirs as well and took short experimental sniffs. The air was clear. The court was silent. You could've heard a hummingbird land on a thistle a mile away.
Arthur whistled. "Thomas," he said, "that was something."
Thomas agreed. He was aware of the weight of the sword on his hip in a way he hadn't been before.
"You may kneel now lad," said Arthur.
Thomas knelt, and Arthur drew Excalibur. He touched each of Thomas's shoulders with the flat of the blade and said, "I dub thee Sir Thomas the," he paused. "I confess I'm drawing a complete blank."
"The sword is remarkable," Arthur continued, "but it's not a talent exactly. It's not who you are. Who are you Thomas? Or failing that, who do you want to be?"
Thomas hesitated. "I'm not sure, sir."
"How do I name someone who doesn't even know who he is himself?"
"Well, I'd like to be a knight your majesty."
"That's what you want to be, but is it who you want to be? Let me tell you a secret Thomas, the first step in becoming something is deciding you are the thing already. The rest is just polishing. But for now..."
He touched Thomas's shoulders again. "I dub thee Sir Thomas the Hesitant. May you find what you're looking for Sir Thomas."
Thomas stood. Arthur smiled and asked, "What do you think?"
"The Hesitant?" Thomas asked. "Well, I'm not certain really."
"Precisely my point," said Arthur. "It's perfect."
CHAPTER X
Can't Spell "Tryout" without "Trout"
Each new knight was handed a packet upon exiting the throne room. The contents included a map of Camelot with landmarks noted and connected by a circuitous line labeled 'Camelot, a Walking Tour,' a coupon advertising lunch specials at a pub called The Fine Pickle, and a form letter which read as follows:
Dear new minstrel knight courtier lady-in-waiting,
Welcome to Camelot! Your life of fame adventure sycophancy fancy dresses has just begun. You no doubt have many questions which if you didn't you wouldn't be an artist right? will have to wait are largely rhetorical so we won't trouble you with bothersome answers are our pleasure to answer to your satisfaction. First things first, as they say.
Please find attached a schedule outlining your first week aboard. Failure to present yourself promptly at any of the appointed times and places will result in your prompt dismissal reassignment to kitchen duty no real consequences whatsoever immediate deployment o
f emergency personnel.
If permanent lodging has not already been arranged, temporary room has been reserved for you at the thick-walled Artist Sanctuary just outside the city gates your own recognizance the Camelot Spa and Relaxorium inside the palace proper. During your stay there, please feel free to express yourself remember you represent Camelot, God help us take advantage of palace discounts make yourself at home.
We hope you are as good as you think you are, for your own sake know what you're getting yourself into can live with yourself find life at Camelot suitable, we are the vase to your blossoming flower. If we can be of any further assistance, don't hesitate to find someone who cares assist yourself, we can't hold your hand forever leave a message with the duty officer, someone will get back to you at their convenience call on us at any hour, we're here to serve.
I remain forever your palace ambassador point-of-contact, not your mother patient guide humble servant,
Sir Tuttle the Authorized
Chief, Palace Staff
Captain, LVK
Having exited all together, Thomas, Philip, Edgar, Dedric and Ox stood in the hall examining their letters. Edgar finished first. Dedric read his twice. Ox was at least going through the motions. None of them got anything out of it because not a one of them could read.
Thomas read his out loud, then read the letter with alternate phrases selected.
"This Tuttle's got all his vegetables in one pot don't he?" said Dedric when Thomas had finished.
They all looked at him.
"Er, sorry. Farming metaphor."
"No need to explain," said Thomas who had been trying to recall the last time he'd had a vegetable to put in a pot. "And yeah, he does. What's 'LVK'?"
"It's what we'll be most likely," said Edgar.
"Table of Less Valued Knights," said Philip.
"They actually call them that?"
"Well, sure, I mean, at least it's honest right?" said Philip.