Dwellings Debacle

by David Lee Stone

  Dwellings shook his head.

  “That wasn’t enough?”

  Stoater shrugged. “Well, it’s not exactly a win at the races, is it?”

  “Look, just help us this one last time,” said Wheredad, who really despised the matchstick man for the constant abuse he and Dwellings had suffered each time they called at Thicket Alley. “And then we promise never to call on you again.”

  “Yes,” said Dwellings, keeping both fingers tightly crossed behind his back. “And you can have another biscuit from the tea cupboard?”

  “Oh, please, give me a break with the biscuits, will you? I’ve still got half of the last one you gave me, and that’s with two platefuls at every meal.”

  “Look, you little woodchip, are you going to help us or not?”

  “I might. What is it you want to know? You trying to find out who took out Marble Cole?”

  “No.”

  “You’re after the gang that did Denbreaker the Half-ogre?”

  “NO! We want to know —”

  “Who kidnapped Viscount Curfew?”

  Wheredad and Dwellings exchanged a significant glance before the detective indicated the accuracy of the guess.

  “Thought so,” said Stoater, arrogantly. “All that other stuff, I was just playin’ with ya.”

  “So,” Wheredad prompted, cracking his knuckles and fighting the urge to grab the little beast and strike him off the brickwork, “who did kidnap the viscount?”

  “Dunno,” the matchstick man admitted, but Dwellings smiled because he recognized Stoater’s usual tendency to pause before the floodgates opened. “Out of towners, though, and they def’nitely weren’t takin’ no chances. Three of ’em came in on a cart; two shapeshifters an’ a rogue of some sort. They split up at the North Gate and the shifters continued in the cart while the rogue scaled the walls and came in over the rooftops. He carried a Jenacle banshee in a box: I know it was a Jenacle because a tabby mate of mine saw him stabbing it in the palace kitchens, then a ferret I used to play cards with found the body in a trash can near Widdlers Alley. Anyway, I’m gettin’ off the point: word has it that a Guard Marshal on the outer wall spotted the rogue an’ darted ’cross the city in order to try to cut him down. Unfortunately, he had no hope: the bloke was a real pro. The group did the dirty, nabbed Curfew and left in two carts, sometime after ten: a crow that I know on the palace roof reckons they put Curfew in the vegetable cart ’cause the gate guards’re familiar with it and wouldn’t check. They needn’t have worried, though: the gate guards were gamblin’ and no one stopped ’em anyway. Apparently, one of the shapeshifters came back this morning, dumped the vegetable cart and disappeared. Then a cockroach mate o’ mine saw him steal a horse on Market Street: he prob’ly left the city on it.”

  “Hang on a minute,” Dwellings interjected. “I’m trying to find out what happened to that vegetable cart on the night of the kidnapping, after the group had left the city: I’m assuming they dumped it once they were beyond the walls?”

  Stoater scratched himself, chipping off a tiny splinter in the process.

  “Doubt it: a fox I know on the road to Crust told a cursed sparrow who used to be one of my regulars that he saw a vegetable cart tearing through the Gleaming Mountains at one hell of a speed.”

  “And after that?”

  “Not a thing: sorry.”

  Dwellings smiled up at Wheredad before returning his attention to the matchstick man.

  “Anything else, Stoater?”

  “Er … well, it was def’nitely a well-planned job, but rumor has it that the three of ’em came from somewhere up north. Funny thing is, they would have to o’ been here for a few days to do a decent scout of the palace, but they definitely didn’t stay in the city: must’ve gone for a place outside the walls.”

  “That everything?”

  “Yep.”

  Dwellings nodded, beside himself with awe at the little matchstick man’s unrivaled knowledge of city activity.

  “I don’t suppose …” he began, then hesitated.

  “What?” said Stoater.

  “Well, we’re looking for a tracker called Parsnip Daily. We know the sort of places he hangs out, but we don’t know what he —”

  “Short, scruffy, silly hat with weeds growin’ out of it. You can’t miss him, though you will if you don’t get to Jangly’s Pit pretty sharpish; he usually calls it a day ’bout now.”

  Dwellings grinned.

  “Thank you once again, Stoater. I don’t know how you do it …”

  “Easy,” came the screechy reply. “The trick is to talk to everyone, even if they don’t seem keen to talk back. Take rats, for example; rats get everywhere and see everything, but does anyone think of asking ’em for information? Do they heck as like. If someone had just talked to those fellas during the Ratastrophe, a whole lot of fuss could’ve been avoided. I’m serious; if I had half a crown for every rat that’s seen a murder, I’d be, what, six or seven crowns poorer than I am now?”

  Wheredad squinted at the matchstick man as he tried to work this out, but Dwellings was already making his way back to the mouth of the alley.

  “They made a fatal mistake,” the detective was saying to himself, when his big assistant drew level with him.

  “Mmm?”

  Dwellings grinned.

  “The idiots should’ve switched carts again outside the city, and dumped the vegetable cart! Instead of that, they take it to their hideout and then BRING IT BACK to us! All we need to do is track the wheel-tread!”

  “Er … yes,” Wheredad managed. “Isn’t that what I said earlier?”

  Two

  MO JANGLY’S GAMBLING PIT was a hot and sweaty hive of swift, underhanded activity.

  Parsnip Daily stood at the wall-bar, watching the two men on the balcony of the pit watching the no-one-is-that-lucky gnome at the fortune tables. As soon as they spotted what he’d spotted — the foot pedal and the tiny mirrors on both toecaps — the afternoon would become a lot more interesting.

  Parsnip lit a fat cigar, then remembered he’d found the thing on the floor of the pit and promptly coughed half his lungs up.

  “You shouldn’t smoke,” advised a passing stranger.

  “I don’t,” Daily called after him. He looked down at the lighted stick in his hands; only the gods knew where he’d found it.

  He sighed deeply, and stubbed the cigar out on the surface of a nearby table. That was the problem when you suffered memory loss and blackouts, you couldn’t … you couldn’t …

  Parsnip Daily shook himself from his reverie, and returned his attention to the man with the donkey in the corner of the room. Hmm … had he been watching a man with a donkey?

  When someone tapped Parsnip on the shoulder, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

  Enoch Dwellings emerged from the smoke.

  “Parsnip Daily?” he ventured.

  Parsnip looked both ways before answering.

  “Might be,” he said, slyly.

  “Look, you either are or you aren’t: it’s a definite answer I’m after.”

  “OK,” said Parsnip, evenly. “Then I definitely might be. What do you want?”

  “I need you to track someone for me.”

  There was a moment of hesitation.

  “Why me?”

  “Because you’re the best tracker in the city.”

  “Am I?”

  “You don’t KNOW?”

  “Well, no, I didn’t, but then I’ve got this problem, you see …”

  Recognition suddenly dawned, and Dwellings smiled knowingly.

  “Ah, yes: I know all about your … er … your memory thing.”

  “What memory thing?”

  “You know; the stuff about your not remembering who you are, where you’ve just been …”

  “Am I like that, then?” Parsnip sniffed the air, doubtfully. “I thought I just suffered the odd … er …”

  Dwellings waited a few moments, then said: “Lapse?”

&nbs
p; “Yeah, that’s it. The odd … er …”

  “Lapse?”

  “Yes, got it in one.”

  “No, Mr. Daily. You have a serious memory problem; one that is as annoying as it is unfortunate.”

  “Well, fine, but I reckon you’re totally wrong about that …”

  “Wrong about what?”

  “Er …”

  “Exactly.”

  There was a pause.

  “Well, if I really have got a memory problem,” the tracker continued, “then how come I remember you from a few minutes ago?” Dwellings smiled.

  “You do?”

  “I do what?”

  “Remember me?”

  “OK.”

  “What do you mean ‘OK’?”

  “I mean OK, I’ll try to remember you.”

  “No! Look …”

  The detective rolled his eyes, and took one of his regularly necessary deep breaths.

  “I’m going to start again, Parsnip,” he began. “And I want you to listen very carefully …”

  “Why should I?” said the tracker. “Have we met?”

  Dwellings briefly toyed with the notion of committing suicide, then thought better of it and tried again: “How do you normally remember things?”

  “I don’t,” said Parsnip, decisively. “I forget them.”

  “I know that, but what about the big things, like where you live and what your name is, etc.?”

  “Oh, I write all that stuff down.”

  “Thank goodness,” said Dwellings, fighting mental exhaustion. “Do you think you could write down everything I’m about to say?”

  Parsnip nodded and reached into his coat, producing a thin stick of lead and a grubby old notebook.

  “Right,” he muttered. “Go ahead.”

  “OK, you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “I, Enoch Dwellings, need you, Parsnip Daily, to meet me at the palace in half an hour.”

  Parsnip began to scribble furiously in the book. After a few seconds that felt to Dwellings like a few hours, he looked up and smiled.

  “All done.”

  “Very good. Right, I’m off to get some horses — I’ll see you at the palace, OK?”

  Parsnip nodded at Dwellings, who turned and began to walk away.

  “Hey!” the tracker yelled after him. “Come back here: you forgot your book!”

  Oblivious, Dwellings hurried outside, where his patient assistant was waiting for him.

  “Wheredad,” he snapped, grabbing the big man’s arm. “I need you to give me twenty minutes to find some horses, then meet me at the palace. Bring Daily with you; he’ll never remember by himself.”

  Wheredad said nothing, but he nodded and took a seat at one of the outside tables. Parsnip Daily, indeed; sometimes, he seriously doubted his employer’s sanity.

  Three

  THE PALACE WAS PRACTICALLY deserted when Dwellings arrived, disheveled and miserable, in the front courtyard. He hadn’t managed to find a single stable open and, worse still, he didn’t like the look of the weather.

  Wheredad raised a hand in greeting when he saw Dwellings approach.

  Parsnip Daily was already crouched down beside the cart tracks, staring hard at the muddy imprint.

  “How’s he doing?” Dwellings whispered, creeping up to his assistant.

  “All right,” Wheredad conceded. “I bought him two pints at the Ferret and, funnily enough, it seemed to help clear up his memory problem. After that we went to the yard and studied the wheel-tread on the vegetable cart, then we came straight here.”

  Time passed, and the duo waited patiently for the tracker to make an announcement of some sort.

  A crow landed nearby, and Wheredad aimed a kick at it.

  Time passed …

  Parsnip pursed his lips and squinted at the ground, then looked up at the darkening sky and, finally, back to the cart wheel imprint.

  “Well,” said Dwellings, exasperated by the prolonged silence. “Do you recognize it?”

  Parsnip nodded.

  “Oh yeah, not a doubt in my mind … that’s a cart track, all right.”

  “Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. Your skill simply takes my breath away. OF COURSE IT’S A BLOODY CART TRACK. I told YOU that, remember?”

  “Yeah, but I’m saying that it’s a cart, as opposed to a coach, see? The tracks are different.”

  “I see. Well, that’s very impressive, Mr. Daily, but it doesn’t help us much, does it?”

  “Oh, right. So, what do you want to know, then?”

  Dwellings prayed to the gods for strength.

  “I want to know if you see the same tread that you saw on the wheels of the vegetable cart a while ago … and, if you do, I want you to track it,” he said, trying not to look at Wheredad’s amused expression.

  Parsnip stared at the tracks he’d been studying.

  “That’s ’em over there: third from the left.”

  “And you can follow them?”

  “No problem,” said Parsnip, merrily. “You can track anything. Or, at least, I can. Mind you, it’ll cost ya.”

  “Money’s no object.”

  Parsnip nodded.

  “Right you are, then. We’ll call it a hundred and fifty crowns.”

  “Done,” said Dwellings, before his assistant had time to argue.

  The two men shook on the deal.

  “Okey-dokey,” Parsnip said, clapping his hands with sudden enthusiasm. “What’re we trackin’, a cart or a coach?”

  “You can’t be serious,” Wheredad muttered, eyeing the tracker with disbelief.

  “Oh, I assure you, he is,” said Dwellings, dejectedly. He turned back to Parsnip. “OK, Mr. Daily, now listen up: I’m going to make things much simpler for you. I don’t want you to talk, I don’t want you to think, all I want, MISTER DAILY, is for you to follow those cart tracks, third from the end … or I will kill you. Do you understand that, MISTER DAILY?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How about now?”

  “Still understand.”

  “Very good. Then if I were you, I’d move myself …”

  The tracker nodded and buttoned his coat, then put his head down and began to walk against the wind. Dwellings quickly followed after him, and motioned for Wheredad to do the same.

  Surprisingly enough, Parsnip Daily didn’t wander from his chosen path; it seemed that, contrary to all the evidence, when his mind was actually fixed on one specific idea, it didn’t waver. Dwellings made a mental note of the fact in case it might prove useful in further dealings with the man.

  Time passed …

  He and Wheredad followed the tracker out of the palace gates, around Oval Square and along North Street. For one heart-stopping moment, Dwellings actually thought that Daily might have lost the cart’s tracks at the top of North Street, but the tracker quickly pointed east and veered off along Royal Road. He eventually came to a grinding halt at the mouth of the Market Place.

  “What is it?” said Dwellings, hurrying up to the tracker when he realized that Daily had stopped dead. “Have you lost the trail?”

  Parsnip shook his head.

  “No,” he said simply.

  “Well?” Dwellings exclaimed, deliberately ignoring the breathless puffs and pants of his lagging assistant. “What’s the problem?”

  Parsnip shrugged noncommittally.

  “Trail goes outside the city,” he said. “I just wondered if you wanted to pick up those horses … and get my money.”

  Dwellings and Wheredad shared a significant glance.

  “Besides,” Parsnip continued, “if we’re going to track the thing, surely it’s best to track it to its source?”

  Dwellings’ eyes lit up.

  “You really think you can?”

  “Oh, I reckon so. Might be a long trip, though; ’cause if I’m any judge, cart wheels with this tread were only knocked out near Crust way.”

  “Didn’t we think the lad on the veg cart was probably from Crust?�
�� Wheredad hazarded.

  Dwellings nodded, gravely.

  “We did.” He turned back to the tracker. “Daily, I need you to continue to follow those tracks — and listen, this is very important — try not to think of anything else while you’re doing it.”

  “’Sfine,” said Daily, sniffing. “I never do; tracking is my thing, remember?”

  “Yes,” said Dwellings, trying not to think of how he’d had to remind the man that he was a tracker in the first place. “Wheredad will stay with you. I’m going to get some reinforcements and meet you outside the city, assuming you’ve got that far by the time we catch you up. OK?”

  “Reinforcements?” Wheredad grumbled. “Do we really need any?”

  Dwellings boggled at him. “What if we find those responsible for kidnapping Lord Curfew? Do you seriously think you and I would be able to tackle whatever it was that took him, when an entire guard force couldn’t get the job done? Ha!”

  “So who’re we going to get to come with us? A handful of those bonehead guards from the palace?”

  Dwellings shook his head.

  “No, of course not!” he said. “We’re looking for brave, heroic individuals who are willing to go to great risks for Lord and Country.”

  “In Dullitch?” muttered Wheredad. “Good luck.”

  Dwellings said nothing else; he’d already thought of the perfect candidate, but there was absolutely no way on Illmoor that he was going to ask him …

  Four

  ENOCH DWELLINGS LOOKED DOWN at his feet, then up at the wall and, finally, straight at the vampire.

  “So that’s the story,” he said, trying to stop his wandering gaze straying toward the creature’s annoying, curiously attractive daughter. “I don’t want or need you to join me on this endeavour but, as you said before, you do owe me a favor, so I’ve decided to call it in immediately.”

  “Sounds fair to me,” said Lusa, quickly. “Do we get a share in the glory?”

  Dwellings and Obegarde both turned to regard her at the same time.

  “What?”

  “WHAT?”

  “Well,” the girl continued. “Do we both get to share in the praise if we actually find the viscount and return him unharmed?”