Fablegate

By L R Farish

Welcome to the North Pole, north of everything, south of nowhere in particular. Population: 1,500.

That's 1,485 Elves, 1 Human, 1 Elemental Dragon, 1 Mutant Human Enchanted By A Sea Witch To Be A Reindeer, and 12 Sleigh-pulling Reindeer of the talking, flying variety that enjoy lichen pellets and really juicy gossip.

Of the 1,485 Elves, one is a quiet inventor named Reisse Grey. Just trying to go about his business while King Kringle is on holiday, Reisse is soon hounded by an amorous princess hoping to woo and wile him away from his tower workshop. Having none of it, and seeking a cozy place to hide from the royal entourage, Reisse sneaks into the home of the reindeer, and the home of the Pole's reclusive factotum Max Drowther. Unfortunately, Reisse's plan only leads him right to Max, with a lot of help from the Grange's animals. Not interested in running away from Drowther's potential wrath all at once, Reisse is persuaded to believe that staying at the Grange was all Max's idea. Until, of course, he learns he was conned by the 1 Mutant Human Enchanted By A Sea Witch To Be A Reindeer, otherwise known as Dreng the Phlegm. Dreng has motives of his own to get Reisse to hang around the Grange. He thinks Max's life could do with a little excitement, a slight overhaul, and that definitely includes some loving from a big-eyed, adorable half-elf like Reisse.

Once Max finds out what Dreng's been up to, it isn't all snowflakes hitting the fan as long-eared reindeer suppose. But Max has a reputation for being helpful, even if it's usually through a wrench or a well-timed appearance via the Pole's secret passages. Not wanting to disappoint the few friends he has, and aware that hell tends to unfurl while the King's away, Max allows Reisse to tag along on some of his handyman assignments.

An enormous anomaly is visually captured by the Pole Observers way off in the distance of the grounds. Max is told he has to investigate. The Pole Delegates, the Pole Observers, and even some of the reindeer, believe that the anomaly beyond the Fablegate is related to the attempts on Reisse Grey's life, Max's unwillingness to hand Reisse over to the Delegates without a strongly-worded argument, and, exhaustibly, the nonsensical nightmares plaguing both Max and Reisse.

Max is the lone human at the Pole, and the only one with the special privilege of all previous Pole Factotums: To travel beyond the Fablegate. This giant iron gate was a gift of the fairy gods to maintain the secrecy, magic and presence of the North Pole in an ever-present sphere of energy.

And so begins a whole array of intrigue, magic, poison, swordplay and romance. The more Max involves himself in Reisse's problems, the more he wonders what he's capable of. Finally letting go of his past, of course, since no good anti-hero is worth his salt if he doesn't have an enigmatic past. He'd like to try living up to the shadowy, vague expectations of his future self, but, mostly, he'd like to settle back into the factotum routine with his Grange friends, and Reisse by his side. If, that is, he can keep Reisse, and himself, alive long enough for even a taste of that elusive happily-ever-after.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L R Farish
• Release date: Dec 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215360262

L R Farish

Please add me to your favorites list, as I plan to release a backlog of work steadily throughout the next couple of years. Visit the journal/blog for updates. Note the new journal/blog address! (Old links will still work, but updates are forthcoming to former links in released books.)Everything I write is created using 100% Authentic Human Brain. I am not AI. I do not use AI. I will never use AI.Thank you for your support!---Recent ReleasesJuly 2022 - Death in a Broken TownSeptember 2022 - Darke Crossing (in which "Darke" is not spelled incorrectly)February 2023 - The Ugly Baker---Upcoming Releases1 Sep 2023 - Big on Lyrics

Book preview

Fablegate

by L R Farish

Copyright 2023

Cover design: LRF, 2023

Reindeer photo by Sebastien Goldberg at Unsplash

First Smashwords Edition

12 December 2023

For more information visit www.smashwords.com

.

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental and not the intention of the author.

This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage all the friends you have to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer, or you may make multiple purchases in various formats. Thank you for your support.

Other Books by L.R. Farish

Death in a Broken Town

Darke Crossing

The Ugly Baker

Big on Lyrics

Possibly Coming Soon:

Uncle Mirco's Will

Neverwhere

Kindly dedicated to anyone who

wanted to run away and join,

maybe not only a circus,

but, you know, the North Pole workforce.

Fablegate

1.

If the door didn't shut behind Max Drowther at an early hour, it was unlikely he'd make it through the day's checklist of duties before he ran out of energy. Only a few souls in the cold and snowy palace at the top of the world woke as early as the busy factotum. Many of those souls were latched to furry and four-legged creatures. They had a tendency to keep Max from sleeping long enough to finish painting his dreams. He usually snapped to reality in the middle of something pleasant, like a decent wander through lush, velvety greenery with a certain individual that always seemed to poke into his thoughts. It'd been so long since he'd seen anything greener than the palace's Rendattin Garden, and ever so much longer since he'd felt as close to someone as he did in his dreams. 

Reluctantly, Max let go of the nocturnal visions, rolled over, and knew that he was being looked at. Looked at really hard. He spotted a big, round dark eye an uncomfortable eighteen inches away. He shot up, making his head ache in the sudden loss of sleep, and exposing himself to the cold of a room whose fire had died and whose covered window shuffled in the freezing degrees of March. He slapped a palm across his face. 

The eye blinked and the furry mouth, splashed in paleness so different from his burnt-umber pelt, started to crank open. Max pleated the whiskery lips to a close.

No speaking this early in the morning.

Dreng, the human-turned-reindeer, delivered to Max the silentest of pleas. He really needed to talk. There was something nagging at him. Muff, moff, ee muff—

Max pinched the lips a little harder. I was up earlier and fed everyone, so there can be no reason for you to talk to me. You can talk after I've dressed. Not before. Not a second before. Promise?

Woefully, and feeling mildly maligned, Dreng poured all his regret into a nod. His terrific rack of antlers swayed in time with the bobbing of his head. At last, his lips were freed. He smacked them and rolled them, checking that their abilities hadn't been injured. Max had incredibly strong hands. The better to pinch reindeers' lips with. 

Good. Your voice can be a little shrill in the morning, that's all. And you always act like you have something urgent to tell me.

Dreng stomped a hoof on the rough floor of Max's room. Yes! He had something important to say! And his voice was not shrill. Just a little enthusiastic, maybe. Max might be a little less gruesome in the morning if he didn't have to wake up to the enthusiastic voice of Dreng the Phlegm, the former pirate leader who was used to yelling commands to his group of seafaring galoots. A lack of human company and voices inflicted Naker's Grange like a plague. Max should be waking up to the dulcet tones only a lover could produce. Max should be with someone by now. What was taking him so long? 

Dreng maneuvered from Max's path to the curtained doorway, staring after it once the reindeer master vanished on the other side. Maybe Max's nose would be highly sensitive that day. They do say that people start resembling their pets after a while, and if Max wasn't going to grow a set of antlers or get any hairier, maybe his olfactory sense would improve. But that would cause a shift in biology and genetics, and Dreng quickly decided his inner-monologue was acting very foolishly, even maudlin, this morning. 

He ducked expertly around the thin baize shield that did little to protect Max's lounge-bedroom from the rest of the Grange. Beyond the curtain, Dreng was dumped in the little grotto, with the hallway to the other end of the Grange on his left, and the tiny corridor ahead, accessed through a hinged gate—there were lots of those in the Grange—that would put him at the Grange's front door. And to his right, the main grotto, where the sled was readied every Christmas, with doors that opened onto the wintery field. The grotto was made less fantastic by the fact that two closets, one holding yummy reindeer and dragon treats, and the other the prosaicness of brooms and dustpans, were hidden in the walls. Off the main grotto, fourteen stalls—twelve for the reindeer, one for the spare, the extra for storage. Beyond the main grotto, the tack room, then the arena.

To the left, however, Dreng's hooves paraded. Every once in a while, he would sniff very deeply, and there it would be again. That smell. A foreign scent, like something sweet and spicy he'd smelled once off the shores of Bangladesh. Abruptly, Dreng sneezed, just as he alighted at the open door of the bathroom. It was a dingy, sad space, where time wasn't wasted on pursuits of vanity. Dreng automatically knew that Max would not shave that day. Next to talking to people, and maybe going out of his way to find someone to hug out of his dreams once rather than in them, shaving was not one of Max's favorite things. It was true that people started resembling their pets. 

You know, boss, you're starting to look an awful lot like Hanzul, Dreng said without thinking. Most of what Dreng said was done without forethought. His actions were like that, too. Hanzul was the eldest reindeer, well over a hundred, who'd long ago given up the harness of Lead Reindeer. He was also the wisest, the most silvery from age. Dreng figured he must've meant it as a compliment. Even he wasn't really sure what he'd said, yet tried to have a defense ready within seconds. He had to defend a lot of what he said.

Rather than acknowledge the comment, Max shut the door on Dreng. It was rickety on its hinges, and, like most everything in the Grange, it didn't work properly. Max might have the whole of the North Pole to fix with some glue and a screwdriver, and he certainly kept it from caving in on itself, but the Grange started to look a lot like some shipwrecks Dreng had seen—and may or may not have been slightly responsible for. 

He wasn't going to find that smell. Already, he'd gone through every cranny of the Grange, and found no source of that luscious and strange perfume. Waiting outside the unstable door for Max to emerge, Dreng waved his head around to catch a glimpse of Vaitel. She was a small dragon, roughly the size of a bigeye tuna, and about as ugly. Her scaly skin of blue and bright green was nowhere in visible sight. Her odor wasn't near his nose. His eyes were unreliable, but his sense of smell was one that he trusted. 

Urgently, Dreng knocked a hoof into the door, scraped it with his antlers just for good measure. Ma-a-a-a-a-a-a-ax! I need to tell you that something's wro-o-o-o-o-ong!

Will you shut up? You don't need to wail like a crying child.

But there's something wrong, I tell you! Wrong! Some kind of smell! A bad smell!

If it smells bad, blame Dezzit. We usually do.

Dreng was momentarily distracted by Max's dive into juvenile humor. How they'd bonded through the years over Dezzit's inclination to really stink up the joint! Ha, that's true, that's really—but no! Max, you're not listening. I'm telling you, there's something fishy going on here. Or maybe. Maybe spicy. He tested the smell again. Yeah, definitely spicy. One of my mates used to drink this really disgusting tea, blah, from India, and it smells like that. Like cardamom, cinnamon and ballsack dirt.

Maybe someone's drinking tea in the kitchens, and its wafting in here. Wouldn't be the first time.

"But there's something human in it, too! Did you not hear me mention ballsack dirt?"

I was trying to forget that you did say that. Max finally opened the door, needing to be careful so that the tricky hinge didn't fall apart. Dreng pranced around. He was smaller than most of the reindeer, the sea witch had seen to that when she'd cursed him, and he could twirl around in just about any part of the Grange. Max stopped him by grabbing an antler and holding on. 

I haven't got time for this, Dreng. Helsa's probably left the list on the door already. Helsa was the head witch-elf of the Pole, and it was her responsibility to collect the factotum's jobs and give the list to him. He didn't know how it'd become her responsibility. All he knew is that since his mentors, Snip and Leaf, had died, no one came to the Grange's door anymore, preferring to leave their to-do lists with Helsa. He slithered into a waistcoat with a missing button and a hole frayed down to the silk lining. You're probably just smelling a mouse that'd been in the kitchen pantry. Nothing to worry about. 

The hand that came down to rub his muzzle hardly pacified Dreng. But, boss!

Dreng, with King Kringle on holiday—

"Yeah, I'm glad he didn't ask me to go with him. I'd hate to see his pasty white legs on a Bermuda beach."

Max went on after tossing Dreng a reprimanding look. With him gone, everyone here will feel a little—

Lost?

A little—

Inconvenienced?

A little—

Oh, I know! Wild and uncouth! Wouldn't it do these sour elves some good to let their hair down! Although I do hear that they don't wear underwear, and I really think with the clothes they were that—ow! Dreng's snout smarted. Don't get your dander up with me, boss! I've seen your underwear, and it's really nothing to write home about. It avoids every adjective, except maybe 'dull.' So, with the King away, you're saying I should expect the mice to run through the kitchen pantry and come here to the Grange smelling like cardamom?

I'm saying that I don't have time to chase every mouse that comes in here, and inspect every little strange smell. I'm overworked as it is.

You wouldn't be, if you found a spouse, Dreng grumbled.

What?

I said, um, I'm so hungry I could eat a grouse. 

Max didn't think that's what Dreng had said, but he lacked the interest to pursue it. He opened the creaky wardrobe doors, continuing to provide Dreng with directions. 

I'll need to you to keep an eye on things here, too, said Max, swirling a brown canvas coat behind him, throwing his long, strong arms into it. Don't let the reindeer gossip too much.

Yeah, like I can stop that from happening. Why don't I just go outside and make it eighty degrees and sunny while I'm at it?

Keep their gossip to a minimum. But if you hear anything interesting, Max and Dreng shared a conspiratorial look, pass it along to me. There's always a bit of intrigue when King Kringle is away.

Dreng recalled last year's antic with a snicker. Remember when the twins painted mustaches on all the statues last year, and some not-very-nice, er, graphic depictions of certain anatomical aspects of the human form? Ah, it was a splendid, splendid thing. Wish I'd had my camera. And they used a compound they'd mixed themselves, of glue and tar, so it was really, really hard to get off.

I don't remember it as fondly as you do. Will you make sure everyone in the Grange behaves? That's all I ask. I'm going to be really busy until the King returns. 

Dreng loved Max, loved him like a loyal sailor loved his captain. It'd been ages since Dreng had felt deference towards another human the way he did towards Max. Back in his own Inter-dimensional Realm of Earth, the elves' fancy way of saying 'your own time', Dreng had been the captain, and he'd gathered respect and admiration from his loyal band of followers. He couldn't think of them now without a pang, not sure what'd happened to them, unable to find out. At least he had Max, and the other reindeer were moderately companionable.

He gave a low bow to Max. Yes, all right, I promise to do what I can to help you during this difficult time. But I still smell something rotten in the state of Denmark, or at least this Scandi realm, if you know what I mean. Like burned pebernødder. And you know how much I love pebernødder. Just not burned. That's all.

We'll talk about it when I come back. Max wished Dreng wouldn't bow like that, it made a man uncomfortable. He didn't have the high opinion of much of the Pole, but he certainly had it from the reindeer, and from Vaitel. He grabbed one ubiquitous tool of morning trade, the crowbar, and with it a pair of scarred leather working gloves. That floor absolutely had to be taken out this morning. But he tarried to scratch Dreng on the nose. Why don't you go out in the arena and play with the other reindeer?

Nah, Dreng sat on his haunches, looking both bored and dejected. Think I'll try catching up on my sleep.

Oh, the life of a reindeer! I'll be back in a couple of hours, Max said, beelining for the front door. 

Dreng trailed Max into the grotto, heard the front door open and close, and again found himself testing the air for that mysterious scent. It had grown stronger—much stronger. It even seemed to have a positive direction. To the north, otherwise known as left, where the Grange wound into a deep swell of black far, far down, past the unused stalls and the limited dance of wall sconces' flames, he descried no foreign body, but his intrigue was piqued. 

No one, Dreng thought again, ever came to the Grange. What a day to break with tradition!

He marched ahead into the grimiest, smelliest end of the barn. Above him on a rafter, Dreng heard Vaitel's teeny toenails clicking along the wood. She was guiding him. She'd known all the while that someone was at the Grange. It was probably one of her tests, seeing how long it took him to discover the intruder. 

The cardamom's intensity slammed the back of his nose and made the space between his eyes feel heavy. The odor was brought to mind wet steel, ashes in a wet pit, guns popping off as the Astra Arrow's crew defended itself. But there was a softness to the smells, a sweetness, maybe of soap, hair tonic or grease or something flat and witnessed every day. 

Dreng used his antlers to sweep the stall door to the side. In the confined space, he saw a blackness just blacker than the surroundings, and, without thinking, caught it in his teeth. He bit down hard, tugged, pulled, dug his forelegs into the old litter and straw and dust and tugged again. He growled.

Hey, let go, let go! cried the prowler. He tried to release the end of his cloak from the mouth of a very unreasonable, very surprising reindeer. Its bout of contention was purposive, that much could be said. He grabbed his hand around the cloak and yanked. The fabric ripped. The reindeer trounced backward a whole pace, and looked startled, almost cowed. I am not going to hurt you.

Naturally, Dreng was doubtful. He'd seen so few elves since he'd come to the Pole that one stranger was the epitome of interest and apprehension. You sure about that? Ah, of course you're sure! Anyway, if you did hurt me, Max would hurt you.

That's likely right, he said, giving a disinterested examination to his cloak. Then his head shot up. Dreng couldn't really decide if the young elf was good looking or not. He was regal, something about him screamed courtliness and chivalry. Didn't Max just leave?

Lucky for you, you just missed him, Dreng said. He was feeling more inclined to like the elf, intrusive behavior notwithstanding. So, he drawled the word out, what'cha doing here?

I was just ... I wanted somewhere to ... hide, he finished the sentence off with a lame swipe of his hand. 

Dreng noted the inflation of fatigue. Tired, are you? H'mm. Come in here for a sleep? A little too many goblets of wine last night, maybe? Dreng gave the stretch of gold vest closest to him an exploratory sniff. No, not alcohol. Well, if anyone in Naker's Grange understands what it's like to want to escape for a little while, that'd be me! What's your name? Occupation? Age? Marital status?

I'm Reisse Grey, he started, wondering if it was an interrogation or an introduction. Inventor. Nobody knows. Single.

Reisse Grey. The name was not familiar in the least. Dreng had no great memory for names. But, upon hearing it, and with the cuteness and innocence emanated by Reisse, and Max's amply sour mood as of late, Dreng decided that a prank should be in the works. Vaitel was not the only Grange resident that could make Max's day brighter with intrigue and mayhem. He became plastered in an comity that was not altogether unusual for him. 

Oh, Reisse Grey, is it? Oh, well, Reisse Grey! We've been expecting you! 

Reisse Grey's face changed from wonder to shock. Have you?

Most definitely. Max heard about your plight. Dreng supposed there was a plight. An elf like Reisse Grey couldn't hold such a worry-green shade without one. 

The advent of such a discovery flew Reisse's heart into unaccustomed rapidity, his throat into a constriction that did little to help the heart. He'd planned to tell the factotum himself if the opportunity arose. Yet how uncanny was it that Max, whose business took him into every nook and cranny of the Pole, should have already caught wind of the unfortunate happening? He peered into the upturned face of the reindeer for signs of a scam. Reisse immediately huffed, his shoulders dropping, as he realized that he was not particularly good at sussing out one fabulist from a room of honest beings. 

What did Mr. Drowther say? Reisse inquired, itching to know but frightened of the response.

Dreng had it planned now. The avenue ahead of him was one beautifully paved lie. That you'd probably come here looking for him. He is good at helping people. You know that, Mr. Grey. So he told me to tell you that you should go into the bedroom and rest for a while. Come along, I'll show you where it is! 

Happy with his ploy, and anticipating the look on Max's face, Dreng quickened their pace down the hall. Doing one pirouette to point out a door, he nearly lobbed his rack into Mr. Grey, but the elf's coordination thwarted the accident. 

Just going to say, he bobbed his head to the last door they'd passed, the last door at the end of a row of five doors, that's the privy, in case you gotta go. There's a sink and mirror in there, too, but it's kind of dirty and you won't look so great. The next door's the storage room. Another storage room that used to be a bedroom. The curtain here's the current bedroom-slash-lounge. 

Reisse shuffled the curtain to the side, with a little help from Dreng, and peered into the overstuffed lounge. A healthy fire in one small inlet on the right wall gave the room its only light. Enough illumination added contrast to the shapes within: a chair, a table laden with books, a candlestick table, a double-doored wardrobe, a box at the foot of the low bed that seemed to be the dragon's nest, and a narrow bed that carried three wide drawers beneath the mattress frame. A shelf wound the whole of the room, ten inches below the plaster and beam ceiling, full of books, artifacts of unknown character, rustic figurines carved from pine, and wooden boxes of all shapes and sizes. It was simple, quiet and warm. Reisse was ensorcelled by the luxury of it, very unlike his laboratory high in the Pole's pinnacle. 

Did Mr. Drowther really say it was all right?

Of course he did! Dreng relied on his exuberance to lure people. It enabled him to seduce countless women, the more powerful and independent the better, in his bygone era as a piratical sybarite. Those were the days! Now he was trying to lure an elf into Max's bed. The components were completely opposite, but the maneuvering was really not so different. He glissaded into the room, and Mr. Grey had no choice but to follow. And there, like the old days, the scheme unfolded.

It ended with Reisse once again chirping uncertainties through a yawn. Are you sure he said this was all right?

Your worries are over, little elf, was all Dreng replied. It was neither a lie nor a truth. What was wrong with giving someone hope? Max was known for taking care of the Pole's problems, though generally that was mechanical, cosmetic, often inclined to the business of plumbing, but who needed to know that right now?

Reisse turned his back to the room, and in a minute let go of the fear he had of any potential wrath Max Drowther could unleash. He had never seen anger from the factotum, had never even heard rumors pertaining to any foul temper, though rumors of Max Drowther were plentiful. Reisse had never liked to hear the factotum disparaged. His thoughts wound into images, the images into sensations, and, finally, the horror lay behind him, for once, instead of right in front of him. 

Dreng hummed to himself a little ditty his pirate chums used to sing during nights of revelry. He was going to sit outside the bedroom door and wait for the boss to come home. That's exactly what he was going to do! He might have hours to wait. It was still very early in the morning. Until then, he'd keep an eye on Reisse Grey. A possessiveness came over him, one that told him to protect Mr. Grey from the protuberant eyes of his housemates. Normal reindeer were not noticeably curious, not like cats were obnoxiously curious, but these talking reindeer, these magical beasts, Dreng found their behavior unpredictable. It didn't matter what the reindeer thought. This was Dreng's plan. Dreng the Phlegm! Back again with one of his old tricks!

He raised his head to find Vaitel, her multi-colored skin slightly shiny, her yellow, phosphorescent eyes narrowed. She hadn't gnawed on Mr. Grey yet, and haven't even warned Dreng or the other reindeer that an intruder had entered. This caused Dreng to tilt his head.

I know what game I'm playing, but what's your game, Vaitel?

She blinked several times, let her tail unfurl from its tense curl, and gave that muffled oink that so resembled a laugh.

2.

Dreng lost track of the minutes in an accidental doze, and the rattling of the Grange's front door woke him. He had a momentary panic soon traced by a sense of loss. The prank, over already! Part of the greatness of the prank was its build-up. Well, he'd have to enjoy it without much anticipation. 

Hey, boss! What's going on? What were you doing back so soon? Dreng noticed what paleness flecked Max, his black-gray hair and his coat: wood chips. You look like a package of toothpicks left too long in a blender.

Whatever Dreng's IDRE had been, the idioms, the language, the facetiousness of speech was so far removed from Max's time that he'd spent the first three weeks around Dreng in utter dumbness. The vapidity had worked well for talkative Dreng, but Max had learned to uncover the idiosyncrasies of the reindeer he cared for. You're hiding something.

What a vile accusation! Am not! 

Over his head, Max heard that unusual wheeze of Vaitel's laughter. Yes, you are. What is it? May as well tell me now, Dreng, get it out of the way, since you know I'll find out soon enough. Look, Max started, seeing Dreng's eyes dart back and forth in the precursor of a lie, I've had a bad morning, all right? I just met Helsa in the hall with the daily chore list, he emphasized the paper crumbled against crowbar and gloves, and she wouldn't say more than five words to me. She told me that if I should see Mr. Grey around I should send him to her.

Dude, boss, that's, like, ten words, not five. Dreng's eyes went wide, sorrowful, and his ears lay down flat as he lowered his head. Just saying is all. And what about Mr. Grey?

Max tried swerving around Dreng to get to the bedroom. Again, Dreng sidled to prevent it. I just told you that I don't know. She wouldn't tell me. 

Did he kill someone?

I doubt it.

Then why the big concern? 

I don't know! Will you let me by?

Well, uh, wait a second! Let's talk about this! Dreng didn't like the thought that he'd just invited a wanted fugitive of the Pole into Max's bed. All arena privileges might be revoked for a prank with a bloody outcome. He moved his rump in front of the curtain. Max looked fearfully determined to get by. Um, maybe we should go looking for Reisse, yeah, and then we'll be able to help!

Hold on.

Dreng gulped. He knew from Max's tone that something was wrong.

I never said his name was Reisse. Max settled the rounded end of the crowbar to the bottom branch of Dreng's left antler. How do you know his name is Reisse Grey? Have the reindeer been gossiping again? The mice? He let his head gesture to the perched dragon. Vaitel? Who's been talking? And why won't you let me in my room? Vaitel defecate on my good boots again?

Dreng attempted to smile. So, which of those questions do you want me to answer first? I can do them in order of importance, least to greatest, greatest to least. Or I can—eek! He felt his rack pulled by the crowbar. Not enough to hurt him, Max would never do that, but enough to annoy him and, more importantly, shut him up. 

If you won't tell me what's going on, then get out of my way, Dreng. 

I really think you should calm down, go have some tea, or go get some proper nosh!

Dreng!

Max swung upward as the curtain to the bedroom rushed aside. He lost all sensation of awareness the moment he realized the person standing there was Reisse Grey. They might've just seen one another yesterday morning in the dining room, often getting there the same late hour, often leaving at the same time, but never, ever speaking a word to one another. Reisse's golden-brown head and alluring gray-green eyes were recognizable anyplace, anytime. To recognize Reisse in Naker's Grange was a thrill, the materialization of a fantasy with an origin in Max's first morning at the Pole. 

Max whipped the crowbar from Dreng's magnificent crown and, with his hands shaking, swung it behind his back. How was he supposed to talk to Reisse Grey? Perhaps the reason he'd never gone out of his way to do it was the amount of effort involved. Any bland phrase would never capture the attention of the genius Pole inventor. How much of our conversation did you hear?

Reisse passed a hand across his face, brow to chin. After the movement, Max saw the light play differently on the quarter-elf's skin. What was that, some elven magic at work? No, not magic. Max decided it was an ordinary film of sweat. 

Enough, Reisse replied. He wiped his palm against the front of his vest, then held it out for Max. I'm Reisse Grey. We've never formally met.

Max looked at the hand, looked at Reisse. After noticing someone for ten years, and never having the audacity to speak to him, surely a handshake was an insult. Max's excuses were in the amount of equipment he was carrying. He couldn't drop it all to shake Reisse's hand. You were at my factotum inauguration years ago. The first one, for Factotum de Facto. You weren't at the second one. What brings you to the Grange, Mr. Grey?

He said he was hiding, Dreng provided. The prank had not been as grand as he'd imagined. Nothing ever was as grand as he'd imagined. Still, Max's mood was of interest, being that he was neither angry at Dreng, at least not yet, nor angry at Mr. Grey for being so relaxed at the Grange. Max's reaction had not been accurately predicted. He didn't say what he was hiding from.

Ah, Max began to understand. I happen to know who he's hiding from.

You do? Reisse and Dreng said it simultaneously, one piteously the other robustly. 

Max had no wish to embarrass Mr. Grey in front of Dreng, and he'd grown exhausted by Vaitel's rasps. Dreng, don't you have something you should be doing? He used an elbow to push Mr. Grey back into the room. As Dreng was on the verge of saying he had nothing else to do, Max tugged the curtain as closed as he could. 

Humph! All this work for a prank, and that was the end of Dreng's experience. He stretched out on the floor in front of the curtain, eager to listen if he could no longer participate. 

Max swirled around, still unsure if Reisse Grey really understood how odd it was for him to be there. Helsa is looking for you. 

I can't go and see her just yet, Reisse said. He observed the contents of the wardrobe once Max drew apart its doors. A black coat he'd seen Max wear infrequently through the years. A couple of colorful vests he'd never seen Max wear. The bottom drawer exposed the countless tools of Max's trade as Pole repairman. Reisse quickly noticed that he'd left some wrinkles in the quilt, smoothed them out, let out one corner of a fur cover that had gotten tucked under itself. What else did Helsa say?

Just that she wants to see you.

And you know why?

I assume it has something to do with Krismirra. Reisse's emitted noise, a cross between a swear and a disdainful exhalation, supplied Max with answers. Not too keen on her, are you? Most men would throw themselves at a princess willing to woo him.

I am not most men, Reisse responded hastily, his voice raised, his fists clenched. This has been going on for a whole week, and before I am the laughing stock of the entire kingdom I wish to put an end to it. She won't listen to reason. And I don't like Helsa. She frightens me about as much as Krismirra.

Max knelt in front of the bottom drawer of the wardrobe. The worst job of the day, tearing up an old floor in one of the unused rooms of Alyturath, was now complete. He'd come back to the Grange for the standard accessory of every factotum: the toolbox. By rights, the toolbox belonged to the Kringle-Trueworth Northern Realm Monarchy. The seal had been stamped on the bottom of it the day it was made in the workshop. All the members of the maintenance staff had claimed the toolbox. Initials of those former masters of the trade were scratched into the bottom, around the seal. Before Marty died, he'd passed the title of Naker's Grange Manager over to Max, in a brief, scarcely-attended ceremony in Kringle's study. Marty, King Kringle, Maria the Cook, and Reisse Grey had watched on as Max used his pen knife to scratch MD into the bottom, below MS. He was the eleventh handyman. He wondered, late at night when he couldn't sleep, who the twelfth would be.

"Can't say I blame you for being scared of Krismirra and Helsa. Is it Helsa's hats? They're unnerving, her hats. Always with some kind of stuffed bird on them. He was relieved that Mr. Grey snickered, then fell back into his present torture. I don't know why you're taking to hiding in strange places, sleeping in a stranger's bed—"

Dreng told me you were expecting me, Reisse said, again unsure how Max would react, and he said it was all right. I apologize for any offense.

I'm not offended. I've often thought my bed must be the best in the Pole and wished I could invite you around to try it. Max was checking the glue's consistency, able to see Mr. Grey stiffen out the corner of his eye. I mean, not you personally, but you in general. I don't know who's looking for you, other than a smitten princess and a curious witch, but you're welcome to tag along with me if you'd like.

Reisse was suspicious. Max Drowther hadn't spoken to him voluntarily in ten years. But they'd eyed one another, in rather a quick, bashful manner, almost every day, sometimes a dozen times a day, for ten years. From various sources, the King to the sculleries, Reisse had always heard that Max Drowther was the one to go to if trouble gave chase. Trouble, in the form of a redheaded, feckless princess and sentries spying for him around every corner, was eagerly in pursuit. 

You won't mind? Wait. You're not cleaning out privies or anything, are you?

Not today. And that's not my job, anyhow, unless they're broken. I'll be roaming around the hallways for a little while, but I don't like to work where there's a lot of pedestrians so you needn't worry too greatly about that. Then I will be off to the Tumblette.

The Tumblette, Reisse repeated, unable to tamper a brief smile. The blithe continued in his expression. I am fond of the Tumblette, that's all. As long as you're not going to force me to see Helsa.

Max led them into the corridor, succeeded in skipping over Dreng on the floor, though Mr. Grey was not quite so fortunate. He regained his balance, nearly flew into another attack when Dreng screamed in surprise. 

Sorry, Reisse said, daring to console by petting the reindeer's nose. The fur was not soft, but thick, wiry, more so than a horse. His wrist was grabbed and hauled off by Max. 

We'll be here all day if you start with the petting. Grab the rope, will you? 

Max pointed to a series of four coiled ropes suspended from pegs between the bedroom curtain and the first storage room. He knew Reisse wouldn't know which one to take. They were all the same rope, really, with one in better shape than the rest. Reisse grabbed the newest one. Max hadn't meant for it to be a test, but he was curious as to Reisse Grey's observational skills, as if they had really noticed one another through the last ten years or if that had been a creation of Max's inexpert imagination. It might not have been a test, but, even if it wasn't, Reisse passed.

Max began wondering where he'd put his hat. He couldn't go into Calaglace Hall without it. As the foremost residence of the Pole, with the royals and politicians living there, it was unfathomable for the factotum to venture there with his head bare. The hat soon found its place, dropped from the rafters by an obliging Vaitel. He had a feeling she'd let Dreng tease Reisse Grey on purpose. Boredom her main reason, though he wasn't unwilling to rule out any other motive that best fit her intentions. As far as Max recalled, he'd never mentioned Reisse Grey in the Grange before ten minutes ago, and Vaitel could have no reason to treat the intruder kindly, unless, for an indecipherable reason, she liked him. Vaitel rarely liked anyone. In that aspect, she and Max were kindred. But he liked Reisse Grey. 

You're really not going to force me to see Helsa? Reisse asked, eager to have his anxiety eased. 

I never force anyone to see a witch against his will. 

Vaitel leapt from the nearest crossbeam and clung to Max. Reisse ogled the movement, intrigued by Vaitel's closeness to Max, and Max's willingness to let the elemejraket cling to him. Max petted the taloned feet at the base of his neck. She burrowed her cool face against his warm neck, his thick, stringy hair that she'd watched change from black to gray and more gray. The distant, uncertain look in his eyes, the moment he walked into the barn, rather implied that Max was part dragon. True, he didn't have scales and his tail was in the front and not the back, but that hardly mattered. At his heart, he was a dragon. It was difficult to let this interloper, this dheilen, this quarter-elf sneak into her domain and raise Max's interest. 

She squeezed him a final time, then hurried off to a dim corner where she could see him but he couldn't see her. At the front door, Max held it open for Reisse. The dheilen slipped out, then Max, and the closing of the door extinguished all light. 

Huh! blurted Dreng to Vaitel. I hope you're happy! You know Max is no good at having friends! He isn't! If you let Reisse come in here and stay in here! And! Oh! Never mind! But I know you're doing this on purpose! 

Streams of pale blue smoke twisted with slips of white from her nostrils as she sank her belly onto a beam. She had done it on purpose. It was time the Grange changed. To do that, Max had to change. And Reisse was an exceptional elf. He had to be.

3.

What are we going to do at Calaglace, Mr. Drowther? Reisse wished Mr. Drowther had let him carry the toolbox instead of the rope. But watching the heavy metal box bang against Max's shin at each step, Reisse changed his mind. He wiped his palm down the front of his coat. The rope's accumulation of dust had irritated his skin. He hoped Max would allow them to dispense with formalities. Calling Max Mr. Drowther seemed utterly foreign.

Max smiled. He still thought of Mr. Drowther as his father, or his grandfather, even his uncle. The elves were rarely so ceremonious. The only time Marty and Tom called me Mr. Drowther, I knew I'd done something worthy of a lecture. Don't do it again, Reisse.

No, I definitely won't. What's the rope for?

A couple of pulleys in the upper gallery. We toss the rope up to get the ropes on the pulleys down. I'll show you. Easier to do than explain. The tapers are low in several fixtures and should be replaced. Not afraid of heights, are you?

It's the least of my fears. You should see where I sleep. When the King brought me here in the sleigh, he thought I'd cower down and hide my eyes. He was impressed that I clung to the side to see how tiny and free and untroubled the world looked. If I ever talk too much, just say so. I hear that you don't talk a lot. That, in addition to my own need to prattle, I'm always talking when I'm at work in the lab, it might seem that I am more chatty than I really am.

Marty and Tom had been incessant chatterers. Max hadn't realized how