Chapter Fifty-Five

"WHERE IS HE?" Jenner's voice reverberated like thunder through
the throneroom.

"We, uh, we don't know, Your Majesty." Zim; a jackal, head of
Jenner's network of spies throughout the City; replied nervously. "We had
him until early the night-before-last, but then the 'shadow' that I had posted
to watch him somehow lost his trail. I'm at a loss to explain how it happened
but the matter is being investigated and my 'employee' will be disciplined if
necessary." He added reassuringly.

Jenner was less than satisfied. "I don't pay you to investigate your
failings!" He growled angrily. "I pay you to instill just enough fear
in me among my subjects to keep me in power without causing a civil war! If
that means the occasional secret assassination, then I expect your organization
to handle it with the necessary discretion!"

The jackal shrugged. "If it is the will of the spirits, Your Majesty."
He said with a less than genuine humility.

"Spirits? Bah!" Jenner spat. "These 'spirits' that everyone
invokes are nothing more than a way to avoid taking responsibility for their
own failures! If at first you don't succeed, blame the spirits. And when you do
succeed, claim the credit for your own. THAT'S how it usually goes, isn't
it?" He asked sarcastically.

The jackal shrugged again, having no real desire to get caught up in a
theological tug-of-war. In all truth Zim was beginning to regret his
"association" with this arrogant, bragging twit. He sorely missed the
good old days of mere petty thievery, extortion, running protection rackets,
smuggling, mercantile espionage and hijacking the occasional caravan for his
other main employer, The Grandmaster. His Majesty might be The King of Britain,
but he was certainly the stingiest animal that Zim had ever had the misfortune
to work for; especially considering that murder was now being added to the mix.
And why His Majesty was so upset by the disappearance of a mere scribe to the
point of obsession was, to Zim's mind, a puzzlement. The scribe, a
simple-minded hedgehog, had done nothing particularly wrong (other than to
question his Sovreign's sanity, something that even Zim could understand!)
while His Majesty had been in power, as Zim was well aware from the reports of
his spy network; but orders were orders and somehow this Ignatz had escaped the
fate that had been decreed for him and his family and it was up to Zim and his
comrades to find and kill them.

He was about excuse himself from His Majesty's presence when one of the
Troop-Captains of the King's Guard walked in. They eyed each other
suspiciously. Zim distrusted all of His Majesty's Guard's because they were
independent of the Army command structure and, therefore, could not be
intimidated by threats of courts-martial and virtually certain imprisonment or
Death for Treason to the Crown if there was even a whiff of doubt as to their
loyalty. (King's Guards, if they WERE ever accused of disloyalty, would have
been tried under a special statute by a Grand Jury made up of Sheriff's and
presided over by, ironically enough, the King's Chancellor; but so above
reproach were they that this system had never been put to the test.) He
distrusted this one in particular because his father had been a vociferous
opponent of both His Majesty and the Grandmaster. And while Giles Gisbourne had
so far said or done nothing that would cast doubt on his loyalty to his charge,
Zim had made it a priority to have him carefully watched; especially after the
incident at the King's Orphanage some months ago.

The wolf brushed by him without a word and knelt in front of the throne.
"Your Majesty, I bring you grievous news." He announced.

Jenner scowled. "It can't be any worse than anything I've already heard
today." He muttered. "Out with it." He ordered.

"It is with deep regret that I must inform His Majesty that his scribe,
Ignatz, is dead." He said, his voice quavering just noticeably.

Jenner leaned back in his throne, the scowl on his face modifying itself
from anger to a combination of intense curiosity and skepticism as he rubbed
his beard. "Interesting." He intoned. His eyes narrowed as they
focused on the jackal, who was slowly and unobtrusively trying to back
("slink" is the word that Giles would use when describing the
incident in the barracks that night) out of the throne room. "Tell me,
Spy, were you aware of this?"

Zim was dumbfounded by this turn of events. "Certainly not, Your
Majesty!" He said nervously.

Jenner turned his attention back to Gisbourne. "You say the scribe is
dead? How? Where's the body?" He demanded.

"Late night-before-last, as I was walking through one of the parks
bordering the City wall, I discovered him attempting to leave." The wolf
answered sadly. "When he recognized me, he drew a dagger and I was forced
to defend myself. I then rushed to his home and found that he'd murdered his
own family in their beds." He paused a moment as a tear slid down the fur
of his cheek. "I also found a small stash of documents that suggested that
he may have been working for one of the Continental Empires. I decided to spare
his family the dishonor of a burial in a 'potter's field' by throwing their
bodies into the Thames River and burning the documents." He said, his head
bowed and his voice now a hoarse whisper. "I imagine that they're at sea
by now." He then raised his head and came eye-to-eye with Jenner. "If
I was wrong in taking this initiative, I apologize to His Majesty; but I ask no
mercy if I'm to be punished." He stated quietly.

Jenner regarded the wolf. "I assume, Troop-Captain, that this was the
first time that you've actually killed in the line of duty?" He asked
airily.

"Yes it is, Your Majesty." Gisbourne said, his voice now somewhat
more composed than a moment ago.

Jenner's lip's curled into something between a sardonic smile and a
self-satisfied sneer. "Good." He said. "Your 'first blood', as
it were. The truest test of your loyalty to your King. And take it from
me," He said with a cruel chuckle, "The best part is that it gets
easier the more you do it." That the scribe was dead was, in fact,
excellent news. But his curiosity was now aroused. "By the way," He
asked, almost as an afterthought, "Did you find anything among those papers
that you burned that might have been, shall we say, unusual?"

The wolf thought for a moment, then said, "I did find an execution
warrant on the scribe that was clumsily forged in Your Majesty's name; but
other than that, no." He stated.

Zim had been listening with a growing unease and dismay to this preposterous
charade. That inconsequential, feeble-minded hedgehog; a SPY?
"Impossible!" Zim blurted out angrily. He then turned and pointed a
bony, accusing finger at Gisbourne. "He's LYING! I'll sell my mother's
Soul if he isn't lying, Your Majesty!" The jackal cried indignantly.

"Knowing you I'm sure you already have many times over, and at a
handsome profit." Jenner stated sarcastically.

Zim was about to retort, but Gisbourne placed a warning paw on the hilt of
his sword. Instead he swallowed his words and gritted his teeth, glaring
hatefully at the wolf.

"Tell me, Spy, were you aware of my spiny-yet-spineless scribe's
alteration of affections toward his King?" Jenner asked pointedly, again
rubbing his beard.

Zim hesitated for several seconds, trying to keep his growing rage under
control.

"Answer His Majesty's question." Gisbourn said calmly, his paw
caressing the weapon.

"Of course I wasn't!" Zim finally hissed, barely able to restrain
himself from sliding the stiletto he kept handy at the small of his back under
his multi-hued robe out of it's scabbard and throwing it at the wolf. But he'd
seen Gisbourne numerous times on the training field and well knew that the
Troop-Captain was an adversary to be reckoned with; both in physical and, as he
was just now apparently discovering, mental terms.

Jenner raised an eyebrow. "This is hardly what I'd call a spectacular
example of intellegence-gathering." He told Zim in a mocking tone.
"And it's certainly not going to look good on your resume." Leaving
the jackal to fume, he turned his attention back to Troop-Captain Gisbourne.
"Did the papers give you any clue as to which of the Continental Empires
might have swayed him to their side?" He asked.

Gisbourne again paused. "Not specifically." He finally answered.
"But they mentioned an organization of some sort called 'The Society to
Maintain the Rule of the King' that was secretly thwarting all outside efforts
to depose Your Majesty from his Throne."

"Impossible!" Zim hissed under his breath. "My operatives
have seen no evidence of any such activity!"

"Silence, dolt!" Jenner spat. "You're still alive ONLY
because your other employer has the necessary influence to keep you so! Were it
MY choice you'd be swinging from a gallows this moment!" He warned. Again
turning his attention back to Gisbourne, he asked, "What about this
execution warrant?" Jenner had, of course, signed a genuine execution
warrant against the scribe; but the news that someone had created a forgery
intrigued him. Could this mysterious "Society to Maintain the Rule of the
King" have done so in order to flush out this apparent traitor? He'd
wanted the hedgehog and his family dead for no other reason than the fact that
Terror, especially of the lethal variety, was, used in small amounts and with a
surgical precision, quite probably the easiest, cheapest and most effective way
to supress the vast majority of dissent against one's rule; especially if one
was utterly despised by one's own subjects. But had he now an ally that would
help to keep him on the Throne? Most intriguing indeed!

"As I said before, Your Majesty, a bad counterfeit." The wolf
answered dismissively.

Further discussion was interrupted by the familiar tapping sound, faint but
quickly-approaching, of the Grandmaster's cane. Jenner pointed a beringed
finger at Zim. "From now on, Spy, you report to Troop-Captain Gisbourne;
since he obviously has his head screwed on tighter than you do." Jenner
sneered. He then pointed at Giles. "You'll edit his reports and make sure
that they're accurate and up-to-date." He ordered.

The jackal gasped with horror as the wolf; with a narrow-eyed, sidelong, and
very predatory glance; gave a slight, almost unnoticable smile.

"I'll leave you two to, shall we say, 'quibble' over the arrangements
in this matter." Jenner said slyly, giving a dismissive wave of the paw.
He knew that whatever enmity had existed between his Guards and Zim's spy
network before was sure to heat up a great deal after this; but he didn't
actually trust either group completely with his safety and wanted them both not
only suspicious of each other, but vying against one another as well to show
who would take their loyalty to him to the greatest extreme.

After prefunctory bows the wolf and the jackal made their exit from the
throneroom but wern't even out of earshot before a nasty-sounding arguement
broke out between them, fading into the distance. A moment later, The
Grandmaster appeared. "I trust Your Majesty is having a good
morning?" He asked.

"I suppose." Jenner sighed with a hint of irritation. "Even
surrounded as I am by idiots." He said as he motioned the boar to a large,
splendidly decorated chair to the right of the raised platform on which was
mounted the Throne of Britain. The chair that had originally occupied that
particular space had been of a much plainer and far more dignified design. But
the previous occupant, the King's Chancellor, had; along with his Sovreign;
been assassinated and the position abolished.

The Grandmaster settled his ample hind-end into the over-stuffed cushion,
giving Jenner a gimlet-eyed look. "Am I to assume that you're dissatisfied
with the services of my Intellegence operative?" He asked.

"Intellegence? Hardly the word I'd use!" Jenner snorted
derisively. He then explained Zim's failure to kill the scribe Ignatz, and
Giles Gisbourne's discovery that he'd apparently been working undercover for
one of the Continental Empires.

The Grandmaster's jaw dropped in astonishment and alarm. "Pardon, Your
Majesty, but doesn't it seem rather too convenient that this Troop-Captain has
disposed of so much evidence? And is His Majesty aware of who the
Troop-Captain's father is?" He asked sharply.

Jenner rolled his eyes and huffed in exasperation. "Frankly, no, I
can't say that it does!" He replied. "And as for Gilbert Gisbourne, I
think your penchant for seeing a plot around every corner and a conspiracy
behind every closed door is getting the better of you! As I hear it, and with
any luck, that broken-down old geezer should be kicking off at any
moment." He sneered.

The Grandmaster then rapped the metal tip of his cane on the cold, gray
stone of the floor; the cannon-like report echoing through the throneroom.
"But Gilbert is NOT dead!" He wheezed emphatically. "And haven't
I always taught you that plots and conspiracies exist most especially when they
CANNOT easily be seen?"

Jenner nodded reluctantly. "Yes, yes." He replied. "'For such
is the nature of conspiracy that it must be hidden by it's plotters from the
intended victim until the Moment of Truth; unto Death, if necessary.' No,
Grandmaster, I've not forgotten your words." He then pushed himself
agitatedly away from his Throne and began to pace back and forth as if trapped
in an invisible cage. "But Gisbourne? Why, assuming you're correct, would
he lie about the deaths of a simple scribe and his family?" He asked.

The old boar chuckled as an evil smile came to his lips.
"Perhaps," He said, "We might get a satisfactory explanation if
the young Troop-Captain were, shall we say, properly motivated to give it to
us."

Jenner turned and eyed his mentor in astonishment. He could tell from the
expression on the boar's face and malign glee in his voice what the Grandmaster
was thinking. "Are you seriously suggesting that I arrest one of my own Troop-Captains?"
He asked. "Ordering the death of a stupid scribe is one thing; after all,
who's going to miss an insignificant idiot like him? But to accuse one of my
guards of disloyalty? I would not only have a civil war to deal with, but quite
probably a mutiny as well!" He cried in growing alarm.

"This sudden squeamishness certainly does not become Your
Majesty." The boar said sternly. "Remember, YOU are the Sovreign King
of Britain! YOU are answerable to no one! Your subjects and your Guards are
YOURS to command, NOT the other way around!"

Jenner, mesmerized by the boar's words, vigorously nodded his agreement.
"Yes. Yes, you're absolutely right!" He said. "I'll have the
Troop-Captain seized immediately!"

The Grandmaster giggled, waving a dismissive hoof. "Tempting as that
sounds, Your Majesty, it would merely be a waste of valuable time." He
said. "No," He continued, "We must be more subtle in our
methods." The Grandmaster then lifted his girth from his chair and began
tapping his way toward the door. "I'll need," He wheezed,
"Warrants for the arrest of Gilbert, Geoffrey and Gillian Gisbourne."

Jenner's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "On what charge?" He asked.

The boar shrugged as he swept by. "High Treason against the Crown, I
suppose. It doesn't really matter." He replied. He kept walking until he
was framed in the arch of the doorway and turned to face his pupil, who wore an
uneasy scowl. "Do not fret, Your Majesty. If young Gisbourne speaks the
truth, then his family should be returned to their present obscurity." He
said.

"And if he is lying?" Jenner asked.

The sadistic anticipation returned to the boar's face. "Then obviously,
Your Majesty, they must be made to suffer the consequences."

Chapter Fifty-Six

"LEFT-two-three-four, LEFT-two-three-four. Col-lumn HALT!"

Under a bright winter noontime sun, the ragged line of animals halted their
forced march in a small clearing somewhere inside Sherwood Forest.

"Alright, you idiots, take ten and get those lunches down your
miserable gullets!" Liam Wyclyffe shouted.As one, the line collapsed and
each of them began digging into whatever rucksack, pack or bag they'd brought
along. As they began eating, Liam; pacing down the column, continued.
"Last night I was given the unfortunate duty of whipping your sorry tails
into an Army so that we can kick Jenner's tail off of the throne! Little did I
realize that our beloved Leader, in his infinite wisdom, has, from the look of
this utterly pathetic bunch of sissies and low-lifes seated before me, given me
what has to be the most impossible damn job in my entire career as a soldier!
It is, in fact, the height of personal embarassment that the ONLY animal I've
seen today who has anything close to decent prospects toward becoming a fighter
worthy of the name is a friggin' GIRL!" At this, a number of the weary
recruits glanced down the line at Heather Kilcannon; who was quietly nibbling
at a piece of dried fruit, tears of exhaustion staining her cheeks. Liam had
been nothing less than astonished when the young skunk had shown up just before
dawn that morning and begged to be signed up as a recruit. Try as he might to
dissuade her; she'd insisted, telling him, "I've nay duties other than th'
Council. Others, like yourself, 're servin' an' sacrificin' by takin' on more than
one task, an' I don't think tha' I should be th' only exception." And so,
very reluctantly, he'd signed her into his own Troop. "But," He'd
warned her sternly, "You'll be treated just like any other recruit without
regard to your status as an Elder. I can't have the other recruits questioning
my authority because they believe that I'm bein' soft on you."

Heather had instantly agreed and, so far as Liam could tell, was willingly
tolerating the abuses, both verbal and physical, that were being heaped on her
and the Troop. "Alright ya bunch o' lollygaggers!" He bellowed into
the cold air, "On your feet!"

Instantly, Heather was standing at a reasonable facsimile of attention and a
few of the other recruits reluctantly followed her example; but most of the
other animals remained seated. "Up your's! We just sat down!" A
sullen and indignant voice replied.

"Who said that!" Liam demanded.

"I did." The offender replied, his voice now both a taunt and a
challenge.

Liam quickly found the source; A young weasel, seated near the middle of the
column, gnawing leisurely on the end of a carrot. Liam half-smiled to himself
in grim amusement. He'd learned long ago that there was always at least one
young buck who thought that, for whatever reason; whether it was a desire to
show off and impress his buddies, intimidate the instructor in order to prove
his malehood, or a simple lack of respect for the authority that Liam
represented; the rules of Military decorum didn't apply to them. He made his
way to where the intransigent recruit sat, now spooning some crushed fruit from
a small jar into a bowl, and planted himself at parade-rest right in front of
the malefactor. "What's your name, son?" He asked with a
not-quite-friendly smile.

"Go 'way, Long Ears," The weasel replied dismissively, "Can't
you see I'm eatin'?"

With the speed of a flashing sword-point, Liam slapped the bowl and spoon
out of the animal's paws and sent them flying into the grass a stones-throw
away. "Lunch is over. Now that I have your undivided attention, I'll
repeat the question. What's your name?" Liam was still smiling, but his
dark eyes were now narrowed and completely focused on the transgressor.

The weasel shot to a standing position, his own eyes smouldering with rage.
"Hey!" He cried. He was at least half-a-head taller than Liam, and
quite muscular for a weasel; but the hare calmly stood his ground.

"I'll not be askin' ya a third time, boy." Liam said, his voice
barely above a whisper.

With a yell the young recruit tried to rake his claws across Liam's face. Without
so much as a flicker of emotion the hare parried the attack; grabbing the
weasel's wrist and sending him reeling into a pair of other recruits who'd
stopped eating in anticipation of a rousing fight, toppling them like tenpins.
Liam, meanwhile, decided that this stupidity was best turned into a learning
experience. "You'll notice," He commented to no one in particular,
"That I was able to use the recruit's own speed and turn it against
him." After a moment's disorientation, the weasel disentangled himself
from the other two and tried to attack again. And again, the hare expertly
dodged; this time putting the weasel down onto the grass with a painful blow to
the back of his neck. "You'll notice also that the angrier he gets, the
easier he is to fight..." Once more Liam eluded the weasel's assault; this
time landing a hard punch to his lower ribcage and knocking the wind out of
him, curling him up like a ball as he gasped for breath. By now, a number of
the other recruits were gathered around to witness the spectacle. But Liam also
noticed out of the corner of his eye that Heather still stood resolutely at
attention even as tears flowed down her cheeks. He quickly returned his
attention to the more pressing matter that still lay in front of him and was now
struggling to get to his feet. "We can keep this up the rest of the day if
you'd like." He said casually, "Though weaponless combat was supposed
to come a bit later in the curriculum."

The weasel painfully raised a warding paw. "No more!" He gasped.
"I'm Oliver... Brownleaf...of the...Waning-Crescent Clan."

Liam now regarded the weasel with a more benign expression. "Very good,
Trooper Brownleaf. Take your place in the column." He ordered.

Brownleaf wordlessly stumbled to the spot he'd been assigned that morning.

Liam then ordered the rest of the animals to pack their lunches and, moments
later, called the Troop to attention. As one and without a word the column
snapped into a roughly military line, with the exception of one panting,
hunched-over figure. Satisfied that this was probably the best that he could
expect on a first day of training, he called, "Right Face!" Then,
"Forward March!" In unison, several dozen pairs of feet began beating
a steady cadence on the Forest floor. As the line passed him, he let himself
smile just a bit. Maybe, just maybe, he could whip some of these tails into
something resembling an Army after all.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Gillian Gisbourne was so depressed she wanted to cry. Only two days had
passed since Geoffrey had helped the little scribe and his family escape from
the City. Thus far there had been no word of their capture and every hour that
passed meant that much more of a margin of safety...if Giles' alibi held up.
The tension of wondering was bad enough, although in a remote and abstract way.
But what was most responsible for her immediate state of mind was the fact that
King Jenner had just decreed that the last royally-subsidized hospital would
lose its funding, effective immediately. This tragic piece of news did not actually
affect her directly; she volunteered after school at the City's only charity
hospital in hopes of one day being eligible for a Scholarship from the Nursing
Guild to attend it's Academy.

Ever since the deaths of King Nicodemus and Sir Jonathan Brisbee; Jenner had
been shutting down almost the entire social welfare mechanism of his
government, leaving only the private charities to take up the slack of caring
for the poor, the physically disabled and the unemployed. Unfortunately this
was proving more and more difficult as more and more animals who had once
depended on the Crown to keep them clothed, fed and off the streets seeking
alms; or, worse yet, turning to crime to keep themselves or their families fed;
were now desperately looking to those same charities for support. But most of
the various guilds and businesses that had once given generously to their
favorite charities were now, inexplicably, refusing even to acknowledge
solicitors when they came seeking donations.

One of the few exceptions was, of course, the Guild of Small Businesses; of
which her brother, Geoffrey, was acting as master until their father either
recovered from his inexplicable illness or died. But the guild was in dire
straits of it's own. Founded by Gillian's grandfather, Gareth, the GSB was, as
were all the guilds, supposed to act as the representative voice for it's
member's before the Crown in matters of worker safety, old-age pensions, pay
equity, workmanship standards (including training standards for the various
craft and professional guilds) and fair treatment in taxation and other legal
issues. But membership, which had always been problematic (pushcart vendors,
mom-and-pop store owners and the like tended to be fiercely independent; rarely
seeing their colleagues as anything other than competitors fighting for an
ever-shrinking slice of an ever-smaller economic pie), was now dwindling ever
lower as members either were evicted from their shops by Jenner's Land
Repossession Decree, bought out by non-member competitors or were forclosed on
by their suppliers and creditors. Worse yet; ever since Jenner's ascension to
the Throne the attitude of the majority of the other, larger, guilds,
especially the Mercantile Guilds; while never particularly congenial due to an
intense personal animosity between her father and the Grandmaster of those
guilds; had gone from merely cold but respectful to outright hostile toward the
GSB, those few small and independent guilds who chose to remain allied with it,
and the Gisbourne family in particular.

While Gillian would have been unable to point to any real, physical,
evidence of a conspiracy on any grand scale, she was astute enough to pick up
on the small items: unsent invitations to this or that birthday party or guild
function, even by friends or colleagues who's relationships with the family
went back generations; longtime friends of her father, often using the lamest
of pretenses, refusing to visit him during his illness; refusals by businesses
to honor Gisbourne family credit accounts or checks, usually without
explanation or apology. These and a thousand other small clues each day, she
knew, were warning her that somewhere, someone very powerful was; for whatever
reason; plotting the isolation and probably the eventual destruction of both the
GSB AND the Gisbourne family. The saddest part of this was that she had tried
to share her fears with Geoffrey (she knew she didn't DARE tell Giles, as loyal
as he was to the King); but her brother had merely laughed off her concerns,
telling her to "quit being such a worry-wart" and pointing out that
Jenner was turning Britain's economy into such a shambles with his wrong-headed
policies that cancellation of credit and demands for cash-only transactions
were all but inevitable. When she'd tried to point out the recent behavior of
their friends, colleagues and acquaintances; he'd bitterly denounced them as
"traitors deserting their posts!", and promised dire consequences for
their conduct in the future. But she knew, as had her late mother, that the
male contingent of the Gisbourne family tended to be idealistic about whatever
cause (Gareth, Gilbert and Geoffrey the GSB; Giles the King's Guard) they
embraced, sometimes blinding themselves to the reality of their situation to
the point of refusal to compromise. In the past, her mother had usually been
able to smooth things over and make her father and brothers see reason when
necessary; but since her death after a long illness two years ago, Gillian had
found herself unable to fill that particular void in the family dynamic. If
anything, Gilbert, Geoffrey and Giles were becoming even more intractible;
driving each other further apart by their respective uncompromising stances.
Her brothers had very nearly come to blows over the issue of whether to help
the poor scribe until Giles discovered the execution warrant and was forced by
Geoffrey (and probably his own conscience, thank the spirits that Jenner hadn't
destroyed THAT part of him yet!) to admit that Jenner was capable of outright
murder and aid in saving the little hedgehog and his kin.

But now, bereft of their mother's moderating influence, the family seemed on
the verge of falling apart; other than a barely acknowledged greeting for
breakfast, the only meal that their busy schedules permitted them to eat
together, not a word had been spoken among them since aiding the scribe's
escape.

She was just about to turn the corner and step out onto the street on which
her house was located when she heard a familiar voice angrily shout,
"What's this about? You have no right to do this!" Instinctively she
stopped and put her back to the wall of the building that hid her from the view
of whoever it was that Geoffrey had vented his protest against and ventured a
quick peek. To her horror; she saw her brother in chains and shackles and her
father, shackled at his wrists, on an improvised stretcher surrounded by a
large detail of the King's Guard. Ominously the Grandmaster,wearing a crimson
skullcap and almost engulfed in a gayly brocaded velvet hooded-cape of the same
color, was also there. As she was barely more than spitting distance from the
scene, she could clearly hear and occasionally see what was going on.

"As a matter of fact, my young friend, I have EVERY right to do this;
for the safety of Britain, her subjects and her King." The boar said
benignly.

"Are we under arrest?" Her father snarled contemptuously, "Or
is that stupid little whelp whose chain you're pullin' now in the habit of
takin' old enemies from their home and bringin' 'em to the castle to watch 'em
die?"

"Under arrest?" The Grandmaster asked, with what Gillian was sure
was an exaggerated mock-graciousness. "Why, certainly not!" He
exclaimed, in a horror that she was certain was; again; more mocking than
genuine. He then dug into the folds of the cape and produced a folded piece of
parchment. "But," He continued pleasantly, "You are being, shall
we say, 'indefinitely detained' on the rather serious charge of Treason to the
Crown."

"WHAT?! That's a damned..." Geoffrey started to say. But his
father raised his head and one paw as far as his shackles would let him.

"Shut up, son." He said, his voice like flint on steel. "No
use wastin' yer breath on this lard-ass. He's apparently callin' the shots an'
wants t' get his 'jollys' in at the same time." He then lay his head back
down and lay the paw on his emaciated stomach. To the Grandmaster he said,
sounding utterly exhausted, "Just take us to whatever hole you're gonna
dump us into an be quick about it."

"Don't worry, your accommodations will be somewhat better than
that..." The Grandmaster said; then paused a moment before adding, with a
sadistic chuckle that came out as more of a grunt , "But not by
much." He then tapped his bejeweled cane on the cobblestoned street.
"Sergeant, take them to the castle and put them in the 'Special Quarters'
that I've arranged." He ordered.

"Yessir." The Sergeant answered.

As soon as Gillian's father and brother and their guards were gone, an
unfamiliar animal stepped out of the Grandmaster's sedan chair and joined him.

"Where is the daughter?" The boar asked ominously, otherwise not
acknowledging the new player's presence.

The animal; who wore a decorous, multi-colored robe and an unusual, low,
round, flat-topped cap; shrugged. "She should have been here, the spirits
willing." He said apologetically.

Quicker than Gillian would have given him credit for, the Grandmaster
whirled and struck the strange animal across the side of his head with his
cane; sending the little hat flying toward the corner, where it rolled to a
stop at her feet; and knocking the now bleeding creature into the gutter.
"IDIOT!" The Grandmaster screamed. "This is the second error
you've made this week!"

"My humblest apologies, Excellency," The animal said as he tried
to stanch the flow. "But I was unaware that you wished her imprisoned as
well; otherwise I would have assigned a shadow to trail her as well." He
explained, still dazed from the blow.

"Damn your excuses, you miserable cur!" The Grandmaster screamed
again, raising the stick to inflict another stroke. "So long as the
Troop-Captain belives even ONE of his family is safe from my grasp, he
represents a danger to us all!" He cried in frustration. He then lowered
the cane and pointed the tip at the cowering animal's nose. "You were
nothing more than a lice-ridden little sneak-thief when I took you out of the
gutters of your native land and turned you into the best spy that money,"
With his other hoof he thumped his barrel-wide chest for emphasis. "MY
MONEY, could buy! But you disappoint me again, you brainless twit, and I'll
send you to a place where those gutters compare favorably with the abode of the
spirits! Have I made myself clear?" He asked, his rage unabated.

The other animal nodded wearily. "As the waters of a virgin oasis,
Excellency." He sighed.

Without another word, the Grandmaster turned and stalked toward his waiting
sedan chair. The other animal began looking around for his hat and quickly
spotted it peeking around the corner of a nearby building.

Gillian, terrified at the thought of being made a captive by such a sadistic
and evil monster, supressed the cry of desperation that tried to escape from
her throat and fled for her life the way she had come.

Zim made his way; a bit unsteadily, perhaps; to the corner where his hat
lay. With the paw that was not soaked with his blood, he reached down to
retrieve it; but something made him hesitate. Something (instinct most likely)
made him look up to see what might have been the tip of a tail disappear around
the far corner of the alley. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs and peered
through the one eye not obscured by now-clotting blood.

"I'm waiting!" Said the impatient voice from inside the
Grandmaster's silk-curtained conveyance.

"Coming, Excellency." The jackal called. He again shrugged and
picked up the hat. "Most probably nothing more than a child at play, the
spirits willing." He thought to himself as he tottered toward his
employer.