Ratastrophe Catastrophe (8 page)

Diek searched for his flute and automatically brought the instrument to his lips: he could already hear the rats approaching.

Groan had recovered from his fainting episode with alarming speed. He was now over at the bar chatting away to the barmaid, who smiled coquettishly and chuckled on cue. As Gordo watched, he reflected that, when it came to women, Groan was never slow on the uptake.

Tambor, on the other hand, was out for the count. It was way past the old man’s bedtime, and his head rested face-first in a plate of prunes he had only got a quarter of the way through.

“Like her,” said Groan, returning to his seat with two giant mugs of something frothy. He banged one down in front of Gordo. “She said we could ’ave these on the ’ouse.”

The dwarf peered inside his mug, suspiciously. “What’s that red thing floating in there?” he asked.

“Hem’rhoid, I fink,” said Groan. “She said her farver’s bought himself a cherry orchard, on account of his trouble.”

Gordo took the statement on board but decided it was best left unraveled.

“Can I help you, sir?”

The voice shattered the silky silence of the night and Jimmy froze. Absolute terror descended on him like a sackful of lead. He spun around to find a member of the City Guard, a wiry man of no height with a bulbous nose, looking up at him quizzically.

“No, thank you,” Jimmy replied, tapping his foot on the ground in what he hoped was a nonchalant, carefree manner.

“It’s just that, well, I can’t help noticin’ that you seem to be actin’ somewhat suspiciously,” said the guard, eyeing the boy inquisitively.

“Ah, I see. Er—”

“Are you a Yowler by any chance?”

“What, me? No, sir! What an idea!”

“Hmm…well, if you’re not robbing the house, then what, may I ask, are you doing in the front garden?”

Jimmy’s mind raced frantically for a plausible explanation. Unfortunately, none came to him. “I’m the gardener,” he said, unable to think of anything more likely.

The guard continued to stare up at him, now sporting a look of vague incomprehension. “Funny time to be gardening, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve heard of—”

“I’m trying to find a special flower for his Lordship’s indoor collection,” interrupted Jimmy, who was now talking too fast to think.

“Why can’t you do that in the mornin’?” asked the guard.

“Because it’s a special flower that only comes out at night.”

Strangely, this last explanation seemed to appear distantly plausible to the guard and he looked momentarily baffled. “A nocturnal plant? Are you puttin’ me on?”

“No, it’s true,” said Jimmy, beginning to believe his own story. “Usually they appear only in the Gleaming Mountains: ‘phodo’ they’re called. ‘Phodosithnisses.’”

“Fair enough,” the guard nodded and turned to leave. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

He stopped halfway toward the elderly wooden gateposts and turned around, a tired smile playing on his lips. He seemed to study the authenticity of Jimmy’s ludicrous facial expression, before whistling in an awkward fashion and disappearing into the gathering evening mist. Jimmy sighed with relief and prepared himself for the climb. The only foothold attainable from a standing position came in the form of one of the hinges that attached the drainpipe to the brickwork. He thrust his right foot hard between wall and iron and pulled himself toward his goal….

He’d nearly reached the first-floor window when he slipped.

Jimmy scrambled frantically, his feet beating against the brickwork in a valiant attempt to relieve the pressure on his aching arms. Finally he managed to regain his grip, haul himself through the narrow window, and slither into the room beyond.

Relief swept over him.

Jimmy made a number of keen observations about the candlelit chamber he now occupied. The first was that the golden idol he was looking for rested on a cushion inside an ornate glass cabinet standing against the east wall. Then, in the following order, he noticed the lock on the cabinet door; the imposing four-poster bed with an elderly couple snoring away peacefully inside it; and, finally, the key fastened on the chain hanging around the sleeping old man’s neck. In the silent shadows of that room, Jimmy discovered why the Rooftop Runners had just thirty-seven members. This situation looked, to all intents and purposes, impossible. How on earth was he supposed to retrieve the cursed key without waking the old boy?

Suddenly the figure lying next to the key holder shifted uncomfortably beneath the blankets. Jimmy looked on in fascinated horror as the old woman sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and shuffled into a pair of bedroom slippers. Lord Buckly stirred in his sleep as his wife disturbed a number of creaking floorboards on her way to the door. Jimmy remained still, a silhouette against the window. When the old woman had departed, he breathed a sigh of relief; perhaps luck favored him tonight, after all. It was as he considered his good fortune that a plan became clear to him. He crept forward, dodging the planks that the old woman had identified on her noisy journey a few moments before.

Hesitating to consider the implications should his plan fail, Jimmy climbed into the rickety four-poster bed and pulled the covers up over him. He remained perfectly still for a few seconds, pondering on how to advance his movement. Then, with lightning dexterity, he shot out a hand and looped the key up and over the old man’s head in one swift movement. Even Uole Twonk (the greatest thief in Dullitch history) would have been proud.

The key now in his possession, Jimmy lay panting on the bed with the satisfaction of success. He was about to climb out when a hand reached around his waist and grasped him tightly. At first he feared that Buckly had awakened, but then it became apparent that the old lord, though sleeping, simply desired some affection from his wife. The thief considered briefly what her Ladyship would do in this situation and consequently shoved the old man aside.

The key turned in the lock with a loud click, and Jimmy snatched up the idol, which felt strangely sticky against his palm. Reaching down into his trousers, he pulled out the sack and tried, in vain, to slip the ornament inside. It wouldn’t leave his hand. The vindictive old fool had daubed the piece with glue!

However, Jimmy had no time to revise his actions, as Lady Buckly was now on her way back up the stairs, footsteps echoing loudly through the open door. Jimmy considered his drastic situation and dashed toward the window. He burst from the first floor of 14 Sack Avenue in a shower of glass and landed awkwardly in the petunia patch he had managed to avoid earlier. As screams erupted from the room above and various lights flicked on all over the Merchants’ Quarter, Jimmy struggled to his feet and frantically kicked over a group of dustbins.

Unfortunately he didn’t have time to snatch up the idol—which had fallen off, along with half the skin from the palm of his hand—before Lord Buddy’s thirteen hounds bore down on him.

“We can’t leave until his grandson turns up,” said Gordo, indicating the unconscious Tambor with a nod of his head.

Groan looked puzzled. “Why not?” he asked.

“Because,” Gordo began, wondering about his own chances with the barmaid. “Well, it just wouldn’t be right, that’s all.”

The barbarian sniffed and downed his ale.

High above the streets of Dullitch, a shadow danced along the rooftops.

Jimmy dropped down a level, walked a little way with his back pressed firmly against a wall, and arrived at the ledge edge of City Hall. Problem. There was a considerable space between the roof of the building and the roof of the Alchemist Museum.

He slid down a slated section of roof and onto a lower ledge, feeling the first touch of rain on his cheek. His fingers, which had been groping frantically at the wall in case he lost his footing, found glass. He turned and peered through the window into a well-furnished office. He wondered how hard it would be to shatter the largest pane: too hard, probably.

Far below in the street, a figure ascended the large flight of stairs that led to City Hall. A door opened and closed again. Jimmy didn’t pay much attention.

As he was looking into the room, two things happened in quick succession. First the light came on and then somebody opened the window. Outward.

“Oi,” said Groan, nudging Gordo’s helmet with his elbow. “You ’member that ’erald what met us on the road? He’s jus’ walked in.”

Jimmy had entered the Ferret and was in the process of apologizing to all and sundry as he bumped his way to the bar. He was covered in hay. Gordo watched as he stumbled up to Chas Firebrand and muttered something in his ear. Then he looked over in their direction and sauntered toward the table.

“That’s my granddad,” Jimmy said, pointing at the unconscious councillor and smiling feebly.

“Aye,” said Gordo.

“Wanna make somefink out of it?” said Groan, who immediately took issue with anyone who began his sentences with claims of ownership.

“Nice helmet,” said Jimmy conversationally, nodding down at the battered-looking piece of metal by Gordo’s feet. “Mind if I join you?”

“Sure,” said Gordo. “Did you have a nice walk back?”

“Eh? Oh, yeah, thanks for that.”

The dwarf grinned. “Sorry. No hard feelings. I’m afraid yer’ granddad here’s the worse for drink.”

“He’s sleepin’,” translated Groan with satisfaction.

Gordo belched. “Why are you all covered in that stuff?”

“Accident,” said Jimmy, smiling. “Thank the gods for hay carts, that’s what I say.”

“Hmm…You know where we can get lodgings at this hour?” asked Gordo.

“Well, there’s always Finlayzzon’s,” said Jimmy. “Or, at a push, I s’pose I could sneak you into one of the Yowler hideouts.” He looked wretched at the thought of
that
.

“No,” said Gordo. “That first place you mentioned should be okay. Where is it?”

“On Stainer Street. ’S not far.” He sniffed and scratched his chin. “Only, I wondered—”

“Yes?”

“Well—”

“What is it?” snapped Gordo impatiently.

“I don’t suppose you could take Granddad with you?” He snatched one of Tambor’s prunes and popped it into his mouth. “Only, his landlady’s a right old dragon and she’s threatened to kick him out if he comes home in the small hours again.”

“What?” Gordo exclaimed. “But he’s the council chairman, isn’t he? Are you seriously telling me he hasn’t even got his own house?”

Jimmy gave the dwarf a nervous grin. “Politics doesn’t pay you much of a wage in Dullitch,” he whispered.

I
T WAS MORNING IN
Dullitch, and a cool breeze bothered a dragon-shaped weathervane on the roof of the treasury. It spun around, whistled on the wind, and broke off, embedding itself point down in the sloping lower roof. A chimney sweep, who had narrowly averted being impaled by leaping out of its path, fell six floors and crashed through a striped canopy over Stovers’ pie shop.

Duke Modeset smiled bitterly and turned away from the window. “I hate this city, Pegrand,” he said. “Well, maybe that’s an overstatement, but I’m sure there are better places to rule. Anthills, for example.”

“Ha! I don’t care for it much myself, milord,” said Pegrand. “I saw three trolls out on Banana Bridge yesterday, dangling a young lad and his mum over the side. It oughtn’t to be allowed. It’s not just thieves these days, milord. Most of our citizens are petty crooks and vagabonds, too.”

And worse, he thought. I’m not going to mention that dwarf with the butcher’s daughter. He’d never seen such despicable behavior.

“Just concentrate on the job
you’re
doing, Pegrand.”

“I am, milord,” said the manservant. “But you did say normal duties were on hold until—”

“Exactly! So, you see, in some ways you can actually think of this rat crisis as an
extended
vacation, albeit one taken at home.”

“How’s that, milord?” Pegrand raised an eyebrow. There had definitely been an emphasis on the word
extended
, and he wasn’t sure he liked the implication. “Surely you’re not actually thinking of staying here during the attempted, er, rat-out, milord?” he said, his voice edged with despair. “Do you remember that idea you had a few months ago of faking your own death? Maybe you should try that now!”

“What?”

“Well, maybe this infestation is a blessing in disguise; an opportunity to leave this fleapit of a city to someone else. It’s a terrible place, milord.”

“As we both agree,” said Duke Modeset. “But I’m sure I don’t know why
you
continue to live here.”

Modeset got down on his hands and knees and peered under the throne. Vicious was still curled up in a ball, growling softly in its sleep. He wondered what sex the dog was.

“Um…excuse me, gentlemen?”

Modeset and Pegrand started. The lord chancellor, a thin and insipid man named Quarry, stood beside the throne. He was attempting to shuffle through a collection of scrolls while standing up. Every few seconds a rogue parchment would slide off and drift away.

“I was thinking about the money situation, Duke Modeset,” said Quarry.

“Oh, yes?” answered the duke.

“Indeed,” said Quarry.

Pegrand sniffed haughtily and marched over to the window. He’d always despised chancellors, but Quarry was definitely a snake in the grass if ever he’d seen one.

“Problems?” asked the duke.

“Well,” Chancellor Quarry continued, “we’ve been experiencing some financial difficulties since the citizens stopped paying their taxes.”

Duke Modeset’s eyes narrowed. “When was that?”

“About a year ago, sir. The shopkeepers still pay theirs and all small businesses are assessed a fixed sum per annum, but we’ve built up a backlog of debt with Legrash, you see, and—”

“Tell me, Quarry,” Duke Modeset asked, approaching the question with caution. “Exactly what do we have in the treasury, at this precise moment?”

The chancellor hurried over to the desk, snatched up a quill and did some rudimentary calculations. “About—”

“Yes?” said Modeset, his eyebrows raised.

“Roughly—”

“Mmm?”

“Seven hundred and fifty-seven thousand, five hundred and twelve…”