Kill the Farm Boy

by Kevin Hearne

  “If by ‘party’ you mean what I think you mean, that’s illegal for you now,” the sand witch told him huffily.

  “Unless you could transform her into a human?”

  “Or you could just meet a nice girl who was actually born human.”

  “Oh, gross.”

  Grinda sighed. “You’re going to have to stop thinking of yourself as a goat and start thinking of yourself as a human and a king,” she said with great gravitas.

  To everyone’s surprise and disgust, Gustave rolled over and ejected what was no longer a harmless volley of pellets onto a floor already filthy with blood and glitter. His friends lurched back, disgusted. He smiled beatifically.

  “It’s good to be the king,” he said.

  Although Grinda’s current friends, if friends they indeed were, made a fine traveling party, they weren’t much of a junta. As soon as the postman set off to spread the word of Løcher’s dastardly attempt at the throne, followed by his immediate and grisly murder by a pet possum, someone had to take charge. And even if Grinda was currently the smallest in stature, she was still the most well versed in power, politics, and ordering people around. She attempted to stalk into the dining room with authority but only managed an angry mincing gait once she squeezed through the door, where the sumptuous feast had been at least partially set. Still, her wrath, combined with her personal charisma and no doubt her bloodied muzzle, proved every bit as intimidating as the arrival of a giant.

  “You there!” she shouted at a servant cowering under the grand table with a platter of butterflied Gorrible prawns bathed in ghee. “Bring every maid you can find, as well as the most senior ranking member of whatever guard remains.” When the servant merely trembled, buttery shrimp dribbling down his jerkin, she snapped her tiny fingers. “Now! King Gustave requires it! Or do you want to be sacked?”

  She smacked her teeth, and the servant sprinted out of the room, leaving the trembling tray of shellfish behind.

  “And that’s how we do it,” she muttered, trundling over to the platter to lick up some shrimp and get the vinegarlike flavor of Løcher out of her mouth. It had been years since she’d bitten anyone to death, and the flavor of villains had not improved.

  Gustave crawled into the room, obviously having heard what she said, followed by Fia and Argabella. “Uh, I don’t think I plan on ruling through fear,” Gustave said. “Not that I have any plans yet, but I suppose I should start making some. So: no fear, no threats of violence. It’ll mean more arguments but fewer nightmares and guilty dreams. And all meals in the palace will be vegetarian. Oh, and I’m definitely going to need a pooboy, so please hire one. A heavy-duty one, judging by what just happened back there.”

  Grinda looked up, considering him. Gustave had been an altogether average goat, and he appeared to be an altogether average human. The magic he’d ingested hadn’t turned him into a picture book king, tall and brawny and handsome and in complete control of his faculties. He was a somewhat gangly man with goatlike features, including a potbelly, knobby knees, and spindly arms. He appeared to be about forty, which was a reasonable enough age for a king, and he had a little scruff of a beard and ears that stuck out. Even his eyes, although no longer blessed with devilish horizontal pupils, were golden and a little bit off, as if they still yearned to be on the sides of his head. But dress him up, teach him to control his bodily functions, and he could be a good king. He was already predisposed to worry about the weak and helpless and distrust the powerful, and as such, Grinda was unlikely to find another leader who’d agree so readily to the kinds of changes she wished to make. For that, she supposed, she could forget that he’d once purposely pooped on her feet. Making him be the king would most likely be punishment enough.

  “Well, that’s settled, then. I will be your new chamberlain,” she announced. “At least until the castle is well in hand. We must travel there immediately to distance ourselves from the scene of…this kerfuffle. Argabella, you’ll handle propaganda, beginning with a song telling the True Tale of King Gustave’s Triumph, which will in no way be true but will help us stay alive. Weave in some magic that suggests we are benign and good—because we are—but that also suggests we are honest, because we aren’t. Sing it every step of the way as we journey to the castle.”

  Turning to Fia, the possum nodded sagely. “Fia, you’ll be in charge of the king’s guard. Round up whatever is left of Løcher’s forces. Have Argabella sing them a song about loyalty to Gustave. Make sure they look smart, as appearance is almost more important than lethality. They must guard us for the journey.”

  “But what do I do?” Gustave asked, flailing a hand at his bloodsoaked body as he clambered to his feet.

  “Hmm.” Grinda stroked her whiskers. “Here’s what we say. You were hurt during your brave but ultimately fruitless defense of King Benedick and will need time for rehabilitation. On the way back to the castle, you’ll ride in a closed palanquin due to your disfiguring injuries. You can’t face your people until you’ve learned to walk—on your back legs only—and hold your…uh…well.”

  Grinda waited while Gustave urinated, the stream arcing straight up into the air and splashing into a bowl of lima beans, which may or may not have improved the dish.

  “Man, I don’t know why you guys wear clothes at all,” Gustave enthused. “Your bodies do the funnest stuff!”

  “Just not usually in public,” Fia grumbled.

  “And now I must hire a governess,” Grinda broke in. “Very discreet. Very brawny. Willing to wash a lot of diapers. Don’t do anything stupid until I’m back from town.”

  “What’s considered stupid for humans?” Gustave asked. “Because I’m guessing it’s considerably different from what’s stupid for goats.”

  Grinda sighed deeply. The payoff was potentially huge, but this was going to be her hardest job yet.

  * * *

  They were soon on the road, King Gustave safely tucked into King Benedick’s old coach, the shades drawn tight, his diaper fitted snugly just in case. Fortunately, thanks to Benedick’s history of wetting himself in his drunken stupor and the reluctance of visiting earls to embarrass the king by not dressing as he did, the people of Songlen were used to seeing diapered heads of state.

  Grinda curled across from him on the cushy bench, her possum fur sparkling after a hurried but refreshing trip to Løcher’s spa. Argabella sat on the wagon box in a fine gown raided from a guest closet, strumming her polished lute and singing a song telling the story of how Good King Gustave had routed the terrible Løcher, leaping in front of poor King Benedick and taking a stab wound in his place before a completely different and entirely unavoidable stab wound felled the mighty monarch. The song also made it clear that King Benedick had died despite attempts to save him and that was in no way Gustave’s fault. The chorus encouraged everyone to give King Gustave their loyalty. Fia rode outside on a splendid white mare the size of an elephant, leading a guard composed of remnants of Løcher’s private army dressed in the uniforms of the king’s bodyguard. They’d been promised a raise for loyalty to Gustave, and this ruse allowed them to get into the palace and install Gustave in the king’s residence. Still, Grinda had her wand ready. Considering that Gustave was no longer the Chosen One, he could easily be felled by someone with political aspirations, and she’d gone to far too much trouble to let some annoying upstart upend all her plans.

  Once he was installed in the castle nursery with his new governess, it took a week before King Gustave was ready for public consumption. Grinda visited him daily, and each morning he seemed a little less…goaty. He learned to sit up, to chew with his mouth closed, to hold a teacup, to hold his bowels, and, more important, to hold his tongue. His walk would wobble for quite some time, his hands reaching out as if to feel the solid earth crunching under his hooves. Every now and then, when startled, he would still bleat, but many a king had kept worse habits. Grinda was, overall, ple
ased.

  Except by her own inability to become human again. The irony of serving a king who had once been a goat as a possum who had once been a human did not amuse her. Although she called upon every witch, wizard, and beard barber in Songlen, no one knew a spell to reverse what Grinda herself had wrought. Such was the curse of power, she thought: it often meant you made messes only you could clean up.

  The day of King Gustave’s coronation dawned sunny and warm and betokened a prosperous reign. Grinda had taken total control of the castle’s operations and masterminded everything from the decorations to the guest list. Banners of Gustave’s official sigil—a rampant and noble goat, for he’d lost the argument to make it a golden boot—hung from balconies overlooking the throne room, which was filled with every baronet, marquess, and earl in Songlen except for the sleeping Earl of Borix. They were all ready to pucker up to kiss the new king’s slender but flat behind. Not that they would if they knew how recently it had required wiping by Hurlga the governess.

  Gustave sat in the throne with fabulous posture wearing a serious expression he’d been practicing in the mirror all week. He was unused to keeping his tongue inside his mouth, but he’d finally mastered it, and he’d likewise ceased to scratch at his clothes as if they were a lice-infested stable blanket. Hurlga had done a magnificent job. Grinda was quite proud standing by Gustave’s side as Argabella sang a beautiful song about kingly greatness, loyalty to the throne, definitely not being a goat, and being the sort of king who would never require any sort of beheading. Fia’s corps of guards stood in perfect lines holding their halberds and flags, and the doddering old clergyman performing the coronation ceremony didn’t muck anything up too terribly. At the end, everyone clapped, no one attempted an assassination, and they scored some elvish moose cheese as a gift from the Morningwood, so Grinda reckoned they had pulled off quite the coup.

  After all hands had been shaken and babies had been kissed—not licked; Grinda had been very adamant with Gustave that there was a difference and people would notice if he did one and not the other—the friends sat around the king’s table, enjoying the kitchen’s finest vegetarian fixings. Argabella noted that Lord Toby would’ve approved the crispy sprout bouquets sprinkled with a plum wine vinaigrette.

  The new king agreed. “Even though he wanted to eat me, the Dark Lord also helped save us all from the hooktongues that time. I feel I should do something to honor his life, so I wish to outlaw smoothies,” Gustave announced. “Or apprentices who can’t read basic signs like NOT COFFEE. Whichever you think is best, chamberlain.”

  “Got it.” Grinda added that to the ever-growing list of his edicts, many of which she hoped he would forget, such as the requirement that eating goat was forever punishable by halving and that all old boots must in perpetuity be given to the king as birthday gifts.

  But he also had some ideas worth pursuing. A modern, reliable post office as the foundation for good business throughout the realm. A housing and jobs program for trolls so they’d stop dwelling in dark places and ambushing people with their stupidity. A bone donor initiative in which humans would donate their bones upon their deaths to be ground into bonemeal flour for giant laborers who were building so much of the country’s infrastructure—it might stop the strike south of Nockney and keep people from being turned into meat pretzels but also encourage more giants to work for the kingdom instead of fighting against it.

  All Grinda had to do was keep Gustave clean and alive and they could perhaps do some truly good work in the world.

  “I didn’t know being a king would be so exhausting,” Gustave said, lovingly eating delicate slices of a molasses oatmeal cake the cooks had shaped like a boot for old times’ sake. Leather still tasted delicious, but he’d learned the hard way that it shouldn’t be swallowed. The human bowel was a delicate thing.

  “I don’t know if it’s being a king that’s exhausting so much as being human is,” Fia said. “It’s certainly a lot of work, worrying about castle security. I kind of miss the road.”

  “I miss the earl’s tower, believe it or not,” Argabella said with a sigh. “Not so much the thorns and people who seemed dead all the time, but the roses and the peace.”

  “Yes! That’s exactly what I want!” Fia said. “Roses and peace.”

  “Life isn’t peaceful,” Grinda said. “Anyone who tells you otherwise is trying to sell you an overpriced mattress.”

  “Wait!” Gustave stood and slammed his hands on the table. “I forgot! The main edict! I want Staph the pixie brought before me. She started this mess, and although Løcher has been punished, she’s just running around, screwing up the lives of innocent goats and pooboys.” He walked to the window, and although he was successful, it was by no means a graceful walk. Throwing open the shutters, he shouted to the street below. “Do you hear that, Songlen! I will reward whoever brings me Staph the pixie! With two—no, three old boots!” When he turned and saw the horrified expressions of his friends, he added, “Okay, four old boots, but really nice ones!”

  Grinda waddled up behind him and whispered, “Try five gold pieces. Most people aren’t moved to action by used footwear.”

  “Yes. Thank you, chamberlain.” He shouted out the window, “Plus five gold pieces!”

  Grinda found it quite satisfying how the populace outside scrambled to oblige, turning over rocks and opening doors, hoping to find the wayward pixie. But it took several days before Gustave’s demand proved fruitful. They were accustomed now to allowing the castle to run itself, and most visitors never made it past the front door thanks to the stern demeanor of the king’s new halfling butler, a cousin of Milieu Goobersnootch named Mondeux Goobersnootch the Third. But this time the bell rang, and they all hurried down to the throne room to see what kind of mastermind could scoot past a Goobersnootch.

  Gustave took his seat and arranged his cloak of brown velvet.

  “You may address me,” he said to the elegantly attired elf waiting on the royal carpet.

  This elf looked ever so slightly different from the elves of the Morningwood, with a wild air about him and his hair cut short and slicked back. He wore a blazer and carried a briefcase, and as soon as the king addressed him, he bowed and began his spiel.

  “Good King Gustave, and I don’t know why they call you that, because me? I would call you great. Great King Gustave. Or better yet, Best King Gustave. Can’t get better than best, can you, King Gustave?”

  “Er, no?”

  “Excellent. Excellent. Now, Best King Gustave, I heard you were looking for Staph the pixie, and let’s say I was able to get my hands on her. What do you think you’d pay for that?”

  “The king has put the price of five gold pieces on the enemy of the crown known as Staph the pixie,” Grinda broke in sharply.

  “And a great number that is, too,” the elf agreed. “Five is just a super number. But what if that number was ten? Wouldn’t it be worth it to you, King Gustave, to never have to worry about Staph the pixie again?”

  Gustave leaned over to where Fia stood at attention in a full suit of armor with his golden goat sigil emblazoned on the cuirass. “Can you threaten this guy and get it over with?” he asked. “Unless your thirsty sword is, uh, extra thirsty, and then maybe we shouldn’t let it loose.”

  “It’s gone,” she whispered back. “I had lead poured over it and threw it in the lake.”

  “I’ve been wondering about that,” Argabella said. “Isn’t lead supposed to be kind of poisonous? And if so, maybe we shouldn’t have put any in a lake full of fish?”

  “Oh, no, it’s still killing!” Fia wailed.

  “Quiet,” Grinda hissed. “We’re in public.”

  The elf was still prattling on about numbers and return on investment and the cost of retaining a caught pixie as compared to finding a new pixie, and although Grinda knew she was being upsold and was somehow under the sinister influence of e
lf magic, she was nearly prepared to acquiesce and give this hardworking elf spellsman the fifteen gold pieces he deserved for being a superior entrepreneur.

  But Gustave shouted, “Show me the pixie, and then we’ll talk.”

  The elf grinned with a creepy amount of teeth and unbuckled his briefcase, which popped open to reveal a small cage containing none other than Staph the pixie. Grinda’s possum tail immediately tightened on her wand, and she nearly blasted the meddling fairy into oblivion until she recognized that the cage was crafted from Titania’s Two-Toe Titanium and thus immune to magic spells. That explained how the elf was able to contain someone as powerful as Staph. As for the pixie herself, she sprawled on the floor of the cage in a fug of liquor fumes, her red pants covered in foul stains and her nose hairs curling gently with each exhalation.

  “Are you sure it’s her?” Gustave asked. “The pixie I remember had one blue sock, and this pixie is wearing a hideous pair of mismatched galoshes.”

  At that, Staph stirred and sat up, rubbing warty fists into her bleary red eyes. When she looked around and saw Gustave, she did a comical double take and shrugged.

  “That’s right,” the pixie said. “I’m not the one you want. This stank-face nutter kidnapped me while I was helping save a bunch of orphans from a troll! I’m innocent! This is an outrage! My good friend Løcher can sort this out.” She peered around the throne room. “Løcher? Old buddy, old pal?”

  “He’s dead,” Grinda hissed, waddling toward Staph with all her bristly gray fur standing on end and her lips pulled back over her teeth. “And soon you will be, too.”

  Staph stood and felt all over her body for a wand, a series of actions that made everyone else wince. “Where is it? Who took my wand?”

  The elf, who had been watching the interchange with a pleased smile, held out a wand by the tips of his fingers and waggled it just out of Staph’s reach. Grinda couldn’t blame him for not wanting to touch it. Part of the pixie’s magic derived from her mucus, and the wand was moist and gobbeted with boogers.