by Peter Fane
“See?” the Chief said. “He says he likes it. Keep your stupid nose outta my business.”
“You’re in my territory,” Val said. Little Dan still couldn’t see her. Why couldn’t she just get into the game? Why’d she have to mess everything up like this all the time?
Val sniffed. “From that bunk there and back to the can is mine, Tendal. Everything. Including the mute, the moron, their stinky-butt beds, all their crap.”
“He’s my man, Val,” the Chief said bravely, not backing down. “If he’s my man, then he’s my problem.”
“I’m his man!” Little Dan yelled. “Leave us alone, Val! Get outta here!”
“Shut up,” the Chief said without looking at him.
“My people are trying to sleep,” Val said. “And ya threw his crap all over the floor. One of my people slip on that junk going to the can, I’m gonna break your dumb head in for ya.”
Everyone was real quiet now.
The Chief stepped away from Little Dan’s nest. When he did, Dan could see Val. She was taller than the Chief and lanky and thin. She had black hair and dark skin, like the color of tea. She cut her hair real short, except for this tight ponytail, kind of like a topknot, right on top of her head. Behind her, five of her girls stood staring at the Chief. A couple of them carried billy-socks. A billy-sock was a sock filled with rocks or chunks of metal, other heavy stuff. Val didn’t carry one. She didn’t need to. All her girls were mean and tall. “And they don’t have balls,” the Chief always said. “Gives ‘em the edge.” Little Dan had seen his pals get hit in the balls with a billy-sock before. It was no game. No, sir. And if it was some kind of game, then it should be against the rules.
“You gonna break my head, eh?” the Chief asked Val.
Dan saw the Chief come up on his toes. The rest of the gang was getting ready, too. From the bunk above Dan, Rost Gonnerdun was staring down at him, making his weird little hooting. Rost had been hanging over the edge of his bunk so long, his face was totally red now. The Chief took another step toward Val. He pointed at her, then at himself. “You gonna break my head?”
“That’s right.” Val nodded, all calm. “Torture that idiot all ya want during the day, on your own time. This is rack time. I ain’t gonna listen to it anymore.”
Then the Chief punched her.
Or tried to.
But she wasn’t there, his fist whiffing through the air where her nose had been, throwing him off balance as she sidestepped, grabbed his wrist, and threw him face first—SMACK!—into the wall. She didn’t wait for him to get up. Neither did her gang. They jumped all over the Chief and the pals, billy-socks whirling, clumps and snaps and screams coming now, like they always did. Benjy Dalter dove to the side, not trying to attack, just trying to get the heck outta there before one of Val’s girls beat him senseless. Val was on top of the Chief now, bashing his face into the floor with her elbow, her knee on his back between his shoulder blades, pinning him down. She’d raise herself up, then slam her elbow into the back of the Chief’s head, using all her weight. Not fair! But the good old Chief, he was still fighting. Yes, sir! Brave soldier! Trying to get up.
“You can do it, soldier!” Dan hollered. “You can do it, Chief!”
A billy-sock whistled underhand, and Juder Lown went down, clutching his balls, eyes all glassy. A couple of the pals jumped on the girl wielding the sock—but then a whole pile of other girls charged in!
That sneaky Val!
Secret reinforcements, from behind the bunks!
“Cheaters!” Little Dan yelled, twisting against the twine. “Cheaters! Against the rules! Against the rules!”
Not fair!
Then he had an idea.
“Rost Gonnerdun!” Little Dan cried, even though he knew Rost couldn’t understand him. “Rost Gonnerdun!” But Rost was looking at the battle now, making those strange little shapes with his mouth when he was excited, hooting and hooting. So Dan kind of kicked at the side of the bunk, not very hard—his ankles were still tied up, so he couldn’t build up any force, just whapping his toe against the bunk leg—WHAP! WHAP!—and then, by some miracle, Rost looked down at him. Dan wiggled his hands and feet. “Get me out, Rost Gonnerdun,” Dan said slowly, not yelling, but slowly, so that Rost could understand what Dan meant by looking at his mouth. “Get me out.” He said the words slowly, then waved his tied-up hands and feet.
Rost blinked.
“Come down here, Rost Gonnerdun,” Dan said carefully. “Come down here. Get me out. Untie me.” He wiggled his hands and feet again.
A girl screamed as someone pulled her hair. Crazy Bill, Dan saw, pulling her hair, trying to strangle her at the same time. Her teeth shone white, and she turned and bit Bill like some kind of animal, her nails going for his eyes, while another girl stepped up from behind and clubbed poor Bill senseless with her billy-sock. The sound was horrible. Crazy Bill went limp after two hits, eyes rolling into the back of his head. Dan would never say it out loud, but he was always pretty darn happy when Crazy Bill got his head clubbed.
The girls had made a circle around the Chief and Val so that Val could hurt the Chief without his gang helping him. Anyone who came close to the circle got attacked. The Chief was on his hands and knees. Val was still on top of him, had her legs wrapped around the Chief’s waist, and she was punching him—these hard, short little punches into the bottom of the Chief’s back, on either side of his backbone. Every time she hit him, the Chief winced. But he wasn’t going down. No, sir! The brave Chief was fighting hard! What a soldier! Yes, sir!
“I’m coming, Chief!” Little Dan hollered. “Rost Gonnerdun! Please! Come down here! Get me out! Chief! I’m coming, Chief!”
Rost Gonnerdun seemed to finally understand what Dan was yelling about because he slid down off his bunk and started messing with the twine, cutting at it with a piece of glass from Dan’s broken polish jar, cutting away, nodding to himself, hooting in that hooty little way of his.
The Chief flipped to his side, threw Val off, got halfway to his feet—but Val spun low, clipped the Chief’s feet from underneath him, and he went down, cracking his chin against the wall. Two of Val’s girls had grabbed Benjy Dalter by the ankles, dragged him back hollering bloody murder into the center. They had him on the ground now, and they were beating him with billy-socks, snarling over and over again as they hit him, “Stupid boy! Stupid boy! Stupid boy!”
Rost Gonnerdun had finished cutting the twine off Little Dan’s ankles and was working on cutting loose his closest hand. Now that his legs were free, Dan could scoot up and use his teeth on his other wrist. He bit at the twine, sawing at it with his front teeth. His other wrist popped loose as Rost cut through the last thread on that side.
And then Little Dan was up and on his feet, a soldier ready for battle.
He looked around for something he could use as a weapon.
There was nothing there.
So he just charged right at Val, who was kicking the Chief in the gut. Her back was toward Dan, so she didn’t see him as he came. Right as she was getting ready to kick the Chief again, Dan tackled her other leg and knocked her down.
She punched him twice in the side of the head as she fell. “Idiot!” she shouted. “Tryin’ to help you, brainless fool!” She hit him again—twice in the same place, on the side of his head—hard. He saw stars, but he didn’t let go. A couple of billy-sock girls turned around and moved toward him.
“You can’t hurt my pal, Val!” Little Dan shouted. He shut his eyes, and got ready for the billy-socks to come, hung onto her leg for all he was worth. He could take it, he knew. But it was gonna be real bad. Not like the beat-up game at all. But he could take it. “You girls, you can’t hurt him like that!”
Then Val coughed.
Dan opened his eyes.
The Chief had kicked her in the gut! He’d knocked her down! Brave Chief Tendal! And now he was gonna give it back to her. But the girls with the billy-socks, they were coming real fast now—.
A loud clang of metal outside in the hallway—the sound of the iron gate, just outside the barracks.
All the fighting and yelling stopped.
All the lamps went out.
Bare feet whispered. Everyone jumped back into their bunks. Dan scuttled like a crab back into his nest. Above him, he heard Rost Gonnerdun trying to pull himself back into his bed, legs cranking in the air, hooting.
The barracks door opened. Master Shum, one of Master Falmon’s helpers, shouted into the room, “Muster in quarter bell, lads and ladies. Final polish, buff, and armory sweep. All rooms up for inspection. Up and at ‘em! Quarter bell! Not a moment longer!” As Master Shum said this, he whacked the club he always carried on the door frame three times—WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
The noises of fifty little cleaners rolling and groaning out of bed. But some of the groans didn’t sound very sleepy. No, sir, they didn’t.
“Gonna be action today, Master Shum, sir?” Dan heard the Chief ask from the front of the barracks, coming forward, pretending to yawn, pretending to be tired. Dan could just see him. The Chief was walking real tender, like he was sore.
“Ain’t for me to say, boy.” Master Shum scratched his stubble. “But yeah, today or tomorrow. Tomorrow more likely. Dunno yet. Now, get ‘em out and ready and lined up. Quarter bell. Final polish on all of ‘em. Hammer and Oblivion gonna go up. Want the entire lot done again, from top to bottom. Gonna do all the galleries, too. The arcade, the whole thing, top to bottom, halls and doors, hardware, and every other cursed thing, even the pit. Inspection time, lads. High Lords be comin’ down, and things gotta be right. Out, ready, fed, and lined up, boy. Quarter bell.”
“Yes, sir! Master Shum, sir!” the Chief shouted.
Then Master Shum stopped and stepped into the barracks. He tapped his club against the door, spun it once in a circle on its thong, looked at the Chief. “What’s been goin’ on down here?”
“Rack time, Master Shum, sir!” The Chief saluted, thumping his chest.
“Yeah?” Master Shum tapped his club against the door. That club meant business. “Wouldn’t fib to Master Shum now, would ya?”
“No, sir! Master Shum, sir!”
“Everyone alright down here?”
“Yes, sir! Master Shum, sir!”
Master Shum cocked his head. “Clean that blood off your face ‘fore you show up.” He looked around the barracks. “And your whole troop better be sharp ‘n tight and clean and fed when they show up for duty. All fifty. Every single one. High Lords comin’ down here. Understand me, boy? High Lords. Your crew don’t look right, little clubby here gonna hold you account.” When he said this, he touched the Chief in the center of his chest with the end of his club.
“Yes, sir! Master Shum, sir!” the Chief shouted.
Master Shum grunted, scratched his chin, and left.
The barracks door shut. Everyone went crazy, getting ready for the day, as if the battle had never even happened.
“You heard the man!” the Chief yelled. “Quarter bell. Everyone up! Sharp and tight. Wipe that blood off your head there, Crazy Bill. No, dumb-nuts! The other side. There ya go. Let’s go, lads! Grub carts be comin’ any moment! Ain’t ya hungry?!
Everyone made some kind of noise. Yes, sir! They were hungry.
“Clock is ticking, lads!” the Chief shouted. “Clock is ticking!”
Val and some of the girls jogged by Little Dan on their way to the can, stepping over his box and his gear and his pillow. They always got ready for work in there. When she passed, Val looked at him with disgust and tapped the side of her own head. “Something really wrong with your brains, kid.”
“I don’t like you either, Val!” Dan hollered at her as he tried to put his shoes on as fast as he could. “You don’t hurt my pals, Val!”
And then the Chief was standing there in front of him, looking down at him.
“Get in my business again, crazy little boot-licker, I’m gonna let Crazy Bill hurt you—for real. I’m gettin’ pretty sick of your crazy.”
“Yes, sir! Chief, sir!” Little Dan yelled, not looking up, kind of saluting while he tried to put his other shoe on. “Sorry, sir! I’ll do better! Every day, there’s a way! Yes, sir, Chief!”
“And clean up this crap before you get your grub.” The Chief waved at Dan’s gear that they’d thrown everywhere. “‘Specially that broken glass. People tryin’ to walk here, pal.”
“Yes, sir! Chief, sir!” Little Dan saluted.
7
THE PLATOON OF little cleaners marched out the barracks, past the grub carts, out onto the passage, through the iron gate, and up toward the old western stairs. Even though Little Dan had just come down the same way a couple bells ago, the whole place looked different. All the lamps and torches were lit, waving and smoking and bright. So good. Not dark at all. But his elbow was still a little sore, so that part wasn’t very nice. But he’d stuffed his box with tons of grub off the grub cart, so that was great. Eat all day long. That’s the way. Yes, sir.
The Chief was up at the front of the column, shouting out the count. Val was beside him, marching in good order like a soldier did. The rest of the kids didn’t march—not exactly. Least they didn’t march like Little Dan had seen real soldiers march. But they didn’t just walk, either. It was more like a lined-up, steady kind of stamping. All the cleaners were different sizes, tall and short, fat and skinny, so there was no way their steps came even close to matching. And half of them couldn’t count properly anyway, not that Dan could either, he could barely count at all, but some of them didn’t even try. And some of them were still eating, so they didn’t care, and the ones at the back couldn’t hear the Chief counting at the front, especially when they went around the corners, so it was kind of a mess. And when the troop got to the western stairs, everything just collapsed. At the stairs, it was every man for himself. The littlest cleaners slowed way down; the stairs were too steep to walk up. The cleaners who carried toolboxes slowed down, too. Unless you were a full-grown soldier, there was no way you were walking up those steps carrying your box. Instead, you had to lift the box up onto the step in front of you, then clamber up the step yourself, then do that again and again, all the way up. Took forever. Being the smallest cleaner with one of the biggest boxes, Little Dan was dead last, every time.
His platoon was already mustering in the central hall with Master Shum and Mistress Croot by the time Dan got there. Because of his sore elbow and shoulder, it’d taken him longer than usual to get his box up the stairs. And one of his feet kept falling asleep, and that didn’t help, either. When he’d looked, there’d been this red line pressed into the skin around his ankle from the twine his pals used, deep and shiny; it didn’t go away when Dan rubbed at it.
“Eadle!” the Chief shouted as Little Dan hurried into the hall, leaning against the weight of his box. “Ten demerits for being late!”
“Yes, sir! Chief, sir!” Dan shouted.
The Chief yelled, “Don’t do it again, soldier!”
“No, sir, Chief!”
The Chief was always handing out these “demerits” when he was in front of the grown-ups. Dan didn’t know what a “demerit” was, but he did know that he’d never actually got one. The Chief would say that he could have one, or sometimes ten, but then he’d never give Dan anything. Not even a scrap of paper saying how many “demerits” he had. Dan didn’t like that game. If you say you were gonna give something, then you darn well better give it! Yes, sir. One of the rules. He should have loads of demerits.
The entire troop was lined up in front of Master Shum and Mistress Croot. Mistress Croot was another one of Master Falmon’s helpers. She was a lady Master, shorter than Master Shum, but her head was kind of lopsided, and she had a big hump on her back. Master Shum didn’t have a hump. Mistress Croot was the nicest of the Masters, too. Master Falmon was nice, but he was a hard kind of nice. Master Shum was hard, too, especially when his little clubby came out, and he wasn’t really nice at all. But Mistress Croot, she
was nice. One of her eyes was kind of weird, looking off in a different way, but she was always smiling and giving everyone new cleaning rags and little treats and nice stuff like that. She’d helped Dan find more rags to stuff in his pillow. And those treats she gave were good.
The hall was a huge, vaulted place where all the weapons rooms connected. Giant arches went down the middle, one line of big arches on both sides. The arches sat on top of these big pillars. There were torches and lamps everywhere, lots of light and so bright you could see how big everything was. There was a line of big, round windows up at the very top of the ceiling there, and the sun shone through those. The whole place was down underground, Dan knew that, the sun came through tunnels; that’s what Val had said, at least. “They use mirrors,” Val said. Val was mean, but she knew things. Little Dan couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the sun for real. But he sure did like those windows and that light.
“Alright, soldiers,” Master Shum said. “Alright.” He whacked his club on a pillar three times—WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!—and everyone shut up, backs straight, sharp and tight. Dan got into formation beside Rost Gonnerdun, who was always at the end of the last row. Rost hooted at him a little. Dan put his finger to his lips to tell Rost to be quiet. Didn’t want to get any more “demerits.” Or not get ‘em. Or whatever.
Master Shum nodded. “High Lords be down here later this morning, ‘bout three bells. When they get here, they’re gonna see the cleanest, most well-kept armory in the whole of the Kingdom. Jellan’s troop is already up, they’re workin’ on the southern magazines, top to bottom. Malory’s crew is in the main stairs and upper foyer. Chief Tendal, Chief Val, your people gonna start in here. Do the floors, the bases, all of it, ‘specially the brackets and other hardware. When you’re done with that, your troop’s gonna be back on the big guns in the fourth gallery. One half’ll work the weapons, other half’ll work the room.” He pointed his club at Val and the Chief. “You two gonna do Stormhammer and Oblivion—yourselves. Big guns going up later today for some exercise, and they’re gonna be clean enough to eat off, or little clubby gonna make someone pay for it. Am I clear?”