will not last the decade, and I will crush her resistance before long. No other dragon shall have Vancouver as long as I have blood in my veins.”
“This King, at least, does not seem to be a dragon,” Mr. Philips stated.
Frederick paused. The statement was true. “He clearly is not human, but that leaves us with the question of just what sort of creature he is. It is obvious from the warning sign displayed on young Barnabas that someone other than one of the ruling class has assumed power over the city and its environs.”
“A likely supposition,” Mr. Philips agreed. “But, as he has expressed a vivid disinterest in negotiating with your kind, I believe, perhaps, we should consider letting things lie.”
Frederick gazed at him a moment, shocked by the tact. “Do nothing?”
Mr. Philips nodded slightly. “There are other ways to influence this King, do you not agree?”
In the game of thrones, Frederick was no novice. His servant’s suggestion had merit. “Excellent, Mr. Philips. I believe you have the right of it. We shall bide our time, see how this King settles into his new kingdom.”
Mr. Philips bowed again, this time a full sweep, the top of his head carefully presented to Frederick in a sign of both respect and submission. “As you wish.”
Frederick smiled. An able servant indeed. How valuable one such as he had proved.
“Now, let us assuage the consternation of our fine commissioners. Let them know that we have everything under control and will be back on track by the week’s end.”
Mr. Philips looked at Frederick, his eyebrows high.
“Nidhogg will release the block,” Frederick added. “Qindra will demand some punishment for my transgressions, I am heartily sure. But, it has never been beyond me to grovel to meet the greater goal.”
“But of course,” Mr. Philips said.
Frederick opened his briefcase and placed the manila folder with the pictures of young Bradley’s demise inside. Horrible way to end a life. He would use this to leverage the dwarven community against this usurper in Vancouver. Waste not, want not.
Fifteen
Crazy Quilt Farm wasn’t much of a farm these days. Mrs. LeBlanc ran a quilt store, holding bees, keeping the community stocked in fabric and gossip. Mr. LeBlanc was a retired real estate agent who loved horses. He had seven, and three ponies that he took around to little kid’s’ parties. It was a quiet retirement for him, and something he loved.
Today we’d work all his stock. It would take the greater part of the day. We set up shop near the front field and got Frank’s rig set up for working shoes.
I walked the horses around, letting Frank see how they moved. He knew horses like most people knew their own hands. Each one needed a little something different. As he watched me lead them around, he’d talk out loud, observing things like limping or difference in gait.
We managed to get the ponies and three horses done before lunch. That left the three high-steppers and one Belgian for afterward. I pulled out a couple of sandwiches, a bag of carrots, and two bottles of water. Frank’s lunch consisted of an apple and a bottle of vitamin-fortified water. “Watching my weight,” he informed me. He didn’t turn down half my second sandwich, however.
Frank was old school. Loved the art of blacksmithing more than the business side. Julie told me how the old German masters would hand an apprentice a block of iron and a key. The block of iron was to be reduced to the same key as the one the apprentice held, by just filing the metal. Once that key had been created, the apprentice was assumed to be a journeyman.
Frank added a twist on that—made his apprentices cast a bell of a certain note. They could pick and choose as they saw fit, but before Frank would let them go on, they had to add a bell to his elaborate collection, which hung along the ceiling of his smithy.
Quirky, but something I could understand. He said it was tradition, that it linked the
“This King, at least, does not seem to be a dragon,” Mr. Philips stated.
Frederick paused. The statement was true. “He clearly is not human, but that leaves us with the question of just what sort of creature he is. It is obvious from the warning sign displayed on young Barnabas that someone other than one of the ruling class has assumed power over the city and its environs.”
“A likely supposition,” Mr. Philips agreed. “But, as he has expressed a vivid disinterest in negotiating with your kind, I believe, perhaps, we should consider letting things lie.”
Frederick gazed at him a moment, shocked by the tact. “Do nothing?”
Mr. Philips nodded slightly. “There are other ways to influence this King, do you not agree?”
In the game of thrones, Frederick was no novice. His servant’s suggestion had merit. “Excellent, Mr. Philips. I believe you have the right of it. We shall bide our time, see how this King settles into his new kingdom.”
Mr. Philips bowed again, this time a full sweep, the top of his head carefully presented to Frederick in a sign of both respect and submission. “As you wish.”
Frederick smiled. An able servant indeed. How valuable one such as he had proved.
“Now, let us assuage the consternation of our fine commissioners. Let them know that we have everything under control and will be back on track by the week’s end.”
Mr. Philips looked at Frederick, his eyebrows high.
“Nidhogg will release the block,” Frederick added. “Qindra will demand some punishment for my transgressions, I am heartily sure. But, it has never been beyond me to grovel to meet the greater goal.”
“But of course,” Mr. Philips said.
Frederick opened his briefcase and placed the manila folder with the pictures of young Bradley’s demise inside. Horrible way to end a life. He would use this to leverage the dwarven community against this usurper in Vancouver. Waste not, want not.
Fifteen
Crazy Quilt Farm wasn’t much of a farm these days. Mrs. LeBlanc ran a quilt store, holding bees, keeping the community stocked in fabric and gossip. Mr. LeBlanc was a retired real estate agent who loved horses. He had seven, and three ponies that he took around to little kid’s’ parties. It was a quiet retirement for him, and something he loved.
Today we’d work all his stock. It would take the greater part of the day. We set up shop near the front field and got Frank’s rig set up for working shoes.
I walked the horses around, letting Frank see how they moved. He knew horses like most people knew their own hands. Each one needed a little something different. As he watched me lead them around, he’d talk out loud, observing things like limping or difference in gait.
We managed to get the ponies and three horses done before lunch. That left the three high-steppers and one Belgian for afterward. I pulled out a couple of sandwiches, a bag of carrots, and two bottles of water. Frank’s lunch consisted of an apple and a bottle of vitamin-fortified water. “Watching my weight,” he informed me. He didn’t turn down half my second sandwich, however.
Frank was old school. Loved the art of blacksmithing more than the business side. Julie told me how the old German masters would hand an apprentice a block of iron and a key. The block of iron was to be reduced to the same key as the one the apprentice held, by just filing the metal. Once that key had been created, the apprentice was assumed to be a journeyman.
Frank added a twist on that—made his apprentices cast a bell of a certain note. They could pick and choose as they saw fit, but before Frank would let them go on, they had to add a bell to his elaborate collection, which hung along the ceiling of his smithy.
Quirky, but something I could understand. He said it was tradition, that it linked the
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