Chapter 25 The 64th Jam Convention of Warshire （and Public ution of Thirty Rebels）
Before he deserted his position as Dark Lord of Ruthven?, Morfran considered the tri-city of Warshire his last defensive stronghold in case his grip on the kingdom fell.
As such, getting into the tri-city area of Warshire (which was composed of Warchester, Lestershire, and Mestershire) required that one approach the first gate of Lestershire and go through the lengthy, challenging process of getting past customs.
Of course, what one was required to show or do at customs ranged from simply stating your name and business to more rigorous tests such as reciting the alphabet backwards, touching your toes, being subject to having all your items randomly confiscated and sold at auction for Lord Morfran’s benefit, or promising to give them your firstborn child so long as it didn’t scream too loudly.
It all depended on the moods of the customs agents that day.
The one thing that Morfran knew, however, was that what his custom agents hated more than anything or anyone else in the world…was an idiot.
Enter Hugh.
Morfran could imagine him now, coming up the road to Lestershire, a lone man seated in a cart pulled by oxen, followed by carts pulled by even more oxen. All the carts would be stocked full of barrels, each one large enough to hide a grown, armored man and his weapon of choice inside it with ease.
Hugh would be slouched in the front cart seat, plucking away on the lute with skills less serviceable than Toothless Pete’s, his clothes stinking like a blown-out diaper, and next to him would be a baby basket from which inexplicable clucking would spontaneously arise.
He’d join the line—public executions tended to bring out the masses—and wait for the next customs agent.
Eventually, however, Hugh and his fourteen carts would be next in line, and the available agent would wave him forward to scan him in.
And that’s where The Plan was most crucial to get right, and most likely to fail.
“Oy!” the custom agent shouted over Hugh’s damnable racket. From the sounds of it, he was making his way away from the gate entrance to get closer to Hugh. “I said, oy! Don’t you know what oy means?”
“Pardon.” Hugh stopped playing. “I thought you was singing, I did. Lots of folk likes to sing to my songs, they does.”
“Good goats.” The custom agent began coughing. “You reek.”
“It’s just my moisturizer from my mornin’ skin routine.”
“Smells like you smeared yourself in cow dung.”
Hugh sounded surprised. “You use cow dung, too? Here I’d think I was the only one. It’s the best of moisturizer out there, y’know, it just exfoliates and closes out the pores just grandly. Here, feel my cheek. Feel how soft it is—”
“I ain’t touching you!”
“Oy!” A second voice rose from the gate entrance. “What’s the holdu—”
An atrocious noise that sounded like a badger’s death cry arose, followed by Hugh’s singing.
Oy, oy, this’s me toy,
the wonderful, magical lute.
It rings a-true when I play the tune
with my capable skilled boot—
This second voice stopped beside the first. “Who said you could start singing?”
“Well, you did, sir.”
“I’m a ma’am.”
“My condolences,” he said mournfully, not apologetically. “But you see, you started singin’, and I’d think it was because you saw my lute and wanted to have just a grand old time.”
“What I want,” the second voice spat out venomously—apparently, she didn’t appreciate Hugh mistaking her for a man—“is for you to cease that horrendous playing and tell me why you’re clogging the line with a dozen carts.”
Hugh scoffed. “Do you really not know? Well, the name’s Hugh.” A pause, and Morfran could only imagine Hugh leaning down to shake their hands, only for them to recoil in disgust. “And I is the proud of owner of Damn Good Jam Goods, LLC, and this is me stock I’m bringin’ into the city.”
“Why do we need fourteen carts’ worth of jam?”
“Because it’s the Sixty-Fourth Jam Convention this weekend, and I’ve been preparing my wares for the past eight months. Wanna know what I’ve made?”
“No—”
“I do, actually,” said the first customs agent. “I’ve been craving more variety than strawberry. What do you have, you creep?”
Glass jars went rattling at Hugh’s feet, followed by a pause and then a pop as he opened one. “Try this. It’ll be a hit, I’m sure.”
There was a smacking of lips, followed by a positive mmm.
Despite the tense situation, and the fact that the whole sneak-inside-the-walls plan hinged upon whether or not Hugh could fool the agents into allowing them in, Morfran was pretty proud that his jams were being well received.
He made a quick mental note to advertise the jams as “Voted Best Jam by That One Customs Agent Guy,” before listening to their response.
“All right, you’ve got a tasty recipe there,” the agent said. “What’s in it?”
“Smashed crickets.”
An eruption of spitting. “That’s what that crunch was?”
“Why’re you spitting it out?!” Hugh argued. “You liked it, didn’t ya?”
“That’s before I knew what it was!”
“Everyone’s a critic,” he muttered.
“What else do you have?”
“Rosewater raspberry jams, pomegranate cranberry jams, wild plum jams—”
“That’s better!”
“—lima bean and liver jams, fermented fish jams, oh, and my latest experimental recipe—horse tongue and yak ba—”
“I’ve heard enough,” said the female agent. “You’re not setting foot inside the city. Turn your caravan around.”
Morfran held his breath. They needed in. Everything else in The Plan was flexible, except this.
“Wait, Phylis,” the male agent said. “The city’s economy has taken a hit ever since you-know-who vanished. We need wares like this to boost the market.”
“What? You heard what monstrosities he’s selling—”
“Yes, but this jam convention needs some zest. Remember how boring it was last year?”
“I do, but this guy is an idiot, and I don’t like the size of this caravan—”
“Come on, Phylis, let’s just let him through.”
“Yeah, c’mon, Phyl.” Hugh jumped in on the pleading.
“It took me two hours and thirteen minutes to get me oxen to follow the ol’ lineup.
Once they’re out of sync, it’s impossible to gather ’em back up, and I’d hate to clog up your line further.
Do you want civil unrest? Because this’s how you get civil unrest.”
Customs Agent Phylis clearly loathed Hugh, and Morfran could imagine her glowering him down.
And that was when the basket at his feet clucked.
A pause. The first customs agent asked, “Was that…I thought that was a baby in your basket.”
“It is a baby.” Hugh groaned, likely from leaning down to pluck the basket up. “Baby Henni.”
An even longer pause. “Is that chicken wearing a baby bonnet?”
Hugh sighed, as if he considered them both dim-witted. “Really, you two. Henni insists on the hat. It’s the only way she’ll cough up the eggs for my egg jam recipe.”
Customs Agent Phylis must’ve stared at Hugh for a lengthy time, and he must’ve stared back with that stupid grin that always made Morfran question his IQ. “I can’t take this idiot anymore,” she muttered. “Get him through the gate.”
Morfran sighed in relief. Hugh began urging the oxen forward, and Morfran and Owain, who were suited up in the left oxen suit pulling Hugh’s cart, and Brim and Bill, who were suited up in the right oxen suit, began moving forward, tugging the cart along at a slow, oxen-y pace.
Morfran was the head, while Owain had the unfortunate job of being the rear, and they yanked the cart inside the walls and made their way through the crowded streets and came upon signposts that read 64th Jam Convention: Left and Public Execution of 30 Rebels: Right.
As much as he longed to one day attend the jam convention, Morfran led them right.
By that time he was sweating profusely in the suit. Grandfather Tortoise, in addition to being a certified magical healer, was quite skilled at sewing, and he’d sewn realistic oxen costumes for them to don because there weren’t enough barrels to fit them all.
When they made it to the public square of Lestershire, the grandstands that encircled the stadium were packed. Countless others, including Hugh’s caravan of carts, were redirected towards the grassy field down below, which had once been a wholesome jousting field when Good King Richard was king.
To their luck Ravana had chosen a good ol’ hanging for the thirty captured rebels—although not without flashiness.
A multi-person gallows had been constructed on the field, and carved into the beams were intricate depictions of decapitated men, men being gutted with axes, men vomiting blood, and increasingly more horrendous ways a person could die.
Behind him, Owain was huffing. “Next time, Bernard, I’m being the head,” he said. “I’m tired of looking at your ass.”
“You shouldn’t be. It’s a fine ass.”
It wasn’t long before Morfran’s ex-soldiers held up signs that read Applaud or Die, followed by the mandatory clapping from the audience.
He squinted through the thin screened fabric of the ox’s mouth, clear up to the royalty VIP seating at the top of the grandstands, feeling nothing but dread as his eyes landed on her.
Ravana. She was coming down the empty top row, robed in a gloriously jeweled purple gown of silk and wearing a black-silver crown—was that his old crown repurposed?—and came to a stop at the lone throne.
Once she was convinced all eyes were on her, she lifted her beautiful head, and with a loud, proud voice announced, “Today marks a new day!” The grandstands had been constructed to amplify voices at the top row, and her words carried straight to him.
“Today we celebrate the capture of thirty rats who thought they could breach the great tri-city area of Warshire.”
The Applaud or Die signs went up again, in addition to Cheer or Die, and the audience obliged.