Duke Robswaffle raised a fork to his mouth, chuckling lightly over the thought of finally landing the foreclosure against the Bluebits. His chuckle rattled in his gullet, and he coughed. Then he wheezed. Finally he choked, gasped, gurgled, and fell down face-first in his own breakfast, all his wicked deeds not even affording him the time to panic. The chambermaid screamed.
Outside, Tolb the sub-under-gardener was running the lawnmower and didn’t hear anything. Five minutes later he finished the lawn, put away his tools, and left the estate just before the officers of the law arrived, completely unaware of any ruckus.
He went to a pub down the way, drank a pint of something, lost five bits on a game of cards with a local pal of his that he’d originally won from her anyways, drank a pint again (this time of something larger and meaner), lost ten bits he probably couldn’t afford, said goodbye as politely as he could, and went home.
Home was small and dirty and cramped and shared with a rotation of others. Tolb had a shot of something in an effort to chase away the sure-to-come hangover, ate a dirty biscuit and surly bread, and fell asleep wishing he had some cheese.
The next day he came to work at the Robswaffle estate and found its gates barred.
“What’s going on?” he asked a passerby.
“The Duke is dead!” they told him. “His vile deeds caught up with him!”
“Oh,” said Tolb. “I guess I’d better find other work.”
And he did, at some point.
Lady Whibsy-Herringbone, fifth knife of her line, missed. She missed with grace and skill. She missed with great alacrity. She missed with élan and panache and maybe even vivacity. But the most important part of all of that was that she missed, and so her stubby little blade thunked past Lord Basil Tonington’s nape and smacked into the bark of a nearby tree instead.
“Aha!” said Lord Basil. He drew his own tiny knife and darted around the tree’s fat, firm trunk.
“Aha!” said the Lady, retrieving her knife and pursuing him about the tree. She caught sight of his heel for an instant, a petty instant, and then he was gone again ‘round the trunk, and she was faced with a dilemma.
Clearly Lord Basil would expect her to double back counter-clockwise around the tree and ambush him. Therefore, he would double-back counter-clockwise and ambush HER. Unless he expected her to expect that, and therefore he would NOT double-back and would ambush her clockwise as she attempted to ambush him clockwise. Unless…
Lady Whibsy-Herringbone shook her head as the implications became clear. There was no end to the implications of this tree, either in logic or real circumference. Therefore it would be simplest to keep chasing him in the same direction – to save time turning about – and trust in chance. She thanked providence for her expensive and elite education, and redoubled her pace.
Lord Basil Tonington, of similar stature, wealth, and schooling, expressed much the same thoughts. And so the pursuit stalled.
Three months later the tree, fatally undermined by the trench their circuit had worn about its roots, fell over and crushed them both.
“I’m afraid to tell you this, ma’am,” said the storysage, “but your daughter was born under an evil sign. She’s going to be very evil. Extremely evil.”
“O!” said the queen, who knew how to pronounce solitary letters. “Storysage, please help this cruel fate come not to pass! Raise my daughter so that she becomes an upstanding and beloved queen, rather than a tyrant! Do this for me.”
“Okay,” said the storysage. But the queen was already dead, so really it was a promise made to nobody in particular.
Still, she stuck by it. It gave her something to do.
The queen’s daughter grew older, became extremely evil, and ravaged the land with her mighty armies and mightier sword. Eventually a handsome princess came to defeat her, and – with the secret aid of the queen’s son, a most beautiful prince – she was cast down through the careful exploitation of her secret weakness: a fondness for almonds.
The storysage realized she’d really fouled up that promise, and was pretty glad nobody had heard her make it. She hung around the court making general predictions and so on for many years, but tried not to volunteer aid in dealing with the situations she warned of. “I just tell ‘em as I see ‘em,” she told them. Eventually she retired and passed on the duties to her apprentice, an undistinguished and straightforward young man that had nearly become a cheesemaker instead.
Sam and Robin looked at each other, surrounded by the ruin of their ambitions, and suddenly realized something important.
“Well, despite how much I hate you, my vengeance wasn’t worth it after all, and seems to have left nobody the victor,” said Sam.
“Yeah. You’ve got that right,” said Robin. “Seems correct, if unsatisfying”
“Indeed.”
Ted sat down. “Boy, I’m glad THAT’S over,” he said.