House of Prension

By Brian K. Henry

House of Prension is the story of Aulic Prension, the fourteen-year-old younger son of Empress Landau.

The Prension dynasty rules over a remote region on Merva, a pre-industrial world in which heirs to the throne must master revered rites. As Aulic faces his Maturity Rituals, he must cope with the resentments of his older, peevish brother, Bodin, a stickler for decorum and protocol. Unlike Bodin, Aulic takes a skeptical attitude to tradition and the brothers’ radically different personalities set them up for an inevitable rivalry.

Aulic faces his greatest challenge when he accidentally ruins a fishing ritual, casting disgrace on himself. Angered, Bodin schemes with his court allies to set Aulic an even greater challenge. The younger heir must journey to the land of the hated Frissen and prove his diplomatic worthiness. Aulic faces a range of unexpected obstacles, including the nonsensically chanting Roundsongs, the beetle-like race of recalcitrant Jabbs and the relentlessly perky fungus sprite Mempy Pinpin. The end of his journey brings him to a face-off with spiteful Emperor Ogo Frissen where Aulic must use his wits to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian K. Henry
• Release date: Dec 20, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466073937

Brian K. Henry

Brian K. Henry is the author of the fantasy novel HOUSE OF PRENSION and sci-fi novel SPACE COMMAND AND THE PLANET OF THE BEJEWELLED CONCUBINES, as well as the story collection SPACE COMMAND AND THE PLANETS OF DOOM. Primarily a writer of comedy and satire, Brian has also completed seven comedy screenplays, (including ZAK BEDFORD, PUNK DETECTIVE option to Feldco Development), several collaborations with punk-cabaret duo The Tyrants in Therapy and numerous short stories, sketches and, of course, tweets.A California native and longtime Pasadena resident, Henry holds a PhD. in English from UC Riverside and a MA from CSU Fullerton. A die hard CD addict and music fan, his collection spans classical to Britpop to punk with especially large sections devoted to Mahler, Prokofiev, Wagner, the Dandy Warhols, XTC, Morrissey and the Smiths, Depeche Mode, Blur, Frank Black and the Pixies, Bob Dylan, Elvis Costello, The Damned, Rancid and Madness.Henry’s dissertation focused on the works of Henry James, Nabokov, and Poe. Other literary favorites include Don DeLillo, Mark Twain, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

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House of Prension

by

Brian K. Henry

All rights reserved

Copyright 2006 by Brian K. Henry

Smashwords Edition

Cover illustration by R. Scott Riddle

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Chapter One

Aulic Prension lay still on the courtyard bench against the backdrop of a peach-painted wall concentrating intently on thoughts of an obese waxen figure. The figure was a pale white one, the unattractive white of sour milk, and around its base misshapen protuberances, small dried drippings and streams of wax, stood out in bumpy relief.

The Grey Hour had settled in on Prension Town and the dwindling orange light was muted and meditative. There was an anticipatory air before the lavish Autumn Girl dance set to begin in a few hours. The moments before a dance were an odd time, perhaps, for a session of Dream Hand practice, but Corben Corsaire, the most respected Prension Dream Hand, was determined to squeeze in another session before Aulic’s Maturity Rituals.

Even though he was intent on his teaching, Corben, an occasional painter with a remarkable eye for color, couldn’t help noticing that the tan-brown streaks in Aulic’s hair complemented the peach wall. Aulic’s concentrating face with its closed eyes was rendered especially striking by the distinct strip of scalp showing down the middle part of his hair. It was an unusual but noble style, this scalp-strip, forbidden to all Prensioners except members of the royal family. On Aulic, the strip worked unusually well, since his hair naturally had a center part. On others, the strip was less felicitious. His mother, Empress Landau, never looked quite right with it dividing her mounds of curling brown and blonde hair, and so she often favored an empresses’ headdress.

You must think of the Pudding Dinner Ghost legend. That’s the kind of lumpishness and bumpy waxiness I’m imagining. Corben could keep the desired avatar firmly in mind even with his eyes open, a talent possessed in full only by the most masterful Dream Hands. For Corben, it was as though the Pudding Dinner Ghost was even now vividly superimposed on the image of his pupil.

Under Corben’s tutelage, Aulic was attempting to envision this same waxwork. If he summoned the Ghost to his mind in a full-fledged form, he’d be that much closer to mastering the creation of his own Dream Avatar.

But Aulic found it difficult to focus on figure contemplation as dance tunes trickled from the windows of the ballroom where poko musicians were rehearsing. The same dances were brought out each year to the Autumn Girl ball-goers’ predictable delight. Though he tried to form the Ghost Corben had sculpted a few days before, Aulic’s attention was constantly drawn away by the interminable bolka rhythm. Hearing the mallets thudding on lizard skins, he could picture only the clicking of reveler’s shoes on the floor, the rhythmic signals of men’s extended arms, their festive finger clicks, and the circle of maidenly grins, moving in a blurry rotation.

The annual ball extended back in time even before Dovan’s reign. Girls would spend all summer anticipating the chance to flaunt their elegant heirloom gowns. For centuries the ritual had endured, with the same bolkas and spanilles trotted out, the same baked mammals trussed up and smothered with sweetened fruit sauce, and the same spiced ciders and weed brews dispensed by poko attendants.

With such distractions rampant, Corben was not hopeful about the session’s outcome. He knew Aulic possessed an agile mind and a memory attracted to facts and detail. But his interest in dream arts was minimal and he was rarely engaged in creative tasks. Corben felt his sensibility was analytical, one to cast an evaluating gaze over other’s creations. It was not unusual for a Prension to be meditative, but few were so skeptical in their mindset. Many courtiers found Aulic’s frequent acerbic comments unsettling, his spiked observations annoying, but Corben maintained an indulgent smile at his remarks. Perhaps his mystical leanings, his devotion to the oft-disdained Dream Hand rites, encouraged him to empathize with the young rucklen.

Aulic perversely kept seeing an old emperor’s rigid face rather than Corben’s wax figure. He was a Frissen Emperor Aulic had read of in the dense Brown Tomes that covered entire walls of the court library. The emperor’s small, unattractive head came unbidden into his thoughts, its features pinched and squinted, his mouth ranting with ever increasing speed about insufficiently compliant neighbors on the Frissen borders. Aulic recognized the head as that of Tor Molk, with his well-known nose appearing as small and squeezed as it was in the anecdotes, his eyes a drippy shade of moldy green and his hair plastered with sweat onto his short forehead.

Somehow this unpleasant head appeared of its own volition with a vividness Aulic never experienced with Corben’s inert figures. With each effort he made to refocus, Molk’s visage grew denser and more insistent. Just as the head’s jabbering reached a physically impossible rate, there was a clatter and intrusion of outside voices.

A crowd had suddenly appeared in the courtyard. A break had been called in the ball preparations and the toiling pokos and half-girls had quickly spilled outside, making dripping comments and laughing dull, half-girl laughs. Concentration would be impossible with the crowd clustering in noisy batches.

We should have gone to my wax hut! Corben declaimed in frustration.

Aulic sat up, shaking his head. After a Dream Hand session he needed physical exertion to return to alertness, especially after enduring an unpleasant episode of ranting Frissen royalty. It’s no use. I’m not getting the Pudding Ghost. That Frissen head pops up every time.

You have the history mind. No boy I’ve ever taught gets such fervid images from studying.

Aulic looked at the half-girls with distaste. They always had a smarmy word for him and he, in turn, disliked their languid, insolent ways when they wasted afternoons away, sitting at Landau’s feet and pointing out flaws in the ceiling frescoes.

The Rucklen hopped up. I need to review that chapter on Tor Molk.

Corben jostled into a standing position. What? You must dress for the ball! You’re still in day browns.

Aulic shrugged. The pokos brought out my outfit. It just takes a few minutes to dress. Corben sighed as his pupil headed back to the voluminous tomes.

Empress Landau brought her hands together in a clap with such force that white powder from her face and palms flaked onto her attire, a geometrical pattern dress enhanced with strings of white beads. She laughed with momentary abandon. The bolka had been delightful, the kind of spirited dance she remembered from her youth, and the musicians deserved the heartiest response. She turned with a stately smile to Pinkface Elder, at her side with his familiar expression of staid tolerance.

Unlike most Prensioners, Pinkface was not a dancing man. He was a respected graduate of the Academy of Robes, and the robe he’d chosen for the night, a bone-white garment, matched with near exactness the principal shade of Landau’s dress. According to Academy of Robe tradition, bone-white was the color of sagacity, appropriate for a non-dancing man, who, as others pranced or threw their hands in the air, stood to one side with a bemused air. Pinkface’s principal fashion concession to the festivity was his rose-colored shell amulet, which glittered with lacquer in the torchlight.

Landau sat with her customary good posture, chin lifted, a huge, corn-colored shield spread out behind her. At the bottom of the steps, two half-girls sat in mute attentiveness. Landau made horizontal motions with her arms, replicating some of the above-waist dancing activity.

The Charcoal Hour was nearly over, and as the Black Hour fell, the dancers’ hands would stop waving, their slippers would stop sliding and everyone would file out, paying respects to Landau, as another Autumn Girl ball faded into memory.

However, one important rite was still due before retirement: the Dance of the Forest Women. Landau’s reminiscent smile signaled that she was contemplating youthful outdoor dances, when the Forest Women themselves, with their dingy attire, grubby faces and large unattractive noses, would come out from the thick trees, shake themselves scornfully and show the Prensioners how the dance was really done. More than once, the inebriated rustics were chastised for ruining a festival and in one well-remembered incident a Forest Woman had been incarcerated and forced to hold her elbow to a red-hot poker for half an hour.

Our traditions are like purr moles, Pinkface, Landau intoned, immersed in the recollections taking place behind her face. Just when you think they’ve vanished underground, disappeared for good in mucky, unseen earth, they pop up, vigorous and refreshed, with a new coat of thick, refulgent fur.

You enjoy the Dance of the Forest Women, I know. I agree it’s a beneficial dance. The steps are earthy, almost primitive with their mock stomping and outstretched arms. Pinkface held out his own long, thin, arms in a mild illustration and performed a dignified stomp. While the Elder didn’t dance, he was not above an instructive demonstration.

Yet it’s illuminating how far we’ve come from the Forest Women’s pounding and grunting. Pinkface stopped his small dance to expostulate. For him, nearly everything had a lesson. His sententious bent had been magnified a dozenfold during his years at the Academy where the professors urged students to find the nut inside the shell. Pinkface, his eyes prematurely solemn and his build less than athletic, had been a great scholarly success. He’d spent many afternoons on the banks of the Mondrip, studying Movements of the Outdoors. His father, Roil, himself a white-robe graduate, had been pleased. He’d constantly taken young Pinkface to council meetings and made the boy recite highlights from Tome speeches. While it had not been an exciting youth, it had been a worthy preparation for Pinkface’s life work.

Landau moved her wrists in rhythm with the drums. Her head bobbed, scalp strip reflecting the torchlight, white shell bracelets bouncing with her hands. Pinkface, she chided, people do not dance to gain lessons. The dance is its own reward.

Aulic contemplated the spectacle from the grog bowl. The dancers’ stomps and yelps were enough to make him want to retreat into a history text, but as a rucklen he was required to attend the ball. He took a swig of grog, ran a hand through his mussed hair, then looked out to the dance floor. Polissa Mobannon was doing the Dance of the Forest Women as elegantly as possible, her hair sculpted to resemble the bottom of a tree trunk. Just as she dipped elegantly, he was distracted by a yelp and turned to see Bodin, his older half-brother, release his partner and stagger toward the grog table, wheezing heavily.

A few revelers looked on with mild concern, while Bodin’s partner, Mefine, one of the few girls short enough to partner him appropriately, backed off.

Bodin, what’s wrong! she squeaked.

It’s too blasted fast, gasped Bodin. He ended his stumbling by aiming himself at a spot on the stone wall near the grog table and sagging against it. Bodin was perpetually lax in exercising and his aversion to physical activity was made worse by attacks of short breath and generally frail health.

Maybe you need some wheat grog, suggested Aulic, reaching for a clean mug.

Keep that filthy grog away from me, Bodin barked, with panting interruptions. I’m already dizzy from that primitive stomping.

Mefine gave a consoling look. Why don’t you lie down in your chambers?

Bodin put up his hands. No more of your suggestions! Your dancing is the most unrefined, overdone exhibition I’ve ever seen! What would the lords of yore have said?

Mefine whimpered. I adore the lords of yore! How can you say such things? She looked as though she was almost ready to put half a fist into her mouth in despair, but then ran away, whimpering loudly. Several dancers turned to look as she fled.

Bodin winced. Now she’s made a pathetic display.

Aulic took a sip of grog as Bodin recovered his breathing rhythm. You’re in no shape for dancing. Haven’t been out of your chamber most of the month.

The half brothers were an ill-matched pair, their common inheritance from Landau pulled in extreme directions by very different fathers. Aulic, of reasonable height for a Prension boy of fourteen, leaned against the wall with casual ease. Not an exceptional athlete, he was still long-limbed and agile, a natural swimmer. His brown face was often set in a brooding expression, but was capable of a serene and open smile. Bodin was not as well-favored, but small, pale and prone to a crouching posture that only accentuated his low height. He tended to be frail and his frequent illnesses only increased his naturally sullen tendencies. His thin black hair was usually tangled in messy strands, and his small nose wrinkled in annoyance.

Bodin glowered. The Autumn Girl ball is a Prension tradition. Even if you refuse to dance, I know I have an obligation!

Aulic shrugged. I danced last year. They’re doing fine without me.

Doing fine without me! Bodin cried. More dancers looked over, the Dance of the Forest Women having just reached a boisterous conclusion and a comparative quiet now filling the hall. Bodin caught himself and whispered. Doing fine without you? You’re a rucklen. You can’t just sit out the most revered dances in the repertoire.

I know the Tomes, and there’s no law that a rucklen has to dance any particular dance.

Who said anything about a law? Bodin made fists, his blackberry eyes glinting in frustration. I’m talking about obligations. Like these dance gowns.

He was referring to the identical gowns the half-brothers wore, grey with subtle diagonal brown stripes, that were the traditional rucklen garb for autumn dances. Aulic’s robe looked sleek and impressively formal on him. Bodin’s clumped around his belly, gathered in ugly folds and trailed on the floor, causing him to stumble.

These gowns. This dance. This hall, Bodin enumerated, jabbing the point home with darts of his fingers. These are symbols of Prension heritage. You can’t stand there and look down on all of it. It’s a rotten rucklen who does that.

You’re the one in line for the throne anyway. It’s better you lead the dancing. Aulic drained his mug. Get out there and show them what a rucklen’s made of. He gave a mock-supportive fist pump and strolled out.

Bodin clenched his teeth, fuming. This was a moment potent with tradition, a ritual the town folk always anticipated for weeks. The frastberries were withering on the vine, the cunver grass was drying up and the Black Hour was growing a little longer each night. It was imperative that these annual moments be marked, observed in the hallowed manner.

At any moment, the dancers and nobles would walk out for candlelit mingling among the common folk, the people who danced in small houses without real dance floors, or on uneven lawns to the music of feeble musicians who no longer got the desirable court dates. Certainly, mingling with commoners required holding one’s nose for the sake of duty. But for Aulic to disappear beforehand, to spurn it, was a bitter mockery that turned to viscous bile in Bodin’s throat. He tried to spit, but choked and seized up, and reached for grog to smooth his throat out.

With the dance finished, and the mingling underway in the manor grounds, Pinkface stayed at Landaus’ side for a decent interval, then made his excuses. He was committed to a rendezvous with her younger son.

Landau, in her element, waved him off. These candles are for you! she cried, opening her arms to bestow her munificence on the townsfolk. They looked at the candles appreciatively, and the unkempt town women, as usual adoring Landau’s provocative fashion assertions, gazed at her with particular pleasure and stupefaction.

Aulic was relieved that any pretense in his participation in the ball was over; he was far more comfortable having a sober discussion with Pinkface in sack pants and a pullover. The airy bagginess of these clothes was more to his taste than the ornate robes mandated for revelers. He’d endured the dances far too often. As the younger rucklen he’d even worn the Festive Dog gear more than once during the Bone Days. But if this evening’s revelers had expected Aulic to daze them with his dance steps, they’d been disappointed: his experiences with Paw Dances had been unpleasant and he’d vowed to keep his participation in the Autumn Girl ball to a minimum.

Pinkface sat on a remotely placed bench carved from a felled tree, his Elder face lit by torches and his eyes momentarily closed.

Pinkface? You wanted to see me? Aulic interrupted.

Yes, yes, said Pinkface, opening his eyes and repeating the affirmative word in his usual fashion. I see you had a Dream Hand session today.

Corben insisted. Even with the ball and everything.

That is as it should be, the Elder said calmly, with one of his more serious expressions. I understand a significant amount of intensive Dream Hand practice is taking place at court currently. You should not be left out of the efforts.

I can barely make a face come together, forget about a full avatar. But Corben says I’ll be able to alter someone’s dreams if I practice long enough.

One of a Dream Hand’s greatest achievements. Manipulation! The uncanny ability to tangle from a distance with another mind. To reach with an avatar and poke dream thoughts. Some masters are such virtuosos they can perform avatar Manipulations even in the Clear Water Hour.

When the sun’s at its peak? Then why even call them Dream Hands?

Dreams are the dark, weaving roots of their power, just as the gibbery tree draws strength up from its underground tendrils.

This is great stuff, Pinkface, but I’m a little worn out. . .

Pinkface raised a hand. I must caution you. The Maturity Rituals are upon you. Soon, the entire court will observe you more closely than ever as you perform the trials. You must work with diligence, with care. The smallest error will be magnified by those who wish to sow disregard for you!

The rituals will go fine. I mean, Harshmo’s rehearsed me, you’ve given me some great tips. I’ve studied the ordeals. What’s the worst that’ll happen? I’ll have to do one over?

These are not idle games performed by dawdling babes in a perfumed crib. The clinking dolls of trite tots. The Maturity Rituals mark the beginning of your span as a full royal. Yes, Yes. They must be approached with determination, and vigor.

OK. I’ll give them the full effort. Really.

But as Aulic wandered off, Pinkface frowned. It was his nature to fret, and he knew that any activity including the word ‘ritual’ would not be a favorite with Aulic. He hoped only that the ceremonies would go off without any untoward occurrences.

Aulic stumbled onto his veranda, the previous night’s grog still weighing down his head. The view from his ground-floor chambers was a dusty one. A small road could be seen past the trees and greyish-green ground cover that formed a vegetation barrier between the manor grounds and the commercial districts. In the morning sun, Aulic made out a familiar shoe shop and the animal powder stand that were the main attractions of the closest shopping arcade.

He picked up a large, sonorous bell and rang for a mug of lurgape juice. At the same time, a head of spiky black hair protruded above the veranda wall, followed quickly by a hand that found leverage to lift Arvin Joekherr over the wall and into the veranda itself. Arvin was a caustic, outspoken fixture around the manor, the son of a junior court scribe. His status was low, but his very lack of involvement in politics was one of his attractions for Aulic, who quickly grew bored with court machinations.

Arvin greeted the Rucklen with a comment on the ball. I can’t believe you didn’t dance with Polissa. She stood by the hat rack for ages hoping you’d ask.

Polissa’s a drag.

Arvin squinted. What’s wrong with her?

Aulic made a wave. She’s such a typical Prension girl.

What do you mean typical Prension girl?

Just like your basic Prension girl. Nothing original.

You’ve never even been out of Prension Town. How can you talk about a typical Prension girl? Have you ever met a Frissen girl? An Eilon girl? A Radogan?

Aulic’s chamber poko arrived with the juice and Aulic nodded at Arvin, signaling for another mug. No, but I’m sure they’re not like Prension girls.

So what’s the typical Prension girl like, since you’re such an expert?

She’s very concerned about hair, Aulic answered promptly. She has a dozen styles of brushes, each designed for a certain occasion. She loves nothing more than adorning herself, standing in a prominent location, like by the hat rack, for instance. ‘Look at my jewels, at my hair, at my shapely arms’.

And Eilon girls don’t do the same things?

Not from what I’ve heard. Eilon girls are lithe, quick moving. They hunt with their men, searching for dinner rabbits and fungi. They’re not afraid to run through the roads to test their speed, letting their hair do what it will.

The poko brought in the second mug of lurgape juice.

That’s crazy. Every girl cares about hair. Arvin took his mug and sipped. The Eilon girls are just into different styles, I’ll bet you anything. They probably have a long stringy, huntress style that trails after them when they run around hunting rabbits and all.

Aulic narrowed his eyes, trying to visualize Arvin’s image.

So if all girls are into hair, what’s so bad about Polissa? repeated Arvin.

Aulic stood, as if Polissa crouched under the table in some invisible or miniaturized form, ready to grab at him. Can’t you see? She’s so rigid, so filled with love for decorum. She has the aura of this whole dusty town compressed into her, like she’s some Prensionhood model for the young.

Arvin nodded uncertainly. Right.

I feel like Polissa’s making etiquette tests for me, setting up behavior standards she wants me to accomplish. Like she’s got an eye on me, looking at me from balconies when I’m crossing the grounds, or sniffing the succulent plants in the garden when I’m walking there, or sitting next to me at every dinner for the Potendett.

Arvin frowned. You have any lebel nuts?

Chapter Two

Bodin gestured toward the Chamber of Discussion. This is a matter for the talking blocks, Lord Elder. Pinkface repressed a sigh. He stifled his displeasure and they moved together down the grey hallway to the chamber.

The Chamber of Discussion wore its hallowed antiquity with ostentation, portraits of former discussing dignitaries distributed at carefully measured intervals around its mahorgan mantle. They ranged in expression from grave and sober to sententious and wizened. Pinkface always experienced an involuntary shiver when he entered this chamber. Running his gaze past his formal predecessors, he was struck by their flagrant looks of wisdom. With their downturned mouths and narrowed eyes surrounded by wrinkles, they reeked of self-satisfied intellectual prowess. Pinkface saw himself in their line, the line of appointed sages, formerly fulminous pontificators who were now merely solemn busts, gazing down as though to intimidate those who passed underneath their likenesses. He could have spent hours in this reverie, dreaming of historic Elders, moving their robes with the slow deliberate motions of droning bores.

But instead, with professional rectitude, he returned to contemporaneous alertness.

The near-portly Bodin made the traditional motions preceding a formal discussion. In his long practiced hands they were fluid and commanding: a series of elbows to the palms, rectangular formations with arm sections, rigid deployment of the fingers and a few strategic claps of hand on arm. Pinkface was irritated at the prospect of a long discussion with the officious Bodin, and the routine of elbow slapping and all the rest seemed especially irksome in the present context. Nevertheless, he responded to each choreographed move properly and Bodin gave a thin-lipped smile of approval at the ceremony’s conclusion.

The little rucklen made the moves with such precision he might as well have invented them himself, thought Pinkface. Bodin’s black cape matched his plastered black hair and his smug face was a plate of pale happiness. Pinkface pictured him practicing in his chamber, deep in a dark recess of the manor, with his goosefeather bed and stiletto collection, his toy cloth stones and stuffed marmosets.

While Pinkface allowed his reveries to get the better of him, Bodin had already placed his chin on the talking block.

The blocks were hewn from a heavy brown wood, glazed with a serious resin, and indented at the top with a chin rest for the talker. These indentations had been gradually worn over generations, then varnished and revarnished to retain a luster matching the rest of the block. The talkers were seated on thick benches, each carved with ancient scenes from the Prensioners’ pre-cattle years. The originator of the blocks was held to be Monteith Elder, who had held the first diplomatic meeting in the chamber with a Chirugan envoy. During the session, the Chirugan pulled a long dagger from his scabbard and attempted to sever Monteith’s left wrist. Monteith thereafter demanded that delegates to a formal negotiation meet at a table that separated their heads by eight feet and have their hands manacled behind their backs. To focus attention on the discussion and not the, now irrelevant, movements of arms, Monteith declared that each speaker’s head was to be settled atop a block hiding all other body parts from view.

Given Bodin’s behavior his first words were almost predictable. There has been a noticeable slackening in the court, Lord Elder, of obeisance to hallowed customs.

Has there, my Lord?

Bodin readjusted his chin to fit more snugly into the block’s groove. You should not be surprised to hear this, Lord Elder, he said with haughty distaste. I’m sure you’ve noted the loose elements. He harshly emphasized the final two words. The block’s constriction of his chin movement gave Bodin’s voice an unnaturally squeezed quality creating an especially unpleasant grate on Pinkface’s nerves.

It seems to me that palace affairs are functioning quite smoothly.

Bodin made a sour-milk expression. Smoothly? Lord Elder, were you not in attendance at the Sword Step Dance last month?

Pinkface remembered the function well. Numerous courtiers had gathered into a square, fifty or so attendees standing on each side of the formation. In the center, illuminated by torches, the principal males had performed the slow, ominous Sword Step Dance. It was an evening rich in good steps, he noted. Medcutt was especially impressive with his Skipping of Three Upright Daggers. I was put in mind of his grandfather’s marvelous performance that year after the dragonfly pestilence. . .

Bodin interrupted querulously, a minor infraction of Chamber by-laws which made Pinkface frown. I refer to the occurrences during the Dance of Imposing Horizontal Blades.

Yes. Well, you were in command of most your movements. I noted you did not omit the double-footed blade press. Pinkface recalled that Bodin had barely done justice to the rigorous, traditional rucklen dance. His efforts had been committed, but his blocky body thwarted his attempts at lithe movement and the judges had taken off points for his heavy breathing and copious sweating.

But I’m sure you also noted that my half-brother did not do the double-footed blade press. In fact, he even left out the single-footed press.

I believe it’s customary to consider that movement optional.

"Don’t you see it’s typical of Aulic’s lax dance attitudes? He did only one hilt circumference swoop where I performed seven. And his blade under-hops were sadly limp and completely lacking in enthusiasm. Bodin’s eyes grew dark at the memory. His entire performance lacked energy. And last night was the crowning insult! Rather than dance, as befits a rucklen, Aulic leaned against a wall, drinking grog all night!"

Pinkface’s mind drifted longingly to Moldcutt’s history of the Athraim Valley, an account he was eager to finish. To be called into the Chamber to hear the petulant whines of a disgruntled rucklen was an abuse of his time. Forgive me for my lack of insight, but I fail to understand how your dissatisfaction with the dances amounts to a slackening of order at court.

Bodin pursed his lips in disbelief. If a soldier slackens his march, does it not disturb the entire army? If a goat squirts poor milk, does it not darken the reputation of the whole dairy? These failures are symptoms of my half-brother’s larger failure, part of a miserable pattern. A few notes in a quite ugly tune. Bodin clenched his teeth and tried to breathe slowly. My half-brother’s Maturity Rituals are upon us. You must see that these ordeals are performed strictly to the letter of Prension Code! In accordance with every bylaw of the Tomes! I cannot bear to see his flagrant disregard for tradition ruin such a hallowed practice.

Rucklen Bodin, declaimed Pinkface, be assured I would never countenance sub-standard Maturity Rituals. I, if anyone, am keenly aware of the virtues of maturity. I am one of the most mature men I know. As the Tomes say, a man who has not his maturity is a man we may not call a man, allowing that man could ever be a man.

Exactly. Bodin’s chin hurt from the incommodious curve of the block and Pinkface’s whinnying voice was annoying him. Why was he cursed with such fine-tuned sensibilities? He longed for a large dish of yogurt and raspberry blankets. You must guarantee that no slackness will be allowed to Rucklen Aulic.

"It will not happen. The Maturity Rituals are one of