A Bill Comes Due

A Bill Comes Due

A portly man dressed in livery , a trumpet in his hand and a vapid expression on his face, stood facing a rickety, one-story wooden shack.  Well-scrubbed as the man was, he felt a little dirty standing next to it; it hardly looked as if it belonged in the great city.  From time to time, he glanced at the gradually brightening horizon, waiting for the exact moment when it could be said to be “sunrise”. 

Finally the moment came.  The insistent, pompous voice of the trumpet bellowed.  Flocks of sleek, well-fed pigeons had been feeding peacefully took startled flight and soared over the clay-tiled rooftops

“Alben Methusula!” bellowed the man, his voice curiously similar to that of the trumpet.  “Wake!  Wake in the name of the King!”

It was some time before a shutter rattled open and a squinting, wrinkled head peeped out, obscured at both ends by a long, dingy grey beard and a long, dingy grey nightcap.

“Yes?” asked a high, querulous voice, muffled somewhat by the beard.  Its owner sounded equal parts irritated and confused.

The man removed a rolled parchment from under his arm and brandished it with authority.  “His Grace King Gerald, the ninth of that name, son of the illustrious King Gerald the…”

“Leave it.”

The man stopped in mid bluster, more startled than annoyed.  No one had ever interrupted him before.  Maybe it was a fluke.  “…eighth of that name hereby commands…”

“Leave it on the doorstop and go away,” said the quavering, peevish voice.

“I beg your pardon?” the man asked, injured.

Methusula’s head disappeared.  A moment later, a dingy grey chamber-pot sailed out the window towards the portly man with impressive accuracy.

Barely managing to dodge the putrid missile, the man threw the rolled parchment at the crookedly hung door of the shack.  Beating a quick retreat, he called over his shoulder in the most dignified manner possible: “His Majesty shall hear of this outrage!”

A few moments after the man’s footsteps had faded, the door opened and Methusula cautiously peeped out.  Then, cackling softly to himself, he picked up the roll of parchment and slammed the door.

His malicious laughter stopped sharply when he read the words on the page. In arrears…significant damages…in gold or service…on pain of banishment…

A bill?  Old Gerald’s brat had the gall to present him with a bill?

Torin, his young apprentice, poked his head out from the small broom closet in which he slept.  “Good morning, master,” he said cautiously.  “How does the day find you?”

“That parsimonious prick!”  Methusala roared. He upset a small wooden table piled high with brittle yellow pages.  They flew in all directions.  Torin ducked back into the closet without a word.

Fuming, Methusula tramped through the sea of old parchment to the trapdoor in the center of the floor.

“I’m going to work in the cellar,” he announced.  “And I’m not to be disturbed!”  Not waiting for Torin to reply, he flung the trapdoor open and descended, slamming the door behind him.

“A bill!” he muttered as he rummaged among dusty bottles and huge, musty smelling volumes.  “A bill!”  To send that self-important ass to wave a bill under his nose!  He, Methusula, who put the wretch’s grandsire on the throne decades before he was born!

He found the book he was looking for.  Slamming it down upon his workbench, he opened it and furiously thumbed through the pages.  It had been a long time since he had worked a real spell.  Possibly decades.  He couldn’t remember.  Real spells required real magic and that had to be striven for.  That cost.  He had hoped to be able to support his retirement with wrinkle creams and true-love charms, but now, with the outrage pulsing hot through his veins, he just might risk it.

Finally a well-thumbed page caught his eye.  He ran a gnarled finger under the illuminated title.

“Distillation of Dreams…” he muttered thoughtfully.  “Yes… yes.  That will cause the brat no end of trouble.”

***

“Try to help me understand,” began the newly crowned King Gerald.  Though he could barely count twenty years, the look of patient disdain on his face would have better suited a man of fifty.  “Why we shouldn’t just take it?  The purported value of this potion, should it prove effective, would satisfy…”  He thought a moment.  “…at least half the old man’s sizable debt to our crown.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the Lord Treasurer replied, licking his lips compulsively.    The frequency with which this occurred had increased greatly since the younger Gerald had ascended the throne.  “If your Majesty will recall, my suggestion was to…”

“To ‘stow the matter under the rug’?”

“Indeed, Sire.  Surely Your Grace will agree that the old man has been a great ally of your family.  A few gold pieces, between old friends…”

“Cronyism.” the King pronounced darkly.  “Cronyism and corruption.  The treasury bleeds gold for them.  They have no place in our kingdom.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”  The Lord Treasurer licked his lips again.  He had never had to explain these things before.  Old King Gerald had been a practical man, he had understood.  “But Sire, a gift from a wizard…”  The Lord Treasurer closed his eyes.  “…particularly this wizard…”

“Silence!  I have heard enough.”  Gerald thumped his fist ceremoniously on the arm of his chair.  “Send a messenger to treat with the man at once.”

The Lord Treasurer winced.  “Right away, Your Grace.”  Briefly the old man considered going himself and trying to reason with Mathusula, to talk him out of whatever he was undoubtedly plotting.  However, as he bent the knee to his new master and took another look at that smooth, pompous face, he decided not to bother.

We all have to learn sometime, he thought to himself as he backed out of the council chamber.  He began to consider plausible excuses for making himself scarce in the near future.