The Order of Odd-Fish (12 page)

Jo managed to say, “What do you think this Ichthala looks like?”

“Ooh, anything, don’t you think? I imagine the Ichthala is some kind of orange octopus with eyes all over its head, and each of its tentacles is bristling from top to bottom with claws and spikes and goo-shooting tubes. And it can fly, too. But you know, I don’t imagine it having wings? Isn’t that funny? Of course, that’s nothing what it’s like on the show, although it’s still a monster, but…What do
you
think the Ichthala looks like?”

“Nora, you might not believe this, but I’d never even heard that word before this morning.”

Nora gasped. “
Really?
Well, I guess that makes sense, Dame Lily having her memory removed and everything, but…well, that settles it. You’ve got to watch the show.”

“The show?”

“That’s why I’m going downtown. You remember I said it’s all been
foretold,
don’t you? Oh look, I’m already late! Here we are, the butler’s lounge. Bye!” Nora turned and ran back down the hall, leaving Jo speechless.

Nora had left Jo in a quiet corner of the lodge, next to a closed door that came up to her waist. After a moment, Jo knocked hesitantly, and the door immediately opened, revealing a fat-faced cockroach with an extraordinary mustache.

“Yes? Well? Hmmm?” growled the insect. “What do you need?”

“Is that Jo?” came Sefino’s voice. “See her in, Umberto, see her in. Now, as I was saying…”

Jo whispered, “What’s this all about?”

“This,” muttered Umberto, shoving a newspaper into her hand. “Come on.”

Jo ducked inside and found herself stooping in a round, low room hung all around with rotten red velvet drapes, stale smoke, and frayed golden tassels. All the cockroaches were here, lounging around a circular table, finishing their breakfasts and listening to Sefino, who was in the middle of a rousing speech:

“Gentlemen, this is the final straw!” roared Sefino.

“Hear, hear!” cried the other cockroaches.

“We cannot laugh this off anymore,” said Sefino. “These gossip-mongers have gone too far!”

“Too far! Yes!” shrieked the cockroaches. “Ooo!”

“One newspaperman in particular has repeatedly crossed the line,” declared Sefino. “Exhibiting a reckless disregard for our reputations and, indeed, the truth—I hesitate to speak his infamous name—but it must be done—yes, I accuse
Chatterbox
—”

“No! Boo!” howled the cockroaches. “Down with Chatterbox!”

Jo glanced at the newspaper Umberto had given her. It was that morning’s
Eldritch Snitch,
and it had a picture of Sefino in a plane, crying and hiding his eyes in terror. The headline read:

SIMPERING SEFINO SUNK IN SKY-HIGH SKIRMISH

KORSAKOV’S COWARDLY COCKROACH
CALLOWLY CRINGES, CRIES IN CATASTROPHIC COMBAT

INFAMOUS INSECT INDIGNANTLY IRKED IN INSIPID IMBROGLIO

“How do we respond to these attacks on our honor?” said Sefino. “For our honor has been attacked, gentlemen.”

Cicero stirred. “Our honor remains intact, Sefino. No newspaperman can take that from us.”

“Our honor is intact, Cicero, but no reputation, however honorable, can withstand the ceaseless slanderous scribblings of these mischievous muckrakers, a ruthless rabble for whom no libel is too licentious, no hearsay too hurtful, to perniciously print in their poppycock periodicals!”

“Hooray!” shouted the other cockroaches. “Hear! Hear!”

“This is what I shall do”—Sefino pointed at Jo—“I shall take Jo Larouche, an eyewitness to the event, to the
Eldritch Snitch
and demand they print
her
version of the story. Gentlemen, we shall combat their scurrilous lies with the light of truth; we shall smash their sneaking slander with the sword of justice!”

“Whoa, what?” said Jo, startled. “I never said I’d write an article!”

“But you must. Oh, Jo, I beseech you, come to our aid in this noble struggle against a tyranny of tattlers, ink-inebriated idlers who hold decent gentlemen up for scorn, atrocities dripping from their pens, calumny erupting from their typewriters, a billion-headed beast of babblement that shall not be silenced until it is
slain
!”

“Hear! Hear! Woo!” shouted the cockroaches. (They all seemed happy to have Sefino back.)

“But why do they write these articles about you?” said Jo.

“Jo, Jo,” chuckled Sefino. “As you can tell, we are extremely glamorous.”

At this, all the cockroaches fell into fits of grotesque preening.

“Yes, the load we bear is heavy,” said Umberto. “Understandably, the public clamors for details of our private lives. This is only to be expected, but
there are limits.
”

“I cannot help it if I am fascinating,” declared Sefino.

“Hear, hear!” shouted the cockroaches.

“But my private life
will not
be the entertainment of this city!”

“No!” chorused the cockroaches.

“Though my private life
is
entertaining,” admitted Sefino.

“Who could deny it?” roared the cockroaches.

An ugly and withered cockroach laid hold of Jo, causing her to yelp and step back.

“Do not fear! I understand your cries of ecstasy,” said the cockroach, leaning forward. “It is not often that I condescend to touch my admirers. I am, of course, the great Benozzo.”

Jo’s skin winced under the cockroach’s slick, hairy claw. “Please take your hands off me.”

“Yes, the thrill overwhelms you? Your heart palpitates with passion. You wonder if you can bear the exaltation of my touch for a moment longer. Yet you wish it might linger eternally…
I understand.
But listen. I, the great Benozzo, like to take walks.”

“Now you’re drooling on me.”

“Savor it,” said Benozzo. “And listen. It is my custom to take long walks through the neighborhood. It is one of the simple pleasures I have in my life. But how, my lady, how, I ask you, how, yes, I say it again, how,
how
can I take my little walks—I like to call them my ‘constitutionals’—
how
can I engage in my constitutionals, when I am
stalked,
yes, stalked, I say to you,
hunted,
even,
hounded,
if I may be so bold as to say,
hounded like a common animal,
by these pitiless popinjay paparazzi of the popular press?”

“If I write this article,” said Jo, “will all of you stop making speeches at me?”

“We make no promises,” said Sefino.

The morning’s cool had burned away, and the city was swamped in a sticky tropical heat as the Odd-Fish prepared their caravan to go downtown. The elephants were painted with colorful, swirling designs and cloaked in dazzling mats of gold and purple, brass necklaces, and jewel-studded bracelets. Jo rode on Ian’s elephant, her arms locked around his waist, awkwardly squashed up against him to keep from falling off. Jo felt squirmy and tense. Until yesterday, she had never even talked to a boy her own age before.

Ian was in high spirits. “I could hardly sleep last night.”

“Are you nervous?” said Jo over his shoulder, glad to find she wasn’t alone.

“I just don’t want to screw this up,” said Ian. “I never dreamed I’d meet
the
Colonel Korsakov—now I’m going to be his squire! You’re lucky to be Dame Lily’s squire, by the way. She’s a legend.”

Jo wiped sweat from her brow. “Back home, she’s a washed-up actress. The idea of my aunt being a knight seems ridiculous.”

“All the knights in the Order of Odd-Fish are a little ridiculous,” said Ian proudly. Then his voice dropped to a whisper. “By the way, did Dame Lily tell you what Olvershaw does to you?”

“What? No. Who is Olvershaw, anyway?”

“He’s in charge of all the squires in the city. Supposed to be a really tough customer. Dugan told me there’s some kind of initiation we have to go through.” A cluster of orange-and-red fruits drooped from a passing tree branch. Ian plucked two off and handed one to Jo. “Here, try one of these!”

“Thanks!” said Jo, and kept one hand on Ian’s waist as she took a cautious bite. The fruit was juicy, warm, and tart. She took another bite—it was delicious.

For a while Jo and Ian quietly ate their fruit, taking in the chaotic city. The road was jammed with coaches, elephants, bicycles, and puttering cars; everywhere there were people haggling, shouting, chatting, and bellowing prices, news, and advertisements. Jo’s elephant stomped down the twisting streets, ducking under low arches hung with curling vines, squeezing between bright minarets and twisting, crooked towers. The city was a lush garden of temple-like ruins swimming in millions of delicate, colorful flowers, mellowing in the shade of huge bulbous trees, side by side with flimsy shacks slapped together from corrugated metal, cracked plastic, and tattered cloth, dark and smoky and swarming with barefoot children, dogs, and shuffling heaps of rags that on second glance were very old people. The seething mix of architectural grandeur and squalor, the sticky heat, the crushing, surging throngs of people, all drowning in tropical vegetation—trees, fruit, vines, moss, flowers tumbling out everywhere—were totally alien to Jo, and every corner overwhelmed her eyes with detail: orange iguanas scampering through the trees, alleys choked with heaps of broken crystal machines, sidewalks whose every inch was carved with tight rows of hieroglyphics.

Where did her parents fit in all this? Jo tried to imagine them haggling in the markets, eating breakfast in the hanging gardens, dodging through the crowds on bicycles—but it was no use. She didn’t even know what her mother and father looked like.

Then Jo saw Nora on the other side of the street, arguing with a hunched-up little bundle of wrinkles, curly black hair, and twitching shreds of cloth pushing a metal shopping cart crammed full of film canisters, tied with string and hanging off the sides, clanking and clattering. The man hustled the cart away from Nora, pushing back her money, swatting her hands away from the canisters.

Jo nudged Ian. “Isn’t that Nora? What’s she doing?”

Ian wiped his mouth and frowned. “So that’s why she didn’t come…I should’ve known.”

“What’s she trying to get?”

“The next episode of that show of hers. She’s obsessed.” Ian’s voice had turned strangely bitter. “By the way, have you noticed who’s behind us?”

Jo turned and saw that a car was following their elephant: a red, narrow triple-decker automobile, about twenty feet tall, like a rolling tower. A man in a red uniform stood on top, and other red-uniformed men moved behind the windows of the upper and lower decks.

“Police,” said Ian. “They’ve been following us ever since we left the lodge.”

“Really? Why?”

“You heard Dame Isabel last night. Lily and Korsakov are exiled. They’re here illegally.”

“Why haven’t the police arrested them already?” said Jo.

“Lily and Korsakov are too popular to arrest right now,” said Ian. “The mayor can’t do anything right away. So the police are just keeping an eye on them.”

“I don’t know what I’d do if Aunt Lily went to jail,” said Jo. “She’s the only person I know in this city. What if she
did
get arrested?”

“The Order would take care of you. Anyway,” Ian said earnestly, “you know me, right?”

It was hard to see how this awkward boy with a wispy mustache could help her, but Jo liked him for saying it anyway.

Ian said, “Look over there. That’s where we’re going, the Municipal Squires Authority.”

Jo peered over to where Ian was pointing—a caved-in temple overgrown with gnarled trees. But then Ian steered the elephant in a different direction.

“What are you doing?” said Jo.

“We’ve got to detour,” scowled Ian. “Nobody goes through Hazelwood’s Row.”

Jo caught a glimpse of the neighborhood—a deserted wasteland of wrecked buildings and gravestones, without even a single tree or flower. It was as if some other ghastly city had been spliced in from elsewhere, so jarring it almost seemed unreal. Jo stared, trying to understand.
That
was all caused by her birth?

“My mother’s in there,” said Ian quietly. “The Hazelwoods’ baby killed her. The Hazelwoods’ baby killed a lot of people. I know Dame Lily and Colonel Korsakov fought to save the Hazelwoods, and Sir Oliver said that Ichthala stuff is supposed to be nonsense, but…”

Jo looked away from Ian, curling her toes tight, desperately trying not to show her alarm.

“I can’t help it,” he said. “I hate them. I hate the Hazelwoods.”

Jo’s heart clenched. If Ian knew who she was, he’d…No. She couldn’t think about it.

“Dugan had a quest in Hazelwood’s Row once,” said Ian. “Even though nobody’s allowed to go in. He wanted me to come with him, but I—”

Jo couldn’t take it anymore; she had to change the subject. “Yeah? So you’ve gone on quests before?”

“What? Oh…well, sure, I’ve done some quests.” Ian relaxed a little, stroking his mustache. “Actually…well, more like I’ve helped out Dugan a couple times.”

“Who
is
this Dugan everyone’s talking about?”

“My cousin. One of the best squires in town. You’d have to be, if you were Sir Oliver’s. But Dugan likes to think of himself as…” Ian hesitated. “He’s not as clever as he thinks he is. One of these days he’ll get in over his head. Maybe he is now.”

“Because he’s been missing for two days?”

“Dugan’s been running with a sketchy crew lately. For instance…shhh, I’ll tell you later.” The caravan stopped, and Ian turned around, smiling. “We’re here!”

T
HE
Municipal Squires Authority’s offices were housed in the remains of a sumptuous carved temple. The temple had long ago fallen into disrepair, its religion lost, its gods forgotten; now twisty trees grew out of the ruins, breaking open the roof and walls, and roots oozed over tumbled blocks like melted cheese. The temple’s halls had been partitioned into dozens of crude wooden stalls, hung with a crazy quilt of tents and cloth-covered galleries—squalid, dimly lit, and crawling with sweaty civil servants in ill-fitting suits.

After stabling their elephants, a clerk ushered Jo, Ian, Aunt Lily, Korsakov, and Dame Delia into a waiting room furnished with plastic chairs, ratty couches, and a card table with a coffee percolator and doughnuts. Some squires were already here: Phil and Maurice lingered at the table, Albert sat reading on a couch, and Daphne circulated around the room, chatting with squires from other orders.

A clerk sidled up to Aunt Lily and whispered in her ear. She turned to Jo. “Olvershaw wants Delia and me to fill out some paperwork upstairs. We’ll be back.”

“Aunt Lily,” Jo said in a low voice, “who is this Olvershaw everyone’s talking about?”

“Oh, you’ll know Olvershaw when you meet him,” said Aunt Lily, and made a low noise that wasn’t quite a laugh. She and Dame Delia disappeared chuckling down the hall. It didn’t give Jo much confidence.

Maurice punched Ian’s arm. “So they’re finally going to make you a proper squire, huh? It’s about time.”

“You’ve met Jo, right?” said Ian. “She’s getting registered, too.”

Maurice looked Jo over. “Being a squire can be rough. Think you can handle it?”

Ian said, “Lay off her, Maurice. She’s all right.”

Maurice was almost twice the size of Ian, and might have flicked him across the room; but he only laughed and said, “All right, huh? Wait till Olvershaw gets through with her.”

Who is Olvershaw?
The more Jo heard about him, the more anxious she felt. She wished Aunt Lily hadn’t left. She did see Colonel Korsakov, but for some reason he was trying to hide behind the refreshments table—and failing, for Phil had turned to him to denounce the pastries. “Olvershaw calls these doughnuts?” said Phil, waving one around. “These are the nastiest, stalest lumps of crud I’ve ever seen! I wrote my
name
on this doughnut three months ago. In
pen
. Look—it’s still here! Does Olvershaw think we don’t notice?”

Just then a tent flap jerked aside. Phil froze. The doughnut tumbled from his fingers. A wet cough, the squeak of unoiled machinery, and a crumpled old man in a wheelchair emerged from the darkness, twitching and glowering.

Jo stared at the man—or what was left of a man. He didn’t have any legs. He had no right arm. And his left arm, withered to a string, had no fingers except for a thumb.

Phil swallowed. “C-C-Commissioner…”

“I baked those doughnuts myself, you ungrateful wretch,” said Commissioner Olvershaw, staring at Phil with one eye (the other was covered by an eyepatch). “Perhaps you’ve noticed the only part of my body I have left is my thumb. You might wonder how I baked doughnuts using only a
thumb
—but you probably don’t. Why should you wonder? You must think it’s quite easy. I invite you to try. I’d sarcastically remark that it’s a walk in the park, except I can’t walk.”

Phil stammered, “Er…these are the new squires, sir, Ian Barrows and Jo Larouche.”

Olvershaw swung his caustic gaze over to Ian and Jo. “Don’t bother to shake my hand, because it isn’t there. It must feel good to have all your fingers, though, doesn’t it? I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking,
At least Olvershaw has his thumb.
But what if I told you this thumb is in constant agony? Every day of my life is a living hell. What do you say to that?”

Jo and Ian were left speechless.

“Milquetoasts.” Olvershaw swiveled back toward Phil. “One day I’d like to meet squires who aren’t utter milquetoasts. I often wish, in fact, that this entire department would be swept away in a great, cleansing fire…. This whole week has been a waste.”

Phil said, “What have you been doing this week, sir?”

“I would say that I’ve been twiddling my thumbs, except that
I don’t have enough thumbs to twiddle.
Look at this.” His thumb moved in a feeble half circle. “That is one thumb, twiddling. It makes me want to cry. It would make you cry, too, if you had a heart. I don’t have a heart, of course; did you know? All my internal organs have withered away, except for my pancreas. How I stay alive is anyone’s guess.”

A plump clerk emerged from the back. “The quests are all written up, sir. Should I—”

“Wait a second, lackey.” Olvershaw leaned forward, squinting, and cocked his yellow-fingernailed thumb at Colonel Korsakov. “Well, well, well. I’m surprised you had the nerve to show your face around here,
Colonel
Korsakov.”

“What? Er? Ah…” Colonel Korsakov was now hiding behind an office plant. “A pleasure to see you again, Commissioner.”

“Spare me your pleasantries, Korsakov! Where’s that Schwenk?”

“Um…I’ve been occupied, sir. Exiled, you see, and—”

“Excuses!” rasped Olvershaw. “I suppose you want to register this boy as your squire? Boy! What’s your name?”

Ian frowned. “It’s Ian Barrows. We already told you.”

“Already told me! I’m sorry I forgot! It must be so easy to remember everything when you have your arms and legs! Have you noticed that I do not? No, Ian Barrows, you listen to me. This Korsakov, this so-called knight of yours, is a
fraud
.”

Korsakov winced, closing his eyes. Jo stared, aghast, and Ian said, “What!”

“When Korsakov was a squire, I gave him the quest to slay the Schwenk. It should’ve taken no more than two weeks. But here we are—
forty-nine years later
—and this worthless Korsakov of yours still hasn’t brought me the head of the Schwenk.
Ignominious!
”

A hush fell over the room. Colonel Korsakov blushed, staring at the floor. Jo ground her teeth, her insides prickling. But what could she do?

“When I was a squire, I completed
all
my quests,” coughed Olvershaw. “Without the luxury of arms or legs, mind you, or a left eye—
only this thumb.
Don’t ask me how. But I got the job done. I also had headaches. Did I mention that? Would you appreciate it? Could any of you even begin to understand? No, no, no—you couldn’t, none of you, you worms, you
insects
! On the other hand, here’s Korsakov—two healthy arms, two healthy legs—who
calls
himself a knight—”

“Colonel Korsakov
is
a knight!” said Ian angrily.

“One more word from you, Barrows,” said Olvershaw, “and I will veto your squireship.”

Ian started to speak, but Korsakov shook his head. Ian seemed to collapse a little, though his mouth hung slightly open, looking at Korsakov in confusion.

“Colonel Korsakov
should not be
a knight,” said Olvershaw. “Nor would he be if regulations had been properly followed. Regulations demand squires finish all quests before being knighted. Korsakov did not slay the Schwenk, but Sir Oliver knighted him anyway. An unprecedented, irregular, and unprincipled insult to the entire knightly code.”

Jo looked at Korsakov and squirmed. Each word Olvershaw spoke was like a physical blow to the fat old man, visibly withering him. She could hardly contain her anger. Why wasn’t anyone other than Ian sticking up for him?

“But I secured one small satisfaction,” Olvershaw continued. “Korsakov may be a knight, but he may not be addressed as one. Until he brings me the head of the Schwenk, nobody may call him Sir Anatoly. He is merely Colonel Korsakov.”

Korsakov turned away.

“And not only that,” said Olvershaw. “As a point of law, Korsakov is still under my authority. As are all you squires. That is, you must follow my orders without hesitation! Now, there’s a little game I liked to play with Korsakov back in the old days….”

“Please, Commissioner,” said Korsakov quietly. “Not in front of the squires.”

“Excuse me, Korsakov? Did I give you permission to speak? One more word and I will order you to strip to your unmentionables, hop around on one of your grotesque legs, and sing the Eldritch Municipal Anthem in its entirety. Is that clear?”

Colonel Korsakov fidgeted miserably. Squires from other orders started to snicker.

“In fact, why not?” said Olvershaw. “Colonel Korsakov! If you would be so kind as to—”

“SHUT UP!”

A gasp went up around the room. As soon as Jo said it, she knew she shouldn’t have. Olvershaw swung his head around, fixing her with a fierce glare.

Olvershaw jerked his neck. A clerk pushed Olvershaw’s wheelchair over to Jo. Olvershaw’s face loomed closer, closer, like a swelling, sickly moon, until it was only a few inches from her own. His single yellow eye, sunken in a face as dry and brittle as a dead leaf, stared angrily. It seemed to go on forever. Jo tried to look back coolly, even though her stomach felt full of bees.

Olvershaw finally rasped, “Watch your mouth, girl. You don’t want to cross me.”

Jo swallowed and said nothing. More than ever she wished Aunt Lily would come back.

“You’re new in town—Jo Larouche, isn’t it?” Olvershaw coughed and spat something black and slimy on the floor. “Let me ask you something, Jo Larouche. Do you like to eat fine food?”

“Yes.”

“That’s great, that’s really great. You know what I eat? The only thing that I can eat?”

“What—”

“
Lint.
That’s it. I’ve eaten nothing but lint for the past fifty years.”

“You eat lint?”

“I eat
lint.
If I ate anything else, my pancreas would literally explode. But you’d like to see that, wouldn’t you? That’d be a big hoot for you and your good-time pals. Mean old Olvershaw’s pancreas explodes—should be good for a larf! Well, here’s another ‘larf.’ Do you know what the only thing I can drink is? Don’t say water, because I can’t even drink that. It makes my ears bleed. No, I have to drink a special kind of water that has all the water taken out of it—
I don’t even know what that is!

“WHY? Why do I do it? Why do I bother to keep on living? Dear God, why?
Because this city would fall apart without me.
Because someone must uphold the knightly code. When someone violates the knightly code, I must lay down the law. Does that make me popular? No. But how popular can I be, when I have no legs, and no arms—just this thumb? I won’t leave you wondering:
not very popular.
So go ahead, hate me. But if you cross me, I will bring the power of this thumb crashing down upon you. And you will not be a happy little lady.”

Jo kept her mouth shut. But she managed to glimpse at Korsakov, and he gave her a small, bashful smile. That was all Jo wanted; that was enough.

“I am a fair man,” said Olvershaw. “I won’t ruin your career right at the start, just because of one obnoxious remark. I will overlook your impertinence—this time. Lackey! Take Miss Larouche back and register her. I’m ready to assign this week’s quests.”

To Jo it sounded like the entire room gave a sigh of relief. Olvershaw turned away from Jo and was at once surrounded by a tense cloud of clerks, who rushed hither and thither in a panic of efficiency, delivering envelopes and taking back stamped documents. One of the clerks glared at Jo and motioned her to follow.

The clerk guided her through a maze of wooden partitions and ragged tents, back to a tiny stall covered by a patched cloth roof, every available surface heaped with stacks of loose papers. The clerk filled out some forms, snatched a ring from a box, ran it through a stamping machine, and then threw it at her, muttering, “Congrats, you’re a squire. Next!”

Jo walked past the rows of office-stalls in a daze of anticlimax. She looked at her new ring. Compared with the beautiful silver ring Aunt Lily had found in the Inconvenience, it wasn’t much: just a cheap iron band with
JO LAROUCHE
punched on the inside.

She passed Ian on his way in.

“Well?” he whispered. “What do they do to you?”

“They stick you full of pins to see if you’ll scream. Good luck.”

The squires were standing in line against the wall when Jo returned. At first she didn’t know what to do, until Maurice impatiently motioned her to stand next to him. Olvershaw was being wheeled back and forth in front of the line, scrutinizing the squires, mumbling insults and coughing on them. Every once in a while he nodded, and a clerk would give an envelope to a squire. A minute later Ian returned and slid in next to her, grinning goofily and examining his new ring again and again.

Jo shifted from foot to foot, trying to keep calm. She was vague on what exactly a quest was, but she wanted one anyway. Especially after Maurice’s wondering if she could “handle it,” and especially after Olvershaw had chewed her out.

But when the final envelope was passed out, there was no quest for her.

“That’s all,” said Olvershaw. “See you next week. Enjoy your arms and legs. Damn you all.”

Jo blurted out, “Wait! Don’t I get a quest?”

“None left. Well, I do have a quest for Dugan, but since he’s not here…”