The Order of Odd-Fish (29 page)

“May I remind you that the Belgian Prankster’s original name was Sir Nils Van der Woort?” said Fiona. “And Sir Nils
was
a knight of the Odd-Fish.”

“But why would the Belgian Prankster tear out a picture of the Silent Sisters?” said Daphne.

“Why does the Belgian Prankster do anything?” said Dame Delia. “He’s in league with the Silent Sisters and is trying to destroy the universe. He is committed to madness. Hardly anything he, or they, do could make much sense to us.”

“By cracky, I can’t take it anymore,” said Sir Festus suddenly. “All these secrets and plots and skullduggery…we are knights! The Silent Sisters lurk among us in Eldritch City, the Belgian Prankster is looming abroad, and there’s nothing we can do? Look at me—I’m not young anymore. I’ve waited all my life for a proper war. I’m getting fat, I’m getting slow—it’s not befitting a knight! I’m not meant to die of old age, but in the glory of battle! Still, year after year goes by, and no fight! Why can’t the Silent Sisters show themselves for an honorable combat? Why must the Belgian Prankster always skulk and strike from afar? These invisible enemies are driving me mad. Give me something I can see—give me something I can do!”

“I think you’ve all done quite enough,” said Fiona loudly.

Everyone’s attention turned to her.

“What do you mean?” said Jo.

Fiona said, “I
mean,
Jo, that most of the trouble in Eldritch City actually comes from the Order of Odd-Fish. Sir Nils used to be an Odd-Fish; now he’s the Belgian Prankster, working for the Silent Sisters. He stole the Odd-Fish lodge last year, and now it’s back—but who knows what infections the Belgian Prankster hid in this building that are now spreading around the city as we speak? Not to mention that the Odd-Fish built the Inconvenience, a very dangerous device, and then blundered into letting the Belgian Prankster gain control of it. Last but not least, there’s Martin and Evelyn Hazelwood, the most irresponsible of all—bringing into the world a baby that should have been strangled in the womb. I can come to only one conclusion: the Order of Odd-Fish, whether by treachery or by stupidity, is the Silent Sisters’ greatest ally in Eldritch City. That’s all I have to say. Now. Where do I sleep?”

All the Odd-Fish erupted in loud outrage, but no matter how loudly they blustered, accused, and protested, Fiona sat with her arms crossed and ignored them.

Jo was furious. But she was all the more furious because there was no retort she could make. Everything Fiona had said was perfectly true.

The Odd-Fish dispersed to bed. The butlers helped the knights and squires of the Odd-Fish to their rooms, and Fiona was curtly shown to the guest quarters. Jo stalked out of the tapestry room before anyone, not bothering to say good night to Fiona, or to Ian or Nora, for that matter. She went back to her room and slammed the door.

And remembered the message from her father.

In her bag.

She had left her bag in the tapestry room!

Jo threw open her door and ran downstairs in a panic. How could she have been so stupid? She sprinted down the dark passageways, popped open the trapdoor, clambered up—and went weak with relief. Her bag was sitting where she had left it.

She grabbed her bag, opened it—

Her father’s manuscript was gone.

T
HE
rain kept coming. Two months into the rainy season, Jo found it hard to remember life without rain. A dull weariness crept into her bones. All of Eldritch City felt colorless, drenched, and dead.

In the middle of the night, when the rain pattered gently on her windowpane, Jo could almost believe that the rainy season wasn’t so bad. But then there would come a bang of thunder so loud it sounded like an exploding bomb, and Jo would sit up in a panic, certain it meant the return of the Belgian Prankster. After a breathless minute, she would calm down, and drift back to uneasy dreams as the rain pelted down like bullets.

Jo couldn’t stop thinking about her missing manuscript. The only explanation was that Fiona had taken it. Of course, Fiona couldn’t translate it without the ring, but Jo had scribbled her own translations in its margins. If Fiona read them, she would know everything. But
did
she have it?

Jo tried to shove it into the back of her mind, but that didn’t work; that part was already full of the Belgian Prankster. Anxiety simmered as background noise to everything now, like the rain endlessly drumming on the roof. But the constant worry about the Belgian Prankster didn’t dull its edge. Every time she thought of him directly, a fresh stab of dread twisted her guts.

And a dark corner of her was waiting for him. The grayer the season became, the more washed-out the world seemed, the more Jo caught herself almost wishing for him to come. Sometimes it seemed as if everything around her was silently saying his name.

She needed distractions. She took on extra work in the lodge, studied up on all the knights’ specialties, and trained harder than ever with Dame Delia. There were also more dueling traditions to keep. Just as Fiona had slept over at the Odd-Fish lodge, Jo was required to sleep over at the Wormbeards’ lodge. But if Fiona really
did
have her father’s manuscript…but no, it was too nerve-wracking to think about. The closer the day came, the more Jo dreaded it. Especially when she learned that it fell the night before Desolation Day.

Jo had never known when her birthday was. Now she knew: Desolation Day was the most hated day on the Eldritch City calendar, the anti-holiday that marked the birth of the Ichthala and the destruction of half the city. Jo knew some special festival was going to happen, but she had no idea what. Nobody talked about it. It was bad luck even to mention Desolation Day. Jo couldn’t help feeling as if the whole city were keeping a secret from her.

The night before Desolation Day, Jo, Ian, and Nora huddled from the rain under an awning in East Squeamings, waiting to be picked up by the Wormbeards. Where there once had been a bustling fish market, now there was just a sodden, empty field of bricks. The stalls had been dismantled and put away, and the fish market was closed until the rainy season was over.

Ian said, “It wasn’t so long ago we were running around here, looking for the Schwenk. Remember?”

“And we first met the Wormbeards,” said Jo.

“And I saved you both,” added Nora. “You two don’t know how close you came to being torn apart by those lizard-dogs…. Jo, I
still
can’t believe you’re going to duel Fiona! Awful things happen at the Dome of Doom. Are you still sure you want to do it?”

“I’ve seen Jo practice,” said Ian. “She’s really good. She’ll beat Fiona, don’t worry.”

Jo looked out onto the gray city and remembered the first time she’d met Fiona. It seemed like so long ago. Back then, the city had seemed fresh, with a surprise waiting around every corner. Now Jo walked the streets and felt a quiet satisfaction in
not
being surprised. She liked knowing her way around, nodding at the stores and apartments, seeing everything right where it should be.

“Where
are
they?” said Jo. “They were supposed to pick us up twenty minutes ago.”

Ian said, “It’s a calculated insult. They’ll be just late enough to irritate us, but not late enough to break etiquette.”

“There they are,” said Nora.

Fiona’s seconds emerged from the fog in purple cloaks, steel goggles, and long yellow scarves, hidden under yellow umbrellas. “Let’s go,” they said.

The Wormbeard squires led Jo, Ian, and Nora out of the rain and down into the subterranean neighborhood. Snoodsbottom was just as Jo remembered it: the glowing fungi on the cave ceilings, the stale, spicy air, the cramped tunnels, the unwholesome heat. As before, the walls were covered in minutely detailed carvings, so unsettlingly convoluted that they seemed like not art but an intricate geological disease chewing away at the insides of the mountain.

Finally, the Wormbeard seconds stopped. “We’re here.”

“We are?” said Jo. All she saw was a pit.

“Look down.”

Jo approached the pit’s edge and peered in. The lodge of the Wormbeards was not a building; it was almost the opposite of a building. It was a pit two hundred yards deep and fifty feet square, dotted with windows on every side, and filled by a great glistening tree. The tree’s bark had the hard sheen of steel and copper, and its branches gleamed with thousands of purple and yellow bulbs—organic gems, or a kind of glassy fruit. The tree filled up the pit with glittering branches, supporting a staircase descending to the bottom. Lizard-dogs slept within its metallic leaves, their tails tightly wrapped around the branches.

The seconds led Jo, Ian, and Nora down the staircase. Through the branches, Jo could see lighted windows all around the pit, and Wormbeards going about their business.

Fiona Fuorlini was waiting at the bottom, reading a book by the light of the glowing tree. She stood up, her seconds crossed over to her, and at last the six squires faced each other.

Jo was ready with the traditional insult: “So! I have found you, simmering in this cauldron of dishonor—”

Fiona interrupted. “Please, Jo. Can we dispense with the etiquette for tonight?”

Jo was startled into silence. Fiona smiled and looked at her kindly. “I know, I know,” said Fiona. “According to the rules, we have to insult each other, and everything has to be tense, but do either of us really want that? I’ll take the dishonor for disregarding the proper dueling formalities. I’d rather just have you here as a regular guest. How about it?”

Jo looked at Nora and Ian. Nora seemed at a loss; Ian reluctantly shrugged.

Jo turned back to Fiona. “Um…thank you. That sounds refreshing.”

“I’m glad you think so,” said Fiona. Jo tried to detect trickery in Fiona’s tone, but there was none; Jo was mystified. Before she could change her mind, Nora and Ian bowed and withdrew, followed by Fiona’s seconds.

Now Jo and Fiona were alone. Jo watched Fiona closely, searching for a sign—
had
she stolen the manuscript? But Fiona only smiled again at Jo, turned, and entered the gate of the Wormbeards’ lodge. Jo took a deep breath and followed.

They came into a dim cavern of rough rock and moss. Unseen waterfalls trickled from the ceiling, and little pathways twisted away into a jumble of stunted trees and chunky boulders. The gnarled, dwarfish trees grew in well-tended little groves, disappearing into the darkness. All around, dozens of bubbling little pools gurgled and steamed.

A porch was poised over the underground garden, like a pale, ghostly ship sailing just above the boulders and trees. Jo and Fiona climbed the stairs to the porch. It was bright and spacious, constructed of smooth timber and white, paper-like walls, giving a view of the dark garden. White globes glowed with mellow light from the high ceiling, and the straw-mat floor yielded pleasantly under Jo’s feet. A table had a vase of cut flowers, artfully arranged.

Jo had never felt ashamed of the messiness of the Odd-Fish lodge before, but in the elegant lodge of the Wormbeards, she felt awkward. She understood now why Fiona had regarded the Odd-Fish lodge with distaste. Compared with this, the Odd-Fish lodge was a slum.

Jo said, “So…I like your lodge.”

“Thanks.”

“I have a question,” said Jo. “The mission of the Odd-Fish is to research our Appendix. What’s the Wormbeards’ mission?”

“We’re artists,” said Fiona. “We have all sorts here—painters, composers, musicians, architects, whatever. I’m a sculptor. In fact, I’m working on something for the Desolation Day festival tomorrow. You can come to my studio after dinner, if you want.”

Jo and Fiona had a private dinner in a little room overlooking the courtyard, where a few branches from the shimmering tree poked in through the window. The food was bland, and there wasn’t much of it, but Fiona apologized: “Everyone here is fasting before Desolation Day. I suppose they’re doing the same at your lodge.”

It was true, Jo thought; everyone
was
fasting at the Order of Odd-Fish. But why? Jo didn’t know what to expect from tomorrow’s Desolation Day ceremonies. She knew that almost everyone in the city was expected to attend. But whenever Jo asked anyone about the festival, she only received vague replies.

“So…how long have you been in the Wormbeards?” said Jo.

“All my life,” said Fiona. “My parents are both knights. They’re on expedition right now, but the lodge takes care of me. Fuorlinis have always been knights, going back hundreds of years.”

Why was she being so nice? Fiona made pleasant dinner conversation with Jo, without a trace of the nasty tone she had taken at the Odd-Fish lodge. Jo almost thought that it might be possible to have Fiona as a friend. After dinner, Fiona invited Jo up to her studio, and by that time Jo was entirely at ease.

Fiona’s studio was a large concrete bunker smelling of plaster and clay and paint. The studio housed tons of bulky equipment, including kilns, throwing wheels, and bins of found objects. Fiona’s bedroom adjoined the studio, and there was a large furnace in which some pots bubbled over with goo. Reinforced glass doors insulated the studio from the heat and flames.

As soon as Jo entered, her attention was struck by a giant sculpture in the center of the room. She felt her throat shrink. She hoped it wasn’t what she thought it was.

“It’s for the Desolation Day parade tomorrow,” said Fiona. “Guess what it is.”

“It’s…the Ichthala,” said Jo.

Fiona smiled. “What do you think?”

It was horrifying. The sculpture was a monstrous idol, twenty feet tall, a lumpy, bulging, grotesque tower ridged with fins and scales, a mishmash of teeth, claws, horns, tentacles, arms, bones, and legs, blazing with viciously clashing colors, and all somehow wrong: swollen to disturbing size, shrunken to meaninglessness, discolored, grafted on or torn off. But Fiona was a skilled artist: Jo could see the difference between the lean muscle, the protruding bone, the rough hide, and the blisters and boils that erupted all over. Tangled hair, hardened with dried blood, bristled from between cracks in its reptilian armor and dangled down its scabby back. Its mouth seemed ready to snap up and devour her. The idol looked
alive,
a shambling, snarling, unclean beast, built out of all the rejected parts of the world.

“The city commissioned me to make the Ichthala this year,” said Fiona. “Why don’t you have a seat? We can talk while I finish this up.”

Jo sat down. Fiona climbed a stepladder next to the idol and started painting on the opposite side. For a while they didn’t speak.

“The All-Devouring Mother fascinates me,” said Fiona.

Jo had noticed. All around the studio, there were paintings, sketches, and sculptures of the All-Devouring Mother. Photographs from
Teenage Ichthala
were scattered on a workbench.

“So you watch
Teenage Ichthala
?” said Jo.

“A lot of my work follows the show and the traditional myths about what the Ichthala looks like,” said Fiona. “But this is more of my own vision. You’re friends with Audrey Durdle, aren’t you? She does a pretty good job, considering.”

“Considering?” said Jo.

“Well, the show
is
a fantasy, isn’t it?” Fiona smiled. “Although the Ichthala is real. I don’t necessarily agree with how they make the Ichthala look, or how Audrey Durdle plays her. I mean, the All-Devouring Mother could look like anything, couldn’t she? She could even look like me. Or you.”

Fiona’s hand was gripping a knife. Jo stiffened—but then she saw Fiona was just using it to carve the face of the idol. She slowly relaxed.

“Maybe the Ichthala doesn’t even know that she
is
the Ichthala,” said Fiona, almost as though she was talking to herself. “Maybe the Ichthala is just a normal girl and doesn’t know what she is or the terrible things she’s done. Or…maybe she does know?”

“That could be,” said Jo carefully.

Fiona gazed at her sculpture. “When I was a kid, I used to fantasize that
I
was the Ichthala. I guess every girl does at one time or another. Who knows? Maybe I am. It would be something to have that kind of power, wouldn’t it?”

“It sounds tempting,” said Jo.

“I can tell we’re both interested in the Ichthala,” said Fiona.

“It’s an interesting topic,” said Jo. She had tried to sound noncommittal, but she feared she had sounded dismissive. For a while Fiona didn’t reply, and Jo wondered if she had offended her. But then Jo realized that Fiona was simply absorbed in her work. For about fifteen minutes Fiona worked, and Jo sat quietly, wondering if Fiona had forgotten she was in the room.