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*****

More's the pity, there was no particular way I could skive and get on sick call for the few days following, without getting caught. I suspected this, and it was confirmed by Schweink.

"We had a fellow back in the old Thirty Ninth [where else - WW5] who was a champion malingerer. Fellow could mimic just about anything you could think of. Shivers, chills, shakes, fur matting, hanging over the side of the bed getting sick, he could do it all. Makes you wonder what he was doing in the Army, should have been a fine old act. Peasants would have loved it. Herbalists used to come from all over to have a squint at him, tap his knees with little hammers, look down his throat, and all. One of the herbalists caught wise, though, and made up something or other. Even faked up one of those official scrolls describing it. And wouldn't you know it, your man came down with it. Well! The herbalists had him out of hospital faster than a dose of salts, and sent him back to the line."

"What ended up happening, Schweink?"

"Fellow caught cold on a march, and clapped out from pneumonia a few days later. No one believed him. Justice, eh?"

While I might have fooled some of the Army herbalists stationed out in some of the Fuma-forsaken frontier areas, I had no illusions that, at the heart of the Empire, I was going to be able to put one over here. For all I knew, I'd probably be used as a demonstration experiment.

Mark you, Meadow would have been willing to help me try. When she didn't see me at market the morning after the trial, she did stop by. She was that I was rather pale and nervous, and offered to put me to bed. While that did have a certain level of appeal, and I could well believe the Lieutenant would tolerate it, I wasn't so sure how others might take it. Especially since now my fears of being watched came back.

My own fault, and I had no one else to blame but myself. The Lieutenant had suckered me good and proper, and no crying about it.

And it wasn't as if the Lieutenant had sobered up. Later that same week, a number of the other ADCs and a good selection of other officers threw him a small party in celebration of Private Flood's acquittal. From about dusk to nearly dawn the next morning, the glasses were rarely empty. Even the batmen were invited to join in. Schweink and Bagoum were brought home in wheelbarrows. For that matter, so were their officers, Rivers and Wicker, who were both by now giving splendid voice to certain ballads that I hoped Miss Eichelgruber didn't know.

I stayed stone-cold sober. I had been tempted, at one point, until it was pointed out that I hadn't been guzzling wine. The hooting only increased when Chitterleigh raised a magisterial paw and stated that I needed to keep my mind clear for higher activities. The attendees, united, put one (ribald) interpretation on this, with some calls for cheese. My officer looked over the top of his wine-glass at me with a wry expression.

I was, in fact, doing some "higher things," courtesy of the Privates' Institute. Quite a few generations ago, one of the Royal Princesses, with perhaps more hope and aspiration than real-world experience, had left a sum of money to be used for the education of Army enlisted furs that wished to broaden their education. The PI still existed, to be sure, but judging from the sparse attendance at some of the lectures I went to, I'm sure the patroness would have been a little disappointed.

Still, there was a bright side to that. The instructor on military history was very surprised when I started interrupting him and asking him questions on specific battles. Putting aside his lecture notes, he began to give an extempore tour of the campaigns of yore, including the battles I was interested in. He really was quite good at it, and the three of us in the lecture hall stayed over long past the end-point for the class.

The other two privates in attendance, as it turned out, had mistaken the PI for a pub, but the lack of good pint didn't deter them in the end.

"A foine bit of craic, it was, sorr," said one of them, vigorously shaking our lecturer's paw. "And would ye be after having any of these bows yer describing?"

At the next lecture (which was slightly better attended), the officer brought a heavily bundled item which, when unwrapped, turned out to be a bow borrowed from the Royal Armoury. Each of us was allowed to heft it. It was beautifully balanced, and surprisingly light-weight to carry. The wood was a very pale yellow, and exceptionally fine grained. It was pointed out to us that a weapon of this kind would have allowed for a high volume of fire, but would not have been difficult to carry.

The privates all scratched their heads. "And Faith in Fuma, sorr, why are we not having this with us today? Sure, it's lighter than the swords we carry t'day."

Each of us was allowed to take a few dry pulls on the bow. The other lads were husky country boys, and even they couldn't draw it back very far. I might have had the most training on the bow, and I found it was hard to draw it back to its full capacity. There were shooting pains all through my back after I did it twice. It might have been because the bow was not sized for a roebuck like me. A much taller elf would have used the sample.

The lecturer pointed out that it generally took years of practice to become proficient with the elven bow, at least the standard-issue infantry bow of long ago. He noted that archers developed great muscle strength throughout their middle body, and were noted for having one arm thicker than the other.

There was a lively discussion as to whether or not an elf really could shoot three arrows at once. None of the lads had ever seen it, and the lecturer laughed, saying while it was possible, it was a trick shot rarely seen in true combat, since it used up ammunition at a frightening pace. A show-off's gambit, he said.

There were a number of other course offerings at the PI, though the only one that seemed to be crowded was one on ancient poetry. That one was taught by a vixen, a young one, who was under no illusions what a bunch of squaddies wanted, and what the public wanted, the public got. You could hear the cheers and whistles after her readings all throughout the building.

I actually was in search of another lecture, which I only found near the back stairs. There was no one in the lecture hall, and the lecturer, an old boar, was enjoying a pleasant snooze, his head and tusks buried in his arms. He wasn't enthusiastic about being poked awake.

"Piss off. Erotic poetry readings are upstairs."

"Is this the Gramerye lecture, sir?"

The boar gave me the eye, and gradually untangled himself.

"By Fuma's round pair, if you're another one of these stupid gits that thinks he can use Gramerye to get the ladies, I'll do yer. That's the problem with those damn poetry readings, puts all sorts of ideas into young fools..."

"Um, no sir. I've studied some on my own..."

The boar poured a cup of tea out of a flask and regarded me suspiciously.

"Look, Private, reading about it in old ballad scrolls doesn't count. Now hop along. Lecture in an hour on Elvish pottery on the third floor, which is probably more useful to you. Learn how to make thunder-jugs like they used to of old."

I was somewhat annoyed at his attitude, so under the guise of rubbing my chin, I mumbled an order to the tea in his cup to freeze. The boar, in attempting to take a sip, nearly put his eye out with the spoon. He looked at his cup in surprise, removed the large block of oolong ice, and tapped it against the lectern. I earned a glare for my pains.

"All right, my lad, you've made your point. But still hop it."

"Sir, I really would like some formal instruction on the subject."

"What, so you can order ladies' delicates to unravel?"

"Sir?"

He took a few steps, stopped, and I got a finger poked in my chest. "Look, I know you squaddies. Every time I think at last I've got somefur who's finally taking a serious interest in Gramerye, somefur who'll actually take the Qualification Exam, next thing I know, they're up on a charge after making some poor femme's silk dress-threads snap, right in the middle of the street. And I'm the one who has to show up before a court-martial and explain how I taught some fur to act out his ideas from Elvish poetry. Bollocks. On yer way, lad."

I rather emphatically sat down in a chair, took out a blank scroll, a traveling ink pot, and a few reed quills. The boar crossed his arms, glared, and muttered something. Without taking my eyes off him, I replied.

"Powdered ink in my vessel, please re-liquify with the moisture in the air." I also added an order to the reed quills to sharpen their points, again.

The lecturer snorted, and stomped behind his lectern.

"Tea of ice, come to a boil and..."

I was told by the boar to shut up, that his lunch could be handled quite nicely on its own, and to repeat the First Fundamental of Gramerye.

"No substance can be compelled to do that which is not natural to it."

At the end of the first ninety-minute lecture, I was gruffly told to come back at the same time in two days, if my superior would allow me to. I was also given a reading-list, and was told that there would be quizzes on it, and that if I skived, I'd get a trotter planted firmly up my backside.

Meadow, when I spoke to her later in the safety of Miss Eichelgruber's kitchen, was more than a little dubious. I told her the whole story of the trial, and how much I really knew about Gramerye. This made her even more dubious, and she pointed that if I went up against somefur like that wolfess, being the equivalent of a fawn just out of his spots, as such, wasn't going to do me a whole lot of good. She argued that it would make much more sense to go for a Qualification Exam in single stick.

It was my turn to be dubious of her, and I asked her what she knew of short-staff fighting. She said that she had dabbled in it, and wouldn't mind a little practice at it. Would I like to go into the garden for a bit of exercise?

There was something about her manner that put me on my guard; most likely it was the very sweet smile. Either that, or the fact that she had a pair of short-staves in a canvas carry-bag.

Miss Eichelgruber, seated in a chair in the parlour, looked up from her needle-work.

"Please, ma'am, may Private Winterbough and I have a short-staff bout in the garden?"

The squirrel femme delicately snipped a thread. "If you like, Meadow. Only please do it near the ornamental pond. I don't want the new azalea bushes trampled."

"Yes, ma'am, thank you, ma'am."

In a few minutes, we were both set up, and I bowed. Which may have been a bit of overconfidence or carelessness on my part, since Meadow immediately tried to hook my antlers and force me to my knees. Only a quick head-turn managed to parry her thrust against the side of my rack, and the match was on, in earnest.

I began to see things from the point of view of the Gramerye lecturer: there is nothing quite so disconcerting as seeing someone you expect knows nothing, but in fact knows quite a bit. Meadow, in spite of the fact that her servant's uniform was not designed for short-staff fighting, was able to move quite easily, and she was very good at switching paws. She didn't seem to have a dominant paw, which made things very tricky when she passed her stick rapidly from one paw to another. She tried the rack-trick again, and almost got me to my knees before I knocked her staff up and out of my antlers.

When that happened, it did leave her feet exposed, and a quick twisting thrust with my stick knocked her off balance. She stumbled, took three staggered steps back, and fell straight into the ornamental pond.

There was a sound of clapping, and I turned. Miss Eichelgruber had brought her needlework outside, and had been watching the match, evidently with keen interest. She had even brought some fruit juice and cookies.

I turned back, to find that Meadow had clambered out of the pond. A few things were rather evident. For one, the material in her servant's uniform, high-end as it was, was made of cotton and thus soaked up water rather well. For another, the uniform had, because of the immersion, lost all of its starch. Thirdly, and perhaps this was the hot weather, Meadow's uniform was very simple. Fourthly, and this related to the other three factors, it was very alarmingly clear from even a very brief glance (and my glance was brief) that Meadow was a young fur in peak health, indeed.

She put her paws behind her back, gave me an amused what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it look (I saw that on a second brief glance), and very sweetly asked me to hand her the cap portion of her uniform, which had fallen off. As I was looking down at my hooves at the moment, I could spot it quite easily on the ground, and I handed it to her without looking up.

She walked casually over to Miss Eichelgruber's chair, and curtsied.

"Please, ma'am, may I go and change?"

"Certainly, Meadow, but please don't track water on the carpets. You can remove those things here, and put them on the kitchen table."

"Yes, ma'am."

I looked studiously elsewhere while this operation was performed, until I heard the servant's entrance door open and close. It was at that point that I heard the lady squirrel chuckle.

"It is quite all right, Private. Do have some juice, won't you? You must have worked up a bit of a thirst."

I rather needed some. My mouth was dry.

Miss Eichelgruber looked at me rather pleasantly. "You did win fair and square, Private. No fur could criticize you for peeking at your reward. Twice. I certainly won't."

Some juice went down the wrong way.

"Oh, dear. You know what? I don't think they teach you young lads the right things, these days. You should attend some lectures on Elvish poetry, Private. I've always enjoyed that genre. I even wrote some, this morning. Now, then, sit right here beside me and I'll recite it for you. A bright young fur like you I'm sure will learn it off in no time. You can recite it to Meadow, later, when you get home. Won't that be nice?"