3.
Two hours later, Yerzle approached a stout door in a nondescript, although extensive, building within the north-western portion of the Royal Lands. He had neglected to get directions to Bureau 13 from the clerk in Annex Three, and by the time he realized his mistake, after scaling the collapsed stairwell and wading through the apple cores, fish carcasses, and corn cobs again, he’d been reluctant to return and ask. The first functionary he’d come across in Annex One first directed him to Annex Three, and then to the First Sergeant of the Hunt, so after that he had refrained from asking any more questions.
Exiting the Annexes he had bumped into one of the lake monster keepers and that had gone as well as expected, but he managed to ditch his pursuer by running through the carnivorous garden, and was pretty sure his fur would grow back in those patches, in any event. Still, he figured he had to be more careful. “I don’t want to screw anything up,” he told himself. Soon after that, he saw one of the Royal Lands’ maintenance workers. Knowing that the janitors and physical plant workers knew every square inch of the place, he approached the older man. “Excuse me,” he said, “where is Bureau 13?”
“What’s that?” the skunk in coveralls asked. “You’re looking for a blue tureen? What kind of assignment is that for a Huntsman?”
“No, I need to get to Bureau 13!”
The maintenance man scratched his chin in confusion. “You feed the ghetto beauty queen?”
“No!” Yerzle shouted. “Bureau 13! Where is it?”
“Bureau 13?” the skunk asked. “Why would you want to go there?”
“I have orders,” Yerzle said. “It’s my new assignment.”
“You crave porridge?” The old man frowned at him. “That don’t make no sense.”
A grinding, choked snarl was Yezle’s only response, and he waved his order packet in the janitor’s face, an order packet which he had, in his frustration, crumpled in his clenched fist. “Ah,” the old man said, “you have orders. Why didn’t you say so?”
That was how Yerzle now found himself before this door, built of ironwood and further bound in iron, “B13” burned into the surface in hand-high letters. It opened out from the room in which he stood, with a simple latch. Yerzle stood before it for a long moment, not daring to reach for the handle. This was his last chance, his final opportunity to be a real member of the King’s Huntsmen, to live up to his family’s legacy. Taking a final deep breath, he gripped the door latch, pushed it open, and strode through.
He found himself out upon the street.
He spun around, only to watch the door close with a final click. “Hey!” he shouted. There was no latch on this side of the door. For a moment, he stood staring, stunned, at the closed door. What had happened? Where was Bureau 13?
He turned back around, facing the street. No one seemed to notice him; the commercial life of Pervis Gap, capital city of The Greensward, continued on. Across the street was the Harp & Bass, a pub that Yerzle had spent many an evening in over the past eighteen months with his Huntsmen comrades. He’d often wondered about this blank door. Now he knew what it was.
That still didn’t explain what was going on, though. He looked at the crumpled order packet that he still held. The seal had been broken, and the top fold was separated from the bottom. Reluctantly, the dread reality of the situation creeping upon him, Yerzle opened his orders and read them.
Huntsman Yerzle Morosta, the orders read. Greetings from his most Royal Majesty, King Leonest VI. It is our duty to ensure that we retain servitors capable of managing and maintaining all Royal Lands within our domain to the highest quality. According to the most recent metrics recorded and submitted by your supervisor, you have not met the minimum thresholds to achieve those standards. Therefore, it is our duty to inform you that your services are no longer required by Our Huntsmen. At this, Yerzle gasped audibly.
There is no need to gasp, the orders continued, since everything is clearly documented in your personnel file. Four Action Notices in eighteen months? Really? And that poor lake monster! Yerzle frowned. “He didn’t need to editorialize so much,” he mumbled.
Based upon these performance reports, your employment with Our Huntsmen is hereby terminated. We wish you success in your subsequent employment opportunities. The king’s signature, applied by stamp, was smeared since the clerk in Annex Three had failed to blot it properly.
“‘No longer required’?” Yerzle muttered. “Fired?” He felt three generations of King’s Huntsmen within his family reading his termination notice over his shoulder. He imagined that they were not pleased.
What to do now? The salary of an entry-level Huntsman had not been enough to get his own place, so Yerzle would eventually be forced to reveal this to his parents. On the other hand, if he could find new employment before returning home, then perhaps the consequences of his termination would be more manageable.
“But what?” he asked himself aloud, and began to walk down the street. “What employment could a young man moderately trained in the combat arts, tracking, and decision-making find in this economy?”
Before he could formulate a suitable answer for himself, he was barged in the back by a passer-by, causing him to stumble to the street. “Outta the way, chump!” a deep voice behind him called out.
“Hey!” Yerzle shouted as he climbed to his feet. “What do you think you’re doing?” His apparent assailant was a large fellow, to match his voice, with a high-peaked hat and flowing crimson cape that reached nearly to the ground.
“Walking down the street, chump,” the other man said, continuing on his way.
“And who are you, that you can just push people out of the way? You can’t do that to a King’s Huntsman!”
The man stopped and turned, and Yerzle now faced a tiger in impressive scale armor, the tabard covering his mail emblazoned with a crossed shovel and sword, topped by a small strongbox. He wore a broadsword with an elaborate pommel at his left hip, and a knife with a well-worn handle tucked into his belt. The tiger eyed him critically, then pushed his hat back on his head. “You wear the livery,” he said with a grin, “but if you’re a Huntsman, what are you doing standing outside the door to Bureau 13? How many Action Notices did you get? Four? It usually takes at least four.”
“Never mind that!” Yerzle said with a growl, standing on his tiptoes in a failed attempt to look the tiger straight in the eyes. “Where do you get off knocking people down?”
The tiger seemed more amused than threatened. “Ease up, chump,” he said. “I have places to go, and people to see. While you, on the other hand, are obviously unemployed and will soon be lying in the gutter, anyway. I was just giving you a head-start.”
“Who’re you calling a chump, chump?” Yerzle took a step back. “You still don’t have any right--”
“My money gives me the right,” the tiger said, cutting Yerzle off. “The money that just bought me my new peerage. You, chump, are speaking to the Seigneur Hiram Shellain, Gentleman Adventurer!”
“‘Gentleman Adventurer,’” Yerzle asked, adding the capital letters as obviously intended by the Seigneur’s pronunciation. “What does that mean?”
“It means that I am a gentleman, who has adventures! Through the fruits of which I am able to maintain my lifestyle as a gentleman to adventure, instead of laboring in the lake monster pens, like a chump such as yourself!”
Yerzle cringed at the mention of the lake monster. He was sure there’d been no permanent physical or psychological harm done to the beast. Pretty sure, anyway. Still, he was beginning to understand the Seigneur. “You’re a tomb-robber,” he said.
“Look, kid,” the Seigneur said. He leaned in and wrapped a gauntleted arm around Yerzle’s shoulder. The scale armor was cold and heavy against the back of his neck. “We prefer to call it the treasure acquisition industry, and it can be very lucrative. Don’t knock it.” He gave Yerzle a comradely slap upon the back, which caused the fox to stumble forward, then resumed his travels. “I’ve got to get to my accountant’s office,” he called over his shoulder. “Think about what I told you!”
Yerzle stood in the street and watched the mercenary until he turned a corner and disappeared from view. Then he stood some more, thinking about the conversation, and what the Seigneur’s parting words. An idea formed, vague and nebulous at first, then gradually gaining focus and clarity. Yes, he thought. This would work.
“I’ve got to get home and tell everyone!” he said to himself as he ran down the street. “I’m going to be an accountant!”
