Yowler Foul-Up (5 page)

Thankfully, there were other amusements in the palace, and the chambermaids were always good for a giggle. In one morning, Curfew had worked his way through kiss-chase, hide-’n’-seek, and a new method of hopscotch that involved leaping over dangerously large statues. He put his appetite for fun down to stress. It was an excuse with which everyone sympathized. Just living in Dullitch did terrible things to people; only the gods knew what a nightmare it must be to run the place.

No, Curfew was a man determined to have fun; a pursuit enjoyed by none of his innumerable predecessors: wretches to a man, the last four in particular warranted scorn. First there had been Lord Morban, the hooded duke, a man so tortured by his own disfigurement that the only time the citizens ever saw his face was at his funeral. Bizarrely, there hadn’t been a scratch on him. Lunatic.

Next had come Baron Smother, a stout schizophrenic who despaired when he was given the throne and proceeded to attempt suicide in every one of the palace’s forty-seven rooms, finally succeeding with a candlestick in the study. Lunatic.

Then along trundled Edwyn Vitkins, a retired soldier who declared war on Spittle and left to occupy the place before he’d even been sworn in! Thankfully for all concerned, he was dead in a fortnight. Lunatic.

Last but not least, there was Modeset and the oft-fabled rat catastrophe. Ha! Three lunatics and a sadistic incompetent … some birthright. And the painting!

Curfew peered up at the poorly finished portrait of Duke Vitkins. The Illmoor nobility approved of interbreeding, partly because of social grace and partly because no one from the streets would have anything to do with them. This culminated in a royal family whose members all looked identical to one another and, consequently, only one portrait hung in the Dullitch throne room. It had seventy-three names underneath it.

Tiring of his surroundings, Curfew had turned to the papers. The news was grim: a statue he’d had erected of himself outside the Candleford Boys’ School had not been well received. Condemned by both the press and the public, some parents were claiming that their sons now walked the entire circumference of the city simply to avoid passing it on their way to school.

Curfew was nodding off to sleep at his desk when Spires, administrator to the ducal throne, erupted into the chamber.

“I need to speak with you, Excellency,” he said. The ticks, nervous twitches, and various other facial distortions that plagued the man night and day were going into overdrive.

Awakened from his nap, Curfew bolted his head upright and bellowed, “Don’t you ever knock?”

“I’m sorry, Excellency,” said Spires quickly. “But this is important. Your cousin Lord Modeset is here and he’s requesting an audience.”

Curfew rolled his eyes. “Why did we have to invite him back, exactly?”

“It’s expected, Excellency. The duke is
family
, after all.”

“Ha! Yes, that’s right. What else was it that you said to me? ‘He’ll never accept the invitation, Excellency. He wouldn’t have the nerve to come back to Dullitch after the rat catastrophe.’ Ha! Last time I listen to you! Tell him I’m busy.”

“We did, my lord, and he attacked the guards.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Spires fiddled nervously with his sleeves. “We told him you were busy and he tried to force his way in, then he punched young Halvn and ran away, so we gave chase. Halvn caught up with him, but the duke’s, er,
bodyguard
gave the boy a damn good hiding.

“Hmm … rough sort, is he?”

“
She
, Excellency.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sa—”

“Exactly! Then they both ran away again. Fortunately, one of our boys saw them go into a toy shop on Royal Road, so we got a squad together and arrested them.”

“I see. Anything else?”

Spires nodded. “We also found the duke’s manservant. He was up a tree at the corner of Palace ’n’ Royal, Excellency.”

Curfew put his head in his hands, and for a long time, the secretary thought he’d fallen asleep. Eventually, one eye opened.

“Show him in.”

“And his staff, Excellency?”

“No, just Modeset. Lock the others up.”

“Yes, Excellency.” Spires reached for the door and stopped, his fingers hovering inches from the brass handle. “Should I, um, should I confiscate the items we found on him?”

“Hmm?”

“He was carrying a teddy bear and a small dolly, Excellency. When our men approached him, he brandished the latter as a weapon, claiming it could excrete acid. He was still fiddling with one of the legs when we managed to put the irons on him.”

“Very well; confiscate his toys and
then
show him in.”

“As you wish, Excellency.”

The secretary bowed low and scurried from the room.

Moments later, he returned with the duke in tow.

C
URFEW PACED BACK AND
forth before an immense circular window that commanded spectacular views of the cityscape, his lips twisted in a grim smile.

“Hmm … let us see what we have here: harassment of the palace guard, assault on an elf in the same occupation, two cases of evading the militia, and one of threatening behavior while brandishing a child’s dolly. You have had a busy morning, cousin.”

“Look,” said Modeset, struggling against the weight of his chains. “If those imbeciles on the gate hadn’t refused to admit me, none of the charges you just mentioned would exist!”

“Hmm … yes. If I were you, cousin, I’d take that tone of voice back to where it came from. I would remind you that you are now a guest here.”

“What? Oh yes, right. Apologies.” Modeset wasn’t used to talking to anyone more important than himself; such people didn’t exist within the boundaries of his own imagination.

“And, guesting,” Curfew continued, “does require a certain amount of, how shall we say, host
tolerance
.”

“Ha! That’s a joke! You haven’t even paid my bloody host!”

The viscount closed his eyes and clenched his fists tightly. “An oversight on my part, I confess,” he said. “The matter will be rectified in time. As for your behavior—”

“I’ll apologize to the guard I punched.”

“Yes, you will,” said Curfew moodily. “Also, you might think about keeping a low profile while you walk our busy streets. The people of Dullitch may have forgotten the rat catastrophe, but I’m sure your face will bring all those wonderful memories flooding back.” The viscount folded his arms and raised both eyebrows expectantly. “I think you should leave now, cousin,” he said.

Modeset flinched as Curfew snapped his fingers. Two imperial militiamen were suddenly all over him like a plague, throwing off chains and unscrewing manacles. Their task completed, Modeset found himself hoisted into the air and frogmarched through the echoing halls of the palace.

When Modeset was back on firm ground, the elf guard came waddling over to greet him. “Well, looky here,” he said. “If it isn’t his Imperial Lordship.”

Modeset straightened himself up.

The guard waited.

Modeset gritted his teeth.

The guard waited.

“Well?” he said eventually.

“What’s that?” said the duke. “If you think I’m apologizing to you, the rumors about elf intelligence must be spot on.”

The guard, although obviously angered, showed no sign of retaliation. “That’s okay,” it said. “You can have your staff back the second you decide to change your mind.”

Before he could protest, Modeset was thrown backward out onto the seething streets of Dullitch.

H
AVING WASTED TWENTY CROWNS
failing miserably at striking up a conversation with a young priestess on sabbatical, Jimmy Quickstint had retired to the smoky depths of the Rotting Ferret, where he planned to drink himself toward slow oblivion.

In some ways, Jimmy was glad to be rid of the job. Digging graves had never really suited him. Of course, it had been his first proper job (and would probably be his last), but these days it mainly served as a prop, something to fall back on when all else failed. Once upon a time, way back when, he’d been a thief; and even though he’d never really excelled, it was still the job he felt most proud of. He’d had some great times among the rooftop elite, and made some good friends along the way. Then, just after the terrible rat catastrophe, they’d kicked him out. O-U-T. Not so much as a by-your-leave.

Well, five years had passed since that fateful day. At first he’d adapted quite well, busking by day and telling stories at night. Now
that
was a profession, wandering from inn to inn, scratching a few crowns whilst propped against a fireplace with half a dozen bleary-eyed drunks staring up at you. Then the market expanded, and suddenly people were fed up with hearing about the fiddler who trapped death in a sack or the baker’s boy who beat the demons at poker. Children especially wanted violence, unprovoked and brutal, and if the elves didn’t put the shoemaker through a third-floor window, the children just weren’t interested. Worse still, Jimmy Quickstint had actually found himself starting to adapt some of the old classics for this new blood-thirst. Snow White wasn’t merely a pale princess, she was a Yowler assassin with vampiric tendencies; Little Red Riding Hood hadn’t had any trouble with wolves since the day she acquired her grandmother’s war hammer; and, once they’d encountered Goldilocks, the three bears had absolutely no intention of ever going home again.

The whole profession had quickly developed into a battle between storytellers who’d begun to devise increasingly malevolent tales to entertain their audiences. Jimmy’d got out just before the well ran dry.

And here he was, a number of disastrous endeavors later.

Jobless.

He yawned and gazed down at the empty parchment he’d filched from the bar. As he suspected, the free quills handed out as samples by Counterfeit House weren’t particularly good. He was just coming to grips with them, moving each one ghostlike over the crusty surface of the parchment, when his labors were interrupted.

“Mind if I join you?” said a familiar voice.

Jimmy looked up into the weathered face of Grab Dafisful, famed thief and Ferret regular during those murky hours between sunset and dawn. A lean man with a faint beard and extensive scarring, Grab was heavily rumored to be one of the only thieves in the city worth forking out for.

“Don’t s’pose I can stop you,” said Jimmy miserably. “But don’t expect joviality.”

“I expect nothing from a fellow thief except sympathy and friendly conversation,” said Grab, pulling up a stool and peering at Jimmy’s scrubby parchment with interest. “I ’aven’t seen you for an age! What’re you up to these days?”

“Not much,” Jimmy snapped. “And I’m a grave-digger; haven’t been a thief since Granddad died.”

“It’s quiet in ’ere tonight, ’ow’s your granddad?”

Jimmy looked up quickly and was about to give the thief a piece of his mind when he remembered Grab’s bizarre tendency not to listen to anything unless he was being looked directly in the eye. It was a disconcerting habit, and one very good reason why the man didn’t have any friends.

“Granddad’s dead,” Jimmy reflected, uncomfortably staring the thief down. “He went years ago, just after the whole rat episode. And I’m not a thief anymore. Now I dig holes for dead people.”

“I’m sorry.”

“About what? My granddad or the job?”

“Both.”

“Fine; sympathy accepted. Now, can I get on with writing this, please? It doesn’t seem to be possible for me to continue this conversation and do something else at the same time.”

“Eh? ’ow d’you mean?”

“Never mind.”

Jimmy sighed and returned his attention to the parchment, while Grab ordered two flagons of ale.

At length, the silence was broken.

“Out with it, then,” Jimmy said, screwing up the parchment and tossing it across the floor. He leaned backward, forcing his chair onto two legs. “You never pay for a drink unless you’re after something, so I might as well hear the pitch.”

Grab managed to look hurt for all of fifty seconds before his face cracked into a smile. “All right,” he said. “I need a favor. I’ve got myself into a bit of bother, as it ’appens.”

“There’s a surprise.”

“No, I’m serious. Listen: last week I took on a job worth three ’undred.”

“Crowns?” Jimmy’s smile stayed exactly where it was, but the rest of his face sagged noticeably. “How come I never got offered jobs like that when I was a thief?”

“Trust me,” Grab whispered conspiratorially. “The risk matched the reward.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I ’ad to go up to Grinswood.”

“What? That’s at the other end of the continent!”

“Exac’ly. Then I ’ad to sneak through the deepest part of the forest and steal these baby lizards what can turn a man to stone if he isn’t proper careful.”

Jimmy scratched his chin. “Hmm … are you making this up?”

“No, I swear.”

“Well, even with all that danger, three ’undred crowns is a pretty big fee. I mean, even after deductions there must be—”

“No deductions. Three ’undred straight.”

Again, Jimmy’s smile froze. “The Rooftop Runners
always
pay a percentage to the Yowlers,” he said. “After all, one’s a part of the other.”

“Yeah, well, I know
that
, but this time it was different. This time I was workin’ for the Yowlers themselves. It was ’ush-’ush an all. They came and got me in the night, took me to this church, and told me what I ’ad to do. Five of ’em, there were. Dead creepy an’ all. I reckon most of the Yowlers don’t even know ’bout it. I didn’t see any o’ the leaders there.”

Jimmy suddenly felt a deep chill in his spine. “Are we getting to the bit where you need my help?” he asked uneasily.

Grab nodded.

“So,” he continued, “I’m in this forest. I’ve done the job, and I’m on my way out. Then, just as I’m stopping for a gasp o’ air, this bird lands on a tree branch.”

“Great gods.” Jimmy yawned. “How much detail are we going into here?”

“Hang about; so this bird looks at me as if it knows what I done. Then off I go, outta the forest, and I stops the night at this village inn ’bout three miles south o’ the forest, an’ there it is, perched on the windowsill! The bird! And in the next village too! And now I’m back in Dullitch, and the bloody thing’s still out there! Hunting me down!”