“You are here to serve the whim of the State, then, so to speak, which is to say the whimsy of Sire Witless? Just so you can test how well they prick those lances of the King our Royal Uncle? Or don’t you know, mayhap, that our Very Royal Uncle has disembarked himself on our land, without even asking our leave?”
“I do know it,” replied Polydorus calmly.
“And knowing that, you do not turn to go back?” asked the one-armed man in a lilting, sing-song voice, always continuing his stroll. “You are quite something, aren’t you, my good lad?”
For some time neither of them spoke.
The one-armed man dragged his punt pole once again from the water, and returned to the stern.
“And what might he be paying you, his lordship, to make you willing to go and catch your death over yonder?” he asked.
“I did not ask for payment.”
“Is that so, now? You have certainly fallen from a strange star, my lad. And you go just like that, you say? For the sake of those black eyes of Sire Witless?”
“No, rather for the brown ones of his son.”
“Is that so? Is that so, indeed?” said the one-armed man, and his broad smile split his face from ear to ear.
It was some time before they spoke again. The one-armed man continued to push his feluccas onwards.
“And so then, how did he kindle such a fire in you, this fine son of his?” he asked after a while.
“Just so! With what he said. I heard him… I saw him…” replied the equerry. “And he shook me all over, he seized my whole being, and made me his. And were he to say to me, ‘Throw yourself into the fire,’ I should throw myself into the fire.”
“And now he has told you, ‘Throw yourself at the lances’, and you are throwing yourself at the lances,” said the one-armed man in his customary imperturbable manner.
“Yes,” Polydorus replied simply.
They did not speak again until they had reached the opposite side, and had drawn the boats nearer to the shore.
The equerry leapt out and onto the dry land. “So what do you ask, then, for your trouble?” he asked.
“Your good love,” replied the one-armed man, pulling his punt pole back up again.
“At least tell me your name. I do not want to forget you.”
“Onearm.”
“Thank you.”
The equerry turned to go.
“Ahoy, there, countryman, and what’s yours?” cried the one-armed man.
“What’s mine what?”
“Your name!”
“Polydorus.”
“All right, then. Listen to one more thing. When you return… for you shall return, of course…”
“Yes!”
“You will find me, in that case, standing before you if you go to the right place; otherwise”—and with his hand he made the gesture of a dive—“splosh, into the river.”
The equerry, who had moved away, approached again.
“Which is the right place?”
“Not here, of course!” said the one-armed man. “For by that time, our guests will have arrived as well, and your body would have as many holes as a colander before you ever reached Fright and Turmoil. You will find me, however”—and with his hand he pointed up the river—“there, where the Fool’s Eddy meets the river.”
“But that’s a terrible, nasty spot, how will you go there? The currents of the eddy are far too strong,” said Polydorus.
“And that’s just why our guests will never think of coming there to greet us,” replied the one-armed man quietly, and with one thrust he pushed his boats away. “Godspeed to you, countryman!”
“Godspeed to you too!”
Shifting his punt pole with slow, steady steps, the one-armed man once again headed for the opposite bank, singing softly:
Five years have I wandered,
Five years have I wandered,
On the mountains, the mountains,
Oh, dear love of mine, on the mountains.
IX. Where Fate Has Seen Fit to Place Us…
IN THE MEANTIME, the Prince had asked for the Great Ledger of the Royal Army, where all the officers and soldiers were registered.
The King turned to the Lord Chamberlain.
“Fetch it at once,” he commanded.
The Lord Chamberlain left the dining hall unhurriedly, and went to the back kitchen, where Polycarpus was wiping a serving platter with exemplary zeal for Little Irene, who was herself engaged in browning the game.
“Fetch it at once,” commanded Master Cartwheeler.
“Fetch what at once?” asked the equerry.
“The ledger with the lists for the Royal Army.”
“Where is it?”
“I know no more than you do. Find it and get it.”
The equerry looked at Little Irene with baffled eyes.
“Who is asking for it?” asked Little Irene.
“His Highness your brother, Your Royal Ladyship,” replied the Lord Chamberlain.
“Oh, Polycarpus! You simply must find it!” pleaded Little Irene.
Her words had hardly been spoken before Polycarpus had abandoned serving platter and dishcloth, and was dashing off to the cellar.
He looked closely into everything, ferreted about, turned upside down every single thing there was to be found in the cellar; he discovered nothing. Running like mad, and covered with dust, he scurried up to the first floor, opened every cupboard, drawer, chest and hamper there was in the palace tower, and still he found nothing. Like a cat, he crawled up the steep ladder leading to the attic, and there, at long last, after rummaging in every corner, having opened every storeroom, having plunged almost bodily into every old chest and coffer that lay there dilapidated, each a mouldy old relic eaten by woodworm and maggots, he pulled out, from under a pile of old, yellowed and crumpled papers, a tattered, oblong book, its covers half-devoured by mice, and so impregnated with dust that the gilded lettering on the jacket could barely be deciphered any longer.
He loaded it onto his back, and triumphantly he took it down to the dining hall, where the King and the Prince were still discussing things, while a cross-armed Master Cartwheeler yearned for them to conclude their talk, so that he might have leave to return home (where he knew that a mouth-watering mash of garlic and walnuts awaited him).
The equerry placed the book on the table.
“What is this miserable rag?” asked the Prince.
“I do not know,” said the equerry, “but it is the only book in the palace.”
The King opened it and leafed through it.
“Of course, this is it,” he said. “I can see both names and titles.”
And he began to read at random:
“Axer, commander of the corps; Terrorman, general; Fearless, marshal; Thunderson, centurion.”
He turned to the Lord Chamberlain, and ordered:
“Summon at once General Terrorman!”
Master Cartwheeler strove hard to bow.
“He is dead, my lord, he’s been dead and gone eight years now.”
“Ah… Hmm…” grunted the King. “Then summon Axer, Commander of the Corps.”
“Passed away, my lord, twelve years ago.”
“Then surely this must be his son. Summon his son,” ordered the King nervously.
“His son was not in the army, my lord. He spent all his money, and then went into service with Master Rogue, the Supreme Commander of the Army; he too has left to go abroad.”
“So why on earth have you brought me this age-old register, which lists only the names of dead men!” the King broke out peevishly.
He turned over some more pages towards the end.