by Mike Ashley
Laughing, Narielle attempted to force another deep-fried nugget between her beloved’s lips.
“What is that?” he asked, returning her joyous laughter a hundredfold.
“Batrachian bits,” she replied, smearing sweet-and-sour nectar down the front of his chest on purpose for future reference. “Try them; they’re delicious.”
“Not half so delicious as you,” he murmured, and as the undeniable surge of their mutual attraction and respect mounted inexorably, he dragged her beneath the banqueting table and they missed dessert.
THE POWER AND THE GORY
James Bibby
The midday sun beat fiercely down on the city of Koumas with the force of a blacksmith’s hammer. It beat down on the massive encircling walls that protected the city from the ravages of nomadic barbarian tribes. It beat down on the houses, shops, taverns and temples. It beat down on the people and animals that thronged the labyrinth of streets. But most of all it beat down on the head of Constable (and ex-Detective-Inspector) Heighway as he stood on point duty at the junction of Market Street and Westgate.
Wearily, Heighway held up one hand in the universally recognised gesture for “stop” and the torrent of carts, horses, wagons and livestock that surged along Flensing Lane straggled to an untidy halt. Then he beckoned with his other hand and the seething mass of traffic that waited impatiently in Westgate surged forward and began to flow past him. For a moment he felt a slight stirring of interest as a brewer’s dray laden with wooden barrels of beer creaked by, but it was followed by a seemingly endless flock of alarmas1 herded by three drovers and Heighway drifted off into thoughts of self-recrimination.
Well, this served him right. It was his own fault that he was here, slowly poaching in his own sweat. Would he never bloody learn? His doctor had told him repeatedly that regular consumption of large quantities of beer was bad for him, and so it had proved. He had consumed a vast amount at the Police Station’s winter solstice party and as a result had ended up standing in front of Superintendent Weird, poking him repeatedly in the chest with one finger whilst telling him exactly why so many people didn’t like him.
Now, if there’s one thing a police Superintendent doesn’t like, it’s being told by a drunken subordinate that he is grossly overweight and has a severe body-odour problem . . . especially when it happens to be true. That in itself would have only merited a severe dressing-down. Unfortunately, Heighway had followed this by being sick down the Superintendent’s trousers. The following day he had been summoned to Weird’s office, where the misery of the worst hangover in history had been compounded by reduction to the ranks and transfer to the Traffic Division.
Heighway winced at the memory and raised one hand to waft at a fly, momentarily forgetting where he was. Immediately, the pent-up traffic waiting in Flensing Lane surged forwards and a dozen horse-drawn carts ploughed straight into the midst of the flock of alarmas, to be followed by a large wagon pulled by four bellowing oxen. Several alarmas skittered sideways, screaming with fear, and Heighway ran for safety, his hands clasped over his ears against the noise. Reaching the cover of a shop doorway, he turned just in time to see another large dray collide with the ox-cart and watched in horror as a wheel broke off, the cart tipped sideways and beer barrels slid over the side to splinter on the hard cobbles of the street.
Within seconds, the junction was a clogged and solid mass of screaming, neighing, and bellowing animals, shouting and cursing humans, and immobile vehicles. For a moment or two Heighway considered trying to rectify the situation, but then the pull of duty was overwhelmed by a deep and all-consuming fatalism. Suddenly he knew without doubt that he’d reached the end of his police career. There would be no coming back from this monumental cock-up. Well, there was no point in waiting for the axe to fall. Far better to self-destruct instead.
With a feeling that was close to relief, Heighway turned his back on the chaos and walked away in the direction of his favourite tavern. Now that the decision had been taken, two things remained to be done. He needed to drink several pints of good beer and he needed to draft his letter of resignation.
An hour later, Heighway was snugly installed at a table in a dark corner of The Green Manticore, sipping at his second pint of Old Pustule’s best bitter and staring blankly at the sheet of notepaper in front of him. He had got as far as “Dear Superintendent Weird, It is with great sorrow that . . .” and then inspiration had deserted him. He was just wondering whether a third pint might help when the sound of voices raised in anger caught his attention, and Heighway looked up to see Inspector (and ex-sergeant) Raasay easing his way through the crowded tavern. The angry voices belonged to the other customers, who were objecting in no uncertain terms to the fact that Raasay was leading a large horse through the crowded pub.
Heighway shook his head tiredly. He had known some pretty dim policemen in his time, but Raasay was in a class of his own. Until Heighway’s demotion, Raasay had been his sergeant, a rank that he had attained solely because he was Superintendent Weird’s nephew. He did have a few virtues, such as a fierce and unquestioning loyalty to Heighway and an ability to carry out orders (as long as they didn’t contain words with more than three syllables), but during their long association Heighway had looked in vain for even the merest hint of intelligence. Nothing that Raasay did should have come as a surprise, but to lead a large and fully saddled horse into a crowded pub was setting a new low even for him.
“Ah, there you are, sir,” he said, with a relieved smile. “When I saw you weren’t on point duty I thought I might find you here.”
“You’re my superior officer now, sir,” Heighway reminded him. “You don’t have to call me sir any more.”
“Yes, I know, sir,” Raasay replied, uncomfortably.
There was an awkward pause. Heighway knew he ought to stand up in the presence of a superior officer, but somehow he couldn’t help feeling that when applied to Raasay the word “superior” made a mockery of the language. Raasay, on the other hand, could not quite comprehend that he now out-ranked Heighway, and so he stood awkwardly at attention while the horse nodded its head and chewed at the bit in its mouth. Heighway looked at the intelligence in its eyes and at the dumb, sheep-like blankness in Raasay’s, and wondered which of the two would make the best inspector.
“Can I ask why you’ve brought a horse into the pub, sir?” he asked Raasay.
“Yes sir. It’s because Uncle Billy . . . er, I mean, Superintendent Weird, sir, he told me to, sir. He said I was to collect the waiting mount from the stables and bring it straight to you. Then he said you were to get your bony ass over to the Commissioner’s office at once, sir. He’s waiting there now, sir.” Raasay paused and looked at the horse doubtfully. “Although this looks far more like a horse than an ass, sir.”
“The Commissioner? Hell, I must really be in trouble.”
“And it doesn’t look very bony to me, either, sir.”
“Don’t worry about it. Sir.”
There was another awkward pause while Heighway savoured some more of his beer. Raasay began to look agitated.
“He did say you were to be quick, sir. In fact he said he wants you there yesterday, although I don’t know how you’re going to do that. And he’s in a foul mood, sir.”
Heighway raised his glass again to drain it, and as he did so the horse lifted its tail and deposited several dollops of fresh manure onto the tavern floor. Immediately, there was an outraged shout from behind the bar.
“Oh, by the Gods!” Heighway muttered. Standing, he snatched the horse’s reins from Raasay’s hand.
“Stay here and clean this mess up,” he told him, then turned the horse around and led it towards the door. “Please,” he added over his shoulder as an afterthought. “Sir.”
As he made his way past the bar, the landlord gestured angrily.
“We don’t allow dumb animals in this bar,” he complained.
“Don’t worry,” Heighway told him “He’s on his way just as soon
as he’s cleaned up after the horse . . .”
Algophilos, the Commissioner of Police, was one of the most powerful men in Koumas. He was the commander not only of the police force but also of the City Guard. To be called to his office could be a sign of great honour or responsibility, or it could mean the instant end of your career. Or of your life, if you’d managed to upset him enough. So, as Heighway urged the horse into a trot, there was a tight knot of apprehension in his stomach. He wondered just how Superintendent Weird had heard about the chaos at the road junction so quickly. And why order him to the Commissioner’s office? It didn’t make sense.
And then, for the first time since he’d been demoted, Heighway’s brain began to function properly again. You don’t send a horse for someone if you’re going to sack them! And there was a sense of urgency about all of this. Heighway was needed, and that could only mean there was a case that demanded his particular skills. All at once Heighway felt his spirits soaring and, with a grin on his face, he urged his horse into a gallop, clung on for dear life and fairly pelted through the twisting streets.
The system of detection that Superintendent Weird preferred was very simple. When a crime occurred, his detectives would spring into action, arrest and interrogate a few innocent bystanders and then torture them until a full confession of guilt had been extracted from one of them. The advantage of this method was that it resulted in a rapid, one hundred percent success rate in solving crimes. The disadvantage, or so Heighway felt, was that it very rarely resulted in catching the actual perpetrator of the crime. He preferred the method of accurate, painstaking investigation that often (but not always) resulted in finding out who actually did it and then arresting them. It was slow, but as the Superintendent had discovered once or twice before, sometimes it was the only method that would suffice.
Heighway cantered his horse along the driveway that led to the Commissioner’s offices, which stood in parkland at the top of one of Koumas’s ten hills. He could see Weird pacing impatiently backwards and forwards beside a police carriage that waited near the front steps, and he hauled his horse to a ragged halt and swung untidily down.
“At last. At last,” grumbled Weird. “You took your time.”
“I, er . . . well, there was a bit of a traffic jam down by Flensing Lane.”
“Right. Well, you’re back on the force with your old rank.” Weird was looking about as happy as an orc at closing time.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me, thank the Commissioner. He asked specifically for you.” Weird jerked his thumb at the imposing door at the top of the steps. “He’ll brief you himself. But keep me informed of your progress.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right.” Weird turned and clambered into the waiting carriage, then poked his head out of the window. “I don’t like you, Heighway. You’re rude, you’re insubordinate and you’re not half as clever as you think you are. So don’t make any fatal mistakes on this case, because I’ll make sure that’s what they will be for you. Fatal.”
The carriage moved off with a jerk and Weird cursed resoundingly as his head banged against the window frame. Heighway watched as it rattled off down the driveway, then trotted happily up the steps. Despite the Superintendent’s threat, it felt good to be on an active case again.
The urgency of the case was brought home to him when he announced his presence to the uniformed flunky in the entrance hall. Before, he had always been kept waiting to see the Commissioner for anything up to two hours, but this time he was whisked straight through several corridors and antechambers until he found himself standing in front of the Commissioner’s desk.
Algophilos was a small, slim, silver-haired man with thin, pointed features who radiated strength and efficiency. Despite his blue uniform, at first glance he seemed kind and serene, and it was only when you gazed into his sly, calculating eyes that you got a glimpse of the cold heart within. He looked like a priest with a touch of weasel in him. He gestured for Heighway to sit down and fixed the reinstated Inspector with his gaze.
“I have a matter that I wish you to investigate,” he said. “It is of the utmost . . . delicacy. Do you understand me?”
“I can keep my mouth shut, sir.”
“Good.” The Commissioner leant back in his chair and steepled his fingertips together. “It so happens that I am a member of a certain . . . club. It is a private establishment, a place where in my off-duty hours I occasionally go for a little rest and relaxation. All the members have an . . . interest, shall we say, in a certain form of relaxation and enjoyment that could, were it to become common knowledge, cause them problems in their careers, should they be in a position of power and authority . . .”
The Commissioner’s verbosity was beginning to get on Heighway’s nerves. “You’re being blackmailed,” he cut in.
“Exactly. Most succinctly put.”
May I ask what the name of this establishment is?”
“You may. It is called Club Nefarioso.”
“What? That den of perv . . . er . . . I mean . . .” Heighway fumbled for the right words whilst Algophilos watched him with the same steady gaze. “Well, isn’t it a bit risky joining a club like that, sir? For a man in your position, that is. Someone was bound to recognize you.”
“One of the attractions of the club was complete anonymity.”
“How does that work, then?”
“All the members wear hoods.”
Heighway suppressed a shudder of revulsion. “So how come someone is able to blackmail you, sir?” he enquired.
“That is one of the things I want you to find out.” Algophilos opened a drawer in his desk and took out a small roll of parchment, which he passed to Heighway. “I was handed this when I went to the club three nights ago.”
“Who by?”
“Daniel, the barman. It was given to him by another member who was, of course, anonymous.”
Heighway unrolled the parchment. The message inside was printed in tiny letters, in a neat, well-educated hand. My Dear Commissioner, it read, I was most surprised to discover you are a member of this club, I am sure that this is something you would prefer not to come to the attention of a wider audience, I will contact you again soon with a suggestion as to how this can be prevented.
“You see why I need your particular talents,” Algophilos went on. “It is imperative that the right man is arrested. I have assigned Sergeant Raasay to assist you . . .”
“Sergeant Raasay?”
“As of this moment.” Algophilos selected one of the parchments that lay on his desk, signed it and handed it to Heighway. “When I asked for you yesterday, Superintendent Weird told me that you were no longer a detective and sent Raasay instead. But I feel that an inspector who gets a nosebleed when someone uses a word such as ‘concatenation’ is not really up to the task. Now, is there anything else you need?”
“Constable Kratavan, sir. Raasay is good at carrying out orders, but Kratavan has brains.”
“Right.”
“And I’ll need to visit the club, sir. Probably this evening.”
“I understand. If you need to enter the more . . . restricted areas, tell them that you’d like to see Wendy.”
“Wendy. Right.”
“And, inspector, I feel you would do better to operate under cover, as it were. It may be necessary for you to don certain . . . robes.”
“In other words, I need to dress up like the punters. I understand, sir
“Good. There’s just one final thing you need to understand.” Algophilos leant forwards and rested his arms on the desk. All at once his eyes seemed colder and darker than a midwinter night. “You are to succeed. Failure will have the most unpleasant results, for both of us.”
Heighway swallowed audibly, then nodded. “You can rely on me, sir,” he said with conviction. “I won’t let you down.”
Heighway spent the entire journey from the Commissioner’s offices to the police station trying to concentrate on the case a
nd not worry about what would happen to him if he messed up. Reaching the station’s stable yard, he left the horse with one of the grooms and went through a side door and up the narrow, winding, rear staircase that led to the top floor, where his old office was situated.
He paused outside the door and looked at a small nameplate that had been screwed in at an untidy angle. It said INSPECTER RAASAY in badly carved letters. Raising his eyes to heaven, Heighway opened the door and marched in.
His office was just as he had left it months earlier. His desk was an untidy jumble of parchments and old newspapers, the clamour and smells of the baking city drifted up through the open window, and Raasay was standing by the fireplace with a vacant look on his face. The only difference was that this time he was holding a battered iron bucket that was full of horse manure.
“Raasay, what are you doing with that bucket?” Heighway enquired.
“You told me to clean up the horse poo, sir,” Raasay told him.
“Yes, but . . . oh, never mind. Just get rid of it.”
Raasay took a couple of steps forward and, before Heighway could stop him, emptied the bucket out of the window. Angry howls of protest echoed up from below.
Heighway shook his head tiredly and then pulled out the parchment that Algophilos had signed and gave it to Raasay.
“Sorry about this, Raasay,” he told him, “but it rather looks as though they’ve turned you back into a sergeant.”
“Really, sir? Oh, good!”
Heighway stared at him. “You sound pleased.”
“I am, sir! I’ve really missed the Sergeant’s mess.” Raasay lowered his voice. “They’re a funny lot in the officers’ lounge, sir, begging your pardon.”
“Yes, well, you can go and break the good news to your Uncle Billy. And then dig out D.C. Kratavan and tell him he’s working for me again. I want the pair of you to meet me in The Wyvern at six o’clock.”