Yowler Foul-Up

by David Lee Stone

  Eventually, when the Ultimate Goal was achieved, he’d move somewhere smaller. Still, that was a long way off, and many parts of the mistress’s plan still needed to be realized. Nobody had heard from the lizard thief, yet, and he’d been gone for weeks! Oh well … that was definitely not his problem.

  The gnome closed the book and stowed it away in the wall, pulling the old, half-rotted dresser in front to conceal it. Then he returned to his little stool and gazed down at an area of the table containing an inkwell, a feathered quill, and a box. This, he reflected, shouldn’t be too difficult.

  He was certain that Obegarde, the loftwing who’d been following him for two, maybe three days was either from or employed by the palace. Unfortunately, his research hadn’t turned up much more than a name, but then, an official palace employee wouldn’t be shacked up at a coaching inn.

  Hmm … a freelancer, then; some sort of investigator. He grimaced at the thought. This was disastrous! How could they possibly have found out? Mistress Lark had worked at the palace, but it wouldn’t have been her, surely? She was much too smart, far too careful. Well, whatever, someone had let slip. Ha! And they’d had the nerve to call him stupid. All things considered, it was a miracle the group had managed to keep their little secret at all.

  Still, the threat should suffice. He certainly hoped it would, because the loftwing was no minor irritant. If the creature found out enough to make a report, he had the potential to ruin everything. It just wasn’t fair; he’d been so careful!

  What to do, what to do …?

  First things first: the old inventor. Mistress Lark had been very definite about that; he knew too much and was the most immediate threat to the group. Besides, he was long past being useful; the machine was built and it wasn’t likely to go wrong. Even so, assassination was a little harsh. Perhaps he should give the old boy a scare, instead. Then he might leave town of his own accord. …

  Muttering under his breath, the gnome took up the quill and, dipping it into the inkwell, began to write. He folded the parchment into segments, tore neatly along all the edges, and placed a number of blank pieces inside the pockets of a dark cloak he’d stolen, keeping hold of the original piece he’d written on. Then he took the quill and its grimy inkwell.

  There, he thought. That’s just about everything.

  Fastening his cloak about him, the gnome hurried from the hovel. It was going to be a busy night. …

  FIVE

  WHEN MODESET REACHED THE first-floor landing, most of his staff was already out in force.

  Pegrand was dressed in the standard leather britches and scruffy doublet he always wore, hair spilling out from behind his ears while managing to avoid the top of his head completely. Flicka, Hopkirk’s daughter, and the only member of Modeset’s staff still enjoying her twenties, had settled for a pure white robe that made her look more like a sacrifice for Druids than a royal aide. Her long dark hair, pale skin, and delicate elfin features were somewhat marred by the quizzical expression that had camped out on her face since the day she was born.

  The two of them constituted quite a picture. Modeset didn’t think much of the presentation, but then, judging by their collective stare, they were just as disgusted by his choice of formal dress. He couldn’t for the life of him understand why; the armored suit might be old, but at least it wasn’t paid for.

  “Now, this evening represents my first experience of Dullitch hospitality for some time,” he said. “I want everyone to make a conscious effort, and that includes you, Pegrand.”

  “Yes, milord. Got some impressive jokes lined up for the after-dinner discussions.”

  “None of your sledgehammer wit, please.”

  “No, milord. Right you are, then. I’ll keep a zip on the monkey gag until the crockery’s collected. Do we know how many other guests are coming?”

  “Not many, I fear. It’s just us, the landlord, and supposedly one other gentleman. We’re getting special treatment by order of the throne. As I understood it, most of the guests are confined to their rooms until after the meal.”

  “Should be okay, then, as long as they don’t try to dig themselves out. Who’s the jailer?”

  “I don’t find that even remotely amusing, Pegrand.”

  “Sorry, milord.”

  “And how about you, Flicka?” said Modeset. “All ready for your first dinner in Dullitch?”

  Flicka swept back a lock of her long, ebony hair and fixed Modeset with her sparkly blue eyes. “Do I have any choice?” she said.

  “Good, good.” Modeset beamed. “We’ll descend the stairs in single file. Ladies first,” he said. “That’s you, Flicka, just in case there’s any doubt. I noticed Pegrand took a step forward then and, while he undoubtedly has the tongue of a washerwoman, he is by no means a lady.”

  Flicka rolled her eyes and took to the stairs.

  “Mind your head on that candelabra as you go,” the duke called out. “Very tasteful, isn’t it?”

  “Milord?”

  “Yes, okay, Pegrand. Down you go, then. Be sure to announce me as soon as you get to the dining hall … and no silly voices this time, I implore you.”

  SIX

  AUGUSTUS VRUNAK HAD JUST climbed into bed when the doorbell clanged. Nobody else in Dullitch would have had such bad luck, he thought bitterly. And he was right: nobody else in Dullitch had a doorbell. Such was the price of being an inventor in a city that never sleeps. He’d rigged up the device on a rope-pulley system that ran from the entrance door of his cottage to a bracket above his bedroom door.

  He grimaced, swore under his breath, and waited for the small brass tinkle to subside.

  Clank, clink, clink, clink;

  Clank, clink, clink;

  Clank, clink;

  CLANG, clank, clink, clink, clink.

  Augustus scowled. Whoever it was, they obviously had no intention of waiting until the morning to see him. He climbed out of bed, padded over to the window in his slippers, and peered out at the front lawn. Unusual: his mystery visitor had closed the gate after himself. Perhaps it was his sister. She’d spent most of the evening having dinner with him, and he supposed she might have forgotten something.

  CLANG, clank, clink, clink.

  “Okay, for goodness’ sake!” Augustus bellowed. “I’m coming.”

  He pulled a dressing gown over his nightshirt and went downstairs, muttering under his breath. On the way down, he glanced into his stairway mirror and reflected, rather bitterly, that he was beginning to look like a chubby old walrus. Oh well, age tended to do that to you. …

  Odd: the front door was stuck.

  He put all his weight behind his heels and leaned back, but the door just wouldn’t budge. He spat on his hands and tried again, then put one foot against the frame and heaved with all his might. Nothing happened. Either damp had expanded the wood in a ludicrously short space of time or—he hesitated to think of the alternative—somebody else was pulling from the other side.

  The brass bell clanged again, and Augustus suddenly felt extremely cold and alone.

  “Is there anybody there?” he called.

  He looked down. A small square of paper had been pushed underneath the door. There was writing on it. He reached down carefully and picked it up, one eye on the door in case an axe head came through it.

  The paper was perfectly cut, an exact rectangle. He read:

  STAND AWAY FROM THE DOOR AUGUSTUS WE HAVE HOLD OF IT

  His mind raced. The Yowlers? It had to be; they were the only ones with a reason.

  Sweat began to form on the inventor’s brow, and he found himself shivering.

  “What do you want from me?” he called.

  A second sheet was slipped onto the mat. Augustus read:

  DO NOT ATTEMPT TO MAKE A BREAK FOR THE BACK DOOR EITHER WE ARE THERE ALSO AND WILL KILL YOU ON SIGHT

  “But why? I haven’t done anything wrong!”

  He bent down to retrieve the answer. Were they attempting to get to him through his arthr
itis?

  YOU HAVE BEEN TALKING HAVEN’T YOU TALKING TO AN ENEMY OF THE GROUP

  He stood back, thrust his hands into his robe pockets and swallowed. “No,” he said. “I never!”

  BE VERY CAREFUL HOW YOU ANSWER AUGUSTUS

  “There’s no need for that kind of talk. I’m already afraid.”

  YOU SHOULD BE LISTENING WITH INTENT TOMORROW MORNING YOU WILL PACK YOUR THINGS AND LEAVE DULLITCH DESTROY ANY REMAINING EVIDENCE OF YOUR UNION WITH US BEFORE YOU DEPART PLACE YOUR FRONT-DOOR KEY UNDER THE FLOWERPOT

  Augustus cocked his head to one side. “I don’t have a flowerpot.”

  There was a brief pause before the note appeared.

  A FLOWERPOT WILL BE PROVIDED

  “Do I get a plant with it?”

  YOU ARE SKATING ON VERY THIN ICE AUGUSTUS

  “Sorry; didn’t mean any disrespect. Go on.”

  UNDERSTAND THAT AFTER TONIGHT YOU MUST NEVER SPEAK OF THIS EVENT UNTIL THE DAY YOU DIE

  Augustus gave this a moment’s thought. “When will that be?” he asked.

  WHENEVER YOU DECIDE TO SPEAK OF THIS EVENT

  “Ah,” said the inventor. “Now I’m getting you.” He pulled his robe tightly around himself and leaned against the door of his broom closet.

  HAVE WE ESTABLISHED A MUTUAL TRUST DO YOU THINK

  “Yes. I’ll do as you say.”

  YOU ARE A SENSIBLE MAN AUGUSTUS VRUNAK

  Time passed. At length, the inventor put one ear to the door. “You still there?” he called.

  Silence.

  He turned the handle and cautiously peered out into the night. The garden was empty. It showed no sign of having been disturbed, apart from the rusty gate that swung loose in the wind.

  SEVEN

  THE GRAND DINNER TO welcome the return of Duke Modeset began badly and looked like it would be going downhill from there. The innkeeper, a stout man of indefinite age, was unfathomably moody. He mumbled recognizable obscenities under his breath and slammed the dishes down with such fervor that they almost bounced. Moreover, he didn’t bother to introduce the other guest, who arrived late and chose a seat so far from the party, they could only communicate with him by sign language.

  Eventually, after a number of ignored questions and a few embarrassed silences, they managed to discover the root of the innkeeper’s anxiety. It turned out that, despite a promised advance from Viscount Curfew, he had yet to be paid for the party’s stay. The duke spent some time assuring him that the bills would be settled, but the innkeeper seemed utterly disgusted with the group, sneering every time one of them reached for a plate. Modeset fancied that the only thing keeping the innkeeper from turning the group onto the streets was a fear of reprisal from the crown. Consequently, a very uncomfortable meal ensued.

  “Um, I say, isn’t this nice?” Modeset lied. “It’s been so long since I’ve sampled the delicacies of capital cuisine! As I was saying to Flicka, here, I really should get out and see the city again; I’ve almost forgotten what it looks like! She’s young, of course, probably wouldn’t be interested in culture. I doubt if the palace would make the Flicka list of places to see! Ha-ha-ha!”

  “The palace!” muttered the innkeeper. “Now, there’s an idea. Why don’t you all go and bloody stay there?”

  “I’m interested in culture if it involves magic,” said Flicka, bringing a dark veil of silence over the table. “I’ve always been interested in that. In fact, Father got me got this spellbook in Spittle. It’s only theory, of course, but I’ve learned a lot.”

  “Are you interested in anything else, Flicka?” Modeset prompted, trying to drag the subject away from illegalities. “After all, Dullitch is a very big pla—”

  “As a matter of fact I am, Lord M. What about the Yowlers? It amazes me how a city can function with a criminally insane cult thriving beneath it.”

  “Yes, well, enough of—”

  “I mean,” she went on, “apart from the forgers at Counterfeit House, I understand there’s something called the Rooftop Runners, is that right? Thieves and the like, aren’t they?”

  “I’d really rather we didn’t talk about it,” Modeset snapped. “Besides, the Yowlers were born out of an obscure religion, and religion has always been a dicey subject here in Dullitch. I recall a time, not so long ago, when virgins not much older than yourself were chained to rocks and sacrificed for the greater glory of some bizarre god.”

  “I reckon you might be thinkin’ o’ Druidics, there, milord,” said Pegrand.

  “No,” Flicka interrupted. “That’s definitely how the Yowlers started—”

  “I’m telling you, it was—”

  An argument ensued.

  Modeset, practically unconscious with boredom, tried to relieve the monotony by watching the stranger at the far end of the table devouring a salad. The man appeared to be having terrible trouble with his meal, spitting out every mouthful of lettuce mere seconds after forking it in. There’s a fellow with a few problems, if I’m not mistaken, he thought. When the stranger looked up suddenly, Modeset returned his attention to the argument, and was about to interrupt Pegrand’s incessant banter, when a resounding boom from the far end of the table cut through the meal like a rogue scimitar.

  “IS THERE GARLIC ON THIS?” it said.

  The innkeeper leaned around Pegrand to peer over at the stranger.

  “Eh? What’s that you’re saying? Come over here, will you?”

  The stranger lifted his plate and moved several places down the table, nodded and muttered “Evening” at everyone as he took a new seat. He was thickset but looked incredibly sharp; he was also covered in cuts and bruises.

  “I said,” he began, eyeing the innkeeper dubiously, “did you put garlic on this salad?”

  The innkeeper nodded. “A bit, for the flavor. Sorry, I forgot.”

  “Oh, right. Can I have some of this chicken instead, or is there garlic on everything?”

  “Chicken’s fine; fresh from the oven.”

  The stranger reached over to cut off a slice, and almost melted in the heat of Pegrand’s stare.

  I reckon you must be a vampire, Pegrand’s stare seemed to say.

  The stranger smiled pleasantly at the manservant, cursing his own ability to read thoughts at close range. He wondered if, just once, it might work both ways. Why don’t you bugger off and die, you filthy, stinking little piece of excrement?

  Pegrand’s continued grin indicated that his own ability to read thoughts was still a long way off.

  “Yes, I am,” the stranger said, instead. “Part vampire, on my mother’s side, which unfortunately means I’ve just the one fang, I only drink blood when there’s no wine going, and I can’t sleep a wink past midnight. The name’s Obegarde. Delighted, I’m sure.”

  Apart from the innkeeper, who continued to scowl at the empty spaces on the meat tray, every face at the table took on a kind of blank, isolated stare.

  Fantastic, thought Modeset. Not only am I living on promised means at a five-star hotel with holes in the roof, and not only am I the mistaken target for some rock-throwing lunatic with a grudge, now I’m having dinner with a vampire.

  “If it bothers you, I’ll go back and sit over there,” said Obegarde, pointing toward the far end of the table.

  “N-no, nonsense, er, wouldn’t hear of it,” said the duke. “This here is Pegrand, my manservant, and Flicka Hopkirk, my secretary’s somewhat argumentative daughter. I’m—”

  “Modeset,” Obegarde interrupted. “Yes, I remember your reign very well. Lot of rats about, I recall.”

  “Yes, well, have some wine and a few of those grapes. Make yourself welcome.”

  “Thank you,” said Obegarde, trying as hard as everyone else to ignore the innkeeper’s incessant mumbling.

  “I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome,” Obegarde continued. “Some people can be a little hostile.”

  “Doesn’t bother me,” Pegrand cut in. “Part undead on your mother’s side, you say? Isn’t there a name fo
r that? Lowdown or somethin’ similar?”

  Here we go, thought Modeset. Now he’s going to get us all killed.

  “I assume the name you’re thinking of is ‘loftwing,’” Obegarde replied, taking up the wine bottle and emptying it into a clean glass. “But it’s a spiteful word and I don’t find it very flattering. Besides, we don’t have much in common with the dark breed; all of the longevity and none of the class, so to speak.”

  Modeset had practically turned to stone. His thoughts raced to the rolled parchment still concealed in his tunic. So that’s who the note was meant for, he thought. Whoever threw the rock must have intended it for the vampire and thrown it through the wrong window. Interesting.

  Pegrand sniffed and nodded. “Must be a borin’ old stretch for you lot,” he said. “Moochin’ through a hundred lifetimes in the darkness while the rest of us peg out. What do you do with yourself?”

  Obegarde, who’d been looking sideways at Modeset with a curious expression on his face, gave the manservant a sudden, impassive smile.

  “I’m an investigator,” he said. “I specialize in looking for people who don’t want to be found.”

  A number of eyebrows were raised.

  “How d’you know?” said Pegrand.

  “Mmm?”

  “Well, these people you’re looking for. How d’you know they don’t want to be found?”

  The vampire considered this. “Well,” he said eventually. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? I can’t find them easily.”

  “Yeah, but that could just be you.”

  “Ha-ha! Yes, I suppose it could. No, in fact, it’s just a polite way of saying that my job involves a lot of confrontation.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Pegrand. “That explains why you look like you just spent an hour in a dustbin full o’ kittens.”