The Enchanted Forest Chronicles

May you and your triple cursed wash water turn purple with orange spots and fall down a bottomless pit!

I didn’t ask what you’d said about it,” the frog snapped. “I asked what you’re going to do. Nine times out of ten, talking is a way of avoiding doing things.

You’d think they’d been raised in a palace for all the manners they have.” “If they’re princes, they probably have been raised in palaces,” Mendanbar said. “Princes usually are.” “Well, no wonder none of them have any manners, then.” The squirrel sniffed. “They ought to be sent to school in a forest, where people are polite. You don’t see any of my children behaving like that, no, sir. Please and thank you and yes, sir and no, ma’am—that’s how I brought them up, all twenty-three of them, and what’s good enough for squirrels is good enough for princes, I say.

Mendanbar wondered idly whether a bucket of soapy water plus lemon juice plus dishes would be as good for melting a wizard as one without dishes, and what effect the dishes would have on the process. Being melted was probably not very comfortable, but being melted while cups and plates and forks were falling on your head was likely to be even less so.

I’m the King, and I say you go to the dungeon instead of fighting wizards, and no argument.

Thank you very much,” I said. “But I really ought to tell you: I’m not a lord.” The dwarf smiled tolerantly. “Of course not, my lord. Is there anything else we can do for you?