Pushing the stupid pot back from his forehead, Duke Yorick walked quickly up the stairs. Once out of view of his subjects, he removed the crown and rubbed at his temples. Why did it have to be so uncomfortable? Slade had explained that by their nature, crowns were front-heavy, but surely some more effective design had been worked out over the centuries.
Was that the sort of thing other rulers kept secret, unwilling to make a rival more comfortable? Hard to say. His musings came to an end when he reached Slade’s chamber. Opening the door, he strode in as impressively as he could muster, towering above the complete stranger in front of him.
“Who are you? Where’s the Marshal?” asked Yorick.
The halfling replied “Tyrol, if it please m’lord, and out. He said he had secret business to attend to.”
“And how is it that you know the comings and goings of the Marshal?”
“I wouldn’t be much of a secretary otherwise, m’lord”
“And where is Slade?”
“Oh, you’ll not catch me that easy, m’lord.” Adopting a much lower voice and sticking out his belly Tyrol continued, “‘Tell no one where I’m going, especially not Duke Yorick. Tell him I’m maintaining law and order’”
“Would you like to make an appointment, m’lord?”
The door slammed. Tyrol took that as a no.