Ratastrophe Catastrophe (7 page)

“Twice in one day,” said Tambor, puffing and panting as he conquered yet another flight of steps. “I’ll tell you fellows something for nothing; if I had my time again, I’d choose magic over politics and that’s a fact. In my early days, I could’ve shot up here on a magic carpet.”

“You can’t go up stairs on a magic carpet,” said Pegrand, still straining under his personal burden. “It’d go on a diagonal and you’d fall off.”

“Well, I never fell off a magic carpet in ten years as a sorcerer and I’ll be damned if I’d have fallen off one going up here.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Gordo, who’d seen an opening in the conversation. “If you fall off a magic carpet anywhere, you’re stuffed. It’s always a long way down unless you’ve just taken off.”

“Yeah,” said Groan.

Tambor scowled. “Not if you were flying with old Wally Sprinkle. His takeoffs were legendary. Birds used to migrate in accordance with his flight schedules.”

“Anyway, we haven’t got one now,” said Gordo, trying to change the subject.

“Sometimes he didn’t even need the carpet,” Tambor continued, mumbling to himself. “Just used to take off on his own.”

To take his mind off the rat crisis, Duke Modeset had spent the afternoon searching for his current canine companion. He had only seen the dog once since his manservant, Pegrand, had purchased it, and he felt a distant pang of guilt for the neglect.

He was down on his hands and knees, peering into the darkness underneath the ducal throne. From what little he could see, it wasn’t a patch on the Snowland husky he used to own, but it was a dog nevertheless, and was probably in need of care and attention. He wondered if it would like a biscuit.

The sound began even before Modeset had attempted to move away. A low-throated snarl rose steadily in pitch and crescendoed to a growl bordering on insanity. Modeset found himself frozen to the spot in sheer terror.

Surely it can’t be coming from the dog, he thought, keeping one eye on the curled-up fur ball under the throne. He suddenly realized that he couldn’t tell which way the animal was facing. He was still speculating about it when an eye flicked open.

Even Diek heard the scream. It ripped through the palace; ornaments shattered, windows shook, and latches rattled. He watched as a flock of birds erupted from the gardens and took flight. Then, just as suddenly, the sound faded away. All was silent.

Diek shook his head. He was beginning to realize that palaces were very strange places, especially this one.

Pegrand burst into the throne room and dropped his pile of luggage. The party of mercenaries and Tambor Forestall filed in behind him.

“Are you all right, milord?” he said. “Milord…?”

The room appeared entirely empty. Pegrand looked to the left and right, then up at the ceiling. Eventually he looked down. “What’re you doing on the floor, milord?” he asked.

Modeset sighed. “Practicing my yoga, Pegrand. Would you be so kind as to pass me that marrowbone over by the door?”

The manservant motioned to Tambor, who rushed over to fetch the bone. He handed it on to Pegrand, making sure to keep a fair distance between himself and the shape lurking under the throne. Pegrand tossed it to the dog, then helped the duke to his feet. “That’s Vicious,” said Pegrand.

“You’re telling me,” said Modeset.

“No, milord. You named the dog Vicious, remember?”

“Oh, so I did. Quite right, too. Little bast—”

“
These
are the mercenaries, milord,” interrupted Pegrand. “You’ll, er, you’ll probably remember Groan Teethgrit and, um—”

“Yes. Only too well.”

In what seemed like the blink of an eye, Modeset crossed the room and seated himself behind his pearly white marble desk. “Assemble!” he shouted.

Pegrand hurried around the room, ushering everyone into a straight line or, at least, the nearest approximation of a straight line they could manage. Groan would’ve stood out on a map.

“Are these all the mercenaries we have?” Modeset asked.

Tambor thrust one hand into his robe and produced a tattered scrap of parchment. He squinted at it. “There is a young man unconscious downstairs. I believe he is this…um…how do you say it? I believe it’s said Diyek, Diyek Wustaphor,” Tambor managed, edging around every vowel as if it might suddenly leap out of the word and bite him.

“I see. Let’s just leave him there for the time being, shall we? I’ll deal with him later.”

Groan muttered under his breath, bumbled across the room, and sat in the throne. Nobody in the room batted an eyelid, but Vicious took the opportunity to gnaw at the barbarian’s ankles. It gave up after ten minutes.

Modeset continued: “Now, if we can just—”

“I don’t believe you’ll have need of these men,” said a voice.

Tambor stepped aside to admit the young traveler, who marched over to the desk with an air of authority befitting a king. He treated the duke to a haughty grin.

“My name is Diek Wustapha, and I am the only one who can rid your city of all unwanted guests, for a far lower price than these mercenaries.”

Gordo spat on to the mosaic tiles. “How do you know?” he said. “We haven’t even quoted a bloody price yet!”

“Don’t take it personally, boys!” Tambor shouted. “These yokels, they’re all the same.”

“My methods will cause little civic unrest,” Diek continued. “I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.”

His voice had a strange, melodic quality.

Modeset looked from Diek to the mercenaries and back again. Then he steepled his fingers and used them to prop up his chin. A smile was forming.

Diek strode out of the palace like some sort of dark god, marching with purpose and shoving the occasional surprised maid out of his path. As he arrived at the foot of the central staircase, he snatched a black cloak from an ornate stand and draped it around his shoulders. The sentries, having just signed in for evening duty, parted automatically when he approached, then shuffled back together again like a set of swing doors. No questions were asked when the gates swung open to allow Diek’s exit, and no comment was made when they clicked back together behind him.

Tambor Forestall had never been one for company. He’d always preferred spending time by himself. It had nothing to do with the ancient adage about sorcerers being reclusive; he just didn’t find people very interesting. Besides, one mercenary tour of the palace a day was enough for him. “Bless the old sprout,” that dwarf had muttered under its breath. The nerve of it!

He stared down miserably at his sorcerer’s hat, remembering his days of magic. He’d been through some hats in his time. He recalled, many moons ago, the woolen apprentice cap given to him on his arrival at the Velvet Tower in Legrash. He’d then progressed through the ranks of sorcery: from warlock to wizard, mage, and, finally, first-class sorcerer. He still couldn’t help but feel, what with all the sniggering and sarcastic remarks over the years, that it hadn’t been worth it.

A tickling sensation in his foot made him lean back and peer beneath the tavern table. A small black rat was nibbling at the hole in his boots. He yelped, kicked it away and watched it scurry behind the bar. Then he inspected the boot. It was a pity the city council didn’t upgrade boots, he thought to himself. He’d be wearing golden sandals by now.

The Rotting Ferret’s special performers for the evening were Farfl, Duk, and Orfo, members of a cross-species band from Legrash. They were currently engaged in a heated dispute with Inky Mamaskin, master hypnotist, who claimed that their performances were sleep inducing and therefore were putting him out of business.

Tambor flicked through a heavy spell book he’d bought from a black-market dealer on Birch Street. Apparently, it was one of the lucky few to escape being burned. He grinned, arriving at a few dusty pages near the back in which he’d already stashed some incidental notes. The volume was in good condition, and practically identical to his original copy; Tambor felt sure the gods had meant for him to find it. “Excuse me?”

A dwarfish face smiled up at him. “Mind if we join you again?” said Gordo, clambering onto a nearby stool without waiting for a reply.

Tambor wondered who the “we” was and looked about him. Where he’d had a clear view of the performance, now there was nothing but solid muscle.

Groan removed his helmet and set it down on the floor beside his stool, disturbing a gang of rats who’d evidently come looking for the one Tambor had booted behind the bar.

“What’s happening tonight, then?” said Gordo. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Not much,” said Tambor. “Getting old isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

He turned his empty mug upside down on the table and belched.

Gordo shook his head, sadly. “We’ve just traveled over land and, er, grass to save this city from a major”—he paused—“ratastrophe.” He nudged Groan in the elbow but got no reaction. “And, d’you know what happened? Of course you do—the duke gave the job to a damn shepherd!”

“Doesn’t surprise me a bit,” said Tambor, ignoring the accusation and staring gloomily at his upturned mug. “City’s run by ne’er-do-wells and bad politicians.”

“You’re both, ain’t you?” said Groan.

The sorcerer smirked humorlessly. “One or the other. In practice it amounts to the same thing. One big chain. Oh sure, there’s the council, but the city pretty much runs itself without too much hindrance from anyone but the duke.”

“Who’s that li’l fella over there?” said Tambor, pointing toward a corner table at the back of the room. “He’s smaller than you!” he said, nodding his head at the dwarf.

Gordo tried to see where the old sorcerer was looking, in case there was a relative he could sit with. His gaze fell on a bright red hat with green flowers painted on it. “That’s a gnome, you silly old fool.”

Tambor blinked. “Ah,” he said. “What’s the difference?”

“Dwarfs is bigger,” said Groan, to show he was paying attention. “An’ dwarfs as got beards, an’ dwarfs is fatter, an—”

“All right!” Gordo snapped. “I think he’s got the point.”

“Why’s he just sittin’ there, then?” asked Groan.

Tambor coughed over his beer mug and gave himself a froth moustache on top of his beard. “P’raps he’s got gnome to go to,” he said, and spent the next minute in quiet hysterics.

“May the gods help us,” said Gordo, looking out at the encroaching darkness. “Look, we’d better start thinking about lodgings. We can’t stay here all night, and I’ll be damned if I’m going back home without a brass nickel. The village elders would have me in disgrace.”

“Stay ’ere with me,” said Tambor, throwing one arm around Gordo and making a valiant attempt to get the other midway round Groan. “My grandson’s comin’ to meet me in a minute. He’s a semi prof—proffec—proffectional thief. Gonna work for the Yowlers, he is. Best in the city.”

“Marvelous,” said Gordo.

J
IMMY QUICKSTINT WAS THE
most incompetent thief in the history of organized crime. The chandelier creaked as he swung back and forth.

Jimmy looked up at the chandelier—just as the chain snapped.

It wasn’t a great fall, but it was certainly an unfortunate one. Most of the room was carpeted but, as fate would have it, Jimmy landed heavily on a square of floor Lord Moffet had purposely overlooked when the money ran out. The chandelier landed on top of him. I should’ve been a beggar, Jimmy thought.

He heard someone approaching and, straining to lift his head, he turned to see who it was. A hairy Alsatian trotted over to him. And lifted one leg.

“Where’s that no-good grandson of mine?” said Tambor, who had passed through two giggling fits and was nearing genuine joviality.

Chas Firebrand leaned over his shoulder and collected three empty mugs. He then wiped each one “clean” with the flap of his beer-stained apron and passed them to the barmaid, a pretty young lass who had just fluttered in and caused Groan to pass out.

“What’s he look like, this boy of yours?” said Gordo, checking Groan’s pulse to make sure his friend was still breathing.

“Silly young bugger,” said Tambor. “Got his father’s face and his mother’s walk—or is it the other way round…?”

Chas frowned at the barbarian. “Dear oh dear,” he said, shaking his head. “He all right, is he?”

“He shouldn’t drink so much; it’s obviously bad for him.”

“No it isn’t,” said Tambor, reprehensively. “I look after my drink, I do. Take it home with me.”

Chas winced. “Blimey,” he said. “That’s some capacity you’ve got there, old man.”

Tambor smiled at the middle distance, then tried and failed to get up.

Halfway along Tanner Avenue, Jimmy Quickstint stopped and kicked out at the nearest wall in frustration. Then he unfolded the night’s remaining assignment and read;

Date: Thursday 43rd Fortune, 1002

Assignment Location: 14 Sack Avenue

Task: Golden serpent-shaped idol

Objective: Retrieval

PLEASE INCINERATE AFTER DIGESTION

Jimmy had always wondered if the last bit was metaphorical. Did they really expect you to eat it first, then set light to it? Even the Yowler’s multi-stomached mutant members would have had their work cut out trying that. He read the note through twice before producing a tinderbox from his knee pocket and igniting the paper. Sack Avenue, eh? The Rich District, the Merchants’ Quarter. He smiled to himself. This was it, his last chance to make it big. He would pass this assignment with flying colors and become Jimmy Quickstint, first-grade Yowler thief. Well, not quite. He still had to perform some exclusive, never-to-be-repeated act of theft for his coursework, but an honors entry to the Runners proper did not come easy. You’d have to steal something truly amazing to pull that one off.

He replaced the tinderbox and headed in the direction of Sack Avenue.

Several streets away, Diek Wustapha was heading toward the decrepit mouth of Dullitch’s ancient sewer system. Footsteps clicking on the cobbles, he made his approach. Surprising himself, he raised a pointed finger toward the moss-covered doors of the sewer, and watched in amazement as a plume of green flame burst forth and burned the lichen away. As the flames died down, Diek’s other hand shot up and the sewer doors flew outward and crashed to the ground.