Manticore Rampant

Ch 2 - Tea and Conspiracy

"Don't get me wrong." The Nanny took a delicate sip from her porcelain cup. "He's a lovely boy. Good-natured, kind to animals, and certainly never one to take the last biscuit without checking whether his old nanny might like it first. No, unlike some previous Manticores I shall not name, I can assure you his nature is not a problem."

Seated in plush, overstuffed armchairs in a lavish reception chamber just off the Throne Room, the old woman and her three guests were supping on tea and delicate pastries, served by a butler bedecked in full Irmish livery. While their time in the Irmshield had exposed the soldiers to what Slash could recall Hobe describing as 'all that posh trollshit', it had been a while, and the dwarf and the Dragon in particular were ill-at-ease in these genteel surrounds. So much so that when asked whether he would like anything with his tea, Hobe had been unable to prevent a reflex 'A pint and a bucket of chips, mate' emerging from his lips, before some long dormant sense of decorum managed to reinstate itself. Not enough, though, to prevent the subsequent inhalation of several dozen pastries and the addition of seventeen lumps of sugar to his cup.

Carri, of course—posture perfect and tea balanced on one leather-clad knee—looked completely at home.

"No physical issues, either," continued the Nanny. "In fact, just the opposite. Squelon's quite the strapping young fellow. Tall and strong and healthy. Hung like a rogue stallion, to boot."

Slash strived manfully not to cough as this revelation caused a mouthful of cake to wedge itself firmly in his throat, from where it was only dislodged by the application of copious amounts of scalding hot tea.

"Is that so?" he wheezed, with what he hoped was just the right amount of polite interest for the topic of regal genitalia.

"Oh, yes. Naturally, a nanny must take notice of such things. One needs to know the future bloodline will be secure, and in that area at least, Squelon is very well equipped. Alas, in the brains department, not so much."

Apparently unmoved by the qualities of the heir's royal undercarriage, Carri took a sip of her tea. "Cannot some allowances can be made? After all, there have been rulers in the past of a...less intellectual bent. Didn't old King Ferunch regularly consult his kettle for advice?"

"Bent?" said the Nanny "Bent would be acceptable. Bent we could work with. Squelon's intellect is more of the broken kind. He'd struggle to rule a bathtub, never mind a kingdom. I should know, I've had to rescue him from more tub-related misadventures than I care to remember."

"This is why the boy hardly ever shows himself, isn't it?" said Hobe. "With his big brother out of the picture and Squelon the sole heir, I figured it must have been for his safety." The dwarf crammed another three pastries into his mouth. "Huh," he mumbled, shaking his head, "turns out it was just to cover up the fact he's a mor-...er, a bit on the dim side."

"Yes," sighed the old woman. "While he cuts a fine enough figure in the royal armour, and can wave from a balcony with the best of them, we don't dare parade him around in public. He's just as likely to run off after a butterfly or decide to stare slack-jawed at the sky for an hour or two. And it's important for the common folk to believe their future monarch is focussed on affairs of state rather than whether some cloud looks a bit like a puppy."

"Why not just keep things as they are?" asked Hobe. "If the heir isn't up to it, can't you leave the running of the kingdom to the...the..."—becoming aware of a sudden certain chilliness in the room, the dwarf glanced around and swallowed his latest mouthful before continuing—"um...you know...to the High Council?"

The other three exchanged significant looks. Whatever qualities the dwarf might possess, it was clear a firm grasp of current affairs was not among them. While hardly a political pundit himself, even Slash knew leaving the Grand and Ancient High Council of Irmway in charge of the place a single day longer than necessary would be one day far too many.

Since time immemorial monarchs had ruled with the aid of a circle of advisers, and since just shortly after time immemorial those circles of advisers had invariably managed to acquire more than their fair share of narcissistic, backstabbing, self-serving bigwigs. In this, the High Council was no exception, and was in fact something of an exemplar, having actually gotten hold of some real power since the passing of the old queen without a ready heir. Fortunately, the dozen members' cutthroat avarice and mutual loathing was such that each was watched by the others with hawk-like suspicion, and in this febrile atmosphere of semi-paralysed hostility the governance of the kingdom had somehow managed to lurch along for the past decade or so without anybody managing anything too blatant in the way of corruption or powerplays or coup d'états.

It had, however, not been particularly edifying or efficient. Or a whole lot of fun for the citizens of Irmway.

"Ah, yes." The Nanny's features took on a a look of faint distaste. "The High Council." 

"Those troll-brained money-grubbers," growled Carri, the distaste clear on her refined features, "can pucker up and kiss my pristine elvish arse."

Having met some of the money-grubbers in question, Slash suspected more than one of them would be quite happy to take the elf up on her offer, but recognised now was perhaps not the time to point this out.

"Well," said the Nanny, "while I wouldn't quite put it in those terms, I quite agree with the sentiment. I'm afraid the High Council is not a viable long-term solution."

"Yeah, no, of course not," agreed Hobe. He cleared his throat. "Obviously, I just wanted to make sure we're all on the same page there. But given that abundantly clear and really obvious fact that everyone knows—what's to be done?"

"And more to the point"—expression once again composed, Carri leaned forward—"what does this have to do with me?" Even her elven self-absorption couldn't withstand the other two's accusatory gazes. "I mean, with us? Why are we here? If not to reform the Irmshield, then why summon us? What is it you want?"

"I'll tell you what I want, girl." The Nanny put down her teacup. "I want a search party."

The soldiers stared at her.

"To search for what?" asked Hobe.

"Not what," corrected the Nanny, "but who."

"Okay, fine," said Slash impatiently. "To search for who?"

With an enigmatic little smile, the old woman looked at each of them in turn. "Why, the elder prince, of course. The rightful heir to the throne. Prince Vazor, the firstborn son of Queen Marise, the man who should now by rights be King Vazor, the Manticore, the one hundred and sixty-third ruler of Irmway." The smile faded. "But instead, became the man who decided to shirk his duties, to turn his back on his throne, his family and his kingdom, and to run away, to take off in pursuit of some elusive happiness he thought he couldn't find here." She shook her head. "The wilful little shit."