FSE

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*****

There was at least one more element in the neighbourhood that I wanted to tie down before going over the border, and that was the Silverbrush property that was between the monastery and the boundary-river. Judging from what I saw on Auld Tom's map, that piece of land occupied some territory that would be well worth being familiar with.

As I walked along the trail that led onto the property, I could see at least one reason why familiarity would be helpful; the property was very wet and marshy. In point of fact, the trail that I was walking on appeared to be some of the only high and dry ground in the general area. Venture a few feet from the path, and one would start to sink into a morass. Not a good area to be wandering around at night, in the dark.

While I imagine that in the peak of summer, this area would be noisy and alive with the sounds of frogs, fish and turtles moving about, at this point, with the cold weather coming, the small feral creatures of the area seemed to be readying their shelters. Even at this hour of the morning, the cool mist and fog had not completely burned off.

Eventually, the trail did come to an end at a clearing, which was a few inches above the prevailing water-line. There was an old wooden house, perched somewhat precariously on some old stone pillars. The area in front of the house was a litter of old metal and wooden objects, of obscure origin and purpose, with the exception of a cart that was propped up upon some squared off pieces of stone.

Carefully going up the steps (I wasn't entirely sure of their state of repair), I rapped at the weather-beaten wooden door. And waited. There was no sound that came from inside the house, even after a second knock.

I went down the steps, convinced that I should try another day, when I heard the door open very slowly on rusty hinges. I went back up, but there was no one there. I called out, and got no response.

It was something of a quandary. As a soldier of the King, I did not have any right to enter into a fur's home without an invitation, unless there was an indication of danger. Unless you counted a rather strange and musty odour as "danger," there wasn't anything to indicate that I should enter.

I carefully sat down on the top step, took out a scrap of paper from my tunic and a small piece of graphite, and began to compose a note when I heard a rather feminine scream from inside the house.

Dropping the paper (which now had a large, jagged graphite mark obscuring it, anyway), I was about to dash into the house when a sense of something or other held me back. I paused at the doorjamb, swiveled my ears, sniffed the air, and reflexively attempted to spot any wards or the like. There were none present, so I carefully moved into the house, but not before finding and placing a largish stone in the way of the door.

Once my eyes adjusted to the dim light inside, I found that the house was comprised almost entirely of one large room that had evidently not seen any housekeeping attention in my lifetime. It's possible that is what triggered the feminine scream. A seemingly cold fireplace, a rickety table, and a large circular wooden frame that contained a pile of (ugh) feral furs was all that I could see.

I took out my short-staff, and moved forward, slowly. About six feet in, the door swung shut, hard, and it was only because the stone was there that it did not shut completely. Of greater concern was the fact that the house was certainly occupied. By what seemed to be tens of thousands of beetles, which began to boil over from out of the woodwork, from the hearth, from a pile of old pots, and the furs on the bed. A number were even dropping from the ceiling.

The quickest response was to immediately set a ward around myself. Within a few seconds, I was crouched within a small, glowing circle. The beetles seethed all around me, clambering on top of each other, and a number flew at me, only clicking off the force that was protecting my face from a few inches.

I was pondering my next move, when I heard the sound of polite clapping from high above me. There, perched in the rafters of the structure, was a rather smallish fox. He was looking down at me with, it seemed, an air of detached bemusement.

"Oooooooh, we've studied Gramerye, haven't we? Nice little effect, there. Are you sure you wouldn't want to set up, say, a little stream of fire?"

I glared up at the ceiling, and managed to bite back the first five or six answers I had in mind, going with a benign one. "Good morning. Am I addressing Mr. Silverbrush?"

He held up a finger. "Let us be precise in these matters. You are addressing a fur that, at this point in time, chooses to be known under the name of Estvan Silverbrush. How do you do? And you are?"

"I am Corporal Westersloe Winterbough, of the Mossford Garrison."

The fox tilted his head, in the annoying way foxes do when they're trying to figure out something you're saying.

"Are you certain that's your name?"

"It's the only name I've ever had."

"How drearily conventional. You must have lived a shockingly dull life to be known by only one name. I, myself, have been known by at least a dozen or so names. I change names when the mood strikes me. Try it, sometime. Oh, to be sure, there'll be the problems of paperwork, and I'm sure that will tie up your little Empire in knots, but then, bureaucrats are so lacking in imagination."

He shifted over, and then dropped down until he was hanging by his feet from the rafters, which put his head about three feet above mine. "Are you on official business, Corporal?"

"No, this is a personal matter. I am getting to know the neighbourhood."

"How frightfully jolly. Would you like some tea and cake?"

I looked around me. The floor was still a mass of insects climbing over each other, from one wall to another. I leaned on my short staff and looked up with a raised eyebrow.

Silverbrush shrugged and dropped down right next to me. With a wave of his paw, the fauna infesting the house immediately began to move rapidly into his tailfur. In no more than fifteen seconds, the floor was empty, save for the two of us.

"Still, there is something to be said for self-discipline. Usually, when I have visitors, they run screaming from the house. Even worse, some of them try to stamp my little friends. Shocking behaviour. Now, then: tea."

A somewhat grungy teapot was fished from a pile of crockery, followed by two dishes that appeared to have ancient writing on them. Or, at least, I hoped it was ancient writing and not ancient leftovers. The teapot was filled from a small, rusty pump, and the plates laid out on the table, which sagged under their weight.

The fox put a few pinches of a greenish powder in the teapot ("One for me, one for the deer with the somewhat odd antlers, and one for the pot"), and casually commanded the water inside to boil. He giggled.

"You have no idea how often that boggles the innocent. Oh, to be new to Gramerye. Let's see, by your accent, you're an Elfhame fur, so let's have sweet persimmon cake, shall we?"

To my surprise, on looking down, there was a wedge of two-layer cake, the layers glued together with a very familiar-smelling jam. I waited until the tod had sat down, and had begun to pour tea for the two of us.

"Ah, such lovely manners, waiting for your host. Do eat it up, or the stranglewort garnish won't be as fresh."

My paw had been halfway to the (suddenly appearing) silver fork next to the plate when I stopped and flinched.

"Oh, dear? Have I said something, Corporal? Tsk, tsk. And it was such a recent event, you know. Oh, well. More for me!"

I was poured the cup of tea, while the second wedge of sweet persimmon cake was dumped onto his plate.

"I could have told the cake not to be poisonous."

Silverbrush forked in a large portion of cake, chewed with great relish, swallowed, and dabbed at his lips daintily with a napkin. "Of course you could have, Corporal, of course you could have. However, I assure you, stranglewort has a sour flavour that contrasts very nicely with sweet persimmon. It used to be a favourite oh, about seven dynasties ago."

I sipped at my tea, which did not appear to be tainted. "So you have lived in this area long, sir?"

"Oh, my, yes. Haven't really cared to venture out of these woods, y'know. The wide world out there is just chock-a-block with assorted little realms fighting their absurd little battles. Speaking of absurd little battles, that's a rather interesting little fortification you've built there near the ford. Are you expecting guests?"

I flattened my ears, and fiddled with my teacup. He raised a deprecating paw.

"My dear fellow, surely you don't think I would be a traitor to my King, even if he is my King by reason of the whimsical decisions of map-makers. Mark you, as kings go, your chap, whatshisname, err, oh yes, Adler I think it is, yes Adler. Where was I? Oh, yes. As kings go, not a bad chap. Doesn't go around plundering gold and grain and maidens like they used to, even his distant ancestors."

He leaned back in his chair and examined the ceiling in fond reminiscence. "Now, the skunks from Albric Tor of old, those were a lot. Savage chappies, with an axe in one paw, and...well, actually, a lot of different things in the other paw. Sometimes a head, sometimes a carved symbol of Fuma. I suppose it did vary. Those early bishops of the Mephitist Church had a remarkable method of converting subjugated realms. But to wander back to the present King: you've been sent up here to keep an eye on the border, have you not?"

I nodded. The fox chuckled.

"Ah, the less said, the better, eh? My, my, my, you are a different little fellow, aren't you? Even when we do get soldiers around here, they're such a conventional little lot. Not an ounce of Gramerye among 'em. Tell me, have you mastered the art of getting a femme's clothes to de-thread, yet?"

He looked on with interest as my ears turned red.

"Oh, that's right. I forget. You Elfhamers are gentlefurs. Resist temptation, that's your motto. Even when confronted with the rather pleasing prospect of healthy young blonde mouse-femmes?"

He offered me a napkin as tea squirted out of my nose, and I engaged in a coughing fit.

"Really, I don't know how you do it, Corporal. Now, in the old days, a warrior like you wouldn't have bothered with any formalities. And in this case, I don't think she would have, either. Have you asked? No? Ah, I see this topic is wandering away from the point of your visit, again. You want to know about the area, do you not?"

I nodded, relieved that he was changing the topic. He started in on his second slice of cake.

"Perhaps afterward we can chat about mind-shielding. Such thoughts you have about this mouse! In any event: the area around what is quaintly known as Mossford (I won't bore you with the long string of names it has had going back) has had its share of battles over time, all of which have been lost to recorded history. That monastery on top of the hill, for example, is built on the site of a simply marvelous duel between two petty kings. Hacked at each other for the better part of a day, until both killed each other just as the sun was setting. Now, there's the old-fashioned way of making war."

He sighed. "Well, I suppose we must bow to progress. It's all reconnaissance and map-making and logistics now. The battles in this area have usually been fought in between Lark's Rise (dull name, I much prefer the ancient cognomen of The Field of Blood) and the river. Nice, flat surface for smashing into chappies."

"Who usually wins those battles? Is there a consistent tactic?"

"Well, I must admit, Corporal, that usually the tactics involved are, as I alluded to just now, two large bodies of furs smashing into each other and then hacking away. I know, I know, doesn't really make for those lovely little battle maps they make in Albric Tor, does it? By the way, that's why they call it the Field of Blood. Not a large jump in imagination, there."

"Do you have any written accounts of the battle? Did you keep notes? You seem to have witnessed them."

"Well, my dear fellow, they were outside my front door, in a manner of speaking. Frightful row. No, no written notes, but I would be happy to write something down for you, in due course. Would you like one side to be in blue, and the other in red? That does seem like the conventional way of doing it."

I nodded, for a lack of anything better to do. I finished my tea, got up, and thanked my host politely. He raised an eyebrow.

"What, no request to sit at my footpads and learn dark secrets of Gramerye? Or even the ones about causing femmefurs' garments to dissolve? That's an easy one, y'know. An afternoon of learning, a lifetime of fun."

"I would imagine, sir, that I do not measure up to your ideal of a pupil."

He put down his teacup with a rattle, and raised both eyebrows defensively.

"You wrong me, my dear fellow! Oh, yes, to be sure, you're not the kind of chap that used to roam around the hills of Faerie of old. When I was a young fur, and that was a long time ago, a young elf could march out into the wilds, naked save for a cap and armed only with a spear, and before long, he'd be a different fur. Well, still naked, but that would have been by choice. Where was I? Oh, yes, now even if you're only an echo of the elves of old, still, you have some spark of promise."

He pointed a finger at me. "You know some amusing little tricks, my boy, but heavens, you've only scratched at the bare surface of the subject! For example, let's take those charming little field fortifications. Have you considered what kind of fun you could have with some strategically placed fungi, just loaded with spores? A few sword thrusts or spear tosses, and you've got an enemy choking and coughing. And that's fawn's play compared to what you could make that river do, if you put your mind to it."

He pushed away his teacup. "Ah, but you're in a rush. No matter. I think I can have a little bit of fun with some instruction. Something nice and practical for winter-season fighting."

I bowed. "Thank you, sir, I..."

He waved a deprecating paw. "Think nothing of it. As I say, I am a loyal subject of the King, even if he's the eighty-third I've had. And your mind is like an open book, you know. Must work on mind-shielding. Very little in the way of truly evil thoughts. Well, except as they involve that mouse-femme. My, my. I do suppose they haven't bred all the old savagery out of elves, have they? Now, when I was a young elf, the best way to deal with a maiden's bodice was to..."

I got myself, unshielded mind included, out of there as quickly as possible.