Yowler Foul-Up (11 page)

“Why can’t you follow him?”

“I’m gonna see if I can find the gnome and that other bloke. I’ll catch up with you afterward.”

“Promise?”

“Yes! Now move!”

Jimmy mustered all his strength and bolted from the church. When he arrived outside, the street was dark. He glanced left and right, trying to distinguish any shape that might be moving faster than those around it. Just as he was about to shrug the whole thing off and make his way back inside, he spotted Lopsalm’s floppy hat. It was lying at the mouth of Westcoat Alley, a dim slit that formed a shortcut between Dullitch’s Merchant Quarter and the City Cathedral.

Jimmy kicked the hat aside and cautiously entered the alley.

O
BEGARDE HAD MIXER PINNED
to the ground.

He rested the edge of the crossbow on the gnome’s throat and applied gentle pressure.

“Noooo!” Mixer moaned, eyes streaming with tears. “Pleeasse.”

“Quiet,” snapped Obegarde. “Now, I’m going to talk and you’re going to listen very carefully. Nod if you understand.”

Mixer made a slight inclination with his head, but the bolt dug into his throat and drew a thick line of blood.

“Okay,” the investigator continued. “The Lark and her people aren’t your friends. They saw you taking an interest in the scriptures and they’ve brainwashed you.”

Mixer struggled, but Obegarde increased pressure on the bolt and almost choked the gnome into unconsciousness.

“They’ve had you running around for them,” he continued, “doing all the dangerous work; things y
ou
could be hung for. Whereas they, they haven’t done anything illegal, at least nothing provable.

Now do you understand what I’m saying?”

The gnome ceased his struggles and appeared, just for a second, to be paying attention.

“You’re lying,” he managed, his lips moist with spittle. “They need me; I’m a vital part of the group. The Mistress and Master Lopsalm will rule, and I’ll be at their right hand!”

“Ah. That’s why they’ve left you here, is it?” said Obegarde. “Here in Dullitch, where everything’s going to be turned to stone. From what I heard, those other two cultist clowns are away on the wind and, as for Lopsalm, I’ll bet he’s already killed that poor lad and spirited himself off to Plunge! Don’t look at me like that; you know I’m right. From what I hear, this group of yours is stabbing one another in the back and using you to do it!”

Mixer shook his head, and Obegarde could see that all the terrible consequences of the gnome’s actions were dawning on him at once. As Obegarde released his viselike grip on the crossbow, the gnome brought his hands to his face and wept.

“I wanted to be an assassin,” he sniffed. “But I failed the initiation so they banished me to the church as a cleaner. A cleaner, me! Well, I showed them. Master Lopsalm, and the Lark, they gave me
purpose
. First I kept the sacred book and then, when the thief returned from Grinswood with the lizards …”

“Lizards?”

“ … he knew too much, so I took him down. I only scared the old man. Of course, they
wanted
me to kill him.”

“That’s enough, I think. You can explain all this to the viscount.”

“You don’t understand. I—”

“Come on,” said Obegarde, dragging him up from the floor. “I’ll take you to jail. The Crown can decide your fate in the morning.” He straightened up, shouldered the crossbow, and pushed the gnome in front of him. “And if you try anything smart, you’ll find out why the world hates a loftwing.”

Mixer coughed and managed half a nod.

“Good. Now, keep your hands where I can see them.”

He shoved the gnome in the back with his boot, and the two of them headed on down the hill.

High in the sky, the barrowbird watched them with considerable interest.

T
HE ALLEY WAS WREATHED
in shadow.

Jimmy Quickstint picked his way, catlike, between crumpled bins and bulging rubbish sacks that spilled their contents from gaping wounds. Occasionally he would stand stock-still and listen for the slightest hint of movement ahead. Then, detecting nothing, he would move on much as before, hands bunched into fists for the attack he expected at any moment.

Then he saw Lopsalm. The mad priest was a tiny speck at the farthest end of the alley, about to cross Cathedral Street.

Slowly at first, then picking up speed, Jimmy moved faster and faster until he was hurtling headlong after the priest, arms pumping and legs threatening to strike every inch of the way.

What am I doing now? he thought. Eleven o’clock at night and, when I should be tucked up in bed, I’m chasing a religious lunatic down a blind alley at the request of a bloody pigeon. I must be mad; there’s no other explanation. Never mind, I’ve nearly caught him. Oh look, he’s going in to the cathedral grounds. I wonder if Jed’s working tonight?

T
HE LOFTWING BRANCH OF
the vampire family was characterized by its breathtaking reflexes, which were described by some anthropologists as “so fast as to be almost anticipatory.” Mixer, on the other hand, was desperate, and occasionally desperation carries an amazing ability to turn back the odds.

They were approaching Dullitch City Jail when the gnome made his move. Obegarde, who’d had the nose of the crossbow jammed into Mixer’s back since the moment he’d hoisted him off the cobbles, was beginning to relax. The jail loomed into view at the end of the street, and manholes aside, there was simply nowhere for the little gnome to go.

Then, without the slightest physical indication, Mixer took off like a torpedo …
toward
the jail-house. Wary and not a little baffled, Obegarde rocketed after him, slowing a bit when he realized the gnome was on a collision course with the jail’s immense barred door. But Mixer knew exactly what he was doing.

“Hey, stop him!” Obegarde screamed at the sentries when he saw the little gnome squeeze himself between the bars and disappear into the darkness beyond.

The two guards on duty began to stumble about in confusion, partly befuddled and partly bemused at the fact that someone had just forced their way
into
the building. Mixer evaded them with consummate ease, sliding between their clumsy limbs and leading them on a merry dance along the gloomy corridors of the jail.

Obegarde arrived at the entrance to the jailhouse, crashing into the giant door and hammering on the bars until his knuckles bled.

“Let me in, you fools! He’s going to get away!”

“Leave this to us, citizen!” the guards bellowed back. “We have everything under control.”

“Like hell you do! LET ME IN!”

There was a lengthy pause, and the gate began to trundle sideways. Obegarde grabbed at the retreating bar and propelled himself inside. Unfortunately, he then ran smack-bang into the one person in Dullitch he always tried passionately to avoid: Quartermaster Alan Sorrow.

“Obegarde, what a lovely surprise; and where do you think
you’re
going?”

Sorrow wasn’t a well-liked man in Dullitch. In fact, he was positively loathed. This was something he simply couldn’t fathom, for, being one of the four quartermasters, he considered himself highly respectable. Obegarde, on the other hand, he regarded as a hopeless piece of street scum. This didn’t worry the loftwing unduly, as the feeling was mutual.

“Alan,” he said breathlessly, “you’ve got to let me pass. There’s a gnome on the loose in there.”

“Yes, it seems so,” Sorrow agreed, nodding his head to one side and listening as a hundred pairs of feet responded to the unmistakable din of the jailhouse alarm. “Do you have any idea why that is?”

“Yes,” the loftwing managed. “I brought him in. Now, can I—”

“Hold your horses, Obegarde. My men will handle it. What’s the charge?”

“Um … murder, assault, possible theft, conspiracy to endanger the city, er, you name it. …”

“I see. Nice of you to let him go, then.”

“What? I
didn’t
let him go.”

“Then, would you like to explain what he’s doing running loose around my jailhouse?”

“He escaped.”

“Terrific. Well, we’ll handle it from here. We are, after all,
professionals
.”

Obegarde snorted. “You’re a bunch of incompetents,” he muttered.

“What was that?”

“I said, you’re a bun—”

“Yes, I heard you the first time; I just wanted to see if a bloodsucker like yourself had the nerve to repeat it. I have to confess, I’m shocked.” He stepped forward, ushering Obegarde into the street, and motioned for the great gates to be closed behind him.

“You’re coming with me,” he said flatly.

“Where?”

“The palace. I understand Lord Curfew’s secretary wants to see you, though I can’t think why the palace would employ a
freelancer
when they’ve got us.”

T
HE ANCIENT GATES BARRING
entrance to the grounds of Dullitch Cathedral creaked ominously in the wind; the chains that usually constricted them had been severed.

“Watch your back here, boy,” said the barrowbird, landing on the iron gatepost. “I reckon that Lopsalm could be a tricky customer.”

“Thanks,” said Jimmy wretchedly. “I’ll keep that in mind when he’s beating my brains out with a candlestick.”

“No need for sarcasm; I’m just trying to help.”

“Thanks.” Jimmy spotted a shadow slipping between two stone monuments and crouched down to hide himself in the long-neglected grass. A few seconds later the shadow emerged and, looking both ways, slipped behind another statue. It was definitely Lopsalm; the little priest’s pathetically scrawny form gave him away.

“Out of his bloody mind,” muttered the barrowbird. “That’s one of the requirements of being a priest, if you ask me. Start a bloke off wearing a dress and sooner or later things are bound to go wrong.”

“You may have stumbled upon something there,” said Jimmy.

“What’s that?”

“Well, wizards wear robes and most of them go bad. There was one up in, there was one, er, I don’t remember. … ” Jimmy trailed off. He knew that he must be pretty scared, subconsciously, because he’d started talking for the sake of talking, and that was always a sure sign of trouble.

He kept himself low to the ground and pulled himself along on his stomach. The damp from the grass seeped into his clothes and, somewhere behind him in the darkness, a flapping indicated that the barrowbird had moved skyward to get a better view of the proceedings.

Lopsalm was clearly visible now, and his destination was equally obvious. The scabby little priest was heading for the hulking mass of the cathedral. He broke into a run and had almost cleared the first flight of steps when he tripped and fell.

The barrowbird flapped furiously. “Now! Quick, while the bugger’s down!”

Jimmy bolted. Running faster than he’d ever run before, he cleared bushes and gravestones with jumps that would’ve ruined a shorter man for life. Lopsalm was getting to his feet when the gravedigger cannonballed into him. The two men rolled on the ground, raining blows on each other in the familiar fashion of men who’ve never fought before and are trying to remember how their fathers had told them to bunch a fist.

Jimmy scored the first “oof,” but spent too long congratulating himself and got caught across the chin with a brass knuckle-duster Lopsalm had seemingly produced from thin air.

“The Holy Hand of Yowl!” yelled the priest, his grin ethereal in the moonlight. “How it striketh thee down!”

Jimmy brought up a knee and, more from luck than judgment, connected with the man’s most sacred relics.

“The, er, Gravedigger’s Thrust of Doom,” he barked back. “How it maketh your eyes water!”

Lopsalm creased up and collapsed, something that Jimmy mistakenly interpreted as license for a breather. He struggled to his feet, took a step back, and tripped over the edge of a gravestone. When he managed to struggle up again, the priest had vanished.

“You silly bugger!” squawked the barrowbird, flapping on the wind. “You shouldn’t have taken your eyes off him!”

Jimmy groaned. “Did you see where he went?”

“Yeah; in there.”

The cathedral loomed large. Jimmy hoped it didn’t look as bad on the inside, but something about the expressions of the gargoyles suggested the architect had been working on a theme of unimaginable terror.

“Well, here goes nothing,” he said, and sprinted off, the barrowbird close behind him.

A
N EAR-SPLITTING SCREAM ECHOED
through the palace corridors. There was a lengthy pause, then …

“What is the meaning of this disruption?” the viscount boomed. He’d been somewhat taken aback when Secretary Spires had rushed into his private chambers (once again without knocking) accompanied by a bedraggled stranger in a dirty overcoat. He made a mental note to execute his chamber guards, assuming he could find them.

Obegarde, still panting heavily from the night’s exertions, took a step back and collapsed into one of the palace’s hard marble chairs. Spires was less keen to be silent, and stood at the edge of Curfew’s desk, his hands visibly shaking.

“Now,” the viscount began, “I’m sure you’re here on the most urgent of business, but still, I’d appreciate it if you at least made an attempt to announce yourself. These intrusions really are most …” He trailed off as he saw the secretary’s expression. “What is it, man?”

“I have vital news, Excellency.”

“What news? Who is
this
fellow?”

“First things first, master. The young lady you asked me to trace—I searched the palace for info, asked every employee. I turned up nothing.”

“Unfortunate …”

“Yes, but then I spoke to the Yowlers.”

“You did what? Without my permission! You imbecile! You do realize that anything you say reflects on me? Do you know how many Yowler groups there are in this city? Moreover, do you know how many Yowlers there are in
this quarter
of the city? If you’ve compromised my posit—”

“Don’t worry, Excellency! Please, don’t worry! The news isn’t as bad as we think—”

“Oh, it’s bad all right,” Obegarde interrupted.