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prof_of_cunningIf the waves had let him sleep, he'd perhaps have cracked an eye open somewhat less grumpily when a member of the crew rapped on the half-a-plank that passed for a door. "Whatever it is, say it fast and say it from over there unless you want to see lunch on your shoes, which I'd advise against; it wasn't all that appetizing before I ate it."
"It's just we've found your luggage, Mister Blackadder."
That was worth sitting up for. "About bloody time. Stow it over there." He swept an arm toward the four feet of empty space in the berth as if there were multiple storage options. "Where was it?"
"In Captain Rum's cabin." The seaman slid his trunk into the room with rather less effort than it ought to take given how well Edmund had provisioned for the journey. "As soon as he realized the mistake, of course he told us to return it to you."
"Of course he did," Edmund groaned with less surprise than resignation. "Let me guess: the clothing's still there, but the full case of whiskey and half the royal winecellar have mysteriously disappeared."
"It's like you know him, sir."
"No, it's like my great-grandfather knew his." Hopefully those diaries hadn't disappeared as well; since Edmund: A Butler's Tale had met its fiery Baldrick-instigated demise, his last hope for literary greatness rested on a historical novel of Elizabethan intrigue, starring a dashing young noble, his mindless minion, and... some wet noodle called Percy whose family didn't seem to have survived to the regency era. "Get out, and go tell the Captain I hope he chokes on his Chardonnay."
Was it even worth looking inside? Yes, of course it was. There was still the flask of brandy hidden beneath the false bottom. Also the bag of diamond-studded socks the prince had long forgotten he owned, three of which had bought Edmund's passage on this ship -- but at the moment it was the brandy he was concerned about.
The thoroughly-picked lock squeaked when he reached for the clasp.
No, wait.... it squeaked before he reached for the clasp.
Pardon him while he stared at it, crouched on one knee, then closed his eyes and let his eyebrows do the rolling for them. "Baldrick, are you in my trunk?"
"....No?" The voice was muffled but unmistakable.
"Right. So the sounds that just issued from inside my trunk came from...?"
"...A mouse?"
"An excellent explanation, if it weren't for the small fact that mice can't talk."
"Oh. Bugger."
"Would you care to try again?"
"Yes! It's..."
"I'm waiting." With his fingers slowly curling into a fist.
"The turnip fairy!"
Several beats passed. "Again, a valiant attempt, Baldrick." Valiant enough that he uncurled the fist as he lifted the lid and studied the wide-eyed, groggy face that popped up.
"How'd you know it was me, sir?"
"Because there's no such thing as a turnip fairy." An open-palmed slap upside the head had a much more satisfying ring in these close quarters anyway.
The stricken look couldn't have anything to do with the blow; Baldrick was far too used to those by now. "Then who is it leaves the turnip I find under my pillow every morning?"
"You mean the turnip you store under your pillow every night?"
"No, that's the one I put out for the turnip fairy."
"You--" No. Nothing good could come of it. Edmund made sure to stand and step away before taking his deep, calming breath. "Why are you in my trunk, instead of descending your family to new depths of appalling unprofessionalism in the prince's service?"
"Oh, Mister Blackadder, it was terrible! Those two actors were plotting to kill him!"
"Really." Skepticism warred with the faint ghost of concern, then stuck sharp objects in it, cut off its ghostly head, and paraded it around London on a pike.
"They wanted to dine on his exquisite floppily-doppilies, and then go after his enormous-bosomed wife!"
Skepticism then played ninepins with the head of concern and nine empty bottles of stolen Chardonnay.
"Prince George doesn't have an enormous-bosomed wife, Baldrick." The foul prince Romero did, though, eponymous subject of the new play currently being rehearsed by Messrs. Mossop and Keanrick.
"I know! I figured they must be nearsighted and thought I was her, so I hid out in your luggage!"
"They would have to be nearsighted, inebriated, and in the final stages of syphilitic dementia to mistake you for an enormous-bosomed anything." Wait. "Then again, they are actors."
"So you'll come back and save the prince, then?" Again with the sunny, hopeful, lunch-revisiting cheer.
"We're in the middle of the ocean; they wouldn't turn this ship around even if I asked them to, so he and his floppily-doppilies are on their own." The revolting realization would hit him any second now. "...Unlike me."
"At least there's that!" Baldrick hopped out of the trunk, if the definition of hop included the words 'trip' and 'splat.' "Always a bright side, eh, Mister B?"
"I fail to see one here, unless the Captain manages to get drunk enough on my lost booze that I can sell you to him as a replacement cabin-boy when his current one wears out." Edmund snorted through his nose and flipped the secret false bottom up to fish out the flask within. The Captain hadn't got to that, at least. He unscrewed the top and took a happy, unmistakable whiff of brandy before sprawling back on his bunk. "How did you survive for two weeks in there, anyway?"
"Oh, I was fine," Baldrick said cheerfully. "There was plenty to drink, after all. Could've used a privy now and then, but there were all these empty bottles, so..."
"Yes, alright, you can stop there." Edmund's disgust was cut, after a moment, by a nasty grin. Perhaps there was a bright side, after all. "To the Captain and his brand new winecellar, then," he said, lifting his flask. "May he enjoy it to the very last drop."
"It's just we've found your luggage, Mister Blackadder."
That was worth sitting up for. "About bloody time. Stow it over there." He swept an arm toward the four feet of empty space in the berth as if there were multiple storage options. "Where was it?"
"In Captain Rum's cabin." The seaman slid his trunk into the room with rather less effort than it ought to take given how well Edmund had provisioned for the journey. "As soon as he realized the mistake, of course he told us to return it to you."
"Of course he did," Edmund groaned with less surprise than resignation. "Let me guess: the clothing's still there, but the full case of whiskey and half the royal winecellar have mysteriously disappeared."
"It's like you know him, sir."
"No, it's like my great-grandfather knew his." Hopefully those diaries hadn't disappeared as well; since Edmund: A Butler's Tale had met its fiery Baldrick-instigated demise, his last hope for literary greatness rested on a historical novel of Elizabethan intrigue, starring a dashing young noble, his mindless minion, and... some wet noodle called Percy whose family didn't seem to have survived to the regency era. "Get out, and go tell the Captain I hope he chokes on his Chardonnay."
Was it even worth looking inside? Yes, of course it was. There was still the flask of brandy hidden beneath the false bottom. Also the bag of diamond-studded socks the prince had long forgotten he owned, three of which had bought Edmund's passage on this ship -- but at the moment it was the brandy he was concerned about.
The thoroughly-picked lock squeaked when he reached for the clasp.
No, wait.... it squeaked before he reached for the clasp.
Pardon him while he stared at it, crouched on one knee, then closed his eyes and let his eyebrows do the rolling for them. "Baldrick, are you in my trunk?"
"....No?" The voice was muffled but unmistakable.
"Right. So the sounds that just issued from inside my trunk came from...?"
"...A mouse?"
"An excellent explanation, if it weren't for the small fact that mice can't talk."
"Oh. Bugger."
"Would you care to try again?"
"Yes! It's..."
"I'm waiting." With his fingers slowly curling into a fist.
"The turnip fairy!"
Several beats passed. "Again, a valiant attempt, Baldrick." Valiant enough that he uncurled the fist as he lifted the lid and studied the wide-eyed, groggy face that popped up.
"How'd you know it was me, sir?"
"Because there's no such thing as a turnip fairy." An open-palmed slap upside the head had a much more satisfying ring in these close quarters anyway.
The stricken look couldn't have anything to do with the blow; Baldrick was far too used to those by now. "Then who is it leaves the turnip I find under my pillow every morning?"
"You mean the turnip you store under your pillow every night?"
"No, that's the one I put out for the turnip fairy."
"You--" No. Nothing good could come of it. Edmund made sure to stand and step away before taking his deep, calming breath. "Why are you in my trunk, instead of descending your family to new depths of appalling unprofessionalism in the prince's service?"
"Oh, Mister Blackadder, it was terrible! Those two actors were plotting to kill him!"
"Really." Skepticism warred with the faint ghost of concern, then stuck sharp objects in it, cut off its ghostly head, and paraded it around London on a pike.
"They wanted to dine on his exquisite floppily-doppilies, and then go after his enormous-bosomed wife!"
Skepticism then played ninepins with the head of concern and nine empty bottles of stolen Chardonnay.
"Prince George doesn't have an enormous-bosomed wife, Baldrick." The foul prince Romero did, though, eponymous subject of the new play currently being rehearsed by Messrs. Mossop and Keanrick.
"I know! I figured they must be nearsighted and thought I was her, so I hid out in your luggage!"
"They would have to be nearsighted, inebriated, and in the final stages of syphilitic dementia to mistake you for an enormous-bosomed anything." Wait. "Then again, they are actors."
"So you'll come back and save the prince, then?" Again with the sunny, hopeful, lunch-revisiting cheer.
"We're in the middle of the ocean; they wouldn't turn this ship around even if I asked them to, so he and his floppily-doppilies are on their own." The revolting realization would hit him any second now. "...Unlike me."
"At least there's that!" Baldrick hopped out of the trunk, if the definition of hop included the words 'trip' and 'splat.' "Always a bright side, eh, Mister B?"
"I fail to see one here, unless the Captain manages to get drunk enough on my lost booze that I can sell you to him as a replacement cabin-boy when his current one wears out." Edmund snorted through his nose and flipped the secret false bottom up to fish out the flask within. The Captain hadn't got to that, at least. He unscrewed the top and took a happy, unmistakable whiff of brandy before sprawling back on his bunk. "How did you survive for two weeks in there, anyway?"
"Oh, I was fine," Baldrick said cheerfully. "There was plenty to drink, after all. Could've used a privy now and then, but there were all these empty bottles, so..."
"Yes, alright, you can stop there." Edmund's disgust was cut, after a moment, by a nasty grin. Perhaps there was a bright side, after all. "To the Captain and his brand new winecellar, then," he said, lifting his flask. "May he enjoy it to the very last drop."
