In Which Marshweather Isn't Such A Bad Place, After All

Lynde Falconer to Thomas Crowder

Dear Tom,

Well, I suppose I ought to be happy that it’s all over at last, and with so few casualties too. It makes one feel a bit let down, though, thinking so hard about the hostilities for so many weeks and finding in the end that the enemy we’d built into a monster was just a group of people like us. Sitting next to Prince Hugo at dinner and practicing with Marshweather’s men in the barracks makes me realize that they aren’t so bad after all – just men, doing what they’re told and getting through the day, and looking forward to going home.

Of course you can’t double the population of the castle by an influx of total strangers without some stories. Just yesterday, the princess and I went to the library for something and practically stumbled over a young soldier of Marshweather standing stock still in the middle of the room with tears running down his face. We had to ask him three times what the matter was before he finally stammered it out – it turned out he was newly betrothed and was looking for a piece of love poetry to copy out for his sweetheart. Any piece would do and he thought the library would be the place for it, but when he got there he was struck immobile by the sheer number of books and began to despair. He had never seen more than four books in one place before, and the task of finding a single piece of love poetry in the vast royal library seemed to take on the impossibility of looking through a sack of flour for a grain of sand. The princess found him a good one about the sweet sorrow of separation and copied it out with her own hand, after which he thanked her in a hurry and fled as though chased by wild animals. I suppose every irrational fear has to start somewhere, but we laughed very heartily about it afterwards.

Then there is Marshweather’s Captain, Beverly Smoot. Captain Smoot and Evan Archer liked one another on sight and looked like becoming the best of friends, but when on the third day Smoot discovered that Archer hated cats and Archer discovered that Smoot loved them, there was simply no further word said. I was in the archery field with them when it happened and there wasn’t even a quarrel – just a long horrified silence, at the end of which they turned simultaneously on their heels and stalked away in opposite directions. They go about cutting each other dead in the hallways with stony eyes, and must be seated at opposite ends of the room at all meals. I asked Archer whether he didn’t think it was a little silly considering the whole war part hadn’t bothered him, but he drew himself up and said “I don’t care about breaking bread with my country’s enemy once he shows himself honorable, but anyone who hobnobs with those hell beasts just can’t be trusted.”

My favorite story, though, is the young boy of Marshweather’s capital city who, after a wounding betrayal by an older brother in the matter of a missing basket of sweet cakes, set out in the way of such creatures to see the world by attaching himself furtively to the supply train. He managed to remain among them for four days through the cultivation of an almost miraculous manner of deep purpose, as though he were running an errand for a very important person, and obtained food and shelter in the various encampments by the simple expedient of demanding it as though he had a right to. Nobody thought to question him and he was in the seventh heaven of bliss until the morning of the battle, when he found himself surrounded by a rain of falling arrows and had the fright of his short life. In the rout, he managed to steal away into our kitchens where he employed the same technique and was successful with everyone but Tess, the cook, who found him out and marched him into the throne room by the ear. The king listened to the story, was treated to a performance of the technique, and bundled the boy back to Marshweather under armed escort. “If he stays, that young man will either be running this place in ten years or we will all be dead by his hand,” he said, wiping his brow. “Lucan can have him.”

So you see, they are just people like anyone, and I can tell you as a dark secret that I will rather miss them when they’ve gone. While I’m certainly not sorry we won the battle, I’m glad we didn’t hurt them too badly while we were about it. It’s very demoralizing to discover how human your enemies are!

Your loving,

Lynde

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King Lucan of Marshweather to King Davin of Bentlefay

Dear Davin,

Well, you beat us like a drum, you old sinner. Tell your Tina she’s worth any five of my generals and you’re lucky to have her.

Sorry it took me so long to write. Bleake’s been the one doing most of my writing ever since my wife died and now he’s gone mad I had a bit of trouble finding a pen. It’s hard to believe it’s been fifteen years, isn’t it? It was rather news to me what Bleake had been up to – the way he put it, Bentlefay’s been slavering for our throats this whole time and he was the only thing standing between us and conquest. He made it all sound so plausible, and I’m afraid I just hadn’t been taking much notice. I feel like an awful fool.

But that’s all over now. Between me and Hugo we ought to put up a decent show of running the place, and if we can’t it won’t be for lack of trying. I’ll get the treaties put together so you can get my army off your hands. And tell your man Rafe he’s entitled to a blood-price even if it beggars me. I don’t suppose I could come down and get Hugo once everything’s ready? I wouldn’t mind seeing you all again, and it’s awfully boring round here with everyone in Bentlefay.

Yours,
Lucan

P.S. I say, old man, a messenger just came in with some rotten news. Bleake seems to have gotten loose from the manor in the country where I’d put him and nobody seems to know where he is just now. I don’t imagine it will be all that hard to track him down since a madman stands out in a crowd whatever else he does, but I wanted to let you know in case you had any ideas. He left a note addressed to you and Tina which I hope isn’t too cringe-making.

L.M.R.

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Your Majesties,

Well, you have beaten me again, and poisoned Marshweather against me while you were at it. I may at least plume myself that it took the two of you. I hope it doesn’t take me twice as long to evolve an appropriate revenge – I would have thought you had caused me trouble enough.

You may think yourself in the ascendant, and so you are temporarily. But luck turns in this game of nations, as I am sure you have brains enough to know. Your alliances with the other Nine Kingdoms may protect you for now, but the world is larger than that, with opportunities for a man of my talents of which you could scarcely dream.

In short, I owe you a grudge, and that is the kind of debt I always repay. So look to your kingdom. It is a fair one, and though Marshweather lacked the fortitude to take it from you, I have no doubt I will find a nation that does not.

I bid you farewell for now, your majesties, but be assured – we will meet again.

Mortimer Bleake