FSE

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*****

I returned to Chitterleigh's bungalow from the squirrel-femme's residence to find that he was out, probably on some kind of duty. Even an A.D.C. has duties, it would appear. So, for that matter, do their servants. One of my colleagues was pacing up and down on the verandah, and bolted toward me when I came up the path.

"Thank Fuma! Where th' bloody 'ell 'ave yer been, mate?"

I told him that I was on my officer's business, and what was it to him? He grinned.

"Nobbut t'me, mate, but Schweink ast me t'fetch yer. Bagoum's up a tree."

This piece of news completely mystified me, and I had to have it repeated, which it was.

"And what am I supposed to do about it?"

"Git 'im down, mate."

"Look, just throw rocks up into the branches until something falls."

"Strewth, mate, do it meself, but's a problem."

"What problem?"

"Well, pretty browned-off farmer doon under..."

I sighed, pinched my brow, and told the other servant to wait for a minute. I put the message from the squirrel-femme inside, on Chitterleigh's desk, weighing it down with a truesilver geegaw, and came back outside.

I was led on about a two-mile brisk walk outside of town, to an area where there were walled-in orchards. A few squaddies were lounging about the entrance to one of them. When they caught sight of me, they grinned, and pointed skyward with a thumb.

Granted, the trees were in full leaf and in fruit as well, but it was hard at first to pick out the tree with the problem. It was only when I spotted one dropping cores practically at the footpads of a fuming farmer and a quietly observant Schweink that I at least found the location of the issue.

Schweink grinned from ear to ear, and tamped down his pipe upon catching sight of me. The farmer turned and scowled at me. He had a point, since the other squaddies on the scene didn't appear to be much help.

I got a bit more intelligence from the tree itself, the gist of which was: get this fat idiot OFF me. It's a bit depressing to think that a tree might be smarter and more succinct than your average squaddie, but there you are.

I put my paws on my hips, glared skyward, and almost collected a pear core on my nut for my pains.

"Fuma's stomach, he's got to be the biggest greedyguts in the whole damned Army."

Schweink shook his head. "Not a bit of it, lad. Back in the old Thirty-Ninth, we had a champion trencher-fur..."

"If this is the one with the castor oil, I've heard it."

"Oh, no. This was a different one. Furs used to come from messes all over to watch him eat, and lay bets on whether he'd keel over or finish first. Got into an egg eating contest with a sergeant from the Cavalry, once. Which one could polish off fifty hard-boiled eggs, first. Feral duck eggs, mind. The trooper had to give it up after forty-two, but our man polished his ration off, and called for a tankard of refreshment to settle his stomach, afterward." Schweink chuckled. "That was one in the eye for those ant-whallopers."

"So what did he end up winning?"

"Don't know, lad. Keeled over with his stein half-finished. Died with his drawn ale in his paw, like a hero. Don't make 'em like that, anymore. The world's a poorer place for it."

The farmer, whose temper seemed to be rising with every falling pear-core, began to poke me in the shoulder with a hard, bony finger and ask me what the hell was I going to do about things, or was I just going to stand there with my hoof up my arse.

It developed, not to my surprise, that if nothing was done, the Red Caps were going to be called in by the farmer. The implicit threat, and likely result, was that Bagoum would get thirty days in the guardhouse for his extra-curricular gourmandizing. Thirty days with that idiot on bread and water might sound like a good idea to some, but for once, I pitied the Red Caps that would have to deal with him. As exasperating as the stupid ram was, I wasn't at all sure that any replacement would be an improvement, at least from my angle.

Now, as you probably know, elves are usually very cagey with their promises, since we live a hell of a long time, and I suppose it's not impossible that an elf could be held to a promise he made (by Lowfolk standards) centuries before. I've never been in a contract negotiation with an elf, but I can only imagine the hedging that goes on. Which explains my offer to the farmer.

If he, the farmer, promised not to call in the Red Caps or deal with Bagoum personally, I, the roebuck, would make best efforts to ensure that the aforesaid farmer received satisfaction.

As befits a son of the soil, the farmer looked at me suspiciously, figuring that satisfaction was likely not going to include silver. Another falling core or two convinced him that the perfect was the enemy of the good enough, and he reluctantly agreed.

I put my paws to my muzzle and yelled.

"Bagoum!"

A grinning, pear-juice stained face appeared from the foliage.

"Eeee, lad. 'ow are yer, then?"

"Look, get your ________ hooves down on the ground, you _______ greedyguts."

Bagoum, who evidently had been treated to harsher verbal rebuke from the farmer, didn't take offence, but pointed out that the farmer currently had in his possession a stout rake. It was, for that matter, a very good rake, built to last.

I indicated that the farmer had given his word that he would not deal with Bagoum personally, or, as noted, grass on him to the Military Constabulary. Bagoum seem surprised by this, but an elf's word is an elf's word, and upon the very sour confirmation from the farmer, he clambered down. Or, rather, clambered part of the way down and fell down the rest.

After dusting himself off - Fuma must have had a special thing for him, as he wasn't in the least bit injured - he gave me another cockeyed grin and a resonant belch. Whereupon I snatched the rake from the farmer and belted Bagoum one on the nut with the handle, right between his horns.

The surprised howl this produced was cut off when I jabbed the butt of the rake in his stomach. Paws were rapidly shifted from head to (pear-filled) gut, leaving the nut undefended. As the Marshal might have noted, this shifting of the defence was in error, a point that was driven home with force. Up went the paws again, down went the rake.

After a few rounds of this, the sound of anguished howling began to compete with the sound of convulsive laughter, as the farmer was leaning against the tree, coarse country braces creaking as he bent over, slapping his thigh with glee. Rustic humour is, at its heart, all about the basics.

Bagoum eventually figured out that the wisest course was a full-on retreat, and assisted by a thrown, overripe pear that impacted on the back of his neck (no Gramerye needed), he abandoned the orchard at top speed.

The farmer, when he could catch his breath, indicated that he viewed the promise I made to him as fulfilled. He also indicated there was a bonus, in the form of a pear pie baked by his good mate.

On the way back to the bungalow, I caught up with Bagoum. His progress had been slowed by the need to consume the pears that he was pulling out every so often from the pockets of his tunic. He cheerfully greeted me.

"Eeee, lad, that were a right proper bit o' lark, it was!"

"What the..."

"Ah got a good price on th'pears, any road. 's not reg'lar tha can git a bushel fer a few gentle-like whacks on th'bonce."

He leaned in, and sniffed at the bundle I was holding.

"Eee, lad, tha has a pear tart, there? Couldst tha let me have a bit?"

Oh, I let him have it, all right.

I wasn't the only disenchanted one, it appeared. I got back to find that the Lieutenant was pacing the floor of the bungalow, agitated. I looked over at the desk, to find the correspondence I had laid there untouched, so I was not certain what had caused his outbreak of anxiety.

Upon sight of me, Chitterleigh began to wave his arms about and issue a stream of orders in a high-strung, chittering tone. Which, unfortunately, was in yet another dialect of Elvish I didn't know, something I pointed out to him.

A somewhat abashed officer wiped his face with a pawkerchief, drew a deep breath, and started again.

"Great Fuma's stamping footpads, Winterbough, HE'S coming!"

This left me no wiser, if possibly better informed. I noted that "he," in this context, included the roughly half-portion of the population of Faerie that was not in a dress. Chitterleigh took another deep breath, and started again.

"I received a letter from my father. He proposes to have dinner with me, here, in the bungalow, tomorrow night. And for Fuma's sake, everything's got to be in parade-ground order, or I'll be for it!"

This was a little irritating, as I for one thought the bungalow was in presentable condition, and I had to bite back an offer to restore it to the way it had been when I found it. Chitterleigh's nervous pacing up and down made me relent, so I changed the subject, pointing out the letter I had brought back.

He had not, in fact, seen this letter when he came in, and he opened it. The contents did seem to calm him down, to the point where I could go into the kitchen and make a cup of tea. When I brought it to him, he seemed like he had just finished yet another reading of the letter.

"Miss Eichelgruber was pleased with your assistance, Winterbough." Miss Eudora Eichelgruber, it developed, was the author of the letter and the indirect recipient of my assistance, as well as the mistress of Meadow.

"D'ye know, she's invited me to lunch tomorrow?"

"What, before the dinner with your father, sir?"

Chitterleigh's face slightly scrunched. "Ugh. You're quite right, Winterbough. That is cutting it a bit fine...but dash it, you know, you can't refuse a request from a lady, what?"

I pointed out that my attendance on him at the luncheon would probably interfere with preparations for the dinner. Chitterleigh sunk back in his chair.

"If I know the old man, he'll let his dinner get cold while his conversation gets hot. That's the hell of being the youngest son, y'know. Far enough to be yelled at, but not far enough to be in the next room. Black day, Winterbough, when my nanny told me I could finally sit at the same table with my father."

He rubbed his chin, and twitched his tail.

"Look here, Winterbough, you know the way to Miss Eichelgruber's place and back, right?"

I told him I had walked the patch, indeed.

"Right. Here's the plan. Whatever you can do to set up things before-paw, do so. Y'know, polish the floors, wipe the glasses, set up the table and what-not. It's summertime, so now that I think about it, a cold buffet will work. Have some salad and light wine on offer. Just have it in the icebox, and there you are!"

There was a flaw somewhere in there, but I couldn't quite figure out what it was, at the moment. I nodded, as the Lieutenant took out a piece of papyrus and a reed, and wrote a neat message, sealing it up.

"Off you go, there's a good chap, deliver that thank-you-I-shall-be-delighted, and pronk back here and let's get the old homestead in order."

Meadow, when she answered the bell at the garden-gate, took my message with a smile. She listened closely to the Lieutenant's plan, as it was relayed to me, and a bit of doubt crossed her face. She shook it off, to be replaced by her usual knowing look, and she said she would be very happy to see me at noon sharp tomorrow. She then closed the garden gate in my face.

Very slowly, and with a final wink.