[piosenniel]

Nuranar's post

The just-risen sun was shedding its golden rays on the city when Calnan let himself out the front door of Secretary Ciryatan’s house. The crunch of his footsteps on the gravel drive was the only thing to disturb the stillness of the elite residential neighborhood. As he strode briskly into the narrow lane between high estate walls, Calnan noticed the scarcely-cool morning air. It’s going to be a real scorcher, he reflected.

A small object in the road, opposite a wooden gate in the wall on his left, caught his attention. As he drew nearer he identified it as a small change-purse. Without breaking stride he shot a suspicious glance at the impassive barrier next to him. Reaching the purse, he dropped to one knee and stretched out his hand for it.
Abruptly he threw himself back, just as his ready ear caught the rustle of clothing on wood. As he rose he contemplated with interest a large jet of water that had apparently launched itself from the private side of the gate. Soaring gracefully through the air in a gentle arc, it finally alighted squarely on the abandoned purse with a resounding splat.

A small boy’s head and upper body now extended above the gate, both hands clutching a small pail. Calnan chuckled at the eloquent mortification on his face.

“Julius, did you seriously expect to catch me with that? Why, it’s the oldest trick in the book!”

Impudence replaced mortification. “You know I’ll get you sooner or later, Mr. Calnan. Why don’t you surrender? The sooner you surrender, the easier it’ll be for you.”
“Right, Julius, right.” Still chuckling, Calnan deliberately turned his back, took a step – and then dodged to the right, hearing a projectile whiz viciously past his ear.

“Never give up, young man! Until the next time, farewell!” He raised his hand in a mocking salute, then swaggered jauntily but circumspectly down the road to the corner that marked the limit of his young assailant’s range. The youngest scion of a noble Gondorian house, Master Julius was possessed by the imp of mischief day and night. His recent vendetta against Calnan had afforded that gentlemen much amusement and kept him on his toes for the last several months.

* *

Thirty minutes later found him treading absently up the Embassy drive. Thinking about the day’s work ahead, Calnan was blind to the impressive façade that rose before him. While halfway up the steps he was brought quite down to earth by another object which force itself upon his notice in no uncertain manner, to wit: A scarcely-remarked blur resolved into an agitated ambassador’s son careering precipitately down the house steps and climaxed in a magnificent collision.

Flung backwards for the second time that morning, albeit this time not of his own power, Calnan flung out a desperate arm and seized the iron rail. Pivoting around with his antagonist’s momentum, he grasped the young man’s arm in time to prevent him from executing a head-first dive to the ground.

Within two seconds both had regained their balance. Calnan grimaced at his friend, having recognized Devon in that split-second of revelation that invariably precedes a disaster. “You lunkhead, don’t you ever look where you’re going? You—” The unaccustomed grimness of Devon’s usually cheerful face stopped him. “What’s going on?”