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*****

I sat down while the Marshal's clerk fluttered to his seat. He selected a reed and sharpened it, while winking at me. "Don't use quills, lad. Might be someone I know."

I nodded, and he must have seen the expression on my face.

"No, he doesn't make a 'abit of talking to privates fresh out of training."

"What an extraordinary conversation."

He shook his head. "Not really, lad. He wasn't kidding about yer grandfer and uncle. He really did know 'em. For that matter, I knew yer sire."

My father had died shortly before I was born, along with, as the Marshal had said, my two brothers. I never knew him, beyond what my mother had said about him and a few painted miniatures in our home generally locked away in the front parlour.

The clerk looked contemplative. "Old Army, lad. Just yer get 'im [indicating the Marshal's room with a wing] started on the Elves of Today. Don't want to serve their King, just want to sit around on their tails an' play the lute...oh, an' don't get 'im started on lute playing. Anyway, why yer name came up, lad."

"For what, this job, whatever that was?"

"Aye, th' job, lad. By the way, I'm Sergeant Wing. Might as well know me name, since you'll be talking to me." He began to fill out a blank sheet of papyrus in a practiced, neat wing.

"What kind of job?"

"More'n me tail feathers to tell yer, lad. Let's just say I've cut orders for a whole bunch that 'aven't come back. An' yer'd 'ave joined 'em, too."

"Drill Instructor to thank, I suppose."

"Hah! Listen, those lads think they're little tin gods, an' maybe they are on th' parade ground, an' 'e liked th' idea, to be sure. But wasn't 'im what pulled th' strings, mate. Noooo, I'd put a few coppers on some bloke who 'ad it in for yer on yer name. Nothing personal-like, mind."

"But I'm just a recruit..."

Sergeant Wing shrugged, sharpened the reed, and continued to write. "Doesn't matter, lad. Seen a lot of good folk, folk in th' old days wot would've gone far, go poof! An' all that's left is a few file notations."

"And just because my name's Winterbough?"

"Like a lot of things in Faerie, lad, it ain't wot yer name is, it's yer sire." He put the reed down, and pointed a feather at me. "Lissen, lad, wot I'm trying to tell yer is, there's folk out for yer. Don't ask too many questions, an' ye'll get no lies, fairfolk an' the truth or no. 'is 'ighness [another pointing of the feathers at the office] 'as done you a good one, an' don't you forget it, lad. You 'unker down like a good lil' fawn, an' keep yer ears an' eyes open, an' tell yer nice Fairy God-Sergeant everything, an' you'll be all right." He picked up the reed, dipped it in an inkwell, and continued to write, and that was the only noise you could hear for a few minutes.

"Sergeant?"

"Aye?"

"What should I know about Lieutenant Chitterleigh?"

The Sergeant looked up with a toothless grin. "Aye, now there's a practical question, lad. Well..." he began to tick things off on his wing-feathers, "'ee's young, on an 'llowance from his dad, who don't want t'hear from younger sons, 'ee's a perfectly charming bloke, 'ee likes the ladies, an' they like 'im, an' he's got as much common sense as yer average lowfolk. You'll find a few, lad, wot think 'ee's the changeling, an' someone blundered."

"Well, what does he do?"

"If 'is 'ighness 'as anything to say about it, nothing with anything pointy or sharp. 'ee's an A.D.C. All Dimwits Corps. Keep 'em busy without too much real work. 'course, they're a bleedin' 'andful, an' if yer ask me, they picked up bad 'abits from the lowfolk."

Sergeant Wing finished a long document, and began to work on a series of shorter documents.

"Fer Fuma's sake, lad, see what yer can do about keeping that scapegrace on time an' looking something like a soldier. 'ee's a pawful, to be sure."

The Sergeant picked up a very heavy metal seal-punch, and with a few expert presses, made the documents official.

"Now, then, lad. 'ere's yer orders, give 'em to Chitterleigh. 'ere's a second set, because the damne fool will lose 'em...'ere's yer pass for Albric Tor GHQ, show that to the Red Caps, yer'll be all right anywhere...an' 'ere's a billet fer tonight. Report to Chitterleigh first thing tomorrow, you'll want yer rest first. Oh, and th' most important bit...'ere's a chit fer the FAFI tonight." That last piece of paper was given with a broad wink.

I collected the documents, stood up, and saluted. Sergeant Wing cocked his head and looked contemplative again.

"'is 'ighness was sort-of right. Yer a little bit more than an 'ead shorter than yer sire. Look like 'im, though. Right. Orf you go. Dismiss."

Once I had stowed my kit in the billet, the Faerie Armed Forces Institute was easy to find. For one thing, it was next to the billet. For another, it was brightly lit with a large sign. Lastly, there was a powerful smell of spilled tea and hot sausages.

I got in line with a number of other enlisted men, some of whom seemed to be habitués of the FAFI.

One of them bawled at the chef. "Now then, Fred, let's 'ave some Lowfolk Pie without so much baby in it!" The chef scowled, chewed on his pipe, and responded with a weary two-fingered gesture, to the boisterous laughter of most of the crowd. Probably an old joke. I hoped.

The Forces did have a news service, as such. It was chalked on a large board on one end of the dining room. To my surprise, the most active interest seemed to be in the scores of some of the Lowfolk games, the results of which occasioned much passing of coppers and detailed analysis of free-kick technique.

Coming in close second was a highly detailed rendering of a multi-panel illustration featuring a Lowfolk femmefur named "Jane." The gist of the story seemed to revolve around Fairfolk tricking her into removing her clothes. If anything, this involved even deeper discussions of technique. Those who have any doubts as to the Fairfolk appreciation of art need only survey a similar scene.

I settled in with a mug of cider and a bowl of soup, with a decent view of a distant shove-copper game going on full tilt across the dining room. Not much untoward happened until I had nearly finished dinner.

"'ere! Wot's all that, then?"

"Come orf it!"

"None of that, then!"

One of the players, a rather shortish ermine, had been seized by the scruff of his neck, and was being shaken violently.

"Let's 'ave none of that bloody mumble-paw, or I'll make an earmuff out of yer."

The weasel indignantly denied the accusation, but the elf holding him by his neck glared at him.

"Lissen, mate, no folks 'old with that bloody Grammere, 'specially in a nice friendly game, get me? Now, come across!"

I think what was meant was a return of the winnings. What was, in fact, given was a swift punch in the crotch, the signal for a first-class melee to erupt. The FAFI staff, with a keen eye for practicality, moved the crockery and the tea-urn to safety while matters were settled.

The Red Caps entered the FAFI, but let the fight mostly burn itself out, at which point they waded in with nightsticks and began a liberal distribution of blows on heads, elbows and kidneys. In short order, the participants in the punch-up were herded out of the FAFI, and the staff began to sweep up the debris.

The fight itself didn't disturb me. The color commentary did. The only other fur sitting near me, a wolf dressed in a sharply tailored corporal's service tunic, turned to me and grinned.

"Dangerous thing, Gramerye, isn't it?"

I could only nod as he gave me an ironical salute, and sauntered out of the FAFI.

I did not finish my dinner.