The Mostly Danger-less Game Page #2

• Humour
• Satire
• Short story
• Fiction

								


Higgens clapped his hands together and smiled. “Magnificent Sire! Truly brilliant. That certainly would prevent a mutiny amongst the national guard. “

“Hmm! Yes, well, it’s not as just anyone can be born a prince Higgens!”

“That is entirely accurate Sire.”

“It takes a unique kind of brain to do this job!”

“To say your brain is unique Sire would be a profound understatement.”

Pleased with himself, the prince turns on his heel and wave his hand. “Make he necessary arrangements.”

Higgens didn’t move. “Well Sire…there is a small…complication-."

“Rrrrrrraaaaah!” The prince howled in an uncontrolled rage he spun around. The fireplace poker launched like a missile, buzzing past Higgins’ cheek and implanted itself in the wall by his head. Ludwig lunged forward, closing the distance in two massive strides. Before Higgens could so much as draw an alarmed breath, the prince had him by his lapels.

“What is it now?! What damned complication is there?!”

The chancellor spoke in a rapid burst. “The Nobles sire! As you stated, they are our source of tax revenue and are frequently grumbling about this or that…”

“Yes?! So what?! Speak damn you! Tell me what is means to me!”

“Well Sire if, you were to select one of theirs ranks for your…project, it might cause a tax protest or even, ahem, a rebellion.”

Ludwig’s eyes narrowed. “They wouldn’t dare!”

“If they believed you intend to hunt them for sport Sire I daresay they just might.”

 A low growl began to form in the prince’s throat, rose out of his mouth and exploded into and outright roar. He balled his hands into fists around the chancellor’s labels and for moment made as though he would throttle him on the spot. Instead, he let go, turned, and began to jump and down, beating his hands against his thighs. “I never get what I want!” He bellowed as he stomped his feet against the stone floor. He ran to the wall, reared back and punched a mounted antelope head. 

There was a long silence, in which the only sound was the fire and Ludwig’s panting breath. At last Higgens spoke. “Sire, perhaps we should return to the subject of the ferrets-”.

“Peasants!” 

“…Yes Sire?”

Ludwig turned to face the minister, his eyes shimmering with wrath. “The peasants are bound to the land. I own the land. Ergo, I own the peasants. Correct?”

“That certainly is a succinct summary of our land system, yes Sire.”

“So,” Ludwig began, “there is nothing, nothing at all, that would prevent me from simply choosing a peasant from a village and ordering him to take part in the hunt?” His flaring nostrils seemed to dare Higgens to contradict him.

The chancellor took a deep breath and smile reassuringly. “Nothing I can think of Sire.”
Again there was a long, heavy silence as the two men regarded each other.

“Splendid!” The prince said in a low voice. The again, louder, “Splendid!” He broke out a childish grin, “yes! Yes! Splendid! That my dear man is precisely what we shall do!” He darted across the room with astonishing speed. Higgens, to his credit, only slightly flinched as the prince seized him by the shoulders and shook him vigorously. “Haha! Make all the arrangements Higgens my man!” He pointed a thick index finger at a spot directly above the mantel. “There! Right there! That is the spot I’ll mount the magnificent bastard’s head!”

One hour later Higgens sat in his office, his wig off and his head resting on a pillow of paperwork atop his desk. He raised his head roughly an inch, then let it fall with a satisfying thud. He repeated, lift thud, lift thud, lift thud. He sighed heavily, lifted his head, and spoke. “Well…f*ck.” It thudded once more.

A knock on the door interrupted this rhythm. “Enter” Higgens said in a weary voice. 
The door swung open and revealed the castle’s sergeant-at-arms. A stout, moon faced man, with neatly parted ginger hair and matching sideburns, dressed in ceremonial uniform.
“G’evening Higgens, you called for me?” he said as he stepped in.

“Lawrence! Yes, come in, shut the door, we have a problem.”

“Humph, humph, eh? Oh dear!” The sergeant-at-arms grumbled in a voice that sounded like he perpetually needed to clear his throat. “What seems to be the matter?”

“What else?” Higgens said once, he was certain the heavy oaken door was firmly shut, “His royal imbecility. The great moron wants another bloody hunt.”

“Oh?! Dear! Oh dear!” Lawrence said. “Eh, what’s it to be this time?”

“A peasant”

Lawrence considered, nodded and shrugged. “Er, well, not too unreasonable then.”

 Higgens raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“I mean,” Lawrence chortled, “er, could be much worse in the scheme of things.”

“I beg your pardon. How in God’s name could it possibly be worse?”

Lawrence shrugged again. “Well at least it’s a game bird. Rather good eating I think.” 

Higgens listened and gave an exasperated sigh, burying his face in his hands. “No, not a pheasant. A peasant. A serf. The prince wants to shoot a poor person.”

“Humph, humph, mmm, oh? Dear, oh dear. That is more complicated.”

“Yes, you see the dilemma now?”

“Mmm, humph, eh? Well…suppose, we get a prisoner?”

Higgens looked at him from between his fingers. The faintest hint of interest in his eyes. “Go on?”

“Humph, humph, yes, eh, ‘spouse we just get, er a horse thief or, a cutpurse, some poor bugger already headed to the noose. No harm the prince shooting them I spouse’. We could even have a judge write up a notice of execution to be shot by a member of the royal family. All official like.” Lawrence raised his eyebrows.

 Higgens considered this. “No, won’t work.”

“Humph! Humph? Dear! Oh dear! And just why not?”

“Because you are forgetting that Ludwig is the worst hunter on earth.”

This might have been slight hyperbole on Higgens’ part. There were obviously worse hunters then Ludwig on earth. People who didn’t hunt for instance. It was true however that amongst those who did actively hunt, he was by any definition, an abject failure. Not that he was aware of this. As far as the prince knew he was the living embodiment of The Mighty Hunter. 

In truth, with virtually no exception, every trophy in his collection was a monument to deception. His bearskin rug for instance. It had been so full of tranquillizers when Ludwig shot it, it practically needed an apothecary license. Or the Gazelle, felled by Ludwig with a spear. Higgens still could not understand how it never occurred to the prince to wonder how it had broken its leg.

 That was simply how it was done in the royal court of Upper Cracotia. The prince wanted his fantasy of being a great hunter, his staff indulged them. If they didn’t, well, heads rolled…or worse. There were rooms in Castle Balfor with items far less pleasant than taxidermy. Still, there came a point when indulgence gave way to lunacy.

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