In defiance of all custom, ‘twould be from this time forward that the lower lice would develop their own terms and definitions. The insolence began with the rabble’s own nicknames for the apprentice, which cognomens became, all too soon, the common property of the globe’s sansculottes:
Shelyid the Plucky.
Shelyid the Bold.
Shelyid the Brave.
The Runt Rambunctious.
The Disabused Dwarf.
The Gnome Unleashed.
The Midget Sans Peur et Sans Reproche.
Pygmy the Mahdi.
And, of course: The Rebel.
Soon enough, sentiment would lead to deed. Began then that period in Alfredae history known as The Troubles. Mad philosophies appeared, swept the mob, only to be discarded in favor of outlandish ideologies, which, in turn, were casually cast aside for doctrines still more extreme. Bands of savage young louselouts arose, who scuffled shamelessly with the respectable apprentices and sub-scribes. It became dangerous for an educated louse to scurry at night through entire sections of Shelyid. Why, the hooligans even declared the dwarf’s left leg a “No Go Area”—and woe to the penlouse who ventured thereon!
But I race ahead of our tale. The Troubles lay still ahead—though not far distant! But ’tis well said that “narrative must follow its own course,” and so do we return to the moment:
Shelyid and snarl were now in a great corridor on the ground floor of the Embassy. Ahead of them, at the end of the corridor, a door was open. Beyond, the lights of the city could be seen.
“That’s the way out!” cried the dwarf. “Come on, let’s go!”
The snarl made its way quickly down the corridor, approaching a door to their right, through which could be heard a great hubbub. Then, just as the beast was passing the door, the hubbub was stilled by a piercing voice.
The words could not be made out, but the snarl froze, twisted its head, swung forward its ears. The voice was heard again. Again. And yet again.
Now did the beast’s features assume that expression which gives the snarl its name. Without warning, the monster hurled itself at the door!
The door splintered under the blow. The snarl forced its way through, uttering such a roar as to waken the dead. They were in a great ballroom, filled with people, all of whom were at that very moment transfixed with terror at the sight of the snarl.
But, in truth, the huge crowd was—in its overwhelming majority—quite beyond danger. For the snarl’s attentions were fixed entirely upon the person of a single figure within the room—a thin man, practically skeletal, tall, dressed all in black. The man stared back at the snarl with equally rapt fixation, his blue eyes flashing with the look of eagles.
Such eagles, at least, as have aroused the mortal fury of the legendary roc.
“Oh shit!” he cried. But the Savior of the Rellenos was made of stern stuff. Even as the great monster bounded toward him, maw gaping wide, Inkman stood his ground.
“Soldiers, arrest that beast!” he ordered.
Then, seeing the soldiers fleeing the scene, Inkman’s voice rang with paramount authority: “Notables of Ozar! Nobles of Pryggia—arrest the soldiers!”
Then, seeing the nobility and the plutocracy trampling the soldiery underfoot in their mad rush for the doors, Inkman’s voice grew stentorious with imperial command.
“Traitors! Arrest yourselves!”
Then, even as the doom was upon him, Inkman faced his end with that sangfroid which is the hallmark of all great champions of law and order. His last sentence, crackling with a tone which can only be described as Olympian:
“Stop, beast—on pain of investigation!”
Alas, crackling tone was now replaced by crunching bone.
So passed Rupert Inkman, Crud among Cruds, Groutch chief of station, brilliant investigator, dazzling interrogator, the Scourge of Sedition, the Hammer of the Right, and many other prestigious titles, positions and cognomens—but hereafter known among the Groutch masses, I am grieved to relate, as The Just Dessert.
Eventually Shelyid was able to coax the snarl to leave aside its frenzied Crud-crunching, though not before Inkman’s last finger bone disappeared into the horrid maw.
“C’mon, baby,” he whispered urgently into the beast’s ear, “we gotta go!” The snarl, apparently sated both in body and soul, obediently ambled through the double doors leading to the entry beyond.