Yowler Foul-Up

For my grandmother
,

Doris Christina Stone

And my late grandfather,

David Stone

SELECTED DRAMATIS PERSONAE

PROLOGUE

PART ONE: THE GREAT RETURNING

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

PART TWO: THE DUKE AND THE DETECTIVE

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

PART THREE: THE FIGHT FOR PLUNGE

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

FORTY-NINE

FIFTY

FIFTY-ONE

FIFTY-TWO

FIFTY-THREE

FIFTY-FOUR

FIFTY-FIVE

FIFTY-SIX

FIFTY-SEVEN

FIFTY-EIGHT

FIFTY-NINE

SIXTY

Preview:
The Shadewell Shenanigans

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

BARROWBIRD:
A distant relative of the forest hornbill

BOWLCOCK, LORD:
First ruler of Dullitch (deceased)

COLDWELL, JED:
A gravedigger

CURFEW, RAVIS:
A viscount; Lord of Dullitch

DAFISFUL, GRAB:
A thief

EDWY:
A Yowler acolyte

FJIN, FROWD:
Landlord of the Rotting Ferret

HALVN:
An elf guard

HOPKIRK, FLICKA:
Fogrise aide, daughter of Lord Modeset’s secretary

INNKEEPER:
Owner of the Steeplejack Inn

LADY LAURIS: THE LARK:
A Yowler priestess

LOPSALM:
A Yowler curate

MARSHALL, PEGRAND:
Manservant to Duke Modeset

MIXER:
A gnome

MODESET, VANDRE:
A disgraced noble, former Duke of Dullitch

MOORS:
A Yowler acolyte

MULDOON, WRICKSHAW:
A sorcerer

OBEGARDE, JARETH:
A loftwing investigator

QUICKSTINT, JIMMY:
A thief turned gravedigger

SORROW, ALAN:
Dullitch quartermaster

SPIRES, MILQUAY:
Secretary to Viscount Curfew

VRUNAK, AUGUSTUS:
An inventor

The lowest of the low
.
Destitute
.
Exiled from Dullitch along with my personal manservant
,
Pegrand
.
I returned to my birthplace: the forest kingdom of Fogrise
.
There I was happily reunited with Hopkirk
,
elderly retainer of the Keep and my father’s own secretary
.
Together with these loyal aides and Hopkirk’s indomitable daughter, Flicka
.
I determined to restore the kingdom to the grandeur it had once enjoyed
. …

It was a time of brief happiness and, without the chaos of city duties, Pegrand and I grew to become good friends
.

Little did I suspect that fate was set to urinate on my doorstep once more
.
Just five months later, I lost my beloved ancestral home in a complicated and particularly ruthless game of Snap
.

Now we have been forced to sink to new depths of poverty
,
and the others are becoming increasingly despondent
.
However
,
I remain optimistic about the future
;
I’m certain that something will turn up soon. …

M
ORNING SUNLIGHT FLOODED ILLMOOR
.

In the south it bathed the Gleaming Mountains and the fifteen spires of Dullitch, city capital of the continent. In the north it infiltrated the sprawling forest of Grinswood, home to a variety of magic sects, including the Dark Trinity.

The Dark Trinity was nothing more than a name, a pronouncement. The Druids who made up its order were not in the least given over to darkness, but had simply been tarred by their proximity to the black heart of the wood. They served and represented Jort, God of Animal Kinship, a hypocritical entity famously disgraced when the King of the Gods paid him a surprise visit and found his sitting room full of deer heads.

The order occupied Jort’s Hand, a fortified manse in the center of the wood, and a place only marginally less attractive than the decrepit moss that clung to its walls. The spiral towers of Jort’s Hand rose high above the forest roof, and had stood solid against the wrath of time and the onslaught of the area’s changeable weather. Only the skyward towers caught the sunlight, due to the unique way in which the trees huddled together and locked branches. This meant the forest floor was always dark, although occasionally a few flashes of daylight would slip through the net of foliage and illuminate a daffodil. The effect was rather less than ethereal.

The Dark Trinity seldom took an interest in local affairs and few could blame them, considering the area. It was difficult to preach forest lore to a tribe whose only encounters with the animal kingdom came as a result of hunger. Occasionally, when the goblins killed a goat, or the trolls ambushed a wolf pack, the Dark Trinity would be called upon to intervene. These were sad and desperate times, and too many species were dwindling into extinction. Chief among these was the group of giant lizards, known locally as the Batchtiki.

The Batchtiki, although unspeakably rare, were not worth much to anybody; their skins were rough and uncomfortable to wear, and their one talent relied heavily upon their being alive to perform it. Therefore, when a forest interloper (at no small risk to his health) was observed stealing a group of baby lizards from their nest in the northeastern corner of the forest, the Dark Trinity was immediately concerned. However, being of sound mind, and suspecting, quite correctly, that this intruder was merely a pawn for some higher intelligence, they dispatched a barrowbird, one cursed to remain forever in the service of Jort, to spy for them and to trace the theft to its source. …

The bird’s mission, unbeknownst to the order at that time, would end in the cobbled streets of Dullitch, which seemed like a lifetime away. It would begin …

… SOMEWHERE IN THE NORTHEASTERN
corner of the forest. A tiny sprite emerged from the gloomy depths of a tree hollow and listened, translucent wings fluttering in the midmorning breeze. A boot crushed it into the ground.

The thief was out of breath. He had run the length of Grinswood in just under three hours, which was a boastful feat for a man on horseback, let alone one with three broken toes, a limp, and advanced constipation. He staggered, muttered a few obscenities, and collapsed in a final wave of exhaustion, dropping his prize beside him. The sack wriggled as it hit the floor, and continued to do so for several minutes. Then it seemed to give up. The rest of the glade was still, with only the thief’s heaving chest and slow, determined breaths punctuating the silence.

Time passed. …

Presently, a barrowbird flew into the glade, landing on the gnarled lower branches of an ancient oak. It cocked its head to one side and considered the scene.

The thief, whose distinguishing features included one mechanical arm and a moon-shaped scar dissecting his chin, struggled to raise a charred eyebrow. The commotion inside the sack had started up again and even appeared to be building; yet he took no notice.

Still, the bird watched.

A few minutes later, the thief had taken to rolling around on the grass in a number of failed attempts to get to his feet. Finally, he made a desperate lunge at the oak, twisted around, and shouldered himself up. Blood rushed to his head as he fought to maintain his balance.

The barrowbird, completely nonplussed by the sudden display of energy, fixed its beady eyes on the sack.

Grinswood had become eerily silent. Shadows merged, and the trees seemed to move with them.

The thief took one last look around. “Time to move,” he muttered, snatching up the sack and urging himself into a run.

When he’d disappeared from view, the barrowbird twitched and ruffled its feathers. Then it flew up onto a higher branch and cast a glance down the forest path, where a trail of disturbed foliage marked the thief’s progress.

I’ll take my time
, it thought.
This one looks like he’s come a long way
.

For the specific attention of Duke Vandre Modeset
,

Fourth Kennel Along,

Fechit’s Dog Sanctuary,

Fogrise.

Dearest Cousin,

I was delighted to hear from the redoubtable Pegrand that you have decided to accept my offer of hospitality. It has been some months since the terms of your exile entitled you to return to Dullitch, albeit as a citizen!

I can assure you that the “rat catastrophe” is a long-forgotten piece of Dullitch history; people have moved on! I do so look forward to seeing you and, to this end, have taken the liberty of booking you four rooms at the Steeplejack Inn, a grand boardinghouse on Royal Road. I trust your visit, along with that of your staff, will be both enjoyable and relaxing.

Regards
,

Your cousin
,
Ravis Curfew
,
Lord of Dullitch

D
UKE MODESET HAD READ
the letter many times, and was still of the opinion that it had probably been written by one of the palace’s many scribes. As far as he was concerned, anyone who described Pegrand as redoubtable probably didn’t have a royal bone in his body.

He sighed, folded the letter neatly in two, and looked around for somewhere to file it. His gaze eventually came to rest on something that he assumed was supposed to be a bureau. A curious piece of furniture, it looked as if the carpenter responsible had started out with high hopes but had evidently been sidetracked en route to perfection. Modeset reached down to open the drawer and scowled as the handle broke off. Shoddy. Oh well, at least the place felt like home. He tried and failed to replace the handle three times before letting it fall to the floor, where it clattered noisily on the wooden boards. He propped the parchment on the windowsill instead.

Despite the cracked plaster and crumbling beams, there could be little doubt that the Steeplejack Inn was indeed a five-star resort; the only problem being that a five-star resort in Dullitch was the equivalent of a mutant cesspool anywhere else on the continent. Modeset wasn’t sure what the minimum requirements were for earning five stars, but Spittle Bridge had three, and there was water under
that
.

Modeset crossed to the bed, turned, and let himself fall back onto the mattress. The moment he did, there was an explosion of sound much like a dwarf war-hammer hitting a wardrobe door. Pain ricocheted through Modeset’s back, and he sat up with a start. His eyes bulged.