Shadewell Shenanigans (7 page)

Loogie Lambontroff shook out the flaps of his thick overcoat, cracked his knuckles, and sighed. “I’m not a violent man, Mr. Jenkins.”

“Yes you are!” the innkeeper exclaimed, helping his wife to her feet. “You’ve broken her arm!”

Loogie shook his head. “Oh, come on,” he argued, eyeing the crossbow he’d balanced precariously on a stool beside the table. “Your
wife
attacked me with a foreign object …”

“Don’t be ridiculous! All she did was answer the door!”

“—with a frying pan in her hand?”

“We were getting breakfast!”

“Yeah, well, how was I to know that? I’m not taking any chances, am I? Now, as I was saying before you took it upon yourself to interrupt, I am not a violent man. At least, not anymore …”

The innkeeper indicated a wreckage of wood and bronze that lay just inside the entrance. “You’ve ripped our front door off its hinges!”

“Yes, yes I did! And, as a matter of fact, I’m very glad you mentioned it,” Loogie said, managing to smile and frown at the same time, “because
that
has to be the weakest excuse for a door in the entire history of woodwork. The frame was shoddy, the mailbox came away in my hand, and I got a mouthful of abuse off the knocker before I’d come three feet up the drive. Who built this place, anyway? Three pigs?”

“Our barmaid had to take a week off after your last visit—she said you head-butted three of the regulars, broke a window, and left something terrible in the easement.”

“I see. Anything else?”

The innkeeper pointed a shaking finger at the gangster. “You’re an animal,
Lord
Lambontroff. One of our regulars used to be a woodsman on the edge of the Washin: he told us ALL about you.”

Loogie made a dismissive gesture with both hands, then suddenly leaped onto the table and sat down, cross-legged, drawing in a deep breath as if to prevent himself any further loss of temper. “That’s neither here nor there,” he snapped, as the couple looked on, wide-eyed. “I’ve not come to your decrepit dung heap of an inn to discuss my past—and, incidentally, you can forget anything you’ve heard from your
scummy
regulars: I haven’t been
Lord
Lambontroff for a long time.” He flexed his knuckles. “I work for Mr. Mediocre now, and I’m here—once again—to discuss your little
debt
problem. I thought I’d arrive unannounced this time, as you were both conveniently
absent
during my last visit. I had to leave a message with your stupid barmaid, and Mr. Mediocre
hates
it when I have to leave messages.” He finished the statement with a feline grin.

“Mr. Mediocre?” repeated the innkeeper, his wife cowering in the shadows behind him. “Who—”

“He’s Mr. Big’s assistant … and I don’t know what you’re grinning at, because Mr. Mediocre can get very nasty when he wants to.”

The innkeeper’s tone changed immediately. “Of course, sir. I wasn’t grinning, honestly; it’s my bone structure.”

Loogie nodded. “So get on with it, then … I want that safe emptied, and don’t even think about making any excuses.”

The innkeeper didn’t move, but he did begin to sweat. “Um, well, actually, business has been a bit slow this month, and we—”

Loogie picked up his crossbow and took aim. “That sounds like an excuse to me …”

The innkeeper held up a shaking hand. “P-please! We d-detailed our situation in a l-letter,” he stammered. “They sent one back; said it’d be all right to pay double next month.”

Loogie paused, lowering the weapon slightly. “I might be new to this job,” he muttered, “but I didn’t come down in the last shower. Mr. Big’s been on holiday in Spittle since June, and I reckon Mr. Mediocre would’ve told me if he’d decided to let you off a payment. So who sent you this letter?”

The innkeeper thought for a moment, his brown eyes glistening with the effort.

“Mr. Titch,” he said, wringing his hands.

“Mr. Titch is dyslexic,” Loogie sniggered. “You’re lying through your teeth.” He raised the crossbow again.

“I know, I know.” The innkeeper gasped hurriedly. “But he only dictated the letter. Mr. indrfnff wrote it down.”

Loogie boggled at him. “Mr. who?”

“Mr. indrfnff.”

“Mr. Indifferent?”

“Yes! That’s it! Definitely. Mr. Indifferent.”

Loogie’s beady eyes narrowed. “And that’s your final answer?”

The innkeeper nodded, trying desperately to ignore his wife’s whimpering.

“There’s not a doubt in your mind?”

“No, sir.”

“You’re
that
sure?”

“I’m sure, sir!”

Loogie cocked his head to one side. Then he raised the crossbow, drew back the bolt, and aimed.

“Bad luck, then, because there’s no such person as Mr. Indifferent, and you just signed your own death warrant.”

“Noooo!”

The innkeeper dropped to his knees and began to beg for mercy, his wife echoing his every word.

“P-p-please spare us!”

Loogie shook his head. “I don’t do mercy.”

“But you said you weren’t a violent man!”

“I lied. Now get up and take what’s coming to y—”

Two giant shadows fell across the floor of the inn, creating a sudden absence of light, which, in effect, cut off Loogie’s words.

Gordo Goldeaxe squeezed between Groan’s and Gape’s tree-trunk legs and waddled through the devastated doorway.

“Sorry to interrupt your little party,” he began, staring distractedly around the inn. “But we need to take the next available coach. What time does it leave?”

Loogie gritted his teeth and, briefly taking his hand off the crossbow support, waved them both away.

“Scram,” he said simply. “Can’t you see they’re not open for business?”

Gordo appeared to notice the innkeeper and his wife for the first time. “What’s going on—” he began, but Loogie interrupted.

“Get lost, short-arse, or you and your boyfriends are next.”

It was very nearly the last thing Loogie Lambontroff ever said.

“It’s wrong, Bronwyn,” Susti whispered, opening the door to her bedchamber and peering into the room to make certain that no one was lurking there. “I mean, not that long ago we were at war with Dullitch, and now my father’s taking orders from them!”

“But, milady, you said—”

“Yes, yes, I know it’s not just them … but Duke Modeset’s in charge of the Assembly, and he was on the throne when their soldiers attacked our merchant caravans!”

“Of course, milady, but you know what they say—”

“Mmm? What?”

“Well, you know—forgive and forget. Perhaps your father just wants peace …”

“And I’m fine with that, Bronwyn, but I don’t see why we should bow down to the likes of Dullitch and Spittle merely because
they’re
having problems with Groan Teethgrit. I say we should let them sort it out themselves!”

Bronwyn gave a meek nod of agreement. “I’m sure you’re right, milady.”

“I mean, how dare they order us around!” Susti blazed on. “I was a little girl when Dullitch laid siege to the keep, and I remember the whole episode very well. Do you know who came to our rescue? Not Spittle, that’s for sure … and I don’t recall a great deal of help from Sneeze or Legrash, either. On the contrary: it was mercenaries who came to our rescue, a big tribe from the Mountains of Mavokhan.”

“I remember, milady. One of the female barbarians gave me an ornamental dagger; they were very kind.”

Susti nodded. “You see what I mean? It’s crazy. I’ve a good mind to warn them.”

“Oh, no, milady,” Bronwyn protested. “You mustn’t do that!”

The princess reflected for a moment, then shook her head.

“No, no, you’re absolutely right, Bronwyn. If I warned them, my father would get the blame for everything. The Assembly would probably throw him out.”

“Exactly, Majesty.”

“In fact, I’ve got a much better idea.”

“Milady?”

Bronwyn studied her mistress’s suddenly possessed expression, and began to feel quite faint.

“Well, I could help them!”

“Yes, milady, but—”

“Quiet, Bronwyn! It’s a great idea; I’ve studied geography all of my life—I could tell them the best routes to follow!” Susti clapped her hands together and raced over to a heavy, claw-legged chest, which stood against the east wall. After fumbling frantically with the ornate clasp, she threw open the lid of the chest and began to drag out various items. “We’ll need some rope, a tinderbox, swords, a grappling iron, a lantern, a road map, and some money. Hmm … and we need to write a farewell note to Father.”

Bronwyn folded her arms carefully. “We, Majesty?”

“Oh, don’t start all that again, Bron. I’m a bloody princess—I’m hardly likely to go hiking all over Illmoor on my own, am I?”

Everything happened in a blur.

Gordo was the first to move, hurling his battle-axe at Loogie Lambontroff before the gangster had a chance to turn and fire his crossbow. Missing by a gnat’s wing, the axe smashed into the bar behind Loogie, taking out a month’s supply of spirits in the process. Gape had drawn both swords, but his brother was in the way.

Lambontroff, who’d ducked down to avoid the spinning weapon, reacted quickly, firing off a bolt from his bow and watching, in frank astonishment, as Groan snatched it out of the air and crushed it into splinters.

In the frenetic excitement that followed, the innkeeper took initiative, snatched up his wife’s frying pan, and belted Loogie across the back of the head, grinning with relief as the gangster collapsed.

“Thanks for that, fellas,” he breathed, helping his wife to her feet. “We’re proper grateful.”

“A pleasure,” Gordo muttered, crunching over the remains of the inn’s door frame. “Nasty piece of work, by the looks of it. Er … about that coach?”

The innkeeper sighed despondently. “I’m afraid they’re not running at the moment,” he said. “Business has been pretty dead recently, and most of the trade routes are closed.”

Gape let out a long sigh, and wandered outside for some fresh air.

Gordo cracked his knuckles. “A pity,” he said. “We really do need to get to Sneeze.”

The innkeeper gave a sympathetic shrug, but his wife had a thoughtful look on her face.

“There’s always Barnaby’s old coach,” she said.

“Nah,” muttered the innkeeper. “Nobody in their right mind would try riding that on the steeps.” He looked Groan up and down, then added: “Mind you … it does go some, when it’s not rattling to pieces.”

“Sounds perfect,” said Gordo quickly. “How much d’you want for it?”

The innkeeper pursed his lips and whistled. “Now you’re asking me. Er … fifty crowns?”

“Does it come with a horse?” Gordo asked, irritably scratching an eyebrow.

“Does it heck as like! For fifty crowns, you’d be lucky if it comes with wheels!”

“Yeah,” Groan thundered, indicating Loogie. “An’ you’re lucky we came in ’ere when we did, ’siderin’ that bloke was ready to reckon’ you up.”

“Twenty crowns,” the innkeeper’s wife said decisively, “and forty for the horse.”

“You what?” Gordo exclaimed. “That’s sixty! You only wanted fifty in the first place!”

“That was without the horse,” the innkeeper protested. “He’s a good horse, is old Barnaby: a champion in his day.”

“Is sixty more ’an fifty?” said Groan, who was getting confused.

“Of course it is!” Gordo snapped, and turning back to the innkeeper’s wife, added, “Forty-five for the both, and that’s my final offer.”

“Fifty, and I’ll throw in some luggage ropes for the side hooks.”

Gordo looked amazed. “You mean it hasn’t even got a roof rack?” he exclaimed.

The innkeeper’s wife rolled her eyes. “Of course it doesn’t have a roof rack,” she said. “It hasn’t got a roof!”

“Ha! Then it’s not a coach, is it? It’s a bloody cart; and in that case, I’ll have it for thirty-five and not a single penny more.”

“Forty-five.”

“Done.”

Gordo extended his hand, but the innkeeper pulled back his wife’s arm and whispered anxiously into her ear. There followed a brief (and largely wordless) argument, after which the innkeeper’s wife turned back to the mercenaries and announced, “You can have the coach
and
the horse
and
the luggage ropes for twenty crowns, if you agree to take him with you.”

Groan glanced down at Loogie and shrugged, but Gordo looked none to happy about the proposal.

“Who is he?” he asked, eyeing the innkeeper carefully.

The innkeeper pursed his lips, then motioned for Gordo to step to one side.

“His name’s Loogie Lambontroff, and he’s the nephew of a noble,” he whispered, crouching to bring his mouth level with Gordo’s ear. “But he ran away from home three years ago, after his uncle stole his pet chicken; made big news in these parts. The family put a huge bounty on his head—wanted him back at all costs—but nobody would go near him.”

“Why not?”

“Maybe it’s because nobody wants to take him back to where he came from. Who knows? All I know is what I hear, and I hear he was very well educated in Dullitch before he went to the bad. Nowadays, he works for a bunch of local gangsters who …”

The innkeeper proceeded to tell of his own troubles, but Gordo wasn’t really listening.

“I’ve never heard of a noble called Lambontroff,” he said suddenly, cutting the man off. “Where’s he from?”

The innkeeper shuddered. “A city called Wemeru, in the jungles of Rintintetly: a terrible place by all accounts, and Lambontroff isn’t actually the family name …”

“Hang about,” Gordo muttered, taking a step back and regarding the prone man. “His uncle wouldn’t be Mad Count Craven, would it?”

B
RONWYN GULPED, TRYING DESPERATELY
not to look down as she descended the outer wall of Phlegm Keep on a rope fashioned from knotted bedsheets.

“Are you sure about this, ma’am?” she called up at Susti, who was leaning from the arched window of her bedchamber, while at the same time wrestling with the end of the makeshift rope in a valiant attempt to get it hooked up to a wall brazier.

“Hold on, Bronny; I’m almost there!”

The line juddered, and Bronwyn’s stomach felt as if it were going to leap into her throat. Then Susti climbed out of the window and began to lower herself down.