Yowler Foul-Up (10 page)

He walked on, and was nearing a possible exit, when he spied a thickset ogre standing sentry under three small alcoves. Two of the alcoves, one on either side, contained heavy volumes with elaborate hand-embroidered covers. The middle one was empty.

Obegarde narrowed his eyes, trying to force himself to think clearly.

A dark religion, a sacred book gone, a gnome assassin on the loose, and a giant machine camouflaged in a dockyard warehouse. There was some kind of connection there, something he just couldn’t put his finger on—

CRASH
!

Obegarde looked up as a giant skylight of red and purple stained glass imploded, spewing a rain of needle-sharp shards and a man with an arrow protruding from his shoulder. The latter landed heavily on the thick pile of altar carpet, then rolled onto his back and lay there like a fallen angel. He didn’t move.

The ogre sentry had moved with remarkable speed for a creature of its size and, having grabbed a spear from a concealed alcove, was currently edging toward the wounded stranger with a demonic but careful expression on its face.

Luckily, Obegarde reached the man first. He crouched down beside him, checked for a pulse, and then wasted no time in yanking the bolt from Jimmy’s shoulder.

“
Aaahhhhhhh
!!”

The ogre leaped back, taking up a defensive position in front of the two display cases. It was soon joined by Lopsalm, who hurried in from the main sanctuary, screaming blasphemy on all enemies of the church.

“
Ahhhhhhh
!!
Myshoullderrdamnitt
!” Jimmy cried. He reached up a hand to cover his wound, but Obegarde already had a palm pressed hard against it. The thief felt an alien heat surging through him, strengthening his bones and doubling his resistance to the agony in his shoulder. It lasted no more than a few seconds, and then it was gone. So was the pain.

Jimmy sat up, befuddled and half conscious.

“Th-thanks,” he said. “Saved me, saved Jimmy. For a bet. Roof. Fell. Gnome. Had a crossbow. Death, dead Jimmy. I’m alive. Is it? Who said that? Where am I, then? Bye.”

He slumped back. Obegarde leaned over him to ensure that the wound had healed, but a second crossbow bolt thudded into the carpet beside them. Unlike the bolt he’d pulled from the stranger, this one was silver-edged. Obegarde glanced up through the serrated hole in the window and saw the gnome with brass teeth glaring down at him.

Just as a third bolt flew from its housing, Obegarde backflipped and sprang to his feet. Then, dragging Jimmy’s semiconscious form into the shadows, he bolted from the hall, shoving Lopsalm aside and dodging a (thankfully) badly aimed spear thrown by the ogre sentry.

“Get after him!” Lopsalm screamed, shaking his fists at the distant head of the gnome. “He’ll ruin everything! Well?” He spun around and jabbed an accusatory finger at the ogre. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Lookin’ fo’ me spear, guv’nor.”

“Well, don’t! You see that ragtag scruffian over there? I want you to pick him up an’ wring his damn neck!”

“How does I do that, then, guv’nor?”

“I don’t know! You’re the bloody ogre; you figure it out!”

I
T WAS EVENING IN DULLITCH,
and the peaceful sleep of the three or four decent citizens still residing in the city was being disturbed by the unmistakable sound of crossbow fire.

In the extreme northeast of the church district, two figures sped along the rooftops, leaping gantries and skirting chimney pots as if they were mere markers on a predestined course. You could tell it was a death chase. The big man in front took no measure of his jumps, invariably landing a few inches short of every adjoining rooftop he made for, and ending up scrabbling for purchase on the lower slates. Also, the way the pursuer hurried around the weather vanes with his crossbow instead of lifting the weapon strategically over them, indicated that he was a gnome; a gnome with a grudge (and a crossbow, obviously).

As he ran, Obegarde reflected on his quality of life.

Most of all, he hated the rooftop chases.

Dressed in a flowing coat, which seemed as much a peril of the chase as the gnome behind him, he came to an abrupt halt on the summit of the Treasury. Putting a hand to his rib cage, he groaned as his bruises bit him: he hadn’t the time to heal. Then, breath freezing on the air, he peered over his shoulder to see whether Mixer had given up. A small explosion just left of his earlobe suggested that, on the contrary, the little bastard was quite prepared to make a night of it. The thought persisting, Obegarde took to his feet again. The gnome followed.

On the narrow ledge atop the Diamond Clock Tower, a slate slid away and smashed onto the cobbles far below. Obegarde made the decision to ignore it a little too late, and crashed onto the dark, shadowy roof of the History Museum. The impact wasn’t flattering; a thousand heroes had made the drop with a lot more style and a lot less fuss, but Obegarde wasn’t a hero. He was just a man falling onto a museum roof. There was a difference.

The sky over Dullitch was moving fast; it had already gathered an army of clouds in preparation for the downtime drizzle. Obegarde scrambled for purchase on a bell’s housing as another bolt exploded three inches from his right elbow. Suddenly, looking back across the midnight cityscape, he realized there was nowhere to run. The rooftop of the Steeplejack Inn was too far away, and in order to reach Tyrell Tower he’d have to go back past the Diamond Clock. It was all over, then, no question. He closed his eyes and tried to think of a god who might be merciful. None sprang to mind, but then Obegarde wasn’t exactly the most religious man in the city; he’d only visited the church once in two years, and that had been to retrieve a stolen crate of Bhorkan Red from the vestry. Shaking himself from his reverie, he tried to review his options. He had about five or six seconds, tops.

Thwack
! Another bolt was released in the darkness behind him.

Eyes tightly shut, jaw hardened, Obegarde turned and waited for the agonizing impact of the bolt.

Thunk
. The bolt ricocheted from the roof beside him, split the slates in two, and dismissed another cracked shard to the cobbles below.

Obegarde swallowed and thanked his stars; as luck would have it, Mixer was aiming badly.

Thwack
! A new bolt flew away on the wind.

Obegarde sprang up, eyes darting from side to side as he searched for an easy exit.

Thunk
. An arrow this time; the little demon must have changed ammunition. The head bit into Obegarde’s chest and he tumbled from the church roof. For a few fleeting seconds, the air whistled in his ears. Then he hit the grass. Hard.

Groaning with the pain of the fall, Obegarde reached a hand to his chest, removed the arrow and tossed it aside. Then he closed his eyes and tried to heal.

Loftwings possess many little idiosyncrasies that separate them from the pure breed. These include the laying on of hands, a swift recovery from all non-anointed wounds and, if concentration allows, a remarkable ability to play dead.

Silence reigned in the cemetery.

At length, footsteps neared, and Mixer loomed into view.

The gnome, crossbow still clenched tightly in his hands, put a foot to the investigator’s chest and gave him an experimental nudge. When he got no response, he dropped the weapon, put a hand inside his jerkin, and drew out a fistful of red powder. Countless grains poured from between his fingers.

Mixer cast the powder to the floor beside the investigator and mumbled something unintelligible under his breath. There was a sudden eruption of white flame. It was accompanied by a low, resounding hum.

Obegarde allowed his eyelids to part a fraction.

What’s this now? he thought. Don’t tell me the little freak’s a wizard as well as a murdering thug?

The flame died away. In its place stood a woman of striking appearance. She was raven-haired and wearing far fewer clothes than respectability demanded. An air of dark magic surrounded her. She looked down at Mixer’s wretched face with something approaching disgust.

“What now?” she demanded.

“It’s me, Mixer,” the gnome began. “I have news.”

“Well?”

“It’s the loftwing I was telling you about, mistress—”

“Ha! That was days ago. You’ve only just managed to catch up with him? Insufferable! I’m sure I don’t know why Lopsalm hired you; that wretched creature might have told the palace
anything
in the time it’s taken you to silence him.”

“Yes, mistress, but I’ve done it now. My work is over, and all our enemies have been subdued. The thief is a memory, and Master Lopsalm is dealing with his young friend.”

The Lark raised an eyebrow expectantly. “Good,” she said slowly. “But there is still much to do. You have the book?”

“Yes,” Mixer went on, his eyes glazed with uncertainty. “Shouldn’t we tell Master Lopsalm about it?”

“Lopsalm already knows.”

“But, mistress, you said it was
our
secret.”

“Yes, well … just make sure the book is safe.” The Lark smiled. “As for you, Mixer, I’m still a little confused as to how this ‘investigator’ chanced upon you in the first place.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, mistress,” Mixer intoned, choosing his words carefully. “Perhaps someone at the palace suspected yo—”

“Me? You dare to suggest that I am the weak link?”

“No, no, of course not, mistress. Is it not possible that we might have a spy in our midst?”

“A spy?”

“Yes, mistress. Are you sure the others are reliable?”

The Lark nodded. “Absolutely,” she said. “The followers share a common purpose. Besides, Moors and Edwy don’t have the imagination required for betrayal.”

“No, mistress. I’ll, er, I’ll bring the book to you, then.”

“No! Just hide it. The city
must not
find out what we’re up to. They still have time to ruin everything we’ve worked so hard to achieve! So keep that book safe. Also, have the receptacle moved.”

“Wh-what, mistress? The machine? But it’s huge! Where else can—”

“I don’t care, but you must let me know
where
it ends up so that I may aim the ray correctly. Somewhere in the center of the city would be preferable. A rooftop; I’m assuming you still have the Dust of Levitation?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Very good; it took a great deal of bartering to obtain. Communicate with me again when the task is done. Our whole religion is counting on you.”

“Wait, mistress!”

The image shimmered, but did not disappear. “Well?”

Mixer shifted uncomfortably. “What of Moors and Edwy, mistress? Did they get the lizards to Plunge without incident?”

“Indeed. They are testing the remarkable properties of our scaly little friends right at this moment. Very successfully, I might add. The villagers of Plunge are simply … lost for words. Glory awaits.”

Mixer nodded. “We’re almost ready, then!” he hazarded.

“Almost,” the Lark confirmed. “When the lighthouse lens intensifies our glare, we will be able to fire upon Dullitch. The city will be no more, and our select brotherhood will reign. Just remember to leave
after
you’ve moved the machine. If it is discovered, all our hard work will have been in vain.”

A nod; Mixer bowed low.

“I’ll not fail you, mistress,” he said. “And then, maybe I can join you in Plunge?”

The image in the flame said nothing more; it merely flickered and melted away. Mixer took a moment to stop shaking, then crouched down to retrieve his crossbow. His fingers had just found the handle, when Obegarde sprang to his feet and stamped on them.

B
ACK IN THE CHURCH,
things were not going well for Jimmy Quickstint. …

The ogre had snatched him up by a thatch of hair, spun him around, and fastened him in a head-lock.

Jimmy kicked out with both arms and legs, flailing wildly against the stranglehold, which the ogre promptly began to close like a vise.

Using a technique familiar to many stalwart wrigglers of the thieving trade, Jimmy allowed himself to go limp and then, when the grip loosened, attempted to slide between the legs of his aggressor and sweep the beast off its feet with a well-aimed tendon kick.

It didn’t work.

The ogre, whose legs were as thick as tree trunks, simply scooped Jimmy up again, snapping him back into the headlock with comparative ease.

However, this time Jimmy was closer to the wall. Releasing a reserve of strength he hadn’t previously been aware of, he leaped up with both feet and, placing them flat against the stone, launched himself and the ogre backward. They flew into the nearest display case, which shattered and collapsed under the ogre’s weight.

Jimmy was first to his feet. Snatching up a sacred Shindu cannonball, he swung around with both arms and struck the ogre a glancing blow across the back of its skull. The beast gave a dull grunt and slumped forward.

Jimmy dropped the cannonball and fell against the rough stone of the chamber wall, his breath coming in slow gasps. He closed his eyes.

As weeks go, he thought, I’ve had better. I’ve been conned by a one-armed thief, pursued by a blasphemous bird, shot at by a gnome with brass teeth, healed by some stranger in a dirty coat, and strangled by a bloody great ogre. And it’s only Tuesday.

Jimmy took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes again, Lopsalm was right beside him. The priest was displaying a nice warm smile, and a dagger.

“That was a very lucky escape,” he said. “But now it is time for you to die.”

Jimmy’s punch caught the mad priest completely by surprise and practically knocked him into next week. He followed it up with a second—slightly weaker—but still on target. Lopsalm staggered sideways and dropped his weapon. Then he turned and fled from the chamber.

“Get after him!” came a familiar squawk.

Jimmy looked up at the barrowbird. “What?”

“Get after the priest!”

“No way!” he screamed. “That’s the first person who’s ever run away from me; I’m not gonna push my luck.”

“If you lose him,” the bird snapped, “I’ll plague you forever. Now get going!”