His Altitudinence the High Earl Earl Greyer XII stood at the window of his study, looking at nothing in particular. It was a pleasant view onto the gardens, the well-tended shrubberies forming rows, and off in the distance sat a greenhouse on a hillock, which contained the family tea bushes. It was a neat little estate, particularly comfortable to run a country from, snugly situated in a tidy corner of the universe.
It was also, at that moment, under siege.
To be sure, the fire was nothing but friendly: the Earl’s Cannoneer, one Jean-Luc Bonaparte, was taking advantage of the fine afternoon weather to test a new powder, and to spectacular effect. A loud BOOM-crack rolled across the expansive lawns, signaling the next volley. The Earl watched as cannonballs flew through the maze left and right, making swiss cheese of the topiaries. After one particularly adventitious projectile lopped off the head of a foliage replica of Michelangelo’s David, the Earl turned away from the window. He idly picked up a book from his desk, which was piled near to the ceiling with copies upon copies of newly printed texts straight from Gutenberg’s own shop. The whole of the study was actually covered in books; all four walls had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and more stacks of them took up most of the floor space. A space in the corner was reserved for an extensive letter filing system for the Earl’s correspondence, but except for this and the chess table, currently being employed as a drink-serving stand, the study was a shrine to the printed word.
The Earl’s bodyguard and intellectual sparring partner, the fifth Duke-Baron Darjeeling of Gentryshire, stood on guard near the entry.
“Lord Darjeeling?” the Earl asked, examining the frontispiece of his book.
The Duke-Baron turned his attention to his liege. “Your Eminence?”
The Earl snapped the book shut and pointed it at his man. “I told you, Darjeeling, none of this funny ‘Your Immensity’ or ‘Your Toweringness’ business when addressing me.”
“My apologies, Your—er, Sir. You were saying?”
“Hmph. Do you ever consider where this Kingdom is heading?”
“If I recall correctly, Sir, we have that conversation about twice a week.”
“Oh, pssh. I don’t mean that twaddle about who’s hosting which egg-carrying race next year; I mean the real future of this hamstrung hog farm.”
“Can’t… say that I have, Sir.”
“Well,” the Earl said, tapping the book against his palm, “I think you should start doing so.”
“Any particular reason, Your–I mean, Sir?”
“That’s a good question,” said the Earl. “You see—”
Right then a cannonball burst through the window, shattering the glass with a mighty crash. It pounded into the books piled on the desk, scattering them all directions, and in the mayhem the chess table fell over, and the tea service on it tipped… fell… and broke over the floor tiles with a sickening crunch.
“Oh, dear,” Darjeeling said, kneeling down and picking up a large piece of saucer, examining the blue-on-white pattern. “That was your mother’s, wasn’t it?”
The Earl kneeled and started tossing the smaller bits into the jagged bottom of the teapot. “Yes, it was,” he said, “but so is every other identical tea set in the palace.” The potsherds made a tiny clinking noise as they landed in the pot.
Darjeeling got up, his joints popping. His shoes made a tiny squeal on the polished tiles as he turned on his heels. Stepping over books strewn akimbo, he bent over the far bookshelf, near the door. The cannonball was actually rather small, perhaps four inches in diameter, but it had come through the window with enough force to curl the lead between the rectangular windowpanes and embed itself into a good solid foot worth of printed material. The Duke-Baron hemmed and hawed over the strength of the new gunpowder.
Amidst all these diminutive domestic noises, the door opened with an equally small, very hesitant creak.
Lord Darjeeling spun precisely around, drawing his sword and pointing it at the opening.
A cherubic, bespectacled head peeked in. “Ahem,” it said, looking cross-eyed at the tip of the blade, “Your Distinguishedness, if you could call back your, erm, defender…”
“Yes, quite. Darjeeling?”
The Duke sheathed his sword with a bit of reluctance.
“Now, Pomeranius, what brings you to my study?” The Earl leaned forward, putting on a public face.
“Well, I heard the dreadful din, and…”
“I see. Well, this would be the cause of it.” The Earl held out the halved teapot full of broken ceramics. “Now, Pomeranius, you’re the interim court mage; do you know any repairing spells?”
The small orange-haired man affected a disdainful frown. “I’m very sorry, Your Tremendence. Cleaning spells happen not to be my specialty.”
“Special tea?” the Earl said, mis-parsing. “Oh! Oh, yes. I quite understand. Speaking of tea, could you get us a new service, while you happen to be, er, in the vicinity?” The Earl gave a polite but thin-lipped smile. Best to get rid of Pomeranius; he was always nipping about at your heels when you least wanted it.
“Uh…” Pomeranius spluttered, “Uh—ah—Of course, Your Exuberance. Right away.” He stretched out hands surprisingly gnarled and white for his young age and accepted the pot.
As the mage left in a swirl of immaculate green crushed-velvet robe, the Earl surveyed the damage. “Quite a mess, eh, Darjeeling?”
“Mmm.”
“I’ll have to have a word with the Cannoneer,” he grunted, bending over to pick a few volumes out of the glass from the windowpanes.
“Sir, shouldn’t you let the servants do the rest of the tidying?”
“As I was saying, Darjeeling, I’d rather have my hands on the things going on in this country—” here he chucked a piece of glass out the window— “even if it is cleaning up after someone else’s mess. Ah, here’s the drink,” he said, as a serving maid—probably handed the task as soon as Pomeranius saw her—entered.
The Earl helped the maid right the chess table, and as soon as the service was set down he bent over it, savoring the aroma. It was the finest part of the tea; a good nose could distinguish the bouquet of teas grown at farms a mere 50 miles apart. And naturally, the royal families had the finest noses. So it was with great consternation that he found he could not place the scent of the vapour wafting up from the cup below him. It was entirely unfamiliar… almost as if it… no. It couldn’t be. Inhaling, crinkling his nose, frowning… another sniff… yes, perhaps even scowling a bit…. oh dear. It wasn’t tea.
The Earl stood bolt upright, revolted. “WHAT… IS… THIS MOCKERY?” he bellowed.
“I—what—is it not satisfactory, M’lord?” The serving maid shuffled nervously.
“This,” the Earl hissed, “is a tisane.”
“M’lord, I poured it straight from the pot that your wife’s special brew—”
“I never, ever, in a million years will drink a—” he spat the word— “tisane. Take it back!”
Meanwhile Lord Darjeeling was taking a closer examination. “Erm, Sir, if you’ll notice here—”
“What?!”
Darjeeling tipped the cup this way and that, as though divining the future. “There’s a characteristic discolouration of the liquor, you’ll see here in this light, and the body has been made more viscous—you’ll also notice the bouquet has been altered in a way that could only indicate—”
“Spit it out, man!”
“Poison.”
“Augh, I’ve been had!”
“Well, you would have been had…”
