Manticore Rampant

Ch 7 - Creature Resources

Personally, Hirschnopple hadn't seen what all the fuss was about—the lad was provided with a clothes peg and relieved occasionally by the gardener, after all—however a little digging had revealed the page-boy was in fact the nephew of Duchess Feluka's pool-boy. And, perhaps more to the point, said pool-boy—a strapping young former lumberjack fresh from the lushly forested foothills of Mt Whoa—was withholding any and all extra-curricular, non-aquatic services until his mistress (in more than one sense of the word) got off her highly manicured arse and did something to improve the lot of downtrodden and nasally traumatised people such as little Binko.

Whatever its genesis, as far as Hirschnopple was concerned the whole thing was nothing more than a steaming pile of roc-droppings. He was damned if he'd let the sexual frustrations of some middle-aged duchess, who really should know better than to let rogering get in the way of ruling, make him say please and thank-you to every grubby-faced potboy and...and...pig-slapper who crossed his path.

This was no time for weakness, particularly from a strong and commanding figure of authority such as himself. This was a time for clear and decisive action.

"Tell him he can bugger wight off."

"Very well, my lord. Just a moment."

Muffled voices emerged from the tube, followed by the sounds of a scuffle, a faint but quite distinct, "Ooh, me nadgers!" and then a brief silence.

"Boodoop"—there came several seconds of hoarse panting—"boodoop."

"Yes?" demanded Hirschnopple.

"Uh, he declined to bugger off, my lord." The voice, although still unmistakably Lubkin's, was about an octave higher in tone. "He insists upon seeing you, I'm afraid. It's apparently in relation to some staff complaints."

Hirschnopple blinked. "Staff complaints? About me?" He was genuinely nonplussed. It had been positively days since he'd punched an underling. Well, any of the less-worthless ones, at any rate. And he couldn't even remember how long it was since he'd last fired up his father's patented reverse-barbed, double-pronged enthusiasm-inducer. Clearly too long, by the sound of things.

"Er, yes, my lord. Apparently the complaints in question concern the alleged cruel and unusual psychological abuse of a butler and also the casting of aspersions on the aesthetic qualities of one of your soldiers. He claims his self-esteem has been irreparably compromised."

"Self-esteem? Self-esteem? But it's my self they're bloody well supposed to be esteeming, not their own. I don't know, what's this kingdom coming to when boot-licking, waste-of-space, utterly worthless and thowoughly butt-ugly lowlife peasants can go awound accusing their supewiors of completely justified yet totally untwue offences? Where's the gwatitude? Where's the wespect? Where's the appweciation for a fwank and honest assessment of their welative worth? It makes my blood boil, Lubkin."

"Quite, my lord. Er, and the ogre?"

"The what? Oh, yes." Hirschnopple considered. Those turncoats Smark and Felubble were clearly off somewhere snitching and/or reassuring each other how attractive they were, while the remainder of his personal guard hadn't yet returned from their conspirator-hunt, leaving him a little light on in ogre-handling resources. It seemed a strategic approach was called for.

"Oh, vewy well. Tell him I'll see him. But he'll jolly well have to wait his turn. Kindly send in Ms Waithclaw."

"Yes, my lord. Right away."

Monochrome. That was Hirschnopple's overriding first impression of the goblin as she entered the room. Grey skin, slate-coloured eyes, black leather—even the hilt of her long, curved sword was dark as midnight. Without invitation—and without a sound—she slid into one of the seats arrayed before the young lord's monstrosity of a desk and rested her unblinking gaze on him. And then, utterly still, she waited.