Fairy Tale

Prelude

"I told you, there's no bloody way! How DARE you?!" Paxton rolled to the side, dodging yet another vase by mere inches. It shattered harmlessly against the wall, pieces flying to meet the rest of the shards already scattered across the fine Persian rug.

"Damn it, Joren, that one was expensive!" he yelled crossly, rising and dusting off his velvet tunic. "Next thing you break comes out of your allowance!" His squire clenched his fists, breathing heavily. Between the boy's cheeks, rosy from the outburst, and his pale cornsilk hair in delicate disarray, Joren looked the part of the vengeful angel, an ethereal harbinger of...broken pottery.

"The hell I care!" Joren shot back. "What in Mithros' name were you THINKING?! Do you honestly believe for one second that I would ever even consider agreeing to some crackpot idea like that?" Viciously he sent the wood-handled scroll flying at his knight-master, scoring a hit on Paxton's forehead. "If you think it's such a bloody good idea, you do it!"

"Don't be silly." As the rest of the pottery was out of Joren's reach, Paxton deemed it safe to approach his irate charge. "You must realize you're the only person in his Majesty's service who could pull such an important task off properly." Logic demanded he appeal to Joren's better nature, if there was one. He retrieved the scroll and handed it to his squire, who accepted it the way one might accept an angry python.

"Do you have any idea what this would do to my reputation?" Joren screeched, tossing it behind him. It hit an exact replica of a Tsiang Dynasty earthenware vessel, which tilted precariously over the ledge. "I'll never hear the end of it!" He stomped his foot for emphasis, sending the pot teetering and crashing to its doom.

"Your reputation can hardly get much worse," hissed Paxton. "And may I remind you that your primary duty is to me, your knight-master. Or would you prefer I relinquish you to another?" Joren scowled and shook his head. As knight-masters went, they didn't get more lenient than ol' Paxy. Another knight would insist on being addressed as 'my lord,' run him into the ground with training and menial labor, and probably even make him wake up before noon. "That's what I thought. Now pick up this mess."

Joren let out an exasperated sigh and complied, perplexed not for the first time at Paxton's bizarre belief that servants' work was good for nobles. Paxton watched Joren's reflection in the large bay windows that made up the eastern wall of his apartments, as it gingerly picked shards from the burgundy carpet.

"I'm busy enough without this stupid charade," Joren muttered, tossing a pile of ceramic bits into the waste-bin. "I have training, running about on your stupid errands, not to mention a job." Said job being the consequence of a rather phenomenal debt, the price for attempting to trick a certain lady-page out of becoming a squire—and getting caught.

"You don't need that job. As I recall, your parents offered to pay the debt for you, the only condition being that you asked them nicely."

"And as I recall, I haven't spoken to them since I was eight. I'm certainly not going to crawl back to them now." Joren's temper was returning, and Paxton realized too late that a group of delicate porcelain figurines were helplessly decorating the end table of his sofa.

"Fine," sighed Paxton, running a large callused hand through his corn-yellow locks, which were considerably fewer in number since Joren's arrival. "I'll make a deal with you." He briefly wondered if all knight-masters had to bribe their squires into performing services for the king. If so, there ought to be a rule against it. "If you do this...I'll pay for one month's worth of your debt."

Joren considered, candlelight flickering over his features. Paxton held his breath. "All right," he conceded finally. "But only if you SWEAR nobody will find out."

"Only you, me and King Jonathan will ever know," Paxton promised, internally sighing in relief on behalf of his figurines. He would have to replace the vases tomorrow afternoon.

"Cross your heart, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye?" And the boy couldn't figure out why he was always mistaken to be so much younger?

"How childish—fine. But you'd better do a very convincing job."

"Whatever." Joren grabbed the scroll from the floor and flipped it experimentally before heading toward his bedroom. "'Night."

"Brat," thought Paxton, shaking his head. "One of these days he'll wind up dead or institutionalized."