Queen Hyra surveyed her throne room impassively and stretched languidly. This was an impressive sight, and she knew it. A servant rushed forward to plump up one of the many cushions scattered liberally around the throne, but she waved him away with the merest flick of a beautifully manicured feline paw. The servant backed away, apologising.
"I do most humbly beg Your pardon, Most Dread and Exalted Majesty-" he began before the Queen cut him short.
"Yes yes yes yes!" was her irritable reply. "How many times have I told you not to go toadying around like that in front of me? It's quite ridiculous... talking of which, I have to receive that absurd Lord Wharton this afternoon on account of the cricket."
The servant arched an eyebrow. "The cricket?"
"Yep!" came the Queen's somewhat unregal response. "Didn't you know it was that time again? You really are cut off from things, Miki; you could do with getting out and about once in a while. But still... as even you will know - I assume - Sandbourne and Oakwood have played a cricket match each spring for I don't know how many years, and somehow Slime hasn't managed to get his paws on it yet.
"It's important these days - well, it always was, but what with the increasingly unhinged nature of Slime's rule it's really important that the ordinary furs over in Oakwood get a chance to see something approaching normality. I'm pretty sure Slime would love to ban the buns, especially, from coming over, but he can't do that unless he pulls right out of the Great Treaty, and that would make him look stupid. Well, more than he already does, but even he might notice under those circumstances.
"Anyway, shortly before each year's match there's a meeting between the rulers of each town to discuss the practicalities. Last year I had to endure the, er, 'hospitality' of Slime, and I'd have liked to have given him something to remember in return. He's chickened out, though, and sent that Warty fellow, who strikes me as having a bit more about him than his boss. Wouldn't be hard, admittedly."
Hyra shook her head briefly and recovered herself. "Anyway, Miki, off you go, and do try not to be such an old bore, there's a dear."
The servant blinked, nodded and practically fled for the door, almost cannoning into another fur who was just coming into the room. This was a rather short squirrel with a jolly countenance that implied laughter was never far away. The Queen beamed at him.
"Albi!" she greeted him warmly. "What have you got for me today, then? Something to really get my teeth into, I hope, or there'll be trouble!" She opened her muzzle widely, showing as many of those teeth as she could, and raised both paws, extending the claws and holding the pose for a moment before collapsing in fits of laughter.
Albi grinned back at her. "You know, I was going to see if I could get hold of an OB for a casserole, but wouldn't you know it, there don't seem to be any going."
"Probably just as well; I don't want to poison myself. Talking of which, though, did you hear about the execution?"
Albi winced. "Yeah... nasty business all round. I'm sure there's more to that than meets the eye."
"I think so too," said Hyra, "but just now I'm more interested in what meets my stomach. Let's have the ghastly details."
"Right. Well, it's a while since I've done you a nice Haven salmon, so that's the main course, with a nice white sauce of course and plenty of nice green salad to accompany it. Pudding? Well, what do you think? Lots and lots and lots of cream!" He grinned again.
The Queen licked her lips and purred loudly. "The salmon sounds wonderful, and it's good to have a nice local fish, even if it'll be out of the ice house rather than straight from the river; a bit of time yet before they're in season. But really... green salad? Come on, lad." (Albi suppressed a smile; he'd worked in the Palace for twenty years now, but Hyra still thought of him as a young stripling.) "Since when were felines leaf-munchers, eh? I know you rodenty types can survive for six months on a few stale acorns and a mouldy twig, but some of us prefer a little more life to our food!"
Trying desperately not to giggle, the squirrel raised a paw conciliatorially. "I am, of course, Your Majesty's humble servant-"
"Oh, don't start that again!"
Albi looked confused. "What?"
"Never mind. Just a bit of trouble with the staff. Which is what you'll be having if I don't have that fish in my muzzle in about the next ten minutes!"
Albi flashed a wink at the Queen, but realised he had gone a little too far when her gaze turned at once to a stony glare. He'd earnt the right to talk to her as he had, but in the end she was the Queen, and - in the end - she never let him, or anyone else, forget that fact. He turned hurriedly and strode off toward the kitchens.
* * *
Lord Wharton, Bailiff of Oakwood, strode purposefully through the marbled splendour of the Queen's Palace, matching his step to that of the two tall, elegant fels who were escorting him to the building's main conference chamber. He glanced about him quickly as the little group passed down richly decorated corridors, their walls hung with portraits - and even a few photographs - of various members of Sandbourne's Royal Family. Wharton felt a faint distaste: he was not in favour of photography for such purposes, believing that it removed a certain sense of dignity from proceedings. Indeed, he had persuaded the Lord Protector to ban the use of cameras in all Council meetings, much to the annoyance of some of the more trend-following councillors.
At last they stopped before a large set of oaken double doors, and a liveried herald appeared to greet them. After checking Wharton's credentials, the herald bowed very slightly to him, then turned and flung back the doors with an exaggerated flourish. This had been Queen Hyra's idea, ostensibly to guard against the risk of enemies hiding behind any such doors, but in reality - most of the servants secretly agreed - because she enjoyed the noise and spectacle it created.
"Your Majesty!" bellowed the herald. "I humbly present the Most Honourable The Bailiff of Oakwood, The Lord Wharton!"
There was a short pause, and what sounded like a deep breath being taken, and then a single word rang out: "Enter!"
Wharton walked slowly forward into the conference chamber, stopped at a certain spot on the floor and bowed deeply, before straightening up and looking steadily at Hyra. He hated having to abase himself before a foreigner, even the Queen - especially the Queen - but there was little he could do about it. Wharton was not the ruler of Oakwood in person, but merely his deputy and representative, and so was socially inferior to Hyra. He was also on her territory, and acutely aware, though of course he did not say so, that he was alone among people at best indifferent and at worst actively hostile to who he was and what - who - he represented.
Besides, although under normal circumstances the Queen of the Fels was far from being a stickler for protocol within her own realm, she had made it absolutely clear to the court that Lord Wharton was not a fur she was willing to accommodate any further than was absolutely necessary. She flashed him the thinnest of thin smiles, and then accepted an old, heavy book from a servant, opening it slowly. This was the Book of Treaties, a history going back some five hundred years of every formal pact made between the two old towns. By convention, the visitors proposed a new treaty before every cricket match - sometimes of great import, sometimes very minor - but Hyra was making one thing extremely clear. She was not going to take a single word Wharton said at face value.
"Well now, my Lord," she said sweetly. "What sort of treaty do you suggest we might enact this year?"
Copyright © David "Loganberry" Buttery 2004-6. Last updated 17th September 2006.