Kill him, thought Modeset. Please, do us all a favor. Leap across the table and rip his throat out.
Obegarde smiled, but said nothing.
“I’m sure Mr. Obegarde would rather not discuss his business at the dinner table,” Modeset interrupted, glaring with intensity when he saw the look on Pegrand’s face. “Client confidentiality, and all that.”
There was a general murmur of agreement, and a few smaller pockets of conversation rippled between the staff and the innkeeper.
Eventually, the innkeeper struggled to his feet and shuffled off toward the kitchens. Modeset made a gesture for Pegrand to follow suit, but the manservant had nodded off. Flicka collected the crockery instead. The atmosphere, which had been hovering over the table like a big black cloud, finally lifted.
“Sooooo,” said Obegarde, prolonging the word until everyone still conscious was out of earshot. “Where is it, then? This message that was so obviously meant for me?”
Modeset frowned. “I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh don’t bother with all that rubbish,” snapped Obegarde. “I read your mind.”
There was a moment of silence.
“Very well,” said the duke, keeping one eye on the little wooden door to the kitchens. He put a hand inside his tunic and produced the roll of parchment.
Obegarde snatched it from him. “Good,” he said. “Now, I’d appreciate it if you forgot the contents.”
He finished chewing on his chicken leg and tossed it onto a plate heaped high with leftovers.
Modeset shrugged. “I confess I’m quite intrigued,” he said. “It doesn’t sound as if the chap’s too interested in talking.”
Obegarde got to his feet. Modeset was surprised at the size of the man. Somehow, one expects vampires to be thin and gaunt. Obegarde looked like an athletic ogre.
“There’s more to it than that,” he said. “And, with respect, none of it’s any of your business, your lordship.”
Modeset was slow to nod.
“Nice to have met you,” said Obegarde. He stood, returned to his original seat, and pulled on his overcoat. “Thank Grumpy for the meal, will you?”
He turned and swept from the room, coattails billowing out behind him.
Modeset watched the vampire go, and swallowed. Betrayed by my own mind, he thought. Whatever next?
“Mmmff, Morris! Where’s the cauldron?” said Pegrand still immersed in his dream. He woke with a ghoulish yawn and stared about with sudden panic. “What? Where’d I go?”
“You drifted off, Pegrand,” said Modeset, finishing his wine. “Happens to the best of us.”
The manservant managed a lopsided grin.
“Ah, sorry about that, milord,” he said. “Did I miss much?”
“Nothing,” the duke replied, lowering his wineglass onto the tabletop. “Nothing at all.”
EIGHT
MIST WAS DESCENDING ON the streets of Dullitch, swirling around the ancient lampposts and lending a mysterious haze to the normality of midnight. In the cemetery, a light flickered between the gravestones, becoming more and more erratic as the wind began to pick up. Someone was digging.
Jimmy Quickstint scooped up a generous pile of earth with his rusty shovel, struggling to keep the tool level while countless grains poured over the sides in a brown avalanche. Then, employing a deft flick of the wrist, he spun the shovel one hundred and eighty degrees, depositing the dirt on a growing pile beside the plot. An old weather-beaten lamp perched jauntily over the grave.
Several scoops later, gasping with a mixture of relief and exhaustion, Jimmy Quickstint drove the shovel hard into the dirt, embedding it in the soil so deeply that it remained upright. He mopped his sweating brow with the sleeve of his overalls and looked up at his superior.
The old man was sitting on the grassy bank nearby, filling a dingy brown pipe with small shags of rough tobacco. He went through this same routine every night, regular as clockwork. It was one of the man’s many habits that drove his apprentice insane; that, and the fact that he never actually seemed to do any work.
“Finished,” Jimmy called over the lip of the open grave.
“Aye,” came the short reply.
“Should I climb out now?”
“Aye.”
“Should I drown in a pool of my own blood?”
“Aye.”
Jimmy rolled his eyes and, after a number of unsuccessful attempts, managed to struggle out of the hole and roll onto level ground.
The old man finished binding the seal of his tobacco pouch with string, and stowed it safely away in the confines of his grubby overcoat. Finally, he seemed to notice his apprentice crouching on the ground before him, gasping for breath by the lungful.
“’Ave you reached ol’ Clifford?” the old man asked, scratching the fast-receding hair beneath his flat cap. “If you have, you’ve gone too far.”
Jimmy looked about in bewilderment. “Come again?” he managed.
“I said, “’Ave you reached old Clifford?’”
“Who’s Clifford?”
“Him what’s buried down that there hole.”
“No, sir. This is the grave for Mr. Flunk, due in tomorrow. Remember?”
“Aye, and that’s as may be, lad, but that there plot is already occupied. You prob’ly ’aven’t gone down far enough.”
Jimmy looked back into the open grave from which he’d just emerged and shook his head in amazement. “You mean there’s someone already down there?” he gasped.
“Aye,” the old man confirmed. “’As been these last fifty year or so.”
“But, but what about Mr. Flunk? The priests told his family he could go in here!”
“Aye, I know. That’s why we gotta get Clifford out, see?”
Jimmy swallowed, struggling against the odds to force back the horror of the situation. “How long has this been going on?” he said.
The old man cocked his head to one side. “Oh, we ran outta room down here a long while back.”
“How long? My uncle was buried in this cemetery!”
The old man waved him down in an attempt to restore calm. “Now, don’t you fret none, young’un, your uncle’s prob’ly still a restin’ right where you left him.” He sucked in his scraggly lower lip. “An’ when was that?”
“About five years ago,” said Jimmy, tapping his foot impatiently.
“Ooh, now le’ me see, right around the time of—yes, I ’spect he’s a few bodies down by now, but he’ll be there, right enough.”
“A few bodies down? A few bodies down? You mean you’re burying people one on top of another after what my aunt paid? It’s a disgrace.” Jimmy screamed, marching off toward the cemetery gates. “That’s it! I’m out of here. You can find yourself another slave!”
NINE
MORNING ARRIVED, ANOTHER MURKY one.
Apart from the Diamond Clock Tower on Crest Hill, Dullitch Palace was easily the largest and most impressively placed structure in the city. The building itself was falling to pieces; though, on a superficial glance from the gates, it retained much of its original grace and beauty (something that, sadly, couldn’t be said of the guards).
“What do you mean ‘He doesn’t want to see me’?” Modeset exclaimed. “I’m his cousin, for goodness’ sake. I’m here at his request! I’m royalty!”
“The viscount is busy with matters of state,” said the sentry, an aging, thickset elf with crooked teeth and more scars than the tooth fairy (the citizens of Dullitch didn’t like to let go of anything).
“He’s not seeing anyone until the trade war with Legrash is sorted out.”
“There is no trade war between Legrash and Dullitch!” the duke snapped. “It’s just an excuse to fob off the citizens, and I know that because I invented it! I demand entrance now!”
The duke made a move to step past the guard, and found his way barred by a heavy iron pike.
“What’s this?” Modeset demanded. “A peasant uprising?”
“I ain’t no peasant,” said the guard. “And the only uprising round here’s likely to involve you on the end of this.”
He indicated the pike head and widened his grin. “Some of us haven’t forgot the last time you occupied the palace,” he added.
Modeset took a step back, shouldering Pegrand aside in the process.
“Don’t let ’em talk to you like that, Lord M!” yelled Flicka, nudging the duke forward with a bemused smile on her face. She’d followed the dynamic duo around the city for the best part of a morning and was now thoroughly sick and tired of the duke’s attitude. As far as she could see, it was no use looking down on people who weren’t looking up.
Modeset, however, was thinking along the same lines. So far, he’d received the type of hospitality usually reserved for barbarian invaders. What happened to people forgiving and forgetting? At the very least he’d expected a fanfare at Modeset’s Fort, a guardhouse originally opened in his honor.
The palace was the last straw. Modeset was beginning to lose patience.
“Pegrand,” he said. “You’re supposed to be trained in self-defense, aren’t you? Teach this insolent fool a lesson he’ll never forget!”
The manservant, who’d been retrieving part of the guardhouse biscuit from his teeth with a grimy fingernail, looked suddenly taken aback. “I can’t use self-defense unless I’m bein’ attacked, milord,” he said sheepishly.
Modeset looked astounded. “Don’t be ridiculous, man!” he said. “You have to bring preemptive measures into play, don’t you see? Provoke the situation! The only way you’re ever going to need something like self-defense is if the aggressor comes straight at you, and the only way to ensure that is by hitting him first: like this!”
The duke sprang forward and glanced a blow off the guard’s chin. Although lightweight, the punch caught the elf completely by surprise and he flew back, knocking into the portcullis control mechanism. Guards ran in every direction, displaying the sudden panic of men who’d been prepared for mass invasion for so long, they’d actually forgotten what to do in the light of any minor trouble.
The portcullis slammed down.
The guards stopped running, and looked around.
Two blurred shapes were fast receding over the newly erected Gatehouse Bridge. The guards looked at one another, and then they were off, kicking up dust behind them.
Flicka watched the chase until all had disappeared into Palace Street, then she began to follow at a leisurely pace.
TEN
MODESET HAD NEVER RUN so fast in his life.
Heart pounding, arms pumping, and limbs screaming in submission, he raced along Palace Street as if the entire Dullitch Army were after him. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t hear and, thanks to the wind, he could only see faint blurs through the watery haze of his tears. More important, though, he was seriously beginning to enjoy himself.
The pair had been together up until the junction of Royal Road. That’s where he’d lost Pegrand. A backward glance had seen the manservant shin up an oak tree in the front garden of a rather elegant cottage.
Boots pounded the cobbles.
Modeset peered over his shoulder and saw that the elf guard he’d punched was leading the pursuit. The enraged, slightly dazed expression on its face suggested that the elf’s job description hadn’t included taking physical abuse from down-on-their-luck members of the nobility.
The market was in full swing. Modeset made for a tightly packed group of spice stalls on the east side of the square.
On his way past the first stall he grabbed a bowl of blue dust and threw it wide. The bowl spun in the air, spewing a curtain of dust over the front line of guards and two Orcish spice merchants who just happened to be in the way. They waved their fists and shouted gruff obscenities at Modeset but, mercifully, in a dialect he didn’t recognize.
Energy waning, the duke ran on, never daring to look behind. He knew that the elf was still in pursuit because of the rhythmic clanking noise its armor made as it ran. Modeset thought that it sounded like an ancient war wagon about to give up the ghost. As if in answer to the thought, the clanking ceased. And the duke made a cardinal mistake: he slowed and turned around.
The elf guard, having suddenly propelled itself into the air in a desperate, last-ditch attempt to catch up, brought Modeset down in a single striking movement.
They rolled over and over on the ground. Despite Modeset’s frantic struggles, the guard clearly had the situation well under control. It leaped to its feet and dragged the duke up after it.
“You wanted to see the viscount, right?” it said. “Well, now you’ve got your wish. You can see Lord Curfew immediately. In chains.”
The punch wasn’t hard, but it caught Modeset completely unawares and knocked him to the ground.
The guard muttered something under his breath and, hefting the duke onto one shoulder, headed back to the palace. On the way, he was stopped by a rather attractive young lady who asked him directions to the market square. He was in the process of describing an ideal route, when she suddenly brought her knee up between his legs and caught him a chop across the back of the neck as he dropped the duke. He didn’t remember much after that.
Modeset woke up running. Still groggy from the elf’s punch, he felt Flicka running beside him, her arm wedged under his shoulder as support. He was about to congratulate her on the rescue when she suddenly propelled him through a shop doorway so fast, he hit the counter headfirst and almost knocked himself out again. She quickly hurried in after him and slammed the door, ducking down as a group of guards bolted past the window.
Modeset dug his fingernails into the counter and dragged himself to his feet. They were in a toy shop, and the watchword was clutter. Every shelf was packed with rocking horses, dollies, teddy bears, and wooden soldiers.
The shopkeeper was so small that Modeset at first mistook him for one of the toys. Modeset had been walking along the counter when an arm shot out to greet him.
“Ah! Welcome to my shop. Would you like a teddy bear?”
Modeset declined the handshake. “Not particularly.”
“How about a dolly for your daughter?”
“She’s not my daughter and, no, thank you.”
“Wooden horse for the young lady?”
“We don’t want anything,” Modeset snapped, still watching out for the militia.
“Then what did you come in here for?”
“We came in to get away from the guards,” said Flicka, stepping up to the counter.
“You’re criminals, then!” said the shopkeeper excitedly. “I have just the thing!”
He disappeared behind a small curtain at the back of the shop, returning with his arms full.
“This is a magical dolly from Phlegm. Highly illegal and terribly dangerous in the wrong hands, it excretes acid, is highly inflammable, and also explodes in water.”
“That is the most despicable thing I’ve ever heard of,” Modeset snapped, snatching the doll from the shopkeeper’s outstretched arms and slamming it down on the counter. “You sell life-threatening toys in this shop? During my reign, I’d have had you hanged for that.”
“Your reign? Oh goodness, yes. I thought I recognized you. We do carry stuffed rats, your lordship.”
“How amusing.”
“What does the teddy do?” asked Flicka, pointing to the small brown bear under the little man’s other arm.
“Ahh, now this is Sven, a very magical toy indeed, and not at all dangerous. In fact, if sorcery weren’t banned in Dullitch, he’d be perfectly legal. Sven, you see, has an answer for everything.”
“Hmm, I remember Sven,” Modeset started. “Those were all the rage in Fogrise a few years back. They give you the same stupid answer each time. I think it’s usually ‘I’m a happy bear,’ or something similar.”
“Not this one,” whispered the shopkeeper. “Try it for yourselves if you don’t believe me!”
Flicka looked the bear up and down. “How does i
t work?”
“Simple! Ask it a question and then draw out the string. It will talk until the cord runs out.”
Flicka took the bear, ignoring Modeset’s protests, and put her finger through the loop. Then she said, “How much is that doggy in the window?” and let go.
The bear’s voice was clear but strangely disquieting. It sounded like a death rattle, and spoke in one long, narrowing breath.
“It’s-a-toy-shop-and-there-is-no-doggy-in-the-window-but-if-there-were-and-I’m-not-for-a-second-suggesting-that-there-is-then-it-would-probably-be-one-with-a-waggly-tail.”
“That’s incredible!” said Flicka, hugging the bear and turning to the shopkeeper with a pleading grin. “How much is it?”
“Fifty crowns. …”
Modeset snatched the bear from Flicka’s arms and drew out the cord. “Why are you so damned expensive?” he inquired.
“You-pay-for-quality-in-this-life-so-don’t-waste-my-time-pal-there-are-kids-out-there-who-need-answers.”
Modeset boggled at the toy and, incredulous, turned to the shopkeeper. “Do you know what I think?” he said. “I think these toys were perfectly ordinary to begin with and then you came along and made despicable alterations to them.”
The shopkeeper shook his head emphatically and reached for the bear, but Modeset lifted it beyond his grasp.
“I’ll take these two,” he said. “And I warn you, there’d better not be any more of them.”
He gave the bear and the dolly to Flicka, and had just finished paying for them when the door of the shop flew open and a number of heavily armed militiamen poured in.
ELEVEN
VISCOUNT CURFEW DIDN’T SMILE very often. This fact would have come as no great surprise to the palace clerks: having seen the contessa they were amazed he managed it at all. Lady Curfew had an angular face that came complete with jutting jaw and a forehead which kept her feet dry. She also had watery eyes and thick lips, and something about her stance always gave people the impression of bad indigestion.
Yowler Foul-Up Page 3