“I really thought they’d never get around to it,” Fess said as he began flinging on his clothes. “Why, they’ve been putting it off for years!”
“Probably do it again today,” murmured Barry faintly.
“Oh, no they won’t! Sir Treves sent the challenge himself this time! Prince Gules said yesterday …” Fess stopped in the act of fastening his belt and frowned at his roommate. “Say, you do act sick or something! “What’s the matter?”
“Just tired. Too tired to do my chores. Too tired to get up.” Barry yawned cavernously. “Too tired to stay awake, even. G’night.” He drifted back to sleep.
“Well, by my bends and buckler!” exclaimed Fess, who possessed neither of these items, not being a knight yet. For a moment he stared in concern at his exhausted companion, who was usually bouncing with vigor. ‘Then, reflecting that he never would become a knight if he didn’t get on with his duties he hurriedly clasped his belt and reached for his curly-toed shoes.
Barry was the youngest child of the palace chef and had no great expectations in life beyond being a kitchen-page, but Fess was the son of a nobleman of Troth, and like many of the highborn Trothian youths, had been sent “abroad” across the Argent, to receive his training in some grand household of Halidom. In Fess’s case, this grand household was the palace itself. For a year now he had been a page; when the King thought him worthy, he would become a squire; after proving his worth as a squire he
would return to Troth, go on a Quest, and become a knight. He longed for this great day to come; but he was quite aware that it never would if he were not a good page.
Jamming on his favorite cap with the popinjay feather, he turned again, frowning, to his sleeping friend.
“Barry! You’d better wake up and get down to the kitchen’.” he said. A gentle snore was his only answer. “Oh, well, all right. But you’ll catch it if your father has to carry the breakfast trays!” Leaving this warning to do its work, he ran out of the room and down the Tower stairs, whistling.
As he hurried through the palace corridors, he wondered at how quiet everything was. He heard none of the usual early-morning bustle among the servants and saw not a soul except one chambermaid languidly waving a feather-duster over the Queen’s throne. Deciding it must be even earlier than he had thought, he strode briskly down the back hall and out into the sunny courtyard. A few drakes squatted about the stone well, but the palace cock, he noted with surprise, did not seem to be awake yet, for there was no sign of him.
Fess’s first duty each day was to feed the palace animals. In the case of the dozen or so horses and the thirty Questing dogs, this was merely a matter of overseeing their feeding by the grooms and kennel-boys; but there were a few special animals to whom he always attended personally. Before starting for the stables, therefore, he went into a little broom-shed in one corner
of the courtyard, and peered through the half-gloom toward the shelf where his pet flittermouse liked to sleep, curled underneath one of Fess’s old caps. The cap was there, undisturbed. Fess lifted it carefully, and smiled. The Flittermouse was still sound asleep, his gauzy, bat-like wings folded over his tiny, glossy, gray-blue body. It seemed a shame to wake him.
Fess replaced the cap and tiptoed out of the shed, taking a pan of corn from another shelf as he passed. This he scattered about the courtyard for the drakes, then went on to the stables. We was surprised to find that more than half the horses were lying down in their stalls; surprise turned to indignation when he caught sight of the two grooms, Bodkin and Seuteheon, sitting limply on a pile of hay in the corner.
“What are you doing, lazing about there!” he demanded ,glaring down at them with his fists on his hips. “Why. you haven’t even cleaned the stalls or mixed the bran mash! Up with you! Get
busy!”
“Yes, Master Fess. Right away, Master Fess,” said the grooms feebly, struggling to their feet.
“What’s the matter, are you sick?” Fess demanded in a less belligerent tone.
“Just tired, Master Fess,” sighed Bodkin, shuffling toward the bran bin.
“Never been so tired in my life,” groaned Scutcheon as he picked up a pitchfork.
“You, too? That’s funny,” Fess said, remembering Barry.
“Say, why are so many of the horses lying down?”
“They’re tired, same as us,” Bodkin told him. “I heard the Queen’s Palfrey tell the King’s Charger so. Ask ‘em yourself, if you don’t believe me.
Frowning, Less hurried to the stalls, where the horses were slowly clambering to their feet with every appearance of utter weariness. The Queen’s Palfry assured him that she had never felt such lassitude. and indeed, was afraid she might l)e having a fit of the vapors, and begged him to fetch her smelling-salts or possibly a little hartshorn and water. The King’s Charger said gruffly that he was right as rain, of course, though he did feel a bit liverish, and thought he might have caught a chill. Prince Gules’s Steed, Fred, said haughtily that it was true he didn’t feel quite the thing, very likely because of the riding party yesterday.
“The riding party? But we only went over to Lady Mace’s for tea, and it was scarcely raining at all, and you wore your best blanket,” Fess protested.
“I was not referring to the possibility of a chill,” Fred informed him remotely. “Possibly you were not aware of it, but while you and His Highness my master were drinking tea, I was forced to associate with some very low company. Hacks, and Palfreys, and I know not what inferior creatures. Lady Mace’s stables seem to be full of them.”
“Now, now,” Fess said coaxingly. “Of course Lady Mace and her granddaughter keep riding-horses, and not jousting-horses!
I ask you, how would it look for pretty young Lady Annelet to ride out on a Steed or a Charger?”
Fred permitted himself a small neigh of laughter, and admitted that it would not be at all the thing. “I do wish, however,” he added, “that the next time we call on the ladies, you would require a private box stall for me. After all, I am not a mere riding horse, but the Prince’s Steed, and I expect very soon to be promoted to Charger. It is not fitting that I should have to associate with lesser animals. As you know perfectly well, Master Less, I come of a very aristocratic family. Why, my first cousin is a Destrier!”
“Yes, I know! The finest in all Halidom I’m sure, Fred! Don’t worry, I’ll-”
“And I beg you not to call me by that plebian name!” Fred interrupted fretfully.
“I’m sorry, Federigo,” Fess sighed, patting the Steed’s shining black neck. Fred’s airs grew rather tiresome at times, but Fess was fond of him, and almost never forgot to call him by the elegant name he had thought up for himself. The Prince, to Fred’s distress, almost never remembered.
Fess stayed in the stables only long enough to make sure Hodkin and Scutcheon were going about their duties, however languidly, then hurried to the kennels. There he found the old kennel-man shuffling about in slow motion, filling dishes for the dogs, who were as tired as he was. Even the big, husky alaunds and the bouncing little kanets seemed to have lost all their energy.
Thoroughly uneasy by now, Fess hurried toward the flowergarden to get breakfast for the Unicorn. As he emerged into the courtyard he halted at sight of one of the gardeners standing motionless beside the well, a sprinkling can in one hand and a scrap of paper in the other.
“What’s wrong with you?” Fess demanded.
The man blinked sleepily at him and held out the paper. “Pageboy came just now. Message for the Master of Tournaments. No joust today.”
“Oh, dragonflies!” Fess exclaimed crossly as he took the note. “Has Sir Treves canceled it again?” “Not Sir Treves. Sir Gauntlet.”
“What?” Fess cried incredulously. “Sir Gauntlet’s canceled it?”
“S’truth. It was Sir Gauntlet’s page that came. Says his master’s tired. Too weak to lift his lance. Says Sir Treves magicked him.” The gardener interrupted himself with an enormous yawn.
“Magic!” Fess echoed in alarm. “But that’s illegal! That’s awful! That’s-I’ll bet that’s what’s the matter with everybody!” He flung the note at the startled gardener and dashed up the back steps of the palace. Bursting into the kitchen, he saw the chef and scullery maids slumped about in chairs, with breakfast not even started. Barry, who had finally put in an appearance, had curled up in the sink and fallen asleep again.
“Fix the King’s oatmeal, at least!” Less begged the cook. “I’ll take it to him myself, as soon as I feed the Wyver.”
Snatching a plate of last night’s martlet pudding from the cupboard, he almost ran through the still silent and empty corridors to the Treasury, a small room once heaped with the riches of a prosperous kingdom. There were no riches nowadays, of course, but in the center of the room stood a large, hollowed-out block of marble called the Treasure Stone, within which rested the last remaining Golden Circlet of Halidom. On top of the Stone, covering the hollow like a lid, rested the basket of the Wyver.
Now, Wyvers, who are plump, winged creatures resembling miniature dragons, are not dangerous or ill-tempered animals, but they never sleep, and when alarmed they utter a piercing cry that can be heard for miles. Therefore they make excellent guards, and this one had years before been brought especially from the Sandbar Sinkter to guard the Circlet night and day. All through the reign of the present Herald he had kept faithful watch. Fess, who fed him twice daily, had never yet seen the scaly, golden eyelids so much as drooping.
But this morning, when he hurried into the Treasury, he found the Wyver’s eyes tight closed. The creature was curled in its basket, wings folded, tail quiet-and it was snoring loudly.
For an instant Less was too shocked to do anything but stare at it. Then he rushed forward, stubbed his toe on a corner of the rug, and fell headlong. One of his out flung hands struck the corner of the basket, tipping it over and spilling the Wyver out upon the floor. The creature lay where it had fallen,
and continued to sleep, but Less was no longer paying any attention to it. His horrified eyes were fixed on the exposed hollow in the Treasure Stone.
The hollow was empty. The last Golden Circlet of Halidom was gone.
Chapter 5
ONCE recovered from his first shock, Fess scrambled to his feet, ran to the peacefully sleeping Wyver and shook it urgently, shouting to it to wake up. Nothing he did had the slightest effect. It continued to snore.
“Drugged!” gasped Fess. He dashed out of the Treasury and through the shabby throne-room to the stairs. Forgetting all about the King’s oatmeal, he bounded up the steps three at a time, ran full tilt down the second-floor hall and slid to a halt before the King’s bedchamber, where he began pounding
“Flnnph?” said a sleepy voice within.
“Wake up, Your Majesty!” shouted Fess. “Let me I
“Pnlffnf,” replied the voice in indistinct but offended tones
“I know you’re tired, but you must wake up anyhow, and let me in!” Fess begged at the top of his voice, renewing his pounding. “Please, Your Majesty! Somebody’s drugged the Waver and stolen Circlet Two! Your Majesty! Your Ma-je sty! Did you hear me? I said— ”
The door opened, reveling Herald 64th in his blue nightshirt, with his crown on backwards over his uncombed hair. He was blinking reproachfully.
“Why are you so noisy this morning?” he said. “You aren’t-supposed to wake me, anyhow. Where’s Barry? He’s supposed to wake me, eh? Where’s my oatmeal? I don’t want to get up until I’ve had my oatmeal.”
“I forgot it, Your Majesty, and I’ll fetch it, but please listen to me! The Circlet has been stolen! I went in to feed the Waver, and-
“The Circlet?” said Herald, his faded blue eyes wide and hurt. “My Circlet? It’s-gone, you say?”
“Yes!” Fess said, thankful to have made him understand “Now everybody in the palace is tired, like you Probably everybody in the kingdom”
“You aren’t,” the King said doubtfully.
“But I’m from Troth, Your Majesty! The Circlet’s magic doesn’t affect me. Oh, please let me in, and I’ll explain everything!”
It took some time, because the King, who had always believed in setting an example, was possibly the slowest-witted of all his slow-witted country men; and just as Fess had managed to make the crisis clear to him, Queen Farthingale, disturbed by the voices, trailed in sleepily from the adjoining room and inquired in her vague and gentle way if anything were the
matter.
Patiently, Fess started to explain all over again, greatly hindered by the King’s attempts to help. Then, just as the Queen had grasped the news, Prince Rules walked in, leaned wearily against a potted plant, which instantly crashed to the floor, and demanded an explanation in his turn.
“Oh, dear,” Fess sighed, and began again. He had to talk more loudly than ever now, because the Queen kept interrupting with piercing little wails of dismay, and the King was pattering animatedly (though still sleepily) about the room, tugging on bellcords and wringing his hands and insisting that somebody bring his oatmeal, eh?
Moreover, other people in the palace had by this time discovered the open Treasury door, the sleeping Waver and the theft, and a perfect procession of servants, pages, pet dogs, chamberlains and guards began panting wearily up the stairways to the King’s chamber, to announce the catastrophe.
In desperation, Fess finally seized one of the guards and posted him at the door to fend off other news-bearers, ordered a passing scullery boy to wake the Privy Councilor, sent a couple of footmen to summon the Courtiers’ Council, and pushed the rest of the people and dogs out of the King’s bedroom. Then, begging the royal family to get dressed, he pelted down the stairs in search of the King’s oatmeal.
This delivered, he had time to catch his breath. Instantly
he remembered the Flittermouse, who had not yet had its milk. The broom-shed was still dim and quiet, and his cap was still in place upon the shelf; but this time he lifted it off and roused his little pet.
“Wake up, Flitter!” he urged. “Wake up, something terrible has happened!”
The gauzy wings stirred, and a small, gray-blue mouse-face with delicate long whiskers and eyes like black sequins peered up at him. “Oh, aren’t we going to the Tourney?” inquired the Flittermouse in a squeaky, disappointed voice. “Well, never mind, Fess dear. I’m too sleepy anyhow.”
“I don’t think there’ll be any Tourney,” Fess said, gently picking the little creature up in his hand. Wings and all, it just fitted comfortably into his palm. He explained, for the dozenth time that morning, what had happened.
“Oh, my,” Flitter squeaked in alarm. “That’s perfectly frightening, isn’t it, Fess? Or is it?” he added, eyeing Fess doubtfully. “Should I be frightened?”
“No, I’ll take care of you,” Fess promised, lifting his pet to its accustomed perch on his shoulder. “And I’m all right, but I don’t know what these poor Halidomians are going to do, if they can’t even joust any more! Imagine Sir Gauntlet being too weak to lift his lance!”
“A person could make up a little song about that,” the Flittermouse said earnestly. “I can’t think of one right now, though.”
“‘Never mind,” soothed Fess, who was not surprised. Flitter, being as slow-witted as the rest of the country, never managed to think of his little songs until the event which had inspired them was long gone by. “You’ll think of one later, I’m sure. Right now you can come along with me while I help get things ready for the Courtiers’ Council.”
Within half an hour King Herald, Queen Farthingale, and Prince Rules had managed to shuffle downstairs to their thrones, and soon the courtiers began to creep in, weary and weak, to gather around them. Fess, who was trying to be everywhere at once to help the tottering. chamberlains, carried in a chair for Lady Mace, because she was the oldest courtier, and for her pretty granddaughter Lady Annelet, because she was the youngest and was betrothed to Prince Rules, but gave up trying to find any more. The
rest of the courtiers were obliged to stand, leaning against the columns or supporting each other by the elbows. Occasionally someone would fall asleep in spite of himself, sit down suddenly on the floor with a clang of armor, and thankfully stay there.
Fess had just caught one knight in mid-fall and propped him against a wall when Barry slipped up behind him and tugged his sleeve so urgently that the Flittermouse lost his balance.
“Fess, come quick! Out to the Great Hall.”
“What’s wrong now?’” Fess groaned as he hastily followed his friend.
“Sir Treves and Sir Gauntlet-they’re angry as two lioncels, and shouting at each other, and the chamberlains are all too tired to make them listen-and so am I.” With a sigh, Barry stopped short, leaned against a doorway, and went to sleep again.
Distractedly, Fess hurried on toward the sound of angry voices. He rushed through the last archway to find a ring of staring servants surrounding the two knights, who were standing forehead to forehead in the center of the Great Hall, shouting each other down. Before Fess could intervene, they actually did shout each other down, for they were both weaving and swaying so from weariness that they lost their balance at the same moment and toppled to the floor. The tremendous crash of their armor against the flagstones silenced even them for an instant, and most of the servants collapsed like rag dolls at the sound. Before the knights had recovered enough to go on arguing from a sitting position-which they showed signs of doing -Fess ran forward, and with great presence of mind slammed down both their vizors.
“Excuse me, please,” he said hurriedly. “But you absolutely must speak one at a time, or nobody can settle your quarrel! Don’t you know His Majesty is waiting for you? inside their vizors, which muffled their voices and made them sound as if they were at the bottom of a well. Fess hastily raised Sir Gauntlet’s vizor.
L. Frank Baum - Oz 40 Page 4
