Yowler Foul-Up

by David Lee Stone

  “He’s your friend. You must know where he hangs out.”

  Jimmy shook his head. “Thieves aren’t like that,” he said. “They only come to you when they need something, and I’ve already done Grab a favor, remember?”

  The barrowbird flapped a bit, then appeared to reach a decision. “You’ll have to go back to the tavern,” it squawked.

  Jimmy shrugged. “It’s a long shot.”

  “Do you know any short ones?”

  “No.”

  “Then get movin’!”

  TWENTY

  VISCOUNT CURFEW SIGHED DEEPLY. “I take it you have some bad news, Spires?”

  His royal secretary paused in the doorway, unsure of whether he should risk an entrance. “Wh-why do you say that, lord?”

  “You only come to see me on such occasions.”

  “Oh, I …”

  Curfew raised an eyebrow. “Well? Do go on.”

  “Um, right, er, the fact is, that, in fact, the point being …”

  “Quickly, please. Before one of us dies.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course. What would you like first? The atrocious end of the news or its abysmal beginnings?”

  “Start with the atrocious and work your way backward. That way you have at least a thirty percent chance of survival.”

  Spires closed the door to the chamber behind him and took a seat on the base of a marble plinth, clearing his throat in the process.

  “A short while ago I fired one of the scribes, a young lady by the name of Lauris.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Um … the palace grounds, sir.”

  “No, you idiot, what grounds did you have to fire her?”

  “Oh right, I see. Well, our people were watching her for some time, and I knew, at second hand, of at least three activities that she could have been fired for, but I actually caught her signing import orders.”

  “Import orders? For what?”

  Spires scratched nervously at his arm. “Machinery, sir. Tin, iron; some enchanted bronze too, if I recall; all sorts of nonsense. Unfortunately, she burnt the paperwork shortly before we confronted her, and now we can’t find out where she stored these … supplies. Wherever it was, they’ve probably been moved on by now.”

  “And the girl?”

  “She disappeared, sir. The spies observed that several palace-stamped scrolls disappeared at around the same time.”

  “Why on earth wasn’t she fired before?”

  “Well, the fact is, Excellency, she did a lot of very positive things for us.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, um, trade deals and the like. In fact, it was Lauris who found out about your new statue and suggested that we have it moved down from Spittle to put in the cit—Why are you looking at me like that, Excellency?”

  “Never mind. It just seems curious then that she made such a nuisance of herself. It doesn’t really add up, does it?”

  “No, Excellency. Not at all.”

  “And now she’s probably up to something dodgy with our stamped scrolls, no doubt. What use would they be?”

  The servant took a deep breath. “No use whatsoever inside the city, Excellency. As for foreign powers, well, I expect she could send a few bogus war declarations, but nothing any of the major cities would take seriously without a herald to back it up.”

  “So no threat there, then. How long since she vacated the palace?”

  Spires fidgeted nervously on the little platform. “Approximately two weeks, give or take a day,” he said.

  Curfew shut his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “And you only thought to tell me about it now?”

  “Um, I didn’t want to alarm you, Excellency.”

  “Is that right? I’m assuming you’ve taken steps to find this girl?”

  “Of course, Excellency. We hired an investigator to track her down; we thought it might be better to work quietly so as not to attract undue attention.”

  “Has he turned up anything?”

  “Yes and no, Excellency, yes and no. He called at her house on North Street, aiming to search for some clue as to her whereabouts, but when he arrived, he found a gnome torching the place.”

  Curfew’s expression twisted into the half smirk of the intrigued. “A gnome.”

  “Yes, Excellency, a gnome.”

  “And did he capture this gnome?”

  “No, the report says that he made no attempt to do so. He suspected that if he followed this gnome, then maybe it would lead him to Lauris herself.”

  “Hmm… a fair conclusion, I suppose. Is that all?”

  “No, milord. The whole thing has become quite a bit more complicated. Mr. Obegarde, that’s the investigator, he’s been asking questions up at City Hall, and they say that this gnome is the caretaker at Karuim’s.”

  Curfew’s expression suddenly froze. “That’s a Yowler building, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Excellency, which is why I thought it best to tell you about all this in the first place. We might have a real problem, here.”

  “I see.” The viscount rose from his chair and, marching over to the window, stared out at the steeples of the great church. “This girl, this … Lauris. You must talk to everyone in the palace who worked with her, Spires,” he said. “Friends, enemies, rivals, I don’t care who they are, I want a complete report of her history. We need to know if she has or had any connection with the Yowler Brotherhood. Leave no stone unturned!”

  The secretary bowed low and hurriedly vacated the chamber, leaving the viscount to his thoughts.

  TWENTY-ONE

  MODESET AWOKE TO FIND himself in a crate. His eyes ached, and drums beat a steady rhythm inside his head. He moaned, brought a hand to his chin, and wiped away a crusted mixture of blood and spittle.

  I’m a duke, he thought. I’m royalty! They can’t get away with treating me like this! I’m off to the palace, and Curfew will have to listen this time because I’m family and because I’m of the blood! Someone’s going to have to pay; someone like that elf, someone who, someone … SOMEONE GET ME OUT OF THIS BLOODY CRATE!

  He aimed both feet at the lid and kicked frantically, elbowing the sides for good measure. Just when he was beginning to make some headway, he heard the faintest hint of a whisper. At first, he thought it might be the wind, but then, ever so slightly, the volume increased.

  “Stpt.”

  Modeset strained to listen.

  “Opit—”

  “What? Is someone out there?”

  The next time the voice spoke, it was clearly audible. “Stop it,” it said. “Stop wriggling. Don’t move another inch.”

  “What do you mean, ‘Don’t move another inch’?” screamed Modeset. “Help! Get me out of here!”

  “Quieten down!” said the voice, increasing in urgency. “The dockers are patrolling tonight and I can’t handle all of ’em. Stay quiet and they’ll pass.”

  “Tonight? You mean I’ve been in here all day? Damn that troll!”

  “Shh! Listen, you don’t know where you are.”

  Modeset fidgeted inside his prison. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “I’m in a crate.”

  “Okay,” the voice continued. “Let’s put it another way. You don’t know where the crate is.”

  There followed a few seconds of expectant silence.

  “Why?” asked Modeset, voice quavering. “Where is it?”

  “Roughly? About twenty-five feet off the ground. So stay still.”

  A brief scuffling ensued and Modeset suspected that he heard a rope being winched. There was a sharp creak, and suddenly he felt the crate move in the air. After a time, it swung left, leaving him with an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. Then, slowly at first, it began to descend.

  “Okay,” said the voice. “Let’s get this off.”

  The head of a crowbar bit into the wood and the lid of the crate was wrenched clear. Modeset pulled himself up and looked out at a dark shadow. His eyes traveled from shiny black boots to a that
ch of jet-black hair that crowned the shadow in all its menacing glory. Recognition dawned very gradually.

  “It’s you! Why are you dressed like that?”

  The loftwing looked down at himself. “I always dress like this,” he said. “It’s part and parcel of the job. If I don’t dress like this, people won’t recognize me. Now, may we dispense with the pleasantries?”

  Modeset frowned and nodded, before a fist like bunched steel sent him careering back into the crate.

  Obegarde stepped forward and pulled the duke up again. “I thought I told you to keep your nose out of this,” he snapped, supporting Modeset by the base of his chin. “What is it with dukes? I’ve known a few, and you’re all the same. You go gallivanting around on the merest whim, sticking your noses into every kind of trouble, as if the world owes you a favor. Well, if I remember rightly, Dullitch certainly doesn’t owe you any favors.”

  Modeset wriggled free and shook his head. “It’s not what you think,” he said, still in shock and spitting blood with every second word. “I got here by accident.”

  “A likely story.”

  “No, it’s true. This afternoon, after I got arrested—”

  “You?” Obegarde’s half-smile came as a definite relief. “How did you get arrested? Parked your carriage over a trade route or something?”

  “I punched a guard,” Modeset managed.

  “Really? I’m impressed, but that still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here. … ”

  “Yes, well—”

  “And you’ve only got five minutes until I lose my famous kind streak.”

  The duke tried to explain.

  Obegarde pretended to listen.

  “Well,” Obegarde said, when Modeset had brought his tale up to date. “Now you’re here, you might as well see what it is our friend doesn’t want me to find.”

  He took a step back and gestured behind him.

  Modeset squinted into the darkness and shrugged. “I don’t see anything.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure! There’s nothing there! I know because that’s the way I came in. If there was a crate standing on its own, I’d have seen it.”

  Obegarde’s grin stayed right where it was. “It’s not a crate,” he said. “Look again.”

  Modeset stared hard at the wall of the warehouse, except that it wasn’t the wall of the warehouse. It was the back of something. Something huge.

  “Ye gods!” he cried. “What is it? It’s enormous.”

  “You’re telling me,” said Obegarde, scratching his granite forehead.

  “I must have walked right past it!”

  “So did I, three times. For some reason, you just can’t comprehend it at first.”

  “But what in the name of the gods is it?”

  The loftwing shrugged. “A machine of some kind,” he said. “It’s camouflaged to blend in with the warehouse wall. The Harbor Master’s an elf, so there’s no way he doesn’t know about it … which leads me to believe that the owner of this monster holds sway over at least one high-ranking member of the Mariners’ Consortium.”

  “It’s glowing,” remarked Modeset, taking a step back.

  “Yeah, it does seem to do that, on and off,” said Obegarde. “At a guess, I’d say it’s part magic and part machine. There’s a lens on the top, a lever on the side, and tubes all over the pace. It’s got me puzzled, I don’t mind admitting.”

  Modeset narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like the look of it,” he said. “There’s something inherently destructive in the shape. Who do you think owns it? Your rock-thrower?”

  “Could be, could be,” said Obegarde, nodding. “He visits it every night. That’s what first led me here. And he always brings a book. Does nothing with it, mind. It’s almost as if he just brings the thing so he doesn’t have to leave it at home.”

  Modeset nodded. “Odd. Well, um, how am I going to get out of here, exactly?”

  The investigator grinned. “You’re not,” he said. “You’re gonna come with me while I break into the Harbor Master’s office. I need to see if there’s any record of this monstrosity in the holding log.”

  The first kick wrenched the cottage door from its hinges, the second sent it crashing to the floor.

  “I thought you said the dockers were watching this place,” Modeset whispered.

  “They are,” said Obegarde with a shrug. “That’s why I knew we wouldn’t have any trouble getting in.”

  “I’m sorry I—”

  “Dockers generally aren’t too bright. They’re big and slabby, but not too quick on the brain trigger.”

  The Dullitch Harbor Master’s office was a bit of a dump; Modeset couldn’t see for anchors.

  “Here we are,” called Obegarde, clambering over the desk to study the heavy logbook. “Hmm, recent entries … Aha!”

  Modeset kept watch, peering around the fractured door like a nervous whippet.

  “Interesting,” said the investigator, scratching his concrete chin.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Well, you need two signatures to legally deposit a crate, especially when it’s unlikely to leave the city. The machine is logged in as Herman’s Stare. There’s a brief disclosure note signed by one Augustus Vrunak, address in upper Dullitch. The other signature’s too blurry to make out, but the address is definitely Karuim’s.”

  “The church next to the palace?” Modeset asked.

  “Hmm … my last stop, I think. Night’s almost over.” He looked up and saw Modeset backing out the door. “Hey! Where’re you going?”

  “Home!” said the duke. “And it’s no use you trying to stop me; I’m tired and I want to get some sleep.”

  Obegarde rolled his eyes. “You’re joking, right?” he said. “Besides, I need some help here; you might as well just come with me. We’ll both head back to the Steeplejack when we’re done.”

  “No!” Modeset shook his head. “I’m off now. None of this has anything to do with me. You can go wherever you like.”

  “Okay, okay” said the investigator. “But you are involved now, whether you like it or not, so can you at least do me a favor?”

  The duke sighed. “That depends; what kind of favor? Does it involve me dressing up, spending time in a confined space, or becoming embroiled in a street fight?”

  “No.” Obegarde shook his head and passed him a small square of paper torn from the logbook. “Check out this Vrunak fellow for me.”

  “What, now?”

  “Not necessarily. Get your precious sleep; you can go tomorrow morning. Here’s the address.”

  Modeset was about to decline, but when he saw the look on the loftwing’s rugged face, he thought better of it.

  TWENTY-TWO

  THE ROTTING FERRET WAS bustling with activity. Chas Firebrand’s decision to sell the subterranean inn to a family of goblins from Phlegm had seemed a disastrous one on paper, but Frowd Fjin was certainly a greenskin with talent. In a little over five years, he’d turned the place from an oft-avoided fighting pit into a respected nightclub, complete with orc bouncers, elf waitresses, and even a troglodyte cabaret group.

  Jimmy was miserable; he’d been waiting at the inn for hours, and there was not even the merest hint of a sign of Grab Dafisful. Worse still, he knew that the barrowbird was waiting outside and, no matter how many ingenious ways he might invent to leave the Ferret, his feathered curse would eventually catch up with him.

  “So, let me get this straight,” he muttered to the gnome, who’d taken a seat beside him and promptly ordered a round. “You’re saying that you can smash the green bottle above the bar, third along on the right, without anyone knowing it was you? Get out.”

  Mixer waved him into silence. “A crown says I can, a drink says I can’t.” Done.

  The gnome then quickly produced a small but intricate-looking crossbow, then lowered his head and fired off a shot, thrusting the weapon under the table before the merest hint of breaking glass.

  �
��Oi!” bellowed the landlord, a swarthy half-ogre. “Who did that? We’ll have no such sport in ’ere!”

  Jimmy turned, mouth still agape, to stare at the gnome. “Drinks’re on me, then,” he said. “Incredible. Just incredible.”

  Mixer shrugged. “You think that’s impressive?” he started, drawing closer to the gravedigger and lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I can make the bells of Karuim’s toll without even touching them.”

  “Rubbish; now that is impossible.”

  “Ha! That’s what Grab said this morning. He’s laughing on the other side of his face now!”

  “Grab? Not Grab Dafisful, the thief?”

  “Yeah, the very same. Why, d’you know him?”

  “Know him? He … er … he owes me fifty crowns!”

  Mixer’s tiny eyes lit up. “Oh, it’s you he owes!” The gnome tapped at his shiny brass teeth. “He said as much; just between us, he’s hiding up on the roof of Karuim’s Church. I met him this morning when I was doing some routine maintenance work for the council. In fact, I’m due back there in a minute. D’you fancy joining me? You can have a word with Grab and then we can see who takes this incredibly fine piece of weaponry home. What d’you say?”

  Jimmy, ever the sucker for a gamble, took the proffered weapon in his hands and looked it over. It was made of Chakiwood, the poisoned bark of the Red Lime Tree. Rare; expensive. It had to be worth at least a hundred crowns.

  “You’re on,” Jimmy agreed, passing the crossbow back to the gnome with a nod.

  “We’ll call it a deal, then,” said Mixer, staring dispassionately at the barmaid as she delivered their long-awaited tankards of ale. “Unless you want to start small; I can’t imagine a fellow like you has too much gold.”

  Jimmy tried to keep a straight face, which was difficult with a mug like his. One thing everyone in the city knew about Jimmy, apart from the fact that he used to be a thief and was reasonably good with a shovel, was his marked annoyance at anyone suggesting that he was penniless.

  He raised one eyebrow and tried to focus on the Rotting Ferret’s rowdy clientele.