November 1, 2006

• Chapter One

  I think after this I’ll provide a link to the updated NaNo, rather than taking up space on the blog.  But here’s the first chapter in its entirety:
  

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  Zoppo dropped to the floor with practiced skill to avoid the candlestick headed his way.
  
  “I’m terribly
  sorry, sire, we’ve done the best….” he squawked, nimbly rolling to
  the left so the book missed him that was on the candlestick’s tail. 
  “Perhaps we’ll have more success tonight?” the little man continued,
  scrambling behind a velvet and ironwork settee due to the barrage of
  bric-a-brac that was zooming toward him.

  Fortunately the irate
  king’s fury outpaced his aim.  At last he tired of heaving
  candlesticks, books, inkstands, paperweights, and goblets at his head
  footman, wearily subsiding onto a finely carved wooden bench. 
  Irritably the king brushed back the long lock of hair that had become
  unstuck – he was thinning on top, but wasn’t going bald gracefully -
  and looked around for Zoppo.  After peering around, behind and under
  various pieces of furniture, he spotted him huddled on top of a large
  bookcase.  As Zoppo peeked over the rim, the king scowled up at him.

  “What the deuce are you doing
  up there, Zoppo?”  he demanded with a combination of annoyance and
  curiosity.  His head footman was no more than four and a half feet
  tall, while the bookcase in question stood at least seven feet tall. 
  How’d he manage to get up there without help?

  “I…I am really not quite certain, sire” replied Zoppo in a quavering voice.  “I suppose the inkstand, er, inspired me, as it were.  It is
  solid bronze, you know.”  He sat cautiously up and looked around,
  trying to decide on a means of descent.  There didn’t appear to be one
  at hand.  For a long moment the eyes of the king and the head footman
  met and held; both looked away at the same moment.

  Sighing, the
  king turned around with his back to the bookcase.  “Well, come on, man,
  hurry up.  You weren’t planning on staying perched up there forever,
  were you?” he grumbled as he waited for the footman to make his move. 
  Gingerly Zoppo swung a leg over the rim of the bookcase, putting his
  left foot onto his sire’s right shoulder.  Once Zoppo was securely
  established, the king raised his right hand to take hold of the
  footman’s right ankle.  Balanced in such a delicate manner, the king
  slowly lowered himself until Zoppo could hop down to the floor. 
  Stiffly the king straightened, absently rubbing the weight-bearing
  shoulder with his left hand.  “I think you’re putting on weight,
  Zoppo,” he observed mildly.  “Perhaps it’d be best to skip the
  chocolate pudding for a while.”

  Zoppo’s fondness for chocolate
  pudding was a well-known fact around the castle.  Grimacing, he
  absently patted his rounded tummy.  “Oh, I don’t think so, sire.  I
  haven’t gained an ounce in ten years.”

  “Uh huh” the king murmured skeptically.  “Well, you should know.”

  Emboldened
  by this, Zoppo began to sidle toward the twelve-foot tall, heavily
  carved doors which led to the Great Hall.  “Begging your majesty’s
  pardon, sire, but there are quite a few things requiring my attention. 
  A head footman’s job is never done, you know!” Zoppo tried for a light,
  careless chuckle but instead a nervous giggle came out.  The king’s arm
  swiftly reached out and he clamped a firm hand on the rapidly departing
  footman.

  “Oh, no you don’t” he growled.  “You have yet to explain to me why you failed in the commission entrusted to you for not twice, but the third
  time.”  Resolutely he swung Zoppo around to face him.  The latter
  grimaced, gulped, stared fixedly for a moment at the chased gold
  buttons on the king’s vest, then nervously raised his eyes to look
  fully at the angry monarch.  He was torn between relief and grief at
  what met his eyes … a mixture of ire and worry, with worry being
  dominant.

  In an instant concern for his king eclipsed all other
  emotion.  “Please, sire, do not fret so!  We will discover the whys and
  wherefores of the princesses’, um, lapse from their usual sound sense. 
  They’re … they’re good young ladies at heart, you know.  I refuse to believe they’re doing anything so terribly
  wrong.”  Earnestly Zoppo sought to reassure the king; this time it was
  the latter who turned away to walk over to the large window overlooking
  the rose garden.

  “I want to believe you are right, Zoppo.  So much
  I want to believe you.  But if they are not doing anything terribly
  wrong, why their continued, stubborn silence on their activities at
  night?  Besides fearing for their moral well-being and safety, I also
  fear for their health.  Since the instruction was given to keep them
  occupied all the day long so they are unable to take naps, their
  exhaustion is becoming writ large on their normally fair
  countenances.”  The king spun around to face his loyal, devoted
  employee of many years’ standing.

  “The situation with my twelve
  precious jewels is driving me to the edge of sanity, Zoppo!” cried the
  frustrated father in anguish.  “What on earth are they doing up there?”

  * * * * * * * * * *
  

  Jasper
  the cobbler was intent upon his task, painstakingly affixing a tiny row
  of gold beads along the edge of the sole of a man’s shoe.  “It’s coming
  along right well,” he murmured to himself, “Lord Henjin will be
  pleased, not a doubt about it.  The coxcomb!”  That final mutterment
  was uttered with a roll of his gray eyes.  The cobbler himself,
  standing over six feet tall and built like an oak tree, had no patience
  with masculine vanities such as the elaborate footwear designed and
  commissioned by Lord Henjin, though he certainly appreciated the
  copious quantities of money the shoes’ wearer was willing to pay.  He
  carefully attached the final bead, then tiredly leaned back, stretching
  the kinks out of his muscles.  Sitting hunched over for hours was more
  exhausting than running the foot races on festival days.  Picking up
  the heavily embellished shoe, Jasper held it up so as to check it
  thoroughly for any areas needing improvement.

  Male coxcombs were
  invariably fussy and persnickety, he’d learned over the years.  There
  wasn’t a doubt in his mind but that Henjin would scrutinize the shoes
  as closely as he himself, if not more so.  Jasper was determined there
  would be no flaw to be found, as he really needed to be paid for them. 
  Gold beads cost money, as did all the other decorative elements, and
  the coffers were running low due to having done so much work lately for
  the palace.

  There’s no denying it was pleasant to be able to
  hang the emblem designating him as a purveyor of fine footwear to
  royalty, but there was also no denying royalty was a notoriously slow
  pay.  It’s as if the palace was convinced the honor and privilege of
  outfitting its denizens is – or at least ought to be – payment enough.

  Not hardly. 

  Having
  found no flaw during his inspection of the finished work, Jasper
  grunted in satisfaction.  He’d deliver the shoes to Lord Henjin this
  very day, but refuse to hand them over until he’d been paid.  Henjin
  would squawk and sputter like always, but once he clapped his eyes on
  these beauties he’d not be able to resist them, and would fork over the
  money.  Anticipation of having the pleasant sound of jingling gold
  coins ringing in his ears caused the cobbler to whistle as he reached
  for the pile of orders waiting his attention.  As he flipped through
  them, setting aside the orders that had been pouring in due to the
  mayor’s wife’s birthday ball the following week, the sound of the door
  being opened caught his attention. 

  At this rate his coffers
  would be back to a healthy condition in a few days.  Putting on his
  most welcoming expression – though not being of an innately cheerful,
  friendly disposition, it didn’t lighten his harsh features to any
  noticeable extent – he prepared to greet his customer.

  Until he
  caught sight of the lanky, spindly man garbed in the uniform of a royal
  footman, and carrying a smallish sack.  Instantly the comparatively
  pleasant expression vanished, to be replaced by a heavy scowl.

  “Boxted,
  you had better be bringing me the money I am owed and not another order
  for the princesses,” he growled.  The royal footman chortled as if
  Jasper had made a joke. 

  “Now, Jasper ol’ boy, don’t be like
  that.  You know perfectly well you couldn’t pay enough for the trade
  you gain by being the palace’s purveyor of footwear.  Anyway, you
  should be able to make the princesses’ slippers in your sleep; heaven
  knows you’ve had enough practice lately, what?”  So saying, Boxted
  strolled farther into the cobbler’s shop, stopping to pick up one of
  Lord Henjin’s newly completed shoes.  “My dear paws and whiskers, old
  man, this is a nice bit of
  work, I must say!”  Lifting it up, he turned it this way and that,
  admiration for the intricate handiwork writ large on his face.  “Who is
  it for?  The mayor’s wife?   Her birthday ball is next week, is it
  not?  Didn’t realize what a big-footed Bertha she is.”

  Jasper
  crossed his arms and leaned back against his work table.  “I’d be hard
  pressed to decide which of them would be most offended by that,
  Boxted…the mayor or the mayor’s wife.  The lady may not be a young
  man’s dream, but she’s definitely not a big-footed Bertha.  No, those
  are for one of the lords.”  Upon hearing this, Boxted raised a single
  eyebrow – an affectation he’d worked diligently on for over a year to
  perfect – and put the shoe carefully down.

  “A man?  That’s a man’s shoe?” he asked incredulously.  The two men shared a look and a smirk.

  “That’s what they say,” Jasper drawled. 

  “Hmmmm,”
  the footman mused.  “I’ll take your word for it, I suppose.” 
  Straightening up to indicate the time for pleasantries was past, Boxted
  drew a deep breath and prepared to endure the cobbler’s wrath.  “Well,
  about the reason I’m here….” he began.

  “Boxted,” Jasper said in a warning tone, “the next words out of your mouth had better
  be ‘is to bring you the payment you’re owed’.”  The other man winced
  slightly as he held out the sack he’d carried in with him. 

  “Look, let’s not shoot the messenger, shall we?  It’s not sporting.  C’mon, old man, cut me a little slack, okay?  It’s not my
  fault the princesses keep ruining their slippers,” he retorted. 
  Hearing this, the cobbler swore in frustration, yanking the sack away
  from the footman.  Thrusting in his hand he pulled out what had been,
  just a few days before, a rather nice pink lady’s slipper.  It was a
  wreck of its former self, with the heavy cloth sole shredded in spots,
  worn paper-thin in others, and pulling away from the embroidered top. 
  Appalled at the destruction of this work of his hands, Jasper slammed
  the slipper down with a decided whap (cloth slippers don’t allow for a particularly impressive slam) and pinned the footman to the wall with his glare.

  “What the …..!?!” he sputtered.  “How did this
  happen?  Are they out running foot races in these things?  That’s the
  only activity I can think of offhand that would cause such damage in a
  short space of time!”  Jasper took the sack and upended it, dumping its
  contents on the floor.  Out fell a pile of brightly colored, gaily
  embroidered slippers, all in a state of advanced disrepair.  Stunned at
  the sight, the cobbler squatted down, lifting and examining first one
  slipper, then another.  As he did so, the frown on his face deepened to
  a painful grimace.

  He hadn’t even been paid
  for these yet!  Suspicion darkened his already dark expression as he
  stood up and faced the footman.  “There was nothing wrong with those
  slippers,” he said flatly, “so don’t even think of trying to claim they
  were defective.  I take pride in my work and would never….”  Before
  he could continue Boxted interrupted him.

  “Nothing of the sort,
  old man….nothing of the sort!  Don’t get yourself all worked up like
  that.  Your work’s the best, Jasper.  That’s why you have the palace’s
  emblem hanging outside,” he earnestly assured the agitated cobbler. 
  “The king merely wanted to see if you could perhaps shed some light on
  what would cause this type of wear and tear.” 

  Reassured he
  wasn’t being held to blame, Jasper relaxed his pugnacious stance and
  bent down to pick up one of the slippers.  Turning it over in his
  hands, he regarded it thoughtfully for a few moments.   Boxted waited
  in respectful silence for the verdict.

  “Actually,” Jasper
  finally said, “running a foot race would be my first guess, but that’s
  ludicrous.  Princesses don’t run foot races.”  Pondering a little more,
  he dropped the ruined slipper back onto the pile with the rest of them,
  and continued to speak as if to himself.  “There are grass stains, you
  see, which is why I thought of foot races, but there are also at least
  a few water marks on them, as if they’d been splashed.”  He prodded the
  pile with his foot, stooping to pick up a dark blue slipper.  “And look
  here…” he invited, pointing to a place on the worn sole, “see that
  scuff mark?”  The footman nodded.  “That’s the sort of damage caused by
  marble floors.  Does the castle have marble floors?”

  The footman
  shook his head.  “No.  The floors are made of ash.  You know how the
  king feels about using as much material found in the kingdom as
  possible, and there’s not a marble quarry here.”  He paused, then asked
  diffidently, “Are you quite sure about that?  Marble?  I mean, where
  would the princesses be coming into contact with marble, for crying out loud?”

  Jasper
  stiffened in indignation.  “Look, you asked me for my opinion and I
  gave it to you.  That’s not a common type of blemish seen on slippers
  around here.  I certainly ought to know, considering the number of
  re-soles I do after balls and dances.”

  “Then how do you know…?” began Boxted, but was cut off by the cobbler.

  “How
  do I know what marble scuffing looks like?  Because of Lord Lynting’s
  girl.  She married some nobleman on the other side of the mountains,
  where they do use marble in
  their castle and estate homes.  Every time she’d go to visit him before
  they got married, she’d come back and need her slippers re-soled.  You
  know what a skint Lynting is; he won’t pay for new slippers until he’s
  gotten every bit of wear out of the old ones.  Anyway, that’s how I
  recognize it.” 

  Boxted thought it over for a moment then
  nodded.  “That makes sense.  Alright.  If you say it’s caused by
  marble, it is.  But that creates an even bigger mystery, doesn’t it?” 
  The two men stared at each other, then simultaneously turned to look
  out the window, where the castle gleamed in the morning light.

  “What on earth are they doing up there?”  they exclaimed in unison.
  

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  Stay tuned….
  

  • 12:20 pm
  • 3 Comments