Peregrine: Alflandia

The King of the Alves was taking his evening rest and leisure after a typical hard day’s work ferreting in the woods behind the donjeon-keep, which – in Alfland – was a goodish distance from the Big House. It was usual, of course, for the donjeon-keep to be kept as part and parcel of the Big House, but the Queen of Alfland had objected to the smell.

“It’s them drains, me dear,” her lord had pointed out to her more than once when she made these objections. “The High King isn’t due to make a Visitation this way for another half-a-luster, as well you know. And also as well you know what’d likely happen to me if I was to infringe upon the High Royal Monopoly and do my own plumbing on them drains, a mere pettiking like me.”

“I’d drains him, if I was a man,” said the Queen of Alfland.

“And the prices as he charges, too! ‘Tisn’t as if he was contented with three peppercorns and a stewed owl in a silver tassy, like his father before him; ah! there was a High King for you! Well, well, I see it can’t be helped, having wedded a mouse instead of a proper man; well, then move the wretched donjeon-keep, it doesn’t pay for itself no-how, and if it wasn’t as our position requires we have one, blessed if I’d put up with it.”

So the donjeon-keep had been laboriously taken down and laboriously removed and laboriously set up again just this side of the woods; and there, of a very late afternoon, the King of the Alves sat on a hummock with his guest, the King of Bertland. Several long grey ears protruded from a sack at their feet, and now and then a red-eyed ferret poked his snouzel out of a royal pocket and was gently poked back in. The Master of the Buckhounds sat a short ways aways, a teen-age boy who was picking the remnants of a scab off one leg and meditatively crunching the pieces between his teeth. He was Alfland’s son and heir; there were of course not really any buckhounds.

“Well, Alf, you hasn’t done too bad today,” the royal guest observed after a while.

“No, I hasn’t, Bert, and that’s a fact. Stew for the morrow, and one day at a time is all any man dare look for to attend to and haccomplish, way I look at it.” The day was getting set to depart in a sort of silver-gilt haze, throstles were singing twit-twit-thrush, and swallows were flitting back and forth pretending they were bats. The Master of the Buckhounds arose.

“Hey, Da, is there any bread and cheese more?.” he asked.

“No, they isn’t, Buck. Happen thee’ll get they dinner soon enough.”

The Master of the Buckhounds said that he was going to see could he find some berries or a musk-room and sauntered off into the thicket. His sire nudged the guest. “Gone to play with himself, I’ll be bound,” said he.

“Why don’t ‘ee marry ‘im off?” asked the King of Bertland, promptly. “There’s our Rose, has her hope chest all filled and still as chaste as the day the wise woman slapped her newborn bottom, ten year ago last Saturnalia, eh?”

The King of the Alves grunted moodily. “Hasn’t I sudggestered this to his dam?” he asked, rhetorically. “‘Here’s Bert come for to marry off his darter,’ says I, ‘for thee doesn’t think there’s such a shortage o’ rabbiting in Bertland he have to come here for it, whatever the formalities of it may be. And Princess Rose be of full age and can give thee a hand in the lurching,’ says I. But, no, says she. For why? Buck haven’t gone on no quest nor haven’t served no squire time at the High King’s court and ten-year-old is too old-fashioned young and he be but a boy hisself and she don’t need no hand in the kitching and if I doesn’t like the way me victuals be served, well, I can go and eat beans with the thralls, says she.

“—Well, do she natter that Buck have pimples, twill serve she right, say I. Best be getten back. Ar, these damp edgerows will give me the rheum in me ips, so we sit ere more, eh?”

He hefted his sack of hares and they started back. The King of Bertland gestured to the donjeon-keep, where a thin smoke indicated the warder was cooking his evening gruel. “As yer ransomed off King Baldwin’s heir as got tooken in the humane man-trap last winter what time e sought to unt the tusky boar?”

The walls of Alftown came into sight, with the same three breeches and a rent which characterized the walls of every castle and capital town as insisted on by Wilfredoric Conqueror, the late great-uncle of the last High King but one. Since that time, Alfish (or Alvish, as some had it) royalty had been a-dwelling in a Big House, which was contained behind a stout stockade: this, too, was customary.

“What, didn’t I notify you about that, Bert?” the Alf-king asked, with a slightly elaborate air of surprise. “Ah, many’s the good joke and jest we’ve had about that in the fambly, Da has tooken King Baldy’s hair, harharharhar!’ Yus, the old man finally paid up, three mimworms and a dragon’s egg. ‘Mustn’t call him King Baldy now he’s got his heir back, horhorhorhor!’ Ah, what’s life wiffart larfter? Or, looking hat it another way, wiffart hhonor: we was meaning to surprise you, Bert, afore you left, by putten them mimworms and that dragon’s hegg hinto a suitable container wif a nice red ribbon and say, ‘Ere you be, King o’ Bertland, hand be pleased to haccept this as your winnings for that time we played forfeits last time we played it.’ Surprise yer, yer see. But now yer’ve spoiled that helement of it; ah, well, must take the bitter wiv the sweet.”

That night after dinner the three mimworms and the dragon’s egg were lifted out from the royal hidey-hole and displayed for the last tune at Alf High-Table before being taken off to their new heme. Princess Pearl and Princess Ruby gave over their broidered-work, and young Buck (he was officially Prince Rufus but was never so-called) stopped feeding scruffles to his bird and dog - a rather mangy-looking mongrel with clipped claws - and Queen Clara came back out of the kitchen.

“Well, this is my last chance, I expect,” said Princess Pearl, a stout good-humored young girl, with rather large feet. “Da, give us they ring.”

“Ar, this time, our Pearl, happen thee’ll have luck,” her sire said, indulgently; and he took off his finger the Great Sigil-Stone Signet-Ring of the Realm, which he occasionally affixed to dog licenses and the minutes of the local wardmotes, and handed it to her. Whilest the elders chuckled indulgently and her brother snorted and her baby sister looked on with considerable envy, the elder princess began to make the first mystic sign - and then, breaking off, said, “Well, now, and since it is the last chance, do thee do it for me, our Ruby, as I’ve ad no luck a-doin it for meself so far—”

Princess Ruby clapped her hands. “Oh, may I do it, oh, please, please, our Pearl? Oh, you are good to me! Ta ever so!” and she began the ancient game with her cheeks glowing with delight and expectation.

The childish voice and gruff chuckles were suddenly all drowned out by screams, shouts, cries of astonishment, and young Buck’s anguished wail; for where his bird had been, safely jessed, there suddenly appeared a young man as naked as the day of his birth.

Fortunately the table had already been cleared, and, nakedness not ever having been as fashionable in East Brythonia (the largest island in the Black Sea) as it had been in parts farther south and west, the young man was soon rendered as decent as the second-best tablecloth could make him.

“Our Pearl’s husband! Our Pearl’s husband! See, I did do it right, look! Our Mum and our Da, look!” and Princess Ruby clapped her hands together. King Alf and King Bert sat staring and muttering… perhaps charms, or countercharms… Buck, with tears in his eyes, demanded his bird back, but without much in his tone to indicate that he held high hopes… Princess Pearl had turned and remained a bright, bright red… and Queen Clara stood with her hands on her hips and her lips pressed together and a face - as her younger daughter put it later “O Lor! Wasn’t Mum’s face a study!”

Study or no, Queen Clara said now, “Well, and pleased to meet this young man, I’m sure, but it seems to me there’s more to this than meets the heye. Our Pearl is still young for all she’s growed hup into a fine young ‘oman, and I don’t know as I’m all that keen on her marrying someone as we knows nuffink abahrt, hexcept that he use ter be a bird; look at that there Ellen of Troy whose dad was a swan, Leda was er mum’s name; what sort of ome life d’you think she could of ad, no better than they should be the two of them, mother and daughter - what! Alfland! Yer as some’at to say, as yer!” she turned fiercely on her king, who had indeed been mumbling something about live and let live, and it takes all kinds, and seems a gormly young man; “Ah, and if another Trojan War is ter start, needen’t think to take Buck halong and -“

But she had gone too far.

“Nah then, nah then, Queen Clara,” said her king. “Seems to me yer’ve gotten things fair muddled, that ‘ere Trojing War come abaht acause the lady herself ad more nor one usband, an’ our Pearl asn’t - leastways not as I knows of. First yer didn’t want Buck to get married, nah yer wants our Pearl ter stay at ome. I dessay, when it come our Ruby’s time, yer’ll ave some’at to say bout that, too. Jer want me line, the royal line-age o’ the Kings of Alfland, as as come down from King Deucalion’s days, ter die aht haltergether?” And to this the queen had no word to utter, or, at least, none she thought it prudent to; so her husband turned to the young man clad in the second-best tablecloth (the best, of course, always being saved for the lustral Visitations of the High King himself) - and rather well did he look in it, too - and said, “Sir, we bids yer welcome to this ere Igh Table, which it’s mine, King Earwig of Alfland is me style and title, not but what I mightn’t ave another, nottersay other ones, if so be I ad me entitles and me right. Ah, ad not the King o’ the Norf, Arald Ardnose, slain Earl Oscaric the Ostrogoth at Slowstings, thus allowing Juke Wilfred of Southmandy to hobtain more than a mere foot’old, as yer might call it, this ud be a united kingdom today instead of a mere patch’ork quilt of petty kingdomses. Give us an account of yerself, young man, as yer hobliged to do hanyway according to the lore.”

And at once proceeded to spoil the effect of this strict summons by saying to his royal guest, “Pour us a drain o’ malt and one for his young sprig, wonthcher, Bert,” and handed the mug to the young sprig with his own hands and the words, “Ere’s what made the deacon dance, so send it down the red road, brother, and settle the dust.”

They watched the ale go rippling down the newcomer’s throat, watched him smack his lips. Red glows danced upon the fire-pit hearth, now and then illuminating the path of the black smoke all the way up to the pitchy rafters where generations of other smokes had left their soots and stains. And then, just as they were wondering whether the young man had a tongue or whether he peradventure spoke another than the one in which he had been addressed, he opened his comely red lips and spoke.

“Your Royal Grace and Highnesses,” he said, “and Prince and Princesses, greetings.”

“Greetings,” they all said, in unison, including, to her own pleased surprise, Queen Clara, who even removed her hands from under the apron embroidered with the golden crowns, where she had been clasping them tightly, and sat down, saying that the young man spoke real well and was easily seen to have been well brought hup, whatsoever e ad been a bird: but there, we can’t always elp what do befall us in this vale of tears.

“To give an account of myself,” the young man went on, after no more than a slight pause, “would be well lengthy, if complete. Perhaps it might suffice for now for me to say that as I was on the road running north and east out of Chiringirium in the Middle, or Central, Roman Empire, I was by means of a spell cast by a benevolent sorcerer, transformed into a falcon in order that I might be saved from a much worse fate; that wilst in the form of that same bird I was taken in a snare and manned by one trained in that art, by him sold or exchanged for three whippets and a brace of woodcock to a trader out of Tartary by way of the Crimea; and by him disposed of to a wandering merchant, who in turn made me over to this young prince here for two silver pennies and a great piece of gammon. I must say that this is very good ale,” he said, enthusiastically. “The Romans don’t make good ale, you know, it’s all wine with them. My old dadda used to tell me, Terry, my boy, clean barrels and good malt make clean good ale …’ “

And, as he recalled the very tone of his father’s voice and the very smell of his favorite old cloak, and realized that he would never see him more, a single tear rolled unbidden from the young man’s eye and down the down of his cheek and was lost in the tangle of his soft young beard, though not lost to the observation of all present. Buck snuffled, Ruby climbed up in the young man’s lap and placed her slender arms round his neck, Queen Clara blew her nose into her gold-embroidered apron, King Bert cleared his throat, and King Alf-Earwig brushed his own eyes with his sleeve.

“Your da told yer that, eh?” he said, after a moment. “Well, he told you right and true – What, call him dada, do ‘ee? Why, yer must be one a them Lower Europeans, then, for I’ve eard it’s their way o’ speech. What’s is name, then - and what’s yours, for that matter?”

Princess Pearl, speaking for the first time since giving the ring to her small sister, said, “Why, Da, haven’t he told us that? His name is Perry.” And then she blushed an even brighter red than ever.

“Ah, he have, our Pearl. I’ll be forgetting my own name next. Changed into a falcon-bird and then changed back again, eh? Mind them mimworms and that ‘ere dragon hegg, Bert; keep em safe locked hup, for where there be magic there be mischief— But what’s yer guvnor’s name, young Perry?”

Young Perry had had time to think. Princess Pearl was to all appearances an honest young woman and no doubt skilled in the art of spindle and distaff and broider-sticking, as befitted the daughter of a petty king; and as befitted one, she was passing eager and ready for marriage to the son of another such. But Perry had no present mind to be that son. Elliptically he answered with another question. “Have you heard of Sapodilla?”

Brows were knit, heads were scratched. Elliptics is a game at which more than one can play. “That be where you’re from, then?” replied King Alf.

The answer, such as it was, was reassuring. He felt he might safely reveal a bit more without revealing too much more. “My full name, then, is Peregrine the son of Paladrine, and I am from Sapodilla and it is in Lower Europe. And my father sent me to find my older brother, Austin, who looks like me, but blond.”— This was stretching the truth but little. Eagerness rising in him at the thought, he asked, “Have any of you seen such a man?”

King Bert took the answer upon himself. “Mayhap such a bird is what ee should better be a-hasking for, horhorhor!” he said. And then an enormous yawn lifted his equally enormous mustache.

Someone poked Perry in the side with a sharp stick. He did not exactly open his eyes and sit up, there on the heap of sheepskin and blanketure nigh the still hot heap of coals in the great hall; for somehow he knew that he was sleeping. This is often the prelude to awakening, but neither did he awake. He continued to lie there and to sleep, though aware of the poke and faintly wondering about it. And then it came again, and a bit more peremptory, and so he turned his mind’s eye to it, and before his mind’s eye he saw the form and figure of a man with a rather sharp face, and this one said to him, “Now, attend, and don’t slumber off again, or I’ll fetch you back, and perhaps a trifle less pleasantly; you are new to this island, and none come here new without my knowing it, and yet I did not know it. Attend, therefore, and explain.”

And Peregrine heard himself saying, in a voice rather like the buzzing of bees (and he complimented himself, in his dream, for speaking thus, for it seemed to him at that time and in that state that this was the appropriate way for him to be speaking). “Well, and well do I now know that I have passed through either the Gate of Horn or the Gate of Ivory, but which one I know not, do you see?”

“None of that, now, that is not my concern: explain, explain, explain; what do you here and how came you here, to this place, called ‘the largest island in the Black Sea’, though not truly an island … and, for that matter, perhaps not even truly in the Black Sea … Explain. Last summons.”

Perry sensed that no more prevarications were in order. “I came here, then, sir, in the form of an hawk or falcon, to which state I was reduced by white witchery; and by white witchery was I restored to own my natural manhood after arriving.”

The sharp eyes scanned him. The sharp mouth pursed itself in more than mere words. “Well explained, and honestly. So. I have more to do, and many cares, and I think you need not be one of them. For now I shall leave you, but know that from time to time I shall check and attend to your presence and your movements and your doings. Sleep!”

Again the stick touched him, but now it was more like a caress, and the rough, stiff fleece and harsh blankets felt as smooth to his naked skin as silks and downs.

He awoke again, and properly this time, to see the grey dawnlight touched with pink. A thrall was blowing lustily upon the ember with a hollowed tube of wood and laying fresh fagots of wood upon it. An even lustier rumble of snores came from the adjacent heap of covers, whence protruded a pair of hairy feet belonging, presumably, to the King of Bertland. And crouching by his own side was Buck.

Who said, “Hi.”

“Hi,” said Perry, sitting up.

“You used to be a peregrine falcon and now you’re a peregrine man?” the younger boy asked.

“Yes. But don’t forget that I was a peregrine man before becoming a falcon. And let me thank you for the care and affection which you gave me when I was your hawk, Buck. I will try to replace myself… or replace the bird you’ve lost, but as I don’t know just when I can or how, even, best I make no promise.”

At this point the day got officially underway at Alfland Big House, and there entered the king himself, followed by the Lord High Great Steward, aged eight (who, having ignominiously failed his apprenticeship as kitchenboy by forgetting to turn the spit and allowing a pair of pullets to burn, had been demoted), carrying hot water and towels; the soft-soap, in a battered silver basin, being born by King Alf. He also bore an ostrich feather which had seen better days, and with this he ceremoniously tickled the feet of King Bert, whose snores ceased abruptly. The hot water and towels were set on a bench and the burnished tray set up in a convenient niche to serve as mirror. King Bert grunted greetings, took his sickle-shaped razor out of his ditty bag, and, seizing one wing of his mustache and pulling the adjacent skin out, began to shave.

“Buck,” said King of the Alves, “yer mum wants yer. Nar then, young Perry,” he said, “what I wants ter know is this: Haccording to the charm as our Ruby’s been and done unto yer, yer supposed to be the son of a king. Sometimes magic gets muddled, has we all knows, take for hinstance that time the Conqueror e says to iz wizard, ‘Conjur me up the ghost of Caesar,’ not specifying which Caesar e meant but hassuming e’d ave great Caesar’s ghost hand no hother, which e adn’t; the resultant confusion we needn’t go hinter. However, ‘Bring now for spouse the son of a king,’ says the charm, doesn’t say which king, do it, but meantersay: His you hor hisn’t you, a fair question, lad, give us a fair hanswer.”

This Peregrine felt the man was entitled to, but he was by no means delighted with the implications. “In a manner of speaking, Sir King,” he said, wiggling slightly - and then, reflecting, that the truth is more often the best than not, he added, “I am my father’s youngest bastard son, and he has three heirs male of his body lawfully begotten.”

King Alf digested this. It could almost be seen going down. “Well, then, we can homit Prince Peregrine, can we. Mmmm. Which means, Queen Pearl, we needn’t look forrert to that, neither. Er dowery ud be smaller, there’s a saving, right there. Nor she needn’t move far away, Lower Europe, meantersay, might’s well be Numidia for all the chance us’d ever get to visit. As a one or two by-blows meself. Fust one, wasn’t never sure was it by me or was it by a peddler as’d been by awking plaice; lad turned fifteen, stole a fishing smack one night and run wif it: I crossed is name horf the Royal Genealogical Chart hand ad a scribe write Denounciated hand Renounciated hafter it. ‘ Tother un was the spit and image of me Huncle Percy, long afore deceased; but this lad went to the bad just like tother one, hexcept e become a physician specializing in the infirmities of women, as yer might say, ope yer own da as ad better luck … “

His voice ended in a mumble, then plucked up again. “Now, no doubt yer da has enobled you, give yer some such title as it might be, say, Count of Cumtwaddle and Lord of the Three Creeks in the peerage of Sapodilla, hey?” he inquired, hopefully.

Peregrine sighed, shook his sleek head, informed the host-king that what his father had given him was his blessing, a month’s rations, three mules, a suit of the best second-rate armor, and a few other similar items; plus the ritual warning, established by law, that it would be Death for him to return either armed or at the head of an armed multitude.

King Alf grunted. “Well,” he said, tone halfway between disappointment and approbation, “spose that’s one way to preserve the loreful succession, makes sense, too bad, well, well,” he shook his head. The gesture seemed to indicate bafflement rather than a negative decision. Another grunt announced a fresh idea… or two.

“Well, be that as it may, Queen Clara sends her good wishes and says please to excuse as she needs back the tablecloth. Now, we can’t ave yer traipsing round in yer bare minimum, for folk ud larf hat us ha-keeping hup them hold-fashioned Grecian himfluences. So.” He displayed an armful of garments. “One o’ these is what’s left o’ what I’ve grew out of, but maybe it be still too large. And tother is for Buck ter grow into, maybe it be still too small. Only way to find out is to dive and try.”

Perry thanked him, dived and tried. The pair of trews, woven in a tessellated pattern according to the old Celtish style, and intended for Buck to grow into, fit him well enough; but the tunic was a bit tight across the chest and shoulders; the tunic which Buck’s father had grown out of, though an outsize round the waste, had exactly Perry’s sleeve length. The same lucky fit obtained with the sandals, formerly the property of King Baldy’s heir. “And here,” said the royal host, setting down a casket inlaid in ivory, “is the gear box, and you may poke around for clasps, buckles, fibulae, and such; please elp yerself. No urry, hexcept that betwixt dawn and noon we as a rightchual ceremony to hattend; like ter ave yer wiff us.”

The clepsydra at Alfland Big House had been for some time out of order, the king insisting with vigor that fixing it would constitute making plumbing repairs and thus an infringement on the High Royal Monopoly, the queen - for her part - insisting with equal vigor that the king was trying to cover up his ignorance of how to make the repairs. Be that as it may, the great water-clock remained unfixed, only now and then emitting a gurgle, a trickle, and a groan, rather like an elderly gentleman with kidney trouble. Be that as that may, at an hour approximately between dawn and noon, Peregrine, alerted by a minor clamor in the courtyard, made his way thither.

He saw gathered there the entire royal family and household, including thralls; the guest king, who had delayed his departure in order to witness the ritual ceremony; a number of citizens, whose abrupt discontinuance of conversation, and interested examination of Peregrine as he approached, gave him reason to believe they had been talking about him; and three archers, three slingers, and three spearmen: these last nine constituting the Army of the Realm (cavalry had been stricktly forbidden by Wilfred the Conqueror).

“Ah, Peregrine the son of Paladrine the Sovereign of Sapodilla in Lower Europe,” the King of the Alves announced, slightly pompously. And at once said, in his usual gruffly affable manner, “Come on over, Perry, and leave me hexplain to yer the nature of this hoccasion. See,” he gestured, “that there is Thuh Treasure. Likewise, the Treasury.”

“What, that single sack?” is the sentence which Perry had in mind to say, but, tactfully, did not.

King Alf continued, portentously, “Now, this is the third day hafter the full moon of the month of Hecatombaeon haccording to thuh hold Religion,” he coughed delicately into his fist, “meantersay we’re hall good Harians ere, and so naturally we’ve tried to git this fixed hup proper and right haccording to the New Faith, that is,” another cough, “the True Faith. And ave wrote the bishops. Fergit ow many times we’ve wrote the bishops. First hoff, they hanswers, ‘If any presbyter shall presume to ordain another presbyter, let him be anathema.’ Well, well, seems like sound enough doctrine and no skin hoff my, berumph! Caff caff. But what’s it got to do wif dragons? Second time what they replied, ‘Satan is the father of lies and the old dragon from the beginning; therefore let no presbyter presume to ordain another presbyter, and if he do presume, let him be anathema.’” He cast an eye up and around the sky, for all the world like an augur about to take the auspices, then dropped his glance earthwise, and went on. “Next time we put the question, what’s it as the bishops said, why they said, ‘The waters of life may flow even through the jaws of a dead dog, but if any presbyter presume to ordain another presbyter—’”

The gathering murmured, “-let him be anathema.’”

King Alf then went on, briskly, to inform his younger guest that from time immemorial, on or about the hour midway between dawn and high noon on the third day after the full moon of the month of Hecatombaeon, a dragon was wont to descend upon the Land of the Alves for the purpose and with the intention of carrying off the treasure. “Dragon?” asked Perry, uneasily, “Then why is the treasure out in the open? And for that matter, why are we all out in the open?” The gathering chuckled.

“Why, bless yer, my boy,” the king said, grinning broadly, “doesn’t believe them old tales about dragons a-living on the flesh of young virgin females, does yer? Which you be’n’t in any event, leastways I know you be’n’t no female, a horhorhor!— No no, see, all them dragons in this zone and climate o’ the world is pie-skiverous, see? Mayhap and peradventure there be camivoreal dragons in the realms of the Boreal Pole; then agin, mayhap not. No skin hoff my— Owever. Yus. Well, once a year we aves this ceremonial rightchual. The dragon, which e ‘s named Smarasderagd (meaning, Lover of Hemeraulds, in th’ original Greek), the dragon comes and tries to carry orf the treasure. One story says, originally twas a golden fleece. Nowadays, has we no longer lives in thuh world of mye-thology, the treasure is the Treasury. All the taxes as as been collected under the terms of my vasselage and doomwit to the High King, and which I am bound to transmit to im - minus seven percent to cover handling expenses - dog licenses, plowhorse fee, ox-forge usage, chimbley tax, jus primus noctae commutations in fee simple, and all the rest of it; here he comes now, see im skim, thuh hold bugger!”

The crowd cheered, craned their necks, as did Peregrine; sure enough, there was a speck in the sky which rapidly increased in size. Peregrine asked, somewhat perplexed, “And does the dragon Smarasderagd transmit the treasury to the High King, or—”

King Alf roared, “What! Fancy such a notion! No no, lad. Old Smarry, e makes feint to nobble the brass, yer see, and we drives im orf, dontcher see. I as to do it hin order to maintain my fief, for, ‘Watch and ward agayn Dragons and Gryphons,’ it be written in small print on the bottom of the paytent. And Old Smarry, e as to do it hin order to maintain is rights to hall the trash fish as gits caught in the nets, weirs, seines, wheels, traps and trots hereabouts.—As for gryphons, I don’t believe in them things an nor I shan’t, neither, hunless the bishops resolve as I must, hin Council Hassembled.— Ere e come!”

The spearmen began a rhythmical clashing of their shields.

“Ho serpentine and squamous gurt dragon Smarasderagd,” the Alf-king began to chant, “be pleased to spare our treasure…”

With a sibilant sound and a strong smell of what Peregrine assumed was trash fish, the dragon spread his wings into a silent glide and replied, “I shan’t, I shan’t, so there and so there and so there …”

“Ho serpentine and squamous gurt dragon Smarasderagd ullo, Smarry, ow’s yer micturating membranes? - be pleased to spare …”

“I shan’t, I shan’t, I shan’t - hello, Earwig, mustn’t grumble, mustn’t grumble - so there and so there and so there … ” Clash, clash, clash! went the spearmen. Peregrine observed that their spears had dummy heads. “Then we’ll drive yer away with many wounds and assailments what’s the news, Smarry, is there any news? - assailments and torments … “

Swish, swishl, swish, swishl, Smarasderagd flapped his wings and circled low. “—That’s for me to know and you to find out— My hide is impervious to your weapons, insquamous issue of Deucalion—” He dug his talons into the sack of treasure, and, on the instant, the spearmen hurled their spears and the slingers whirled their slings and the archers let loose their arrows. And seeing the arrows - which, being made of reeds, and unfletched - bounce harmlessly off Smarasderagd’s tough integuments and observing the sling stones to be mere pea gravel, fit for affrighting pigeons, to say nothing of the mock-spears rattling as they ricocheted, Peregrine realized that the resistance was indeed a mere ritually ceremonial one. The dragon in sooth seemed to enjoy it very much, issuing steamy hisses much like giggles as he dug his talons into the sack of treasure and lifted it a space off the ground, while his bright glazey eyes flickered around from face to face and his huge wings beat the air.

Grinning, King Alf said, “Ere, ave a care now the way yer’ve got that sack eld, Smarry, or ye’ll spill it. Don’t want us to be a-picken of the Royal Hairlooms, ter say nuffink of the tax drachmae, up from this ere muck, do yer?”

“Perish the thought, Earwig,” said Smarasderagd, shifting its grip, and flying higher. The king’s grin slipped a trifle. “Don’t play the perishing fool, then,” he said. “Settle it back down, smartly and gently.”

“I shan’t, I shan’t, I shan’t!”

“What, ave yer gotten dotty in yer old age? Set it back down at once directly, doe yer ear?”

“Screw you, screw you, screw you!” And the dragon climbed a bit higher, whilst the king and his subjects looked at each other and at the dragon with a mixture of vexation and perplexity. “I’m not putting it down, I’m taking it with me, a-shish-shish-shish,” Smarasderagd snickered steamily.

“But that’s again the rules!” wailed the king.

“It is against the rules, isn’t it?” the dragon agreed, brightly. “At least, it was. But. You know. I’ve reviewed the entire matter very carefully, and what does it all add up to?— To this? you get the treasure and I get the trash fish. So - as you see, Earwig I’ve changed the rules!” He flew a bit higher. “You keep the trash fish! I’ll keep the treasure!”

Buck, who was evidently much quicker than Peregrine had perhaps credited him for, gave a leap and a lunge for the bag of treasure; not only did he miss, but Smarasderagd, with a tittering hiss, climbed higher. Queen Clara, till now silent, tradition having provided no place for her in this pageant save mat of spectator, wailed, “Do suthing, Airland! E mustn’t get to keep the treasure!”

“I shall, I shall, I shall!” sang out the dragon, and in a slow and majestic manner began to rise.

“Ere, now, Smarry,” the king implored. “What! Cher going to destroy thur hamicable relations which as ithertofore hobtained atween hus for the sake o’ this little bit o’ treasure which is such in name honely?”

The dragon shrugged - a most interesting sight. “Well, you know how it is,” he said. “Here a little, there a little, it all adds up.” The king’s cry of rage and outrage was almost drowned out by the noise of great rushing as the great wings beat and dragon and treasure alike went up - up - and away. It seemed to Peregrine that, between the sound of the king’s wrath and the sound of the beating of the vast ribbed and membranous pinions, he could distinctly hear the dragon utter the words, “Ephtland - Alfland - which will be the next land—?”

Needless to say that it was not possible for him then to obtain of this impression either confirmation or refutation.

Having dismissed the Grand Army of Alfland (all nine members of it) and – in broken tones – informed the citizenry that they had his leave to go, King Earwig sat upon an overturned barrel in the middle of his courtyard and, alternately putting his head in his hands and taking it out again, groaned.

“Oh, the hairlooms as come down from King Deucalion’s days! Oh, the tax moneys! (Buck, my boy, never trust no reptyle!) Oh … What will folk say of me?”

Queen Clara, her normal russet faded to a mere pale pink, had another question to ask, and she asked it. “What will the High King say?”

King Alf-Earwig groaned again. Then he said that he could tell her what the High King would say.” ‘Malfeasance, misfeasance, disfeasance, and nonfeasance h’of hoffice: horf wif is ead hon heach count!’ - is what e’ll say … “

The silence, broken only by the snuffing of Princess Pearl, was terminated by her mother. “Ah, and speaking of counts,” said she, “what about my brother-in-law, Count Witenagamote?”

The king’s head gave a half flop, and feeling it as though for reassurance, he muttered, “Ah, and I spose our only opes is ter seek refuge of im, for e lives hin a different jurisdiction, e does, and holds not of the High King; holds of the emperor, is what, the vassal of Caesar imself.”

A touch of nature was supplied at this point by the cock of the yard, who not only ran a slightly frazzled hen to earth but began to tread her. Buck barely glanced, so serious was the other situation. Peregrine asked, automatically, “Which Caesar?”

He asked it of Alfs back, for the king had gotten up from the barrel and started pacing at length - a lengthy pace which was now leading him into the house by the back way. “Which Caesar?”

“Why, bless you,” said the king, blankly, “of Caesar Haugustus, natcherly. What a question. Has though there were more nor one of im.”

Peregrine, who knew very well that there was not only more than one but that the number of those using the title of Caesar, including heirs, co-heirs, sovereigns of the East and the West and the Center, claimants, pretenders, provincial governors and rather powerful lord mayors and mayors of the palace, ambitious army commanders - Peregrine, who knew it would be difficult at any given moment to calculate how many Caesars there were, also looked blank, but said nothing. He was clearly very far from Rome. From any Rome at all.

“Well, well, go we must as we must,” muttered the king. “As we must go we must go. Meanwhile, o’ course,” he stopped suddenly, “can’t be letting the Kingdom go wifourt authority; you, there,” he beckoned to the kitchenboy. “How old are you?”

The lad considered, meanwhile wiping his snotty nose on his apron. “Six, last Mass of the Holy Martyrs of Macedonia, an it please Your Worship,” he piped.

His Worship did some visible arithmetic. “Ah, that’s good,” he declared, after a moment. “Then ye’ll not be seven for some munce after the High Kingly Inquisition gits ere to check hup… as they will, they will.— Below the hage of reason, they can’t do a thing to yer, my boy, beside six smacks hand one to go on; so kneel. Hand let’s ear yer name.”

The boy knelt, rather slowly and carefully placing both palms on his buttocks, and slowly said, “Vercingetorix Rory Claudius Ulfilas John” - a name, which, if perhaps longer than he himself was, gave recognition to most of the cultures which had at one time or another entered East Brythonia within at least recorded history.

King Alf tapped him on each shoulder with the royal dirk without bothering to wipe off the fish scales (Queen Clara had been cleaning a carp for supper). “Harise, Sir Vercingetorix Rory Claudius Ulfilas John,” he directed. “—Not all the way hup, aven’t finished yet, down we go again. Heh-hem,” he rolled his bulging and bloodshot blue eyes thoughtfully. “Sir Vercingetorix Rory Claudius Ulfilas John, we nominates and denominates yer as Regent pro tem of the Kingdoms and Demesnes of the Lands of the Alfs in portibus infidelidum, to have and to hold from this day forward until relieved by Is Royal Highness the High King - and don’t eat all the raisins in the larder, or he’ll have yer hide off yer bottom, hage of reason or no hage of reason. —And now,” he looked about. “Ah, Bert. Yer’ve been so quiet, clean forgot yer was present. Ye’ll witness this hact.”

The King of Bertland, simultaneously stiff, uneasy, unhappy, said, “That I will, Alf.”

Alf nodded. “Hand now,” he said, “let’s pack and hit the pike, then.”

Peregrine had been considering. Amusing though it might be to tarry and observe how things go in Alfland under the regency of Sir Vercingetorix Rory Claudius Ulfilas John (aged six and some), still, he did not really consider it. And fond though he already was, though to be sure not precisely deeply fond - their acquaintance had been too brief - of the Alvish Royal House; yet he did not really feel that his destiny required him to share their exile; could he, even, feel he might depend upon the hospitality of Count Witenagamote? It might, in fact, be just the right moment to take his leave … before there was chance for anything more to develop in the way of taking for granted that he and Princess Pearl—

He was not very keen on dragons. Smarasderagd was a good deal larger than the last and only previous dragon he had ever seen. Piscivorous the former might or might not be; now that he no longer had all the trash fish to dine upon, who could say? Peregrine did not feel curious enough to wish to put it to the test. Dragons might lapse. King Alfs prolegomenal discourse, just before Smarasderagd had appeared, seemed to take for granted that the dragon was not a treasure-amassing dragon; yet all men in Lower Europe had taken it for granted that all dragons were by nature and definition just that. Peregrine remembered his first dragon, rather small it had been, and so at first glance - had been the treasure it had been guarding. Yet a further investigation (after the dragon had been put to flight by the sprig of dragonbane from the geezle-sack of Appledore, the combination sorcerer, astrologer, court philosopher and a cappella bard of Sapodilla … and Peregrine’s boyhood tutor as well…) - a further, even if accidental, investigation of the contents of the small dragon’s cave had resulted in Peregrine’s - literally - stumbling upon something of infinitely more value and weal than the bracelet of base metal inscribed Caius loves Marianne and the three oboli and one drachma (all stamped Sennacherib XXXII, Great King, King of Kings, King of Lower Upper Southeast Central Assyria - and all of a very devaluated currency) – he had tripped over a rotting leather case which contained what was believed by the one or two who, having seen it, were also competent to comment on it to be the mysterious and long-lost crown of the Ephts.

And what had Smarasderagd said, as though to himself, and evidently overheard only by Peregrine over the noise of the shoutings and the beatings of leathern wings? - it was … was it not? … “Ephtland, Alfland, which will be the next land?”

Peregrine said aloud, “It would be a good thing, in pursuing after him, were we to have with us a sprig or even a leaf of dragonbane.”

King Alf s head snapped back up, his swollen small eyes surveyed his younger guest from head to buskin-covered toe. ” ‘Pursue after im,’ the lad says.- - Ah, me boy, you’re the true son of a king, lawfully hillegitimate though yer be, hand proper fit for dragon unting, too, for, ah, wasn’t yer brought back to human form by means h’of dragon’s hegg?”

Buck’s face turned red with pleasure and his teeth shone in his mouth. That’s it, Da!” he exclaimed. “We’ll hunt him down, the gurt squamous beasty-thief! And not go running off like—”

Again, though, his mother “had summat to say”. And said it. Did Alf think that she and her daughters were going to traipse, like common camp followers, in the train of the Grand Army, whilst he and it went coursing a dragon? (“Hand a mad, crack-brain scheme that be, too!”) Did Alf, on the other hand, intend that she and her precious daughters should attempt to make their own way to the court of Count Witenagamote, regardless of all perils and dangers along the way, and unprotected?

Her husband’s reply commenced with a grunt. Then he turned a second time to his older guest, who had been standing first upon one leg and then upon the other. “Bert,” he said, “Hi commends me wife and me datters hunto yer mercy, care, and custody, hentreating that ye keeps ‘em safe huntil arriving safe at sanctuary, the court of Count Wit. Does yer haccept this charge?”

“Haccepted!” said the King of Bertland. “Ave no fear.”

Queen Clara’s mouth opened, closed. Before it could open again, the two pettikings were already drawing maps in the sawdust of the kitchen floor with a pair of roasting spits. “Now, Alf, one spot on rowt as yer mussn’t homit, is ere—” he made a squiggle. ” ‘Whussat?’ why, that’s Place Where The Dragons Dance—”

“Right chew are!” exclaimed King Alf. “For e’ll be a-prancin is trihumph there for sure (Buck, my boy, never trust no reptyle).”

“Likewise,” King Bert warmed to the matter, “don’t forgit e’ll ave to be returning ither” he made another scrawl, “to is aerie-nest at Ormesthorpe, for e’ve a clutch o’ new-laid heggs—”

Peregrine, puzzled, repeated, with altered accent, “He’s got a clutch of –what?”

“Come, come, young man,” said King Bert, a trifle testily, “Hi asn’t the time ter be givin yer lessons hin nat’ral istory: suffice ter say that hall pie-skiverous dragons his hambisextuous, the darty beasts!”

Something flashed in Peregrine’s mind, and he laid his hand upon King Bert’s shoulder. “It seems destined that I be a party to this quest for the Treasury carried off by gurt dragon Smarasderagd,” he said, slowly. “And… as King Alf has pointed out, it was a dragon’s egg that helped restore me to human form… a dragon’s egg which, I have been informed, is now in your own and rightful custody: now therefore, O King of Bertland, I, Peregrine, youngest son of the left hand of Paladrine King of Sapodilla, do solemnly entreat of you your kindness and favor in lending me the aforesaid dragon’s egg for the duration of the aforesaid quest; how about it?”

Sundry expressions rippled over King Bert’s craggy face. He was evidently pleased by the ceremonial manner of the request. He was evidently not so pleased about the nature of it. He swallowed. “What? … Wants the mimworms, too, does yer? … Mmmm.”

“No, no. Just the egg, and purely for purposes of matching it with any other eggs as I might be finding; a pretty fool I’d look, wouldn’t I, were I to waste time standing watch and ward over some nest or other merely because it had eggs in it? — and then have them turn out to be, sav, a bustard’s … or a crocodile’s … “

This argument was so persuasive to the other king that he even, as he unwrapped the object from its wad of scarlet-dyed tow, bethought himself of other reasons - ” ‘Like cleaves hunto like,’ has Aristottle says, may it bring yer hall good luck, ar, be sure as it will” - and rewrapping it, placed it in his very own privy pouch. He then had Peregrine remove his own tunic, slung pouch and contents so that it hung under the left (or shield) arm. “There. Cover hup, now, lad,” he said.

Matters suddenly began to move more rapidly after that, as though it had suddenly occurred to everyone that they didn’t have forever. Provisions were hastily packed, arms quickly and grimly sorted and selected. The Grand Army of the Alves was also remustered, and four of its nine members found fit for active duty in the field. Of these, however, one - a young spearman was exempted because of his being in the first month of his first marriage; and a second, an archer, proved to have a painful felon or whitlow on his arrow thumb. This left one other archer, a short bowman whose slight stature and swart complexion declared more than a drop or two of autochthonous blood, and a very slightly feeble-minded staff slinger, said to be quite capable of doubling as spearman in close-in fighting. (“Moreover e’s the wust poacher in the kingdom and so should damn well be able to spot dragon spoor - d’ye hear, ye clod?” “Har har! - Yus, Mighty Monarch.”)

The procession was obliged to pause momentarily in the open space before the cathedral church (indeed, the only church), where the apostolic vicar had suddenly become very visible. As usual, he had absented himself from the dragon ceremony on the ground of dragons being essentially pagan creatures which had not received the approbation of any church council; he was uncertain if he should pronounce a ritual gloat at the dragon’s having been the cause of the king’s discomfiture, or if he should give the king the church’s blessing for being about to go and hunt the heathen thing; and he had summoned his catechumens, doorkeepers, deacons, subdeacons, acolytes and excorcists to help him in whichever task he hoped right now to be moved by the Spirit to decide.

A small boy who had climbed the immemorial elm abaft the cathedral church to get a good view, suddenly skinnied down and came running. Peregrine’s was the first face be encountered and recognized as being noteworthy; so, “Eh, Meyster!” he exclaimed. “There come three men on great horses towards th’ Eastern Gate, and one on ‘em bears a pennon with a mailed fist—”

King Alf whirled around. “Kyrie eleison!” he exclaimed. ” ‘Tis Lord Grumpit, the High King’s brutal brother-in-law and ex officio Guardian of the Gunny Sacks (Treasury Division) - what brings him here so untimely? - he’ll slay me, he’ll flay me—”

Peregrine said, “Take the Western Gate. See you soonly,” - and gave the king’s mount a hearty slap on the rump. The clatter of its hooves still in his ears, he strode up to the ecclesiast on the church steps, the vicar regarding him so sternly that one might almost have thought he was able to discern that the waters of baptism had never yet been sprinkled, poured, or ladled upon Peregrine’s still-pagan skin.

“Your Apostolic Grace,” Peregrine asked, in urgent tones, “it is surely not true - is it? - that one presbyter may ordain another presbyter?”

The hierarch beat the bun of his crosier on the church step with such vehemence that the catechumens, doorkeepers, deacons, subdeacons, acolytes and excorcists came a-running.

“It is false!” he cried, in a stentorian voice. “Cursed be who declares the contrarity! Where is he, the heretic dog?”

Peregrine gestured. “Coming through the Eastern Gate even now,” he said. “And one of them bears the pennon of a mailed fist, alleged to be the very sign and symbol of presbytocentrism!”

The apostolic vicar placed two fingers in his mouth, gave a piercing whistle, hoisted his crosier with the other, beckoned those in minor orders - and in none - “All hands fall to to repel heretics!” he bellowed. He had long formerly been chaplain with the Imperial Fleet. The throng, swelling on all sides, poured after him towards the Eastern Gate.

Peregrine mounted the wiry Brythonic pony which had been assigned him, smote its flanks, whooped in its ears, and out through the Western Gate with deliberate speed. The dragon egg nestled safe beneath his arm.