Excerpt

Crumbs

Esther Friesner

Sir Hanson the Hawk-eyed rode his mount to the edge of the Dark Woods, peered into their sinister shadows, and pondered the next step of the quest he was about to undertake in the name of his sovereign, Good King Donald. As the boldest, bravest, and third-handsomest knight ever to couch lance in the service of his king, there could be only one thought going through his mind at such a solemn moment, namely:

"Why do I always get the squirrel-butt jobs?"

It was a rhetorical question whose answer he knew well: The boldest, bravest, and third-handsomest knight in the realm was also the poorest, having come of nouveau only-relatively-riche peasant stock. Being a knight was a costly business. Horses didn't grow on trees. And while Good King Donald was quite good, he applied most of said goodness to himself.

Oh, he was open-handed to others when it suited him, but it only suited him to demonstrate generosity to those knights whose quests brought home the bacon. (Also the gold, the jewels, and the damsels whose doting parents were wealthy enough to shower largesse upon the warrior who'd saved their Little Pumpkin from becoming dragon chow.) This was not favoritism, but pure reciprocity: All knights were compelled to tender the spoils of their adventurings to the king, who in turn restored to them a fair share of said tribute. ("Fair" being based on the king's conviction that his loyal knights were most likely holding back a good ten percent of their gross booty.)

The system worked. That is to say, it worked for Good King Donald and for those knights who came into his employ from wealthier families. Along with sword, shield, lance and banner, each affluent applicant for a position in the king's chivalric entourage likewise packed "A small, most unworthy gift for Your Majesty, in gratitude for Your Majesty's most unlooked-for favor in accepting my humble self into your service."

It did sound ever so much more romantic than: "Hey, King! Here's your bribe!"

The gift-of-unworthiness was not obligatory, by any means. Neither was His Majesty required to hand out the really tasty quests—the quests where the gold and jewels and truly hot damsels practically fell into your lap—to any knight whose family circumstances prohibited him from bringing that gift with him when he first joined the team.

Funny, the way it always just happened to work out, though.

Thus, as he lingered at the border of the Dark Woods, Sir Hanson the Hawk-eyed well might have been pausing to regain his balance, for his career as a knight had been the most vicious of whirligigs: No choice assignments without a plump gift to the king, no way of obtaining a plump enough gift for the king without a choice assignment. Sir Hanson the Hawk-eyed could have changed his name to Sir Hanson the Knightly-scutwork-until-you-die without violating any truth-in-advertising laws.

The quest to which he was presently assigned was a case in point. It was a simple Missing Persons affair, and while the Persons thus Missing were important enough, none involved were princess-level important.

"Maybe it's a dragon that's responsible," Sir Hanson muttered to himself as he leaned slightly forward upon the pommel of his saddle. "There aren't supposed to be any dragons in the Dark Woods, just trolls and goblins and giants and flesh-eating witches, but you never can tell with dragons: They pretty much turn up wherever they like. Who's going to tell them not to? And where there's dragons, there's hoards of gold. It can't be helped." He ended on an optimistic note that rang somewhat tinny, even to his own ears.

He consulted the scrap of parchment in his hand one more time. Sir Hanson had requested that the palace scribe write down the particulars of the case, being a firm believer in the Rule of the Six P's, viz.: Prior Planning Prevents Poorly Prepared Paladins.