Magician’s Apprentice Chapter VII

Posted on March 26, 2020 by Brian Bixby

If you missed chapter VI: Due to a glitch, chapter VI did not show up in everyone’s reader, although it was posted yesterday. You can still find it here. Chapters I – V can be found here. And to quickly summarize: Tollon is supposed to find three dragon’s teeth for his master, Court Magician Sarton. He just told his sweetheart Paviara about this while they were in bed last night. Now read on . . .

It is morning. Paviara left just before dawn. She has to “sneak” past the chaperones of the unmarried male servants’ wing and of the unmarried female servants’ wing. I say “sneak,” because what’s involved is a bribe, and not a very big one. Chaperones who demand too much end up having fatal accidents.

I hear most of my fellows, whether servants or apprentices, getting up and going to the wash room. I don’t bother, not just yet. Sarton likes to read early in the morning, and won’t mind if I take my time. And I most definitely need time to think.

Paviara confirmed that the Earl of Haulloran did indeed father a child on the queen. She is fairly sure Lady Gwella made this happen, by bespelling one or both of them. Why, Paviara isn’t so sure. She thinks Lady Gwella is pursuing several paths to greater power. Having her husband’s child on the throne might be one of them. But Lady Gwella’s a deep one, and it might be something more indirect that she’s aiming for.

Torture can take many forms

And Paviara seems set on stealing dragon’s teeth from that woman! How, she wouldn’t tell me. She said she had to check into a few things first. And she jokingly said that the less I knew, the less I’d reveal under torture.

Which is a real threat, not so much for the theft, for which it’s more likely Lady Gwella will simply kill us if she catches us. No, the problem is what the earl has done. If the earl’s enemies can accuse him of treason for seducing the queen, and make it stick, then the earl will no doubt be tortured and executed. And so will his secretary, his family, his friends, his servants, and however many degrees out the king decides the inquiry and punishment must go. Paviara, as a niece of his employed at the palace, would be an obvious suspect. And that would lead straight to me.

With a sigh, I get up and head down toward the washroom. It’s a trial for me. You see, the current ideal of beauty is copper-colored skin and hair. Which I’ve got. Even my eyes are copper-brown. And because I’m short and slight, I invariably get teased by my peers, and sometimes propositioned. Sometimes that propositioning can be rather forceful. Which is why the very first spell I requested Sarton to teach me was one to hurt anyone who laid hands on me without my consent.

I get the usual amount of ribbing, mixed in with some winks. A few of them know about Paviara, and while her golden skin and locks are not so fashionable, they still envy me for her. No one tries anything stupid, there or at breakfast in the servants’ dining hall. I notice that talk of the queen’s bastard is not yet circulating. I don’t start any.

Paviara wants me to ask Sarton what the dragon’s teeth are for. I’m not going to do that. Sarton wants them, he has a reason, and he’ll get upset if I don’t get some, but all in due time. If he doesn’t ask, I don’t take flack for not getting them yet.

The first question out of his mouth when I get to his workshop is, “So, is the child really Haulloran’s?”

I nod. “Definitely.”

Sarton leans back in the chair behind his desk and gives me a faint smile. “Learn that from your playmate?” He then breaks out into laughter upon seeing the look on my face. “My boy, I was young once myself. I know what young men do. And young women, too. If I’m going to the trouble to train an apprentice, I don’t want to lose him simply because he’s gone plowing the wrong field.”

I’m caught between embarrassment and resenting his agricultural metaphor. I drop into my chair. I mutter, “I suppose I should have told you.”

“And I would have forbidden it, and you would have gone ahead anyhow, if not with her then with someone else.”

“So now what?” I ask.

Sarton grimaces. “She’s a dangerous girl to know, with the earl’s position being what it is. Which is why I’m talking to you about it now. I don’t expect you to give her up, but watch your back, boy. And come to me at a whiff of trouble.” And with a short laugh, he adds, “Worse comes to worse, I can kill you quickly and save you being tortured.”

And that is Sarton. Kindly old guy one moment, grimmer than a hangman the next. He doesn’t hold to a mood.

And then he casually says, “Lesson later today. Right now, you need to go out and get me six or seven phoenix feathers. And don’t forget the dragon’s teeth.”

“I won’t,” I promise. I just wish I could. I guess I’m going to have to steal them, after all.

(to be continued)

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Magician’s Apprentice Chapter VI

Posted on March 25, 2020 by Brian Bixby

The story so far: Tollon is contemplating desperate measures or wild schemes to secure some dragon’s teeth for his master, Court Magician Sarton. The last thing he needs is for a surprise in his own room. Or maybe it’s the first thing he needs. (For all the previous chapters, you can go here.) Now read on . . .

Remember I said there was one person in the Palace Kitchen who didn’t give me an ill look as I walked past them? That’s who’s in my bed. Naked. And I couldn’t be happier.

She knows better than to complain that I sort of sat on her. Instead, she gets right to helping me out of my clothes. You can guess what happens next.

No, we are not married. As an apprentice, I am not legally allowed to marry anyone. Let alone the Earl of Haulloran’s niece, even if she’s a dirt-poor relation who works as kitchen staff. (“Cook” is a title only the more experienced staff have earned. Not that it’s an entire blessing. It was only the cooks and chefs who were hanged after the incident with the tainted troll meat.)

This will be a very improper introduction, as she’s not wearing any clothes and it’s dark so you can’t see her, but meet my sweetie, Paviara. Paint a picture of her in your mind, and it will not do her justice. She’s beautiful, she’s sweet, and she’s kind. And we’re in love. Oh, and we’re careful: she’s not gotten pregnant yet.

Paviara’s mother was the most unworthy of the Earl of Haulloran’s siblings, having disgraced her family in several ways, including her marriage to a third-rate bard. When she died, the Earl had to find something to do with her two children. He wasn’t very generous, which is why Paviara works in the kitchen. But she’s still family, so she does see him regularly and keeps up with family gossip.

Which I now need to find out about. So, in between casual chit-chat and compliments to each other, I ask, “Is it true the Earl’s fathered a bastard on the queen?”

Paviara doesn’t answer immediately. When she does, there’s a suspicious note in her voice. “Just what are you up to, Tollon?”

“Oh, about five-foot-two, same as you,” I joke.

She gives me a jab with her elbow, and then sits up. “C’mon, out with it. You know I dislike talking about my family.”

“To say nothing of how your family would dislike talk of me.” When that doesn’t get a laugh, I drop the pretense. “I heard the rumor, and I’m worried about you. And the Earl may have something I want.”

“What?” Her voice turns from suspicious to concerned. Good.

“Dragon’s teeth.”

There are times my love is just a little too clever, sort of like Lady Macbeth

There is a long silence. My darling is thinking. This is dangerous, because I have this needling suspicion that she’s actually smarter than I am. Just like she’s just barely taller than me. Another reason, incidentally, why Katrina’s not in my bed: she’s the better part of a foot taller.

“When you say you want the dragon’s teeth, you mean Sarton does, don’t you?” My lady is nothing if not careful.

I assent. “Yeah, I don’t know why, but he wants three.”

“Find out,” Paviara speaks decisively. “Getting them isn’t going to be easy. Lady Gwella has them. But if the price is right, I think I could get them from her.”

“She’s not going to give them to Sarton at any price,” I caution her.

She laughs. “Then we don’t tell her. In fact, we don’t tell her anything at all. She’s not going to know how they disappeared.”

My jaw drops. “You’re talking about stealing them?”

“No, I’m going to go to Lady Gwella, confess I’m sleeping with Sarton’s apprentice, and ask her to give them to me.” Paviara’s voice can sound charming to me, even when she’s being sarcastic. “Of course I’m going to steal them. Or, to be precise, we are going to steal them.”

(To be continued . . . here!)

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Chapter V of Magician’s Apprentice

Posted on March 24, 2020 by Brian Bixby

The story so far: Tollon is hunting for dragon’s teeth on behalf of his master, Court Magician Sarton. He’s met up with famed mercenary captain Katrina, who advises him to blackmail the Earl of Haulloran to get some. If you want to read the previous chapters, go here. Otherwise, read on . . .

Aye, blackmail one of the most powerful nobles in the land, whose wife is probably the most dangerous noble in the land. I shake my head and in a low voice tell her, “I’m not suicidal.”

She pitches her voice low, too. “You don’t have to be. Sarton should be able to protect you from her, and the Earl has his hands full.”

I shake my head. “Still, no.” And I am not going to explain why.

Katrina starts to get exasperated. But then we’re interrupted. Behind her, a shape looms, belches, and says, “If you’re going to bed a wee lad like him, Captain, you might as well sleep with a pretty woman.”

I recognize that voice. It’s dear old Corporal Wayne.  And he is drunk. Katrina turns in her seat to look at him, and I get a good view of him. He’s drunk, but it doesn’t show much, him being a big guy. He must have been ending his shift when I went in the main gate, and has been hanging out here, or someplace like this, ever since.

I can’t see Katrina’s face from this angle, but the fact that’s she’s in the process of standing up does not bode well for the corporal. In a no-nonsense tone, she says, “You just insulted a captain, corporal, while drunk. You know what that is called?”

Give the corporal some credit. He manages to say, “Insubordination,” fairly clearly.

Katrina shakes her brown, wooly head. “No, corporal, it’s called stupid.” And she jabs him hard in the belly.

Corporal Wayne goes down. He rolls on his side to vomit up his last few drinks. And he stays there, sobbing.

Katrina turns to me. Still keeping her voice low, she says, “Well, it’s up to you. Find Jerrod, or blackmail the other.” She leans closer and drops her voice even more. “And if you want some company in bed tonight, let me know.” She plants a kiss on my cheek, gives me a wink, and returns to her beer.

I smile, weakly, before turning away from her and leaving the bar. Because weak is how I felt the one time I took her up on such an invitation. Katrina does indeed have a soft spot for guys like me. But she’s also got the musculature of a successful warrior. Oh, I enjoyed our time together. I just don’t think I could survive a second time.

So I start going from pub to bar, bar to beer hall, trying to find Jarrod. He’s another mercenary, gambles a lot, rarely wins. Katrina tells me he’s actually brilliant on the battlefield, she’s served with him, but at cards, dice, or pool? He’s a sucker. The only reason I’ve never tried to win anything off him is that he might decide I’m not honorable enough to be allowed to win money from him. Some mercs are touchy that way.

But my mind keeps going back to Haulloran. Could I blackmail him? On the face of it, the idea still seems ridiculous, on many counts. But it keeps nagging at me.

You’re probably wondering just how I could blackmail him. It’s simple. I’m allowed at Court with Sarton. Once there, all I have to do is publicly accuse Haulloran of fathering the queen’s child. Assuming he is, he would not be able to escape execution, not even if Lady Gwella pulled a flightless parrot out of her purse. Of course, there’s a high chance I’d also be executed, but I’d be counting on the Earl being sensible. Which, except for marrying Lady Gwella, he typically is.

And that’s the rub. I have to find a way to get at the earl when he’s alone, without his lady at his side. Oh, and be sure he’s actually the father of the queen’s next child. But I think the latter will be easy. And might even give me a way to get to the earl on his own.

I have no luck turning up Jerrod. I go back to Sarton’s workshop for a lengthy lesson on properly sacrificing a lamb. Like most such magical activities, it varies by the nature of the creature you’re trying to summon. Demons like pain-filled deaths. Angels like perfect specimens. Ghosts want blood, And so on.

It’s late when Sarton finishes instructing me. He still hasn’t mentioned the dragon teeth again. So I shuffle off to my room on the fifth floor. The corridors are lighted with torches, so I don’t bother carrying a candle. My room’s completely dark when I enter. I’m so tired, I just drop onto the bed.

Which turns out to be occupied.

This painting was done by one of Rembrandt’s teachers, Pieter Lastman (1583 – 1633)

(It better be continued . . .)

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Magician’s Apprentice Chapter IV

Posted on March 23, 2020 by Brian Bixby

The story so far (and a link to the previous chapters): Tollon, apprentice to Court Magician Sarton, is tasked with acquiring dragon’s teeth by Sarton. But palace life and intrigue are making what could already be a dangerous chore even more difficult. Now read on . . .

Sarton’s head is buried in a horoscope chart he’s drawing up for the next royal bastard when I leave to go get lunch. How he can construct a horoscope for a child that isn’t even born yet, and whose due date he doesn’t know, I don’t know. Astrology is not one of the sciences he has taught me. But Sarton’s good at it. He even predicted King Neucron’s death. He just couldn’t explain how the king was going to die.

I could take lunch in one of the palace’s several dining halls. But I need dragon’s teeth. Time to go pub crawling.

The nearest tavern in town is The Flayed Thief. Supposedly the tavern was erected on the site of an old gallows. It attracts an appropriately disreputable crowd: palace guards, their whores, minor tax farmers, pig inspectors, and in the evening the only singing group in the kingdom made up of eunuchs. The place smells of beer, vomit, and urine, except when it’s been cleaned, once a tenday.

It’s day eight. One drinks beer in self-defense in The Flayed Thief, to keep the smells away from one’s nose.

Definitely NOT The Flayed Thief, but it gives you an idea of the atmosphere

And I am in luck. Sitting alone at the bar is Katrina of Moss, famed mercenary, dreaded duelist, and a gal with a soft spot for village country boys like me. You have to turn in your weapons at the door. Katrina has an exemption, because letting her kill people with weapons causes less destruction than forcing her to smash chairs, rip up the bar, and turn its liquor into fire bombs. Besides, if you leave her alone, she will never start a fight. “People pay me to fight,” she once explained to me. “Why should I give it away for free?”

I actually do carry a concealed dagger, which I don’t check. I’m regarded as so physically unimposing that no one would consider me a threat, so they never search me for weapons. Odds are we are the only two armed people in the room, except for the bouncer and the bartender.

I grab a seat beside Katrina, greet her as “Captain,” and order a beer. She turns to look at me with a perfectly neutral expression on her face. Then she sees it’s me, and she breaks out into a smile. “Lord Tyznar,” she says. And she means it seriously.

I should explain. I’m not noble by birth. But as Sarton’s apprentice, I have to have a title so I can accompany him at Court functions. So I’ve been ennobled as part of my job. Tyznar Heights is a fortress that used to be the seat of Ovallessi dukes, until the last of the dukes overreached himself and the castle was bombarded into a ruin. The lordship brings in 50 ducats a year, mostly from wool. I’ve been there twice. To most people, it’s a bit of a joke, a fig leaf for protocol’s sake.

Katrina takes my title seriously because it’s good business for a merc not to argue or question such things, unless the noble is on the other side in a war. And, as I said, she has a soft spot for guys like me.

We chat of indifferent things: how the war against the mountain tribes in the East is going nowhere, the struggle among the Six Kingdoms, Sarton’s latest error of omission. When that topic comes up, I see my chance. “Got any dragon’s teeth?”

“Sarton?”

I nod.

Katrina stares into her beer for a bit. Without looking up, she says, “If you can find Jerrod, he should have some. Killed a dragon last fall. Can’t have pawned all the teeth yet. And the Earl of Haulloran has quite a set.”

I shake my head long enough for her to look up and see. “Haulloran’s out.”

That piques her interest. “Why?”

That is not something I want to discuss in public. So I lean over and whisper in her ear, “He’s fathered a bastard on the queen.”

For that I get a stare. A serious, eyes-wide, “O my dead mother” stare. And then Katrina break out laughing. In between laughs, she says to me, “You are a perfect fool!”

Oh, I’ve been called that a few times. But it hurts getting it from Katrina, because she’s not one to say such things unless they’re true. So I remonstrate, “I’ve been aiming for perfection, but didn’t think I’d achieved it. Want to explain how?”

That stops her laughing. She gives me a good look-over, leans forward, and whispers in my era, “Blackmail him.”

(to be continued . . . tomorrow!)

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Magician’s Apprentice Chapter III

Posted on March 22, 2020 by Brian Bixby

Our story so far: Tollon, apprentice to the Court Magician, is having a rough day. Getting tripped by the palace guard is just his most recent misfortune. Or at least it was, until he stepped into the magician’s workshop and was confronted by a demon.

A demon is drooling on me. This is not primarily an issue in aesthetics, or even hygiene. Demon drool does things to you. It gives you evil thoughts, evil desires, and a strong inclination to put them into practice.

Not that that is necessarily a bad thing. A little self-interest is quite helpful. Ripping off the Royal Treasury would be rewarding. Fathering a bastard on the queen would be fun. Seducing young Princess Alistia would be really enjoyable. Killing off the Duchess of Barsosar for the way she treats me . . .

Whack! I go flying. Floor, meet body. Body, meet floor. And bruises magically appear!

Well, not actually. Bruises are natural. The same thing may not be true of Sarton.

I look up and see Sarton standing where the demon was. My first thought is to kill him. Really. Not like I feel like doing only every other day. I deeply want to make him scream in agony as I kill him by inches.

No spectacles, but you get the idea

And then I see Sarton properly. Imagine an old man with white hair and a beard, bushy eyebrows to match, spectacles perched on his nose, a puzzled expression perpetually on his face. He looks like someone’s grandfather. It’s impossible to really hate him when you see him.

I get up, shaking my head. Damn, that demon drool works fast. I ask him, “Was I supposed to know about becoming a human sacrifice?”

Sarton blinks, looks at me, blinks again. “What are you talking about?”

I point at myself. “Me.” Point at his feet. “Demon that was standing there. Demon with big teeth and disposition of a tax farmer.”

He shakes his head. “He was just trying to protect me. He wouldn’t have hurt you.” And he turns around and heads back into the depths of his shop.

There is no point in arguing with Sarton. He honestly didn’t intend me to be harmed, and probably didn’t even think of the demon drool. So I retrieve the bag I dropped and scurry after him. As I catch up, I tell him, “Peppermints in bag. Calf will be delivered later today.”

“Eh? What? Oh, good.” He takes the bag from me, crosses the Great Circle in the center of the room, sits down at his desk, and plucks out a peppermint to suck on. That he didn’t mention the dragon’s teeth is a good thing. They can’t be an immediate priority. I have time.

I follow him and go take a seat behind my desk, positioned in line with his. I offer him the gossip. “Her Most Gracious Highness is about to have another child.” I have to repeat myself to get his attention.

He looks off into space, and then sits forward, pulls a sheet of paper out, and sets to scribbling. “Who’s the father?”

“Rumor has it the Earl of Haulloran.”

That gets his attention without repetition. He sits back and spins in his chair so he’s facing me directly. “That certain?”

I shake my head. “Rumor. Reliable source. Doesn’t even matter if it’s true, if enough people believe it.”

Sarton sighs. “It wouldn’t be circulating, not unless she wanted it to.” He clasps his hands together and contemplates his damaged right thumb.

She is the Earl’s wife, the Lady of Haulloran, Gwella of Faix. Young, passionate, ambitious, with her husband wrapped around her finger, the Lady is one of the more powerful women at Court.

Oh, and she’s a witch.

(definitely to be continued . . .)

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Magician’s Apprentice Chapter II

Posted on March 21, 2020 by Brian Bixby

Previously, in chapter I: Tollon, apprentice to Court Magician Sarton, is out fetching Sarton’s supplies, when he hears that the queen is going to have bastard, fathered by the Earl of Haulloran. Although he hasn’t yet explained why, Tollon fears this might get him killed. Now read on . . .

But getting killed won’t happen until after Sarton yells at me for not getting a calf, so I head off to the Royal Barn. Which is not a barn. It’s the house and business office for the Royal Gardener, Royal Livestock Tender, Royal Herbalist, and, for all I know, the Royal Manure Spreader. My business there is short, brief, unpleasant, and successful. Degrif, the Royal Livestock Tender, dislikes me, Sarton, Court, life, and I suspect himself as well, judging from his perpetually grumpy mood. But he knows his job, and he can tell me to the day how old every animal in the barns and pastures are. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got a tally, not just of the barn cats, but of the mice they catch. So, I get a promise to deliver a calf fitting Sarton’s requirements by late afternoon.

Which leaves me with getting three dragon’s teeth. Despite what Sarton may think, they are not easy to come by. I’m not exactly going to go hunt and kill a dragon myself. The mortality rate of people who try that is a mite high for me. No, what I need to do is find someone who has them, and make a deal. Or maybe hornswoggle them. Depends on who is it, and how sober they are at the time. In any case, not going to happen until after lunch.

So I head back to the palace proper. And run into the Royal Guard at its snottiest.

“Who are you?” Gruff voice, straggly beard, zero brains.

“I’m Tollon of Velgard, Lord of Tyznar Heights, colleague to Master Court Magician Sarton. Get out of my way, oaf!” My title is sort of real, and I’m counting on this lamebrain not to know the difference.

He doesn’t stand aside. “I have heard nothing of your coming.”

“And I’ve heard nothing of you, whoever you are. Nevertheless, we are still presumably honored by your presence, if honor or presence pertains to you.” It’s usually safe to insult people in ways they won’t understand.

This one certainly doesn’t understand. The blank look on his face adds to what would be called “rustic charm” by our more sentimental bards, “ugliness” by our more satirical ones. He tries to think, finds it too hard, and gives up. Turning part way around, he bellows, “Corporal, there’s a Lord of Tizzy Hates here.”

Grumbling follows. And then from inside the castle emerges Corporal Wayne. He sees me, grimaces, walks up to me, bows, and greets me, “My dear Lord of Tyznar Heights,” sounding as serious as he can. And then he aims a kick square between my legs, targeting some cherished body parts of mine, which kick I anticipate and avoid. I try to return the favor, but this time he’s anticipated me, grabs me by the foot, and tosses me to the ground.

I give him a resentful look. “What that necessary?”

He grimaces again. “No. But it was fun.” And then he lets out a loud laugh. Turning to the first guard, he says, “You can let this one in at any time. If he’s going to be hanged, I’ll do the job myself.”

I get up, dust myself off, grab my fallen bag. “You are the soul of courtesy, Corporal. I imagine you’re even civil to the men cuckolding you.”

That gets no response save an ill look and a laugh before the corporal returns to his station. And so I return into the palace. First stop, my own room, to drop off my peppermints. Then to Sarton’s workshop, to drop off his and tell him the calf will be coming.

Sarton’s workshop is at the extreme northern end of the castle, on the third floor. Above him on the fourth floor is an artist’s studio, the thinking being that if Sarton blows himself up, he won’t kill anyone of importance. The door to the workshop has an enchanted doorknob that can get quite vicious, if you aren’t an approved visitor. Sarton dislikes being disturbed. Considering that breaking his concentration could bring a plague upon the kingdom, it’s wise to leave him alone.

But I know Sarton is just developing a spell today, so don’t even knock before turning the knob and entering.

Only to be greeted by a demon. A demon seven feet tall, with teeth, prominently on display in a slobbering mouth.

“You wouldn’t be a vegetarian, would you?” I ask as I decide whether to fight (no!), freeze (please, no!), or flee (please, please, please!)

But I don’t get the chance, as the demon picks me up by the back of my jacket. The top of my head suddenly feels a bit warm and wet, and I realize to my horror that the demon is drooling on me.

(to be continued tomorrow, we hope!)

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Time for a new story: Magician’s Apprentice

Posted on March 20, 2020 by Brian Bixby

In troubled times, people have always turned to storytellers for guidance and relief. An evening’s entertainment, an escape to other times and places, does the soul some good. And a skilled storyteller can weave in moral lessons to guide people through their lives.

But you’re here reading me, instead. And the story I have to tell fails to meet that high standard. There are immoral people in it. And they don’t all come to a bad end. Even my protagonist has flaws.

My story’s set in the Kingdom of Auspulia. The time? The year 764, in their chronology, and I have not the foggiest idea how that relates to our calendar. And my protagonist is the apprentice to the Court Magician. Hence this story’s simple title: Magician’s Apprentice. What it lacks in originality, it makes up for in being accurate.

And now to the story . . .

It was just a typical shopping list. All Sarton wanted was three dragon’s teeth, a physically perfect calf of about one month age, and a box of peppermints. The last were for him personally, not one of his spells. Thinks I’m his errand boy, does he?

Well, I guess I am. I’m his apprentice. My father talked it up as a great opportunity. “Being apprentice to the Court Magician!” he told me. “You’ll win fame and glory!” Assuming I’m not turned into a newt or given over to a demon as a plaything, yeah, maybe.

Oh, forgive me. Let me introduce myself. I am Tollon of Velgard. No, Velgard is not my estate. It’s the hole-in-the-wall village I grew up in. Watching our mangy cattle die is one of our great recreational sports. But when I use my name, I try to make Velgard sound like a swell place. Easier than you might think, because it’s a long ways away, and few people know of it.

First stop on my peregrinations (didn’t think I knew long words because I’m a peasant? hah!) is to the Palace Kitchen. They might have a calf. They will have the peppermints.

The kitchen is on the ground floor. It used to be in the basement, until Her Glorious Excellency decided it was a good idea for the cooks to see what they were doing. Maybe having her father die from improperly cooked troll did some good after all. Though the old cooking staff might not have thought so as they were gasping out their dying breath on the gallows.

I push open the heavy wooden door to the kitchen, and immediately hear someone yelling at me to shut the door. The kitchen is always warm, unlike most of the palace, so some people are forever trying to prop open the door in the cool seasons.

I shut the door behind me, turn and survey the scene. This used to be a banquet hall at one time, so it’s big, and long, and has a huge stone fireplace in the middle of one long wall. They need the room. There are something like 300 people living in the palace, not to mention the soldiers in the nearby barracks. The kitchen is always busy with cooking.

I’m looking for the Head Cook, and see him halfway down the hall, near the fireplace, having an argument with the Court Chamberlain. Probably Her Excellent Gloriousness has a tummy ache from her addiction to refga. Or maybe she’s pregnant again. Great, another mouth that will require a supporting staff of fifteen.

Not being desirous of falling afoul of the Chamberlain, I wait until he’s through shouting whatever gripe he has, and, lucky for me, storms off to the other end of the hall to leave. I nudge and dodge my way through the staff, all of whom (save one) give me ill looks, and finally come face to face with the Head Cook. “Hi, Armis. Hugo giving you the guff?” Hugo is the Chamberlain.

Armis smiles. We get along well, despite having little in common. He’s a giant of a man, well over six feet tall, and built like he eats a lot of his own cooking. We do share a common disdain for most of the Court functionaries. That includes my boss. Armis looks up to the ceiling in a significant way before replying. “Bastard number four is probably on the way, and Her Royal Highness’s appetite is picky. But I’m supposed to get her to eat. How, Hugo doesn’t know. And it’s not like I’d get an audience with the queen to discuss it with her. Not and keep my head.

“But what are you here for? Sarton want another pickled human infant? Sorry, fresh out.” He says this with a grin. I did ask him for one, once, I admit. Only once.

“Nah, this time the old man wants peppermints,” I reply. “Wouldn’t mind a few myself. And you wouldn’t happen to have a month-old calf handy, would you?”

Armis shook his head. “Check with Degrif. Peppermints I can do. Just got in a shipment from Port Royal yesterday. Even have the chocolate-coated ones you like.” And without another word, he turns and heads toward the storeroom.

The storeroom is equally vast. It was once an assembly hall. Now it has hundreds of feet of shelf space loaded with foods. Nothing’s labelled, but Armis knows where it all is. He heads right in, and with minimal fuss grabs a box of each kind of peppermints and gives them to me.

Since he’s in a good mood, I decide to pry a bit. “Just whose bastard is it?”

Armis looks up and down the aisle, stoops low, and speaks to me in a whisper. “Probably the Earl of Haulloren’s.”

I smile. I thank Armis for the peppermints. And the I get out of the kitchen before I start shaking. The Earl of Haulloren has fathered a child on the queen? People could die from this.

And I could be one of them.

(to be continued . . . Tomorrow!)

Posted in Magician's Apprentice, Writing fiction | Tagged , , , , | 11 Comments

Amusing game for our times: what groceries do you buy for the end of the world?

Posted on March 14, 2020 by Brian Bixby

It’s not the end of the world. But the way people are clearing out supermarkets here in the United States, you’d think it was. I went into my local stores and found almost all the bread racks empty. Except . . .  there were plenty of French chocolate sweet breads. And I thought to myself, “Hey, if it really were the End Times, I think that’s one of the first things I’d buy a lot of. Might as well enjoy myself during the Apocalypse!”

So, tongue firmly in cheek, what absolutely non-essential guilty pleasure foods would you load up on as civilization collapses? Answer in a comment.

For me? Homemade-quality chocolate chip cookies, swordfish, strawberries, and Scotch whiskey would probably head the list.

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Becoming a dual citizen

Posted on February 16, 2020 by Brian Bixby

I recently turned myself into a dual citizen. I’m now a citizen both of the United States, where I was born, and of Ireland, where I have ancestors. So I have two perfectly legal passports. This was not something I’d considered doing until a few years ago.

You just know James Bond carries a bunch of these.

When I was growing up, the only people who had more than one passport were spies in movies. And you knew most of those passports were fake. People were citizens of one country, and that was it. Well, that wasn’t entirely true even then, and it certainly is not true now. Indeed, ever since a 1967 United States Supreme Court decision, Americans have had the Constitutional right to hold more than one citizenship (subject to certain limitations).

Essentially, every nation reserves the right to set its own rules on citizenship. The two most common rules are jus sanguinis (your parents were citizens) and jus solis (you were born there). But the specifics vary greatly from nation to nation. Britain has six classes of citizenship. The People’s Republic of China forbids dual citizenship. Dominica allows you to become a citizen by investing $100,000 in their country. And so on.

Ireland happens to allow you to become an Irish citizen if you had a grandparent born on the island of Ireland prior to 2005. I qualified. To actually become an Irish citizen by descent, as it is usually called, I would have to file an application, pay a fee, and prove my descent to them with supporting documents.

I decided to go ahead with this after my mother died and left a small estate. I thought I’d put a few dollars into some distinctive way of honoring her. Since it was her mother who came from Ireland, this was one way to do it. I mentioned this to all my siblings and first cousins on my mother’s side, as they were also eligible, just in case any of them wanted to join me in the process. I did everything right, got proof of citizenship, and then worked through the helpful Irish consulate in Boston to get a passport.

So now I’m an American citizen, an Irish citizen, and, by virtue of my Irish citizenship, a citizen of the European Union as well. At the trivial level, I can get through more border controls with less waiting. At the routine level, I need to consider what responsibilities and benefits citizenship in two nations brings. And at the profound level, I have to consider what it means to be a good citizen of two different countries.

 

Posted in History | Tagged , , , | 16 Comments

A useful suggestion for Harry and Meghan

Posted on January 11, 2020 by Brian Bixby

It’s the weekend. Time for lighter topics, such as “Whatever shall we do about Harry and Meghan?”

The unhappy(?) couple

For those of you who missed it, Harry and Meghan, a.k.a. the Duke and Duchess of Sussex, members of the British Royal Family, announced recently that they are stepping back from their role as “senior members” of the royal family, will split their time between Britain and North America, and hope to achieve financial independence. And people think Millennials are irresponsible!

The announcement was greeted with some puzzlement. What, pray tell, is a “senior member” of the royal family, and how do the Sussexes qualify? One would presume the designation belongs to Queen Lizzie, well into her 90s, or her son and heir Prince Chucklehead, now in his 70s. Harry and Meghan are only in their 30s.

Being a royal ages you

It seems “senior member” is Brit-speak for “having to serve as ceremonial figures on a routine basis, like the rest of the royal family.” It’s an occupation open only to royals, and to Hollywood celebrities who once would have taken up roles on the game show Hollywood Squares. It’s a pretty empty job, not exciting like being an accountant or middle-level manager.

One could understand Harry and Meghan wanting to chuck the job. Meghan actually had a real career as an actress and celebrity. And Harry was once famous as the royal cut-up, sometimes taking a mischievous turn by wearing a Nazi uniform. Being as functional as an ornamental china cup is dull by comparison.

Let unsaid in the official announcement were some of the important reasons why Harry and Meghan made this announcement. They weren’t just tired of the boring ceremonies. They were also tired of the round-the-clock press coverage. (And who can blame them for that?) And Meghan has taken more than her share of abuse for being American, biracial, and her own person. Say what you will about Harry, he’s stuck with her. I think the two can take their place among adults without any shame. That’s more than could be said for some of their critics.

Edward VIII abdicated to marry his bride. Some think the British got off lucky.

Britain treated their announcement as some sort of disaster. It is being compared to the Abdication Crisis of 1936, in which a British king renounced the throne to marry a sexually aggressive twice-divorced American woman. Harry and Meghan have been accused of not keeping the queen informed. This apparently is a form of treason.

One wonders what the big deal is. Harry is not part of the main line of succession to the throne, standing sixth. Short of an unexpected die-off, there are Windsors to sit on the throne into the next century. Harry’s chances of inheriting the throne are not much better than mine. I’m supposedly descended from Alfred the Great. I’m not sure that qualifies me under the Act of Succession (1701).

Yeah, Boris and Nicola get along just great! Can’t you see the warmth there?

Clearly, the issue is symbolic. The British Royal Family is one of the things that keeps the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland together, which is pretty funny when you look at how dysfunctional they are as a family. But the alternatives are worse. One shudders at the thought that the nation would have to look to Boris Johnson as their symbol of unity. The day that happens, Nicola Sturgeon will be able to take Scotland out of the Union with a spontaneous uprising. No, the Royals, particularly the much-revered queen, hold the country together.

A good royal like Charles II had at least 8 mistresses and 16 illegitimate children

Therefore, Harry and Meghan’s move is deeply disturbing. They are not behaving as royals should! The Realm is in danger! Winter is coming! People hunt for an explanation to assuage their fears. Clearly, it’s Meghan’s fault. Meghan really isn’t one of them anyhow. If only she hadn’t corrupted Harry with her dark sexual arts. (See, one can be misogynistic and racist at the same time.) Oh, why couldn’t Harry just go on being a scapegrace, bedding random women of loose morals like a good royal?

As for the unhappy couple, I have trouble sympathizing with their plight. None of this hogwash about “they should have known what they were getting into.” It is a boring job, and even demeaning to realize you’re doing work because of who Harry’s grandmother is, not really anything about yourself. Still, Harry and Meghan are famous, wealthy, and, apart from being royals, presumably happy with each other and their little family. That puts them in a better position that perhaps 99% of the world’s population.

And I doubt they can really escape from being royals. They can stop doing the ceremonial stuff, they can step into the background, but they are still royals, still celebrities. If Meghan tries to resume her career, she’ll be dogged by the eternal question of whether she’s getting a role because she’s a good actress or just a royal. And what Harry will do, who knows? The essential problem is that if they try to make a living as celebrities, they are really just relying on their position as royals, even though they are no longer doing the job. And while it’s a stupid job, being a royal, the British taxpayers want their money’s worth. Ultimately, they finance the royal family, because they could vote it out of existence and confiscate its every property.

Say what you want about his Presidency, but Jimmy Carter’s been a real humanitarian ever since. That makes him a real prince among men.

I do have a suggestion for Harry and Meghan. You really want to chuck your royal roles and be your own persons? You want to be valued for who you are and what you can do, not just which family you belong to? Spend 5 years helping Jimmy Carter build houses for Habitat for Humanity. Or something similar. Something that will show you actually doing good by your own efforts. I’m not saying this because I think you need to do some sort of penance for your wealth and privilege. No. I’m saying this because it is one way to get people to take you seriously. It’ll show that you’re trying to shuck being a celebrity, that you want to do real stuff. As much as anything could, it could help take you out of the limelight; after 600 pictures of Meghan looking decidedly unsexy and unstylish in paint-stained overalls, even the paparazzi will get tired.

I doubt you’ll follow my suggestion. Probably, you’ll try to make a go of it in comfortable jobs, where you are implicitly relying on your royal fame. Unlike your Uncle Wessex and his wife, you might succeed. And no one will be unhappy. Unless, late at night, you lay awake wondering if being a royal celebrity is all that you ever are or will be.

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