“Read this for me, p’ease.”
“Certainly, Mr. Teeth.”
Gordo had managed to extract a hundred crowns from the tournament’s treasurer; his day was only slightly marred when Gape decided he wouldn’t accept his share.
“What’d you mean, ‘that’s not enough’?” he snapped as the barbarian slowly shook his head.
“I mean exactly what I said, Gordo. You’ve given me forty-eight crowns; the agreement was for FIFTY.”
Gordo sighed and slapped two more crowns into the warrior’s open palm. “Just remember that we’re allowing you to join us, not the other way ’round.”
Gape nodded and leaned close to the dwarf. “And just you remember which brother you’re dealing with,” he snarled. “Groan and I may share the same father, but the similarity ends there.”
Gordo sneered at the warrior, failed to shove him aside, and waddled around him instead. When he’d made his way back to where Groan was standing, he was shocked to see the barbarian deep in conversation with one of the Phlegmian soldiers. The man was showing Groan a scrolled painting of some kind.
“What’s going on here?” Gordo asked, glaring at the soldier with barely disguised malice. “I’m only away five minutes and you’re already mixing with the enemy.”
“I ain’t mixin’,” Groan bellowed, turning the scroll around so that Gordo could get a good look at it. “I’m in love.”
“Who’s that?”
“That,” intoned the solider, “is Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Phlegm.”
Gordo shrugged. “She’s nothing special.”
“Are you joking?” Groan exclaimed. “She’s the bes’ lookin’ woman I ever saw!”
“Get out of it; my mother’s prettier than her.”
“Your muvver’s bald.”
“Yeah, and?”
Gordo shook his head in disbelief. “You’re actually considering it, aren’t you?” he said. “You really think that girl’d look at you twice?”
“Not once she’s seen me,” said a voice, and Gape snatched the scroll from Groan’s fumbling fingers. “Felicsataris Trumidia, a woman of unspeakable beauty.”
“Oi!” Groan echoed. “Stuff off out o’ it; I saw her first.”
“Yes, well you’d have to, because if she saw you first, she’d run a two-minute mile. Ha-ha-ha-ha!”
The soldier, who’d been grinning slyly ever since the girl had led Groan over to him, cleared his throat. “I know,” he said. “Why don’t you both apply? That way, I can arrange for you each to spend a day with the princess before the list of applicants becomes too … crowded.” He glanced down at Gordo. “You can bring your gnome, by all means.”
“I’m a dwarf!” Gordo snapped. “And I’ll bring my bloody self, if I’ve a mind to.”
“I should hurry, if I were you,” the solider concluded, calling over one of his subordinates and politely reclaiming the portrait from Gape. “After all, opportunities such as this seldom come along every day.”
Two
“NEWS, MILORD!”
The drafty corridors of Phlegm Keep’s east wing echoed as Pegrand hurried along, stopping at each gloomy portal in an effort to locate the duke. They’d been secret guests of King Phew’s ever since the meeting in Shadewell, in order to “insure” that the plan proceeded smoothly.
Pegrand soldiered on. He eventually found Modeset in a small chapel behind the library, tossing scraps to his insane terrier. The dog in question, whose name (as well as its nature) was Vicious, looked as if it would happily rip the duke’s throat out but couldn’t be bothered to muster the effort. Pegrand steered well clear of it.
“News, milord!”
Modeset didn’t take his eyes off the dog, but nodded slowly. “Did you know, Pegrand,” he began, “that this keep has a shark-infested moat?”
“Er, no, milord, but—”
“Isn’t that wonderful? I swam with sharks when I was a boy, you know. My father’s lagoon was full of them: he used to drop me in it from time to time—”
The manservant gasped. “What? You mean, on purpose?”
“Oh, he was only messing about.” Modeset chuckled. “He loved me, really, it was just his way. Funny thing was, I’d be swimming around for hours, and none of the sharks ever went for me. I can just see my father’s face now, screwed up in disbelief, when I casually climbed out after a good afternoon’s breaststroke. Now, you were saying?”
“Milord?” Pegrand took a moment to compose himself. “There’s some important news,” he said.
“Yes, I had gathered that. What type of news, exactly?”
“Well—”
“You know that if it’s bad news, I don’t want it …”
“Yes, milord.”
“I’m serious, Pegrand. One more ‘unfortunately,’ and you’re fired.”
“Right—”
“Please take that threat to include all I regret to inform you’s and you’re not going to believe this’s. Are we clear?”
The manservant rolled his eyes and nodded. “Yes, milord, but it’s good news.”
“Very well. If you’ll wait for just one moment …”
Modeset turned his head slightly, eyes still fixed on the dog. Then he took two deep breaths and lunged sideways, snatching the animal up by the scruff of its neck mere seconds before it exploded in a fit of gnashing teeth and flying spit.
Motioning for his servant to open a large cage at the far end of the chapel, Modeset crossed the floor, struggling to keep hold of the raging fur ball, and deposited his pet in its holding pen, slamming the door shut and clicking a fat padlock over the bars. Then he wrapped a tissue around his bleeding arm and collapsed into a nearby pew.
“Pegrand, you may begin.”
The manservant paused for a moment before mumbling: “You know, I think I’ve forgotten what it was, now …”
“Get on with it!”
“Yes, milord; just a little joke, there. Um … we’ve had a message from King Phew. He says that Groan Teethgrit and his brother have swallowed the bait.”
Modeset raised an eyebrow, his lips on the brink of a smile. “They’ve both applied to meet the princess?” he hazarded.
“Yes, milord. Apparently, they’re both on the way to Phlegm.”
“Alone?”
“Well, yes, milord, apart from the dwarf.”
Modeset nodded. “We always knew he’d be part of the equation. King Phew has made all the … preparations?”
“Yes, milord. His herald says both men will be well entertained, and each’ll be given a day to spend in the princess’s company. Then they’ll go to the arena to see which one gets to propose.”
“All as it should be,” said Modeset, tucking in the edge of his impromptu bandage.
Pegrand hesitated in the doorway, looking momentarily doubtful. “What if they kill each other, milord?”
“A bonus,” said Modeset quickly.
“And if they don’t?”
“If they don’t, Pegrand, then good King Phew can begin to put the rest of my ingenious plan into action. Now, be so kind as to fetch dinner.”
“Er … yes, right away, milord. I’m afraid it’s grit ’n’ pebble soup again, though. They seem to go in for that a lot here.”
Modeset let out a deep and painful breath. “If there’s nothing else, Pegrand,” he sighed, “I’ll be in the archivist’s suite, reminiscing about better times.”
Pegrand nodded. “I get the hint, milord. Dinner won’t be long.”
There came a small, embarrassed knock on the door of the Phlegmian archives.
The custodian of the archives, an ancient man in full possession of his considerable faculties, looked up from a dusty, leather-bound tome and wondered whether he’d imagined the sound. After all, no one had visited the archives in what seemed like an age.
Silence. Then, again: knock, knock.
The archivist rummaged around on the table for his spectacles and, upon locating them, struggled to his feet.
“Come in?” he called.
The door opened a fraction, and Duke Modeset stuck his head through the gap. “Excuse me, but I wondered whether I might trouble you for a moment.”
The archivist nodded his head, discharging a torrential mixture of dust and dandruff. “Of course, of course!” he spluttered. “The archives are free for everyone to enjoy. Please, be my guest.”
Modeset nodded and slipped through the door, pushing it closed behind him. The room was filled from floor to ceiling with books, and when the elderly archivist motioned for his guest to occupy a seat, it took the duke five minutes to identify one. Eventually, he brushed a pile of scrolls from a suitable-looking stool, and took his rest.
“Now,” the archivist began, peering at Modeset over the top of his spectacles, “what exactly are you looking for?”
The duke hesitated for a moment, then smiled. “I understand you have records here for Crestwell.”
The archivist clapped his hands. “Of course! We have details of every priest to have served under—”
Modeset shook his head. “Not the cathedral,” he said. “The school.”
There was a moment of stony silence.
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose that information to anyone except select members of the nobility.”
“I am Duke Modeset, Lord of Fogrise and former ruler of Dullitch and its environs.”
The archivist looked suddenly flustered. “Oh, I’m so sorry, milord! I didn’t recognize—that is, I’m afraid that I don’t see very well these days.”
“Never mind,” Modeset said. “But if I may—”
“Of course! Um … I need to, that is, could I possibly examine your seal?”
Modeset nodded, producing his hallmark from a breast pocket and proffering it to the old man for closer inspection. The archivist eventually handed it back and began to waddle over toward one of the giant volume stacks in the far corner of the room.
“An old pupil, lordship?” he muttered, lifting the top three books and placing them on the floor beside the pile.
“Yes,” Modeset muttered. “Unfortunately, I am.”
The archivist chuckled. “All the great families were,” he said. “That’s the thing about Crestwell, isn’t it? Its famous pupils divide neatly into the great and the terrible of today.”
Modeset made an uncomprehending face behind the old man, but said nothing.
“What year?” the archivist asked, narrowing his stack pile down to eight grubby books.
“Nine hundred and eighty-five.”
“House?”
“Razors.”
“Oh, dear me, really?”
Modeset ignored the archivist’s sudden intake of breath, and nodded.
“Yes, really.”
“Very well, then. Here it is! The notes below each name are mine. You understand: I do so like to keep things up to date.”
The archivist tottered back to the duke and deposited a heavy book in his lap. It was open at the correct page.
Modeset allowed himself a smile as his gaze spilled over the text:
CRESTWELL SENIORS:
LEAVING YEAR 985 HOUSE OF RAZORS
OZRYK, SHELMETH
[became Earl of Beanstalk 991, died, 993 (poisoning)]
CURFEW, RAVIS
[heir to the throne of Dullitch, ascended following Duke Modeset’s expulsion from the city, 1002]
SAPP, VADNEY
[heir to the throne of Crust, disappeared in mysterious circumstances, 995]
DIVEAL, SORRY
[trained as a sorcerer in Shinbone, then went bad and tried to destroy the town: fled when reinforcements arrived from Crust. Disappeared, 1001]
VISCERAL, VORTAIN
[trained as a sorcerer in Shinbone, then ascended to the throne in Spittle, 990; found religion and helped to banish sorcery as a legal pursuit in Illmoor]
BLOOD, VIKTARR
[crown prince of Legrash, took the throne shortly after leaving Crestwell, 986]
MUTTKNUCKLES, JIVE
[heir to the Barony of Sneeze. Left Crestwell, then ran away when his father died, in 987, and had to be dragged back and chained to the throne in order to rule. Has enjoyed a reluctant (but peaceful) reign]
Modeset swallowed as his eyes found the last entry on the page:
MODESET, VANDRE
[heir to the throne of Dullitch, ascended to rule the capital in 986, following the death of Duke Edwyn Vitkins (uncle), but was firmly ejected during the infamous “rat catastrophe” in 1002. Currently in disgrace, though rumored to be a sure bet for the “complimentary” chair of the Great Assembly. Owns an ancestral home in the district of Fogrise, but remains the only living lord without a city.]
Modeset read the last line through twice before slamming the book shut, his eyes welling up as the truth of the statement bit into his soul. The only living lord without a city. How had it come to this?
Modeset shut his eyes, ignoring the archivist’s incessant chatter, and tried to focus on the positives. As far as he could determine, he had three things going for him: a loyal manservant, a plan to rid the continent of an unwanted menace, and … and … and a healthy dog. The rest would come. He would rule again. As his father so often used to say, an opportunity would present itself …
Buy The Shadewell Shenanigans Now!
THANKS TO:
MY MOTHER, BARBARA ANN Stone, who watched me craft this book and prizes it above all others. My girlfriend, Chiara Louisa Tripodi, the rock of support to which I regularly anchor. Thanks also to Anne McNeil, who’s lived in Illmoor almost as long as I have; and Joanna Solomon, who ably assists her. Finally, I must mention the legendary Irish comedian, Dave Allen, my first inspiration in the world of comedy writing. From the age of eight I listened to Dave describe life in his own inimitable style: nobody did it better. Dave, I’m glad you’re still at large—this one’s for you! (I’d also like to thank Susan Williams for obtaining Dave’s permission to mention him here!)
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2003 by David Lee Stone
Cover design by Mauricio Diaz
Cover Illustration by Bob Lea
978-1-4804-6148-2
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
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