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*****

I unburdened myself the next day to Sergeant Wing, who had managed to get me out of class for an hour. The sparrow listened to me in silence, slowly nodding.

"Aye, lad, it's a rum 'do to find out wot yer got in th' Hall, but look here," and he leaned forward, cocking his head, "things bein' 'ow they are, family an' all gone, it's all fer th' best. Had t'see it fer yerself, no sense in me telling you, or even 'im." He jerked a few feathers at the thick door, behind which the Marshal was engaged in whatever mysterious enterprise he was involved in.

"But the ballad, Sergeant. I've never heard that before, and I'd like to think I'm pretty good about the songs of my own home."

"Well, lad, it's not as many outside th' Army know it. Yer grandfer, 'ee was an NCO, an' most of th' songs y'see furs sing are 'bout th' princes an' the generals an' such." He spread his wings. "It's th' justice o' th' world. I s'pose those songs o' battles aren't what furs want these days, fer good or ill, dunno. Many furs sleep better in their nests, 'cause o' th' likes of you an' me, lad."

"I only heard part of the song when the Docent sang it. What did my grandfather do?"

The Sergeant got up from his seat and fluttered over to a cluttered scroll-case. From one of the little square shelves, after some looking, he produced a thick document.

Going over to a long table (and sweeping a number of papers and the remnants of his lunch from it), he unfurled the scroll, eventually finding a detailed map of a narrow defile, in what was today a dependent Grand Duchy bordering a distant part of Faerie.

The Dareths were a rival claimant for the little realm, and the head of the clan had hired a vast mercenary army to seize control and entrench themselves, before the armies of the High King could intervene. Unfortunately for the Dareths, the High King, King Adler's father, had suspected that the coup was coming, based on spies reporting the recruiting efforts. The nearest unit to paw was the Elfhame Rangers, but at that, only part of the regiment was close to the border.

The commander ordered my grandfather and some picked furs to scout and observe. They numbered no more than sixty, but they were some of the best archers and halberdiers the Rangers had, and that was a good standard, indeed.

The Sergeant pointed to the defile. It marked one of the highest points in the Grand Duchy, and not only commanded the east-west route that ran through it, but a key crossroads just behind it, and a spring at the summit. A forced march brought my grandfather's forces to the spot. From that point, Sgt. Winterbough could see the mercenaries more than a days' march away, down in a valley. Using stones, shovels and axes, the Rangers cleared and measured fields of fire, and dug fortified firing pits.

When the first Dareth wave came through, they were not expecting an ambush, but got one, sending the vanguard reeling back hundreds of yards. The unit sent off the few feral carrier pigeons it had, and awaited the renewal of the attacks.

The ballad was supposedly written by a fur that had spoken to a number of the survivors of the battle; they may have even read the official report. In any event, the four subsequent attacks that came were each larger than the last, but because the Rangers were dug in and picked their shots, each of the attacks failed, even when the Dareths brought up heavy catapults.

By this time, the entire mercenary force was engaged, some thousands of archers and men-at-arms, and even battle ants. The Rangers' position couldn't be flanked because of the steepness and narrowness of the defile, and because Winterbough had selected the highest point, they couldn't be taken from above, either.

The taunt about the barley, while it might have been bluff on my grandfather's part, was apparently true.

In any event, the Rangers held off those five attacks for more than two days, until their brother Rangers, along with other reinforcements (commanded by the Marshal, then a much younger officer), relieved them and crushed the surviving attacker in a battle of pursuit.

There wasn't a fur among the sixty Rangers who was not either dead or wounded, but the dead on the other side numbered many times that, not to mention wrecked and abandoned equipment, supplies and loot. It was, in the end, a strategic victory that ensured the Grand Duchy would be allies of the High King, which they were to the day Sergeant Wing was relating this to me.

"An' that's 'ow yer grandfather got his Valor Medal, lad. Not many NCOs wot 'ad one of them on 'is chest. Pinned by 'im [he indicated the Marshal behind his door, again] 'iself in the Royal Garden, 'ere in Albric." He chuckled. "Right place fer a deer, I reckon."

He patted me on the shoulder. "Now, lad, don't let it get you down. Yer grandfer was a Army buck, through an' through, but 'ee was also fond of 'is family. It'd've made 'is chest swell out, if 'ee saw you 'ere. An' goin' through Gramerye Drill, too. He said t'me a few times, 'ee says 'Angus, if I 'ad th' brains t'learn Gramerye, there'd be no stoppin' me lads until we meets th' sea.' So buck up, lad, pardon th' expression. Yeh don't need t'be th' image o' yer grandfer to do all right. Just remember th' Rangers' motto, and 'ee'd be 'appy. Right?"

"To the last arrow, Sergeant."

"That's the spirit, lad. Now you stick at yer scrolls, an' you looks after yer officer good an' proper. Off y'go, then. I'll tell th'Marshal ye've 'ad yer military 'istory lesson."

I was not, it developed, the only fur with weighty family history on his mind. When I got home after classes, Lieutenant Chitterleigh was brooding over two envelopes he held in his paw, one opened, the other not.

"Private, you had better make sure my dress uniform is sponged and pressed for two nights from tonight."

"Another 'do at the cavalry barracks, sir?"

"Don't I wish, Winterbough. No. And you'd better make sure your "A" uniform is looking sharp. You're invited, too."

"Me, sir? And who's inviting me? And where?"

I was handed the envelope, and upon opening it, I found that the company of Pte. Westersloe Winterbough was requested at a reception for the ladies of Stoneford, to be held at The Pines, Lake Moonshard. Formal dress or mess dress required. The invitations were proffered by Lord and Lady Twelveoaks, i.e., the Lieutenant's father.

"But why would I be invited, sir? That doesn't make sense. I mean, seeing as you're a son, and all that..."

"Thanks awfully, Private."

"But why me? I'm not part of your family. I'm just a private."

The Lieutenant tossed an apple distractedly up and down. "If I know my father, it's quite likely to be something very ugly. I mean, take this "Stoneford."

"Where in Faerie is that, sir?"

"It isn't."

"Sorry, sir?"

"It's not in Faerie, Private. It's in Lowfolk country."

I admit my jaw swung open. "Your father is inviting Lowfolk. Here? In Faerie?"

"Not just Faerie, mark you, but right smack in the royal capital. At least there's some element of subtlety about it. They're holding this party at my father's official house, the one he has as Minister. Well, it's just outside the city, so it's not as if he's parading this in front of the Royal Castle. The Pines is used for entertaining guests, so it has all the facilities you'd expect for that, including a Minstrel's Gallery and the like."

I looked at the invitation in my paw, and then at the Lieutenant again, dubiously.

"I'm sorry, Private, but I've already indicated you're going to be in attendance. I'd say 'happy to attend,' but that would be courting an Article Four. In any event, Winterbough, I'm awfully sorry, but hopefully you'll come out of this all right."

"But no promises of that?"

"Knowing my father, that wouldn't be wise."

Lake Moonshard was, at least, poetically named and on the night in question, lived up to its name. The house, which was made from thin, sliding panels of translucent material, also caught the moonlight, not to mention the night breezes. Combined with the lamps in the trees, it made for a festive air. One, it is to be admitted, not shared by either the Lieutenant or myself as we rode in our tumbril, sorry, carriage, to the front entrance, to be greeted by a flunkey. And a Red Cap. The bull leaned down at me, suspiciously.

"Where, is, yer, in, vit, ation?" He did not seem to be able to get much more than one syllable out at a time.

"Where, is, yer, neck?"

The bull's eyebrow furrowed. "Oooooer, we, 'ave, 'ere, a, funny, boy, eh? I've, got, me, eye, on, YEW, lad."

The Lieutenant steered me away before I could bandy any more words with the flathoof. I was released only when we reached the expansive garden behind the house.

To a large extent, it looked like a Chitterleigh family reunion, as nearly all of the guests were squirrels, in various forms of formal dress. I recognized the Lieutenant's father, standing next to a tall, slender femme that did indeed look like my officer and was without question his mother. She was greeting each guest with polite, if restrained, formality, while Lord Twelveoaks pumped the paw of every gentlefur and kissed the paw of every femmefur.

There were a scattering of other elves there, ones whose names and faces I didn't recognize, of course, but the Lieutenant did, and his face got grimmer and grimmer for some reason.

I was introduced to Lord Tweleveoaks (even if I'd met him before), and he greeted me silkily. He introduced me to Lady Twelveoaks as "that ideal specimen I was telling you about." A brief twitch passed across her face, before she welcomed me, and indicated where the refreshments table was.

Had you set out the spread at a FAFI, it would have been a cinch that there would be nothing left in a few seconds flat. I wondered who had paid for the quantities of cream pastries, hors d'oeuvres and fancy wines that were on display. There was even a small oven baking thin waybread, ready to be topped with sweet and savoury fillings. I had an ugly suspicion that the peasants of Faerie were footing this bill, and resolved to steer well clear of it. In any event, the Red Cap, who had now stationed himself in a strategic spot, was glaring at me, daring me to take even so much as a creampuff. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.

I slinked off to a corner of the garden. I pondered the use of Gramerye to make sure that the guests could not see me, but decided that since the host and hostess had already noted my appearance, my disappearance would be equally noted, and might get my officer in trouble.

Two gentlefurs who seemed to be in Lord Tweleveoaks' Ministry approached me as I was lurking near a bush, and began to eye me up close. There was some tut-tutting about my height, and the fact that my rack was not perfectly symmetrical, and other such comments that increasingly made me feel that a smack on their waybread-holes would at least have the benefit of demonstrating my physical strength.

One of them brought out a tape measure, and was about to measure around my hip, an action that was putting him in great peril of getting a hoof somewhere unpleasant, when the hostess intervened and noted that the Minister wanted a word with them. They promised to be back. I flashed the traditional archer's sign at their back, forgetting for the moment that Lady Twelveoaks was there.

Her only comment was that I was a very patient buck.

Some minutes later, after the guests had had a few rounds at the buffet table, there was a ripple of applause, even from the Red Cap. The Guests of Honour had arrived.

There were seven of them. I found to my consternation that while five of them were squirrels, two of them were roedeer does.

The squirrels themselves, all femmes of course, were each dressed in what I presume was the prevailing Lowfolk fashion of gowns, with a somewhat odd, pointed hat from which a veil trailed, but only at the top. They formed quite an assortment.

Number One was by far the largest of the group, and can best be described as an attempt to pour a quart of squirrel femme into a pint of dress. Not that any of it seemed to be fat. She seemed more qualified to be a Red Cap than the bull was, and probably would have struck more fear into most squaddies than he would have.

I described Number Two later to Bagoum, who described her without a trace of irony as "mutton dressed as lamb." There was certainly a game attempt, and a partially successful one, to recapture past glories.

Number Three, it is to be admitted, was of a type that would make the average squaddie march straight into a tree. She filled her gown very nicely indeed, and in all the right places. The only problem was her face, which contained a perpetually open mouth and a look of only dim comprehension. It may have been that she was awed by the magic of the setting. I doubt it, though. Dumb as two hods of bricks was the more obvious answer.

Number Four was having some difficulty taking in the magic of the setting, as she was seeing the world through a perpetual squint. She hung her wrap on one of the Red Cap's horns, which certainly endeared her to me (if not to him).

Number Five was dressed entirely in black, which was flattering on her figure, but there was a look in her eye that gave one definite pause. How, precisely, she came by the status of a femme wearing black left the imagination cold and shivering. The fact that she was fiddling with a ring on her finger didn't give one a great deal of confidence.

The two roe does, it appeared, were of a lower station, probably peasants. They were dressed in some sort of national costume, and immediately made for the spirits section of the buffet table, where they proceeded to refresh themselves.

Each of the honoured guests was encouraged to circulate. In the case of the does, this was done by the Red Cap grabbing each by an elbow and half-shoving them toward the crowd. (The squirrel femmes, being ladies, required more gentle assistance.)

The two does had little difficulty in spotting me, as I was the only antler-wearer among the partygoers. It took a great deal of skillful circulation to avoid bumping into one or the other of them, and they had enough of a line of sight on me, and vice versa, that gave me no comfort as to what would happen if they managed to corner me.

Lord Tweleveoaks, the sadistic bastard, spotted my efforts, and immediately cleared a portion of the garden. He had the orchestra strike up a merry polka, and invited the guests to choose a partner. I got the fatter of the two does, while the Lieutenant got Number Three, the Vacant Attic.

The less said about those five dances, the better. The Lieutenant got to dance with each of the Five, while I had to dance twice with the pair. I at least got to sit out one, in an attempt to ease the pain in my stepped-upon hooves.

With much applause (and some mild cheering), the dances came to an end, and the speechifying began. Lord Twelveoaks held up both of his paws, and greeted not only his friends, but the Honoured Guests. He was Delighted to see such a Wonderful Gathering, and felt that the Ties of Friendship between the Lowfolk and Faerie could only be Improved by Shared Company. (The fact that he used the term "Lowfolk" seemed to fly past the ears of the Honoured Guests.)

After the applause died down, the Minister placed his paws on the lapels of his gown, and launched into a speech about the importance of the ties between the Low Country and Faerie, indicating that Faerie had much to offer in the way of knowledge to their partners with whom, after all, they shared a greater realm. Likewise, the Low Country had much to offer Faerie, in that they possessed a spirit and vigour that portended Freshness and Vitality. He pointed to the Honoured Guests as exemplars of such a concept.

Number One, her plate piled high with assorted edibles, could not applaud, but expressed her agreement with a full mouth. Number Five and Number Two were eyeing each other with forced smiles and twitching paws. Number Four and Number Three were blinking at each other, for different reasons.

I didn't know where the does were, and that worried me.

Lord Twelveoaks then introduced the Lieutenant, to much applause, and praised not only his family spirit, but also his patriotism and loyalty to Faerie. As a younger son, he himself possessed within him the best of the vitality of the realm, making him an ideal candidate to be in the vanguard of efforts to ensure the continued greatness and strength of Elf-dom. This was met with stirring applause, with the exception of the Lieutenant, who was assumed to be modest, and Lady Twelveoaks, who was assumed to be giving the floor to her mate.

The Minister once again stilled the applause with upraised paws, and noted that the efforts to develop the experimental project had been hampered by the lack of suitable candidates. However, he was pleased to announce that another third son had been found, one that he was Confident would prove to be equally Public-Spirited. I soon found myself the target of a ripple of applause.

The Minister then expressed the hope that the evening would see a suitable demonstration by me, the Private, of my qualifications. He expressed the hope that I would be able to demonstrate that level of vigour one expected from a younger son of Faerie.

I translated this in my mind, and now reached a conclusion why, precisely, they had a Red Cap here. Not for the preservation of order, but more for the enforcement of orders.

I took one step forward, and was about to tell His Lordship where he could put his expectations, when there was a storm of bad language, which, surprisingly, was not coming from me.

It came from the two does. The expletives were directed at each other, in tandem with some flying fists. Some of the insults being directed were, in the context of the Minister's planned programme of events for the evening, ironic. In any event, there was a spirited demonstration of Lowfolk vigour going on, complete with headfur pulling and tearing at of the aforementioned national costumes.

One wild swing connected with the substantial plate being borne by Number One, which sent assorted comestibles flying in many directions, including that of Number Two and Number Five (the Elder Sisters). Number One began to retaliate against my fellow cervines for spoiling her meal, while Number Two and Number Five immediately began to engage in a shoving match, with much hissing and chittering.

Number Two (Mutton-as-Lamb) gave a hard shove, which sent Numbers Four and Five spinning against the buffet. This, in a sense, was a tactical error, as it now afforded that duo a ready supply of ammunition to use against Number Two, of which they availed themselves.

Alas, their aim was off, Number Four (the slightly vision-impaired femme) taking a large pawful of cremepuffs and flinging them at what she thought was Number Two, but turned out to be another squirrel femme previously not engaged in hostilities. As no femmefur will take kindly to having an evening gown spattered with cremepuffs, there was an addition to the combatants. Her aim was not to Army standards as well, as there began to be an inflow of enraged femmefurs and their consorts.

The Red Cap, somewhat late, began to intervene to restore order. His efforts were cut short by a spirited roundhouse left from Big Number One, which sent him crashing into the table with the wine bottles. A number of gentlefurs who did not appreciate white wine being mixed with red began to wade in against not only the combatants, but against each other.

In short order, the garden was host to a variety of flying plates, musical instruments, fists, assorted foodstuffs, and the occasional piece of garden furniture. Somehow, in the midst of it all, Number Three stood erect and smiling. Ignorance truly was bliss, until a heavily falling body put the integrity of her gown at risk.

For my part, I found a handy tree that overlooked the garden wall, to find that it was already occupied, by both my officer and Lady Tweleveoaks. The three of us turned to find that hostilities had moved indoors, and the thin, translucent material that I spoke of earlier turned out to be not strong enough to resist the force of flying fists, feet and assorted implements.

The Lieutenant's mother chittered in an undertone of annoyance. "Lowfolk vigour, fiddlesticks. Another one of your father's idiotic schemes, Jasper."

"Mother, may Private Winterbough and I be excused?"

"Yes, Jasper, you may. I don't think your father will be speaking to you for a few days."

"Why, is he angry?"

"No, he's unconscious. Someone just hit him over the head with a wine bottle. You had best leave before the Constabulary arrives. Don't worry, someone will hush this up."

The Lieutenant and I managed to hitch a ride on one of the caterer's wagons, as it headed back to Albric Tor. Just as we were leaving the driveway, a portion of the The Pines, assisted by the weight of a number of furs, toppled into a shallow part of Lake Moonshard.

Chitterleigh sat on a wedge of cheese, his chin in his paw. He eventually turned, and pointed a finger of his other paw at me.

"Winterbough, this is why the Marshal always says Army officers should stay out of politics."