E= These boots were made for...

"These boots were made for?"

The Cuban-heeled boots were carried in on a round golden salver, and
wobbled a little as the Senior Footman carried them up high, with wrist
bent and palm flat, in the style of a waiter carrying wineglasses
through a crowd.

A hush came across the Royal Court, although a few dared to whisper,
"The boots, the boots. Do you think those are THE boots? "

Of course, they were. A Senior Footman would never go to such lengths,
or spent so long polishing each of his brass buttons, nor indeed have
threaded fresh laces made from the finest spun badger fur, for any
lesser boot.

The King, angular and sniffing, was delighted to finally see the boots.
He had sent most of his finest warriors in search of the boots, with
the exception of course of Angela, his person bodyguard and the best
with a pike in all the Kingdom, who had remained by his side to protect
him.

For almost his whole life, certainly since his father had died in a
fiendish attack involving poisoned shrimp insinuated into a Royal
Banquet, the King had lived in fear of assassination. He had hired the
finest poisoners in all the lands, brought them to his palace with talk
and clink of coinage, only to have each and every one beheaded. The
same for bombmakers, gunsmiths, archers. Yet still the King feared. The
country governed by the King was a small one, and under almost every
square foot was a goldmine. Worse than that, the country was bordered
on twelve sides by larger, meaner, poorer countries, any one of whom
would gladly have swallowed his Kingdom.

But you don't get to be a dodecagonal power, even a very little one,
without having very strong armies, and the Kingdom's gold had bought
the very best training and equipment. War from without would be
impossible, and the countries who bordered all lived in fear of another
of them being the one to capture the Kingdom built on gold and
dominating all the lands, so they would never join together, and
instead conducted regular skirmishes against one another.

This wasn't sufficient for the King. His current fear was poison gas,
piped into the palace by way of bellows, or perhaps dropped in hollow
crystal globes by trained crows. Beside him at all times walked five
Sappers, holding delicate wicker bird-cages containing rather scrawny
yellow canaries. And the King sniffed the air, as often as he could,
although this habit greatly reduced the chances of him ever finding a
Queen to rule beside him.

And so, it is time to tell about the Boots. The King had sent out his
Mages, his Scryers, his Viziers, his men of dusty books and overlong
robes, to find something that would protect him always. After long
research, they had discovered it - a pair of Boots that guarded the
wearer, that bestowed not only invulnerability, but immortality. He
that wore the Boots would never die. One rumour was that they had been
sewn from the recovered body of Achilles himself, felled on the
battlefield of Troy, the fateful arrow-choked ankle discarded and the
skin hung up to dry and blacken in the warm sun, then cut and shaped
into boots. Achilles, the almost-invulnerable.

Another rumour was that they were just very lucky boots.

The Boots were brought before the King and set down before him, and
even in his moment of greatest triumph, the fine polish on the Senior
Footman's buttons did not go unnoticed by him. The King was a man of
detail, above all else.

"My greatest friend, " he said, laying a gentle hand on the shoulder of
the Senior Footman, the sole survivor of the expedition to retrieve the
Boots, from a company of sixty. It did not escape his notice either
that on the other hand of the Senior Footman, two fingers were missing,
another bitten down to the first joint and that the mark of a badger's
jaw ran along the back of his hand.

More loudly, he said, "My countrymen ! We have waited so long and at
last, they are here. The Boots that bestow. While I wear these Boots,
you need never fear for the life of your King. We will be free from
these sneaks and men of small stature who crawl through drains with
knives and blowpipes. You will have a King who will, where needed, lead
troops into battle, and set about the very best of our enemies with
broadsword and musket. "

There was such a loud cheer and opening of bottles that nobody heard
the King say rather wistfully as he pulled the first boot on to his
left foot, "I say, they're a bit tight. "

* * *

"Excellent lace-work, " said the King, after he had limped triumphantly
up to his chambers, "I take it this is where you and friend badger came
to quarrel, dear friend. "

The Senior Footman inclined his head. He was not one for conversation,
and had walked back some eighty-two miles on his own with the boots
looped around his neck, secured in place by tongues he had pulled out
of lizard's mouths and shaped into a rope. The tongue-rope had begun to
smell after some time, and the Senior Footman badly needed a bath. The
King's habitual sniffing began to detect this.

"My good man, " he said, "You must rest. I will have a bath drawn for
you, to ease away the scars of battle, which I note are plentiful.
"

"A lesser man, " said the King, "Would have worn the boots for his own
protection on the journey back. "

The Senior Footman simply said politely that he had needed new laces
for the Boots and he and badger had not been able to come to a
reasonable understanding. The King, eager to loosen the laces and also
let his noble friend rest, did not press the Senior Footman on why the
Boots needed new laces, which will turn out to be a terrible error, but
that is the way of things. Questions that need to be asked are often
asked too late.

Angela was with the King, still holding her pike with fearful intent.
Boots were all very well, but it was her charge to protect the King,
and she would, come what might over the battlements or tunnelling under
soft earth or boring up though gold. Also, the King's Potion-Master,
whom the King had bade to create a particularly foul and noxious
poison, in order to test the Boots.

The King drank deeply from this draft, which rather than being green or
vivid red was instead the colour of pan-warmed mushrooms and tasted
fouler than foul itself could imagine. Angela stood ready with remedy
and warm soft towels, lest these magical Boots let them all down. The
King coughed for a moment, quite vigorously, to the point where his
crown fell to the floor and made a noise like spun coins.

"Well, " he said at length, "So far as my sense of taste goes, it is
intact. Potion-Master, you have surpassed yourself. That is quite the
worst thing imaginable. I cannot concieve of anyone finishing a fatal
dose. But the Boots work. I am still with us. "

The Potion-Master bowed deeply from the waist and left the chamber
walking backwards.

"They're still pinching a bit, " confided the King to Angela, who he
trusted above all others.

Angela looked worried, "Sire, I fear for this development. I know that
you have been seeking these Boots for a long time. But I fear they will
make you soft and slacken your guard. You are safe while in the Boots,
but what will become of you once you remove them? "

The King looked worried and then smiled, "I will always have you
Angela. And besides, once I wear them in, I won't be taking them off
very often. "

* * *

And so it was.

The King grew more and more bold while wearing the Boots, even leading
his armies out into the fields bordering his country and waving a sword
above his head, although he was no swordsman, having been kept well
away from combat in the past for safe-keeping. At first, his enemies
tried to slay him as he stood, firing arrows or hurling burning jars of
oil, but although this stung a little, nothing could kill the King. At
last, he was the hero he had always wished to become. Little by little,
his Kingdom edged out into the other countries that had always hemmed
it in.

But.

But the King had a secret. When he got back to his chambers, even with
Angela standing guard, he would tremble at the very thought of removing
the Boots. What if someone should penetrate the chambers and try to
kill him at his most weak? Suppose they got past Angela? Suppose?
suppose Angela herself tried to kill him. Anyone who saw the power of
the Boots could tell that the bearer could rule all the lands - he
himself could, if only he could walk or ride in them for more than a
few hours. Angela's feet were smaller than his. She could slay him,
take the Boots for her own.

The King took the Boots off less and less. Certainly never when he was
up and about. And after a time, less and less even than that. He had
read of famous Kings, slain in their bathtub. So he had his Chief
Engineer rig up a sling over the bath, a hammock affair for his feet,
so that while he soaked, he could still wear the Boots.

After a time, he began to wear them in bed.

"Sire, " protested Angela, "This will not be good for you. You know
that these Boots are too tight. Your feet will blister and rot. "

"Nonsense, " said the King, taking another gulp of the painkilling
potion that had been whisked up for him, "Besides, have you any idea
how many people die in their bed? Why, it's the very worst place not to
wear my boots. "

What with all the military excursions and conquests, the King's enemies
were growing more by the day, although they were frightened to strike
against him.

* * *

It was not long before the King's Tactical Advisor pointed out another
problem.

"Sire, " he said, "Another problem is that you have not yet sired.
"

The King thought wistfully of his canaries, whom he had set free. Gas
held no fear for him now, but he had liked having them around, chirping
quietly and eating sunflower seeds from his hands.

"An heir, Sire. Of course, with the Boots, you should live forever and
we rejoice in that. But were you not to, were you to slip out of the
Boots and be slain? we would be without an heir, without a King. And
even if you fathered a worthy successor, the Boots would not fit him
for many a year. "

"Hmm, " said the King, musing on this problem.

"We could not trust anyone else. Any person not of Royal blood who was
charged to wear the Boots and defend the Kingdom might refuse to
relinquish them when your son grew large enough feet to do so. And who
could stand against him, or her? They would be undefeatable. "

"That is a problem, " said the King, thinking that he needed to get on
with the whole business of finding a wife and having a son rather
quickly. He had wasted quite a deal of valuable time searching for
necklaces of power and ribbons of invisibility. "Then, I must never
remove the Boots, until my son is of age to wear them. "

(And, he thought to himself, even then, I might prefer to stay the King
and wear the Boots. Why, if I keep them on, I can live forever and
always be King.)

* * *

Wearing the Boots every moment of the day and night was having an
effect on the King's feet. For one thing, they were becoming very
sweaty and smelly. For another, they were swelling up, which made the
Boots even more painful. But the King was determined that he would not
remove them. They were quite painful, but he knew that the pain would
not kill him. His limping grew more and more pronounced and after a
while he took to being carried from room to room in a sedan chair, to
save pressure on his ever-more delicate feet.

One day, being carried in the sedan chair to another banquet, he saw
his old friend the Senior Footman and cried out to the men carrying the
chair to pause awhile, so that he could talk to the man who had brought
him these treasured Boots.

They chatted for a time of this and that, and the King bade the Senior
Footman attend the feast.

"I never asked you, " the King said at length, "And this was very
remiss of me? how did you manage to acquire the Boots? I can't concieve
of any humans, no matter their size and number removing them from me.
It must have been a considerable battle. "

"It was, Sire, " said the Senior Footman quietly, and he considered his
fingers carefully. The missing ones still itched, from time to time. "I
often think of the badger who reluctantly contributed to the laces. We
had to cut the old ones from the Boots you see, Sire. "

"And why was that? " asked the King, who had finally rid himself of his
sniffing habit and was becoming more successful in his quest for a Wife
as a result.

"We could not remove the feet without them, Sire, " said the Senior
Footman gravely.

"What? " cried the King, leaping from his sedan chair and wincing as
the Boots chafed and bit at his blisters and sores, "There were feet in
these boots? "

"Sire, the wearer of the Boots cannot be killed, but as you yourself
know, he can suffer pain. The only way we could think of to get the
Boots was to cut off the wearer at the knee. The wounds did not kill
him, and he took nearly all of my men while we did our work, but
eventually, we carried his calves ankles and feet away, and the Boots
with them. "

The King looked pale, "So an assassin could come to me, and cut my
lower limbs off and simply take the Boots from my corpse? "

"Not your corpse Sire. The Boots would protect you from a fatal wound.
For all I know, the last wearer is still alive now, crawling on his
stumps. "

"Small comfort, " said the King, as he began unlacing the Boots and
threw them to the ground, "I think you had better call Angela and the
Tactical Advisor to this feast. And see if someone can bring me a bowl
of warm water mixed with mustard. "