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*****

At one level, things settled down a bit after that morning. Meadow and I regularly met and saw each other, to the point where our appearances together in the market-place caused no comment; at least, no comment that we could see. I did regularly call upon her at the servants' entrance to Miss Eichelgruber's home, and was usually given tea and something in the kitchen, which in turn allowed for me to give voice to one ballad or another for Meadow's entertainment.

The fact that I could hear lute-playing in the background while I was singing told me that the mouse wasn't my only audience, and somefur was paying very close attention to my choice of lore.

On another level, though, there was a fair amount of excitement that swirled around my officer, personally. The first was the announcement by Lord Twelveoaks that his youngest son had graciously consented (sic!) to fall in with his Lordship's plan to find a suitable Lowfolk mate. For someone from a family of the Twelveoaks' prestige to openly and publicly pursue this caused a great deal of comment.

In the case of Mrs. Truemane, and I suspect a few others, the comment was probably not repeatable in polite company.

Lieutenant Chitterleigh, for his part, kept a stiff upper lip, and I did not press him on the subject, and most furs seemed to avoid the subject in his presence.

There was, seemingly, one other exception. There was a grand affair on the Parade Ground to celebrate the King's Birthday, though the King himself could not take the salute, as he was not feeling well. In his place was the Crown Prince, Gawain.

Gawain didn't look all that comfortable facing the huge crowd, and his speech was a very short one. It also didn't carry across the parade ground. However, at that point, when the speeches and the parade were over, he did break protocol and began to speak to individual officers in the line. One of them was Chitterleigh; the Crown Prince put his paw on his shoulder, leaned in, and had a brief conversation with my officer, ending it by gently patting the Lieutenant's shoulder.

Based on the reactions of excitement from the officers spoken to (Chitterleigh seemed in awe), it seemed to me that the Crown Prince's charm was retail, not wholesale.

It might have been the Lowfolk matter, or it might have been Private Flood's Article Four proceeding, which was scheduled in a few days. The Marshal himself was going to be President of the court-martial, and there were a quartet of other officers on the panel as well. Schweink, once I could get him off the Old Thirty-Ninth, admitted he didn't know much about the other officers, except that they were brought in from the field, not being GHQ types. That is, apparently, what had caused the brief delay in setting up the trial.

The Lieutenant and I visited Private Flood, who was being kept very tight in an underground cell at one of Albric Tor's outlying forts. Not a small fur to begin with, he seemed to have shrunk even more since I'd seen him at the FAFI, and his fur had turned white. Understandable, given what he faced if the court-martial found him guilty. I don't think he listened to anything that Chitterleigh said to him; he just seemed to turn his garrison cap over and over in his paws, staring at it. The Lieutenant's confidence wasn't contagious. Even I had my doubts, though I had seen him practicing hard at shove-copper, to the point where he could give me a stiff match. Granted, I should have pointed out to him that I could tell he was using Gramerye to make some of his shots, but he didn't ask me, so there was that. Still, if I could tell, that was not a good sign.

I asked Schweink about the general record of squaddies when they got to courts-martial. Schweink didn't know, but recalled one case where two privates had been regularly and repeatedly done dirt by their sergeant major, to the point where the two decided to use their arrows on him one dark night. Unfortunately, the night was too dark, and they shot another sergeant in error instead. They didn't get much credit for marching into the regimental orderly room, slapping the wood of their bows in the regulation fashion, and reporting the accidental death of a superior NCO. They did get a lot of credit for the way they behaved at their execution, giving three hurrahs for the regiment, and willing their worldly goods to their brother squaddies for a fine old booze-up.

There must have been a point to that, somewhere, but even by Schweink's standards, it was hard to fathom.

The day of court-martial came, at last. Possibly too soon for Flood, who had to be assisted into the Indoor Exercise Chamber, the only space large enough to hold the spectators, civilian and Imperial and Royal Army alike, that crowded in to see the show.

On a low dais, at the back of the chamber, sat the five members of the Court, the Marshal being seated in the centre. The other members making up the Court included a very large deer with an impressive spread of antlers, an older cat who fussed a great deal with some papers, and a rather dapper-looking eagle who happily chatted with the Marshal, as they seemed old friends.

The last member of the Court was the odd-fur out. It was a wolfess, in pitch-black fur, who was not in the dress uniform that the others wore, but a service uniform. Even more peculiar, she was by far the most junior of the officers, being only a captain. She had her eyes closed, and was resting her chin on a paw. The other members of the Court seemed not to take much notice of her.

Sergeant Wing was the recording officer. He seemed to be the only fur who noticed me, and he tapped the side of his beak at me.

Eventually, the roar of a sergeant-major and the thump of a mace upon a table, both indicia of being the sergeant-at-arms, got the required silence, and the preliminaries began to be acted out. Article Four was read out, including the stipulated punishment for offences against it, which included loss of all rank and privileges, expulsion from the Army, and the denial of fire and shelter from the subjects of Faerie. As I've said before, a death sentence, in reality.

Private Flood, when called upon to plead, could barely stand, and in spite of prompting from the Court, was far too frightened to speak. It fell to Chitterleigh to enter his plea of "not guilty."

The prosecution, in the form of a rather confident stallion, set the stage of the FAFI, who was where, and what supposedly happened. From what I could tell, having been there, it was a straightforward and honest presentation. Mark you, a lot of that wasn't in dispute.

Flood's public statements, that he denied using Gramerye, were read into the record. The Lieutenant did not dispute them, stating that such statements were part of the defence's case. Furs expected Chitterleigh to grill the witnesses, especially the furs that had claimed Flood had used Gramerye. There was a definite rustle in the gallery when Chitterleigh stated that he would reserve his questioning of them for the defence. As it stood, their statements were unchallenged.

The prosecution, somewhat surprised, rested their case, which had taken only about forty-five minutes to present. It was then the turn of Chitterleigh to present the defence's case.

At his direction, I lugged in a shove-copper board, and placed it on a table in front of the Court, and just ahead of the prosecution and defence tables. I spilled a large paw-ful of coppers on it, as directed by the Lieutenant. He then asked all of the prosecution's witnesses to step forward, which they did.

"Now, then, lads: fancy a game?"

Most of the Court looked as puzzled as the gallery did. The exceptions were the Marshal, who looked irritated, and the wolfess, who briefly opened one eye, regarded Chitterleigh, and closed it again.

The witnesses gathered around the table, and Chitterleigh had them positioned roughly as they had been on the night in question, with himself taking the place of Private Flood. The match began.

I wasn't so much alarmed by the fact that the Lieutenant was losing, but from the fact that I could clearly tell, standing where I was a few feet behind him, that he was not using Gramerye. It wasn't clear to me at all what the thrust of his tactics was: if he used Gramerye and was spotted, Flood was sunk. If he used Gramerye and was not spotted, I wasn't sure that would exonerate Flood. And if he didn't use Gramerye at all, and wasn't called out for using it, it wouldn't prove anything. I'm not even sure not using Gramerye and being called out in error for using it would do much.

Around the 18th copper, which meant that there were only three coppers left in the match, I admit I got a little flustered and worried. On an impulse, and very quietly, I whispered into my sleeve, ordering the copper the Lieutenant was about to shoot to go a certain way to set up his last shot. My Gramerye was quite good...the copper went where it should have, and didn't arouse much comment, since it was a standard shot.

The witnesses' 19th shot was a standard counter, but it couldn't do anything to block Chitterleigh's final shot, which was a beauty. Chitterleigh knocked five of the witnesses' coppers out of the scoring slots, and won the match.

The sergeant-at-arms bawled at the pawful of furs who clapped at that shot.

There was a long silence after that, broken only by the Marshal.

"Lieutenant, did you have a point to this exercise?"

"Yes, Your Highness."

"And that is...?"

"I would like to put it to the witnesses whether they spotted anything unusual during that match."

The Court, except for the wolfess, turned its attention to the three squaddies, who shuffled their footpads. Finally, one of them spoke up.

"'at wuz a bluidy amazin' shot, 'at last 'un, it was."

The buck on the panel spoke up.

"Are you suggesting, Witness, that the Lieutenant cheated - I mean to say, Lieutenant, only for the purposes of demonstration, I'm not implying - well, that Gramerye was used?"

The witness took off his cap, and fiddled with it nervously. He opened and closed his muzzle a few times, swallowed, and finally admitted that he wasn't sure.

"On that shot, or any other shot, Witness?"

The witness could only helplessly shrug his shoulders. His mates could do no better.

The cat looked up from his papers. "Lieutenant Chitterleigh, did you use Gramerye during the match?"

"No, sir."

"Did you have anyone under your instruction using Gramerye during the match?"

"No, sir."

The Marshal at this point fumed. "Then what, in blazes, d'ye mean by..."

His outburst was interrupted by the wolfess, who still didn't open an eye.

"Your Highness? There was Gramerye used."

Every single pair of eyes in the chamber turned to her. That is, except mine. I closed mine, fearing the worst. I did hear the Marshal splutter.

"Great Fuma's eyes, Captain, are you sure?"

The wolfess seemed as calm as ever. "Oh, it's quite unmistakable. It came on the 18th shot, when the Lieutenant was trying to set up his winning gambit."

The eagle leaned forward, and looked at the wolfess. "But Captain, he denied using Gramerye."

He got a quiet shrug in response. "Just like the defendant did. I don't know what happened on the night in question, but I do know what happened now. Counsel for the defence didn't use Gramerye, but he was the beneficiary of Gramerye."

Some of the other members of the Court talked over each other, the gist of their comments going toward the purpose of such an odd arrangement. The wolfess shrugged.

"Side bets, or sheer kibitzing. Who knows? Not relevant. Nor do you need to find out who the fur was that did it. What counsel for the defence has shown is that it's possible for Gramerye to be used, thus showing the witnesses had an honest if mistaken belief, but not by the defendant, thus showing he is telling the truth, and thus didn't violate Article Four."

She opened both of her eyes, and folded her arms across her chest. She stared with bright yellow eyes right at Chitterleigh.

"Very clever, Lieutenant. A high-risk gamble, but very clever. And you've won more than a simple game of shove-copper."

She turned to the Marshal, and in a bored voice stated that she moved for acquittal of the defendant. It took a number of hoarsely yelled threats from the sergeant-at-arms before order in the gallery could be restored. The rest of the Court voted for acquittal in short order.

An utterly astonished Private Flood stood, and was informed by the Marshal that while he was found not guilty of a violation of Article Four, his conduct in the fight that broke out in the FAFI would subject him, according to the King's Regulations, to punishment by service in the guard-house. As he had already been in the guard-house pending the court-martial, no further punishment was to be imposed, and he was free to rejoin his unit. He also got a lecture from the Marshal on the evils of gambling, a lecture that was repeated to the witnesses.

The prosecution graciously shook paws with Chitterleigh, and asked the Lieutenant if he had an interest in changing career paths, an offer that was declined with equal grace. Private Flood, for his part, attempted to say something to my officer, but could only pump the Lieutenant's paw and move his tear-soaked muzzle soundlessly.

For my part, I wanted to get the hell out of the building as fast as I could. Toting the shove-copper board, I mingled with the crowd until I found an exit in the rear of the building, one that no one else was using. I hoped.

Opening the door revealed the wolfess, who had put on her dark-green service cloak. One with a brooch in the shape of an eye pinned in accordance with regulations, denoting a scholar and an expert in Gramerye in the service of the King. She was looking at her paw-claws in boredom, seemingly trying to figure out which one needed a trim. Eventually, she turned her muzzle slowly, yawned, and looked down at me with a languid expression.

"You're a very impetuous little fawn, aren't you?"

About my only reaction was to hug the damned shove-copper board to my chest, tightly. As if that would have afforded any protection whatsoever.

"You're lucky I decided not to ask any questions, and that I've decided to hold my tongue. Your luck may run out with other furs, one of these days."

She bent down, and extended a single paw-claw, lifting up my (shaking very badly) chin.

"Not to discourage you from practicing. Keep it up. You'll be pretty good at it someday. If you're allowed to live."

At that point, I had to find a bathroom very quickly, so I don't know what she did after that, except laugh at my retreating back.