"What kind of favor?" (Patreon)

I asked suspiciously.

"Oh, nothin' much, me boyo," the old tod chuckled as he ticked points off on his fingers.  "All oi want is help locatin' me family, and subsequent protection from the Duchess fer meself an said family.  Also a cozy retoirement villa in the countrysoide, along with a comfortable pension so oi can at last rest me weary old bones.  Standin' invitation to all society parties.  AND a holiday named after me."

"For shame, Estvan," Sam scolded.  "Improper it is, in his moment of need, advantage of the heir apparent to take."

"Anything the Adoyret wants, add it to the list, bedad," Estvan continued.

"Ham, all is," Sam beamed.  "Sorry I am that your integrity I ever doubted.  My own holiday I also would like."

"For Fuma's sake, you guys," I whined.  "I can't deliver all of that, and you know it!"

"Sure an maybe not now," Estvan pointed out.  "But when you're King -"

"IF I'm King," I corrected.  "It's not guaranteed .. and it might be a long time from now."

"Tish, what's a few centuries to an elf?" Estvan scoffed.  "Sure an oi know yer good for it, lad.  Just give me yer solemn oath -"

"It's not elfly to swear oaths," I pointed out.

"Begorrah, you made me swear one just a few minutes ago," he objected.

"No," I refused.  "I'm not going to promise you something in the future and have you show up to collect at the most inconvenient time!  That may work on lowfolk but it won't work on me."

"Begorrah, ye know that old routine?" Estvan sighed ruefully.  "Eudora Chitterleigh taught ye too well, me boyo ... all roight, sure an oi can wait till yer King to petition ye fer all that other.  But oi DO need to foind me family, and oi could also use a drink to soothe me jangled nerves."

"You just had a cup of ham tea," I pointed out.

"Oi meant somethin' stronger," he added, with a meaningful look.

"Do I look like I carry a jug of liquor in my Elfintory?" I snapped.

"What self-respectin' elf DOESN'T?" Estvan retorted.  "Unlimber yer flask, ye mullygrubbin spalpeen, an pour yer auld Ooncle Estvan a dram.  Tis a small proice to pay fer me to reveal the One Weird Trick which elves in Eire are usin' ta foil the temporal slip, as well as the obscure rule the Duchess doesn't want ye to know about, at all at all."

"Sorry, no."

"Well of all the stingy blatherskytes," Estvan grumbled.  "Foine, foine, oi'd settle fer access to the Scroyin' Tower so as to search fer me woife an' son, as well as the library o' magickal tomes attached to it.  Sure an there IS a library, isn't there?"

"There are some books," I admitted.

"Well then, sure an oi'm sellin' meself short, but just you let me read those books an' use the Tower, an ye've got yerself a deal."

"I guess that sounds reasonable," I mused, despite a gnawing suspicion.

"Roight then, let the learnin' commence."

"Hold on," Sam interrupted.  "Training Adler first I was.  Wait your turn you must."

"Whisht!" Estvan remarked.  "Ye can teach the lad yer vulgar Lengra-Cha fisticuffs any toime.  Sure an it's the foine elfly arts o' magick oi'll be readin - er, teachin' him.  Tis far more important, crucial, an dare oi say, toimely fer him to learn immediately, bedad.  Yer choppin an kickin japes can wait."

Sam scowled and tightened his grip on his staff.

Before the two foxes' debate could proceed, they were interrupted by a timid voice from behind one of the menhirs:

"What is this place?" it said.  "Who are you?"

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