by B. Y. Yan
The rabbits were strung up and handed off to the squire of the Great Yarl’s son, who took them in his gloved hands, rubbed faded and covered in blackened grease, and bowed away. The woodsmen gathered and formed a van, cutting a wide swath through the sand while the mailed servants followed after, and last of all came the three riders side by side. The hunting party was returning home.
“The last time we did something like this,” said the Grand Yarl, “I remember it was summer and the sport was great. We managed to take a hart or two, and trap a tundra-boar of monstrous size. Everybody ate well that day, and we came very close to breaking into the top five ranking in the North with one-hundred-and-fifty-seven pounds on the hour, per hour.”
It was common knowledge the proper method for calculating hunting bounties was gross weight divided by total time in hours of the day; and this particular result was very impressive indeed.
“I’ve always said that it was all thanks to Boors the last time round,” continued the Grand Yarl.
“I am troubled that you should think so,” said the Steward humbly. “In truth, I don’t know the first thing about hunting.”
“But it was your arrow that pierced the boar’s left eye when it seemed by all accounts it would escape our trap,” said the Great Yarl’s son. “I have the arrowhead still, pried from its skull and given to me by the king as keepsake.” The young man removed a bodkin head attached to a thin chain from his pocket. At the tip the gold skin had been worn away, showing the hard iron beneath. “I see it for something of a charm. My cousin’s gift has protected me for more times than I can remember, and I miss him sorely.” He asked the Steward, “When do you think you will be able to convince his mother to let him out to play again, my lord?”
They were talking about the king of course, and Boors replied that in truth, he did not know.
The Great Yarl grumbled: “I have never begrudged my brother for remarrying, for I understood perhaps better than anybody else his deep pain from losing Tingale, third and most beloved of all his wives, who was a woman of good stock and breeding, and a kindred spirit to me in my youth. But Amber was poor choice and poorer replacement, and she has never proven otherwise to me. I worry on behalf of my nephew, whom I love like a son. What do you think she is up to now?” He addressed Sir Boors gravely: “You must watch her for me at all times, for I am seldom with leave to do so myself. Dangerous errands great and small she sends me on in the name of the king, perhaps hoping I shall not return from one of them. But while I am away I should like to know that a true friend will keep watch on my behalf.”
His son pleaded with the Steward as well: “We are going away again tomorrow to the borderlands where some trouble is brewing, and we do not anticipate returning for many months. A great hoard of gold has been discovered in the south, it seems, and its wealth is said to be immeasurable. We go to claim it for our king. And it falls to you, my lord, to keep watch at home while we are away. It is a heavy burden, but I hope you will shoulder it for my father’s sake, who has said many times we are at an all-time deficit for trustworthy friendship.”
The young man dabbed at his eye, and the Great Yarl turned away his face and coughed. And of course you will see that they have unknowingly maneuvered Sir Boors into something of a bind. He felt as if he were caught upon an anvil without room to maneuver, watching the coming blow of the hammer. Both the queen and the Great Yarl were fond of getting their way, and really there was nothing for the Steward to do in this case but to promise all he can for both of them. The mood lightened at once, and servants around them broke into song once again.
When the two parties parted ways the Great Yarl bequeathed the spoils of the hunt upon Sir Boors, meager though it may have been. But the skins branded with the royal seal were of considerable value, and anyway a secret recipe for stew came with them, said to possess properties for minor healing and to ward off fatigue on long marches. It came from the squire of the Great Yarl’s son, who has proven on occasions to be a worthy worker of small miracles. His name was Emberdread, after his master Emberdain, as was the custom of the land. And he was swiftly summoned to pass over his knowledge to Basil in the low language of servants while the Great Yarl inquired with the Steward about his brother.
“If not for you I should not have any knowledge of him before I left again. How lucky am I then to have you to tell me what I want to know of his wellbeing.”
“What I have learned,” said the Steward, “I learned from his son, who has taken on the role of caregiver and caretaker in the absence of servants to do such work. I am told that the Yern of Ward is in good health.”
“It is some consolation,” said the Great Yarl with a heavy sigh, “At least where he has been left without anything else in his imprisonment, he has still in his possession that greatest of treasures a man may ever hope to acquire—a good and loving son who will not abandon him in any hardship.” He cast a sidelong glance towards his own offspring, who was tracking the movements of clouds moving overhead some distance away.
The Great Yarl looked back to Sir Boors queerly, as if he should have it in his mind to want to ask him for something, but was wary of speaking aloud of it. He had to be asked at length before he opened up, and when he did he did so with uncharacteristic discomfort.
“It is that I should like to ask for a favor. But I am reluctant to do so after having already placed such a heavy burden on your shoulders. Yet I might lose some sleep over it if I left it to anybody else.”
“We are friends, are we not, my lord?” Sir Boors said. “Ask of me what you will. Command me if you must.”
“I cannot command a friend.” The Great Yarl breathed a sigh of relief. “Will you pay a visit to them soon on my behalf, and give them a portion of the spoils from our hunt together? The white hare for my poor brother, and the brown one you may keep as a gift from me. I feel I should leave better off tomorrow morning if I knew some gesture of kindness, however small, has been paid to that unfortunate House.”
“I don’t see any harm in it. If you have a message for them, I will deliver it at the same time.”
“I have none.”
The Great Yarl looked sadly all about them at the scarce number of trees with their bared branches weighed down by thick coats of black, oily tar.
“There are words enough between us that one lifetime is not enough to speak of it all. But even if I should somehow find enough courage to call I know I will find only icy looks and cold refusal at their door, which I cannot stomach from my own kin.”
The Great Yarl fell silent then, and the Steward, who knew something about their sorry history, found nothing to say. Soon Emberdain arrived bringing with him the brace of hares, having been prepared beforehand by his squire so that it was ready for cooking. He offered to ride back with the Steward to the highway.
Sir Boors accepted graciously, and they left together after bidding farewell to the Great Yarl. All along the way the young man never mentioned his father’s parting request. Indeed, he seemed to have no knowledge of it altogether. They came soon within sight of the great red tree and the gilt litter parked beside, while overhead a full round moon slowly arose, chasing away the lingering sun as the evening quietly took hold.
There they parted, and the young man vanished soon from sight, waving his arm in goodbye. The litter rolled on northbound, but going only so far as about halfway from the red tree to the Great Gate, and there diverted from the course it had come by onto a little path with two lanes—one for heavy traffic of mounted riders, and another for slower going filled even at this hour by wagons being drawn by oxen and mules. The servants of the Steward formed a wedge before the litter, and the foremost among them took up a cry. This herald, whose breadth of voice was immense, cleared a way for them all along the narrow road.
They pushed into one of the larger villages nestled at the foot of the citadel’s walls, passing by stone houses of one and two stories tall, pressed together without room to breathe, and long ranches of scrap and
iron with their roofs hidden beneath thick hide carpets, with a light going in most of the windows. The cries of the herald were carried far by an eastbound wind, and many came into the street to catch a glimpse of his splendor. But more still heeded his instructions to give way, for the servants were formidable. If a pedestrian barred their way, he might be taken to the side of the road and beaten; if a wild dog came into the narrow street, it was chased off with poniards. Still the pace slowed, despite their efforts, for now the road was getting narrower, but more importantly it was winding uphill and down, and it became a slog to push through.
Deep in the village the great procession turned (with some difficulty) onto a lane with a house sitting at the end of it, indifferent to all others they have passed save for one or two distinguishing features: it was surrounded by an enclosure of tall walls, embellished with smooth beaten iron plates to frustrate climbers as if the resident would prefer to be left alone, but set in it with doors painted bright red as if the owner desired to call some attention to himself. The litter stopped in front of them and after some fussing about, Sir Boors approached and politely knocked.
From within a beautiful voice inquired: “Who is it?”
“Boors,” answered the Steward with every courtesy brought to bear. “Open up, my dear.”
He was made to wait, as he knew he would be. What he had not anticipated was that he would be obliged to do so for far longer than he was used to, until he just had to knock again.
“It’s Boors, my dear Marigold. Open up please. I’m here to call on your master. Is he home?”
He was made to wait some more, until he raised his hand again to knock for the third time. But before he could strike the wood with his knuckles that same beautiful voice piped up again from within: “Who?”
“Boors,” he repeated for the third time. He raised his voice. “It’s very cold outside. Open the door, please.”
“Boors,” the voice murmured contemplatively. “Do we know a Boo—oh that Boors? Well why didn’t you say so?” And with every false apology (and sparing little effort to hurry things along) the door was unbarred from within and drawn open a touch, so that a face appeared in the gap, as fair as the voice which had preceded it. Golden curls bobbed up and down, a small pert nose turned upwards in disapproval (or disgust, as it might be suspected). Sir Boors inclined his head, smiling in the manner only he was capable—which was to say, in the face of every adversity and insult, to maintain that humble countenance of indifference when it was called upon—and swiftly planted a foot into the narrow space, so that the door could not be shut again.
“Mary!” he said. “You look positively radiant—as beautiful as dawn! May I come in?”
Even aloof her voice was lovely, soft like cotton, but with strength behind every word uttered. “Why don’t you,” she said, and opened up the rest of the way for him.
He entered alone, leaving behind his servants and his gilt litter and Basil, and the door was shut behind him. They moved together through a well-maintained little garden onto a little path of cobble which had been swept clean and through the front doors into the house. Light spilled from within, along with the aroma of strong chocolate and the heavy, comforting must of leather bindings. Just inside Marigold plucked a candlestick from the wall and led him to a small chamber filled with books. She sat him in a great, comfortable chair, set the candle on the little table next to it, and vanished from sight.
Sir Boors, who was used to the luxury of his great and wide desk with plenty of space to go around, was now made to accommodate what might very well be the smallest amount of room anybody could be expected to live by. And the reason for that were books. Books were everywhere. Volumes of text great and small were stacked atop one another in haphazard fashion like poorly erected staircases reaching for the ceiling (which was not at all low) with every step askew. Great and tall shelves leant up against each other, before and after and side-by-side; all of which had long since been filled to overflowing. Tomes of Knowledge were being used as doorstops; periodicals covered the floor in place of carpets; newspapers in dozens of languages substituted for tapestries; and the sole extravagant furnishing of the household, a great wine rack which took up the whole of the west-facing wall was filled with scrolls, which had been stuck into the boxes in place of bottles.
The lone spot of open space in the chamber which had not been covered up in this manner was a window cut into the stone next to the great chair, from where Sir Boors looked out into the little garden, counting cantaloupes. He rested there for a time, until the master of the house bestirred himself at last to meet him.
Heavy footsteps along a groaning staircase preceded his coming, though he was, when he appeared at the door of the chamber, but a frail form, bent and withered with age, supported on the arm of Marigold, his daughter and maid. His voice, however, resounded with profound strength and vigor, hailing his guest. His eyes glittered with wit and wisdom from beneath long brows, for his was that strange complexion of hairs which turned white early, but never reaching the ashen hue of old-age, preserved in its silvery strands youth far beyond what might be the acceptable norm. He showed his long face from behind a screen of smoke, which wreathed about his head from a pipe clenched between his teeth. When Sir Boors got up from his chair to embrace him a cloud of smolder, thick with the smell of good tobacco, was blown into his face, which caused the Steward to go into coughing fits.
For twenty years Sir Boors had been made to deal with the master of this particular household, who kept up his peculiar ways by the merits of two kings to whom he was a favorite. This then, was the house of Wiseman of the Yonge, trusted advisor of Gainsworth and once tutor to his son until the young king threatened to walk out unless he was made to retire. His home came by as a royal gift, where he did not permit tenants and only rarely tolerated guests save on occasions such as this one. It was Sir Boors’s habit to consult with him whenever he was confronted with a problem that he could not solve. But they were also fierce rivals, forever trying to destroy each other, for it was inconceivable to Yonge that someone like Boors, risen high on the merits of nepotism and bleeding dry every office he touched, should go unpunished for his crimes, whereas Boors argued that opportunities which came a man’s way may originate from familial origins, success itself should only be measured by his own efforts. And while it might seem counterproductive to beg for aid from somebody who struggled for most of their career to ruin you, it was at the same time the best option available in a pinch, for Yonge was the most learned, wise, and farsighted man in the kingdom. He was also honorable, forthright, and incorruptible; if he had any failings it might be said of him that he smoked far too much for his own good and that like all paragons, he possessed a disposition and ego which allowed for nothing short of perfection from his peers to earn a gracious look or a kind word, which can make him insufferable company.
They were now seated on either side of the small table where the candlestick had been set, the flickering flame throwing up long shadows running over the shelves and walls, while beneath them the rivals eyed one another with even wariness. They had been talking for some time. In few words Sir Boors related everything which happened to him today. He spoke at length of the letters he received and his meeting with the queen and later the Great Yarl’s request. He omitted only the existence of the diamond, but divulged every other conflict of interest, and with the humility of a money-borrower begged for advice on how best to proceed.
A large pot of chocolate had been set on the table between them, which Yonge stirred idly with a long spoon. He did not offer any to Sir Boors while he mulled the matter over. Sir Boors paid him many compliments, and goaded him on to think of something. In return he promised to give him his desert hare. “Royally branded,” he said. “You can make it into cuffs for a coat, with the brand facing outwards for all to see.”
“And why would I want to do that?”
“Because royal game has not been gifted outside the Antwerp Line for many year
s, and it is a great honor so I immediately thought of you. Why should I get all the glory when I have plenty already? So I came at once to share it with you.”
“I wouldn’t want it anyway. It will lead to a bad end.”
Sir Boors laughed. “You’re just jealous. They are only rabbits.”
His rival said nothing and continued to puff on his pipe, but his silence became a source of worry for the Steward, and before long he begged him to speak his mind.
“It’s just that I don’t think the Great Yarl gave you this gift just because he wanted you to look after his nephew and spy on his sister-in-law for him while he is away.”
“Well there is the business with his brother, the Yern of Ward,” the Steward admitted. “I promised to take a hare to him as well—”
“Ah!”
“—from his brother, who is all over with guilt even today after what has happened twenty years before. It is to be a secret gift.”
“Ah!”
Sir Boors, becoming annoyed, asked, “What? What is it?”
“It is nothing. I just had a thought.”
“It is something,” he insisted. “Tell me what you are thinking.”
Sir Boors leaned over the pot of chocolate to hear what Yonge had to say. But that was all which could be gotten out of him, and soon he became very worried (you would too if you had any experience at all in meddling with the affairs of royalty). Worried he became angry. He stood up suddenly from his chair, and exclaimed in a loud voice like drums rolling:
“Tell me what you know, for I am at the ends of my wits, and I will play your guesswork game no longer! If you persist to be so difficult you will lose my friendship. And you will see then what I am about when my ire has been aroused.”
