“The Lyin’ King” Part Four
The Imperially Supreme Ruler of the Kingdom of Cappoccia and all of its Provinces, Territories, and Possessions had the bottom end of a chair stuck to his own personal bottom.The four legs of the ignoble object protruding into mid-air resembled a rack of underdeveloped antlers at half-mast. Hopping around the Royal Conference Room in such a unnatural fashion, the king appeared to be a pygmy reindeer walking backwards.
“What are you waiting for, Entgleisung–-Crispness? Do something!”
The chief advisor was in need of a little advice himself. The more intensely he studied the problem, the less he knew how to solve it.
The royal patience, however, was thinner than the gruel on your average Cappoccian breakfast table. “Any time there, Genius. We have to use the chamber pot.”
Meanwhile, out behind the arras in the vestibule, Tom was plagued by the demand for a quick decision: should he stay or should he go? No sooner had the imperative crossed his mind that an answer to his prayers appeared -–that is to say, reappeared--in the flesh; in any other circumstances Tom would have avoided the individual like the latest pestilence beginning to creep into the farthest corners of the continent, but at that moment he could have kissed the brute, for the guy was a human escape route, a walking alibi.
“Wha’ the–? Still here?”
“That’s right, Officer. I’ve been doing exactly what you told me to do!”
The guard stroked his scruffy beard and permitted the brief indication of a smug smile. “Why, so I did. You were commanded to stand right there.”
Tom nodded enthusiastically. “Yep. Let it not be said that Tobias Hofstedler“ --Whoops! This particular situation called for his real name! --“That Tom from Shipping and Receiving didn’t follow an order!” Then, adding the cushion of insurance, “And I’ll bet you’ll remember to jot this tidbit of information on your daily blotter tonight. I mean, just so no one can say that one of His Majesty’s guards is less than thorough.“
“Damn straight!” Tom’s former tormentor-turned-deliverer had begun to puff up with what he took to be recently-discovered evidence of the power which he’d always secretly believed he possessed. It tricked him into feel invincible. The guard peeked into the Royal Conference Room, then looked back at Tom. “I’m going to have to ask you to wait just a teeny bit longer.” With heavy, authoritative steps the guard began to march directly into the King’s private quarters.
Entgleisung was still coming up short (though not as short as the king himself.) “No doubt you are aware, Your Majesty, of how imprudent ‘twould be to have word of your sudden er, inconvenience, fly freely through the palace. And beyond.”
“You mean it will spread like wild flowers? ‘Bout time our name crossed the commoners’ lisps.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but ‘twould be undignified to be glimpsed in such a compromising position, hence my reluctance to summon the Royal Carpenter-“
“Go ahead, call ‘em! Get those incontinent shoemakers up here to underdo the damnage they’ve already gauzed us. Tell ‘em to bring their hammocks and wenches.”
The guard took notice that he’d been standing there unnoticed. He cleared his throat and clicked the heels of his well-shined clodhoppers. This made the King rear up, or as far up as he could, given the unusual circumstances (though even in a more normal state of affairs the top of his head wouldn’t come up to a average man’s waist.)
“Ah, one of our palace’s finest! “ The King, who liked to think he possessed the common touch, seized the opportunity to show that he could “relate” to the average Joe by segueing into his version of the vulgate. “How’s it goin’ there, uh –“ stretching his neck in order to read the badge –“Keefe?”
“At your service, Your Majesty. It’s ‘Keith’.” He bowed down as far as a human being could go without licking the floor.
“Well, that’s what we said, Keefe. You know us, of course, and that’s –“ he jerked a thumb Entgleisung’s way –“our expedient serpent.”
Keith nodded at the advisor, who in turn greeted him with a sideways glance punctuated with a sneer.
With considerable effort, the King swung an arm around the guard’s shoulder–a sight made all the more ridiculous with a chair hanging off the royal behind. “This is your lucky day,Keefe, old chap, old bean. How’s about helping your beloved ol’ Monarch out of a jam?”
“Oh, anything, Sire! Anything!”
“All’s you gotta do is remove this chair from our you -know -what.”
The guard slowly shook his head. “Gee, I don’t know, Sire.”
Entgleisung’s face brightened– which is to say, brightened as much as a dank cellar would if somebody lit a match. “What are you saying, you sniveling weakling? That you’re not up to the task?
“It’s not that.” To prove his point, Keith flexed his left biceps a mere couple of centimeters in front of Entgleisung’s nose. “This isn’t exactly the bailiwick of law enforcement. His Majesty might be better served by the Royal Carpenters in this particular case. I’m just sayin’.” What he wasn’t saying was that, despite his gruff presence, the guard was intimidated by the tacitly stringent territorial rules of both guilds.
The King wasn’t having any part of the excuse. “Why would you hand over your chance to shine to a bunch of hammock swingers, huh? Rescue us, and your grating king will reward you handsomely,” he lied.
Tom, still awake and waiting behind the arras, had to laugh. A “handsome” reward? He’d never heard of the king bestowing any kind of reward, not even one with a nice personality.
“If you’re going to do it, hurry up. His Majesty needs to answer the Call of Nat–“
The King shook his head. It was Too Late.
The guard shrugged his shoulders, popped off a couple of stretching exercises, and gripped both royal arms. One quick pull succeeded in lifting the King and the chair off the floor. Keith pulled again, but still the chair hung on, like a party-goer refusing to go home until the last drop of liquor was gone.
Keith pulled his mighty sword out of its sheath. He bent the king-and-chair over with little more deference than he would show a palace urchin caught in the act of picking some courtier’s pocket. He held one of the chair legs with one hand, and with the other tried to saw away with his sword. The action produced a strange sound-- Arrupa-arrupa! –but little else. The integrity of the Danish (maybe Norwegian) wood did not permit as much as a scratch.
The lack of progress filled Entgleisung with secret delight. “Ho, ho– looks like your sword needs sharpening– - just like your wits!” he said.
By now Officer Keith was getting angry. He was about to blow a golden opportunity to ingratiate himself with the king. His apparent inability to become an instant hero irked him as much as the insults of the condescending advisor. Looking around the chamber for another makeshift tool, he noticed a life-sized object in the corner: a full set of armor, gleaming from the metallic elongated toes all the way up to the helmet, whose top and facial mask both terminated into a tapered tip. The latter resembled the beak of a bird, though no creature in Creation could boast a snout so thinly-pointed as that of the knight who would wear this get-up (hypothetically speaking, of course: you could fit three, maybe four, Brots inside.) The outfit looked just like one of those props in a so-called “haunted house,” which audiences in theatres hundreds of years into the future would regard only as set decorations. At this particular moment, though, here in Cappoccia, the suit of armor was neither an antique nor a relic from the distant past but a contemporary unit of military apparel. In fact, it had been hanging in the corner only for a couple of days, ever since Tom had returned it from the cleaners.
But the operative feature of the standing object was not the suit of armor itself but what it seemed to clutch in its handless metal glove. It “held” (so to speak) a battle ax whose business end was massive enough to crush a boulder yet whose finely-honed edge could slice a strand of gossamer. Once Keith released this formidable weapon from the steely clench, the whole kaboodle–-arms, torso, head, legs–-shimmied and began its systematic descent to the floor; the clanging crescendo reverberated throughout the palace, finally ending with an accusatory silence. “Whoops!” Tom remarked.
Looking as if he had just slain a unicorn, Keith stared at the pile of scrap metal interfering with the aesthetic integrity of the marble floor. For thirty seconds or so he waited for the inevitable repercussion–a reprimand (or worse.) As soon as he was relatively confident that he had escaped immediate punishment, he picked up the handle of the battle ax. Once more he bent the King over, and raised the ax over the royal back. Then, with little fanfare, he started hacking away.
“Great Saints in Heaven!” Tom gasped. Had anyone on earth ever witnessed anything so preternaturally rare, so oddly unprecedented, so rip-roaringly hilarious? With all his might Tom wished he had a magic mechanism by which he could preserve the view forever! No painter, not even a quick-draw artist, could recapitulate such a scene. If only the French had come up with the camera obscura in Tom’s era instead of centuries later! But leave it to the French –they had the Gaul to keep the rest of the world waiting.
Meanwhile Entgleisung had kept his eyes firmly shut behind his two bony palms with which he covered his face. There was nothing he could do to shut out the noise–a series of sorties consisting of a sharp whoosh followed by the thud of impact, which would sound harsh to even the most jaded of ears. The King’s lids as well were tightly clamped, and the rest of the Royal Personage was too petrified to move, except at the conclusion of each successive thud, when he’d flinch, as if he were a child reacting to each slap of a spanking.
A little while later the guard had completed the task, and –- mirabile dictu -- the King was free. All that was left of the once-and-never throne was a small pile of Scandinavian wood, along with a mashed-up clump of fine Corinthian leather, discarded on the floor next to the heap of the broken knight-suit. The emergency was all over except for the smarting–with the King rubbing his injured parts and dignity. Still remaining was a little matter of the reward --
Not daring to mention it, but at the same time wanting what was due him, Keith cleared his throat and clicked his heels again. At last the king made a kind of acknowledgment. “Oh yeah. Thanks, Keefe. You’re Swissmissed.”
Entgleisung felt the urge to run interference and stepped in. “I beg Your Majesty’s pardon, but please allow a reminder of a previous promise—“
“Huh?”
“The previously-agreed-upon recompense for Officer Keith here–“ With that, the chief advisor furiously winked.
“What’s the matter with you, Entgleisung– you got one of those whachamacallits– a trick?”
With that, Entgleisung slunk behind the guard. He furiously waved his arms and shook his head, as if he were playing a pantomime game. Finally, he took his index finger and ran it across his own throat, from which emerged a guttural sound so clear that Tom could hear it out in the hall.
“Oh, we get you. A ‘reward’!” This time the King himself winked, except the royal version didn’t resemble a tic so much as a full-scale convulsion.
Immediately Entgleisung grabbed a quill and jotted something down. “Bring this down to the boys in the building out behind the South Stable and they’ll take care of you.” He folded the paper, but when Keith stuck out his hand, Entgleisung pulled it back. “On second thought–“ He unfolded the paper, scratched something out, and wrote something else down before re-folding it. “Just show up there at nightfall and tell them who you are. They’ll know what to do.”
With that, Officer Keith took a quick bow and took his leave, never to be seen again (supposedly.) On his way to – - who knows where?– - the guard passed by Tom.
“Are they ready for me yet?”
“Not yet!” Visions of riches and a glorious reputation danced in Officer Keith’s head. What did he care what some castle lackey did?
Entgleisung, meanwhile, stood in the vestibule and clapped his hands. Within seconds, a cute little chambermaid appeared.
“What now?” she said. “I don’t do windows, and I ain’t touchin’ that grimy old tap’stry till next spring!”
The man in black raised his hand as if to slap her. Instead he thrust the paper into her hand and told her where to go and what to do with it.
“I ain’t going down there!”
“Yes, you will, if you know what’s good for you, you good-for-nothing trollop!” With that, he slapped her for real, giving her a swift kick in the butt for good measure.
She waited until the black robe was out of sight before she sat down on the top step and started to cry. In such relative safety, Tom stepped out from behind the arras.
“Hi, Astrid.”
“Oh-- hi, Tom,” she sniffed. “Did you hear where that tall drink of poison wants me to go? I can’t go down there! You know what they say to me, those monsters down there? You know what they try to do to me?”
“I know, I know. Listen, I can tote that slip down there for you. I mean, I’m headed there anyway and–“
“You sure? It’s no trouble. Oh, Tom, you’re a doll!”
“Hey, don’t mention it.”
With her natural cheerfulness restored, the chambermaid went on her way. Tom had no intention of going anywhere– - at least not at the moment. His cheery nature also had revived, now that he had human “insurance “– - and a written insurance policy on the insurance in his pocket.
Because of the length of this particular chapter, it doesn't have footnotes-- unless you think I should have included a YouTube link to "Should I Stay Or Should I Go?" by The Clash.
Nah.
TO BE CONTINUED--
(Let's see if the next chapter has Tom finally emerging from behind the cockamamie arras!)
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the only real criticism I have of this bit is the exposition of the pre lunchtime smells. The mere mention of them was so evocative it transported me first to school and then through various insitiutions, up to and including several warships I served on. However, by the time I reached this point in my reverie, I was conscious that the recollection had been transformed into one of boiled cabbage and sweat, particularly on arriving at the bottom of the hatch ladder on HMS Oberon, (I think) definietly an O class, Diesel powered submarine anyway. 
