by Paul Collins
He got to his feet, looking thoroughly disgruntled. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Climb out of there.’
‘I need a hand.’
‘I need a hand.’ He mimicked her perfectly, though he made her sound even more pathetic. Grumbling, he knelt down, but even with Tab's outstretched hand he still couldn't quite reach her.
Tab flashed Fontagu a quick smile, the type Dung Brigaders reserved to appease Mrs Figgin and confuse Mildon. ‘You might have to lie down,’ she wheedled.
‘In the gutter?’ Fontagu sounded horrified. ‘Just who do you think I am?’
‘You're Fontagu Wizroth the Third,’ said Tab, as sweetly as she could. ‘And you've struck a deal with me.’
Fontagu glared at her. ‘I do hope you're worth it,’ he snapped. He took some silk handkerchiefs from his pocket and placed them strategically on the ground, then stretched out, wrinkling his nose as he did so.
This time his hand clenched Tab's and he hauled her up, grunting with the effort. She popped out of the drain, showering him with muck.
He sat up, looked down at his bespattered tunic, and wailed. ‘Oh, look what you've done! How could you?’
Fontagu was making so much noise Tab glanced nervously up and down the street. ‘Shhh!’ she hushed. ‘You'll have the City Watch on us!’
That shut him up.
Fontagu picked himself up out of the gutter, muttering that he'd never get his clothes clean again. Then his nose wrinkled. ‘Do you always … pong like that?’
Irritated, Tab said, ‘Tab Vidler, former Dung Brigader, at your service.’
‘I should have known.’ Fontagu wiggled his nose. ‘Oh, what have you got yourself into this time, Fontagu?’ He eyed Tab with distaste. ‘You may call me Fontagu,’ he said. ‘But don't presume that this makes us anything but casual acquaintances.’
‘Wouldn't think of it.’ Tab held out her hand to shake.
Fontagu looked at the grubby fingers in horror. ‘If I must,’ he muttered. He lightly shook Tab's hand and then carefully wiped his own manicured hand with a clean handkerchief.
‘Well, I'd best be going,’ Tab said. ‘Thanks for the help.’
‘Not so fast,’ said Fontagu. His hand shot out lightning fast, grasping Tab's shoulder. ‘There is the little matter of … our verbal contract.’
Tab was about to dislodge Fontagu's restraining hand – a simple flick of her wrist would do it – when she spied Masher. He didn't look happy. Certainly not if his face was any indication.
‘There you are, you little gutter thief!’ snarled Masher. Red-faced with anger he raised his belt.
Fontagu somehow manoeuvred Tab out of Masher's reach. ‘I say,’ said the Simesian. ‘I've just caught this child pickpocketing.’ He cuffed Tab's ear and taking her cue from this, she yelped and tried – not too desperately – to escape. Fontagu shook her.
‘She's a thief all right,’ said Masher, trying to duck around Fontagu to deliver his own brand of punishment.
Fontagu reached under his cloak and drew a shining sword. He didn't exactly point it at Masher but he kept it between the custodian and the girl. Masher eyed it with grudging respect. ‘Don't trouble yourself, good sir,’ said Fontagu. ‘I shall personally see to it that this one never bothers anyone again!’ With that, Fontagu frog-marched Tab across the square.
‘Please, Mr Mildon!’ Tab called piteously. ‘Help me!’
Masher's face oscillated between mirth and misery.
Tab took one last look at the fuming half-troll as Fontagu marched her around a corner. Masher stood with his hands on his hips, glaring after them.
The moment they turned the corner, Tab burst out laughing. ‘You saved me from a thrashing. I guess I really owe you now.’
Fontagu released her. ‘Where in the world did you learn to act like that? You were marvellous.’
‘I go to Fenn Morrow's Paragon Playhouse. It's the best in Quentaris.’ When Tab saw the disbelieving look on Fontagu's face, she added, ‘I never pay. I just sneak in at intermission. I've seen all the classics.’
Fontagu started to sheathe his sword but the sound it made caught Tab's attention. She suddenly reached out and felt the blade, then turned her own disbelieving eyes on Fontagu.
‘It's wooden,’ she exclaimed. ‘You used a sword made of wood against Masher?’
Fontagu looked pleased. ‘All that glitters is not gold,’ he said. Appearances can be rather deceiving, can't they?’
Fontagu steered Tab into a nearby tavern. They took a booth at the back and Fontagu made sure no one occupied the booths on either side. Tab noted all this, filing it away, but most of her attention was on the tavern itself. She had never been inside one, much less ordered food and drink.
Fontagu hailed the waiter and ordered a mouth-watering array of food but when it arrived he set it down in front of himself and began to eat. Tab's stomach rumbled loudly but Fontagu didn't seem to hear it.
Finally, Tab said in annoyance, ‘What about me?’
Fontagu looked up from his plate, frowning. ‘Pardon? What, what about you?’
‘Don't I get to eat too?’
Fontagu's mouth dropped open. ‘Am I correct in thinking that you want me to pay for you?’ He sounded genuinely shocked.
‘Well, we're partners, aren't we?’
Fontagu looked slightly ill. ‘What a vulgar notion. Really, you can't expect me to finance every –’ But the look on Tab's face stopped him. Her stomach rumbled again. He looked annoyed. ‘Oh, very well!’
He snapped his fingers at the waiter and ordered Tab a steaming pork pie, mashed potato, bread, and lemonade. All the while, Fontagu muttered about becoming a charity for street waifs.
Tab's pie arrived and she reached for it with her filthy hands.
Fontagu slammed the table. ‘That won't do,’ he said crossly. ‘That won't do at all. Go and clean yourself up at once, do you hear?’
Tab opened her mouth to say something but changed her mind. She hurried into the washroom and returned a minute later, looking pinker and cleaner.
‘Now for some table manners,’ said Fontagu, and he spent fully five minutes instructing Tab how to hold a knife and fork and what to do with them. Tab bit her tongue several times but figured she should humour him, at least for now.
Finally, Tab got to eat her pie. She dug in with enthusiasm, munching happily, while Fontagu took bird-sized bites of his roast pheasant, chewing each one carefully. After each swallow, he fastidiously dabbed at his lips with a white napkin, as if he were Lord Chalm himself.
Tab didn't care. She was sitting in a real tavern, scoffing real pie, with real lemonade, and on her birthday too! It almost made up for losing her silver coins.
Fontagu was starting to look nervous again. He checked the clock on the wall. ‘Do hurry up,’ he said at one point. ‘We don't have all day you know. There is the little matter of our contract –’
‘Yes?’ Tab asked, mid-bite.
Fontagu puffed out his chest. His knobbly chin and mutton chops quivered. ‘I am on a mission of enormous importance. The Archon himself has commissioned me.’
‘The Archon?’ said Tab. She was becoming a little suspicious of Fontagu. ‘Why you? He's got people to do stuff for him. Like the army and the City Watch.’
‘Most of whom are away at war,’ Fontagu re minded her.
‘Well, if it's some kind of spying –’
‘Shhh!’ Fontagu hissed. He leaned forward con-spiratorially. ‘Sometimes he needs men of special talent,’ – Tab looked sceptical although Fontagu didn't seem to notice – ‘men who can blend in, who laugh at danger, who know when to talk and when to listen –’
‘That's all very well,’ said Tab, but Fontagu was oblivious to the interruption.
‘– and who will lay down their lives without hesitation.’ Fontagu gave her a smug look, as if this description fit him perfectly but he was too modest to say so.
Meanwhile, Tab had begun to frown. ‘You know, you sound just like that actor
at the Playhouse, the one who does Scurrilous. In fact, that sounds just like one of his speeches.’
Fontagu choked on a small piece of pheasant. ‘What a coincidence,’ he said. ‘Was the fellow any – er – good?’
‘I thought he was brilliant,’ Tab said truthfully.
Fontagu beamed. ‘Really? Well, what can I say, I was quite –’ he stopped suddenly, swallowed, and went on: ‘— impressed with him.’
‘You saw him too?’
‘Many times,’ said Fontagu. ‘But look here, time's a-wasting. And we have a deed to do.’
‘Well, you'd better spill it then,’ said Tab.
Fontagu's eyes became furtive and he lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘There's a precious gem that belongs to the Archon that was stolen by magical means.’
‘And it's your job to steal it back without anyone knowing it's been returned to the Archon?’
Fontagu smiled. ‘The moment I saw you, Tab, I said to myself, “Self,” I said, “that girl is almost as smart as I was when I was her age!” Now, now, don't let it go to your head. We must stay focused on the mission.’ Tab had that sceptical look again.
This time Fontagu noticed. ‘Oh, dear me, did I mention how much I'm being paid? More than enough to slip you a rather handsome fee, if I do say so myself. On top of my services already rendered, that is.’
‘How handsome is handsome?’ asked Tab, trying to sound as shrewd as possible.
‘What? Well, let's say ten silver moons. That should provide you with lodgings and food for some months.’
Tab sat back. Ten silver moons would last her beyond a year. ‘I'm in,’ she said.
In that moment, the fate of Quentaris was sealed.
A SPELL BACKFIRES
As dusk fell, shadows lengthened, grew deeper. Some detached themselves from walls and doorways and even slithered from culverts. No ordinary shadows these, they moved through the city with enormous stealth.
Most of the shadows converged on a grand-looking building a short distance from the Archon's palace. This was the Royal Treasury. It was protected by overgrown goblins and warded by spells, but there were noticeably fewer goblins than usual, and those who stood guard were in a jovial, festive mood, and less vigilant than they might have been.
The shadows came from all directions, joining to form several small clots of darkness arranged at strategic points about the Treasury. In one of these clots a voice, barely a whisper, spoke, and another answered.
‘A fool's money is easy pickings,’ muttered the first voice. This belonged to a man called Borges, an expert thief and a somewhat better fighter. He was a great bear of a man with a shaggy beard and a bulbous nose that turned red when he was angry.
‘And who is the bigger fool? The one who pretends to be a fool, or the one who falls for it?’ asked his colleague.
Borges scowled softly in the dark. ‘You saying they're just faking? Tryin’ to trick us in?’
‘I'm saying,’ said the other man, whose voice held calm and unquestioned authority, ‘that whatever appears to be to our convenience, should be distrusted. I want you to proceed as if a trap has been laid for us. Be on your toes, Borges!’
‘As you wish, m'lord.’ Across the street a curtain was lifted as someone peered out, but just as quickly it fell back and the window was latched for the night. But in that brief radiance the second speaker's face was revealed. It was a handsome, honourable face, though slightly scarred and weathered. Dark, piercing eyes shone with a deep intelligence, and the ready grin and raised eyebrow suggested an ironic humour born of old follies and an appreciation of the foibles of human beings.
‘I will leave you now,’ said Lord Verris, though strictly speaking he was only a lord when on the bridge of his pirate ship, the Proud Mary. Many a city watchman considered him no more than a prince of thieves, the emphasis being on the word thieves. Even those who sought him most ferociously, respected him. He had never killed a man except in fair fight or self-defence, and only stole from those who – by all who reckoned such things – had too much anyway.
‘You are still determined to go alone?’
Verris paused before answering. ‘I will take Vrod, to appease your worries. But the job itself can only be accomplished by one alone. And as you keep pointing out, most of the army and half the City Watch have been seconded to the war with Tolrush.’
‘Where you're going,’ said Borges unhappily, ‘that may not count for much.’
Verris laid a hand on the other man's arm. ‘You know when to strike. We will meet later. Good hunting!’
Aye, and the same to you, m'lord.’ Only after Verris had slipped away into the darkness, did Borges add in a worried whisper, ‘And may all the sorcery in hell, stay there this night … ’
It had grown dark outside the tavern. Tab patted her full stomach and for the first time in her life felt close to contentment. The worry of how she was to steal back her silver coins and where to find lodgings had plagued her from the moment she'd escaped the orphanage. The thought of being alone in Quentaris, a city she only knew from cleaning its streets of dung, made her stomach do flip-flops. But now she had Fontagu and the promise of money.
They left the tavern and headed down Soothsayers’ Lane, trying as much as possible to look like father and daughter out for an evening stroll. They needn't have bothered. The streets of Quentaris were unusually empty, due to the festivities along the river. As Fontagu had explained, that was the precise reason they must carry out the burglary tonight. Tomorrow, the festive crowds would flood back into the city, along with a platoon of City Watch that had been detailed to police the celebrations.
Fontagu suddenly dragged Tab into a dingy lane between two towering tenements. Facing them at the end of the lane was the rear wall of some large ornate building, painted a deep maroon.
Tab's eyes widened. She whirled angrily on Fontagu. ‘The Magicians’ Guild? You want me to break into the Magicians’ Guild? Are you insane?’
‘Keep your voice down!’ hissed Fontagu. All of a sudden he looked – well, frightened. It wasn't very reassuring.
‘There's no need to keep my voice down,’ said Tab, lowering her voice. ‘Because I am not, repeat not, burglarising the Magicians’ Guild.’
‘Now, now, Tab –’
‘You know what they'd do to me if they caught me? Boiling in oil would be a lot more fun!’
‘Tab, my dear girl –’ began Fontagu, whose own voice was a squeaky quaver in the gloom.
Tab stamped her foot. ‘Don't you “dear girl” me,’ she snarled. ‘You lied to me. You said it would be a walk on the pier – and I just remembered something about piers. They're dead ends!’
Fontagu suddenly straightened and it was actually quite eerie what happened next. He seemed to change. His voice deepened, even sounded different somehow. It was as if he had just put on one of his acting roles. And of course that's exactly what he had done. It was a role he had played many times before: Bassardo the Brave, from the extremely popular play, Borrowed Trouble.
As Bassardo, Fontagu tut-tutted. He now oozed confidence.
‘My dear girl,’ he began again. ‘Ordinarily I would be forced to agree. But there are three reasons why tonight that isn't so.’ And he ticked them off on his fingers. ‘First, between the war and the celebrations, most of the magicians are away … ’
‘Yeah, but some of them can fly pretty fast when they want to,’ muttered Tab.
‘Second, almost all the safeguards are designed to protect against other magicians. One like yourself, and a Dung Brigader to boot, who hasn't a speck of magic, has little to fear – you are as a flea to a dog, almost invisible to them.’
Tab's heart sank. She didn't want to be invisible if that were the case.
‘And third, you will be wearing this.’ Fontagu produced a bronze bracelet which he clipped around Tab's thin wrist. It fit snugly.
Tab eyed it suspiciously. ‘It looks like a market trinket. What is it?’
‘It is a talis
man of great power, and will make you almost completely undetectable by their most powerful charms and spells.’
‘Why didn't you say that in the first place?’
‘Please, child, allow me my art. The greatest actors – the artistes – know best how to deliver an immortal line.’
Tab eyed him. ‘So you're really just a plain out-of-work actor?’
Fontagu drew himself up. ‘How dare you! There is nothing plain about my talent. I have played the greatest houses in Quentaris, I've been the talk of towns, admired by kings and queens. Plain, indeed. Why, once, I played the balcony scene in Much Ado About Everything. Besides, it's a well-known fact that actors make the best spies. Ask anyone.’ He lashed out and grabbed Tab as she headed off to do just that. ‘Some other time. Let us get back to the business at hand. Do you see that storm pipe outlet up there?’