The room felt unsteady as he stood, and he had to brace himself on the arm of the throne. The soft throb of a headache pushed at the insides of his skull. It occurred to him that this might be a consequence of the beverage the Governess had served him the night before. His tongue felt like it had been beveled with a rasp. However, the feeling soon became secondary as the reality of the situation dawned on him.
“Why does she want me to wear it?” he asked, eyeing the uniform. Back home, he had a poster detailing the anatomy of a British hussar’s uniform from the Crimean War above his bed. The prospect of wearing what was being offered to him was nothing short of thrilling.
“You’ll have to ask her,” responded the coyote impatiently. “I’m just doing as I was told.”
Curtis was suspicious. “I don’t suppose I’ll have to fight anyone, will I?” he asked, envisioning a Thunderdome-style melee with some brute from the warren. It seemed to him that this sort of thing was constantly happening in movies and comic books. “I can’t do that. I’m a pacifist,” he said. A younger and meeker friend of his, Timothy Emerson, had once used that excuse to explain why he hadn’t fought back when a few of the older kids from the grade above pushed him off the monkey bars during recess. It had seemed impressive at the time.
The coyote said nothing. He shook the outfit again and cleared his throat.
“That is a pretty sweet sword,” admitted Curtis, admiring the sheathed sword on the belt. “Can I see it?”
The coyote laid the coat down on the dais and pulled the sword from its scabbard, presenting it to Curtis hilt-first with professional aplomb. Curtis took hold of it and swung it into the air—it was heavier than he’d imagined it to be. The blade was roughly the length of his forearm and was made of highly polished silver steel. The lights of the chamber’s smoldering torches reflected in the metal as he carved a figure eight in the air with the blade. Though alien, the weight of the sword in his hand released a torrent in his imagination—at that instant, he was no longer Curtis Mehlberg, son of Lydia and David, resident of Portland, Oregon, comic-book fanboy, persecuted loner; he was Taran Wanderer, he was Harry Flashman. He massaged the grip of the hilt in his palm and narrowed his eyes at the coyote. “Okay,” he said, “help me get that uniform on.”
CHAPTER 8
To Catch an Attaché
The relative quiet of the driveway was broken as soon as a pair of liveried attendants threw open the French doors and ushered Prue and Richard into the foyer of the Mansion. They both immediately froze. The foyer was a cauldron of frenzied activity. An ocean of figures, animal and human, occupied the large main room of the building, some milling about, involved in heated conversation, others speeding across the granite floor in an array of directions. What sounded like a million voices echoed throughout the chamber, and Prue’s head spun trying to pick them apart. The figures, clothed primarily in dress blacks and ties, each carried sheaves of paper under their arms and were each flanked by other, similarly dressed figures trying desperately to keep up with the pack. The only obstacle to this perpetual blur of movement was a brilliant white central staircase that wound up from the polished checkerboard floor. A warthog in a three-piece green corduroy suit was holding court from the middle landing of the staircase; a small retinue of observers huddled around him as he spoke, his cloven thumbs tucked into the armholes of his waistcoat. A pair of black-tailed deer, the ties on their oxford shirts matching their tails, argued vehemently by the marble bust of an important-looking man; a squirrel stood on the edge of the bust’s plinth, nodding.
Occasionally the collective attention of the room would be swayed to follow one single character, a graying man in bifocals, as he sped across the room, a daunting pile of papers and manila file folders precariously embraced to his chest. When this man appeared, entering the room from one pair of doors and exiting at the opposite end through another, many of the figures in the room would drop whatever they had been doing and would desperately entreat him for attention. Invariably, the man ignored all advances, and, after he had disappeared behind another pair of doors, the room would return to its former chaotic buzz of activity. Richard finally spoke. “I think that’s the guy you need to see—the Governor’s attaché.” Prue looked up at him and saw that he was just as shell-shocked as she was. She took a deep breath and extended her hand to him.
“I think I’m good from here,” she said. “You’ve got mail to deliver.”
Richard looked relieved. He took her hand and shook it. “It was very nice meeting you, Port-Land Prue. I hope our paths cross again. I wish you the best of luck.”
Turning to leave, he hesitated at the door and turned around. “If you ever need anything, I’m at the post office—just southwest of the Mansion here. That is, if I’m not on the road.” He smiled warmly.
“Thanks, Richard,” said Prue. “Thank you for everything.”
After Richard had left, Prue stood for a time and watched the busy current of life in the room as it ebbed and flowed. She nodded to an aged black bear as he hobbled past her to the outside door; she smiled politely at a woman wearing cat’s-eye glasses who nearly ran into her, her focus was so intent on a pile of papers in her hands. Finally, Prue heard the telltale sound of the room’s attention diverted again to a far set of double doors as they were thrown open and the bespectacled attaché emerged and began his foray into the cluttered antechamber.
Prue stepped forward, raised her hand, and began to speak, but was immediately silenced as the room erupted with every imaginable sound of the animal kingdom: yelled entreaties from the humans, deafening roars from the bears, and shrill birdsong from the jays, swallows, and nuthatches that furiously winged around the room. Undaunted, the attaché dove headlong into the crowd and began making his way to the opposite end of the room. Prue looked on in despair as he was immediately swallowed by the crus
h of humans and animals, all vying desperately for his attention. As the crowd passed within a few feet of where she was standing, she feebly raised her hand again and said, “Sir!” but it had come out so meekly that it was indistinguishable from the hubbub.
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” said a voice by her side.
She looked over and saw no one.
“Down here,” the voice said.
Prue looked down and saw a field mouse, calmly chewing on a split filbert. He appeared to be on his lunch break. He was sitting against the base of one of the room’s columns, and a kerchief laid out in front of him displayed a tidy selection of foods: a chunk of carrot, a tiny wedge of cheese, and a thimble of beer. He washed down a mouthful of the filbert with a swig of beer, cleared his throat, and said, “Are you on the list?”
“List?” asked Prue, nonplussed. “What list?”
The mouse rolled his beady black eyes. “I expect you’re here to see the Governor-Regent. And anyone who wants an audience with Governor Svik needs to be registered with the Governor’s office. Once you’re registered with the Governor’s office, your name is put on a waiting list. When your name is at the top of the list, you will be contacted by the attaché and an audience with the Governor will be scheduled.” The mouse said all this while inspecting the wedge of cheese in one of his spindly-fingered hands. Evidently satisfied, he popped the whole thing into his mouth.
“But . . . ,” began Prue, dismayed. “How long does that take?”
“Well,” answered the mouse, sounding the words around the massive chunk of cheese in his mouth, “the registrar’s office is in the south building, just down the road. That’s where you register for an audience. I believe their office hours are noon to three, Wednesdays and Fridays.”
“W-Wednesdays and Fridays?” stammered Prue. By her best reckoning, today was Sunday.
“Mm-hmm,” responded the mouse casually. “Get there early, there’s always a line. And then once you’re on the list, it’s usually a five- to ten-business-day turnaround before you’re contacted to schedule an appointment—usually about three to four weeks out at the earliest, depending on the season.”
Prue was devastated. She could feel tears welling up in her eyes. “But my brother! My brother was abducted and I have to find him! He’s out in the woods somewhere—there’s no way he’ll survive that long!”
The mouse shrugged, unmoved by her story. “We’ve all got problems, miss.” He tossed the remaining carrot chunk into his mouth, washed it down with the rest of the beer, and began cleaning up his diminutive picnic.