Previously in The Tale of Jarthen, Rethnaki plotted a birthday surprise with Elcrona for young Jarthen's birthday. In the meantime, Bertronius and his ladly friends underwent rigorous training by their spy masters.
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“Now, lads,” said Clemhand with a note of warning in his voice, “Ye should know that this be yer very last chance to impress yonder spy masters.” He paused for a beat to give a stern look to Nelhoepher and Lem. Although Clemhand hadn’t glared at him, Bertronius still could not shake the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. As the final examination of his spy training had drawn nearer and nearer, Bertronius grew increasingly anxious. The last few nights had been especially bad: he’d had trouble sinking into the realm of rest and when he did, it was an awful, fitful journey, that often left him more drained than when he had began.
“Here’s how this works – yeh listenin’ Lem? – we spies have a list of peculiar abilities and such that Imperial soldiers are known to possess. These have been confirmed through a variety of sources, but are generally not the kind o’ thing which comes up in typical conversation, if yeh catch me drift.
T’ree sealed envelopes have been chosen for yeh, boys. Each one has a card with the aforementioned ability or what have you on it, and ye must find someone stationed here what has it, yeh’ll likely have to draw on the things ye learned in yer trainin’ to achieve this. This time tomorrow, yeh’ll report back here and tell the spy masters who you found and how ye know they be one what has that ability. Clear enough?”
As the three lads nodded, Clemhand handed each a small parchment envelope, sealed with purple wax and the spy corps’ insignia. As the ever-watchful eye peered up at him from the wax, Bertronius heard Clemhand say, “Alright now, I’m a-headin’ off. In recent years, there’s been some suspicion of spy trainers droppin’ hints to their wee charges ta help them through their final tests, so to prevent such accusations, I’ll leave afore ye open these up. Not that I’d help you lot cheat anyway – one of yeh don’t need it and, frankly, you other two are beyond helpin’.”
The fateful envelope...Once Clemhand was beyond earshot, Lem was the first to speak up. “Lads, I hate ta admit it, but I be feelin’ a might nervous. Anyone brave enough ta open theirs first?”
Bertronius’ heart was thudding loudly in his chest, so he was relieved when he heard Nelhoepher throw out a string of good-natured insults at Lem (which generally suggested he was not very brave) before ripping open his envelope. “Hmm…" he muttered to himself as he perused the script on the card within. "It says…‘find a vassal’! Bert, you’re a vassal, right? Guess I’m all done then! See, Lemmy, nothin’ to be a-scared of!”
Lem, with a small smirk, reluctantly opened his envelope as well. After a moment, his face broke into a broad grin, as he exclaimed, “Turns out we both be lucky, friend! Mine says ‘find a soldier with a sixth toe,’ and me cousin Todd, o’er in camp B, y’know, suffers just that kind o’ affliction! Looks like I’m done too!”
“Well, Clemhand did say you two needed all the help you can get!” Bertonius said wryly as he opened his envelope. “Mine says….‘find a soldier who wears size 42 pants’.”
“Hmm…I’m a size 36 an’ Nelhoepher here’s in the neighborhood o’ 30,” Lem responded hopefully. “What size do you wear, Bert?”
“Size 28,” Bert replied glumly.
*******
In the weeks since he intimated to Rethnaki and Zartheim the fact of his birthday neglect, Jarthen had had precious little time to ruminate on the subject, which, in many ways, was a positive thing for the lad. Even though this paucity of thought was in large part due to the rigors of the seemingly endless marching through the forest and the additional labor of making camp every night, Jarthen was relieved to be too tired to feel homesick.
Indeed, a celebration was the farthest thing from Jarthen’s mind as he slunk sleepily back to his tent exactly four weeks after his birthday. Glothnafar had ordered Jarthen to catalog all of the company’s pots, pans, and cutlery – a more menial and tedious task than, the centaur typically assigned him. At least, Jarthen had thought to himself, Glothnafar had embarked on one of his regular walks with Jellihondor, so he would be able to perform the work without the centaur’s watchful gaze upon him. The lad wasn’t sure what his two commanders discussed on these walks, but, having occasionally glimpsed them in the woods, they seemed to engage in intense, deep conversations on subjects of grave import.
Glothnafar and Jellihondor had not returned from their mysterious constitutional by the time Jarthen had finished his cataloguing, so he elected to return to his tent in the hope of getting some much deserved rest. However, within moments of laying his head down on the bundle of dirty clothes that served as his pillow, Jarthen heard the unmistakable din of cowbells and tin cans being clattered together.
Startled by the cacophony, Jarthen clamored to his feet, and emerged from his tent to find a strange procession of his fellow rebel soldiers headed by Zartheim who was jubilantly banging two freshly catalogued pans together, and Rethnaki who proudly bore a large, splendidly if somewhat unevenly decorated mushcake topped with an awkwardly carved numerical candle. Jarthen was in awe! As he stood in shock, the entire group, which included everyone from the party except Jellihondor and Glothnafar, broke into a cheerful rendition of “Huzzah! You’re the birthday chap,” the song customarily sung by Fethilians on such occasion.
Jarthen was nearly overwhelmed with emotion as Rethnaki proudly presented the mushcake for him to blow out the candle just as the song reached its climax. He felt tears welling up in his eyes as he gazed at his comrades – every face bore an expression of sincere good cheer, and genuine affection, which filled him with a sense of happiness and fulfillment that banished any doubt he had had about fitting into this motley crew of odd folk.
Even the elder members of the group, who had had witnessed some historic cabals in their time, agreed that the party that ensued after Jarthen blew out the candle was one of the finest the Erkenheld Forest had ever hosted! Pipeweed abounded, and there was even some strong gnomish firewater that had been secreted away by Zartheim for just such a special occasion. Everyone sang and danced well into the night, even though they knew that they would have to resume their long march the next morning.
The evening of historic revelry...*****
Later, in the mess tent over some delicious bowls of army mush, Lem and Nelhoepher tried to raise Bertronius’ spirits. Bertronius could not believe that his two friends had once again lucked out of having to earn their way through, while he had to figure out a way to find out soldiers’ pant sizes without seeming strange or untoward.
Nelhoepher, who found the sight of Bertronius sighing quietly and absentmindedly poking at his mush pathetic, tried to help his young friend. “Alright, here’s what we know, right? We know that someone with size 42 pants is going to be bigger than Lem, who’s got the biggest pant size of us three. So, maybe you should make Lem run around with you, and ask all the men whose arses are bigger than his what size they are and what their names are?”
“That’s ridiculous. It’s rude and embarrassing for everyone involved,” replied Bertronius glumly.
Nelhoepher gave a pleading look to Lem, who had been happily munching away. He swallowed another mushful bite and turned to Bertronius. “I think I’ve got it Bert! It’s tricky, but honestly, I dunna how it couldna work! See, everyone’s pants be issued by the army right? And part o’ that means that everyone’s laundry – includin' their britches – gets done by the laundry clerk o’er near the porter boys, right?" At this point, Lem paused and looked back and forth between his two comrades to enhance the impact of his coup de grace. "So," he continued, "if you blew up the laundry tents, all those pants’d be gone and you could stand around until ye heard someone being issued a new pair o’ size 42’s!”
Bertronius and Nelhoepher looked at Lem as if he had somehow transformed into a particularly unattractive tuber. Suddenly, however, Bertronius sat straight up, and a knowing smile slowly spread across his face. “That’s it! The laundry tent!”
“Well, y’know, I did think it was bright meself…an’ I’ve even got a couple of sticks o’ dynamite stashed from Craggle’s lessons I could lend yeh - ”
Lem’s self-congratulations were viciously interrupted by Bertronius’ fist, which had just smashed into the side of his head. Surprised and confused, Lem fought back while Nelhoepher tried to pull the two lads apart. Within ten minutes, a brawl had broken out in the mess tent.
*****
Jarthen didn’t have a chance to talk to Rethnaki about his mindset until the subsequent day, when they had resumed their trek along the magical forest path. As a result of the tremendous revelry the previous evening, Jarthen discovered the reason for gnomish firewater’s provocative epithet: his belly felt as if it was being consumed by a raging fire, while his brain seemed to be in real danger of bursting its casements.
Rethnaki, who typically sought out constant company and conversation, was strangely silent. He was marching by himself with a brooding look cast across his normally cheerful face, when Jarthen caught up to him and engaged him in conversation.
“Hey…uh…Naki, are you ok?” he asked, unsure how to deal with his friend in this state.
It took a moment for Jarthen’s words to penetrate Rethnaki's thoughtful state of mind,, and when they did, he looked at the lad as though he only half-recognized him. “Oh, hullo there lad. I’m jus’ fine lad, an’ yerself? Did ye enjoy yer party, then?” he replied through a forced smile, clearly in a state of anxiety.
“Uh, I’m ok,” Jarthen said, his worry increased by Rethnaki’s evasive response. “You seem really…preoccupied about something, are you sure you’re ok?”
Rethnaki's smile evaporated and he looked away, as if ashamed as he responded, “Alrigh’ I’ll level wit ye lad. I am scared out o’ me wits cause we’re a enterin’ the land o’ ta blue elves.”
“Oh, you mean like Benno right? What’s so scary about them?” Jarthen responded trying to be sympathetic to his friend’s obvious distress.
Rethnaki's voice dropped to a whisper and leaned in close to Jarthen as he said, “I don’ want ta frighten ye with tales I’ve heard o’ tha’ lot. They’re a barbarous bunch, that’ll sooner skin a red elf alive then bid ye good day. And their Queen Svava is the worst o’ em all! I’ve heard tell she ‘as enough magic in her wee finger ta defeat even ta most accomplished warrior in a duel,” Rethnaki wildly scanned the trees in front of them, as if expecting blue elves to descend at any instant and capture them.
Jarthen grasped the elf's shoulder firmly and turned him, as if to give him a gentle embrace. He looked Rethnaki in the eye – a somewhat difficult task as Rethnaki insisted on keeping his eyes aloft – and sought to reassure him, “Rethnaki, look, I’m sure we’ll be ok. Jellihondor knows what he’s doing, and we’ll make it through, you know? This is the best of the best of the Rebel Army: there’s nothing we can’t handle!”
Rethnaki seemed to calm down a little bit at these words, and looked like he was about to make a self-deprecating joke when suddenly, a heavy rope net engulfed them and a swarm of strange, tattooed faces emerged from the forest!
A net descends on the terrified Rethnaki...*****
Bertronius, Nelhoepher, and Lem had been standing outside the spy masters’ tent for perhaps half an hour or so, and the apprehension was getting to them. Nelhoepher and Lem were worried now that McNab, Iloskin and Craggle would fail them – after all, it wasn’t as if they were forced to draw on any of the spying skills they had just spent the last few weeks learning. For his part, Bertronius was afraid that the spy masters would be disappointed about the previous morning’s brawl in the mush tent, and would not believe him when he tried to explain why he started it.
Craggle’s head unceremoniously popped out of the tent. “Alrigh’ Worthis. Yeh’ll be goin’ first,” he said as he motioned to Bertronius. Bertronius nodded, and with a quick glance back at his two friends who were whispering encouraging words under their breath, followed Craggle into the tent. It was just as dark as he remembered from his meeting with the three men when he made it out of the forest. Bertronius fiddled nervously with his final examination card while Craggle sat back down.
“Before we start, Worthis,” said Iloskin, in a slightly clipped tone of voice, “I think some inquiry must be made into your behavior during yesterday’s morning meal. To be a spy – and a vassal – is to serve her majesty! I have my doubts that one who shows so little control over his impulses can fulfill the duties of a spy,” he said, pursing his lips in a look of prim disapproval.
Bertronius took a deep breath. “With all due respect, Spy Master Ilsokin, I was hoping to address the issue of the brawl during my final examination.”
Iloskin paused momentarily, obviously confused and at a loss for words. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that the two events were…not unrelated, sir,” replied Bertronius.
After a moment, McNab spoke, “It seems to me that we can always come back to Iloskin’s…concerns if you fail to address them sufficiently in your exam. I move to start the examination.” Craggle agreed with McNab, and Iloskin looked mildly relieved. “Good, let’s get started, then. Yer card, please, Bert?”
Bert handed over the crumpled, and now slightly sweat-stained card to McNab. “Yeh were given ‘size 42 pants’ and have determined that a one Sylon Ger…Goh…oh, I canna read yer handwritin'. What’s the last name?”
“Goill, sir” replied Bertronius, who had always been a little overly sensitive about his handwriting.
“Ah, I see it now. So, how did you discover this information about Mr. Goill?” asked McNab.
Bertronius’ heart was pounding in his ears, making it difficult to hear what he was being asked. After a moment, he launched into an answer, and hoped that his voice wasn’t to strangled sounding and that he wasn’t speaking too quickly to be understood. “Given the, um, odd nature of the information I needed to get, I first decided that direct communications with the person of interest were not going to be effective. I needed to get this information in a more covert way.” McNab and Craggle nodded encouragingly, and Bertronius felt himself relax a little. “Upon consideration, I thought that the most sensible place to look for someone who had been issued a particular pant size was the laundry tent. It was likely that there was a master list of everyone who had been issued a uniform, and what size the uniform was.”
“How’d ye get access to tha'?” asked Craggle in his characteristic growl.
“By starting the brawl,” Bertronius answered. Iloskin let out a loud gasp and began to scribble furiously away on a notepad in front of him. He motioned for Bertronius to continue, but kept the scandalized expression on his face for the rest of the exam. “The punishment for that kind of behavior is usually a choice between washing dishes or washing clothes, so starting and participating in the brawl gave me the initial access to the laundry tents.”
The frightful brawl...Craggle, who had warmed up to Bertronius considerably during training, smiled. “Clever! An’ ye used some o’ the combat skills I taught yeh, eh?”
“Yes sir,” said Bertronius, not totally sure of what the gruff spy had said. “Once I was in the laundry tent, I used what Master Iloskin taught about charm skills. I engaged the laundry master in conversation and directed it towards what was going wrong with him, and he soon started complaining about lack of sleep. So, after an hour or so, when he seemed to feel comfortable with me, I offered to cover for him should he want a nap. He took the bait, and while he was curled up on the floor, I rifled through his desk until I found the pants sign-out sheets. That’s how I found Mr. Goill’s pant size!” At some point during the story, Bertronius had lost his self-consciousness and now found himself standing with his arms wide open and grinning from ear to ear.
Bertronius regained his composure when Iloskin asked him to leave the tent and send Nelhoepher in. Bertronius waited outside the tent with an even more nervous Lem. When Nelhoepher came back out, Bertronius gave Lem an affectionate pat on the back and told him not to worry so. A few minutes later, Lem (who now looked quite green) exited the tent. The three young spies-in-training sat in nervous silence for what seemed like an eternity.
Eventually, McNab came out of the tent and stood in front of them. “Bertronius Worthis, yeh have passed the examination, and are now a full member of her majesty’s spy corps. Good work.” Bertonius felt the anxiety drain away as Nelhoepher and Lem punched his shoulder and slapped him on the back. “As for you two, we debated about whether or not to let you pass for some time. On the one hand, you did what you were asked, but on the other hand, you once again managed this more through sheer happenstance than your own abilities. However, since there was nothing in the rules 'gainst just happening to know the answer, and since there’s a good bit o’ luck involved in spyin’ anyway, Nelhoepher Spluck and Lemonius Catherton Grundlethrump III, you have passed the examination and are now also full members of her majesty’s spy corps. Congrats, to all t’ree o’ you!”
As McNab walked away, Bertronius, barely containing his laughter, leaned over to the other newly-minted spies. "That is your full name?!” Lem turned beet red in response as Nelhoepher snickered at his other side.
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