A Tale Without a Name by Penelope S. Delta

Author:Penelope S. Delta [Penelope S. Delta]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781782270287
Publisher: Pushkin Press
Published: 2013-09-27T04:00:00+00:00

IX

Where Fate Has Seen Fit to Place Us…

IN THE MEANTIME, the Prince had asked for the Great Ledger of the Royal Army, where all the officers and soldiers were registered.

The King turned to the Lord Chamberlain.

“Fetch it at once,” he commanded.

The Lord Chamberlain left the dining hall unhurriedly, and went to the back kitchen, where Polycarpus was wiping a serving platter with exemplary zeal for Little Irene, who was herself engaged in browning the game.

“Fetch it at once,” commanded Master Cartwheeler.

“Fetch what at once?” asked the equerry.

“The ledger with the lists for the Royal Army.”

“Where is it?”

“I know no more than you do. Find it and get it.”

The equerry looked at Little Irene with baffled eyes.

“Who is asking for it?” asked Little Irene.

“His Highness your brother, Your Royal Ladyship,” replied the Lord Chamberlain.

“Oh, Polycarpus! You simply must find it!” pleaded Little Irene.

Her words had hardly been spoken before Polycarpus had abandoned serving platter and dishcloth, and was dashing off to the cellar.

He looked closely into everything, ferreted about, turned upside down every single thing there was to be found in the cellar; he discovered nothing. Running like mad, and covered with dust, he scurried up to the first floor, opened every cupboard, drawer, chest and hamper there was in the palace tower, and still he found nothing. Like a cat, he crawled up the steep ladder leading to the attic, and there, at long last, after rummaging in every corner, having opened every storeroom, having plunged almost bodily into every old chest and coffer that lay there dilapidated, each a mouldy old relic eaten by woodworm and maggots, he pulled out, from under a pile of old, yellowed and crumpled papers, a tattered, oblong book, its covers half-devoured by mice, and so impregnated with dust that the gilded lettering on the jacket could barely be deciphered any longer.

He loaded it onto his back, and triumphantly he took it down to the dining hall, where the King and the Prince were still discussing things, while a cross-armed Master Cartwheeler yearned for them to conclude their talk, so that he might have leave to return home (where he knew that a mouth-watering mash of garlic and walnuts awaited him).

The equerry placed the book on the table.

“What is this miserable rag?” asked the Prince.

“I do not know,” said the equerry, “but it is the only book in the palace.”

The King opened it and leafed through it.

“Of course, this is it,” he said. “I can see both names and titles.”

And he began to read at random:

“Axer, commander of the corps; Terrorman, general; Fearless, marshal; Thunderson, centurion.”

He turned to the Lord Chamberlain, and ordered:

“Summon at once General Terrorman!”

Master Cartwheeler strove hard to bow.

“He is dead, my lord, he’s been dead and gone eight years now.”

“Ah… Hmm…” grunted the King. “Then summon Axer, Commander of the Corps.”

“Passed away, my lord, twelve years ago.”

“Then surely this must be his son. Summon his son,” ordered the King nervously.

“His son was not in the army, my lord. He spent

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