The Empress's Pear

“I’m going to steal the Empress’s golden pear,” Pate declared, slurring his words. He had been drinking for most of the afternoon and it was now several hours past dark.

“Will you shut up!” Dasra scolded. Even with the raucous atmosphere of the Manitcore and Swan Inn covering their voices, Pate was being far too loud. “Or do you want us to be thrown into the Black Cells?”

“I mean it.” Pate leaned in closer, doing his best to whisper. “I am going to sneak into the palace and pluck that magical piece of fruit straight off the tree.”

“And then what?”

Pate hiccupped. His eyes shifted in and out of focus as he struggled to resist drunken unconsciousness. “Then…” he fought against passing out, swaying on his stool. “Then… I am going to eat it.”

Dasra sighed. “A more masterful plan was never concocted,” she said. “But you’ll never even get close to achieving that if you kill yourself with drink. And speaking of eating, we had best find something for you to have, or else your hangover will have you wishing for the Empress’s torturers.”

She snatched Pate’s half-empty mug away from him and pulled him to his feet, helping him to stagger out of the inn. Outside, a carnival atmosphere blazed. The whole city was abuzz with joyous celebrations in response to the news that the golden pear tree had borne fruit. Such a thing only happened once in a generation, giving the citizens of Telvos more than enough cause to drink and dance to excess. Paper lanterns floated above the street, bathing it in orange light. The smell of street food, oily and spicy, wafted from cart to cart.

“You know how they say the pear is magical,” Pate said as they stumbled along the road, dodging revellers, “and how anyone who eats it is blessed with impossibly long life?”

“Yes, I do,” Dasra said. Everyone knew that; knowledge of the golden pear was like knowledge of the gods, or that you get cold when it snows.

“That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Pate smiled stupidly. “No more working in the warehouse. No more scraping a living.”

“The pear doesn’t make you rich, Pate.”

“But it would make people treat me like I was, which is just as good. The whole reason the royal family are the royal family is because they eat the golden pears.”

“Hmm.”

“Hey, Das?”

“What?”

“I’ll let you have a bite of the pear too. Just a little one. But you can have some too.”

“That’s very kind of you, Pate,” Dasra said, safe in the knowledge that, once sober and sunlit, Pate would give up his drunken foolhardiness.

Pate did not give up on his plan, however. In fact, it became all that he would talk of.

“You’ve got to stop telling people,” Dasra chided as they rolled barrels of rye beer across the warehouse floor, loading them onto a great wagon. “You’re going to get in serious trouble.”

“I’ve barely told anyone. The pear isn’t big enough for everyone I know to be asking for a slice. And don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about what I said to you about sharing it.”

“You were so drunk you could barely walk. How can you possibly remember that?”

Pate smiled, his round cheeks red, his wonky teeth gleaming. “I never forget. Can drink as much as I like and I never blackout. Always been that way. Comes in very handy when you need some dirt on someone you’ve been drinking with.

They strolled back across the warehouse and grabbed another barrel.

“Speaking of which,” Pate continued, “that’s exactly how I arranged for us to get into the palace. See, the wagon driver would hate for his boss to know that he’s been taking a cut out of every load for himself, and the gate guard, well, she’d hate for her husband to know that their beautiful child isn’t really his, so neither of them are going to notice that we’ve smuggled ourselves inside in one of these barrels.”

“What?” Dasra said, suddenly aware of how light the barrel they were rolling was. So light, in fact, that it was clearly empty.

“I thought you said that I needed to stop talking so much about what we were up to.” Pate grinned again, rolling the barrel up onto the wagon by himself, leaving Dasra standing there, dumbstruck. “Come on, we need to get in the barrel. Driver’ll be here soon.”

“Stop saying ‘we’! I’ve got nothing to do with this.”

“Course you do, Das,” Pate said as he prized the lid off the barrel. “You’ve been with me since the very start, that night in the Manticore. And you’re getting a share of the pear as well, don’t forget.”

“I don’t want a share of the pear! I want to go about the rest of my life without being arrested and thrown into a lightless cell!”

“Well you’d better get in the barrel then, because if you ruin this for me, I’m going to tell everyone that it was your idea.”

“You what?”

“I’ll grass you up. I’ll name names, and the first name will be yours.”

“Why would you do that? You’re one of my oldest friends. That would ruin my life!”

“And because I’m one of your oldest friends I refuse to let you miss this opportunity to change your life forever.”

“You’re an idiot!”

“I’m an idiot who is going to get you a taste of a divine pear. Now get in, someone’s coming.”

Dasra rung her hands and glanced about the warehouse. She looked like a hare caught between two packs of wolves.

“I am never speaking to you again,” she said, marching up onto the wagon and climbing into the barrel. Pate grinned and followed her in, pulling the lid into place behind them.

“You’ll thank me when it’s over,” he said. Even in the pitch black, Dasra knew that he was smiling his charming, mischievous, despicable idiot grin at her. She thought about punching him but realised that she couldn’t move her arms enough.

It was a tense, dark, smelly, and silent journey inside the barrel. Time stretched out in agonising fashion. The whole way, Dasra alternated between imagining unspeakable retribution upon Pate and worrying about all the dreadful things that would happen to them when they were inevitably caught. Pate grinned away in the darkness and thought of how sweet the pear would taste. Finally, the jolting movement of the wagon stopped and a heavy thud sounded out as the driver smacked the side of the barrel.

“That’s our cue,” Pate whispered. “Give him a minute to make himself scarce and then we can get out of here.”

“Can’t we just stay here?”

“And wait to be rolled off and locked in a cellar somewhere? Definitely not.”

They clambered out of the barrel, finding themselves in a bare courtyard.

“Look, over there,” Pate said, pointing through an archway. “That looks like the gardens.”

“Yup,” Dasra said, scanning for some obvious escape route.

“Well come on then. The sooner we eat the pear the sooner we can begin our new lives as gods.” He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her over to the archway. He popped his head through, scanned this way and that, and then dragged her into a nearby tangle of star jasmine.

From their hiding spot, they surveyed the palace gardens. A beautiful landscape of roses, honeysuckles, lavenders, lilies, and other scented flowers spread out before them. The air was thick with butterflies. A marble path, straight and white, cut through the scene, flanked on either side by twisted, ancient olive trees. Somewhere out of sight, water was running, the sound of babbling streams floating through the perfumed air. At the end of the path, encircled by yet more white marble, was the pear tree.

Its trunk was twisted in a great, knotted spiral, rising from the black earth. Its bark was the colour of the moon, its leaves purer than solid gold. A single fruit hung from a high bough, its golden skin glinting in the light, shining like a second sun. Dasra and Pate both gasped as they saw it. Such things were the stuff of fairy tales; few mortals could claim to have ever seen the golden pear tree.

“Come on then,” Pate said, pulling Dasra from the jasmine bush. They dashed from cover to cover, taking refuge in a thicket of lilies, scanning for guards, then sprinting to a patch of witch hazel, then to a great tangle of giant daisies, until they were finally standing before the pear tree. Separated from the rest of the garden by the marble path, it loomed over them, sparkling in the sunlight.

“Get on my shoulders,” Pate said, kneeling down. “The pear is too high to reach.”

Dasra did as she was told. She reached up as Pate stretched onto his tiptoes, reaching for the golden pear. Her hand closed around it as a guard bellowed for them to halt.

Pate spun around, Dasra still on his shoulders. She almost dropped the pear when she saw the Empress standing beside the guard.

For a strange moment, Dasra forgot her terror as she looked upon their divine ruler. Swathed in a butterfly wing dress, the Empress stared back, her green eyes sparkling. Her lips, as red as blood, seemed to be shaping into a smile.

“Unhand that pear!” the guard ordered. “It is the divine property of Her Imperial Highness.” He pulled his sword from its sheath, the ring of steel disturbing the tranquillity of the garden.

Pate and Dasra both hesitated. The pear seemed to be the only thing keeping them safe from the flashing sword. The Empress watched, her white makeup failing to hide a look of passive amusement. The guard took a step forward, raising his blade into a striking poise. Pate took a step backwards, Dasra wobbling as he threw her off balance.

“I shall not ask again,” the guard said, taking another step. “Relinquish the pear, or I will strike.”

Dasra held up her hand, the pear still clasped tightly. The guard seemed to relax slightly as she began to lower her arm. Then, with a speed that took everyone by surprise, she took an enormous bite out of the fruit.

“Pate,” she said through a mouthful of flesh, juice running from her lips. “Catch!” She dropped the pear, chewing frantically. Pate caught the fruit and took an equally gigantic bite as Dasra slid off his shoulders.

“Disgusting,” she said as she landed, forcing herself to swallow the divine flesh. “It tastes horrible. Give me some more!”

“Repulsive,” Pate agreed, taking another bite before handing the pear over.

The Empress’s bawdy laughter stopped them in their tracks. She was bent double, tears running for her cheeks. The guard, stunned, hovered between them and the two miscreants he had just been threatening.

“When do we start to feel like gods?” Dasra said, forcing herself to take another bite. The pear was impossibly dry and sour.

“Soon, I hope,” Pate said, barely able to swallow his second mouthful.

The Empress’s laughter doubled in volume. She staggered over to the soldier and leant on him for support.

“It’s a decorative pear,” she wheezed. “You’re not supposed to eat it.”

“But what about the magic?” Pate and Dasra asked as one.

“Oh that’s just a load of hogwash and superstition!” the Empress said, suppressing more laughter. “Sir Thromond, escort these two jesters back into the city. Have the Treasurer give them a bag of sovereigns each, as reward for the amusement they have brought me and for their silence on this matter.”

Pate and Dasra could not believe their luck. For the rest of their lives, which both lasted far longer than most, to the point that everyone said that they must have been blessed by the gods, they never spoke of what had happened in the Empress's garden.