“Will the war be over soon?” Chic

The bluff gave an excellent view of the camp. They hid behind three scraggy trees with roots trailing over the side. A wind blew down in the flat raising a cloud of dust. As the wind blew dust out to sea, Besh looked west and saw rain clouds advancing over distant mountains.

“There,” said Sposh, stabbing a finger past the scraggy tree. “The black tent beyond the kitchen; that's it.”

Besh and Marken bent over Sposh and followed his pointing finger. A broad and trampled path led from the crates to the kitchen tent, separating the harbor rows from the southern wall of the Queen's Quarter.

Marken spoke softly into Sposh's ear. “So, we can follow the wall to the black tent.”

Sposh shrugged indecisively. Then, he turned with Marken to stare at Besh, who said, “It feels weird to only see your heads.”

Sposh said, “Imagine me between two aliens.”

Besh sighed and said, “OK. Right now, there are too many running around. Food is being taken to the Queen's Quarter. If we see the stewards stop to eat, we'll follow the wall to the black tent.”

Sposh asked, “If the cloaks hide us, will we not trip over each other?”

Besh answered, “You go first. Marken and I will follow your footprints.”

Chic's tent was unfinished. She knew nothing of tents. With a sigh, Chic watched the tent fall flat. She felt inept, foolishly dressed, and hopeless. Holly would laugh and scold her as if she was just another steward. Chic wanted to cry, but she dared not.

Chic felt a hand on her shoulder and looked into Holly's face. She squared her shoulders, ready for reprimand. Holly said, “Forget it. You can stay with me.”

Following, Chic said. “I'm sorry. It all seemed so clear when you explained.”

Holly said, “I'll get someone to set it up. We'll eat soon. Meanwhile, you can stay in my tent.”

Entering a black tent behind her sister, Chic asked, “You put this up yourself?”

“Me?” asked Holly with a chuckle. “No. I have to take my report to the Queen. I'll try not to be long.”

Chic sat on the cot, rule book in her lap, and asked, “Will the war be over soon?”

Holly snorted and turned under the tent flap to reply, “I'll ask the Queen to speed it up.”

In Holly's absence, Chic listened to camp noises as they filtered into the tent. Stewards ran past the black tent, some with mocking laughter, and others with bitter complaints. Chic opened the book in her lap and stared at the first page. The words did not register. She turned the page and blinked; it was a large and intimidating book.

Chic made it to page fourteen and stopped where “Empowerment is a right,” sat in bold print at the top. She could force herself no further. Chic sighed in absolute boredom. Had her sister forgotten about her? She inhaled courage and stepped to the tent flap. Peeking outside, Chic wondered where everyone had gone.

Chic stepped outside the tent, and asked, “Hello?” She saw no one. Chic walked across to one of the harbor tents and peeked inside. “Hello?”

It seemed so quiet for a war. In a daze, Chic wandered south between identical tents. Where had they all gone? Shouldn't somebody have come to tell her it was time to eat? She remembered Sposh with an ache in her heart and wondered if he missed her.

If she circled the camp, she might find someone and ask about her sister. Beneath her fur, Chic's skin prickled with the eerie silence of the camp. A silent home is better than a silent war camp. She could walk freely from the camp; she could walk into the trees and turn north, but home was so very far away.

Chic looked up and saw a covered cage. It had been drawn into camp, sitting over steel-rimmed wheels, the tongue of the wagon nose-down, and had a dusty tarp draped over it as if abandoned. Curiously, Chic took a step toward it. She reached out a hand and pulled back a corner for a quick look. Her heart immediately beat faster at the sight of a forgotten prisoner. Sitting in the dim center of the cage was the alien female, her face buried in her arms and knees.

Faith noticed the light and looked up. A small furry face peered inside the cage. Faith blinked and recognized Chic. It was the wife of Sposh, dressed in the Queen's colors. Frightened eyes peered past the corner of the tarp; there was a sharp inhalation through a small gaping mouth. Faith lowered her arms, turned toward Chic, and crossed her legs.

“Hello,” said Faith.

After a moment, Chic replied. “Hello.”

“Do you have food?” asked Faith.

Chic answered, “No.”

“Oh,” said Faith.

Chic said, “I was looking for the kitchen. Why are you in there?”

“I woke up in here,” answered Faith. “I think I was drugged.”

“Are you a prisoner?” asked Chic.

“I'm in a cage, Chic.” Faith barely kept the anger from her voice. “What's going on?”

“They're having a war,” said Chic.

Besh peeked over the bushes with Sposh and Marken. The time seemed right. Cloaks were pulled over heads in readiness when a door lowered from the pre-fab fortification. A section of wall lowered on chains, and two stewards ran out. Even though they were invisible, Besh, Sposh, and Marken felt it was prudent to duck. After a moment, the stewards returned, followed by one in a different uniform.

Sposh whispered, “That's Holly.”

Holly followed her stewards to the crates and checked the labels. “These two, here, and three from the left bottom. Be careful with the left bottom; they're in glass jars. Be quick. I'll inform the Queen.”

Holly walked through the lowered gate, while the stewards took a crate from the right of the pile and walked toward the kitchen, awkwardly sharing the weight.

Besh whispered, “That puts a crimp in the plan.”

The stewards walked to the kitchen, disappeared inside, then returned for the second crate. As they lifted it between themselves, Holly returned. She exited, snapping her fingers, and followed the stewards to the kitchen. The gate raised slowly.

“My blood boils most urgent,” said Marken.

Sposh replied, “Perhaps, you should lay down.”

Faith followed a long silence with an apology. “About before; at your house, I'm sorry.”

Chic shrugged, pulling the tarp further back, then, she said, “I wonder why they have you in a cage. Are you dangerous?”

Faith answered, “I'm just the negotiator.” Faith's belly growled loudly. She said apologetically, “I'm really hungry.”

“Right,” said Chic. “I'll find some food.” She dropped the tarp, then quickly lifted it. “Don't go anywhere,” she said before hurrying away.

Bread Box stood at weary attention behind a hastily constructed rolling podium with handles, the Terry word book heavy on top. Brate, Snotis, Spike, and Cudgel stood stiffly in a row as the Pope walked angrily in front of them, two timid Polops lifting the train of his sumptuous robe. Beginning with Brate, the Pope paused in turn to jab a fat finger in the face of each.

Alabow said as he went, “Dizzard! Dizzard! Dizzard! Dizzard!”

Soldiers took long detours around the wrath of the Pope. They wanted no part with the troubled guards, choosing to avoid even a sympathetic glance. Busy, stay busy, they thought, and scurried by; better them than me. The Pope turned to walk back the way he had come, still working the stubby finger.

Heading back to his makeshift throne, Alabow said in irritation, “Double-dizzard! Double-dizzard! Double-dizzard! Double-dizzard!” He sat in his throne, but jumped back up on his stumpy legs, throwing his arms in the air, and pushing the Polops aside to reclaim his robe. “I can't believe you drank all the ale,” he shouted. “Now, I have to put my war on hold while Drafter goes back and returns. If I hung your heads on my belt, they would rattle like empty gourds. Bludgeon!”

Bludgeon came running. “Yes, your pomposity.” said the guard.

The Pope waved one hand dismissively as he massaged his eyes with the other. “Put them on the front line,” he said. When all were gone, the Pope glanced at the old Widgen. “Pomposity has a good ring to it,” said Alabow. “Bread Box, look it up.”

Chic returned to the cage with bread and fruit. She pulled back the tarp and pressed the food through the bars. “Sorry it took so long,” she said breathlessly. “I had to find the kitchen. I thought I might find some ale, but obviously, only the males drink it. I did bring this.” She pulled bottled water from a pocket and held it in through the bars.

Faith was ravenous, nearly choking on the dry bread and tepid water. “Thanks,” said Faith. She coughed, then said, “You're very kind.”

The three watched from their cloaks as stewards walked to the kitchen with more crates between them. Besh asked Marken, “Are you still hungry?”

Marken answered after a forlorn sigh, “Surprisingly, no. I desire only the woman I love.”

Sposh added, “Me too.”

Besh said, “I don't suppose the pining will end until we free them.”

Sposh asked, “Can we just follow the stewards when they face the kitchen?”

Besh answered, “I don't see why not.”

“Finally,” said Marken.

Alabow sat glumly on his wooden throne. “Generals are so tedious,” he complained. “It's like I have to tell them how to generalize.” He sighed theatrically as he looked between Bread Box and Bludgeon. He asked, “Where's my cousin? Has anyone seen Sposh?”

Bludgeon shrugged, saying, “Perhaps, he escorted the Drafter back for more ale.” He shrugged a second time.

The Pope leaped from his throne, fists clenched. “By the devil's tits!” he yelled, causing Bread Box to close his eyes defensively. “He'll drink it all before it gets here. Find him. Send a rider and guard that ale.”

Sposh stopped behind Holly's tent and gave the signal; a quick hand thrust from the cloak. Marken knelt carefully behind him and signaled Besh. In a bold moment, the trio ran around the eastern corner of the tent and stopped beside the tent flap. Sposh bravely peered within.

Sposh relayed the sad news. “It's empty.”

“What?” Marken asked in surprise. “Let me see.” Marken entered the black tent.

Looking east from the tent, Besh could see an almost endless line of armed Shashians. Trimbol-drawn catapults moved slowly forward from the arsenals and harbor rows. Generals on Trimbols rode out through a lowered gate to crack the proverbial whip. Besh spied stacked crates being transported to the catapult positions behind the lines. On the side of each crate, there was a sigil of an explosion. Besh turned as Sposh and Marken returned from the tent.

“Where is my Faith?” was Marken's anguished query.

Peeking carefully from his cloak into the saddened face of Marken, Besh asked, “Any clues?”

“No clues,” whispered Sposh, beside Marken, smiling from the concealment of his cloak. “But, I filled my pockets with boiled eggs.”

Marken asked, “Do they hold her in the Queen's Quarter?”

Besh ignored Marken's melodrama, and said to Sposh, “All you have on your stomach is ale. Won't that?” Besh left the question unfinished.

“Nah,” said Sposh. “I'm an old hand.”

Marken whispered, “What now?”

Besh answered, “There are only tents to our south. Do you want to look behind the soldiers?”

Marken answered, “I'll go anywhere to find my Faith.” Marken turned to Sposh and said, “You're not going to eat all of those are you?”

Besh led the way to the nearest catapult. Beside it was a stack of crates, one of them open. Soldiers were busy elsewhere. Besh pulled several packages from the open crate. Sposh said in warning, “Those are Nerfels. Whatever you do, don't open them.”

Besh said, “I'll just put a few in my bag. Look, everyone is busy. Let's split up and look around. We can meet back in the bushes.”

Faith scooted closer to the bars and leaned forward. Chic straightened apprehensively. The alien eyes seemed very large to Chic. She felt helplessly drawn into them as if she might lose herself, but she quickly shook her head and held her ground; she had seen the alien at her worst. There was nothing to fear.

Faith said, “I don't know why I'm here. I'm sure I did nothing wrong, but it's very uncomfortable.” she leaned closer, and whispered, “And I need to pee. There's a lock by your hand. Can you be a dear and open it?”

Chic raised the tarp and noticed the lock, seeing the door for the first time. Placing a finger over the keyhole, Chic sighed and answered, “I know nothing of locks. If Sposh was here, he could help.”

Faith sat back with a frown. “Shoot!” she said. “Where is your husband? He's nice; I like him.”

Chic answered, “The enemy camp? I don't know.”

Faith asked, “Do the wives normally wage war with the husbands?”

“Oh,” said Chic, peeved. “It's a mess. The Pope. The Queen. The edge.”

Faith asked, “Is this the Pope's doing? Let me talk to the Queen. I can help her work a deal.”

“I can't,” said Chic. “Holly can, but the Queen's locked up in her quarters. I heard they brought catapults. What should I do?”

Faith held a hand over her face as she thought. Her negotiation skills might help avert a war between the sexes. At the very least, she could offer the Queen bargaining leverage. On the other hand, riding out a war in a cage, with a full bladder, would be messy. She wondered if she might bend the bars; she did have a greater body mass.

Chic said, “I could try to find Holly and tell her you need a latrine break.”

Faith lifted her hand and nodded at the prospect of a sudden dash for freedom. Could she outrun the little beavers? Would they chuck spears at her? “That would be great,” she said. “Thanks.”

Chic dropped the tarp, leaving Faith alone in the dark. She reached out grabbed two bars, and pulled with all her strength, then sat back with a huff of discouragement. Tappish iron was just as tough as Terran iron.

Chic ran through the rows of tents. She dodged stewards and ignored their accusing frowns. She saw the black tent ahead and hurried. The tent was empty, and Chic's hope deflated instantly. She noted the tray on the table, all those lovely boiled eggs were missing. She should have taken one to Faith. Then, Chic remembered the large kitchen tent. She raced to it without a second thought. Inside, the stewards busied themselves.

Chic called out, “Has anyone seen Holly?”

A steward walked by with a tub of water. She snorted derisively at Chic's informality, and answered in a brusque tone, “The Grand Stewardess is too busy to babysit. Try the front line.”

Chic made a dash for the front line, where the nearest catapult loomed large and menacing. She called to a soldier, “Have you seen the Grand Stewardess?”

“No,” answered the soldier, holding packets at arm's length. “Try the west end.”

Chic turned and ran for the other end of the camp. She was winded and tired. She wondered why she was trying so hard to help the alien. Then she thought, the alien was not so bad, rather nice actually, but she would not want her in the manor. Especially naked, especially not with Sposh in the next room. Reaching the west end, she found the entrance sealed. She leaned forward and placed her hands on her knees, breathing hard. Faith wouldn't like the news.