Back in the taproom, I made use of the local patrons’ knowledge as well as that of the pregnant serving wench and another serving wench who was less pregnant, which is to say not with child.  When I was done, I had labeled all thirty nine buildings in town—sixty eight, if one included outhouses, and all sixteen outlying farms—sixty one buildings including outhouses, storage sheds, and barns.  I felt as though I had done a full-day’s work.

“It’s nigh on dinner time,” said the serving wench—the not pregnant one.  “Can I get you something to eat?”

“Dinner time already?” I wondered.

“Oh.  It’s what you in Aerithraine call lunch.  Here in Brest, it’s dinner.”

“Oh yes,” said I.  “I had forgotten that you call your dinner, supper; and your lunch, dinner; and your tea, snack time.”

“We still call our tea time, tea,” she said.  “Snack time is mostly in Lyrria.”

She smiled down at me and I gave her a close look for the first time.  She was slightly less medium-plump than the other girl—not surprising as she wasn’t with child.  Still she had plenty of physical charms threatening to escape her blouse, the top three buttons of which were unbuttoned.  I decided that this fashion statement was fifty percent more to my liking than that utilized by other serving wenches.  She had caramel hair and cherry lips, and really big teeth—almost scary big.

“Well, what is on the menu today?”

“I’m afraid we only have meat pie.”

“Only meat pie,” I gasped.  “Why, there have been times when I would have killed for a meat pie, and three times in particular when I was forced to do just that.  One of those times had to do with a slow waitress.”

I am Percival of Thorndyke.  I am not Eaglethorpe Buxton and these are not his words, but are my own.  I give him sole ownership, which is to say copyright, of these words, but they originated by me out of my own mouth.  If I am not as well spoken as normal, it is because I am not now Eaglethorpe Buxton and never have been, even though I might wish to be, for he is the greatest storyteller in the world and I, Percival Thorndyke do so swear upon the lives of my two… no three sisters.

I woke up early the next morning and looking down, saw Eaglethorpe still asleep.  Because remember, I’m not Eaglethorpe.  I decided that I would walk down to the small pond and take a morning bath, because unlike Eaglethorpe I have led a sheltered and easy life—one might well say an unmanly life.

I peeled off my clothes and spent a good half hour washing and having a good old time, and I seemed not to have a single care that something might happen to my friend, whom I had left defenseless and sleeping among the trees.  Fortunately nothing happened to him.  If it had, I would have torn my skin and plucked out my eyes, that the world, but for a little care on my part, had been deprived of such a man as Eaglethorpe Buxton, whom I repeat is not me.

I took him at his word and stepped back into the inn, where I was directed to the second door on the left at the top of the stairs.  Here I found a very nice room with a large bed covered by a straw mattress, and upon that, my duffle bag and saddlebags.  I had brought two changes of clothing including a very nice shirt given to me by my cousin Gervil’s friend Rupert.  Rupert’s real name is Sally, but he has preferred the name Rupert as long as I can remember.  This shirt was a sort of peace offering which I am sure Rupert hoped would make me forget that he bit me on the back of the neck last time I was visiting.  I was not mollified at all, because though Rupert possesses relatively few teeth, they are very sharp and ought not to be employed during kickball games anyway.

We stood at the corner of the Avenue of Spires and the Avenue of the Unwashed Masses, in the shadows of the storied spires and amid the throngs of unwashed masses.  I had been looking for a pie shop and my best friend in the world, Ellwood Cyrene, was looking for a weapons smith who could sharpen his short sword.  Coming up the avenue, which is to say the Avenue of Spires and not the Avenue of the Unwashed Masses, was a line of mounted knights and in front of them, on a proud white stallion, in shining armor, with a purple cloak, shining blond hair, was Elleena Posthuma, Queen of Aerithraine, Guardian of the Faithful, Protector of the Realm, and the only woman in the entire world that I have ever truly loved.

“Majesty,” I said as she passed, bowing deeply at the waist.

She continued on without a glance, as did the entire line of knights.

“WTF?” said I.

“What are you on about?” asked Ellwood.

“She didn’t say anything.” said I.  “She didn’t even glance down at me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I don’t understand it.  She should have known me.  I was once privileged to spend a fortnight in her company.”

“Eaglethorpe,” said Ellwood.  “She’s the Queen.  She doesn’t know you.  Get it into your head.”

“The Queen of Aerithraine and I are like this,” said I, crossing my fingers.

“Eaglethorpe, you and the Queen are not even on the same hand.”  Ellwood folded his arms across his chest, and cocked his head to the side.  “Do you think that armor made her ass look big?”

I ran down the alley, and every zombie within
the sound of my shout, which is to say all of them, followed after me.  Zombies can’t resist a big juicy brain, especially one that can perform geometric calculations, solve quadratic equations, or conjugate verbs in a foreign language, none of which I can
actually do, but zombies are perhaps not as discerning as they should be.

I darted this way and that, easily outpacing the decaying monsters.  They were slow but came on inexorably, which is to say unrelentingly or inevitably or remorselessly, or in this case all three.  I rounded another corner and came face to face with the end of the alley.  It was a dead end, which would have been ironic had I been chased by living things, but as I was being chased by dead things, it was just sort of poetic.  I turned around and the zombies continued toward me, just as inexorable and unrelenting and inevitable and remorseless as before.