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*****

If you discount the fact that I was, by some quirk of fate, assigned to latrine duty for the next seven days, there seemed to be few repercussions from the events of that night. This in spite of the fact that I took the risk of using Gramerye more than I usually did in public, and more often.

It could be argued that this was childish, trying to show up the D.I. You would be right, of course. It was childish. But: it was also fun. Particularly on the spear target qualification courses. I achieved a score that my skill with the spear should have prevented. Well, I should say, I achieved it twice, since the sergeant bawled out the unlucky corporal who was doing the score-keeping, and scored the second round himself. He snapped a quill doing so.

One thought did occur to me after the scores had been posted: I had clearly miscalculated, and I was setting myself up for a possible role on the frontiers of the Empire that would prove significantly nasty, brutish and short. Of late, the borders had been a lively area, and most of my training platoon was in all likelihood going to end up there, sooner or later.

I was not alone in this train of thought, as it clearly had occurred to my D.I. as well. Clearly, in that he expressed a desire for me to test my skills in combat, and the sooner the better.

The arrival of a messenger, with orders for me to report to GHQ at Albric Tor, seemed to imply the worst (or the best, from the sergeant's point of view). For once, there were looks of sympathy from my fellow recruits. A few even shook paws.

*****

Albric Tor was, by far, the busiest place I had ever been in. Unsurprising, of course, for an Imperial capital, especially one in the peak of the summer season, when the Court was present. There were few signs about. If you belonged in the capital, you probably knew where you were going. If you didn't...

Presentation of my orders, with the GHQ seal on them, did make things easier with the gendarmes patrolling the streets. Even still, I got more than a few glares from underneath the bills of their red peaked hats (hence their nickname, the "Red Caps").

GHQ turned out to be a small building tucked down the street from the Royal Palace. Somewhat unusually for the nerve-centre of a might army, it was mostly a cloister with a large garden. There were offices tucked away out of sight, to the point that there was a lack of signage, and a lack of furs, to direct one.

A clerk nibbling at a bit of seed cake was surprised to see a fur in the middle of the garden. It is possible that he thought I was some unusual type of exotic flower. In any event, he peered at my orders, gave a soft whistle, and pointed me to one of the corners of the cloister.

Another fur there, a seeming twin of my helpful clerk, was nervously ruffling his feathers and peering out into the garden every few seconds. I disappointed him a bit by not being who he was looking for, but he too read my orders, and ushered me into a dimly lit office.

It was actually rather pleasant, once my eyes adjusted to the light and I successfully resisted the urge to sneeze from the dust that had accumulated there. The room was crammed with large mounted parchment maps stacked against a wall, boxes of scrolls and scroll-containers, and a desk that was owned by a fur who clearly did not believe in the ancient adage of "clean desk, orderly mind." Still, the thick stone walls made the room cool and easy to stand in.

I was lucky that I was standing, because I heard a repeated and heavy stamping on the flagstones nearby. I was thus rigidly at attention when a large, ponderous and somewhat elderly skunk entered the room, followed at a respectful interval by the second twin clerk, hopping nervously after him.

The skunk, which was wearing a marshal's uniform tunic, stopped, swiveled around, and bellowed at the poor fellow.

"Well, FIND them, damnit!"

The clerk fluttered out in a hurry, and the skunk seated himself heavily behind the desk, and began pawing through the stacks, huffing and grumbling to himself. It was only after a long interval of fruitless searching that he noticed I was there.

"Well?"

I saluted.

"Your spectacles, sir, are on the table behind you, next to the wine glass."

He looked up, somewhat startled, and turned around. He found that I was correct, and immediately applied the article to his nose.

"Gads, that's better. Can't see a blasted...well, by the great Fuma's stamping feet, who are you, anyway?"

I presented my orders, and the skunk looked through them. The clerk fluttered back into the room, and was greeted with a sour expression.

"Buzz off. Found 'em."

"Oh. Sorry, Yer 'ighness."

He watched the retreating tail feathers, and then noticed I was still standing at attention. He waved a paw languidly.

"Oh, at ease. In fact, take a chair."

There were none that were vacant, as boxes of scrolls were occupying the space. An irritated bellow brought forth the clerk, who moved one of the boxes and quickly vanished. The perusal of my orders resumed.

"Winterbough. Winterbough. Winterbough. I've known a few Winterboughs in my time. Knew a chap named Westersloe Winterbough. Two of 'em, in fact. Any relation?"

"Yes, Your Highness. That would be my grandfather and my uncle. I'm named for them."

"Hah!" The skunk leaned forward, and squinted through his spectacles. "You look like 'em. Shorter, though. Short, even for a roe deer." He rummaged through his desk, pulling open a drawer, and eventually found a scroll he was looking for. Opening it up, he read through it.

"Oh, that's right. Forgot about your father. Hmm. And your two brothers. Old Army family. That's the hell of having furs serve together, sometimes....little wonder they let your mother keep you." He resumed reading.

"Good scores...hmm! 99 of 100 on inspections. Don't see that too often. Did well on the qualification course. Practice?"

An elf cannot lie. Which is not to say that he cannot answer in a bit of misdirection. "I should think, sir, that it was not a case of martial skill."

This brought forth a snort, and a reach for a bottle of wine. "Well, at least you credit luck. More than some damne fools do these days. Level of boasting makes you sick. Furs didn't do that when I was..." A half-glass was poured, knocked back, and produced a soft and evidently satisfying belch. The scroll that evidently described me was consulted again.

"D'ye think you're qualified for a combat role, Private?"

An easy answer, and one that did not require misdirection. "No, Your Highness."

At this, the skunk looked up. "No?"

"No, sir."

"Why not?"

"I'm rather smaller than most recruits, sir, as you observed. I do not believe my qualification course results could be duplicated in combat."

My scroll was shaken. "Your instructor thought so."

"Yes, sir."

The scroll was consulted, and tossed aside with a snort. "Well, he's an idiot. You're clearly not qualified for the job. Can't think why these damne furs waste my time..."

He poured another glass of wine, and leaned back in his chair, scowling at his feet. After a while, he looked at me slowly, and then reached down to the floor and picked up my scroll again.

"99 out of 100 in inspections..." he mumbled.

With a grunt and a heave, he got up from the chair, and rolled over to the window, to look out over the garden and its fountain. He stood for quite some time, head bowed. With a sudden start, he snapped his fingers, and bellowed for his clerk, who fluttered in nervously.

"Who was that damne fool on parade last week, the one that came fifteen minutes late and didn't have his hat?"

"Um...that would be Lieutenant Chitterleigh, sir. Sir Jasper Chitterleigh."

The skunk rolled his eyes. "Oh, that's right. Lord Twelveoaks' youngest, so I can't sack him, and I daren't send a twit like that out where he'd actually have furs in combat under him. What was his excuse for being late and improperly dressed?"

"He said, Yer 'ighness, that 'is batman 'ad lost 'is 'at in a card game."

"In a card game?!"

"Yes, sir."

"Is that bloody plausible?"

"Actually, Yer 'ighness, it's quite possible. 'is batman is in gaol. Drunk and disorderly. Fourth time in seven months."

"Well, Chitterleigh's got a new batman, effective immediately. Get some orders written for...errr...oh, that's right, Westersloe Winterbough V. Assigned to duty, Imperial GHQ. Report to Lieutenant, blah-blah-blah. Issue of rations, blah-blah, the usual."

The clerk nodded, and fluttered out. The skunk ambled back to his desk, and seated himself heavily once again, and poured another half-glass of wine. Raising it to his lips, he paused, and peered over the rim of the glass.

"What d'ye think I have in mind, Private? You can speak freely."

I thought for a while, and then looked up.

"On the surface, keep Lieutenant Chitterleigh out of trouble."

"Correct. And...?"

"Be quite, unobtrusive, and observant. Report anything odd or unusual to your clerk."

The glass of wine was sipped slowly and thoughtfully.

"Your grandfather served under me, back when I was a junior officer, oh...damne, more years that I care to think about. One of the best NCOs I ever had. I pinned two valour medals on your uncle, too."

He finished the wine, and put the glass aside.

"I don't think you're as strong or as fast as your namesakes were, Private...but I'm going to gamble you're as smart as they were. Ten-shun!"

I got to my hooves.

"Dismiss!"

A salute from me, followed by a right turn and quick march.