Like many loftwings, Obegarde was not a morning person. Having managed to claw his way blearily into the light, he headed clumsily for the office of Enoch Dwellings, and was rather taken aback when his daughter answered the door.
“What are you doing here?” he snapped.
Lusa put a hand over his mouth.
“Never mind that,” she said. “What in the name of Yowler do you smell like?”
Obegarde looked down at his stinking clothes, as if noticing them for the first time.
“I’ve been in the sewer,” he explained.
“You don’t say?”
“Look, you haven’t told him anything, have you?”
“Well, we had quite a nice chat, and he knows I’m your daughter …”
“Fantastic.”
“Oh, it’s OK; he’s quite nice when you get to know him.”
Obegarde cracked his knuckles.
“You didn’t say anything about the other thing, did you?”
Lusa smiled sweetly, and stepped aside to allow her father entrance.
Fourteen
ANOTHER NIGHTMARE …
… and Curfew awoke for the second time, screaming. For a few seconds, it was an involuntary action, but he soon realized that he was screaming through choice, not pain, and he began to draw in his cries. His temple throbbed: he couldn’t tell whether he’d been unconscious for minutes, hours or days.
His eyelids flickered …
… and the nightmare returned, in vivid detail. It was identical to the one he’d had before: slithering darkness and terrible pits. He fought it this time, and awoke, cold …
The cell was empty.
Curfew stared at his surroundings. One thing was certain: the group that had kidnapped him — assuming it was a group — counted at least one enchanter among its number: no nightmare felt that vivid without magic being involved somewhere … even Duke Threefold’s skeleton had disappeared: another dream-induced illusion from his cruel and twisted captors, no doubt.
Curfew checked his body for wounds, but found no sign of even superficial damage. He smelled though, and his clothes had turned from finely fitting garments into sweat-drenched rags.
However, it appeared that he was now unchained, and his bonds and gags had disappeared. Had they, in fact, existed at all? A wall of frustrated confusion was building up inside him.
Struggling to his feet, Curfew staggered over to the heavy oak door and attempted to pull himself up using the thick bars on the door’s small hatch.
“H-help me,” he cried, to the accompaniment of a sudden eruption of cruel laughter. He turned around and slumped against the door, allowing himself to slide despairingly to the ground. The laughter stopped, and silence reigned for a time. Then came the drip …
… drip …
… drip from the moss-covered roof of the cell.
“Somebody help me,” he managed. This time, the words were spoken softly, to himself …
… and they were answered.
At first, Curfew thought that he had imagined the sound: a kind of tiny, far-off echo. However, as he moved around the wall, listening desperately for any sign that he’d been right, the sound became clearer.
Having reached the far corner of the cell, he stopped, crouched and listened again.
“… ere?”
There was no mistaking it this time; the voice was there; fractured and distant, but there.
Curfew reached down and scraped at the wall; his fingers worked away several thick patches of moss and a clump of grass that was concealing the outflow of a small drainage pipe.
The viscount lay flat on his stomach, cupped a hand over his mouth and called into the pipe:
“Is there somebody else there?”
There was a moment of silence, then a voice replied: “What, you mean apart from me?”
Curfew started, reeled back from the pipe.
“Who is this?” he called.
“Who is this?”
“I am Viscount Curfew, Lord of Dullitch. And this is?”
Nothing.
Curfew cleared his throat. “And this is?” he repeated.
“Yes?” came the voice. “I’m waiting …”
“For what?”
“For you to introduce me!”
Curfew frowned.
“To who?”
“To your cell-mate!”
“I don’t have one; I’m on my own in here!”
“But you said ‘and this is …’ so I thought there were two of you in there!”
“Oh … right, well there isn’t.” Curfew rolled his eyes; he’d obviously stumbled upon an absolute lunatic. “Anyway, as I was saying, I am Viscount Curfew … AND THIS IS?”
“Are you schizophrenic or something?”
“NO, DAMN IT! I’m just trying to find out who YOU ARE! Is it really that difficult to tell me your name?”
There was a momentary pause, before the voice returned.
“I’m Innesell,” it said.
Curfew muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?” inquired the voice.
“I said: THAT’S FAIRLY OBVIOUS,” Curfew called. “But what is your name?”
“I just told you; my name’s Innesell! Look, I know it’s kind of a funny handle in my present situation, but even so, a name is what it is: there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Your name is Innesell?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“YES. I’d have to be right on the verge of madness to make something like that up, wouldn’t I?”
“Hmm … I suppose so.” Curfew thought for a moment. “What do you do, Innesell? Are you a member of the nobility?” He asked the last question very doubtfully.
“No,” came the expected reply. Then: “I’m a baker’s assistant. Why did you think I was a noble?”
Curfew brought his mouth closer to the pipe.
“I didn’t; but you reacted strangely when I told you I was the Lord of Dullitch, so I thought you might be another noble.”
“I didn’t react at all!”
“That’s what I mean; people tend to gasp when I’m announced.”
“Oh right. Sorry; it’s just that I knew you were down here; I’ve heard them talking about you.”
“Really? Who are they? What did they say?”
“Nothin’ much; just said you were one hell of a swordfighter. Hey, are you really Viscount Curfew?”
“Yes.”
“THE Viscount Curfew?”
“Uhuh.”
“Wicked Viscount Curfew?”
“Ye — eh? What do you mean, ‘Wicked’? I’m not that bad!”
“From what I hear, you’re an absolute nightma —”
“Yes, well, anyway … how did you end up down here?”
There was a brief pause in the conversation.
“Well?” the viscount prompted. “What happened to you?”
“Forget it, lordy; ’sa long story.”
Curfew sighed.
“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “If there’s one thing it looks like we’ve both got a lot of, it’s time …”
There was another pregnant pause.
“Well, if I’m lucky I suppose I may have,” mumbled the voice, uncertainly. “But unless there’s more than one Viscount Curfew down here, I’m pretty sure they’re planning to kill you at midnight.”
Fifteen
“ALL I’M SAYING,” OBEGARDE started, “is that if we pool our resources, we stand a better chance of getting to the bottom of this …”
“Ha!” Dwellings exclaimed. “And I suppose us, pooling our resources involves us telling you everything we know, while you tell us the bundles of nothing you’ve managed to find out?”
“Hey! I’ve got vital infor —”
“Nonsense! How could you know something that I don’t — I’m your source, aren’t I?”
Obegarde stared at his feet for a second, then at his daughter and, finally, back to the
detective.
“She told you, didn’t she?” he said.
“You mean about the sneaking into my office and stealing all my cases? Oh yes, yes she did.”
“Are you angry?”
“Oh no, not at all. In fact, we’re over the moon about it, aren’t we, Wheredad?”
The big assistant glared at Obegarde and muttered his disapproval.
“Look,” said the vampire, his pale face beginning to flush. “I’m sure we can work something out …?”
“That all depends,” said Dwellings, casually. “First, I want to know anything you think you’ve found out about the viscount’s kidnapping — don’t even pretend you didn’t know about it — and then, I’d like to ask your daughter out on a date.”
Obegarde and Wheredad turned startled stares upon Dwellings, but their combined shock was as nothing to the look on Lusa’s face.
“He’s not my keeper!” she said, exasperated. “Couldn’t you have just asked me yourself?”
The detective shook his head.
“Less embarrassing this way,” he said.
“For who?”
“For you — I mean, me; well, both of us! Anyway, what’s the answer?”
Obegarde shrugged.
“I suppose —”
“NO!” Lusa cut in.
Dwellings swallowed a few times, then shook his head.
“No?” he said, his brow creased. “That’s your answer? No?”
Lusa folded her arms. “You heard me.”
“But, why? What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing particularly, I just don’t like you very much.”
“Oh.”
The silence hung in the air like poison, filling everyone with a sudden, intense need to study the walls.
“Right,” said Dwellings, now so red that his face resembled a beetroot. He turned back to Obegarde. “What do you know about the case?”
The vampire clenched his fists, digging his long fingernails into his palm to stop himself laughing.
“I tried to sneak into the palace,” he said.
“And?” prompted Dwellings, ignoring the combined stares of the others.
“And I wasn’t the only one. There was a shapeshifter in the sewers; he got in way ahead of us and stole —”
“I knew it! I just knew that one of them came back! A shapeshifter, you say?”
“Yes, he stole —”
“What kind?”
“A snake, but —”
“At least now we know the sort of scum that we’re up against.”
“Yes,” said Obegarde, patiently. “But if you’d just let me fin —”
“This doesn’t fit,” said Dwellings, rubbing his chin, thoughtfully. “In fact, it makes everything much more complicated!”
“Well, that’s why you should let me help you …”
“You? After what you’ve done? Ha! Forget it!” Before the vampire could protest, Dwellings spun around and marched determinedly from the room, Wheredad trailing after him like an obedient bloodhound.
“Shame,” said Obegarde, turning to his daughter with a devilish grin on his face. He winked at her. “I didn’t get a chance to tell him about the ring I found in the sewers.”
Part Three
The Tracker
One
LUNCHTIME FOUND ENOCH DWELLINGS and his bumbling assistant stalking through a narrow street in downtown Dullitch.
“Nice of him to give us some information, though,” Wheredad reflected.
“Ha! He didn’t have a choice.”
“You think you could’ve forced him to tell you things if he didn’t want to?”
“Hmm … frankly, yes. I’ve handled a good few vampires in my time. Don’t you remember the one that was infesting Karuim’s Church?”
“That was a bat, Enoch.”
“Ha! It still drank blood, didn’t it?”
“Er … well, I don’t know about that, but it certainly gave people a nasty bite.”
They walked in silence for a while.
“So where else is the great Parsnip Daily supposed to hang out?” Wheredad inquired, stepping around two ogres who’d already parted for Dwellings and didn’t look like they were ready to repeat the courtesy. “I mean, we’ve already searched the Ferret and Furrier’s. Where else is there?”
“Mo Jangly’s Gambling Pit,” the detective replied. “But I’m postponing the search for Parsnip; there’s somebody else I want to talk to first; somebody who always knows the goings-on in Dullitch and never fails to give ’em to me straight.”
“Oh?” said Wheredad, feigning ignorance. “Who’s that, then?”
“Stoater. I really don’t know why we didn’t go to him first: you know he sees everything.”
“I’ll never understand why you don’t just call him the matchstick man; I mean, it’s not like there’s another one in Dullitch …”
“I call him Stoater for the same reason that I call you Wheredad; it’s his name. Besides, you’re only bringing up the subject because you can’t stand the fellow.”
“Nobody can, Enoch! He’s an obnoxious little creep.”
Dwellings slowed a little, and turned to his colleague.
“It’s not his fault he got cursed: he used to be —”
“Oh please: I’ve heard the story a thousand times!”
“Tell me, Wheredad, is there anybody in this city that you actually like?”
“Hmm … does —”
“… your mother count? No, she doesn’t. I’m talking about other people.”
Wheredad muttered something under his breath and the two men walked in silence for a time. Eventually, they arrived at Dwellings’ intended destination.
Thicket Alley, reputedly the most enchanted piece of land in Dullitch, was a complete mystery to Wheredad and, despite the amount of times Dwellings went there to consult his “Eye on the Street,” Wheredad could never find the place alone. He strongly suspected that the alley didn’t stay in one place, though Dwellings always vehemently denied the suggestion.
He hurried to keep up with the detective, who had stopped some ten meters ahead and crouched down on his haunches.
Dwellings glanced back over his shoulder and motioned to his assistant to approach silently. Wheredad obliged.
The detective then sat, cross-legged, beside the mouth of a short, horizontal length of drainpipe, and knocked several times on the pipe itself.
“Stoater.”
Silence.
A second knock followed, louder this time.
“Stoater; are you in? It’s me, Enoch.”
Still nothing.
Dwellings rolled his eyes, and brought his mouth level with the drainpipe opening.
“Listen, Stoater, I know you’re in there, and if you don’t come out this instant, I’m going to wee into the other end of the pipe.”
There was still no sign of movement from the pipe, but a little voice, high-pitched and clearly audible, said: “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Let’s see, shall we?” said Dwellings, reaching into his pocket for a flask of tea. Unscrewing the cap, he poured a measure of milky liquid into the far end of the pipe …
… and a matchstick hurried out of the opposite end. It looked like any one of a million matchsticks available in small packets all over the city, with one noticeable difference: it had a tiny human face where the match-head should have been.
It looked livid.
“Eewugh! That’s sick, that is. What the hell’s wrong with you people? Isn’t it bad enough that I was changed into this? I used to be —”
“A blacksmith. Yes, Stoater, we know.”
“Well, then … a little respect wouldn’t go amiss. I could still give you a nasty burn, if I came at you from the right angle.”
“Of course you could.”
Dwellings secreted the flask about his person, and grinned down at the matchstick man.
“We need some help, Stoats.”
The matchstick man made a face.
“I’ve told you before, Enoch, I can’t get you a girlfriend. You have to do these things for yourself.”
Dwellings’ face turned red, then proceeded through black and purple before any pink patches re-emerged.
“I don’t need a girlfriend,” he snapped.
“Hmm … well, you might not, but I’ve got a date in twenty minutes, so make it quick …”
Dwellings boggled at the creature.
“You? You have a date? What with, a roll-up?”
“Hey, don’t insult me, Dwellings, I still have human thoughts, you know. As far as women are concerned, I look for the same thing you do …”
“A pulse?” Wheredad ventured.
Stoater erupted in squeals of laughter, but Dwellings glared at his assistant.
“Can we get back to the matter in hand?” he snapped, returning his gaze to the matchstick man. “Listen, we need to know the word on the street.”
“Nah. Bog off!” said Stoater, angrily shaking a tiny pink stub at the detective. “Who do think you are, Dwellings? You come down here with your fat monkey, knock seven bells out o’ my pipe, you try to flush me out by widdling into my kitchen and then you insult me? Give me one good reason why I should tell you anything?”
Dwellings folded his arms and thought for a moment.
“I think you should tell me all you can,” he said, pursing his lips. “Because I really feel like a cigarette right now and, not being a regular smoker, I don’t have a tinderbox with me.”
“Oh, death threats now, is it?” said Stoater, gloomily. “Nice. Always pick on the little guy, eh?”
“SO TELL ME!” Dwellings snapped.
“No!” The matchstick man shook his head. “I really don’t see why I should. After all, I told you about that business with the three tanks, didn’t I? And what about that cartload of dwarves that dished into the river last summer; who was it told you the actual address of the nutter that cut the reins? And I ask you, what do I get for my trouble? Half a ruddy drainpipe to live in … and two dried biscuits from your tea cupboard.”
Dwellings Debacle Page 9