Vermin? You sure?
~~~
Chapter Fourteen
It was easier not to dwell on the problem indoors. Most of the rooms were so hot and stuffy it put the occupants into a soporific trance. It was high summer, but fires blazed in every grate and, Tagg had noticed, Prince Poynt was still wearing a thick velvet robe on top of his ermine coat (and his thick layer of body fat). Yet the stoat still shivered noticeably.
"What is that idiot thinking?" Tagg muttered to Nimbalo as they staggered sleepily through the roasting heat of the throne room. "He'll get heatstroke if he goes on like this!" He was careful to say it very quietly. He had worked out that Poynt was stupid as soon as he met him, but he also gathered that the prince would not hesitate to throw them in the dungeons at the slightest provocation.
"I . . . dunno," Nimbalo managed to say through a yawn. "Mebbe he catches colds really easy?"
"I'd rather have the colds."
"Hey! You, circus otter!"
Tagg turned to see the weasel jester Pompom, still cuddling the remains of his mouse-bladder-on-a-stick. Pompom's lip curled contemptuously. He's jealous, thought Nimbalo.
"What do you want?"
"The sheriff wishes to see you both. He's by the north wall. Don't know why he wants to see a pair of clowns, but he seemed very insistent." Pompom turned on his heel and strutted off. Tagg looked at Nimbalo and shrugged.
"S'pose we'd better go, then."
~~~
The actual fighting had slowed down a lot by now. The rats seemed to have withdrawn far enough to be out of range, where they could hold Castle Rayn under siege.
Sheriff Falshed turned to see the otter and his strange little friend.
"You carry a blade, do you not?" he barked at Tagg, looking at both beasts as if they had just crawled out from under a rock. The incident with Sylver's band was still fresh in his mind.
"That's true. Why do you want to know?"
"Have you ever used it, or is it just for your circus act?"
"I have fought with it, yes."
"Do you have any experience in warfare?"
"Not really, I've only ever been involved in single combat. I'm a quick learner, though. Why? Do you want us to fight for you, is that it?"
Falshed sighed. He needed every fighter he could get. If that meant involving this, this. . . barbarian, so be it.
"No, I want you to use that knife as a roasting spit. Yes, fool, we want you to fight for us. I wouldn't ask otherwise." Nimbalo winced at the mention of roasting. Luckily Falshed didn't notice.
"Do you know anything of tactics and strategy, or does your expertise extend no further than knowing which end of a sword to stab things with?" Tagg resisted the urge to say something extremely nasty to the stoat.
"I know nothing about defending a castle, I've lived in the woodlands all my life. As far as I can remember," he amended, thinking of the strange redstone building which haunted his dreams. If he had lived in this building at any time, he had been too young to recall anything about it now.
"We're good at spying," piped up Nimbalo. Tagg looked at him in surprise. Nimbalo surreptitiously nudged his friend, as a sign not to say anything. Falshed raised an eyebrow.
"Really?"
"Ho, yes," Nimbalo said proudly. "We can sneak through the rat camps quicker'n you can say knife and be back wid vital information. Just you say the word, Sheriff."
"I shall speak to the prince," said the stoat in question coldly. "You may leave."
Once out of earshot of the sheriff, Tagg looked incredulously at Nimbalo.
"What on earth was all that about?"
"A win-win situation, ole chum," the mouse informed him. "We get out of here, and he gets rid of us."
"Good idea, Nimbalo," Tagg agreed.
"Yeah, well . . . better use my brain while I still got it, right?" The mouse laughed nervously.
"Don't say that! We'll get you better. I promise we will. Somehow."
~~~
~~~
Questions? Comments? Email me at wordsmith101NOSPAM@btopenworld.com (don't forget to delete the NOSPAM first).