Homework, Lars thought in disgust, is all about things that don't matter. (That is not true, as good boys and girls know; there are many useful things in homework.

But it must be admitted that there are a lot of things that are useful as exercises to the brain, and therefore have just as much practicality as piano exercises, to warm up the fingers and create familiarity. And those seldom feel useful.)

This weekend's homework wasn't much, just exercises in maths, a daily drill in fencing, and an essay on a historical personage of the child's choice.

Who even uses language like "personage"?

Lars couldn't think of a single dead person he'd like writing about. Even the living were only interesting at times; but a dead one? It's not like anything about their story would change. Or like what they did back then would matter.

He shut the library book as loudly as he could, only to flinch when the librarian glared at him. Quickly looking back done, he straightened the book and hoped that would get him out of trouble.

It didn't; a moment later, the librarian, a short, dark-skinned woman with black ringlets and gold-rimmed classes, stood beside his table and asked in her quiet library voice, "Are you having trouble?"

"Just can't find anything interesting." He scowled at the book. "History is boring."

She didn't say anything for a moment, and when he looked up, she was staring at a shelf all the way down past the last table, four wooden tables away. "You need something interesting for history?"

"If it even exists."

"Wait a moment." She walked away with the brisk pace of someone knowing exactly where she's going, and vanished behind that last shelf. Shoving the history book away from him—the librarian wasn't there to see it, so Lars didn't care—Lars reached for the book on fencing he'd seen in the large-book section and decided to thumb through. The first few pages had fencing poses; all familiar ones, since Lars had been fencing since forever. (Forever is not an accurate measurement, children, as Lars had not been alive since before time began, but several years can feel like forever to a child.)

But the second chapter in the book listed famous fencers, and how some had died in duels, and Lars forgot for a moment that history was not interesting, and read those tales avidly. At least for the rest of the chapter. The third chapter went into the origin of fencing words, and Lars once more found that boring, so he closed the book and pushed it away too.

He'd still take it home, though.

Just then the soft clack clack of heels on thin carpet sounded, and he looked up to see the librarian coming back, an enormous book held in both hands. (Enormous is another exaggeration, children, for it was only as tall as a child's arm, half as wide, and barely the width of a finger.) From the cover a very, very fat man, glistening head wrapped in a turban, and black tunic scattered with jewels of red and white, sat on a golden couch and glared. Lars instantly felt defensive and scowled back. He didn't see the librarian's smile at his reaction.

"Who is that?"

"That is the Tisroc of Tidbits," she answered calmly, setting the book before him. It was then he noticed the title, in small green letters on the dark top of the book, Absurd Rulers of Small Nations.

"No way. The Tisroc of Tidbits? Is Tisroc even a title? What's it mean, the one who eats the largest meals?" He opened the book, flipping past the title page, but pausing on the second. Another portrait looked back at him, this one painted rather absurdly, for it had a normal-sized man in chainmail, sword held behind his back with both hands but sticking out from his left, and wearing a pair of donkey ears. Rabadash the Ridiculous, peaceful and foolish read the caption.

"A man with donkey ears?" Lars asked incredulously, looking back up at the librarian to ask if this was even real.

But she'd gone back to her desk, and was flipping through a magazine with studied intention. So Lars looked back at the book. "As if," he told the portrait, and turned the page to the chapter list.

There were headings like Albania, Calormen, The Lone Islands, Monaco, Nauru, and a list of monikers under them. Skimming through them, Lars looked for the Tisroc of Tidbits. He found him—and the donkey man, actually—in the Calormen section. Apparently, the Tisroc was the ruler of a desert nation, one with a lot of wealthy lords. He increased the taxes on them once a year, a miniscule amount each time, but over ten years he'd doubled the amount they paid. He did the same thing with his meals, cutting all the food into miniscule pieces but eating an entire platter of them, and he came to be known as the Tisroc of Tidbits, voracious and small at the same time.

Lars grinned.

He read about the next one, The Do-Nothing* who made many grand and ambitious plans when he became ruler at the age of nineteen, began all of them at once, threw temper tantrums as they stalled because of a lack of resources, and died in a hunting accident at twenty, not a single one of them fulfilled. Apparently his main purpose was inspiring wise proverbs among the poets of his people. A few of them, listed on the back page, had Lars muffling his mouth with his hand. "It is better to take a single step than reach for many stars." "Wise is the man who hunts at home." "Wisdom is a roaring torrent that bypasses the young." "A nation in the hands of a fool has no hope unless he dies." (Children, it is a bad thing for a leader to be a fool, but there is always hope because a power stronger than him still rules.)

"Those poets had some spice," Lars whispered, turning the pages till he reached the Lone Islands. But their fools weren't quite so entertaining, and after two he closed the book.

The problem now, he thought to himself, is that it's not enough to write about. What am I supposed to say, that power doesn't make a difference in the wisdom of men?

The teacher would probably make me write another paper as a counterargument.

He glanced at the comic section. He'd done a bit of research; maybe he could give himself a break, and go read something interesting for once. He'd look for a comic about a fencer…

Suddenly he sat upright, eyes fixed on the glaring face of the greedy Tisroc of Tidbits. Because there wasn't much to write about - each ruler only had a single page, and Lars was pretty sure the teacher would be able to tell, somehow, if he just outright copied it - but…

There wasn't enough information to write a full paper. That meant Lars could probably make something up. After all, the book he read had a man turning into a donkey; Lars couldn't make up anything more outlandish than that, even if he was trying. So all he had to do was take one of those foolish people—maybe the one who died early would do, he'd had so many plans that Lars could elaborate on—and just…you know, add some details. The teacher probably wouldn't notice.

Pulling the book back towards him (and not noticing the Librarian smile behind the desk, sure she'd helped someone and made a difference to them that day), he paged through a few of them, trying to decide which one he wanted to elaborate about.

Only he didn't really like any of them, he realised, his hand turning pages more slowly. Cool pictures and all, they just weren't cool guys.

Hang on. Why don't I make one up? He turned back to the chapter list, looking over the titles. None of these idiots even sound good…how about…how about a fencer? Fanhorn the Fencer, that'll do.

Pulling his paper over, putting his name and the date on the top left, Lars titled it Fanhorn the Fencer. He started with the boy's birth and country. Calormen, because obviously they had no lack of weirdos, and he'd be born…nine hundred years ago. There, close enough Lars knew a bit about it, long enough ago the teacher wouldn't guess.

Fanhorn was born to a lord—no, what was the word? Tarkhaan. Lars paused. He shouldn't be the firstborn—they got all the credit in stories like this anyway—he'd be the second son. No, the third. (Lars ignored his head telling him that he had two older brothers and he shouldn't do any parallels to the person he was creating because the teacher was pretty smart…but children, when your head tells you something like that, it might be wise to listen for a moment, and weigh what it says.)

Fanhorn was born the third son of the Tarkhaan…Lars looked over at the book. Hushdod seemed like a fine name. Lars didn't bother checking for a female name; the nation didn't seem to care and Lars didn't either. Fanhorn's two older brothers were quickly disposed of, one at a war, and the other to a hunting accident, and Fanhorn found himself his father's heir. Deadly duelling became illegal in Calormen at that time (Lars hoped that was accurate but didn't bother to check), and yet many others wanted Fanhorn's inheritance, so he took his passion, fencing with a foil, which he had started at the age of six with his father's dagger, and humiliated his opponents one after another, until he challenged the son of Tisroc, defeated him, and was executed for humiliating the royal family. But his tombstone (Lars could almost see it in his mind, and that, children, is the beginning of a good storyteller) had two fencing foils crossed over each other, and Fanhorn the Fencer inscribed in white letters on the dark stone. Pausing, Lars thought about a conclusion, and then glanced back at the list of sayings, shrugged, and added, Sometimes common sense is better than skill as a Calormen saying at the bottom. He was pretty pleased with that last bit.

Writing all that took a page and a half, which was more than the teacher required. Sitting back, looking at his handwriting (and the three misspelt words he'd crossed out and corrected), Lars didn't feel any sense of accomplishment. The story felt…flat, after reading about the Tisroc of Tidbits, or the donkey-man.

But doing it over just felt tedious, so Lars go up, leaving all his things behind him (which is not wise, children, even at a library), and wandered over to the comics section. He told himself he'd go back and redo the essay after he'd found a really good book, but every time he finished reading one he decided it hadn't been a really good one, and he should take out the next, just in case. But then the half-hour warning for the library closing sounded, and Lars hurriedly stuffed the papers into a folder and then dumped everything into his green backpack, swinging it on his back and heading out the door to see if his oldest brother was there to pick him up yet.

The essay stayed in his backpack overnight, and he handed it in, misspellings and all, on Monday morning, and promptly forgot about it. After all, the week had homework too.

But on Friday the history teacher began handing out homework, and she handed it back to him with a certain look on her fifty-four-year-old face that had him squirming inside. Holding one hand along his desk as his closest classmate tried to peek, he saw a large red F written on the top, with "(A for creativity. Nice try, Lars.)" written underneath it.

Lars sighed. How had she known?

He shoved it into his desk and tried to leave it at that, but as class went on, the question stayed in the back of Lars mind. It wouldn't go away. So after class ended, he pretended he needed to pack something from his desk into his backpack, giving himself a minute as the class cleared out. Then he took his essay up to the front desk.

"Do you need something?" she asked, the papers rustling as she stacked them together and made their edges perfectly even.

"Yes, Mrs. Macready. This essay—"

"Yes?" She set the folders down.

"How did you know I made it up?" he blurted out.

"Child," she said, a slight smile on her mouth, "Calormens didn't use foils. They used scimitars." She paused for a moment. "If you don't know what that is, go to your local library and look it up."


Amnesty Prompt 5: In The Horse and His Boy we hear that if you can find a good History of Calormen (try the local library) you will find the tale of Rabadash the Ridiculous. Write about another Tisroc (may he NOT live forever) with an intriguing moniker.

*The Do-Nothing: Louis V, King of France. The last king of the Carolingian dynasty, Louis V was known for his disappointing and uneventful reign. Died at 20 in a hunting accident