Story for the Day: Classic Rautu -- Part 2

Whenever there is a package to be got, you may be very sure that a certain giant will always be by to claim it:

Morning came, and with it brought on the return of the Scoaliegh. He came just before sunrise, racing toward aurora, marking the blaze of the sun peeking up from the median line as he rode into Diras, galloping through the gauntlet of midges and hedgeflies, riding round the claudication of beggars collected at the capital gate. He came from Westren, where a package for Pastaddams was being put together in a hurry, and came on the wings of anticipation, thinking the parcel having something to do with a present for Her Majesty. Gaumhin saw him from his place atop the capital wall and waved him in, and he trotted up the hill to the castle gate, where he dismounted and began loosening the parcels attached to the saddle bags.

                “There you are, my girl,” said he, laying the parcels aside. “You had an excellent ride tonight. Now we shall visit your friends Master Roreigh and Uncle Dieas and see about having you shod.”

                He patted her muzzle. She whickered and flicked her mane at him.

                “Yes, I know you are not fond of having Master Roreigh manipulate you, but it must be done. He treats you very handsomely and awards you with carrots and mangolds when you are a good girl.” He glanced up to see whether the signal from the main gate was given-- a shadow momentarily blocked his view, but there were no clouds overhead, and the sun was just peering up from the horizon. The call was given, the gate was letting up, and the Scoaliegh turned to find one of his parcels missing. “Good morning, Den Asaan,” said he subrisively. “I rather expected you.” There was no reply. “This is early for you to be at the gate, is not it? You are usually hunting by this time, I understand.”

                A smile broadened beneath the wide rim of his hat, Scoaliegh Norrington looked up at the battlements, and there, ensconced between the pillars of the gatehouse, threaded through the crenellations, was the Den Asaan. He was glaring at him, he was coiling a rope and hook around his arm, he was hiding a parcel under his mantle. “I had no idea you had incorporated pilfery into your training,” said the Scoaliegh, tipping his hat to him.

                The large barrel of a finger was thrust into his face. “Leave, messenger,” the giant bellowed.

                “Gladly, for I’m tired and have been riding all night, but first I must deliver the king’s messages and everyone else’s parcels, including the one you have taken from me.”

                Rautu made a menacing glower. “I have taken nothing.”

                “Of course, and there is no parcel hiding beneath your mantle.” The Scoaliegh held out his hand. “That parcel was not addressed to you.”

                “I know where it must go, and I will bring it there.”

                The Scoaliegh sighed and fanned himself with his hat. “Very well, take it to him yourself, but the messages are still mine to deliver. May I assume you are taking Sir Pastaddams’ parcel because he knows I want to see what is in it?”

                This might be one of the reasons the queen and the tailor entrusted the parcel retrieval to Boudicca’s care—the other being Norrington’s promptness in bringing everything to the king before delivering the individual parcels to everybody else—but Rautu reasoned it was best just to agree and leave with the parcel as soon as he could. “…Yes.”

                “Ah, then I know exactly what it is, and you may tell my old friend Rauleigh that he is a brute for hiding them from me. Well,” taking his horses reins and moving on, “give Her Majesty my best wishes for the day, if I do not see her this morning. Now I go to the stables, to have a lie down in the hay and contrive how to plague Rauleigh for making me bring that confounded box so early in the morning.”

                With a promise to assist the Scoaliegh in all his designs on literary vengeance against the tailor, Rautu waved his mantle and was gone, bounding from the gatehouse over the battlements and toward the barracks.  The recruits were just waking up for their morning exercises, and those who were awake enough saw only a shadow slip from the garrison into the hall by way of the mess, a blur of curious obtenebration carrying something under its arm.