Eaglethorpe Buxton and the Elven Princess Read Free

wearing a white apron was rolling out dough with a rolling
pin. She was too busy to notice me. That was not the case with the
stout fellow that at that moment entered from the common room
beyond. He caught sight of me and let out a yell that could have,
and in fact did, summon everyone in the place. The sounds of
singing stopped as others rushed to see the source of his
consternation.
    “Let this be a lesson to you not to waylay
innocent travelers!” I shouted, scooping up the pies, one in each
hand. I urged Hysteria onward, but no doubt feeling the warm air
exiting the window, she was loath to move. The orphan fixed that by
slapping her on the backside, her fragile ego notwithstanding. She
jumped and shot around to the front of the inn just as the gang of
toughs from inside came out the front door. They were just in time
to watch us race off into the darkness with two warm and steamy
pies.

Chapter Four: Wherein we make decisions
about our supper.

    When we were not two hundred yards down the
road, I let Hysteria drop to a trot, for in truth I did not expect
anyone to follow us into the night, daring wild animals, bandits,
or hobgoblins regardless of how fine a pie smith Mistress Gaston
was reported to be. A few hundred yards beyond that, my horse
dropped of her own accord to a walk and I expect she was beginning
to feel a bit mopey because of the slap the orphan had dealt her.
At that moment I was less interested in her mental condition than
my own physical one though, because I was holding a cast pie pan in
each hand and they were both heavy and still quite warm.
    “Here.” I turned in the saddle and handed
one pie to the orphan. “We can eat while we ride. If we wait until
we find a campsite, the pies will be cold.”
    “Do you have a fork?” the boy asked.
    I mused that this seemed an unlikely request
from any boy, most of whom I have found uninterested in tableware
on the best occasion, and especially from an orphan whom one might
have supposed to have been forced by necessity to dig into all
manner of food scraps with his hands. However it was not a question
to which I needed reply in the negative, for I always carry a fork
in the inner left breast pocket of my coat, which I call my fork
pocket. I gave the orphan my fork and pulled my knife from my boot
to use on the remaining pie.
    “This is a very nice fork,” said the
orphan.
    “Of course it is,” said I. “That fork came
from the table of the Queen of Aerithraine herself.”
    “You stole this fork from a Queen?”
    “Impudent whelp!” cried I. “That fine fork
was a gift from the queen, with whom I once had the pleasure of
spending a fortnight.”
    “What kind of queen gives a man a fork?”
    “A kind and gracious one.”
    That apparently satisfied the boy’s
curiosity for the moment and for the next few minutes we
concentrated upon the pies. I am not one to mourn a lost pie and
that is well, for the pie that was lost to me on that night, as I
have previously mentioned, was a pie for the ages. A fine pie. A
beautiful pie. A wonderful pie. This new pie was almost as good
though. It was a crabapple pie, which was a common pie to come upon
in winter in those parts, which is to say Brest, as cooks used the
crabapples they had put up the previous fall. This pie was an
uncommonly good pie, with nutmeg and cinnamon and cloves and
butter. I had more than a few bites by the time the boy spoke
again.
    “What kind of pie is that?”
    “Crabapple,” I replied. “What pie do you
have?”
    “It is a meat pie.”
    “A meat pie,” I mused, as I thought back
upon how long it had been since I had eaten any other meat than
venison. I had eaten a sausage a week before, but it had been a
fortnight and half again since I had eaten mutton stew with
potatoes and black bread in Hammlintown. That had been a fine stew
and the serving wench who brought it to me had been nice and plump
with the top two buttons of her blouse undone and she had smiled
quite fetchingly