The Order of Odd-Fish

by James Kennedy

  “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!”

  THE 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 th
e 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.