FSE

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*****

There was a good reason that Albric Tor was chosen as a summer capital for the Empire, all those generations ago.

Compared with some of the other areas of Faerie, in summer, it's a lot cooler. That comes from being up in the hills. How high we are above sea level is probably a guess, since few elves have seen the sea these days and I don't imagine anyone ever measured it, even in bygone days. But compared to some of the other areas of King Adler's reign, we're probably about 3,000 feet higher. There's a fairly constant breeze, as well, which tends to keep the humidity down. Femmefurs can walk around under their parasols, and not be knocked out by the burning heat. You can even drill on the Parade Ground at high noon, and not suffer too much.

Some of the longer-serving furs, like Schweink, told me that the weather during the summer in Albric could take unexpected turns, if there's a change in the wind direction. It tends to be noticed by everyone, seeing as how elves are attuned to nature. Even while the mild sun in shining, you can see furs eyeing the sky, and starting to get heavy tarpaulins ready to paw. The mountains that rise all around the city start to be wreathed in mist, and distant flashes of lightning and faint thunderrolls can be heard.

There's a balladeer who described the weather as the kind of thing where clammy breezes whistle through mountain passes, curl your fur and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights where it blows like that, every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little femmes feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer in a pub.

There were a few nights where Lt. Chitterleigh was summoned in the middle of the night, in a driving rain, to go down to GHQ or even the Royal Palace. And it wasn't as if he was having his sleep disturbed. On nights like that, he'd gasp and try to snatch any cool breeze that could be found.

As to what his meetings were all about, he only mentioned that they were visitors from out of town. After he got summoned one night, I snuck out after him to see what was happening. Not much, except that a closed coach delivered a nervous little chipmunk, dressed (at that hour of the morning?) in a velvet cloak (in this weather?) and a chain of office.

I asked Sergeant Wing what was doing. His first reaction was to ask why I thought something was doing, which was a pretty good non-answer that put me on the spot. I told the truth, and surprisingly he wasn't sore at me. He gave me a few more non-answers until I asked him was this something that was going to show up on the Master Map.

There was a long silence after that, broken only when he said to me: "'at's what ye may think, lad. Couldn't possibly comment."

Hanging around in the hall just after I left, I did hear the door to the Marshal's chambers open and close.

Speaking of the Lieutenant, his rhetorical soliloquies, the ones that I repeated to Meadow as being the thoughts on his mind, had turned from the playful recitation of old ballads, to more serious thoughts about Miss Eichelgruber's safety. The feelings, if anything, were even stronger going the other way. On the surface, of course, these were remarks exchanged between Meadow and myself, with our principals discreetly listening in. And for all that, they were as true for the two squirrels as they were for us.

Comparing notes, we found that each of the Lieutenant and his lady-love had taken to pacing the floor at night, and it wasn't just the nightly blanket of humid air that was causing that. I even turned around one night, coming back from one of Rutter's lectures, to find that Miss Eichelgruber was shadowing me. I didn't tell that to Chitterleigh, because I know that would have made him agitated, and probably would have had him tailing Meadow.

Things finally came to a head one morning when a gale blew through the town, bringing with it sheets of rain. Our bungalow creaked and rocked with the wind, and I had to put towels underneath the door to stop the wet coming in. The skies lit up constantly, accompanied by the violent crashing of thunderclaps. Cooped up as I was indoors, it sounded almost as if Albric Tor were under siege by a powerful army.

And yet, the next day, the sun was out and the sky was a brilliant blue, the air fresh, clean and scrubbed as if it had come back from the laundry. Except where there were a few puddles, and some squaddies were detailed off picking up blown-down tree branches and sawing up downed trees, it seemed like nothing had happened. The shopkeepers untied their tarpaulins, the Morning Parade resumed, and except where lightning had struck the Royal Palace, sending some bricks and mortar to the ground, the Court and Society seemed to be resuming their normal routine.

But there were still rumblings. Not literal ones, just the verbal rumblings that furs whisper from one to another. Lord Tweleveoaks' fiasco, the one I had been involved in, was largely hushed up, in that he didn't seem to be under any sort of public rebuke for what had happened. But there were discussions, relayed to me by the likes of Bagoum and a few other batmen, that maybe the fun was over, that things couldn't be solved, after all, by a programme of regimented fun with the Lowfolk.

Aside from the furs I'd seen at the party, I'd never had any real interaction with Lowfolk. I'd heard the stories, of course (this aside from "Jane"), but it did make me wonder. I stopped by the Royal Library, and had a look at some of the items they had in their Lowfolk Collection, scrolls and books brought back from that realm. Or, at least the parts of it that weren't under lock and key. Those, I was informed by a rather snooty librarian, were not suitable for general circulation and could only be distributed upon application. Some of the titles in the index volume, though, indicated that certain segments of the Lowfolk population had views on the Fairfolk that would make the authors of "Jane" blush. It made one wonder what Mrs. Truemane would make of it all.

Leaving fantasy aside, it did seem like Elfkind was viewed with a mixture of awe and terror by the Lowfolk. There was, again judging from the catalogue, a vast literature on how Lowfolk children were swapped out for elves, to be raised by their foster parents. One tome stated as its thesis that the Lowfolk children were turned into feral equivalents, and set loose in the forests and fields of Faerie, never quite forgetting their anthrop nature. It did make me think of that roebuck I bumped into while walking with Lt. Rutter; the story was as reasonable as nearly every other explanation listed in the catalogue.

I suppose the two does I danced with would have an interesting story to tell back in their villages, and as I thought about it, I was a bit ashamed that I wasn't more of a gentlebuck with them. Granted, they were very aggressive and crude, but they were, after all, Lowfolk. I'd be unhappy to think if something bad about me was now being passed down as legend in their village.

The fair weather continued for some days, with brilliant nights where one could pick out the stars among Fuma's Musk in the night sky. One of these nights was spent with Meadow, when I had leave the next day. (Meadow herself found it very easy to get leave from Miss Eichelgruber, who no doubt wanted a full report.)

The farmer upon whose wagon the two of us hitched a ride gave me a long, knowing look, followed by a wink, especially when he saw that I was toting a large, rolled up blanket. There followed a quick, whispered negotiation involving the use of one of his forest meadowlands. As a bonus for paying in silver, I was given the use of a stone jug with fragrant contents, the product of the skill of the farmer's good mate.

I got my money's worth with the pasture, as it had not been mown, but was carpeted in tall grass and liberally studded with pale violet flowers then in bloom. I wove a number into a small circlet, as I had seen my mother do a number of times, and made my companion Duchess Meadow and lady sovereign over all of the field she could survey. Her first command was the surprisingly mild one of serving her the evening meal from the picnic basket she had brought, and her servant did it quite willingly (before serving himself liberally to fruit and honey bread).

Some time later, Meadow was lying on her side, enjoying a post-prandial mind-wander. I was sitting cross-legged, chin in my paws and ears swiveling.

"Westersloe?"

"Hmmm?"

"What are you doing?"

"Listening."

Meadow sat up and crawled a bit, until she was sitting beside me in the dark. In the faint light, I could see her swiveling her ears as well.

"It is pretty. I can hear the insects calling to each other. And isn't that a feral fox?"

"Hmmm?" I listened, and found that she was right. Crickets and a vixen, to be sure. "Actually, that's not what I'm listening to."

She laid a paw on my shoulder. "What are you listening to?"

"That large oak, over there."

"What, that one?"

"Mmmm-hmmm."

She tilted her head at me, and then looked over at the tree, closing her eyes. After a minute or so, she turned back to me, puzzled.

"Am I missing something? I can hear its branches rustling, which is very nice, but..."

"Well, that's part of it, you've almost got it."

"Got what?"

"You don't hear anything else?"

A gentle swat on my arm. "Westersloe, if you're teasing me, you're a very bad buck."

"No, I'm quite serious. You're just hearing the branches and the wind? When you say it's nice, what does it sound like?"

"It sounds like Mrs. Truemane after she's had a few, and she's about to drop off to sleep."

I wondered how that comparison would fare; probably decently, knowing Mrs. Truemane's robust sense of humour.

"Would you like me to show you something, Meadow?"

Judging from where she placed her paws and her nose, I took that as an affirmative. She was, however, a bit non-plussed when I got up, and began to hunt around the tree-line for stones. She watched as I placed what I found in a largish circle around the blanket she was sitting upon.

She flinched a bit when I stood in front of her, and placed my paws on her head, gently pressing in where her crown of flowers circled her head-fur.

"Hold still for a moment, Meadow, I'm trying to remember something..."

After a few minutes, the words of what Uncle had said to me long ago came to me, and I began to repeat them, singing in a low, soft voice. I could not see much of Meadow's reaction, except when the fire-bugs flew close and gently lit up her face. I could feel the reaction, however, as she slowly relaxed, and then grasped me around my knees, bowing her head slightly.

I continued chanting in the tongue Uncle had spoken, and when the song came to an end, I removed my paws from her head.

In the dark, I couldn't see much, other than her head swiveling rapidly back and forth. I did hear a sharp intake of breath, and she let go of me and crawled a few feet toward the large oak that I had pointed out earlier. She kneeled, sitting on her feet, and tilted her head forward, listening intently.

I didn't interrupt her, except for one point where I sat next to her, and put my arm around her. She leaned toward me, put her arm around me, and continued to listen, until some hours later she gradually grew drowsy and fell asleep on my chest.

The next morning, the same farmer saw me waiting at the side of the road, carrying a still-sleeping mouse femme wearing a crown of flowers around her ears. With admirable foresight, he had put a layer of fresh, clean straw in his wagon-bed, upon which Meadow quickly snuggled. We draped the blanket over her. The ant-team, gronking groggily, was slowed to a gentle walk as we headed back to the city in the early morning light.

The yeoman swigged the last draught of home-brew from the returned stoneware jug and wiped his muzzle on the back of his hand, belching softly. After checking on the status of Meadow in her "bed," he turned back to me with a cheerful grin, and a gentle punch on my thigh.

"Aye, lad. If them in th' city only knew what my granfer allus said. All you need in life is a field, a night o' stars, an' a lovely lass. It'd be a fairer world if more knew what you do, I reckon."

He had jumped, I think, to a conclusion that was inaccurate. Not wrong, because I think Meadow will in fact remember that field until the end of her days with pleasure and wonder.