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*****

Morning roll-call was read off for Thorn Platoon. Remarkably, with the obvious exceptions of Lt. Kedgeay and Sgt. Crater, attendance was consistently very good. Some of this may have been a matter of morale, as the payment the squaddies received allowed them an occasional pint at the public house down the street and the food, while not spectacular, was filling. It was also seen that I was not the type to waste time with pointless drills or fatigues. I didn't have time, for what I had in mind.

Taking out the roster, I began to call out each soldier's name, and had them state their official weapons qualifications. All were qualified on the elven short sword and the elven spear, which wasn't a surprise. So was I, for that matter. There was much swiveling of ears and glances when I started to ask about unofficial weapons qualifications.

Fully a dozen of the squaddies admitted that they could use daggers rather well. One could even throw them. Of greater interest to me was a big, lumbering, shaggy canine who raised a paw.

"I cun use un staff-sling, sorr."

More to the point, he actually had one with him. Apparently, he was doing a lively trade with some of the carnivores in the platoon by killing feral game-birds. After going back to his bunk, he showed me some ammunition: small oval leaden bullets. They were inscribed with a number of mottoes, including "Catch!" "Hi, there!" and "Ouch."

For an experiment, I set up four pint bottles on a large, flat rock and had him march off 100 paces. There was a brisk round of betting among the squaddies, and I chipped in a few coppers. I put my money on three of four, and lost: Aethelwulf hit all four in a few seconds. Drinks were on him.

This was all well and good, and put the platoon in a good humour, but it did worry me. Counting Aethelwulf, there were exactly two in the platoon who had long-range weapons capabilities, and I was the other with my bow. For what I wanted to do, this was not ideal. Aethelwulf indicated that he could make up staff-slings very easily, as he had done so since he was a puppy. Given a few weeks of intensive training, he might be able to get a few furs at least somewhat proficient. I promised him an extra pint a day if he got four of the squaddies trained in the use of a slaff-sling, and I resolved to see where I could get my paws on some lead for his lead-mould.

While the squaddies were doing assorted bending and stretching exercises, a messenger in a black cowl rode up to us, mounted on another one of the local shaggy ants. He handed me a scroll, which indicated that the Abbot of the Gazers of Fuma's Musk would be happy to receive me this afternoon at any time that would be convenient for me.

The monks of the monastery were all out working in the woods surrounding the community's buildings, so I stopped to watch them. Some of this was out of interest in what they were doing: it reminded me that a supply of firewood would be a good thing to have in the near future. There was also, though, an absolutely uncanny sensation that I had as I watched the monks move. I couldn't put a finger on it, but there was something familiar about it. My reverie was, however, interrupted by a monk who came up and bowed to me. I handed him the Abbot's letter, which prompted a bow, and a motion to follow him.

The Abbot was a tall, chocolate-and-black canine, who gave me the Benedicto Interphalangeal in the full manner, including the headlock. Obviously, a fur who knew his position and status in the world. Once my head stopped throbbing, I bowed to him, and introduced myself as the Corporal from the Army Barracks. He nodded, indicating that he had been aware of my recent arrival, and was pleased that I was showing due respect for the Gazers.

For the next while, we spoke of this and that, largely about the farmers of the hamlet, of whom he had an affectionate opinion. He had, apparently, been made aware by the superiors of his Order of the recent events in Albric Tor, though he did not seem to know the full details. He agreed that there was, indeed, something suspicious about the whole plot, and that it was well that the Army was taking simple precautions, though he hoped that there would be nothing to disturb the peace and serenity of Mossford.

I found out that the Gazers' order was devoted to a study of the stars, and that this area was ideal for a small observatory. Indeed (and here his voice dropped a little in worry) it was expected that in a few months, a comet with a great tail was due to appear in the skies over Faerie, and all of the Gazers were instructed to watch for it carefully. Previous appearances of the star, which occurred roughly once every seventy-eight years, had usually foretold some kind of disaster or battle.

This was rather interesting, and I asked the Abbot how news of a sighting was communicated to his superiors in the Order. At this, he became somewhat evasive, and indicated that they had various means of long-standing. I didn't press the matter.

I was given a brief tour of the highest level of the monastery, where the monks were apt to sit on the cold, clear nights of winter and study Fuma's Musk. The journals in which they inscribed their observations were quite beautiful: there were pages of illuminated and gilded illustrations which pointed out the various constellations in the sky, and the regular phenomena of the seasons that guided planting and harvesting. There were dozens upon dozens of bound volumes, which must have gone back hundreds of years. I was very impressed, and said so to the Abbot. I asked if they also did weather forecasts. At this, he became quite animated, and showed me all manner of charts that were in the same room as the astronomical observations. The gist of the prediction was that it would be a mild and very wet start to the winter, followed by spells of cold.

The fact that I was taking notes on what the forecast was, and was asking a number of questions, obviously gave the Abbot great pleasure, and I was even treated to a glass of wine afterward before he gave me another vigorous Benedicto and sent me on my way.

One thing I had observed, but had not given voice to, was the fact there was indeed a spectacular view from the top of the monastery. It happened to be very clear that day, and I could see well along the road to Flourford. Lark's Rise was also visible, if I shifted my view, and I could see quite a large lake that was just to the east of that hamlet, which fed a small tributary to Mossford's river. Of the road to Sainted Oaks, beyond, I could see very little.

An ideal observation post, to be sure, but getting liberal access to it for my purposes was an interesting question.

Also of note was that the monastery did not appear to have any shortage of food, wine or firewood, which was not particularly surprising given the famous appetites of monks. Of course, one of the few things even more famous than the appetites of monks is their bargaining ability, and as a humble supplicant, I think even Fuma's Charity had its limits.

Circling around to the barracks, I noticed that work continued on the field fortifications. Or, I should say, the shelters inside the fortifications. Wheelbarrows full of dirt were being pushed out, the spoil going to the parapet. I poked my nose inside, and found that what the squaddies described as "catacombs" were being built: little niches inside the walls, which were being lined with wood. Not, I think, something that would have appealed to me, but given that it was providing the platoon with something productive and constructive (in more ways than one) to do, I let them at it.

I reported upstairs to Captain O'Bloom, and queried if there were any orders for me. Other than: (1) handing him a stylus that had fallen to the floor and had rolled just out of his reach, and (2) having one, no, two portions of apple crumble sent up, no, he had no orders. I noticed the skiver still hadn't opened my sealed tube of orders, but I kept my muzzle shut, saluted mechanically, and got out of there.

After dinner and Evesong, I wandered back to the forts and had a look out toward Lark's Rise. There was a figure at the very crossing, lying at its ease in the gloaming. I had a suspicion who it was, and I was not mistaken. Silverbrush was idly twirling a stick in the eddies of the water. Upon hearing me, he bounded to his feet with an agility that belied his probable two thousand plus years, and held out a finger.

I looked at it with some suspicion. "If you're expecting me to pull that, sir..."

"My word, Corporal. Or should I make a reference to Fuma? Yes, let's. By Fuma's lush and all-encompassing tailfur, what a suspicious mind you have. The principal point of my gesture to you was to focus your mind on the enormous power you have in your finger, should you decide to use it. Hold it for a moment, and see."

I did, and was greeted with a wet, resonant and sulfurous noise, which was followed afterward by uproarious laughter. Eventually, the old tod wiped his eyes.

"You know, the balladeers say there are only something in the vein of six or seven true story plots. They might add that all humour derives from bodily functions of one kind or another. This, I should note, is a matter that should be remembered, as it is important. But observe, the finger is also useful in other ways."

Having said this, he crouched down, stuck his finger in the gently burbling water, and within a few seconds, the water turned milky and began to slow down. In a minute, there was a small patch of ice blocking one part of the stream.

"Now, what use would you make of that, Corporal?"

"A really ripping rendition of the tale of the Lady Desiderata?"

Instead of being annoyed with my sarcasm, he looked nostalgic. I'd forgotten that Desiderata had been a fox. Silverbrush gave a long, rolling chirr.

"What a vixen! Oh, my, speak of the elves of today not matching their forebears. Just you fancy anyfur today being able to make hundreds of the biggest, bravest and smartest furs in Faerie kill themselves. I'd had a mind to take her on, y'know. Perhaps it was all well and good that mephitess got to her first. Mmmmmm, such translucent claws and such pure white fur..."

He coughed, and scratched his nose. "But enough about my gay youth. In a sense, you were correct (even if you were trying to guy me, which I assure you is impossible). By manipulating the gaseous, liquid and solid states of water, you can have all sorts of jolly fun."

"You made tea for me that way."

"Well observed! Indeed. Quite practical."

"But this is moving water, and there's a lot more here than in a tea-kettle."

"Also observed keenly. Here, why don't you give it a try?"

He put the flat of his paw on where he had formed the ice, and it melted away in a few moments. I stuck one of my fingers in the water, and murmured a bit. Not much happened, except that my finger got wet. Silverbrush seemed to take this in stride.

"Problem, Corporal?"

"I think the water that I've given commands to is already some yards downstream."

"Ye-e-e-s. Impetuous little liquid, isn't it? Can't stay still, not even for a student of Gramerye. Obviously, any construct based on that premise is not going to work. You will have to think of something else."

Whereupon, he flounced down on the riverbank, and started chewing on a cat-tail.

I got irritated at this, and snarled aloud the first thing that came to my mind as I jammed my paw in the river.

Finger of self, attached to my body

Part of my fist, so hardened and bold

Be not like, the warmed whisky toddy

Send out an aura both frigid and cold

About two seconds later, I was hopping up and down the side of the river, yelling and cursing in pain and attempting to regain the sensation in my paw, the lower portion of which was encased in a thick film of ice.

Silverbrush was no help at all, as he was doubled over and shrieking in laughter.

Eventually, by breathing on my paw and rubbing it against my cloak, I was able to free my fingers. Silverbrush had resumed chewing on his cat-tail, thoughtfully.

"Tsk-tsk-tsk-tsk. Never compose Gramerye on the fly in anger, my dear fellow. Your word-choice is all-important in these things. Though I must admit, you put a good deal of energy into that. Now, had you chosen a word other than "aura," you might not have frozen yourself so. Still, lesson learned, eh?"

With that, he got to his footpads, balanced on one toe, did a somersault, and vanished into the night with a slightly audible "pop."