Shadewell Shenanigans
Page 19
Down. Down. And out: into the main body of the palace.
The swordsman kept out of sight, expertly nipping between shade and shadow to ease his path through the drafty corridors.
At length, he arrived at Korvan’s Kitchen: the very heart of Dullitch Palace. A plaque above the doorway reminded all of Korvan, the legendary and somewhat officious cook who served Lord Bowlcock, the first Duke of Dullitch.
The swordsman didn’t bother to study the plaque, however, choosing instead to sneak around the edge of the kitchen, narrowly avoiding two stout servants that supported a giant soup-cauldron between them.
When the kitchen was blissfully empty, the swordsman made his move. Accepting that the solitude wouldn’t last long, he swiftly tossed the box onto the nearest workbench, snapped off the catch and yanked open the lid. Then he snaked a hand into the silky depths of the inner case and pulled out a small, wriggling creature with a thick head of fur, three black eyes and a gleaming set of tiny, needle-sharp teeth.
The swordsman whistled at the creature, which abruptly ceased its struggling and began to mew like a contented kitten.
“Saving up that wonderful noise?” he whispered, and, reaching down with his other hand, he produced two wads of cotton wool from his robe.
As if sensing imminent danger, the creature began to struggle again, clawing at the fist that held it aloft by its hair.
A tabby cat watched from a nearby bench as the swordsman jabbed a cotton-ball firmly into each ear, and drew a thin and extremely nasty-looking blade from his belt.
“The stage is all yours,” he said to his restless captive. Then he stabbed it vigorously in the stomach.
A few minutes later, the swordsman replaced the dead creature inside its box, and prepared to leave the kitchen. He stepped over a number of prone servants and several patches of shattered glass on his way to the first floor.
Two
VISCOUNT CURFEW LOOKED UP from his writing desk, his quill poised over the leather-bound diary that lay open upon it.
Another flash: how he hated lightning. Still, his fear of the electric wrath was as nothing to his fear of the noise that always followed it. Thankfully, he had his earplugs firmly wedged in, and the mirrors had all been turned to face the wall: safety, first.
The viscount stared out of the window opposite his desk at the rooftops of eastern Dullitch. It was a humid night, something that would undoubtedly help to prolong the storm.
Still, he was far too busy to worry about such things: storm or no storm, he had work to do.
Curfew returned his attention to the diary, and was about to put quill to parchment, when there came a loud clatter from the direction of the stairs.
The viscount sighed, threw down his quill and stomped over to the bedroom door. However, because he was at all times a cautious man, he drew his sword before he opened it.
No assassin, then, he thought, casting an annoyed glance at the men in grimy overalls who were attempting to fold a white sheet at the top of the stairs. He noticed that, as usual, his room guards were both fast asleep.
“You two!” he snapped at the sheet-folders. “What are you doing?”
The largest of the pair, a veritable lion of a man, turned to face him.
“Cleaners, guv: we’re putting these sheets away.”
Curfew rolled his eyes.
“Well, try not to make so much noise.”
“Right you are. Sorry, guv.”
“Hmm,” Curfew began, a frown developing on his brow. “They look weighed down in the middle: do you have someone wrapped up in there? You do, don’t you?”
In answer to this, the big man heaved at one end of the sheet, and a bruised and battered body fell out.
Curfew started, and strained to see the face of the prone figure.
“Isn’t that the fellow who delivers the vegetables?” he inquired.
“Dunno,” hissed the second sheet-folder, who was a good deal smaller than his companion. “Isss it?”
“Yes! What happened to him?”
“He ssstuck his nose in where it wasn’t wanted; gave usss some trouble while we were trying to scrub the floors.”
“He looks dead.”
“Nah,” growled the giant. “He’ll be all right with a jug of ale thrown over ’im.”
Viscount Curfew sighed.
“Fine; just keep the noise down, will you?” he snapped. Then he turned and shut the portal behind him. Unfortunately, in doing so he failed to notice that the ears of his snoring room sentries were bleeding.
Back in the bedchamber, Curfew muttered under his breath and carefully locked the oak door: then he turned around a second too late to avoid a gloved fist slamming into his face.
He fell back against the wall, shook his head and frantically brought up his sword, just as the assassin he’d been expecting to see in the corridor drew his own weapon.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2005 by David Lee Stone
Cover design by Mauricio Diaz
Cover illustration by Bob Lea
978-1-4804-6149-9
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