Return of the Wordmonger

by Stephen Lomer

  “Well, I will say this about British pubs,” he said, then opened his mouth wide and puked spectacularly on the pavement. Dick and Ewan both jumped backward to avoid the spatter. Big wiped his mouth on the back of his glove, then fell right back into his previous doze.

  Dick heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Siya running back toward them. She stopped between Dick and Ewan, spotting Big leaning against the wall.

  “Tomorrow I might not be so bold,” she said, and she ran up to Big. Before either Dick or Ewan could say a word, she planted a deep, long kiss on Big’s lips. She didn’t seem to realize she was standing in the puddle of sick.

  She pulled away from Big, smiled, then staggered off in the direction she’d come.

  “Well,” Ewan said thoughtfully. “If she can take him at his worst, she’ll adore him at his best.”

  Jack helped Ewan and Dick muscle Big into the car for the drive back to The Black Veil, then helped them again when it was time to get him inside and to his room. When Dick finally shut the door on Big’s window-shaking snores, it was almost three in the morning.

  “See you in a couple of hours,” Dick said to Ewan with a wan smile. The two men retired to their rooms.

  Dick got mostly undressed and fell hard into the bed. As sleep claimed him, he tried to imagine a scenario in which the residents of Buckingham Palace tomorrow wouldn’t marvel aloud at what the cat had dragged in.

  He couldn’t.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dick had slept for all of five minutes—or so it felt—when his alarm went off with cruel volume. He shut it off and used all of his willpower to resist the warm bed and pillow that beckoned him to stay.

  He managed to get himself vertical and waited for a wave of nausea and dizziness to pass. His tic being what it was, he felt as though he’d spent the night reading volume after volume of collected typos. Standing was a challenge, showering even more so, with the addition of soap and water. By the time he’d finished putting on his dress uniform, he felt marginally better, but certainly in no frame of mind for a visit with the royal family.

  Dick stepped into the hallway to find Ewan fully dressed and ready, dozing against the doorframe of his own room. Ewan woke with a start when Big, looking rested and refreshed, threw open his door and greeted them both with a boisterous, “Good morning, Typo Squad!”

  “The jaffa cakes!” Ewan shouted, confused, and blinked dazedly at his surroundings. He spotted Big’s wide grin and frowned.

  “Why can’t you let an old man die in peace?” Ewan said, rubbing his temples.

  “Oh dear,” Big said, pouncing. “Sounds like great-grandad put too much Scotch in his Metamucil.”

  Ewan, his eyes still closed, gave Big a two-fingered salute. Big giggled and then turned to Dick. “And how about you, buddy? You look like a hundred bucks.”

  Dick held up his hand. “Stop. Please stop. Your voice sounds like it’s coming from inside a bell.”

  Big laughed again. “Well come on, we’d better get going. I have a great royal flush joke I can’t wait to try out today.”

  He bounded down the stairs, and Ewan and Dick eyed one another blearily.

  “Is it too late to die from alcohol poisoning?” Ewan asked.

  Twenty minutes later, they were in the back of Jack’s cab, speeding toward downtown London. Rain came down heavily from a steely gray sky, but Dick kept his window open, relishing the feeling of the cold water on his face.

  “You gents really bent the ol’ elbow last night, eh?” Jack asked from the front seat.

  “Yes we did,” Dick said. “Let this be a lesson to you, Jack. Drinking is bad. Especially the night before you’re supposed to meet the royals.”

  The car pulled up in front of Her Majesty’s Royal Typo Brigade headquarters. Weatherbee, Siya, and Ms. Fits were all standing outside under black umbrellas. They were wearing dress uniforms, and none of them looked any the worse for wear from the previous night’s activities.

  “Good morning,” Weatherbee said, opening Dick’s door and angling his umbrella to provide cover from the rain.

  “Morning,” Dick said, emerging. Ewan followed, with Ms. Fits sharing her umbrella, and then Big, who joined a bright-faced, smiling Siya under hers.

  “Where are Philip and Bob?” Dick asked.

  “Only room at the palace for six of us total, I’m afraid,” Weatherbee said. “Constables Busther and Frapples drew the short straws. They’re inside, pouting.”

  “I see. So then, are we all set?”

  Weatherbee nodded toward the street as a long limousine with Union Jack flags on the hood pulled up behind Jack’s car.

  “I should say so,” Weatherbee said, and they moved as a group toward the vehicle.

  Dick was feeling better by the time they turned onto the Mall, their destination finally in sight. No one had said a word for the entire trip, not even Big, and Dick could tell they were all nervous. He began to feel his anxiety ramp up as the palace drew ever closer.

  They approached the main gates, which split and rolled aside for the limo. The car cut across a small courtyard, through an ornate archway, and into another, much bigger courtyard. Everyone was staring intently out the windows as the car came to a halt between two sharply dressed footmen standing under umbrellas of their own.

  The footmen stepped forward in one choreographed motion and opened the doors, and Dick and his companions emerged. From seemingly out of thin air, another half-dozen footmen appeared with even wider umbrellas to cover the team. They all stood facing two massive, ornate doors set between wide stone columns.

  As they watched, a dark-haired young man in a flawless pinstriped suit flung the doors wide and emerged onto a small flight of stairs, which were drenched from the rain.

  “Good morning!” he said cheerfully. “Inspector Frienderfoe, Lieutenant Shonnary, Ms. Fits, Agent Whig, Agent Hoozarmi, and Constable Leytur, welcome to Buckingham Palace. I am Alastair, master of the household. If you’ll all follow me? I’m sure you’ll be pleased to be out of the rain.”

  Alastair turned and moved back through the doors, and Dick and company followed. They emerged into a wide entryway with gleaming floors and a plinth with a wide spray of fresh roses blooming from an ornate vase. Statues and sculptures dotted the circular walls, and sconces gave the room a warm, yellow glow.

  “Now then,” Alastair said, turning to them. “Do you have any immediate questions I can answer?”

  Dick braced himself for what Big might ask, but everyone remained silent.

  “No? Nothing?” Alastair asked, rubbing his hands together. “Very well then. I have a number of matters to attend to, but I’ll be leaving you in the capable hands of the captain of the King’s Guard. He shall be here momentarily. Enjoy your stay.”

  Alastair disappeared through an archway to the left, and almost immediately the captain of the King’s Guard emerged from an archway on the right, his bright red waistcoat and medals glowing in the ambient light. He was an older man with a hooked nose and small, beady eyes, and he radiated an immense sense of power. He looked them all over slowly, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, before shouting, “This way!”

  He turned smartly on the spot, his ceremonial sword in its white scabbard swinging with him, and passed back through the archway. Weatherbee took a few tentative steps, and then the others fell in with him, and together they moved deeper into Buckingham Palace.

  Dick couldn’t disguise his awe as they moved through a wide hallway with deep red carpeting and gold-framed paintings that reached from the wainscoting to the chandeliered ceiling. He looked around and saw Big marveling over the magnificence, and even the Typo Brigade crew seemed overwhelmed. Only Ewan appeared perfectly at ease, and, by his expression, even at home in the luxuriously appointed palace. Ms. Fits merely looked bored.

  The captain of the King’s Guard marched with purpose to a door at the end of the hallway. He swung it wide, and Dick and company entered the room beyond.

  I
t was cavernous, the size and dimensions of an average airplane hangar. There were more paintings with gilded frames, each showcasing stern, unsmiling men with deep furrows in their foreheads and impeccable posture. The expression was the same on each, only the outfit and haircuts changing, and Dick guessed these were the portraits of former captains of the King’s Guard going back to medieval times. Ornate chairs lined the outer walls, and at the far end of the room sat an intricately carved desk, as wide as it was long, with six velvet wing chairs facing it.

  “Whoa,” Big said under his breath as he craned his neck to take in every detail. He turned to Dick and leaned in close. “Preserve this moment in your memory as the one time Big didn’t have a wise-ass comment.”

  “The folks back home will never believe it,” Dick whispered back.

  The group followed the captain to the desk and chairs. The captain circled the massive desk, turned to them, and barked, “Sit!” His deep voice echoed in the space as Dick and company quickly found their seats.

  The captain placed his hands behind his back and surveyed them slowly. He made his way around to their side of the desk, which took a bit of time, and stopped in front of them to let his eyes settle upon each of them, one by one, as if taking measure and finding them lacking.

  “So,” he said, looking at Dick, Ewan, and Big in turn. “You are Typo Squad.”

  It didn’t appear to be a question, so the three men remained silent.

  “And you,” he said, looking at Weatherbee, then Siya, then Ms. Fits, “are Her Majesty’s Royal Typo Brigade.”

  A few moments’ silence followed, then the captain moved toward Weatherbee, who leaned back a bit in his seat.

  “Do you know whose palace this is?” he asked, bending at the waist and leaning forward so that his face was mere inches from Weatherbee’s.

  The color drained from Weatherbee’s face and he swallowed hard.

  “I—” Weatherbee said, clearly rattled. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Do you know,” the captain repeated, louder this time, “whose palace this is?”

  “The royal family’s,” Ms. Fits said in a bored voice from the last seat in the row. The captain kept his face where it was, but his eyes narrowed and he stared at Ms. Fits.

  “No,” the captain said, straightening. “The royal family lives here. But this is my palace. I am aware of everything that happens within these walls. It is my responsibility to keep the royal family safe, and it is a responsibility I take seriously. Quite seriously.”

  He turned his back to them and stared up at a portrait behind his desk of a man astride a horse, dressed in the same red waistcoat, white trousers, and tassled black boots the captain wore. The man in the painting and the captain bore a striking resemblance to one another.

  “You are here to establish the identity of the criminal known as the Wordmonger and apprehend him,” the captain continued. “I will grant you a reasonable amount of latitude to achieve that goal. But make no mistake.”

  At this he turned back around and faced them.

  “If I feel your investigation in any way threatens the safety of any royal I am sworn to protect, I shall have you all hanging in the dungeons by thumbscrews and you shall never again see the light of day.” He drew himself up to his full height.

  “Is any of that in any way unclear?”

  They all shook their heads. The captain’s expression darkened.

  “Is any of that,” he said again, this time placing emphasis on each word, “in any way unclear?”

  “No sir,” they chorused.

  “See that it isn’t,” the captain said. “Now then, to business. You will be given a suite of rooms in the north wing from which to operate. Aside from the royals, you will have access to staff members and locations throughout the palace, as long as your activities do not disrupt our day-to-day operations.

  “You will take meals in your suite. You will not leave the palace for any reason. You will wear your current dress uniforms at all times when moving about the castle. You will provide me with weekly updates regarding the progress in your investigation.

  “If you encounter any member of the King’s Guard and that individual gives you an order, you will obey it promptly and without question, as though the command had come from me personally. Is any of that unclear?”

  “No sir,” they all said immediately.

  “Jolly good,” the captain said with a tight smile. He turned on his heel and retrieved a silver tray from his desk. He held it out in front of them.

  “I shall require your mobiles,” he said. He pronounced it mo-biles, and while Ewan, Weatherbee, and Siya dug in their pockets, Dick and Big stared blankly at one another.

  The captain looked down his nose at them. “Your cell phones.”

  “Oh,” Dick said, and he and Big fished in their pockets. Everyone placed his or her phone on the tray, except for Ms. Fits, who stared straight ahead, her arms folded. The captain approached her with the tray.

  “And yours,” he said. She glanced up at him and shrugged.

  “I don’t have one,” she said simply.

  The captain eyed her warily, then placed the tray on his desk. He turned back to her and said, “If I discover that you are concealing a phone, it’ll be the hangman’s noose for you.”

  Ms. Fits shrugged again.

  The captain retrieved a second tray from his desk and held it out to them. “Your sidearms,” he said. “There will be no gunplay here.”

  Dick reached down and unholstered his pistol. He placed it on the tray, and the others followed suit.

  Big raised his hand, and the captain arched an eyebrow at him. “What is it?”

  “Pardon me, sir,” Big said in a small voice that Dick hardly recognized. “When do we get our phones and weapons back?”

  “When you’ve completed your mission,” the captain said simply, placing the tray with the weapons next to the other.

  Big raised his hand again. “Uh, pardon me again, sir, but that could take a very long time. What if there’s an emergency? What if someone needs to reach us?”

  The captain’s lips twitched at the corner, and Dick thought it must be the closest the man could come to a smile.

  “That would only distract you from the mission. So I daresay you’re better off this way.”

  The captain looked them over once more, sniffed, then dipped his fingers into a pocket on the front of his waistcoat to withdraw a pocket watch. He snapped it open, examined it, and snapped it shut again.

  “I shall now escort you to the throne room, where you will have a brief audience with His Royal Highness the King, the queen consort, and their family.”

  Dick felt a sharp stab of fear and glanced at Big, who looked terrified.

  “Bow at the waist,” the captain began rattling off quickly. “The first greeting is ‘Your Majesty,’ and then ‘ma’am’ or ‘sir.’ Do not initiate a handshake. If they initiate, no gripping or pumping. No hugging or kissing. No questions of a personal nature. Shall we?”

  He gestured toward the door and Dick rose in a daze. Ewan saw his expression and smiled.

  “Don’t worry, Richard,” he said softly. “Just follow my lead.”

  Five minutes later, they were walking single file down an even wider hallway than the one they’d first entered, the captain leading the way. As they moved through massive, sweeping archways and up and down marble staircases, other members of the King’s Guard fell wordlessly in step with them, until they had a full honor guard escorting them to the ornate double doors that led to the throne room. Dick tried to remember everything the captain had told them, but wondered absently what the official protocol was if he puked from fear on a royal.

  Two footmen faced one another in front of the doors. They stepped forward, swung the doors wide, and took position just inside. Dick caught a glimpse of the room beyond before they entered. It was similar in size to the captain’s office, but dwarfed it in grandeur. The ceiling was covered in frescoes of cherubs
, unicorns, and roaring lions. The walls boasted soaring windows that brought in light even from the overcast sky beyond. At the far end of the room, on a raised stage, were thrones of varying sizes, all occupied by imposing figures in royal dress.

  The captain led them all forward, and when they’d reached the edge of the stage, lined them up facing the royal family.

  Dick stood at attention, but his eyes moved from one family member to the next. In the largest center throne sat King Edmund, a gleaming golden crown studded with jewels perched upon a nest of wispy white hair. Dick had never in his life seen anyone quite so old, and he studied the lines and sags and liver spots that made up the king’s face.

  Seated next to him was Emma, the queen consort. She was considerably younger than her husband, and still quite a handsome woman. Her crown was smaller and silver, and she sat with her ankles crossed and her hands resting primly on her lap as she looked them over.

  At the end of the row he spotted Anne, who was smiling at the sight of them, and attempting not to make it overly obvious that she was staring at Ewan. By process of elimination, Dick assumed the middle-aged man next to the king was his son Edwin, and the woman next to Emma was their daughter, Ermengarde.

  The captain stood in the center of the lineup, and bowed at the waist toward the family. “Your Majesties, may I present the members of Her Majesty’s Royal Typo Brigade, and from America, the members of Typo Squad.”

  Dick was taken aback when he began introducing them by name, but then realized he shouldn’t be surprised. Of course the captain would know who they were.

  “Constable Siya Leytur,” he said, and Siya curtsied.

  “Constable Hissie Fits,” he continued, and Ms. Fits glared at him before offering a shallow curtsy.

  “Inspector Weatherbee Frienderfoe, Agent Christopher Whig, Lieutenant Richard Shonnary, and Agent Ewan Hoozarmi,” the captain said, each man bowing as his name was spoken.