Ratastrophe Catastrophe (16 page)

Groan got to his feet in the darkness.

“What’s this, hide-’n’-seek?” he muttered, testily.

He padded around the room, his back against the wall. When he had circled it entirely, he stepped in a little and tried again. His foot caught the edge of something smooth and sloping. He dropped down onto one knee and felt it with his hands. It was a chute of some kind.

“Oi!” he shouted down it. “You all right down there?”

There was no reply.

“All right,” Groan boomed. “I’m comin’ down.”

Jimmy grabbed hold of Stump’s arm and pulled him back. They were about fifty yards beyond the arrow-trap room.

“Now, don’t tell me you can’t hear
that
,” said Jimmy.

Stump put his head on one side. “Yeah, I can.”

“What do you think it is?” asked Jimmy.

“Could be up on the mountain or somethin’,” Stump suggested.

“No. It’s closer than that. Listen carefully,” Jimmy whispered.

“P’raps there’s a tunnel above us?”

“Could be,” said Jimmy. “That’s definitely voices, though. Don’t you think?”

“Sounds like shoutin’ to me, people shoutin’ somethin’.”

“Listen,” Jimmy interrupted. “It’s getting nearer.”

“Hey,” said Stump, pointing toward the roof of the tunnel. “There’s a huge great hole in the ceiling.”

Jimmy looked up.

His granddad fell on him. For a second they both just lay there, frozen with shock. Then a dwarf cannoned through the same hole and landed on top of them.

Stump whistled between his teeth and shook his head.

“Blimey,” he said. “I’m glad I weren’t standin’ there.”

Then Groan arrived.

I
T WAS EARLY MORNING
in Dullitch and there was already a fair turnout for the big speech. Many of the citizens felt aggrieved at the prospect of having to endure life without their children. A few of them had come to give thanks.

The weather was surprisingly benevolent, smothering the landscape with warm sunlight, while at the same time cooling it with gentle breezes. It was looking to become one of those rare days where people whistled on their way home from work and birds twittered merrily from the rooftops. At around noon, picnics began to dot the lower reaches of Skulkis, transforming the tor into a patchwork of white and green—a chessboard with brightly colored pawns. Things soon went downhill as the city’s indefatigable inhabitants began to steal from each other’s baskets but, for the moment at least, all was peaceful.

In the palace, Quaris Sands was writing a speech. He was aided in the task by Duke Modeset and the troglodyte, Burnie (the only other member of the council who’d agreed to come along). Luckily, the conference room was at the top of the tallest tower and the occasional screams of the crowd were barely audible.

“There you are, milord,” said the acting chairman. He applied the final full stop and passed the speech across to Modeset, who read a few lines in each paragraph before crossing them through and scribbling over the top of them.

“Um, which bits are you changing, milord?” asked Quaris, trying to ignore the glob of green slime which had just missed the back of his hand. He threw a stern look in Burnie’s direction.

“Any bits with us mentioned negatively,” Modeset replied, indicating half the page. “I’m not sure that a fair proportion of the blame cannot be assigned to our friend Quarry,” said Modeset with a smile. “He has the look of a culprit. Any chance of rewording the speech so that most of the responsibility lies with him?”

Three floors below the conference room, Pegrand Marshall was attempting to get a squommet out of its basket. He sat down cross-legged before the little creature, whistled between his teeth, and waved a biscuit hopefully. “Fizz! C’mon, Fizz, out you come.”

The shape remained dormant.

Squommets were a peculiar species, a one-winged dragon-beaver. They were incredibly furry, with large teeth that extended from the base of their mouths in a sharp curve over their top lip. Fizz had been Pegrand’s pet for two days and was, he had to admit, a poor example of the species. He’d bought it from a well-renowned sanctuary in Plum Hill. They had assured him of its good line, which just goes to show that excessive inbreeding can corrupt the good genes in any species. He’d even been shown a portrait of Fizz’s parents, taken outside a hostelry near the almshouses. He looked down into the basket. Perhaps he’s adopted, Pegrand thought.

Fizz stretched out a claw, tentatively at first. Then he hopped out of the basket and wiggled across the floor. Pegrand reached down, scooped him up in his arms, and went back to the basket. As usual, Fizz’s paper needed changing. Pegrand lowered himself onto his haunches and picked up the dirty sheet. He was about to throw it away, when he noticed there was some scribbled-out writing on it which he could just about make out. It was a letter:

Maricus Dark, Assassin

House of the Rooftop Runners

6 Palace Street

Dullitch

Dearest Friend,

I wonder if you could be so kind as to help me at this time. How long have we been friends? I wish for you to arrange a sma

The rest of the message was either crossed through or illegible. Pegrand held it up to the light, but still couldn’t make out the signature. Then he toyed with it pensively, running over a number of possibilities in his head. One kept recurring. He tossed Fizz roughly back into the basket, pocketed the paper, and bolted off toward the kitchens.

From his vantage point atop Karuim’s Church of Holy Origins, the assassin Mifkindle Green loaded his patented silver crossbow, leaned over the shoulders of two conveniently positioned gargoyles, and peered along the shaft at his target. There was a procession going on. This was nothing unusual; there was always a procession going on in Dullitch. A big speech was about to be made, an explanation to be given.

The gathering below had attracted a large percentage of the city, which was no surprise. Among the throngs of noblemen, merchants, and market traders, Mifkindle had already spotted Lord Bancroft, Baron Richford, and Lady Terps of Pullville. He wasn’t interested in any of these, however. His particular target was Duke Modeset, a man who seemed to be single-handedly responsible for the current collapse of society. Mifkindle checked to ensure that the bolt was loaded before peering across at the opposite roof, to ensure that his position was being monitored by a Runners representative. The monitor waved back at him.

“Think carefully,” Pegrand urged the maid.

She’d been steadily shaking her head for the best part often minutes. “I know I went up to the dining room and out to the stables,” she said, nervously. “And then I went into town and came back and then I laid some new paper for your baby squommet but—oh yes—I went up to see Chancellor Quarry. He had some rubbish, I think. He’s pretty scared, you know. I mean, what with the—where are you going?”

“Assassination attempt, milord!”

Modeset turned just in time to avoid Pegrand running into him. “I beg your pardon?” he said, quickly sidestepping the manservant.

“Assassination attempt. I believe I have been fortunate enough to happen upon a copy of a letter sent to Maricus Dark, of the Rooftop Runners assassin network. I believe they intend to pop you off during your speech, milord.”

“I see,” said Modeset. “Lucky for me. Any suggestions for a counterattack?”

“Don’t know, milord.”

Burnie sniffed, which didn’t seem to clear anything. “Do the people know where you’ll be coming out?” he asked.

Modeset nodded.

“Everyone’s been told where to stand,” said Pegrand.

“Right,” said the troglodyte, cracking a knuckle somewhere in its foot. “Then I suggest you be announced.”

“Sorry?” said Modeset, leaning toward him.

“I suggest you be announced to the crowd,” he repeated.

“Who by?”

“I’ve got a suggestion, milord,” said Pegrand.

Fire first and ask questions later. The assassin had to admit it was a pretty lame phrase, taken at face value; but it was the only phrase by which assassins lived. Ask questions in this business and you ended up getting your answers through the wrong end of an arrow. He peered along the crossbar and took aim.

“I assure you I—”

“Just get out there,” snapped Pegrand, shoving the chancellor in the small of the back.

“But I—”

“NOW!”

Quarry stepped out onto the central balcony of Dullitch Palace. The crowd jeered in unison and began to pelt him with rotten fruit and vegetables. Unfortunately none of them found their target. But an arrow did.

The crowd lapsed into silence. A woman screamed. Quarry stared down at the ocean of faces and then up at his executioner, clutching at the arrow in his chest. Then he stumbled forward, tumbled over the balcony, and fell into the crowd.

The assassin’s face became a mask of fascinated horror and he flashed a quick glance across the rooftops at his colleague, whose instinctive reaction had been to dash off toward the stairwell. He froze with fear. No assassin in his right mind would ever kill Chancellor Quarry. The man was rumored to be a high-ranking Yowler; the repercussions would be enormous! Even in the best-case scenario, he’d be facing instant dismissal.

The assassin shook his head, looked down and saw the guards. They were pouring into both the temple entrance and the entrance to the town hall across the street. He swept up his crossbow and ran.

“C
ITIZENS OF DULLITCH!” EXCLAIMED
Duke Modeset, emerging out onto the balcony to address a stunned crowd. Pegrand was holding a shield over his head. “I, your duke, and the honorary members of your city council, have come up with a solution to the peril that darkens our day. We have dispatched a hunting party to find your stolen children and bring the terrible fiend who abducted them to justice. I’d just like to point out that Mr. Quarry, your honorable ex-chancellor, has been entirely ineffectual throughout these distressing times, a fact of which our city’s
magnificent
assassins were evidently aware.”

He looked down and smiled at the citizens of Dullitch. They were disposing of the late chancellor by passing his body over their heads. Modeset noticed that a funeral cart had pulled up at the back of the crowd. Was it his imagination, he wondered, or did it arrive before the chancellor landed?

“Oi, mister!”

The cry rang out like the call of a highly strung bird. Duke Modeset peered down as the crowd parted for a small boy with a smudge of brown hair. Supported on a wooden crutch, he had one leg, and that distinctive look mastered by the downtrodden.

“Yes, young man?” said the duke, smiling.

“I reckon it was you what was responsible for the ratcatcher. I ’eard you didn’t pay ’im nuffin’ for drownin’ all o’ them rats.”

“I see. And you are?”

“Tom Piddleton!” answered the boy. “I’m the orphan what escaped the evil clutches of the music man!”

“Yes, that’s right: so I heard. Very convenient, wasn’t it?”

The crowd, which had been about to erupt, went suddenly silent.

“Do what, mister?” asked the boy.

“I said it was very convenient—you getting away so easily,” sneered the duke.

“Eh? I couldn’t keep up. That music man, he waved his arms an’ made all the other kids float on air. I was too far back, I don’t think he even saw me.”

“Oh, is that right? Of course he didn’t
see
you. After all, I’m certain he wouldn’t have spared you your freedom out of pity. Not after leading all of our children to their certain dea—detainment. Isn’t it more likely that he
did
see you lagging behind and decided to allow you to stagger home just so you could inform the populace of his powers and, in doing so, insight a riot? Isn’t this the case?
Isn’t it so?
” demanded the duke.

The crowd looked unsure, but it was wavering.

“I put it to you,” Modeset continued, his glare intensifying with the pitch of his voice, “that you are nothing more than a consort of ‘the music man,’ a
hireling
returned to the city to cause civic unrest. Well, it won’t work, you hear me? The good folk of Dullitch can see through such scams! I will let them judge you! Hahahahahahaha!”

Modeset flung his arms, dark lord—like, into the air and watched with unconcealed glee as the naive majority of the crowd closed in on little Tommy Piddleton.

Behind the palace balcony, Burnie and Quaris Sands shared a worried frown.

After the crowd had dispersed (or, rather, after they had gathered into small groups to discuss various strikes and protests), Modeset and Pegrand returned to the conference room.

“Good showing out there, milord,” said Quaris Sands encouragingly, shaking out his robe and taking a seat at the table.

“Meanwhile,” said Burnie, “what are we going to do about the very real possibility that we’ve seen the last of both the mercenaries and the thief? I mean, people are bound to be up in arms before long.”

“I have thought of a solution,” said Modeset sternly.

“Yes, milord?”

“I suggest a concentrated diversion is in order,” he said, turning to the others. “We need to take people’s minds off the crisis in hand, buy ourselves some time, as it were. Therefore, I propose that we hold a fair in the palace grounds.”

“A fair, milord?” asked Pegrand, doubtfully.

“Yes! You know: singing, dancing, folk music, games, etcetera. Quaris, I want you and Burnie to go to the alchemists and tell them we need to prepare a heavy-duty fireworks display. Pegrand, I want you to assemble the finest team of Morris dancers in the city. Once we’ve done that, maybe—”

The troglodyte tentatively raised a claw.

“Well?” asked Modeset impatiently.

“Er, sorry to interrupt, milord, but I’m thinking that the alchemists might expect some sort of payment, and what with the coffers empty and everything…”

“Simple.” Modeset shrugged. “Tell them we’re hunting for new barracks for the city militia, and their academy looks the right size. I feel certain they’ll run over each other to help. Now, get to it!”