Just before leaving, he went back into their bedroom and unlocked the one closet that was always locked and took out the small wooden traveling trunk that they’d brought with them from their old lives in the Hesse. Under her watchful eye, Peter carefully unsealed the special seals and unlocked the locks — first the obvious ones that anyone could see, and then the hidden ones. There inside were all of the deadly things they no longer had to use. Most of the knives were missing of course. Bo still practiced with them too often to go through the bother of constantly taking them out and putting them back into the multilocked trunk. Peter had already packed away her small knives for throwing and her other knives for stabbing, wishing all the while that he’d been as steadfast keeping up his practice with them as she had. So the knives were already taken, but here were all of the other small implements of murder: the vials full of poisons, those that went into food or drink and those for coating a blade or a dart. And here were other little bottles of deadly liquids to be splashed on a victim, or thicker gels to be touched onto someone’s exposed skin in passing — “Only the merest drop brushed onto the outside of his wrist just so, and then hurry along quickly, so that you aren’t too near when the body drops.”
“How many of these will still be potent?” Peter asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I doubt my instructors ever anticipated someone keeping these things for so long. The prudent thing to do would be to test them.”
“No time,” he said. “I’ll just take a selection and play the odds — trust that they haven’t all lost their bite.”
Peter took out a small metal tube — a blowgun that could fit in the palm of his hand, and whose minuscule darts, smaller than a bee’s stinger, could hardly be felt. He tucked them away into one of the many hidden pockets which Bo still sewed into all of his clothes. Many of the things he ignored — innocent everyday items that anyone might carry, but which had deadly secondary uses. The problem was that everyday items of an age ago would look decidedly out of place today. But here and there he found a few things that still looked appropriate to any age: the plain gold ring with the cleverly hidden spring mechanism; the delicate ivory toothpick; the intricately woven copper wire bracelet. Soon enough he was done.
“I’ve got so many of your little nasties secreted about me, I feel like I’m going to clank and rattle when I walk,” Peter said. “Every metal detector in the airport’s liable to scream its head off.”
“You’ll do fine,” Bo said. “All together that stuff hardly adds a single pound to your weight.”
“Until I unpack your knives and other assorted hardware at the other end and add them to my ensemble.”
“It won’t matter. If I did my job right altering your clothing, nothing will be able to clank and scrape against anything else.”
He gave her a kiss goodbye and she returned it with an unusual hunger.
In which Little Bo Peep
loses her sheep and
Peter Piper picks
a pickled pepper.
MAX PIPER WASN’T AT ALL PLEASED WHEN he went to bed that night, in Squire Peep’s grand mansion. They’d played well after dinner, as well as they ever had, but once again precious little Peter got all the accolades. Peter didn’t deserve the praise, Max thought, and it wasn’t just jealousy, or an older brother’s resentment that a younger one came along and stole all the attention. This was a matter of simple, unemotional logic. If four musicians played the same tune, but only one of them did it well, then the bad ones would ruin any effect the good one had. It stood to reason. It wasn’t opinion, but the simple and impartial calculus of performance. No matter how wonderfully the good one played, it would still come out as a mad cacophony. But, if their music did sound lovely and melodious, which it certainly had, it could only be because they’d all played well — even Peter, he reluctantly had to admit. They all did a professional job of it and no one should be singled out, except maybe Max, because he had the more difficult instrument to play. He played the large bass flute — with its deep and resonant tones — because he was the only one big enough — well, at least tall and lanky enough — to do it. His father was a short man, and Peter was still just a kid. Neither of them had a wide enough natural hand spread to cover all of the stops. Only Max’s long, dexterous fingers were up to the daunting task.
And yet it was Peter they loved and complimented, and all because Father couldn’t stop praising his younger son. He’s the one who put the idea into everyone’s minds. If Father would just shut up for once, and let their respective talents speak for themselves, then Max would be recognized as the true prodigy.
Of that he was certain.
It was a simple matter of logic.
And not only that, Peter took the best berry tart for dessert. He could see Max had his eye on it, so, just to be vindictive, the little stinker stole it right off the tray, before it came around to Max.
These were the thoughts that troubled Max’s mind, going round and round, repeating once and again, as he slowly drifted off into a fitful sleep.
The sound of thunder woke him.
Max could tell many things as he struggled into consciousness, but they were all a confused jumble in his head. He could hear the distant thunder, but there seemed to be too much of it, like it was the biggest of all storms. But it was also in a terrible hurry, one thrump of thunder following right after another, with none of the usual breaks in between. It boomed in a steady rhythm, as if trying to get all of its crashing and pounding out as quickly as possible. And he smelled breakfast smells, so someone had thought to start cooking. And that was good, because if people were making breakfast, then things couldn’t be too bad. No one thinks to cook when the world’s coming to an end. Then again, he was almost certain he’d also heard screaming.
His first cogent thought was to go to the window and see just what was what, but he also had an urgent need to pee, as he very naturally did every morning upon waking. He sat frustrated for a moment, his pale and spindly bare legs hanging off the tall bed. Both possibilities seemed to require immediate attention. Since he couldn’t decide to do one thing over the other, he compromised and did both. He grabbed the chamber pot from under the bed and took it with him, shuffling hurriedly over to the window in his nightshirt and his nightcap and his bare feet.
Out in the road, not more than a stone’s throw from the main house, and therefore from his own window, Max saw an invading army. They marched in ranks, four or five abreast, down the very same road his family had traveled the day before. First, in the vanguard there were men on horseback, outfitted in iron armor overlaid with lacquers of midnight black and dusky gold and deep carnelian. Here there was a knight in armor all of green, and there was one in armor of white, decorated in twining blue flowers. And dozens more Max spied, wearing armor and surcoats and flowing cloaks of every color in the spectrum. They sat upon great chargers, with barding that matched the riders. They wore plumed helmets and had long, heavy broadswords strapped to their belts. Behind the parade of knights came the color guard, more mounted soldiers but in uniform livery, carrying bright pennants, heralding numerous past victories. And then behind the flashing color guard, the rest of the cavalry rode their war horses and carried their long lances.
Then there followed rank upon rank of foot soldiers, and these weren’t even men at all! Shaped like men in only the crudest, most rudimentary way, they were huge, burly creatures with green warty skin, black animal eyes and long yellow tusks. They carried crude swords and axes and spears, some of which were still stained with the dried remains of something Max dared not contemplate. They wore armor of rough, undecorated iron, and it was the tramp, tramp, tramping of their iron boots, thousands of them marching all in unison, that Max had mistaken for thunder.
The ranks of green-skinned horrors came on and on, a never-ending column that appeared from around the same bend in the road that he’d run down, carrying his discovered arrowhead. They were divided into different groups. A company of
spearmen was followed by a company of pikes and they were followed by a company of archers — all carrying quivers full of black-headed arrows on dark red shafts, Max intuited.
But it didn’t occur to Max just then to realize he’d been right all along about an incipient invasion, and that he was the only one who’d figured it out, that not even precious little Peter had understood what the arrowhead actually meant, while he had, and that everyone should have listened to him in the first place. That insight would come later. At the moment Max could do nothing but gape in astonishment, watching the invaders come on and on in their endless ranks, while he stood there with his nightshirt pulled up around his chest, miserably pissing into his chamber pot.
In an awful rush, Max dressed and ran downstairs to find the entire household engaged in a flurry of activity. One of the Peep daughters — he couldn’t tell which — flew by him, scampering up the same stairs that he’d descended. She was bawling loudly and trailing three or four frightened and worried household maids in her wake. Two of the hired hands, armed with pitchfork and hoe, were standing in the middle of the room, getting manure from their shoes all over one of the good rugs, loudly asking of nobody in particular, “Do we fight? Are we going to fight?” But no one answered them, or seemed to pay them any attention whatsoever. Other servants were quickly gathering silver candlesticks from off the mantle and silver serving trays from off a sideboard. Whether to hide them from the invaders, or steal them for themselves, Max couldn’t guess.
None of the other Peeps were present, nor any of his own family. Not knowing what else to do, Max grabbed one of the house servants by the sleeve as he tried to scurry by. It was someone he recognized, by the name of Kurt, if one of the adults or any of the Peep daughters spoke to him, but whom Max and Peter had to address as Mr. Morganslaughtern. He was fat, old and red faced and looked like he was about to burst something. He carried a small framed portrait painting of Mrs. Cresentia Peep in one hand and a paring knife in the other. What he planned to do with either of those items no one could tell, perhaps not even Morganslaughtern himself.
“Where is everyone?” Max shouted. He hadn’t intended to shout, but the army outside combined with the chaos inside made Max more frightened than he ever imagined he could be in a situation like this. He’d always pictured himself as cool and calm in an emergency, taking command, and of course he always had a sword in his hand. There was a set of decorative crossed swords mounted on the far wall, over an equally decorative console table, and he briefly wondered if he should go arm himself with one of them. Then Morganslaughtern’s insistent tugging at his hand — he still had hold of the man’s sleeve — reminded him of his original intent, to find someone in charge. “Where’s Squire Peep?”
“He’s in the kitchen, of course!” Morganslaughtern snapped. “Now kindly unhand me, young man!”
Why in the kitchen and why “of course”? Max knew nothing of the important matters of high men of status like the squire. Is the kitchen where all great men in command of great estates naturally go in times of crisis? Whatever for? To personally guard the pots and pans? Max could make no sense of the comment, but since he didn’t know what else to do, and a man like Mr. Peep certainly would know what he should do, Max headed for the kitchen.
The kitchen wasn’t a single room, but a complex of interconnected chambers that took up the entire west wing of the ground floor. In the main section, the part with all of the stoves and chopping blocks and such, Max saw all three cooks and both scullery maids working feverishly, preparing the breakfast Max had smelled earlier. Dozens of eggs were being boiled and broiled and fried in skillets. And in other skillets large slices of ham and fat sausages sizzled and popped. No sooner did one cook pull pans of just-baked biscuits out of the oven than another one put new pans of dough in right behind her. And there was oat mush and breakfast cakes and thick brown syrup in glass pitchers that were lowered into pots of bubbling water to warm them. All five women looked harried and upset. The head cook had tracks of recently shed tears down her wide cheeks. And not one of them paused in their hurried efforts to shoo Max out of there, which is the very first time that ever happened — or more properly didn’t happen. No one seemed to mind his being there, or even notice that he was, which scared him as much as anything else had this morning. If that’s changed, then everything has, Max thought. And he wasn’t wrong.
Through a large open archway on the far side of the room, Max saw the great wooden table, where mixes were mixed and vegetables were chopped and diced and shucked and sorted, and where sometimes breakfast could be eaten, in lieu of one of the more formal dining rooms. Additionally it was where all of the household servants gathered to eat their dinner, after the Peep family and their guests had been served elsewhere. This morning the table was occupied by strangers.
By their expensive military dress and their brusque, superior attitudes, Max surmised that they had to be officers of the invading army outside. There were seven of them and they sat all around the table, eating the breakfast that the cooks had made, more of which they continued to cook even now. Mr. Peep was in the room with them, not seated but standing nearby, meekly nodding his head as one of the officers talked around successive mouthfuls of eggs and sausages. Max’s father was also in the room, standing next to Mr. Peep and looking both grim and worried.
“All of your lands are confiscated in the name of the Emperor,” the officer said, “as are your houses, barns, stables and any other structures.” The officer was bald, with a fringe of short black hair around his ears and the back of his head. He had giant black mustachios that drooped past his chin before turning up again at the ends, which were waxed to sharp points. He wore a red and gold uniform jacket, decorated with frills and tassels and medals and shiny brass buttons.
“Your crops will be confiscated, too, and your livestock slaughtered to feed my troops,” he continued, spooning a fat dollop of honey onto a biscuit. “You will all be allowed to remain here for now. In fact you are required to do so, while we continue on to secure the town of Wesen.”
“Winsen,” Squire Peep corrected, automatically, and then quickly shut his mouth and lowered his eyes as the officer shot him with an evil stare.
“You’ll stay here while we secure the town of Winsen,” the officer began again. “You’ll work hard to bring in all of the remaining crops, as quickly as you can. And mind you, I don’t mean to suggest that you’ll order your laborers to work hard while you oversee them. You’re all of an equal status now. You and your fat wife and your skinny daughters and even your guests will toil in the fields, alongside everyone else. In a few days I’ll send one of my officers from the Quartermasters’ Corps to collect the bounty and evaluate the quality of your compliance.
“This land and its people are now part of the Empire, and will be so forevermore.” His voice was calm and low and nearly uninflected, as if he knew he’d never have to raise it to command anyone’s rapt attention. His pronunciation, while precise, was heavily accented. “Whether you’re fated to serve the Empire as slaves or to be proudly numbered among its many free and loyal citizens has yet to be decided, but will largely be determined by the manner in which you conduct yourselves over the next few days.”
“Yes, sir,” Peep meekly said, and Max was astonished all over again. In all of their visits over the years, although Squire Peep was always jolly and pleasant, he was also unmistakably the man in charge. He told people what to do and no one ever told him what to do — except for sometimes his wife did, but Max already understood how marriages involved a private exception to many rules. As far as Max had known, Squire Peep ran the entire county and everyone in it, and now here he was, nodding and bobbing his head at the behest of these terrible men.
Max must have made a noise then, some small voicing of his surprise, because in the adjoining room his father suddenly looked his way, and transfixed Max with such a look as he’d never seen the man produce. No one else took notice of him. Peep continued bobbing his h
ead while the officer kept issuing commands — exactly what additional commands Max wasn’t able to recall later, as his attention had shifted entirely to his father’s intense regard. Never taking his eyes off Max, Father slowly and carefully raised one finger to his lips, silently ordering Max to remain quiet. Then he whispered a quick word into Squire Peep’s ear before excusing himself from the room full of foreign officers. No one moved to prevent his leaving. In fact, no one showed any sign that they cared what his father did, one way or another. Father padded over to join Max in the other room.
“What has happened?” Max said, in a frantic whisper, pregnant with the future possibilities of panic and weeping.
“Shush,” Father said, also in a whisper, but one under rigid control. “This isn’t a time for you to talk, or ask questions, son. It’s a time for you to listen and obey. Your mother and brother are waiting for us in the great hall. That’s where I want you to go too. If you see Mrs. Peep, or any of the daughters on the way, take them to wait there with you. Don’t go outside and don’t talk to any of the soldiers. I don’t think they’ll hurt you, as long as you stay quiet and stay out of their way.”
“What do we do once we’re all there?” Max said.
“Nothing. Just stay put and try to help keep everyone calm. Can I count on you to do that, son? This is one of those moments I’ve told you about, when you have to step up and be a man. Can you do that?”
“Of course.”
“Good. I’m comforted to hear it, Max. So, go do what I told you and in a little while Mr. Peep and I will join you there and explain everything.”
Max obeyed. For the first time in a long time, he was pleased to do exactly what Father told him to.
THE GREAT HALL was full of unhappy people. Most of the indoors servants and all of the outside workers were crowded in there. Mother Piper was seated at one of the benches along the wall and Peter stood beside her, trying to look brave, but mostly looking scared and uncertain. Mrs. Peep and all six of the daughters had also eventually arrived, reporting, as others had before them, that soldiers were all over the grounds and in the house. But for now at least the invaders seemed content to leave them alone here in this chamber. The girls were oddly disarrayed in small ways. One had a splash of brown mud staining her yellow dress. Another had lost one shoe and was absently holding its mate in her hands, and wouldn’t let anyone take it from her, as if it was some sort of protective talisman. And the bratty little one who Peter liked sat directly on the cold flagstone floor, crying and sobbing with great, racking sobs that shook her entire body.
Peter & Max: A Fables Novel Page 6
