Ratastrophe Catastrophe (11 page)

“They broke down my door!” yelled Quaris Sands, the Home Secretary, above the fray.

“They’ve demanded we hang you, Duke Modeset!” added another voice.

Pegrand appeared at the doorway, pushed his way inside and slammed the portal. “There’s a rabble outside, milord,” he shouted. “It looks like half the city.”

Everyone began speaking at once.

Duke Modeset raised his hand for silence; to his surprise it worked. “One at a time,” he began, offering the group a reassuring smile. “Pegrand, you first. Why is there a rabble outside?”

“It’s that countrysider, milord,” said his manservant. “Two beggars saw him on Stainer Street and—”

“Doing what?”

“Taking the children.”

Modeset frowned. “What children?”

“All of them, milord. In the night, like a thief.”

“But, how?”

“Same way he got the rats, by all accounts. Played a tune and they followed him.”

“And the militiaman on duty at the time?”

Pegrand swallowed, hard. “Chap named Phelt, milord,” he said breathily. “He fell asleep. I think he’d been drinking.”

“I see,” said Modeset, turning his attention to the rest of the group. “You, with your hand up, you wish to say something?”

Quaris Sands nodded. “I’m afraid that the Yowler churches, as well as several other religious establishments, have issued statements condemning the situation. If matters are not put in order by Friday, there will be repercussions.”

“I see,” said Modeset, solemnly. “Does anybody else have something to contribute?”

“I do,” said Chancellor Quarry. “Understandably, people are beside themselves with distress and confusion; however, there is a third party inciting them to riot.”

“A third party?”

“Yes, milord. A young lad came back on his own, said he’d been under the musical spell, but he hadn’t been fast enough to keep up with the rest. He’s lame in one leg, you see.”

“Hmm…interesting. Did he happen to see where the foreigner was headed?”

“Not really, milord. I mean, only the direction—”

“Right, and can we make any guesses based on that?” asked the duke.

“A few. There’s not many places he could take them without passing through one of the villages, and we’d have heard of that already. Of course, there’s a lot of forest out there, and mountains, I’ll grant you.”

“Your guess then, Mr. Quarry?”

“Well, if it was
me
—not that I’d kidnap a load of kids—”

“Of course not,” said Modeset. “Please continue.”

“But if I
did
, and I wanted to get a ransom or something, I’d go for one of the big mountains. Lot of blind spots, see, caves and such. You could hide an army up there. Mind you, Great Rise is a good day and a half away, so I’d hedge bets against
that
. The Twelve is nearer, and it’s the biggest mountain this side of Phlegm.”

“Right, well, at least we’ve got a few possibles to go on. Now, about the lame boy. Doesn’t it seem strange to you that this lone youth broke the spell
and
returned unscathed?”

Quarry took a deep breath. “Apart from the leg, you mean?”

“You said he was lame anyway!”

“Yes, Duke Modeset, but I just don’t think…”

There was a disapproving murmur from the gathered officials, but Modeset forged on, regardless. “So there’s the chance of a conspiracy between the boy and the foreigner?”

“Um…no…not unless you think he’s intentionally inciting a riot, milord.”

A smile spread slowly across the duke’s face. “Exactly! You see? Now you know what to suggest. I’ll keep an eye on this boy during your speech.”

“M-m-my speech?” stuttered Quarry.

Modeset clapped his hands together and motioned to two of the palace guards. They marched into the fray of city officials and each snatched one of the chancellor’s arms.

“Pegrand,” the duke went on. “Have a scroll nailed to every notice board in the city. There’s to be a public announcement and, soon,” he continued, smiling, “a public execution. Mr. Sands, assemble the council and prepare a statement to satisfy all the parents in Dullitch that their children will be returned.”

Modeset peered over a collection of muttering heads. “I’ll have my breakfast now, Pegrand,” he added.

The diamond clock on Crest Hill chimed eleven.

Quaris Sands, who’d had to stand in for Tambor Forestall when the chairman had failed to arrive, shuffled a ream of parchment and leaned forward across the table. From what little he could make out, only a few members of the council had bothered to turn up. “Right,” began Quaris.

“Go on—”

“Well—”

“Yes?”

“The fact is—”

“What?”

He narrowed his eyes at the troglodyte translator, whom he’d patiently observed at the last meeting. Its long warty nose still dripped a horrid mucus that burned holes in the new oak table and smelled acrid. Quaris stared around the room and noticed that the orc representative was absent. “Where’s that fella you’re translating for?” he asked. “There’s no point in your being here if he’s not present. You might as well disappear.”

The troglodyte smiled. “I’m part of the council now, official-like. I joined yesterday.”

“You can’t be a member,” said Quaris, shaking his head at the little creature.

“The duke’s secretary seemed to think I could,” said the translator, holding something under Quaris’s nose. “He gave me this scroll. It’s signed and everything.”

“So it is,” said Quaris, with a defeated sigh.

“So I’m a member now, right?”

“It would appear that is the case.”

“My mum’ll be proud. She always wanted me to go into politics. I remember when I was little she used to say—”

The chairman closed his eyes and prayed for patience. “Right,” he snapped. “I’d like to call to order the, er, latest meeting of the Dullitch Council. We’re gathered here today—”

“Sounds like the start of a funeral,” interrupted the translator.

“—to compose a speech for Duke Modeset,” Quaris continued. “To address to the citizens of our fair city.”

The translator shuddered. “That’s going to be tricky,” it said.

“I wonder if I may make a suggestion,” said Taciturn Cadrick.

Everyone stared at him expectantly. “Perhaps,” he continued, “we could blame transdimensional demonics.”

A collection of blank faces gave not the merest indication of understanding.

“That is to say, the infringement of demons into our civilized society. Something very similar happened a while back, when I was Trade Minister for Legrash.”

“What’s that got to do with kidnapped children?” asked Quaris, with a frown.

“Quite a lot, actually,” said Cadrick, taking a deep breath. “I believe that Diek Wustapha has been possessed by a despicable demonic fiend.”

This didn’t engender quite the reaction he was expecting.

“A show of hands for Mr. Gadrick’s suggestion?” Quris ventured.

Only two went up, and they both belonged to Taciturn.

“Right,” said Quaris. “Then that’s firmly voted down. Anyone else?”

“How about this,” said the translator, rummaging in his satchel and producing a roll of parchment which he then proceeded to unravel. “Citizens of Dullitch. There has been a terrible catastrophe, but I, your duke, and the honorable members of your City Council have come up with a solution. We have dispatched a hunting party to find the stolen children and bring the terrible fiend who has abducted them to justice.”

Quaris opened his mouth and closed it again. A few members at the other end of the table clapped their hands in approval. Taciturn Cadrick rested his chin on his hands and tried to look miserable.

“Excellent,” Quaris managed. “Where did you say you were from?”

“I didn’t,” said the translator, his candlewax nose disgorging another globule of mucus. “And, besides, it’s not perfect. For a start, we don’t
have
a hunting party.”

An air of gloom settled over the table.

Taciturn Cadrick was the first to speak. “How about that barbarian fellow in the Rotting Ferret the other night? The one with the dwarf?”

“No,” said Quaris firmly. “They came at the city’s request and we told them to get lost. They’re hardly likely to help us now. Besides, they’ve probably left already. They’re bound to be miles away.”

Taciturn shook his head.

“Pity. They had our chairman with ’em too.”

“Tambor?”

“Yes: Chas Firebrand told me.”

Quaris was still shaking his head. “Tambor Forestall socializing with mercenaries?” he gasped, as if the very thought were abhorrent to him.

“Absolutely, and he got a fair bit of ale down him, I’d say. In fact, I think I heard Chas Firebrand say something about his leaving the city with them.”

“Well, that’s fantastic,” Quaris snapped, glaring at the Trade Minister with naked distaste. “How unutterably superb! Our chairman has run off to join a mercenary band. That’s just rosy, isn’t it? Does anybody actually feel like pretending to be a member of the council, you know, just for the afternoon?”

He turned to the troglodyte translator. “What did you say your name was?”

It shrugged. “I guess you can call me Burnie.”

“Burnie,” repeated Quaris. “Send a message to the Rooftop Runners. I wish to speak with a young man called Jimmy Quickstint.”

Three hours later, Duke Modeset sat in the throne room of Dullitch Palace and gazed down at an exhausted Quaris Sands.

“You really must do something about those stairs, milord,” the acting chairman managed between puffs. “I can’t see me lasting long in my new post if I keep having to mission it up here every afternoon.”

“I didn’t
build
the palace, Mr. Sands,” Modeset pointed out. “And I certainly don’t have enough money to call in the stonework specialists.”

“Ah yes…um…humble apologies, but I think they’re called masons.”

“Whatever,” snapped Modeset. “You have my speech?”

“Indeed. And a progress report, my lord.”

The duke raised one eyebrow.

Quaris fought on. “It appears that we have in fact formulated a plan.”

“Really? How splendid,” said Modeset.

“Yes. We, that is, the council, have decided to send a hunting party after the villain.”

“A hunting party?” The duke smiled. “How traditional.”

Quaris nodded. “A powerful sorcerer who, until recently, was in fact, um, a city dignitary and, um, hopefully, the two mercenaries you met yourself. There’s only one problem,” he added.

“Which is?” said the duke, impatiently.

“They’ve already left the city. We’ve found the, um,
sorcerer’s
grandson: he’s a trainee member of the Rooftop Runners. He thinks they may still be on the Dullitch road, and he’s agreed to go after them and ask for help.”

Modeset scratched his chin thoughtfully before continuing. “So, in point of fact, we have hired a hunting party that doesn’t yet realize it is either hired or that it
is
a hunting party. Splendid work. By the way you’re staring at your feet, I assume there is a problem even with this pitiable lack of a plan?”

“Well, as you say, milord,” Quaris went on. “The problem is that they’re bound to ask why the Wustupha lad kidnapped the children. And when Jimmy, that’s the grandson, tells them it was because you didn’t pay him, they’re hardly likely to trip themselves up in a rescue attempt, are they, milord?”

The duke relaxed, flexed his arms, and offered Quaris awry smile. “Not a problem, Mr. Sands. When does this ‘Jimmy’ leave?”

“In approximately…” Quaris stared out of the eastern arch toward the diamond clock on Crest Hill, one hour.

“I see. Then give him this to take with him.”

Duke Modeset rose purposefully, marched through a door in the north wall, and reappeared carrying two small but heavy-looking pouches. He tossed them to Quaris and went back for another two.

“There are more than a hundred crowns in each pouch,” he said. “They’ll get a further five hundred each, if and when they return the children unharmed, and have disposed of this young freak.”

“May I ask where all this money came from, milord?” asked Quaris, eyeing the heavy pouches.

“Certainly,” said Modeset. “The good chancellor was looking after some of it for the greater prosperity of the city. In a room above the silversmith’s on Furly Lane, I might add.”

“I’ll make sure the boy gets going as soon as possible,” said Quaris.

“Can we trust a thief with the city’s entire gold reserve, do you think?”

“I don’t think we’ve got much choice, Duke Modeset.”

“Quite right. Let’s just hope Quarry’s execution will satisfy the crowd. Oh, and Mr. Sands?”

Quaris hesitated at the door, turned and raised an eyebrow. “Milord?”

“This dignitary turned sorcerer…it wouldn’t be Tambor Forestall, by any chance?”

“Oh no, er, um, no, my word, absolutely not…”

“That’s a yes, then, is it?” asked the duke.

“I’m afraid so, my lord,” answered Quaris.

“I feared as much. You are excused.”

Quaris muttered something unintelligible under his breath, and ambled off.

C
HARCOAL CLOUDS GATHERED OVER
the Varick Pass, hung there motionless for a time, and then began to spit all over the place like the worst kind of ball player.

Low-lying cloud formations encircled the tallest peaks. It was said that, upon reaching the summit of the Twelve, a man could be forgiven for thinking that he had entered a land of balding giants. Patches of sparse woodland dotted the mountainsides, where a few of the region’s more unsociable dwarf tribes lived. These wooded areas were also frequented by trolls, ogres, and the occasional wandering Notjusyeti (a strange beast with big feet and a tendency to keep mountaineers waiting).

High on a rocky path, approximately halfway up the Twelve, Diek Wustapha stopped dead before a rock wall and listened. Moments before, he’d emerged from the clouds like an apparition, stepping through thin air as if descending an invisible staircase. The children had followed in a straight, orderly line, their eyes focused on some distant preoccupation.

And, still, Diek listened.

A number of the smaller children careened into him, their zombielike eyes wide. Diek pushed them back, drew in a breath, and raised his arms. The voice that came forth was not his own.