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I know in some regiments of the Imperial and Royal Army, Temple Parade is taken quite seriously, and you see long crocodiles of squaddies on Holy Day being led off to pray. There are long-standing rumours that Temple Parade is done quite differently down in the Southlands, where (it is said) that some priestesses show their devotion to Fuma in certain ways. I have no first-paw experience in such matters, and for now intend to keep it that way.

Thorn Platoon was thus tucked away in its beds, having a sleep in. Granted, that's probably nothing new for Captain O'Bloom, but the squaddies were a bit shagged from the field fortification training, so it wouldn't do them any harm.

The Holy Day service was, of course, longer than Evesong service, and there were two readings. I was called on to do one, which turned about to be one of my favourites. Having grown up on a farm, I've always been sentimental about the Chapter of Harvests, and the injunction to gather in the fruits of the land and be joyful.

The display of carrots, potatoes and squash near the prayer-rail also made my stomachs rumble. So much so, that I think a few of the farmers and their families heard it. One of them, the farmer that had commented on my singing the day before, stopped me after service and put a massive lepine paw on my shoulder.

"Tha have Huly Dey dinner wit' we'un?"

Leaving aside the diplomatic niceties of the offer, it did sound like a very enticing proposition, so a few minutes later, I was in the back of Auld Tom Burrows' farm-cart, sharing it with Boy Tom (in reality, a middle-aged rabbit), Boy Tom's wife, Little Tom, and Mrs. Auld Tom, all of whom were dressed in severe and simple Holy Day clothes.

Considering the day was bright, and with a gentle snap in the air, it was a good day for a cart-ride. Even the ant pulling the cart, which was a virtual twin of the shaggy Lightning belonging to the Platoon, seemed to be in a lively mood, and scuttled down the leaf-strewn path smartly.

Upon arrival, Mrs. Auld Tom and Mrs. Boy Tom immediately got out to attend to dinner, which left the four gentlefurs to put away the cart and attend to the ant. Well, really three gentlefurs. Little Tom was allowed to help mainly by carrying small items, and giving the ant a bit of sugar.

After washing up at the well (clear, blessedly pure water and very cold), we trooped into the Burrows farmhouse. There was a heavy smell, a mixture of peat moss fuel, wet boots, and the rich smell of cooking potato.

In honour of the guest, the front parlour table was set with what must have been the best china. It was probably an heirloom, since the markings on the back were from four reigns before. The walls were covered with a mixture of needlepoint mottoes, and some brightly coloured pictures of Fuma blessing a harvest, cuddling baby elves of a variety of species, warming a house in the middle of winter, and so forth.

The two wives brought in a large and a small copper pot, and then all sat down to say grace.

"Fuma, thank'ee fer thy love un' blessin', un' we'un family un' strangers."

The large copper pot contained a mixture of mashed potoato, with whole steamed carrots stuck into it. The smaller copper pot contained a thick, salty vegetable gravy.

There was rather little conversation during the meal. Most of the talking was done by Mrs. Auld Tom, who was constantly getting up to fill my plate, pour more apple cider, pinch my cheeks, scold me for being so thin, scold me for not taking good care of my antlers (no use explaining how those last two things happened), and ask a number of questions about whether I knew any nice young roe-does.

Little Tom snickered during the last few of those questions, and collected one smack on the ear from his father and another from his grandfather.

Somehow, I found room for two helpings of the hot apple crumble that was for pudding. It was a very full deer that could not suppress a thunderous belch, which was gleefully received by Mrs. Auld Tom, who took it as a compliment, and by Little Tom, who thought it funny, and collected two more boxes on the ears for giggling.

The older mel-folk adjourned to a smaller room off the parlour while the ladies did the washing-up. (Little Tom was sent, somewhat under protest, for an afternoon nap.) Auld Tom himself let out a belch the equal of mine, let out his belt two notches, and lit an enormous pipe. Young Tom leaned against the mantelpiece in the room, his paws in his pockets and eyes half-closed.

The older rabbit raised an eyebrow at me.

"Tha reckon trubble, young 'un?"

I nodded. "I'm not sure when or how."

There was a long interval of smoke rings before Auld Tom spoke again.

"Trubble up 'nited Cities."

I leaned in to hear more, which I eventually got after a few minutes.

"Furs don't like treaty wit' King. Some furs, any road."

This was of some surprise to me; since the treaty still had not, to my knowledge, been announced, I wondered how a farmer in a remote area of the Empire, even if near a border area, knew about it. Then again, if he was near a border area, he might know something indeed.

"You have ways of finding out what's going on in the United Cities, then."

"Aye."

"Are the furs against the treaty internal or external?"

A wiggle waggle of a massive paw, indicating a mix. That seemed worrying. I thought for a while, while Auld Tom smoked and Boy Tom slouched.

"What do you think I should know, especially about the lay of the land around here?"

It was Boy Tom who grunted, and unwrapped himself sufficiently to reach into a jammed scroll-case and take out a long wooden tube. Opening that, he extracted a piece of heavy parchment, which was unrolled on the wooden floor and held down with a few ancient pieces of iron.

The map that was shown to me was old, and dated from the time of the Imperial conquest. It was, specifically, a property map, showing the boundaries of the farms surrounding the village, as well as properties belonging to the Gazers of Fuma's Musk and somefur identified as "Silverbrush," who owned the property between the monastery and the border, northeast of Mossford hamlet.

Using the stem of his pipe, Auld Tom pointed out to me a hamlet on the United Cities side that was just out of sight of the two hills that I had semi-fortified; it was probably two miles from the border. Lark's Rise was (depending on how you viewed it) either the beginning or the end of the road that led with increasingly good paving ten miles away, to Sainted Oaks, which at about 10,000 souls was the largest of the United Cities and more or less the capital of that association, or at least where its Common Council usually met.

(This was related to me over the course of about fifteen minutes, with long pauses broken by terse statements which I had to interpret.)

Before the Imperial conquest and the formation of the United Cities not long afterward, the area of Mossford and Lark's Rise made a pretty good living in smuggling, with the result that most of the families in Mossford were related to the families in Lark's Rise, and vice versa. Blood ties being good to keep things quiet on the rare occurrences of tax-furs from either side. In recent years, however, a combination of lower cross-border traffic, and a bit more legitimate traffic going through Flourford downstream, meant that the rabbits of the area were pretty much focusing on their farms. Still and all, they visited each other fairly often, and most knew the area from the time they were hopping before walking.

As to what the furs in Lark's Rise were thinking, the gist of it was that while they were not enthusiastic about the treaty and closer relations with the Empire, at least the Empire was preferable to the Grand Duchy that was on the United Cities' other border. The ruler there was one of the old-school, one who felt that the best way to raise funds was by taking it from others, preferably at axe-point. By contrast, the Empire in recent years was more likely to take a live-and-let-live attitude, and what's more was a source of profitable trading.

There are those who say that King Adler isn't the elf his forefathers were, and that he seemed to be a somnolent ruler. Listening to Auld Tom's terse analysis of the situation, it did make me wonder if His Majesty may have been smarter than many furs supposed.

I took my courage in both paws and asked Auld Tom what the best way was to get a good feel for how things were in Lark's Rise, or whether it was safe. He pointed with the stem of his pipe at his son, who grunted.

"Boy will take tha twa night hence, when tha see Fuma's Musk." In other words, on the next moonless night. We were to meet at the ford at dusk.

The rest of the time was spent over a pint of hard cider each. A grand total of about six words were exchanged, which appeared to be to the satisfaction of the rabbits. I got that impression as they let me off the cart back at the village.

"Tha hold tha tongue, 'cept singin', un' keep tha ears swivel. Smart."

Boy Tom grunted.

Given that my next stop involved more detailed conversation, I wondered if that observation was entirely true. I worked off some of my massive Holy Day dinner by walking toward, and ultimately up at, the Gazers of Fuma's Musk.

I paused near the top of the steep incline that led to the front door of the monastery. The thick stand of trees blocked most of my line of sight, but given the fact that I could see the farms to the south of Mossford, and the Flourford Road running southwest, the view over the border would be pretty good. Of course, that pre-supposed I'd get a chance to look at the border.

The monastery itself was a large wooden affair, made at the base from the logs of what must have been massive trees. Hidden from sight by the surrounding trees was a profusion of domes on the top of the structure. I counted nine.

I'd never seen a Temple of Fuma quite like this before, and I admit that I stood in the entrance path looking a little slack-jawed. My reverie was broken by the sensation that I was no longer alone, and indeed I was not. I had been joined by a slender, mahogany-and-ebony furred mink dressed in a black habit. It was a little hard to tell where his habit left off and his tailfur began, it was so dark. I removed my hat, whereupon I was given a Benedicto Interphalangeal. Which isn't easy to give a deer, let me tell you.

"Brother, is it permissible to visit the monastery?"

The monk looked somewhat surprised, but said nothing. I repeated my question, and got still more silence in reply. I tried a few different dialects, and got the same result.

Finally, the mink raised one finger, then tapped himself on the chest with it, and then raised the same finger to his lips.

Obviously, he was under a vow of silence. Red-eared, I apologized to him, whereupon he bowed. He then led me to the front door, and with a finger-claw, tapped out a sequence on the door chimes. A panel in the door slid open, and a pair of eyes could be seen. They regarded the brother with bored recognition, and me with surprise.

The two monks (well, I suppose it was a monk behind the door) stared at each other, and eventually the door was opened, and both of us were admitted.

The monk behind the door turned out to be a mouse, one that had been standing upon a box. He too was silent, and what was more, was completely poker-faced. I had interrupted him in some duty or other, as he was wearing a flat-topped straw hat, which popped up slightly as he wore it. The box he had been standing upon was placed by the mink upon his head, and the mouse moved off, poker-faced as before.

I was led to a refectory, where a number of hooded monks were busy eating soup. They were either exquisitely mannered, or the acoustics were odd, because one could not hear a single sound from them. Indeed, the only sound in the room was a soft sing-song reading from the Apocrypha of Fuma. It was the one about the Shy Maiden, which must have been quite interesting, given the setting in which it was being read.

One of the monks, upon hearing my hooves, got up, bowed and pointed to a side room. I followed, and there he stood, hood and all, with his paws folded in front of him. I explained I wanted to see the Abbot.

He held up one finger of one paw, and then one finger of his other paw. This was followed by pointing at his stomach.

"He's at his meal?"

A gentle finger wave, and a repetition of the flashing of one finger of each paw, and then the pointing at the stomach, though this time, it was actually touched.

Light eventually dawned. "Abdominal?"

One finger. "Ab?" There was a brief bit of clapping, and then two fingers were held up, followed by one, and then a flask of wine was indicated.

This, I surmised, must be how they passed those long winter evenings when they weren't at prayer.

"Bottle. Bot. Abbot."

A brief clapping, and then some slices of dark bread next to the wine were pointed out.

"The Abbot is loafing?"

A nervous glance over the shoulder, and frantic paw waving.

"Oh. It's rye bread. The Abbot is out riding?"

Vigorous clapping.

"Will you tell him Corporal Winterbough from the Army barracks sends his compliments, and could I meet with him an a convenient time?"

There was a bow, and I was escorted back to the refectory. The meal there was over, and all of the monks were giving each other the Benedicto Interphalangeal. Given that there were a few dozen of them, they must have had awfully sore heads later.

Back at the barracks, I found that all was in proper order, that most of the day had been passed with a game of football in one of the nearby fields, and casualties had been light, limited to a few twisted ankles and one squaddie that had received a black-and-blue card for a particularly vigorous foul.

I wrote a brief report of my conversation with Auld Tom Burrows, as well as a status report on Mossford, sealing it within a larger tube and requesting that it be forwarded by King's Messenger to GHQ in Persoc Tor. I figured that with things how they are, it would be there in the space of about a week.