Ratastrophe Catastrophe (6 page)

The herald reined in his horse and reached out for the reins of Diek’s own beast of burden. “You can get off here ’n’ make your own way to the palace. I’ll need to check the horses back in.”

Diek found himself practically shoved off his mount; he had to jump two rats and dodge a frying pan aimed at a third before he managed to catch up with the herald. “Aren’t you going to take me to the palace?” he asked the herald. “No,” said the man, suddenly more eager than ever to get away from his companion. “Duke’s granted an audience to all mercenaries at five o’clock sharp. Don’t be late.”

“But I don’t know my way around!” whined Diek.

“Your way around what?” asked the herald.

“The city, idiot!”

The herald boggled at him. “There
is
no way around the city, lad. Dullitch is an absolute maze. Just find a tavern and wait till five, then head for the palace. It’s the big spiky thing in the distance.”

Diek watched with bewildered rage as the herald urged the horses down the street, away from him. He gave a silent curse and wasn’t entirely surprised when the man fell off his steed and tumbled into a pile of garbage bins gathered to one side of the street.

Hmm…amusing. Very amusing.

Diek looked around for a tavern. There didn’t seem to be a great shortage of those. In fact, he could see only one building on the street that
didn’t
look like a tavern, and that turned out to be a brothel. He wandered up and down the street outside the less rowdy bars (the ones that didn’t keep ejecting drunks onto the cobbles) and eventually headed for a single, solitary door that sported a small wooden board proclaiming:

THE ROTTING FERRET

est. 824 / prop: Mr. C. Firebrand

Bring your
own
stool.

Please make every effort to mop up any

of your own blood.

Be careful as you go down; steps are very steep

(giants are advised to watch their heads, dwarfs their arses).

This bar does not encourage fighting,

but actively supports it.

NOTHING TO SEE HERE.

Diek sighed; unfortunately, the Ferret was clearly the best of a bad bunch. He turned the handle and made to go in. As he did so, he felt a surge of sudden confidence. The voice was ringing in his ears.

Onward,
it urged.
Down into the bar. They will cower before us.

Groan Teethgrit and Gordo Goldaxe both had a lifetime’s experience with violent taverns. If asked to pick the most acutely evil drinking pit in the entire expanse of Illmoor, they would undoubtedly have settled on the Rotting Ferret. Death wasn’t just a regular occurrence there; the business enjoyed a twenty percent discount at Domino’s Funeral Parlor (located, rather conveniently, in an alley that paralleled the street on which Ferret customers tended to land face-first).

The place was a dive, an underground drinking pit that gave shelter to thieves, assassins, and a variety of other miscreants. It also boasted the largest mixed species clientele in Dullitch; there were elves, ogres, trolls, orcs, goblins, sprites, pixies, and woodlings. Occasionally, you even got the odd tooth fairy (though they seldom stayed until closing time).

Groan was having a very good day; first he’d seen an attractive barmaid, and then he’d been delighted to see Grid Thungus, a rangy barbarian who’d worked for the same warlord over in Legrash. Neither of them had been paid; so, in barbarian terms, they had a great deal to talk about. The conversation went something like this:

“Groan, wass happenin’?”

“Nuffin’. You get paid fer that Legrash job?”

“Nah.”

“Me neither.”

“See you round.

“P’r raps.”

Gordo was annoyed; he couldn’t get a word in edgeways. Instead, he decided to forge a path to the bar. He was halfway through the crowd when a voice rang out over the fray and the entire room fell silent.

Y
OU COULD HAVE HEARD
a pin drop. Every eye in the house was fixed on the young stranger who had just strode into the center of the room. He stood tall despite his height, and proud, but remained a veritable portrait of curiosity. Chas Firebrand, the tavern owner, leaned forward and put one beer-stained hand to his ear. “Could you repeat that, son?” he said.

“Certainly, humble bartend,” Diek spat, an alien energy coursing through his veins. He could feel The Voice welling up inside him. “I wish one of the lesser classes seated in this establishment to announce me at the palace. It won’t take very long, and for the privilege, I will spare his life.”

On any other day this speech would have been suicide, plain and simple. A knife in the back if Diek were lucky, a knife somewhere else if he weren’t. Today was worse. Out of the corner of his eye, Chas noticed that the local thug ring was assembling for a late lunch and, at a corner table, he spotted several likely-looking Yowlers. Chas twitched nervously; it was only a matter of time.

Strangely enough, the boy oozed an ethereal confidence, and several people were edging away from him. One group of thugs, however, was preparing to rise from their seats. They quickly thought better of it when two shapes loomed into view behind the foreigner, one unquestionably dwarfish and the other implausibly muscular.

Diek smiled on, oblivious, as a number of drawn daggers disappeared into pockets and sleeves.

“’Scuse us,” said Gordo, shoving his way past. He’d noticed Diek enter the bar and now felt strangely compelled to help him; after all, anyone with no muscles brave enough to talk down to the inhabitants of the Ferret couldn’t be far from earning his first million.

He looked up at Diek Wustapha. “I think this, er, master assassin’ll want us to announce him at the palace. Yes?”

The bar, as one, looked momentarily doubtful.

“Um, yes,” Diek said, his voice beginning to waver. “You will be adequate, possibly.”

“I’d get over to a table pretty sharpish if I were you, lad,” Gordo whispered, grabbing Diek’s arm. “’Cause talkin’ like that in a place like this is gonna get you nailed up real, real quick.”

Diek’s expression changed to one of confusion. His confidence seemed to desert him and, eyes glazed, he began to sidle toward the nearest vacant table. A number of undesirables made to pursue him, but Groan put a hand to his sword hilt and they quickly reconsidered. Diek reached the table and slumped down onto a stool. His head hurt; it felt as if his mind were involved in a slow and painful wrestling match with some invading army…and it was losing. He felt sleep overcome him and realized, for the first time, that he hadn’t slept since he’d left Little Irksome.

Slowly, the hubbub of tavern noise rose back to its usual level at the Ferret.

Groan sighed, sniffed, and shoved his way to the bar, Gordo shuffling along in his wake. Most of the conversations had resumed, aside from one being undertaken by a group of zombies in a darkened corner. This was nothing unusual. One of their number had muttered a few syllables just after lunch and was unlikely to complete the sentence by closing time.

“Toofache, please,” Groan said, arriving at the bar.

Gordo climbed up onto a stool and gave Chas a sympathetic grin. “It’s an old barbarian joke,” he said. “Don’t for juggers’ sake take it the wrong way.”

Chas mumbled under his breath and smiled back. “What’ll it be, gents?”

“Three, er no, better make that two ales…and a peppermint punch,” said Gordo. “That kid’s going to need a medicinal brew.” He rested his battle-axe on the top of a nearby stool. “Groan, you’d better go and see if he’s all right. He
is
a foreigner, after all. There might be some money in it.”

As the barbarian lurched off in the direction of the table, Gordo turned back to the barman. “How do we get in to see the duke ahead of any competition?” he asked, standing on tiptoe in order to see over the bar.

Chas pointed over toward a table where a figure sat slumped over a mug half filled with ale, the other half having plastered his beard to the table. “See that bloke over there? You could do worse than talk to him. In fact, he might go straight to the palace when he leaves.”

“Why, who is he?” asked Gordo, stepping aside as Groan returned, supporting the foreigner with a ham-size fist gripping his shoulder.

“That’s Tambor Forestall, Chairman of the City Council,” answered the bartender.

Groan raised the ghost of an eyebrow. “And he drinks in ’ere?”

“Yes.”

Gordo frowned. “Doesn’t get a lot of attention for being in charge of the council?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?” asked Gordo.

“The council don’t do naff all in Dullitch. The duke gets blamed for everything.”

“Nice,” Gordo said, nodding.

“Yeah,” Groan agreed. “Seems fair.”

Tambor didn’t like it when shadows fell across his drinking table, especially during the day. He lowered his head again and tried to examine the bottom of his tankard, but the shadow just kept lengthening.

“Oi, you. Come an’ sit wit’ us.”

Tambor looked up. He soon wished he hadn’t. Groan Teethgrit was a sight to behold, but the man was probably not best viewed within the smoky depths of the Ferret. For a moment, Tambor thought he’d become the focus of attention for an angry mountain troll. Then he realized that, against all odds, the creature had spoken syllables, albeit fractured ones. And the face was familiar. Tambor had been an ordinary councillor during the Virgin Sacrifice Scandal, but there were some faces you simply didn’t forget.

“I beg your pardon?” Tambor ventured, desperately.

“I said, come an sit wit’ us.”

The bulky giant pointed over to a table that was already playing host to a stocky dwarf and a boy who looked severely drugged.

“Um…I’m fine as I am, thanks,” said Tambor, turning his gaze back to his drink.

“How d’you mean?”

Tambor hesitated. “Er…what I mean is, I’d quite like to go on sitting here, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Right,” muttered Groan. “An’ I’d like a frog in a box, but we don’t always get what we want, do we?”

Tambor managed a weak grin, picked up his drink, and sidled over to the table. The muscled mountain loomed over him.

“Pull up a stool,” Gordo said, offering the elderly councillor a companionable smile. “And tell us about this plague of yours.”

A sudden, all-knowing look came into Tambor’s twinkling eyes. “Ah,” he said. “Now I see. You’re mercenaries.”

“An’ you’re a damn sorcerer!” boomed Groan, who’d taken offense. “I can spot one a mile off.”

The councillor shrugged. “I used to be, back before the art was banned. I was a very good one, too. Not any more, though. Now I’m in politics.”

Gordo took a gulp from his tankard, and frowned. “Don’t you miss the life of adventure?”

“Desperately…but I suppose you can’t throw fireballs forever. At least, not in this city. Hahahaha!” Tambor forced a laugh.

“Yeah, so I heard. Any children?” asked Gordo.

“None that’d admit to it. Got a grandson who talks to me, though; young Jimmy. He’s a good lad, bit of an idiot, but you know how youngsters are these days. He works down at Spew’s, mornings, and scouts for the duke in the afternoons. I think he works at night, too, fetching stuff for people.”

“Ah, a noble trade,” said Gordo, tactfully.

“All thieves’re scum,” said Groan, who’d heard of tact but hadn’t bought any shares.

“I’ll get rid of your plague.”

The table fell silent, and three pairs of eyes turned to consider Diek Wustapha. The boy looked momentarily electrified, then slouched forward and collapsed onto the table. Everyone looked at Groan.

“
What?
I didn’t touch ’im.”

“Kids these days,” Tambor mumbled, shaking his head sadly. “Drugged up to the damn eyeballs. Still, this city needs all the help it can get. D’you two think you could help him to the palace?”

Gordo nodded. “I don’t know about that,” he muttered. “But, if you can get us in, we might be persuaded to dump him inside the door. That way, we get to pitch to the duke, first. Agreed?”

Tambor smiled awkwardly, but the look on Groan’s face advised him against argument.

S
LOWLY, DIEK RETURNED TO
consciousness. It was strange waking up in a palace and not remembering how you’d arrived there. It was even stranger waking up dazed and confused in a palace that looked as though it had been designed by a confirmed lunatic. The place was an absolute mess.

Cobwebs parted before Diek as he entered the kitchen. The staff consisted entirely of ghouls, hollow-eyed grave walkers who lurched around without purpose, stopping every few seconds to turn their empty eye sockets toward vats filled with bubbling soup.

Chickens squawked in cages suspended on ropes from the kitchen ceiling. A dark-skinned wench with a flaking scalp brought down a chopper and severed one of her own fingers, which fell into a bowl of flour. She didn’t look too surprised, though; perhaps it was part of the dish. Diek shook his head, wondering if the palace officials ever came down here. He hadn’t seen so many dead people walking around since his grandmother’s eightieth birthday.

Diek chose the section occupied by the fewest zombies and sidled into it unobtrusively, careful not to draw attention to himself. On reflection, he decided that these people probably wouldn’t notice an invasion, and moved on at greater speed.

The central passage wasn’t much better. True, it wasn’t full of the living dead, but it was full of Modeset family portraits which, though marginally more welcoming, were just as ugly. He fancied that he heard voices echoing far above; so, stepping over a toppled bench, he cautiously ascended the stairs.

A little farther up, he huffed on a pane in an arched landing window, wiped a circle, and peered out. Dullitch sprawled beneath the palace, a cityscape of rooftops and towers. So many people and—he paused to remember the words of the herald—three rats to every man. He had to be confident.
A confident demeanor is second only to a crystal-clear mind, the perfect instrument for attracting faith in others.
The Voice was getting stronger.

Diek shook himself from his reverie; he was beginning to feel unusually disoriented.