Ratastrophe Catastrophe (21 page)

The order occupied Jort’s Hand, a fortified manse in the center of the wood, and a place only marginally less attractive than the decrepit moss that clung to its walls. The spiral towers of Jort’s Hand rose high above the forest roof, and had stood solid against the wrath of time and the onslaught of the area’s changeable weather. Only the skyward towers caught the sunlight, due to the unique way in which the trees huddled together and locked branches. This meant the forest floor was always dark, although occasionally a few flashes of daylight would slip through the net of foliage and illuminate a daffodil. The effect was rather less than ethereal.

The Dark Trinity seldom took an interest in local affairs and few could blame them, considering the area. It was difficult to preach forest lore to a tribe whose only encounters with the animal kingdom came as a result of hunger. Occasionally, when the goblins killed a goat, or the trolls ambushed a wolf pack, the Dark Trinity would be called upon to intervene. These were sad and desperate times, and too many species were dwindling into extinction. Chief among these was the group of giant lizards, known locally as the Batchtiki.

The Batchtiki, although unspeakably rare, were not worth much to anybody; their skins were rough and uncomfortable to wear, and their one talent relied heavily upon their being alive to perform it. Therefore, when a forest interloper (at no small risk to his health) was observed stealing a group of baby lizards from their nest in the northeastern corner of the forest, the Dark Trinity was immediately concerned. However, being of sound mind, and suspecting, quite correctly, that this intruder was merely a pawn for some higher intelligence, they dispatched a barrowbird, one cursed to remain forever in the service of Jort, to spy for them and to trace the theft to its source. …

The bird’s mission, unbeknownst to the order at that time, would end in the cobbled streets of Dullitch, which seemed like a lifetime away. It would begin …

… SOMEWHERE IN THE NORTHEASTERN
corner of the forest. A tiny sprite emerged from the gloomy depths of a tree hollow and listened, translucent wings fluttering in the midmorning breeze. A boot crushed it into the ground.

The thief was out of breath. He had run the length of Grinswood in just under three hours, which was a boastful feat for a man on horseback, let alone one with three broken toes, a limp, and advanced constipation. He staggered, muttered a few obscenities, and collapsed in a final wave of exhaustion, dropping his prize beside him. The sack wriggled as it hit the floor, and continued to do so for several minutes. Then it seemed to give up. The rest of the glade was still, with only the thief’s heaving chest and slow, determined breaths punctuating the silence.

Time passed. …

Presently, a barrowbird flew into the glade, landing on the gnarled lower branches of an ancient oak. It cocked its head to one side and considered the scene.

The thief, whose distinguishing features included one mechanical arm and a moon-shaped scar dissecting his chin, struggled to raise a charred eyebrow. The commotion inside the sack had started up again and even appeared to be building; yet he took no notice.

Still, the bird watched.

A few minutes later, the thief had taken to rolling around on the grass in a number of failed attempts to get to his feet. Finally, he made a desperate lunge at the oak, twisted around, and shouldered himself up. Blood rushed to his head as he fought to maintain his balance.

The barrowbird, completely nonplussed by the sudden display of energy, fixed its beady eyes on the sack.

Grinswood had become eerily silent. Shadows merged, and the trees seemed to move with them.

The thief took one last look around. “Time to move,” he muttered, snatching up the sack and urging himself into a run.

When he’d disappeared from view, the barrowbird twitched and ruffled its feathers. Then it flew up onto a higher branch and cast a glance down the forest path, where a trail of disturbed foliage marked the thief’s progress.

I’ll take my time
, it thought.
This one looks like he’s come a long way
.

For the specific attention of Duke Vandre Modeset
,

Fourth Kennel Along,

Fechit’s Dog Sanctuary,

Fogrise.

Dearest Cousin,

I was delighted to hear from the redoubtable Pegrand that you have decided to accept my offer of hospitality. It has been some months since the terms of your exile entitled you to return to Dullitch, albeit as a citizen!

I can assure you that the “rat catastrophe” is a long-forgotten piece of Dullitch history; people have moved on! I do so look forward to seeing you and, to this end, have taken the liberty of booking you four rooms at the Steeplejack Inn, a grand boardinghouse on Royal Road. I trust your visit, along with that of your staff, will be both enjoyable and relaxing.

Regards
,

Your cousin
,
Ravis Curfew
,
Lord of Dullitch

D
UKE MODESET HAD READ
the letter many times, and was still of the opinion that it had probably been written by one of the palace’s many scribes. As far as he was concerned, anyone who described Pegrand as redoubtable probably didn’t have a royal bone in his body.

He sighed, folded the letter neatly in two, and looked around for somewhere to file it. His gaze eventually came to rest on something that he assumed was supposed to be a bureau. A curious piece of furniture, it looked as if the carpenter responsible had started out with high hopes but had evidently been sidetracked en route to perfection. Modeset reached down to open the drawer and scowled as the handle broke off. Shoddy. Oh well, at least the place felt like home. He tried and failed to replace the handle three times before letting it fall to the floor, where it clattered noisily on the wooden boards. He propped the parchment on the windowsill instead.

Despite the cracked plaster and crumbling beams, there could be little doubt that the Steeplejack Inn was indeed a five-star resort; the only problem being that a five-star resort in Dullitch was the equivalent of a mutant cesspool anywhere else on the continent. Modeset wasn’t sure what the minimum requirements were for earning five stars, but Spittle Bridge had three, and there was water under
that
.

Modeset crossed to the bed, turned, and let himself fall back onto the mattress. The moment he did, there was an explosion of sound much like a dwarf war-hammer hitting a wardrobe door. Pain ricocheted through Modeset’s back, and he sat up with a start. His eyes bulged.

A moment later, the duke’s faithful manservant erupted through the bedroom door. His face was redder than a beetroot.

“You all right, milord?” he wheezed, leaning against the door frame for support.

The duke, still grasping his back, glared at him.

“Only, did you hear that almighty bang?”

Modeset nodded.

“So did we. What was it, d’you reckon?”

“It was me, Pegrand,” Modeset managed, suppressing a groan. “Go and tell the innkeeper that I want another bed. This mattress is thinner than your anorexic aunt.”

“I’ll have a word in his ear, milord.”

“Good man. Where’s your room?”

Pegrand pointed skyward. “’Snot exactly Marble Heights, though,” he confided, lowering his voice to a whisper. “There’s a big leak in the roof. The innkeeper says it doesn’t let much in, but I’ve been speaking to a few of the guests and they reckon the last bloke who stopped in the attic drowned. I dunno how the others’re getting on.”

Modeset put his head in his hands and tried to focus on the positives. Firstly, he was on holiday. That, generally speaking, was a good thing. He was accompanied by a full complement of personal staff, which was another. Negatively speaking, the inn was a dump; the city, a nightmare he’d spent the best part of seven years trying to forget; and the staff, a pair of depraved cultural dropouts from a depressing backwater he couldn’t wait to forget. Then there was Pegrand. He imagined a series of public humiliations and disastrous misunderstandings festering on the horizon, and he determined to escape before they arrived. After all, fate was avoidable; it was destiny that caused trouble.

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The Yowler Foul-Up
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M
Y MOTHER: APART FROM
giving me overwhelming support and encouragement since I began writing, she has patiently read and reread every chapter of this novel since it was started in 1996. She also found me the best agent in the business.
Sophie Hicks
, that very agent, for unswerving support and a faith that never faltered. Finally, I’d like to thank my British editors,
Venetia Gosling
and
Anne McNeil
, for buying Illmoor in the first instance; and my New York editor,
Liza Baker
, for her advice in editing the U.S. version of the book.

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 © 2004 by David Lee Stone

Cover design by Mauricio Diaz

Cover illustration by Bob Lea

978-1-4804-6145-1

This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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