Version 1.0 vs. Version 1.1

Person B: This …this…shows an unbelievable mediocrity of vision! It is a colossal, lackluster achievement! How have the plebian masses not risen in justifiable revolt against this GROSS AFFRONT to properly finished quality!?

Person A: What are you talking about?

Person B: I AM TALKING ABOUT COMPUTER SOFTWARE! And excuse me for my tone, I will try my best to lower my voice and discontinue shouting.

I know I may seem a tad overzealous having issued such bombastic complaints, but I CANNOT and WILL NOT stand by idly and let this impropriety continue without protest. I SHALL NOT-

Person A: But WHAT are you talking about? I mean, what exactly?

Person B: I AM TALKING ABOUT…um, excuse me again. I meant to say that I am talking about the common practice that seems to be standard among software designers and venders around the world to “upgrade”, “modify”, “fix”, or in other words “patch” an existing program to remove bugs, increase performance and/or add to it’s feature-set.

Person A: You…what?! Wait, let me get this straight. Are you telling me that you DON’T like it when the company or whatever that you got a program from makes the program better?

Person B: Yes. Why should I, having traded some worthwhile commodity (such as notes of currency) for a whole product, be forced to wait for the inevitable “fixes” that will be sent through the worldwide smut pipeline to have the real, complete version of that product? Why should I pay for something that is half-finished? If one were to dine at a restaurant and order sausage, mashed potatoes and biscuits, it would be laughable to receive sausage and an unmashed potato at the restaurant, pay, leave, and then two day’s later receive a potato mallet and biscuits in the mail.

This is essentially the same thing.

Person A: That’s stupid. I don’t agree with you at all and your argument only made me hungry...as balls. King Kong’s balls. Anyway, it makes perfect goddamn sense to me why these kinds of updates exist and why they’re good stuff.

I mean, ok, say you have version 1.0 of file buster and it’s busting the shit out of all your files, but then file buster can’t bust .nugget files correctly? Like, what if the whole program shits awesomeness, but has a problem with one measly thing? Are you going to pass judgement on one little fault and throw the whole thing out?

Person B: I certainly will! I am not paying for Joe six-pack programmer and his shiftless IT posse to deliver unfinished applications that are at best incomplete and buggy and at worst serious security breaches or directly harmful to my computer. There is an implicit understanding shared between every industry and its supporters that allows the overlapping planes of capitalism to continue multiplicitously operating without riot. This understanding assumes that when payment for a service or product is satisfactorily rendered the agreed upon trade item exchanged for that payment is due in it’s promised form. If I am promised a working program and instead of that I am given one that is unfinished then I would say that this understanding has been ignored and the deal made null and villainously void.

Person A: Jeez, cut out the dramatics. And I thought we were just talking about the difference between version 1.0 and 1.1 of a program, right? Not 1.5, or OMG maybe 2.0, where there’s a whole other point of difference from the original program!

Of course if the thing doesn’t work at all then something’s up. But it’s rare as hell to pay money for a program (obviously you’re only gonna buy from good companies like apple or mac, not ZeRODoPPlEr2k3 from aol) that doesn’t work at all. And if the upgrade is only a .1 upgrade then that means that hardly anything is different. It worked when you first got it and it still works now, only the programmer guys took some extra time out of their busy schedule to make it work even better.

The key words to remember are “even”, and “better”. Don’t you like “even better” things?

Person B: You are missing my point entirely.

Yes, it is fine and dandy to have a program that at the bare minimum runs successfully on my personal computations device. What is unacceptable is that an unfinished product was released to the market. I don’t pay for potential.

Developers of software, like creators and artists in any field, should strive for perfection, or at least the closest possible facsimile thereof. Ponder this: What is the purpose of the “bug testing” process at the end of every development cycle if not the find all bugs and problems in a program and remove or correct them?

Person A: The purpose is to do the best job possible at the time so at least the program doesn’t crash your rig for weird reasons. And remember, after their “try hard” to debug phase is complete, those software guys are so nice that they continue to bug test after release, because they are true perfectionists with the opportunity, cause of the internet, to make things even better!

Haha! I got you trapped! With logic!

Person B: Hardly. If they were truly perfectionists and proud artists of a brave new digital medium then they would not release software until the product was faultless and gleaming with an evenly applied, metaphoric spit-polish shine. No cracks, blemishes, or imperfections of any kind visible.

Person A: Uhhhhhhh. What do you really mean by perfection? I don’t think what you’re talking about is humanly possible.

Person B: Consider this: When you witness The Sisteenth Chaple, see the statue of David, view the Mona Lisa, listen to Beethoven’s 5th, or read Joyce’s “Ulysses”, what adjective first comes to mind?

Person A: That’s a tough question. Hmmm…the first adjective that comes to my mind is “buh?”, because what the f*** kind of question is that?! I know you wanted me to say the word “perfect” or something like it, but that is not how I felt when I first saw the Mona Lisa. For that, I first thought “smug”, because that’s exactly what her gloating smile looked like.

As for the other things on that list…

Person B: Yes?

Person A: …I don’t know what most of them are, and I don’t know what any of them have to do with our argument! You’re always bringing in these long ass lists of random crap to prove your foofy points. Why can’t you just cut to the chase?

Person B: But those lists ARE the chase. Just because I don’t rely on untrustworthy and anecdotal, imaginatively vapid analogous evidence doesn’t make my argument less effective. In fact, I argue that “making sense”, by employing “facts”, “statistics”, and “evidence”, which might seem like a foreign concept to you, is the de-facto method of ascertaining “the truth”.

Person A: Uh huh. You keep telling yourself that’s what you’re doing.

Diggory woke a couple of hours past daybreak feeling as stiff as the hay he was lying on. He dimly recalled what had happened at “The Bad Day Bar” the previous night, but came fully alert in joyful expectation to the world as he remembered the uncomfortable conversation with Myrta that he would be forced to resume later today.

Whistling tunelessly despite the throb of his mild hangover and arranging that meeting among the other ventures he was planning for the day, Diggory hopped up as gracefully as he could manage and stretched out some of the ache he’d accrued from his fun the prior night. He yawned as he reached inside his leather jerkin and pulled out a small blue vial of Orl Cologne, popped the top off, and spritzed it liberally about his upper torso. He stoppered the vial and returned it to it’s place in his jerkin, then pushed the two bales off the trap door and climbed down the loft’s ladder.

Leaving his old friend Tom’s stable discreetly through the same ground floor window he’d used to enter it, the young thief straightened up, smoothed his ruffled brown hair back into place and sauntered down the Little Way towards the Business District.

He saw a primly dressed maid bend out of the 2nd floor window of the residence on his right and winked up at her as he passed by.

The maid frowned at the poor quality of Diggory’s clothes and emptied the chamber pot she was carrying onto the street below her, causing Diggory to jump back to avoid acquiring further brown on his boots. He arched an inquisitive eyebrow at the woman’s retreating back and intentionally misconstrued her action’s meaning to contemplate what her chosen form of flirtation might suggest. After a moment, his mind returned to the day’s plans and he continued walking confidently down the street.

Diggory passed through the quiet, cramped, middle to low class one-story tenements of the Seaside Residential District and took a right on the Merchants Steps towards Market Square and the buzzing, multi story buildings of the business district. He waved hello to a few acquaintances as he passed through the opening blocks of the well-to-do area, but didn’t slow down to hold any serious conversations with them.

Nearing the door of Morrel and Son’s offices, Diggory was met by the departing figure of clerks assistant Stenton, who had just left the building to attend to a troubling situation that had arisen at a Morrel financed ship anchored at Willman docks. The man was a few centimeters taller than Diggory, had black hair tied back in a pony-tail and shifty brown eyes.

Stenton’s trustless eyes flicked left as he was turning right and he noticed Diggory coming towards him, so he stepped back to stop the other’s stride. A sneer twisted his lips as he looked disdainfully, as always, at the poor fabric of the young man’s daily worn “good company clothes”.

…

Diggory masqueraded by daylight as the mostly-errant head clerk of Morrel and Son, both Morrel Senior and his son being longtime friends of his, indebted to him for a favor he accidentally committed to them two years before. The favor he had haphazardly given had been so well received by the ship-owner and his son that they had agreed to his plea that they assign him to a permanently salaried head clerkship at their office. This request was granted, despite his extreme youth, yet the position was one he had rarely attended for the past year. He got by on the Morrel’s leniency and his own innate gift for redirecting responsibilities away from himself. The man who had been hired a month after Diggory’s absences began (brought in to ensure the completion of the head clerks duties that he inevitably missed, and to allow for the untroubled continuation of the secret agreement) was called Stenton Closs Trauban.

Stenton chafed at the title “Clerk’s Assistant” that the Morrel’s gave him, and aspired to be a merchant. For this reason he worked hard to dress the part, and on any occasion he was allowed he would act the part as well. The man was in his early twenties and he was an economically solid thinker who was completely loyal to the firm of Morrel and Son, and just as equally mystified as to why it’s owners continued to employ someone of Diggory’s “caliber”. This confused disdain arose because Diggory abused his power over Stenton by shifting just enough of his duties over to him to push him to the brink of outright rebellion, then the lad would retreat and repeat the strategy at the busiest point of the next month.

Stenton was never given a satisfying explanation of the special agreement the owners shared with their always-errant head clerk, and failed to budge the two an inch, opinion-wise, with the complaints he lodged against his immediate superior.

It was for these reasons, among others, that assistant clerk Stenton would vent the frustration he felt because of his erroneous job title and duties on the ceaselessly affable Diggory whenever he got the chance.

…

“Still in your begging brothers garb I see,” Stenton opened, mockingly. “I always assumed that the head clerk for a firm of this caliber would be salaried at a level above that of the clerks assistant, and yet my silks, by contrast, find the stylings of your old leatherwear lacking.” He adjusted the folds of his purple and green collared merchant’s silk toga to draw attention to it. “Was I possibly mistaken in my assumptions regarding your pay or is something else the problem?”

“Oh no, Stenton, there’s no problem. And I’m sure my salary far outstrips yours,” Diggory replied, candidly, smiling with honest geniality. “I know how hard you work, and this firm’s well kept records are a testament to that. The day I’m promoted or step down from service, here, I’m sure you will be amply rewarded with a raise or promotion.”

Stenton ground his teeth at these words.

“I’m sure I will eventually be amply rewarded for my leal services to this firm, yes. Speaking of those services, you wouldn’t happen to have completed the audit for last months shipping and finance records, would you? I believe Morrel Senior left a note of a very serious caliber on your desk about that…?”

“Ah yes,” Diggory said, thinking quickly of a lie. “I did receive that note, but I’ve been occupied with a few non-related Morrel affairs, recently. I’ll need you to pick up the slack there and handle those accounts.”

“Diggory, Sir,” Stenton began, hesitatingly, “I have barely been able to handle the accounts for this month that you also put into my care, and with the increased responsibilities that my assignment to the position of shipping detailer places upon me, I’ll be hard pressed to complete all of my duties on time for this week alone….”

“Weren’t we just discussing what an excellent job you’ve been doing as assistant clerk, and how you were likely looking to rise up even higher in the firm?” Diggory asked, obfuscating furiously to save his free time. “Taking on more of the duties of a head clerk will pad out your resume even further, and I’m sure that with the extra experience of those increased tasks you’ll have no trouble some day succeeding me in my position. Why, if you do a satisfactory enough job with this months account auditing I’ll be sure to write out a glowing recommendation that will make you an even more desirable applicant to the Morrels or any other business you’d like to work for as a head clerk. Also, speaking as your superior, I’ll have to ask that you have those completed documents on my desk by…let’s say, next Ell.”

Stenton eyes bulged out, incredulously.

“What…but…sir, it is an honor of the highest caliber, surely, that you would trust me with the auditing-”

“Don’t worry about it, I give the honor gladly,” Diggory cut in, his eyes sparkling with glee. “But I noticed you leaving in some hurry, and I wouldn’t want to keep you from anything important. I actually have to go over a few papers in my office, so I think it might be best for us to continue this conversation at a later date. Unless you’re free to wait outside for a few minutes, in which case we might speak over a business brunch…?"

Late as he was to get to the docks, Stenton was firmly caught in this misdirection.

“You’re right, I can’t stand around here chitchatting with you all morning. And I’ll have to decline that invitation to brunch with you. Good day.” Stenton turned his face and the rage he could barely conceal away from Diggory, hurrying towards Seaside Residential and the Oceangate. Diggory stared after Stenton for a moment.

The teen thief was sure the assistant clerk would warm up to him eventually and dismissed out of hand any negativity he might have perceived in his attitude. He dropped the “merchant speak” he always used around Stenton, turned, and walked into the offices of Morrel & Son.

…

Buildings owned and operated by Morrel and his son were uniformly tidy and spare, so their main office was no exception to the rule.

The desk nestled behind the front counter of the “reception room” was Diggory’s personal “office”, so to speak, with metal filing cabinets full of important documents lined up neatly behind the desk and counter, well out of reach of idle browsers. Paintings of ships at sail adorned the walls of the room and a padded, purple and green gilt bench sat against the wall in the right hand corner of the room.

…

Diggory “hulloed” at Brunwald as he entered, the purple and green liveried guard being seated in the left corner of the room on a stool, idling examining the handle of his sheathed blade.

“Eh. Haven’t seen you here in a bit, Dig,” Brunwald remarked, looking up.

“Oh, I’ve been around,” Diggory replied, with a grin. “I’ve just come in today to make sure the forts still holding down, and then I have an important meeting I must get to.”

“Well don’t let me slow you down, then,” Brunwald said. “I know how important you’re meetings are.”

Diggory nodded in recognition of the guard’s sarcasm and seated himself at his desk. He noticed the paper that Stenton had mentioned and tossed it into the trash bin next to his desk.

After a few minutes spent poring over some accounts and ledgers, Diggory was satisfied with the firms status and prepared to pick up that months pay from the Morrels owners office and leave. He was distracted from this when an old friend of his opened the office’s front door and stepped inside.

The handsome young man who had just entered the reception room was a head taller than Diggory, had sandy, ear length blonde hair, clean features, and wore an impeccably folded black and royal yellow merchant’s silk toga. He grinned when his green eyes sighted on the young head clerk.

“Do my eyes deceive me, or is that my good friend Diggory Doug seated at his desk at the office, doing some kind of…what do they call it? Work? Are you REALLY doing some honest work, my friend?”

…

“Do my eyes deceive me or is that my good friend Diggory Doug seated at his desk at the office, doing some kind of…what do they call it? Work? Are you REALLY doing some honest work, my friend?”

…

The laughing man who teased Diggory with those lines was named Avery Machus Danu, and he was one of the two co-partners who had founded the Danville & Avery merchant suppliers.

The Danville & Avery merchant suppliers was a fairly new business in The Kingdom, having been founded only five years previously. Avery, the younger and junior co-partner, was usually sent with their caravan of goods that went out three times a year. His job as head of the caravan was to see to the successful establishment of local distribution vendors along the gold circuit, deal with any unusual situations that might arise on the way, and to keep his eye open to all opportunities for unexpected profit that might present themselves.

Diggory had met avery a year and a half previously when the man had visited Morrel and Son’s to discuss a business venture that might be mutually beneficial to both organizations, and he had taken an instant shine to the “positive little dodger”. At that time, Avery had been twenty-one, highly intelligent and eloquent in all his pursuits. For this reason it was only natural for the fledgling profiteer to be immediately appreciative not only of Diggory’s endless good cheer, but also the boy’s eloquent talent for getting out of a bind, as he had tried pinning Diggory down with one mental trap after another for almost ten minutes, attempting to coerce an immediate appointment with the overbooked Morrels from what at first glance had appeared to be an inexperienced new clerk. Yet despite his best efforts he had been expertly and agreeably redirected to appointments on later days after each and every one of his sallys.

Avery and Diggory had only stopped their wordplay when Morrel Senior let out a pent up guffaw to reveal his hiding place around the corner of the hallway leading to the owner’s office and then emerged to take the situation in hand.

…

“I hope you don’t mean to deprive me the pleasure of conversing with Stenton.” Avery continued. “He’s grown on me ever so much since he’s taken over babysitting your desk.”

“Ah, Avery. Well, I suppose my busy schedule has often kept me away from my desk, but it’s surely no fault of mine. I’m a slave to fate… and the operations of Morrel and Son, to be sure. But what has brought you to our firm this fine morning?” Diggory queried, adopting an air of exuberant efficiency.

“Just the standard this and that, tit and tat, repair and reconnoiter, so forth and so on type dealings us merchant folk must keep up amongst our peers,” Avery answered, evasively, his hands gesturing effusive explicits.

“The standard, yes.” Diggory flipped through the appointment book on his desk to date "1006/(*)341", noting that it had recently been updated. “It appears that you’re in unusual luck. There is an opening in Morrel Seniors schedule right now. Let me request an audience for you and then I’ll just pencil you in.”

“Coming from you, Diggory, this expediency feels like a true honor.”

Diggory chuckled.

“It looks like I’m going to be handing out honors all day today,” he called, happily, over his shoulder, walking around the desk and down the hall to the office of Morrel Sr.

Diggory confronted the closed door and shuttered glass door-pane of his boss’ private office and knocked twice on the wood. He heard the muffled, indrawn snort that announced Morrel Sr. was coming out of a nap, then:

“AH HARREGHM!…Ahem, what is the latest?” Morrel Sr. asked, gruffly.

“Sir, a merchant by the name of Avery Danu is here to see you regarding the standard.”

“Aha! I could sense this one coming, that time of the season and all. Well, send him in, Diggory.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Diggory turned on his heel and walked back out to the reception room.

“Morrel Sr. will see you, now,” he said.

“Splendid. It’s a shame to cut our little reunion short, though, and seeing that we usually only end up meeting at the strangest and most inopportune of times and locations…why I’ll have to twist that fate of yours that buffets you about so much, to serve my own ends. Take it as official when I say that the partnership of Danville & Avery merchant’s suppliers cordially invites you to sup with them tonight. I believe you know where our warehouse is located?”

Diggory’s mind started at this assumption, but his smile and cheer never wavered.

“I can certainly locate it. But…Danville? I thought he didn’t travel anymore?”

Avery’s grin turned wolfish.

“Aye, he isn’t one for traveling. Twas Esmerelda’s idea, really.”

At Diggory’s politely confused look, he continued.

“Danville and Esmerelda are very recently married, and it just so happens that their honeymoon spot is a few miles off the northward leg of our caravans little journey. Esmerelda is a very persuasive woman and she wouldn’t take the no Danville originally gave her for an answer when it came to the location for their honeymoon, regardless of the expense of it. The only way that Danville would foot the bill for the trip, rueful as he is to part with a single copper, was by combining it with the journey he’s been pensively contemplating for the past few years. That would be the trip where he gets back on the road one more time, to see with his own eyes how his business has grown. The whole thing came together perfectly, both sides were mostly content, and it’s been just like old times again. But we’ll talk more about that later. Just make sure to present yourself at our warehouse at six.”

“That’s easy. I guess I’ll see you then,” Diggory agreed.

“At your whim, as always,” Avery rejoined, sweeping down the hallway to Morrel Sr. office.

Feeling overly sedentary still seated at his “office”, and blocked by Avery’s appointment from unobtrusively requesting his pay, Diggory updated and closed the appointment book, shuffled around some papers, then uprooted from his chair behind the desk and left the reception room by the front door. He raised his left hand above his shoulder in farewell as he exited.

“Til next time, Brunwald.”

The bored guard muttered something noncommittal.

Diggory left the office and turned right, following the Business Walk on its outer curve that circled the outside edge of Market Square until it turned and merged into the Merchants Steps leading towards the southern part of Abel. This part of the city held cheap taverns, bars and the docks.

…

After some nonchalant strolling, Diggory had reached his favorite restaurant, Crabknuckles, and he took a leisurely brunch there.

It was about 11:10 when he had finished. He had then decided to set up shop for a bit by Penemeyer docks to attempt to hawk some false lightgems he had procured last week, to any gullible sailor’s and docksmen going to and from the quays.

The jaded dockmen didn’t spare his cries any mind, but some of the sailors did; a group of trusting Klepps bought a few stones from him for a handful of coppers, after which he continued unsuccessfully shouting the remaining stones virtues for a further twenty minutes. At that point the same group of Klepps came back, shouting tropically accented curses at him, because their stone’s had already lost their glow (something true light stones retain, in undiminished force, until they are, for whatever reason, completely ground to pieces and destroyed). Diggory had taken their return as an obvious sign that it was time to vacate his temporary bazaar and had then fled his pursuers and lost them among the tightly packed houses on the north part of Seaside Residential.

The time had advanced to 11:40 by the end of his pursuit, and Diggory’s date with Myrta was drawing close.

…

Diggory Doug crept cautiously along empty streets, through the dawn hours of a slightly foggy spring morning.

He was dressed simply, his plain brown frock and thick-soled shoes rustling and clomping softy as he went. He stood medium height for an adolescent, his body was slender, bowl shaped hair dark brown and eyes hazel, his smooth face fair enough to look upon.

Glancing left into an alley that opened between two dockyard warehouses and then back out quickly at the quiet streets, Diggory ducked his head and darted down the alley. At the end of the alley he slowed his pace to a crawl and sidled up to its gaping maw. The left side of the alley continued as a dead end, so he eased up to the right side of it and peered out.

Jumping in shock and letting out a loud yelp Diggory then landed, spun on his heels, and sprinted back the way he had come. Seconds later, a potbellied night watchman lumbered in the alley after him.

“Oy, come back ere, ya blarmey codsucker! I saw ya robbin the Tregalfger estates naugh’ a week ago!” the watchman shouted, failing, in his lurching jog, to close the gap with the sprinting miscreant who sped far ahead of him out the other side of the alley and then across the street towards a low stone wall. Diggory said nothing as he fled, only grunting in effort as he heaved himself up the wall and scrambled over it to resume running through a line of carts being wheeled by earlybird merchants heading towards Glenn Market Square. The light-footed young man spied a likely deterrent to pursuit among the merchant’s trundling wares and pushed it over behind him as he ran by.

The night watchman continued yelling coarse disparagements as he dropped heavily from the wall and resumed carrying his considerable bulk after Diggory. Never taking his eyes off the nimble thief he tripped over the rolling melons at full speed, crashing to the ground, thrashing, and Diggory ran on, the watchman’s cries receding as he turned the corner onto a street heading towards the slums.

Diggory reached the slums in a huff and jogged inside its sparsely populated first block to find himself an ignominous hiding spot. He headed towards the Crown Mags and removed his cowl as he hurried in through its doors.

Old Mag was seated in her usual place behind the counter, and she held up a hand at the lad’s abrupt entrance. Diggory stopped, bent over with his hands on his knees, wheezing.

“I don’t want to know why you’ve rushed in here panting like a whipped dog, but you’d better make it worth my while not to care,” she said, sternly.

Diggory fished about in his frock and took out a worn silverish coin, pulling back his arm to toss it at her.

“Be sure that’s silver, Dig,” the old woman cautioned. “If it turns out to be selven melt again, I might get curious and talkative about a few things.”

Hearing shouts from outside, Diggory quickly drew out a gleaming silver coin and tossed it at Old Mag. She caught it in one wizened hand and waved him on, at which point he rushed around the counter, passed the stairs at a run, and barrelled into the kitchens.

The lined brown face of cook Watts looked up tiredly from a spread out line-up of breakfast ingredients and then back down again, disinterested at Diggory’s door slamming entrance. The piously dressed teen ignored him equally, speeding around the pots and pans of the kitchen to a storage room in the back then slipping past its half open door.

Once inside the storage room, he kneeled and pushed aside a few empty crates stacked haphazardly about the room to get at the thick, horse-hair rug below them. Diggory pulled the rug up and then tugged hard on the depressed edge of the trap door he had just unearthed beneath it, exposing a ladder leading down into black. He heard a faint but insistent rapping begin at the front door of the inn as he bolted down the opening.

Safely below ground level, Diggory reached up to pull the rug back over the trap door, then let both drop on his head, pitching himself into absolute darkness. He drew out a tinder stick from a hidden pocket in his frock and struck the end of it against the stones surrounding him. The stick brightened to a small red flame which cast a glow that partially illuminated the subterranean grotto he’d descended into.

“I didn’t make much of any profit this morning AND I managed to encounter the only watchman who has caught sight of my face during a heist,” he said to himself, smiling. “But at least I got some exercise.”

…

Running and hiding was as much a part of Diggory’s life as sneaking and thieving. He was excessively cheerful about his lot in life, even though his lot had begun as poor and reviled as it got in Abel.

Abel was a large port city located in the southeastern part of The Kingdom, along Lugenholt Bay. The bay was named after the original occupant of Abel’s one castle and the title of the castle itself, which was called the Holt.

The Holt was a massive and imposing structure, built of granite, with eight-meter thick, twenty-meter high outer walls and thirty-meter tall inner walls. It had constantly manned guard towers at all four-corners of its walls and scorpions, trebuchets and trebunels posted at various locations on the walls and courtyards of the structure. The Holt fairly bristled with defenses, and it was this fearsomely bedecked castle, along with a quarter of The Navy, that defended Lugenholt bay, the mouth of the river Thyne and the southern waterways of The Kingdom from any naval invasion.

Fortunately enough for the continued peace of Abel and The Kingdom, enemy attack was an occurrence that had as much chance of happening near Abel as Diggory’s parents materializing from the aether to take him out for breakfast. This was because of the fact that the town was thousands of kilometers from any pirate’s nests or other countries save The Kingdom ally Porrs.

The duchy of Porrs was located a few kilometers across the sea from Lugenholt Bay. It was another state that seemed to need little defending, seeing as it was on friendly terms with The Kingdom and because it was the only organized government present on the landmass it resided on. The quasi-continent that Porrs called its realm was more of an overgrown island, really, just sufficient in size to host three cities, a number of towns and all the necessary natural resources for civilization. It featured some low mountains to the south, a few scattered forests, two major ports in the north and west and plenty of goods to export. Commerce between The Kingdom’s port town of Abel and the duchy of Porrs was highly profitable for both the two countries, and occasionally Diggory Dug.

Unfortunately, Diggory’s opportunity for profit had never materialized, today. He had started off his morning by rousing the dockside watch in that ill-timed meeting with the clumsy watchman recounted previously. Afterwards, Diggory had discarded his monk’s costume at a “select location” (abandoned chicken coop), to reveal the leather jerkin and tough hide breeches hidden underneath it that he called his “good company clothes”, but which were in fact the “only clothes” that he ever wore (his fondness for these particular garments stemmed from the belief he held that they brought him good luck. He believed this because of the unusual circumstances that surrounded his acquiring them). Diggory had also replaced the heavy shoes of the monk costume with a pair of worn old brown boots that he had left behind a decaying trash heap in the coop.

Following the change into his “new” wardrobe, Diggory had spent the rest of the morning and afternoon picking empty pockets near the shopping lanes, before he gave up the days poor thieving and went carousing at a few bars. He had then ended that endeavor by passing out drunk at a tavern and being robbed of his meager purse while he dozed.

Since his fourteenth birthday six weeks before (which, according to Kingdom law, gave him the legal right to drink whatever he pleased), Diggory had begun making a reputation for himself around the alehouses as a man who couldn’t hold his alcohol past the first drop. So despite the positive first impression the owner of “The Bad Day Bar” had received upon the entrance of the tirelessly charming and smiling lad near afternoons end, he had slowly been converted to that same belief in Diggory’s intolerance for drink that other alehouse employees held as the happy thief transitioned from “sober tankard sipper” into “roaring, drink chugger”. After an hour which saw Diggory’s revelry drive half the responsibly drinking patrons of the bar away in disgust at his lack of self-control, the outrageously sodden young man had completed his booze related transformation when he became “incomprehensibly vomiting” drunk and then almost immediately collapsed into “snoring insensate” drunk.

These proceedings were observed with some disquiet by the normally tolerant bar owner who eventually sent a thoroughly annoyed serving wench to rouse Diggory near closing time. The newly minted adult was given this special attention to ensure the collection of his payment for drink and damages incurred to bar property (he’d broken two mugs and ripped off a chair’s leg during his inebriated period of outrageousness).

The girl had shaken Diggory roughly for some time before he had risen in a zombie-like manner and stumbled, muttering to himself, over to the front counter. He had then fumbled clumsily in his breech pockets for his wallet and encountered nothing but lint. Being unfailing positive in his perception of the world, he had proceeded to argue good-naturedly with the barman about the possibility of his starting a yeoman’s tab. This was something he was entirely unqualified for, and the discussion had ended with the youthful alchoholic being tossed out of the establishment onto his ear.

Following this exit, Diggory had picked himself up with the little dignity and clarity of mind that remained to him after his drink related bout of debauchery and then set off for one of his comfortable and discreetly hidden “nooks” to spend the night at.

…

“Ahhhhhh,” Diggory sighed in a slur, weaving from side to side, “the night is so young, but-”. He paused, confused at the direction his thoughts had fled to. “But…I…ugh, I need to sleeeeeeep.” He blinked, dazed, and kept moving through the lamp lit streets, completely unaware that he was being followed.

Diggory reached his home for the night after a twenty-five minute shamble from the street of the Merchants Steps to The Way that usually took only ten minutes walking. He pulled open the never locked window of Tom Sheperd’s old stable and slid inside it gracelessly, faceplanting on the dirt floor.

The delinquent orphan lay for a few seconds in this position and then pushed himself up slowly, grimacing. He remained standing with the help of the chest-high stall door that he was now gripping tightly. He used that grip to pull himself over to the center of the stable and, with some difficulty, climbed up the ladder he found there, entered up into the deserted loft, and fell amongst the bales of hay stacked there.

Diggory’s drained mental faculties were shutting down one by one, but he caught sight of movement at the lofts opening before his eyes shut completely. Even when on the verge of sleep his mind was still sharply cautious of change, so he snapped his eyes back open and was shocked into a blurry panic by the indignant face that came into view over the top of the ladder.

“I’ve been waiting outside of taverns around your normal hours of frolic for some chance like this to present itself. It’s been such a bother,” the entrant said crossly, pulling herself into the loft and sitting down cross-legged on the bare planks in front of the ladder’s end. She was bundled up in a thick blue robe that hid her shape, the petite, pretty features of her aristocratic face and wisps’ of chesnutt brown hair all that showed from the concealing efforts of the kerchief wrapped, gypsy-like, about her head under her robes cowl. “You have to be the worst man, thief, liar and lover that I’ve ever known. But you are MY lover, so I suppose I must forgive you,” she finished, sweetly, scooting closer.

…

The young woman who had just popped into the loft and interrupted Diggory’s restorative efforts was Myrta Lain Collet. Diggory had met Myrta two months before during a failed nighttime burglary of the jewelry store “The Sea Kings Treasure”.

It had been carnival week and Diggory had thought that it would be the perfect time to spruce up his wardrobe with a few “useless baubles”. This was done chiefly to help attract the attention of three carefree female roadies he had recently met. It was Diggory’s lack of fortune that someone was still inside the downstairs part of the two story “shop & home” at one in the morning, because he had jiggered open the window and looked inside the store only to come face to face with Myrta’s surprised visage.

Accusations had ensued through the illegally opened portal, yet Diggory’s charm had eventually won her over. She had coerced a date for dinner the next evening out of the dashing and untimely thief in exchange for her silence. He had kept that date, intrigued by her request, but her subsequent behavior towards his person had made him cheerfully reconsider his options.

…

“Ngh! Uh Myrta, we’re not…well, but I was going to visit your shop but, erm….” Diggory held out his hand to motion for her to stay where she was while he struggled valiantly with his sodden brain to come up with a winning lie to satisfy her conceit AND drive her away.

“You’re too drunk to be charming, dear, and you’re not very witty even when you’re sober, so don’t try to cozen me with some sweet nothing.” Myrta giggled. “But regardless, we really should be married by now. You’re of legal age, I’m of legal age, and I have such a lovely dowry as well…” The young woman winked and trailed off into suggestive silence.

Diggory was having trouble following her.

“See here, Myrta, I haven’t… uh, promised you anything. And this is a really bad time for us to talk,” he admitted, swooning.

“Oh Diggory, Diggory, Diggory,” she said, her tone one of insane patience and melodrama, “You’re hardly the man I should love, I know, and there will be ever so much trouble for us in the future, especially concerning my parents’ thoughts about men such as yourself, but we really were-"

“Please stop,” Diggory began, pathetically, “I really need to sleep this rum off, but I promise we’ll talk later.”

“What better time than the present? And besides, how do I know that-”

“Damnit!” he exclaimed, with uncharacteristic annoyance, “Can’t you trust my word that I’ll meet you la…heh, oh yeah, there was that time that I said I’d meet you at Pasta Pinache, but…”

“Yes there was that time, and there were more times than just that one. But I still love you,” Myrta said, batting her eyelashes at him prettily and scooting even closer.

“Uh, yes, I suppose so,” Diggory replied. He was at an impasse, but his severe need for rest and his unusual, drink induced agitation at her surprise visit finally pushed his mind to a compromising solution.

“Take this as proof that I will meet with you tomorrow at noon outside Millers Rest.” The desperate young man removed a cloth-wrapped bundle from his leather jerkin and pushed it into the young coquette’s hands.

“That’s actually…um…probably not the best time for-”, Myrta said, then she grew quiet as she peeped into the bundle. Her eyes widened.

“Why, this must be worth-”

“Yes yes, its worth a lot so I’ll have to come get it so you know I’ll meet you tomorrow bye-bye now”, he said, pushing her towards the ladder.

“I understand,” Myrta said, archly, as she reluctantly took the hint and began descending the ladder, “You just need some beauty sleep to freshen up and renew your true, sober interest in our impending nuptials. Quite gentlemanly of you not to continue compromising my chastity with this scandalously late private meeting by suggesting a more appropriate time and place. I just cannot wait to see you again tomorrow, so make sure to remember to meet me-”

“At Millers Rest noontime, yeah,” Diggory finished for her, slamming the trap door of the loft on her nagging when her head finally passed below the level of the loft floor. He dragged a couple of bales of hay on top of the door to be sure of his privacy and then fell back once more, too tired to move even if the loft was set aflame.

The thoroughly taxed young man, eyes closing, thought for a second that scenes such as this must be punishment and proof of Krugok’s displeasure for the amoral lifestyle he lead. However, Diggory soon drifted off to sleep with the same goodwill towards existence that always returned to him shortly after any lapse into negativity.

His dreams, such as he could later recall, were as pleasant as ever.