CHAPTER THREE.
Designing a dragon by committee,
and dealing with the powerful
Clang Bakers' Guild.
A few days after the last chapter, just as word was beginning to spread about the wonders of socks, Brumpton summoned his demon servant Mortlock for a conference. Mortlock had been out in the park that surrounded the wizard's decrepit castle, roaring and ripping up the ground with claws that threw clods of dirt a mile or more. This was a regular activity for the demon; who might otherwise vent unwisely in the presence of his master. His master knew about this activity, which played hob with the shrubbery and fruit trees, but, as he told the demon one day when both were in pleasant moods, could he but rent Mortlock out to local farmers to harness and then plow their lands there'd be a pretty penny in it.
But no pretty pennies were in evidence today. Brows beetled once again, the wizard curtly explained to Mortlock that his bootless efforts at protecting the Wand of Odemer had led to a fine pickle of fish -- they were both in danger of the King's wrath. Not that the King could do much to a wizard as eldritch and mighty as Brumpton; it was just the look of the thing -- so embarrassing to be called on the carpet about it. So a diversion was needed -- something to keep the King from summoning a Grand Council and then discovering that the great Wand was AWOL.
"So we are going to Clinton Hill, where I may counsel with my fellow sages and mages in complete secrecy about the matter" the wizard informed his demon servant, bidding him get things ready for the trip.
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At the same time, King Tubal and Queen Wannamaker were already involved in a diversion that promised to keep their minds off the Wand of Odemer for a long time.
The powerful and ruthless Guild of Clang Bakers had sent their Guild Master, the worshipful Osip Greenland, to haughtily inform the king that, things being as they were -- with plague raging in the North and barbarians raging in the South and pirates infesting their East coast -- the Guild was giving serious thought to replacing the King and Queen with a new set of royalty imported from a kingdom in the far West, such as Odalum.
Instead of having Greenland's head chopped off for such insulting impertinence, King Tubal graciously bowed his head and said he hoped the Guild would not be too hasty in having him and his Queen removed from their thrones. Then he offered Greenland a cup of tea.
How did this mere baker, with white flour dust drifting from his clothes, come to dictate such terms to his monarch? Very simple -- clang bread was the very bone and marrow of all Vanillia. Without it, the country would wilt away like hoar frost.
You see, clang is a very special kind of a bread. Most bread, as is well known, grows stale and moldy, becoming inedible, the longer you keep it. But clang was just the opposite -- like a fine wine or premium cheese, the longer it aged the better it tasted, and when it finally turned black after about two years it was considered more delicious and healthful than anything else in the world. It was an imperishable commodity that only grew in value the older it got. And all of Vanillia ate it at every meal. For the humble, it was often the only thing they ate. The clang bakers, who carefully guarded the recipe so that no outsider ever learned it, never charged exorbitant prices for a loaf of clang. All could afford it whenever they wanted it. And they wanted it all the time. "As reliable as clang" was a saying on the lips of everyone in the kingdom when they needed to reassure one another of something or someone who was considered iffy. And right now the King and Queen were considered iffy by the Guild of Clang Bakers, and not as reliable as a single crumb of clang -- and if they decided to pull the plug on the daily clang in protest of the King and Queen's policies and practices, the populace would undoubtedly pull the plug on the King and Queen in short order.
"But what about our beloved Infant Heir?" cried out the Queen in anguish.
"Well, what about the Infant Heir" replied Greenland, with a disdainful shrug. "You see one baby, you've seen 'em all. We wants no babies interfering with our internal affairs, anyways. We've lined up a swell pair of royalty in Odalum, without any offspring, and they promise to toe the Guild line -- hook, line and sinker!"
"But our Infant Heir is entitled to respect, remuneration, and rank and file protection!" the Queen continued stubbornly, ignoring the King's frantic hand signals to be quiet and let him get a word in edgewise.
"You've had me final offer, then" asserted Greenland with a calm finality. "Things must improve in the North, in the South, and especially along the East coast -- to stop them thieving pirates from robbing us of all the incoming grain we need to make clang for the hungry masses. Do so quickly -- or start packing."
Greenland stalked out, without even touching his buttered clang and cup of tea.
"I think I'd like an apple and a slice of cheese right about now" the King said quietly to his servant, who bowed low and went out.
"Oh, how can you think about food when the Infant Heir is about to be displaced!" cried the Queen.
"How can I not?" asked the King wearily. "As things stand, it may be the last good meal any of us get for a long time to come . . . "
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Once arrived at Clinton Hill, Brumpton went into immediate conference with his spell casting peers in an ancient watch tower at the edge of a poisonous green swamp, where there was no chance they could be overheard.
Now, as I said earlier, the minds of witches, warlocks, sorcerers, necromancers, and wizards, are a closed book unto me. They never allow their minds to be read by anyone, and so their thoughts are an eternal mystery. They do, however, take meticulous minutes at their meetings , and I just happen to have a copy of those particular minutes. Which I will now share with you. Unfortunately the first few pages were used to wrap up a large carp some years ago, so I will have to pick up about halfway through the meeting:
It was moved and seconded that a dragon would be summoned, refurbished, and trained to fly about the countryside causing terror and general chaos but not any damage to life or limb, in order to discompose the royal couple and postpone the Grand Council meeting until the Wand of Odemer could be located and secured.
Grimber the Great then suggested the dragon's color be green, with shades of purple down it's pointy spine. After some debate, this point was taken up and approved.
Mendenhall the Modest then suggested that the dragon be given a cast in one of its' eyes to keep it biddable, but this was shouted down by all present, and Mendenhall was escorted out of the watch tower by the sergeant at arms, and then set on fire for a few minutes to teach him a lesson.
Miss Honeypenny asked if the dragon could be used to deliver packages when not busy combusting the countryside. After considerable debate it was decided that such activities would be too demeaning for such a titanic creature. Miss Moneypenny apologized to the group for her 'daft' idea (her own word for it)and voluntarily withdrew into a corner, where she buttered willow wands for the remainder of the day. Her sister, Miss Grackle, then proposed a break for lunch and pinochle. The meeting stood adjourned until 3 p.m. that afternoon.
Promptly at 3 p.m. the matter of how many heads the dragon should have was earnestly discussed. Brumpton the Mangle Heaver stated his opinion that a three-headed dragon would not be fully appreciated by the simple folk of the countryside. Eric the Pink countered that a dozen heads might be just the thing; giving the local yokels something to tell their grandchildren about. At this point someone threw a chair at our committee leader Thurston Thundercloud, and all hell broke loose. When the dust had settled it was discovered that someone had made off with the dessert cart. By unanimous vote it was decided that whoever threw the chair did it as a distraction so they could hijack the dessert cart, and the meeting was adjourned sine die.
An ad hoc committee was then formed, consisting of Brumpton the Mangle Heaver, Gristlebone Buttonfingers, Miss Marpole, and Black Eustace, to hunt down and capture a small and defenseless dragon to feed vitamins to until it was built up enough to begin a reign of terror swooping about and roaring like anything. The ad hoc committee decided the dragon would have no head at all, be bleached white, have its wings clipped so it couldn't escape, and be named Pooty.
A good time was had by all.
In the event, no dragon was ever captured or summoned or trained, or, thank goodness, named 'Pooty.' Word finally reached the sages and mages that the King and Queen were in danger of being deposed in a bloodless coup, which would keep them busier than ants at a funeral for the time being.
A few of the mages and sages angrily confronted Brumpton, upbraiding him for wasting their valuable time. But in reality wizards and witches, and all their ilk, always have plenty of time on their hands, since they rarely do much of anything for anyone else. Most are content, apparently, to perform something strange and dazzling once a year, and then call it a day. Brumpton, for instance, caused mincemeat pies to rain down on the royal castle during the winter solstice, and could rarely be bothered to exert himself otherwise. He himself never gave an explanation as to why he had riled things up by snatching the Wand of Odemer from the evil grasp of Eustace the Black, thus starting a great and tedious cycle of recrimination and revenge -- but his demon servant Mortlock was overheard more than once saying that his master needed the wand to solve a particularly tricky jigsaw puzzle. And besides, King Tubal had commanded the finding and keeping of it -- and Brumpton was under a spell cast by King Tubal's grandfather to obey his grandson in all things.
Or it may have been Just One Of Those Things that people talk about long after any interest in it has evaporated. Like quoits.
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