Marianne, the Matchbox, and the Malachite Mouse (10 page)

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ said the internal voice. ‘Really, Buttercup. You’re getting involved!’

Buttercup didn’t listen. The preacher, unconscious of the effect his words were having upon her, went on to say that males ought to be allowed careers in the constabulary, opportunities as administrators, even, heaven help the Queen-dom, consideration as rulers. Buttercup noted that she was not the only Grisl fighting down laughter. Poor little males. So silly and misguided. She was torn from her amusement, however, when she looked at the face and stance of the preacher once more. He was lean, sweet in an unprepossessing way. Almost delicate. Virginal. Was it really his fault he had been led into the pernicious philosophy he avowed? Perhaps no one had taken the time or trouble to talk with him. It was likely that no Grisl had taken the time or trouble to tell him why his reasoning was so far astray from reality and natural law. She felt almost ashamed for her sex. Well, though it had not been done before, certainly it could be done now.

Several Grisls were murmuring dangerously. Others approached the constabulary Nurseys. There was a confabulatory mutter and the Nurseys strode throughout the crowd, loudly demanding that the meeting be brought to an end before arrests for sedition and disloyalty to the crown were brought against those in the assembly. The preacher stood with bowed head, shaking it again and again in pitiful dismay. Buttercup almost wept for him.

‘Please …’ begged the internal voice.

‘Shut up,’ Buttercup told herself.

When he left, she followed him to the quiet district where he was evidently lodged. He entered an inn and sat down in the common room. She approached him and asked, as gently as possible, if she might speak with him. He responded modestly, with a pretty air of confusion, and the two of them chatted in a general way about the town and his audience for the evening. He explained that he went from place to place speaking for his ‘cause,’ living on donations. He also confessed, in a slightly elevated manner, that he had been hatched at the Palace and was of the Royal line – as though that were of any consideration where males were concerned. She did not chide him for this little conceit. He seemed to set so much store by his ‘Royal’ pretentions that it would have seemed discourteous to attack them.

They talked thus for over an hour, Buttercup listening as he conveyed his winsome dreams and desires, his simple opinions about the world and the nature of things. She was moved to murmur sympathetically from time to time, reaching to stroke his hand where it lay on the table. At this, he blushed, casting his eyes downward to peer at her through the fringing lashes. She found this adorable.

‘I shouldn’t say this,’ he murmured. ‘But I must. If all Grisls were like you, we wouldn’t feel as we do about being males. You are so sympathetic, so strong. You understand so much of what I’m trying to say.’

Buttercup dropped the hood of her robe and preened, only so much as was acceptable in a public place. If she had learned nothing else in the custody of Mr Thrumm, she had learned what acceptable behavior was. Under the table she touched his leg with the side of her spur, sliding it sensuously along his calf. He blushed again, murmuring, ‘I wonder if I might have a little wine.’

Might he have a little wine! The sweet creature, obviously inexperienced, obviously attracted to Buttercup, not quite knowing how to handle the experience. Display and challenge were not the only way of sex among Grisls. There were tenderer styles of wooing. If the truth were known, Buttercup was almost as inexperienced as he, but her wide reading in the root cellar had prepared her for moments such as this – or so she fondly assumed. Her blood warmed to think of it. This was no pasty Honsl with chilled and torpid blood. This was a male she could respect, one whose every word showed him to be of impeccable judgment and discrimination.

‘You even look different from most of them,’ he said with acute perception. ‘Your face is more refined, somehow. You don’t pant at one and insist on pawing all the time.’

Buttercup removed her hand from his in order to summon the waiter. Examining the wine card with care, she ordered a light Themsafel, delicate and unobtrusive, but lingering on the palate like the aftertaste of love. Or so Mr Thrumm’s dictionary of wine had said. Buttercup explained this to Sensalee in a manner which was, unfortunately, rather pedantic. Occasionally, she felt, one had to sacrifice the affectionate tone in order to maintain an authoritative position. They drank, savoring the vintage, which seemed to Buttercup to have an odd, almost acrid taste beneath its unequaled fragrance.

Sensalee sighed.

‘What is it?’ Buttercup asked.

‘It’s just that – oh, I don’t know how to say it …’

She encouraged him.

‘You’re so … perceptive. You make me feel so
protected
. All that … you know, the male-rights thing, it seems so
unnecessary
when I’m with you.’

Gently Buttercup suggested that perhaps he would like to remain with her for some indeterminate time. She saw a suspicious glint in the corners of his eyes as he hastily excused himself to go to the little males’ room. She leaned back in her chair, feeling expansive and pleased. The room was warm, comfortable. Her little companion was proving more than amenable to her suggestions and hopes. The room was warm, comfortable, and the ceiling swam above her. The room was warm…

When she awoke, she was under the table. A nagging voice somewhere was saying, ‘… tried to tell you, but no, you had to go chasing after … after whatever you call it. Honestly, Buttercup, young or not, you have absolutely no sense …’

The common room was quite empty and there was no sign of Sensalee. Her clothing was somewhat disarranged, and when she felt for her purse, which contained almost all her coin, she found that it was gone. Back at her own inn she would find a modest sum which she had left with her spare clothing. She tried to clear her head of the wavering vapors in which it swam. Only a few scattered embers gleamed on the hearth. Obviously time had passed. How much? It was difficult to say. Probably several watches of the night.

Nothing was to be gained by sitting stupidly on the floor. She staggered to her feet, realizing for the first time that she had been drugged. In the wine, undoubtedly. By Sensalee, undoubtedly.

She was enraged.

As she staggered from the room, something she had read of the habits and abilities of dogs entered her mind. Propping the inn door ajar, she made her way to her own inn and to the stable where the dog slept, twitching and panting in some dreamed escapade. Returning with him to the inn of misadventure, she directed the animal’s attention to the chair where Sensalee had sat and to the floor. With one of those atrocious ‘harfs,’ the animal sniffed his way out of the inn and down one of the twisting streets of Rivvelford, out of the city, into the wooded lands, and down a well-worn trail to the edge of an encampment centered upon an open area where great steaming cookpots hung above the fire. There, on the lap of an enormous wild Grisl, basking in the warmth of her embrace, was Sensalee.

‘You’re a dear marvel you are,’ the huge Grisl said. ‘A veritable marvel, Sensy my sweet. It never fails, do it? A little preachering, and some silly Grisl or other must see to your enlightenment. Well, this one that came after you this time was better gilded than most, I’ll say that.’ She clinked coin,
Buttercup’s
coin, with one hand while stroking Sensalee with the other. He quivered, actually quivered with delight.

‘Ooh, Grendy, you’re so mistressful,’ he cooed. ‘Your hands just send shivers all up and down me, I swear they do.’

Behind the screening bushes, Buttercup seethed with nauseated fury. The male didn’t even sound like Sensalee. He oozed with sycophantic smarm. Buttercup prepared herself for challenge.

‘She’ll kill you,’ said her internal voice calmly. ‘She’ll kill you quite easily. You’ll never get to the capital. You’ll never fight in the arena. One more Van Hoost idiot down the drain!’

The voice was even more infuriating than Sensalee’s presence.

‘I wonder,’ the huge Grisl went on, ‘whether there is any more gilt where this came from? You might go back, tomorrow say, and tell her you were set on by thieves? Make up some other tale? Ah, well, it would stretch luck a bit.’

‘It would,’ agreed Sensalee as he patted the pendulous cheek of the Grisl. ‘It really would, Grendy. It was touch and go as it was. The innkeeper wanted half, you know. I had to hide how much there really was and give him only a little.’

Everything in Buttercup screamed ‘Challenge!’ except for a nagging voice which went on and on and on …

‘She outweighs you three to one. She outreaches you by your arm’s length. Remember what Sneeth used to say. “Out-weighed may be outplayed, but outreached is unbreeched.” She’s huge, Buttercup, absolutely huge. Which means, of course, that you will do whatever is most stupid and childish. You’ve forgotten the Palace. You’ve forgotten the Old Queen!’

‘Smiss,’ whispered Buttercup. It was the dirtiest word she knew, naming an act she could not even conceive of committing, but she said it several more times. ‘Smiss, smiss, smiss.’ Reason should have told her this could happen, but reason had never described a Grisl like this to her. Huge. Implacable. Probably almost impossible to defeat. What if the Heiress Presumptive at the Palace was like this …

‘Not at all,’ the inner voice suggested. ‘At the Palace they care for grace, elegance, beauty, charm. Would they be content to be ruled by a hulk like this?’

It was true. The Palace would not be ruled by a slovenly, obese monster, no matter how forceful. Still, it was something to think on before Buttercup went plummeting into Royal society.

Slowly, reluctantly, she tugged dog back onto the trail and led him away, not without one or two muffled and longing ‘whurfs’ from him. He wanted to attack, but Buttercup pulled him firmly along. The voice, whatever it was, had some truth in it. Her concern had to be for other things at the moment, such things as repairing her fortune. Sensalee had taken the greater part of her funds. There was not enough left to get to the Palace in even moderate comfort, much less to keep herself in the town while awaiting time for the challenge.

Her need was answered when she arrived at the inn, as though by some benevolent spirit. Posted on the wall of the courtyard was a flyer issued by the Male Protective League offering a reward, no questions asked, for the whereabouts of several listed males. Among them was Honsl, printer of the village of Rivvelford, missing seven days, last seen … and so on and so on. Buttercup sent a message by a sulky stable boy, giving Honsl’s location. The promised reward arrived by noon. While it was not exorbitant, Buttercup felt it was a good deal more than Honsl was worth.

She went up to her room, recounting to herself that she had learned a valuable lesson. She had learned that duplicity and treachery could be hidden behind a pretty face. She had learned that what had been read in books was not adequate preparation for reality. Most valuable, though most horrifying, she had learned that some males felt Grisls to be fair game though she could not comprehend why this should be so.

‘The Palace,’ whispered her internal voice impatiently.

‘What are you?’ snarled Grisl. ‘Who asked you?’

‘The Palace,’ the voice said again imperturbably. ‘Never mind who I am. I will leave you at the Palace and you won’t be bothered with me anymore.’

Buttercup left the room in a mood of seething frustration. It had all been almost enough to make her doubt the fundamental rationality of natural law which assigns each sex to its place in the vast scheme of things. She felt … she felt as she had felt when she was only three and Nursey had told her there was not, in fact, a Fang Fairy.

Disillusionment is hard for the young, she told herself. Very hard for the young.

‘No harder than for anyone else,’ the voice snorted. ‘The trouble with you, Buttercup, is that you take yourself entirely too seriously.’

Buttercup arrived at the Palace – or, more precisely, in the vicinity of the Palace – on the day before the Heiress Presumptive was to accept challenge in the Royal arena. Placards were posted throughout the town announcing the event, though only ticket holders would be allowed to attend and only Grisls of the aristocracy and certain males of the bureaucracy had been furnished with tickets. Certain preselected males would, of course, be in the arena itself. To the victor would go the spoils. Public consummation was part of the ritual, after all.

The sound of a familiar voice drew Buttercup’s attention to a small group of males on a street corner, and she was surprised to see the Misters Jonas and Cadmon Thrumm talking with a male who looked, dressed, and acted very much like Fribberle. Had the other two Thrumms also brought Van Hoost challengers to the city? Had they, too, prepared young Grisls to die in the arena, helpless before the assault of the Heiress Presumptive? Or were they merely there for the festivities?

Buttercup, thankful that she had left the dog at her place of lodging, drew her quiet garment about her and approached closely enough to hear what they were saying.

‘I simply can’t imagine what’s keeping him,’ muttered Jonas Thrumm. ‘He said he’d meet us here yesterday, with the candidate – the only candidate! A policy which I continue to maintain is shortsighted and parsimonious – and no one has seen him.’

‘It’s unlike Raphael to be late,’ said Cadmon Thrumm. ‘Of the set of us, he is the most punctilious.’