Donald felt himself being dragged to his feet, and he tried to hang on to whoever might be doing the dragging. His addled brain seemed to think it better than falling. He heard a voice say something about going now, but it sounded muffled and far away, even though it simultaneously seemed loud and right next to his ear. Yes, this sounded like a good idea. He should be going. He tried to move his feet and they sluggishly responded.
“Mmmph Eyahhhh,” he said. This surprised him because he meant to say, “What happened?” He tried to figure out why it came out wrong, but it made his head hurt. When he tried thinking about why his head hurt, it hurt more.
“Ghfffligm gliflix num,” he said, which he intended to be, “I think I’ll take a nap now.” After this fuzzy thought, he let the world happen without making any effort to understand why. It felt much better.
Some unknown amount of time later, his eyes fluttered open. The men on either side of his gond looked up at him as he took in the still somewhat blurry scene around him. Gond, road, Kwestor. Yes. Those all seemed familiar.
“What—?” he began.
“Your highness suffered from an accident.” Kwestor answered before Donald could finish formulating the obvious question.
“How—?”
“Nothing serious. Just a few scratches and bruises. You should feel fine after a bit of rest.”
“Where—?”
“Just outside the town of Barter’s Forge.”
“Going to or coming from?”
“Going to.”
“Good. I don’t think I feel well.”
Donald concentrated on sitting, breathing, and not soiling himself from one end or the other. He found it more difficult than he thought it should be. He stared vaguely over the hypnotically bobbing head of the gond for about fifteen minutes. Eventually, he turned to Kwestor. “Who’s the other guy?”
“That’s Muce. He’s the accident that happened to you.” He paused a moment while the prince looked down at him with no sign of comprehension. “But it was a misunderstanding.”
A memory flash of a man banging on a door confused him. “But he’s a—”
“No, he was actually trying to help those peasants. Strange, I know.”
“That’s true Your Princeliness,” Muce said. “I was just walking up the road when I saw those peasants outside their house crying and such with their door all bashed down, so I went over to see if they needed help, and they ran away and locked themselves in their shed.
“They’d been robbed, you see, by some bandits, but I never saw them. The bandits, that is. These guys were probably local bullies. There are lots of bandits about, but most don’t normally bother real poor folks like them back there because they don’t have nothing worth taking. And they don’t usually go for anyone who looks like they can defend themselves, but you probably know all about that.”
Donald could not honestly say he did, but it seemed to make sense, as much as anything else did to him just now. Then he recalled something else—it involved pain. “But he—”
“It seems he thought you were a brigand.”
“Sorry about that,” the young fighter said. “If I knew you weren’t a bandit, I wouldn’t have thumped you like that, but, if you don’t mind me saying, you shouldn’t be charging down on people swinging your sword without knowing who it is you’re swinging at, if you don’t want to be taken for one and treated that way.”
The prince turned to look at Muce. Donald’s head throbbed, but with some effort, he managed to get his eyes to focus. A blank and honest expression stared back, and the various aspects of Donald’s personality tempted to call for anger or vengeance shut up. How could he be angry at such an innocent face? It would be like kicking a puppy. Besides, part of him understood Muce’s point. The blonde fighter must have registered some sort of disapproval from the prince, though, because he tried to apologize.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say stuff like that to a prince, should I? I’ve never met any royalty before. Well, there was this guy who used to come to play cards and stuff at the Lucky Lady where my mom used to work who said he was a duke, but no one really believed him, although we all called him ‘Duke’ because he was a good customer, even though some people said he cheated, and what’s it hurt anyway?”
The way he said it, and his satisfied expression, suggested he thought this should explain everything, but Donald’s face remained unchanged. Muce adopted the demeanor of the aforesaid puppy after an encounter with a rolled newspaper. “I just meant to say I’m sorry for bashing you on the head.” His voice became quieter. “And the knee thing too.”
“Your Highness?” Kwestor said.
“What?”
“You had a glassy look in your eyes so I wanted to make sure your brain was still working.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine. I just got lost there a second.”
“I know what you mean. We talked a lot while you were out. Actually, Muce talked a lot. Listening can be a bit — disorienting.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Donald did not quite know what to make of the man, and he took a moment to try to figure out why. Muce not being a bandit came as something of a shock, and Donald felt embarrassed about how he let himself get carried away, and, because of this, how he had to be carried away. However, an additional reason suggested itself. Donald had seldom talked to commoners as if they were, well, real people before, and he still felt uncomfortable doing so. Now seemed to be as good a time as any to get in some practice.
“So, uh, what brings you out here?”
“Well, before I met you and Kwestor, I was thinking I’d go to Sandrift to see if I could hire on as a caravan guard. Lot’s of caravans leave from there because it’s a major port, and my last job ended in Hilton a couple days ago.”
“So you’re a caravan guard?”
“Yeah, mostly.”
“And you’re from Sandrift?”
“Oh, no. I’m from Dolphin Point—the South Temple Sector, actually.”
“So you’re Westgrovian?” Donald vaguely recalled visiting Dolphin Point as a child once. From his geography lessons, he knew it was a relatively large and cosmopolitan port city and the northernmost in his father’s kingdom. He could remember little else about it, though. He took in the man’s blonde hair, blue eyes, and slightly pointed ears. Kwestor must have sensed his confusion because he answered his unasked question.
“Muce is a notso, Your Highness.” Donald knew the name derived from being not so tall as the tallfolk and not so fair as the fairfolk. “There’s a lot of notsos in the coastal cities, especially Dolphin Point.”
“Yeah,” Muce said. “Most the folks in the South Temple sector are notsos. I still have a bunch of relatives there—my mom, and my sister, and my cousin Amy and, well, just a bunch.”
“I see,” Donald said. He turned to the taciturn ranger. “This all makes sense, right?”
The older man simply nodded.
Donald considered for a moment, trying to find a positive interpretation for what happened to him and maybe a way to salvage some of his lost dignity when he suddenly came to a realization. Twisting his body on his mount, he concentrated to form a smile and extended his right hand down toward Muce. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced. My name is Donald, Prince of Westgrove. And my companion over there is Kwestor, who is perhaps the most capable guide and scout in the whole kingdom. We are very pleased to meet you, Muce.”
Donald’s effort to talk to Muce as though the difference in their stations made no difference seemed to confuse him. The notso’s already slack jaw dropped as he turned his head and extended his own hand toward the one the prince offered. “Um, likewise, I’m sure?” he suggested uncertainly.
“Hah! Good man! In a way, our meeting might be considered very fortuitous.”
“I don’t see how,” Kwestor said.
“One of my main reasons for being out and about is to meet the common people, Kwestor. Now, here we are, traveling with a fine fellow who seems v
ery common indeed. I’m sure his unique perspective will be invaluable to me as we get to know one another better. And having another armed man with us can’t hurt either. I’m glad we met.”