by Mike Ashley
His voice ended in a mumble, then plucked up again. “Now, no doubt yer da has enobled you, give yer some such title as it might be, say, Count of Cumtwaddle and Lord of the Three Creeks in the peerage of Sapodilla, hey?” he inquired, hopefully.
Peregrine sighed, shook his sleek head, informed the host-king that what his father had given him was his blessing, a month’s rations, three mules, a suit of the best second-rate armor, and a few other similar items; plus the ritual warning, established by law, that it would be Death for him to return either armed or at the head of an armed multitude.
King Alf grunted. “Well,” he said, tone halfway between disappointment and approbation, “spose that’s one way to preserve the loreful succession, makes sense, too bad, well, well,” he shook his head. The gesture seemed to indicate bafflement rather than a negative decision. Another grunt announced a fresh idea . . . or two.
“Well, be that as it may, Queen Clara sends her good wishes and says please to excuse as she needs back the tablecloth. Now, we can’t ave yer traipsing round in yer bare minimum, for folk ud larf hat us ha-keeping hup them hold-fashioned Grecian himfluences. So.” He displayed an armful of garments. “One o’ these is what’s left o’ what I’ve grew out of, but maybe it be still too large. And tother is for Buck ter grow into, maybe it be still too small. Only way to find out is to dive and try.”
Perry thanked him, dived and tried. The pair of trews, woven in a tessellated pattern according to the old Celtish style, and intended for Buck to grow into, fit him well enough; but the tunic was a bit tight across the chest and shoulders; the tunic which Buck’s father had grown out of, though an outsize round the waste, had exactly Perry’s sleeve length. The same lucky fit obtained with the sandals, formerly the property of King Baldy’s heir. “And here,” said the royal host, setting down a casket inlaid in ivory, “is the gear box, and you may poke around for clasps, buckles, fibulae, and such; please elp yerself. No urry, hexcept that betwixt dawn and noon we as a rightchual ceremony to hattend; like ter ave yer wiff us.”
The clepsydra at Alfland Big House had been for some time out of order, the king insisting with vigor that fixing it would constitute making plumbing repairs and thus an infringement on the High Royal Monopoly, the queen – for her part – insisting with equal vigor that the king was trying to cover up his ignorance of how to make the repairs. Be that as it may, the great water-clock remained unfixed, only now and then emitting a gurgle, a trickle, and a groan, rather like an elderly gentleman with kidney trouble. Be that as that may, at an hour approximately between dawn and noon, Peregrine, alerted by a minor clamor in the courtyard, made his way thither.
He saw gathered there the entire royal family and household, including thralls; the guest king, who had delayed his departure in order to witness the ritual ceremony; a number of citizens, whose abrupt discontinuance of conversation, and interested examination of Peregrine as he approached, gave him reason to believe they had been talking about him; and three archers, three slingers, and three spearmen: these last nine constituting the Army of the Realm (cavalry had been strictly forbidden by Wilfred the Conqueror).
“Ah, Peregrine the son of Paladrine the Sovereign of Sapodilla in Lower Europe,” the King of the Alves announced, slightly pompously. And at once said, in his usual gruffly affable manner, “Come on over, Perry, and leave me hexplain to yer the nature of this hoccasion. See,” he gestured, “that there is Thuh Treasure. Likewise, the Treasury.”
“What, that single sack?” is the sentence which Perry had in mind to say, but, tactfully, did not.
King Alf continued, portentously, “Now, this is the third day hafter the full moon of the month of Hecatombaeon haccording to thuh hold Religion,” he coughed delicately into his fist, “meantersay we’re hall good Harians ere, and so naturally we’ve tried to git this fixed hup proper and right haccording to the New Faith, that is,” another cough, “the True Faith. And ave wrote the bishops. Fergit ow many times we’ve wrote the bishops. First hoff, they hanswers, ‘If any presbyter shall presume to ordain another presbyter, let him be anathema.’ Well, well, seems like sound enough doctrine and no skin hoff my, berumph! Caff caff. But what’s it got to do wif dragons? Second time what they replied, ‘Satan is the father of lies and the old dragon from the beginning; therefore let no presbyter presume to ordain another presbyter, and if he do presume, let him be anathema.’ ” He cast an eye up and around the sky, for all the world like an augur about to take the auspices, then dropped his glance earthwise, and went on. “Next time we put the question, what’s it as the bishops said, why they said, ‘The waters of life may flow even through the jaws of a dead dog, but if any presbyter presume to ordain another presbyter—’ ”
The gathering murmured, “–‘let him be anathema.’ ”
King Alf then went on, briskly, to inform his younger guest that from time immemorial, on or about the hour midway between dawn and high noon on the third day after the full moon of the month of Hecatombaeon, a dragon was wont to descend upon the Land of the Alves for the purpose and with the intention of carrying off the treasure. “Dragon?” asked Perry, uneasily, “Then why is the treasure out in the open? And for that matter, why are we all out in the open?” The gathering chuckled.
“Why, bless yer, my boy,” the king said, grinning broadly, “doesn’t believe them old tales about dragons a-living on the flesh of young virgin females, does yer? Which you be’n’t in any event, leastways I know you be’n’t no female, a horhorhor!—No no, see, all them dragons in this zone and climate o’ the world is pie-skiverous, see? Mayhap and peradventure there be carnivoreal dragons in the realms of the Boreal Pole; then agin, mayhap not. No skin hoff my— Owever. Yus. Well, once a year we aves this ceremonial rightchual. The dragon, which e’s named Smarasderagd (meaning, Lover of Hemeraulds, in th’ original Greek), the dragon comes and tries to carry orf the treasure. One story says, originally twas a golden fleece. Nowadays, has we no longer lives in thuh world of mye-thology, the treasure is the Treasury. All the taxes as as been collected under the terms of my vasselage and doomwit to the High King, and which I am bound to transmit to im – minus seven percent to cover handling expenses – dog licenses, plowhorse fee, ox-forge usage, chimbley tax, jus primus noctae commutations in fee simple, and all the rest of it; here he comes now, see im skim, thuh hold bugger!”
The crowd cheered, craned their necks, as did Peregrine; sure enough, there was a speck in the sky which rapidly increased in size. Peregrine asked, somewhat perplexed, “And does the dragon Smarasderagd transmit the treasury to the High King, or—”
King Alf roared, “What! Fancy such a notion! No no, lad. Old Smarry, e makes feint to nobble the brass, yer see, and we drives im orf, dontcher see. I as to do it hin order to maintain my fief, for, ‘Watch and ward agayn Dragons and Gryphons,’ it be written in small print on the bottom of the paytent. And Old Smarry, e as to do it hin order to maintain is rights to hall the trash fish as gits caught in the nets, weirs, seines, wheels, traps and trots hereabouts.— As for gryphons, I don’t believe in them things an nor I shan’t, neither, hunless the bishops resolve as I must, hin Council Hassembled.— Ere e come!”
The spearmen began a rhythmical clashing of their shields.
“Ho serpentine and squamous gurt dragon Smarasderagd,” the Alf-king began to chant, “be pleased to spare our treasure . . .”
With a sibilant sound and a strong smell of what Perry assumed was trash fish, the dragon spread his wings into a silent glide and replied, “I shan’t, I shan’t, so there and so there and so there . . .”
“Ho serpentine and squamous gurt dragon Smarasderagd – ullo, Smarry, ow’s yer micturating membranes? – be pleased to spare . . .”
“I shan’t, I shan’t, I shan’t – hello, Earwig, mustn’t grumble, mustn’t grumble – so there and so there and so there . . .”
Clash, clash, clash! went the spearmen. Peregrine observed that their spears had dummy heads.
“Then we’
ll drive yer away with many wounds and assailments – what’s the news, Smarry, is there any news? – assailments and torments . . .”
Swish, swishl, swish, swishl, Smarasderagd flapped his wings and circled low. “—That’s for me to know and you to find out—My hide is impervious to your weapons, insquamous issue of Deucalion—” He dug his talons into the sack of treasure, and, on the instant, the spearmen hurled their spears and the slingers whirled their slings and the archers let loose their arrows. And seeing the arrows – which, being made of reeds, and unfletched – bounce harmlessly off Smarasderagd’s tough integuments and observing the sling stones to be mere pea gravel, fit for affrighting pigeons, to say nothing of the mock-spears rattling as they ricocheted, Peregrine realized that the resistance was indeed a mere ritually ceremonial one. The dragon in sooth seemed to enjoy it very much, issuing steamy hisses much like giggles as he dug his talons into the sack of treasure and lifted it a space off the ground, while his bright glazey eyes flickered around from face to face and his huge wings beat the air.
Grinning, King Alf said, “Ere, ave a care now the way yer’ve got that sack eld, Smarry, or ye’ll spill it. Don’t want us to be a-picken of the Royal Hairlooms, ter say nuffink of the tax drachmae, up from this ere muck, do yer?”
“Perish the thought, Earwig,” said Smarasderagd, shifting its grip, and flying higher.
The king’s grin slipped a trifle. “Don’t play the perishing fool, then,” he said. “Settle it back down, smartly and gently.”
“I shan’t, I shan’t, I shan’t!”
“What, ave yer gotten dotty in yer old age? Set it back down at once directly, does yer ear?”
“Screw you, screw you, screw you!” And the dragon climbed a bit higher, whilst the king and his subjects looked at each other and at the dragon with a mixture of vexation and perplexity. “I’m not putting it down, I’m taking it with me, a-shish-shish-shish,” Smarasderagd snickered steamily.
“But that’s again the rules!” wailed the king.
“It is against the rules, isn’t it?” the dragon agreed, brightly. “At least, it was. But. You know. I’ve reviewed the entire matter very carefully, and what does it all add up to?— To this? you get the treasure and I get the trash fish. So – as you see, Earwig – I’ve changed the rules!” He flew a bit higher. “You keep the trash fish! I’ll keep the treasure!”
Buck, who was evidently much quicker than Peregrine had perhaps credited him for, gave a leap and a lunge for the bag of treasure; not only did he miss, but Smarasderagd, with a tittering hiss, climbed higher. Queen Clara, till now silent, tradition having provided no place for her in this pageant save that of spectator, wailed, “Do suthing, Alfland! E mustn’t get to keep the treasure!”
“I shall, I shall, I shall!” sang out the dragon, and in a slow and majestic manner began to rise.
“Ere, now, Smarry,” the king implored. “What! Cher going to destroy thur hamicable relations which as ithertofore hobtained atween hus for the sake o’ this little bit o’ treasure which is such in name honely?”
The dragon shrugged – a most interesting sight. “Well, you know how it is,” he said. “Here a little, there a little, it all adds up.” The king’s cry of rage and outrage was almost drowned out by the noise of great rushing as the great wings beat and dragon and treasure alike went up – up – and away. It seemed to Peregrine that, between the sound of the king’s wrath and the sound of the beating of the vast ribbed and membranous pinions, he could distinctly hear the dragon utter the words, “Ephtland – Alfland – which will be the next land—?”
Needless to say that it was not possible for him then to obtain of this impression either confirmation or refutation.
Having dismissed the Grand Army of Alfland (all nine members of it) and – in broken tones – informed the citizenry that they had his leave to go, King Earwig sat upon an overturned barrel in the middle of his courtyard and, alternately putting his head in his hands and taking it out again, groaned.
“Oh, the hairlooms as come down from King Deucalion’s days! Oh, the tax moneys! (Buck, my boy, never trust no reptyle!) Oh . . . What will folk say of me?”
Queen Clara, her normal russet faded to a mere pale pink, had another question to ask, and she asked it. “What will the High King say?”
King Alf-Earwig groaned again. Then he said that he could tell her what the High King would say. “ ‘Malfeasance, misfeasance, disfeasance, and nonfeasance h’of hoffice: horf wif is ead hon heach count!’ – is what e’ll say . . .”
The silence, broken only by the snuffing of Princess Pearl, was terminated by her mother. “Ah, and speaking of counts,” said she, “what about my brother-in-law, Count Witenagamote?”
The king’s head gave a half flop, and feeling it as though for reassurance, he muttered, “Ah, and I spose our only opes is ter seek refuge of im, for e lives hin a different jurisdiction, e does, and holds not of the High King; holds of the emperor, is what, the vassal of Caesar imself.”
A touch of nature was supplied at this point by the cock of the yard, who not only ran a slightly frazzled hen to earth but began to tread her. Buck barely glanced, so serious was the other situation. Peregrine asked, automatically, “Which Caesar?”
He asked it of Alf’s back, for the king had gotten up from the barrel and started pacing at length – a lengthy pace which was now leading him into the house by the back way. “Which Caesar?”
“Why, bless you,” said the king, blankly, “of Caesar Haugustus, natcherly. What a question. Has though there were more nor one of im.”
Peregrine, who knew very well that there was not only more than one but that the number of those using the title of Caesar, including heirs, co-heirs, sovereigns of the East and the West and the Center, claimants, pretenders, provincial governors and rather powerful lord mayors and mayors of the palace, ambitious army commanders – Peregrine, who knew it would be difficult at any given moment to calculate how many Caesars there were, also looked blank, but said nothing. He was clearly very far from Rome. From any Rome at all.
“Well, well, go we must as we must,” muttered the king. “As we must go we must go. Meanwhile, o’ course,” he stopped suddenly, “can’t be letting the Kingdom go wifourt authority; you, there,” he beckoned to the kitchenboy. “How old are you?”
The lad considered, meanwhile wiping his snotty nose on his apron. “Six, last Mass of the Holy Martyrs of Macedonia, an it please Your Worship,” he piped.
His Worship did some visible arithmetic. “Ah, that’s good,” he declared, after a moment. “Then ye’ll not be seven for some munce after the High Kingly Inquisition gits ere to check hup . . . as they will, they will.— Below the hage of reason, they can’t do a thing to yer, my boy, beside six smacks hand one to go on; so kneel. Hand let’s ear yer name.”
The boy knelt, rather slowly and carefully placing both palms on his buttocks, and slowly said, “Vercingetorix Rory Claudius Ulfilas John” – a name, which, if perhaps longer than he himself was, gave recognition to most of the cultures which had at one time or another entered East Brythonia within at least recorded history.
King Alf tapped him on each shoulder with the royal dirk without bothering to wipe off the fish scales (Queen Clara had been cleaning a carp for supper). “Harise, Sir Vercingetorix Rory Claudius Ulfilas John,” he directed. “—Not all the way hup, aven’t finished yet, down we go again. Heh-hem,” he rolled his bulging and bloodshot blue eyes thoughtfully. “Sir Vercingetorix Rory Claudius Ulfilas John, we nominates and denominates yer as Regent pro tem of the Kingdoms and Demesnes of the Lands of the Alfs in partibus infidelidum, to have and to hold from this day forward until relieved by Is Royal Highness the High King – and don’t eat all the raisins in the larder, or he’ll have yer hide off yer bottom, hage of reason or no hage of reason. —And now,” he looked about. “Ah, Bert. Yer’ve been so quiet, clean forgot yer was present. Ye’ll witness this hact.”
The King of Bertland, simultaneous
ly stiff, uneasy, unhappy, said, “That I will, Alf.”
Alf nodded. “Hand now,” he said, “let’s pack and hit the pike, then.”
Peregrine had been considering. Amusing though it might be to tarry and observe how things go in Alfland under the regency of Sir Vercingetorix Rory Claudius Ulfilas John (aged six and some), still, he did not really consider it. And fond though he already was, though to be sure not precisely deeply fond – their acquaintance had been too brief – of the Alvish Royal House; yet he did not really feel that his destiny required him to share their exile; could he, even, feel he might depend upon the hospitality of Count Witenagamote? It might, in fact, be just the right moment to take his leave . . . before there was chance for anything more to develop in the way of taking for granted that he and Princess Pearl—
He was not very keen on dragons. Smarasderagd was a good deal larger than the last and only previous dragon he had ever seen. Piscivorous the former might or might not be; now that he no longer had all the trash fish to dine upon, who could say? Peregrine did not feel curious enough to wish to put it to the test. Dragons might lapse. King Alf’s prolegomenal discourse, just before Smarasderagd had appeared, seemed to take for granted that the dragon was not a treasure-amassing dragon; yet all men in Lower Europe had taken it for granted that all dragons were by nature and definition just that. Peregrine remembered his first dragon, rather small it had been, and so – at first glance – had been the treasure it had been guarding. Yet a further investigation (after the dragon had been put to flight by the sprig of dragonbane from the geezle-sack of Appledore, the combination sorcerer, astrologer, court philosopher and a cappella bard of Sapodilla . . . and Peregrine’s boyhood tutor as well . . .) – a further, even if accidental, investigation of the contents of the small dragon’s cave had resulted in Peregrine’s – literally – stumbling upon something of infinitely more value and weal than the bracelet of base metal inscribed Caius loves Marianne and the three oboli and one drachma (all stamped Sennacherib XXXII, Great King, King of Kings, King of Lower Upper Southeast Central Assyria – and all of a very devaluated currency) – he had tripped over a rotting leather case which contained what was believed by the one or two who, having seen it, were also competent to comment on it to be the mysterious and long-lost crown of the Ephts.