Yowler Foul-Up (20 page)

“Can you believe this?” Curfew muttered to Blood. “How’re we supposed to get anything done with such a row going on?”

“Oh, I expect it’ll die down,” said Blood, who’d been in attendance twice before and was thus a veteran of the proceedings. “It usually does.”

“ORDER.”

All eyes turned toward Pegrand Marshall, Modeset’s faithful manservant, who’d brought a twenty-pound lumphammer to bear on the old oak table. The gesture was more ceremonial than aggressive, but it certainly got everyone’s attention.

“Milord Modeset, in this, his most humbled and obsequious position, prays silence at this difficult time.”

Modeset rolled his eyes, then reached up and pulled Pegrand’s head level with his mouth.

“I’ve told you what to say, Pegrand,” he whispered. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t
add bits in.
It’s bad enough not being able to address the assembly directly, without you making things worse.”

His manservant nodded and returned his attention to the temporarily captivated audience.

“His lordship very much resents not being allowed to talk to you all personally,” Pegrand continued, “and is somewhat surprised that he is still being treated like an exile in most parts of Illmoor,
despite
the fact that he saved the capital from a Yowler plot to destroy it. Still, as a once-disgraced noble, he is only permitted to chair the meeting, and not to address it. Therefore, I will be his voice for the duration of this meeting; a decision that has caused his lordship no small amount of stress. Does anybody have any objection to my addressing you all?”

There were a lot of shared glances and a few shrugs. Only Curfew nodded in agreement, but even
his
acknowledgement contained a reluctant edge.

Pegrand swallowed, progressing: “While I remember, Duke Modeset
does
wish to thank you for inviting him to chair this most vital of meetings … and he’d very much appreciate any donations you’d care to make toward the restoration of his ancestral home in Fogri—”

Without waiting for the speech to be concluded, Modeset leaped from his seat and snatched a handful of his servant’s jerkin.

“Damn you, Pegrand! I told you to leave that bit until the end of the day. Now every one of them knows we’re here with a begging bowl. Well, thank you. Thank you so very much.”

He slumped back into the chair, folded his arms, and stared pointedly out of the window. His manservant went red in the face for a few moments, but proceeded.

“His, um, his lordship, er, I must apologize—I read that last bit wrong. His lordship is fine for money, and is doing very well for himself despite, erm, how things might look. In actual fact, we’ve both got new jerkins on order—”

“Shut up! Just shut up!” Modeset chimed in. “You’re only making the situation worse! Just listen to yourself, man!”

Pegrand’s frown was threatening to melt his face. “I’m sorry, milord, I really am! What should I say?”

“You think you’re hard up?” Muttknuckles interjected. “I had to
walk
here.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Curfew said, leaning across the table with a smile playing on his lips. “Much as I hate to interrupt this entertaining little pantomime, I would like to remind you that we are all here for a reason, and I, for one, cannot wait to get this discussion underway.”

“Seconded,” muttered Phew and Blood in unison.

Modeset shifted uncomfortably in his seat and, eventually, cleared his throat. “I know what the rules state,” he began. “But may I at least be allowed to address the Assembly directly? After all, disgraced or not, I am supposed to be chairing this meeting.”

“Aye.”

“Very well.”

“Get on with it, then.”

The duke nodded, then leaned back in his seat and took a deep breath. “We are here today, gentlemen, to discuss a common threat.” He waited for a murmur of agreement before continuing. “Each one of us has suffered untold humiliations at the hands of this menace, and not one of our beautiful cities has escaped his destructive attentions. Gentlemen, I think you will agree with me when I say that it is high time we rid ourselves of Groan Teethgrit.”

The muttering around the table increased, but Modeset had regained the momentum and he wasn’t about to let himself falter.

“I have here statements from your foreign ministers: one each from Spittle, Sneeze, Dullitch, and Legrash. Phlegm is a notable exception, but I’ll come to that in a moment. For now, I would like to share with you a brief roundup of events involving this … continental landmass and his despicable associates.”

Curfew sat up, Blood twitched, and even Muttknuckles was paying attention. The only people in the room not paying full heed to the duke’s speech were Visceral, who’d helped to write it; and Phew, who was becoming increasingly nervous about his city being described as a “notable exception.”

“Since Teethgrit and his midget partner escaped from Dullitch following my own exile,” Modeset proceeded, staring pointedly at his cousin, “escaped, I might add, dressed as washerwomen …”

Curfew glared at him.

“That is,” Modeset plowed on, “a seven-foot, bald-headed washerwoman and her bearded, four-foot niece …”

“Yes, yes! I think we’ve got the picture,” Curfew snapped, ignoring the accusatory stares of his fellow leaders. “Do go on.”

“Hmm … well, since that day, they have wreaked havoc across Illmoor, and I quote: ‘seventy-two merchant caravans ambushed between Dullitch and Spittle, losing both cities somewhere in the region of fifty thousand crowns; the theft of countless bejeweled swords from the royal vault in Legrash, costing approximately thirty thousand crowns; and, more recently, several cases of arson and extraordinarily reckless vandalism in and around Sneeze, causing Baron Muttknuckles to slip even further into debt and depravity.’ To date, only our Phlegmian cousins have escaped Teethgrit’s ravenous hunger for chaos, but I assure you, Your Majesty, that even your fair city will not go unnoticed for long. I am now given to understand that these two unspeakably troublesome mercenaries have joined forces with the last surviving member of Teethgrit’s tribal clan—a man, I might add, who boasts a list of criminal activities almost matching that of his half-wit brother—promising yet more mayhem and misery still to come.” Modeset took a deep breath and shook his head disapprovingly. “The history books tell us that this one rogue tribe has terrorized our land for more than two centuries … and it falls to us—um—
you,
the five most powerful and influential leaders in Illmoor, to answer the question: why are you putting up with this? There’re only two Teethgrits left, after all, and you do have four entire
armies
at your disposal.
And
Baron Muttknuckles.”

Curfew was the first to respond. “Groan’s worshipped as a hero in Dullitch,” he said defensively. “Ever since he brought the children home under your own inimitable rule, he has been seen as the savior of the city.”

“It’s the same in Spittle,” added Visceral. “News spreads quickly. D’you know, I went on an official visit to our oldest college last week, and the students actually had paintings of Groan Teethgrit over their beds!”

“My son has one,” admitted Blood. “Lovely brushwork.”

“Something must be done,” Muttknuckles snapped. “But I’m telling you, I’d be mobbed if I sent my—um—guards after him. And as for the brother, well, we
tried
to arrest
him,
but he made mincemeat out of my best! I mean, he mailed my own captain back to me: I had to sign for the man! Now I’ve only got two soldiers left. My point is: we can’t simply attack the Teethgrits, especially now that they’re together.”

“Har, har.”

“Exactly,” Curfew agreed. “We can’t afford to send our own men after the Teethgrit band; and any lord who
does
manage to get Groan’s blood on his hands is likely to be more despised by his people for shedding it!”

“Agreed! So what on Illmoor are we going to do?”

Modeset sat up slowly and grasped the arms of his chair.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “I do have a plan. It’s a long shot, but it might just work. It is certainly cunning enough, if played out correctly, to bring an end to Groan and his insolent little band—and without any
army
involvement to complicate things.”

Silence. Nothing but silence, and some expectant faces.

“Like his barbarian brother,” the duke announced, “Groan Teethgrit has two known weaknesses. First and foremost, the man simply cannot resist a challenge; and secondly, he
adores
beautiful women.” Modeset turned to King Phew. “And that’s where you come in.”

“M-me?” exclaimed the Phlegmian monarch. “Wh-what can I do?”

Modeset smiled, produced a scroll from his jerkin, and smoothed it out on the great table.

“You can start by getting this poster seen by
certain
persons-at-large in or around your kingdom,” he said. “It might take some time, but I’m quite sure we’ll get the reaction we’re looking for …”

King Phew placed a finger on the corner of the scroll and began to read, mumbling soundlessly. Then he sat back and swallowed several times, looking decidedly grim.

“What do you think?” Modeset asked as the scroll was passed around the table.

Phew blinked and cracked his knuckles. “I-I won’t allow it.”

Modeset’s tiny eyes narrowed to slits. “
You
won’t allow it?” he repeated slowly.

“I—” Phew began, his voice uneasy. “That is,
she’ll
never agree to it, never in a million years.”

Modeset shuffled his chair over to the old man and snaked a greasy arm around him.

“She doesn’t have to know,” he whispered.

When Phew looked up again, every eye in the room was staring at him expectantly.

A
CROWD OF MORE
than four hundred visitors had gathered in Bludly Wood for the last day of “The Limbbreaker,” an annual wrestling tournament that was quickly becoming one of Western Illmoor’s largest tourist attractions.

A weighing system comprising two enormous cages had been rigged up on a hastily assembled scaffold, one containing a multitude of tiny green creatures, and one half open for the use of a grizzly queue of potential combatants.

Three lines of thick hemp rope had been draped among four trees to form a square of combat, and an impossibly tall elf had stepped between them in order—the crowd assumed—to make some sort of announcement. However, when a statement was finally issued, it came not from the elf, but from a tiny goblin perched jauntily on the elf’s left shoulder. The goblin was carrying a twisty loudspeaker.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome back to the last day of the Limbbreaaaaakkaaar tournament! I am your host, Cuppatee Tuesdi, and
this
is our closing contest, scheduled for
one
fall, a submission, or a knockout. I invite you to take a quick look at the progress of our two finalists …”

The goblin indicated, and all eyes turned away from the ring to consider an enormous chalkboard nailed to the nearest oak. It read:

QUARTER FINALS

Big “Nige” Trollsort vs. Mad Mick “The Ogre”

Winner: Double Disqualification

Groan Teethgrit vs. Ruby Twoshoes

Winner: Groan Teethgrit

(opponent disqualified for being a woman in disguise)

Grid Thungus vs. The Mighty Minter

Winner: Double Countout

Gape Teethgrit vs. “Muscles” Mirko

Winner: Gape Teethgrit

SEMIFINALS

Groan Teethgrit vs. (vacant)

(vacant) vs. Gape Teethgrit

FINAL

Groan Teethgrit vs. Gape Teethgrit

The goblin continued: “Coming down the aisle, weighing in at two hundred and ninety-six twadlings and hailing from the Mountains of Mavokhan, I give you GAAAAAPE TEEEEETHGRITTTTAHHH!”

The crowd divided like an enchanted sea to admit the imposing form of Gape Teethgrit, who pounded down the aisle like a man possessed, leaping over the ropes and landing, one successful somersault later, squarely on his feet. While the crowd jeered wildly at the warrior, he secured his long hair in a ponytail and made sure his ankle guards were tightly locked.

“Annnnnd his opponent,” the goblin continued warbling into the speaker, “accompanied to the square by his manager, Gordo Goldeaxe, weighing in at three hundred and six twadlings, and also from the Mountains of Mavokhan, GROOOAAAANN TEEEETHGRITTT!”

A cheer exploded from the crowd as they parted once again to reveal Gape’s half brother. The larger of the two barbarians plodded down the aisle, stepped straight between the ropes, and slugged his sibling hard in the face. As Gape crashed to the floor, a small but sturdy-looking dwarf hurried to the side of the square and began to bark orders.

Gordo Goldeaxe looked nervous. It had taken him the best part of a week to persuade the brothers to enter the competition, and he was already regretting the effort. He beckoned Groan over to him and, when the barbarian finally hulked across the ring and leaned down, whispered: “What did you hit him for? We’re faking this, remember?”

Groan frowned. “I ’it all the uvvers.”

“Yes, I
know
!
That’s
because they were bloody strangers: we’ve got a
scam
going. If this fight’s a tie, then we get
both
lots of money, plus a bonus from the ring crew, because all the visitors will come back next year to see who wins out. That’s
fifty
crowns for Gape, twenty for you, and thirty for me. Remember how I told you to work it out?”

“Yeah,” said Groan doubtfully, “but I don’t see no ’arm in ’ittin’ ’im.”

“Fake it!”

“Why?”

Gordo sighed in exasperation. “He’s your brother, for cryin’ out loud!”

“So? I don’ like ’im.”

“Neither do I! But you wanted this all along. And besides, think of the
money.
”

“What money?”

The dwarf was about to go through the whole plan again, when Groan was suddenly taken off his feet by a ferocious leg-sweep.