Yowler Foul-Up (16 page)

T
HREE AND A HALF HOURS
of frantic searching had laid bare the Plunge treasury, gold reserve, bakery, butchers, merchants’ tenement, armory, food stores, and blacksmiths’ forge; not to mention fourteen private houses.

All the while, Obegarde stood in the town square, tapping his foot and kicking the occasional wall.

“I don’t believe this,” said Pegrand, sighing and stamping his foot on the dusty floor of yet another food store. “They must have eaten like rabid animals.”

“It’s a pity we haven’t got a map of some kind,” said Modeset.

“There’s a place we’ve missed.”

“Yes, a map!” Pegrand agreed, ignoring the brief interruption. “There would have to be one in the town hall.”

“Town hall’s full of statues,” said Modeset dismissively. “There must’ve been a big meeting or something. I assume the villagers were all caught unawares; it’s like Medusa’s garden in there.”

Modeset frowned suddenly. “What do you mean, ‘a place we missed’?” he demanded, turning to Flicka. She was standing with her arms folded, gazing nonchalantly out to sea.

“Well?” Modeset prompted. “What place?”

“A big building with brass dogs outside, right next to the town gates. We’ve walked past it five times; I have been trying to tell you but nobody seems to be listening.”

“Very well,” said Modeset, stung by the tiny flicker of embarrassment he always felt whenever he looked directly at her. “We’ll check it out at once, but I prefer to take the back alley. I don’t think I could bear walking past Obegarde after his last outburst.”

The door to the Plunge Museum was locked. Modeset eventually had to break a window in order to gain entrance.

Inside, the building was dark and shadowy. Glass display cases crowded the walls and a heavy candelabra hung down from a grand mosaic ceiling.

“I’ll start on the left,” said Modeset. The others mumbled in agreement and wandered off toward various cases huddled in bleak corners of the room.

The first case, Modeset noted with no great interest, contained the skull of Baron Huckstep, a little-known retainer of the Plunge crest who had helped rescue the town from a great dragon back in the Dual Age. It was in two separate pieces.

Next up, after the vertebrae of several infamous (and rather less than respectable) marquesses, came the legendary Tarnish Helmet that had almost saved Sir Cuffock from the Witches of Rinstare. Judging by the shape of it—an inverted L—the margin of survival had been pretty narrow (evidently, unlucky for some).

Modeset sighed. He found himself wondering what the people of Dullitch would keep as a reminder of
him
. A nose hair, perhaps, or some earwax? No, he reflected, it would probably be something like “the gold tooth of Duke Modeset” with a footnote declaring, “the only thing of any value we found on him.” He scowled at the thought and moved on.

He was studying a metal clasp belonging to some long-forgotten king, when a gasp from Pegrand disturbed his concentration.

“What is it, man?” he called over.

“It’s this bloke, here. They’ve only got his whatsit on a plinth!”

The duke sighed. “I don’t want to know, Pegrand.”

“His whatsit, though, milord! His actual
whatsit
.”

“Yes, so you said.”

“He must’ve been pretty successful with the women for ’em to remember him like that.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Now, please forget about it and continue your search.” He turned to look behind him. “Any luck yet, Flicka?”

The aide shook her head and mumbled negatively.

Modeset returned his attention to the line of cases he’d been perusing. Then he stopped short.

“Pegrand,” he said slowly. “You told us about Lord Bowlcock’s generous donation of the sacred silver saber to Plunge Museum, do you remember?”

The manservant was quick to frown. “Of course I do, milord.”

Modeset swallowed and tried to hide the unease in his voice. “Well, would you like to know what
else
the great lord donated to the museum?”

“Um … yes. What?”

“Himself.”

“Sorry, milord?”

“Lord Bowlcock,” Modeset repeated, pronouncing each word with extreme care, “donated himself, along with the super saber you were talking about.”

“It’s there? The saber’s actually there?”

“Oh, yes. In fact, he’s still holding it. Only he doesn’t look all that keen to let it go.”

Pegrand hurried over, Flicka trailing behind him.

The skeleton beyond the glass barrier was still clutching the silver saber with both hands. It looked ancient in the true sense of the word, not merely long decrepit but well and truly worm-ridden; so off the coil as to be almost nonexistent.

Pegrand reached out to touch the glass, but Modeset stayed his hand.

“Wait, man! What if it’s cursed?”

“Cursed, milord? What, Lord Bowlcock or the sword?”

“Both!”

“Well, of course it’s up to you, milord,” said the manservant, stepping back. “But look at the luck we’ve had so far.”

Modeset nodded. “Good point,” he said. “I’ll grab it, then, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, milord.”

Pegrand and Flicka stood back as the duke looked around for something to throw at the case. Eventually, he settled on an old wooden stool behind the entrance doors.

The glass shattered.

“Right,” Modeset announced. “Here goes nothing.”

Mindful of the glass shards, he leaned in to the display case and began the difficult task of removing Lord Bowlcock’s clasped fingers from the silver saber.

“I’d have thought that they’d just crumble away, milord,” said Pegrand helpfully.

“Hmm … it seems not.” In less than a minute, Modeset had resorted to applying pressure on the upper arm with his boot. “I certainly didn’t expect this much resistance.”

He gave one final wrench and staggered back, clutching not only the silver saber but Lord Bowlcock’s arm as well.

“Damnation! Of all the luck!”

“Hold on, milord. I’ll help you out, there.”

Pegrand and Modeset played tug-of-war with the sword arm and saber for what seemed like an age.

“Flicka!” snapped the duke. “Get over here and help us, will you?”

Flicka joined in, but to no avail.

“Very well,” Modeset said, face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and fury. “We’ll leave the arm on; I’ll use the saber as it is.”

“You can’t do that, Lord M,” Flicka warned. “You’ll do yourself an injury.”

“She’s right there, milord,” added Pegrand. “Every time you swing it round, the elbow’ll catch you on the chin. It’ll be like fighting two opponents at once.”

Modeset raised the saber and, ignoring the arm that dangled down from it, smiled proudly.

“Pegrand,” he began. “This is my ancestor, my flesh and blood. He will not impede my victory!”

He took an experimental swing with the sword and yelped when its appendage almost took off his ear.

Obegarde, arriving at the museum just in time to witness the display, clicked his tongue and sighed deeply.

“When you’ve all quite finished running around this cement garden of a town, raiding food stores and perusing museums, do you think that there’s even the slightest smidgen of a chance that you might accompany me to the lighthouse in an attempt to save the entire population of a certain city? You know, if it’s not too much trouble?”

He made to leave, then turned and strode up to Flicka, depositing the blunderbuss in her hands. “You take this,” he commanded. “I’m better off fighting the old-fashioned way.”

“
THEY’RE COMING, MISTRESS, THEY’RE
coming!”

Edwy burst through the door to the top floor of the lighthouse, his breath almost failing him as he hurtled to a halt.

The Lark was preoccupied with her glare machine. “Mmm … who is?” she said distractedly.

“City folk, mistress! There’s a group of them.”

The Lark released her grip on the machine and spun around, her attention suddenly seized. “Inconceivable! Who are they?”

“One of them is the man I saw in Dullitch; he came to the temple to speak with Lopsalm.”

“The wretched loftwing. Hmm … that would make sense. I thought I felt an invasive little mind trying to read my thoughts. Still, he got here exceptionally fast, which is troubling—”

“Yes, mistress. Mixer failed you, mistress.”

“Of course he did; I’m surrounded by incompetents. What about the other members of this raiding party? Who are they?”

“I don’t know, mistress; I can’t quite make them out. What should we do?”

“Nothing. You’ve done enough already.”

Edwy bowed his head. “Yes, mistress.”

“For now, I need you to take control of the machine. It’s being primed, and the glare is being collected. Keep it aimed through the lighthouse lens, but do not release the beam until I return. That is
my
birthright.”

Edwy bowed and took over at the reins of the machine. “What are you going to do, mistress?”

The Lark secured her hair in a ponytail and smiled cruelly. “I’m going to kill a vampire.”

She turned and swept out of the room, calling behind her, “If Moors comes lumbering up here, tell him to guard the floor below.”

“Yes, mistress. I will, mistress.”

T
HE PENINSULA LEADING TO
Plunge Lighthouse was long and winding, and the approach offered much in the way of conveniently placed bushes. Modeset and company slipped from cover to cover as they neared the towering structure.

The storm that had been hovering over the lighthouse had diminished considerably, but an ethereal glow still warned of magical activity inside.

Modeset dashed straight to the door, giving an indication to Pegrand, who joined him, to kick at the door. Unfortunately, all they got was a dull thud. Even Obegarde’s hardened boot couldn’t penetrate the door.

“Flicka,” Modeset said, turning abruptly on his heel. “The door, if you please.”

Flicka nodded, looked along the barrel of the blunderbuss, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

“She’s not doing it right,” Pegrand said, snatching the weapon and re-aiming it. He pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

“Let me see that,” Flicka snapped, yanking the weapon back. She turned it over a few times and sighed. “You can’t fire it because it’s not real.”

“Eh?”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugged. “It’s only the
model
of a blunderbuss. Where did you say you got it from?”

“That elf guard gave it to me,” the manservant muttered, looking down at his feet. “You know, the one who his lordship assaulted—”

“Fantastic, Pegrand, and you didn’t think this generous gift was a little odd?”

Modeset straightened up. “Right,” he said, speaking with renewed authority. “I’m going to climb up to one of the lower windows and break through. Then I’ll crawl inside, disarm the guards (assuming there are guards), run down, and let you all in. I’ll need help getting up, though. Perhaps we can form a sort of human ladder. …”

Pegrand and Flicka both looked extremely doubtful.

“This is a joke,” Obegarde warned. “I’ll have no part of it.”

“Please yourself.”

“Oh, come
on
. There must be another way.”

“As I said, Obegarde, please
yourself
. You’re your own man.”

Modeset disappeared around the base of the lighthouse. A few seconds later, he returned.

“It’s far too high,” he said. “Pegrand, you get dow—”

He was interrupted by a small clap of lightning and a sudden puff of smoke. Jimmy Quickstint winked into existence, hovered in midair for a few seconds, and then collapsed onto the ground beside the lighthouse.

“Where did you come from?” Pegrand demanded. “More to the point, where in the name of Urgumflux the Wormridden did you
go
?”

A strangely tortured smile appeared on the gravedigger’s formless face. “I think I got a bit stretched,” he announced in a far-off voice. “In fact, it feels like only a bit of me is here.”

“Yes,” Flicka chirped. “You’re right about that. In fact, if I were you, I should go down to the village right now and find some clothes to put on.”

Jimmy looked down, and gulped.

“
PEGRAND, KEEP STILL DOWN
there!”

“Hold on, milord! I’m trying to get Flicka’s foot off my shoulder.”

“Don’t do that, man! We’ll all collapse!”

“But she’s digging it in on purpose, milord!”

“I
am
not. It’s Jimmy, he’s buckling!”

“Well, what do you expect? This apron doesn’t fit me! Besides, Obegarde keeps tickling my feet!”

Modeset stood at the top of the human tower, fingernails scratching for purchase on the pasty surface of the lighthouse wall. He was about an inch short of the ledge at the base of the lowest window.

“Pegrand, stand on tiptoe!”

“Arrgghhh!”

The human tower was raised a little, and Modeset’s searching fingers found the ledge. He scrambled up and rolled inside the window. Behind him, the tower collapsed. Pegrand folded up and Flicka managed to roll, but Jimmy landed awkwardly and knocked himself unconscious.

Obegarde shook his head sadly. “Well, you can count the boy out. Look at him—he’s stone cold!”

Flicka moved to kneel beside the gravedigger (who’d managed to acquire a baker’s apron from one of the houses nearest the lighthouse) and cradled his head in her arms.

“Are you okay, Jimmy? Can you hear me?”

“He’s all right,” said Pegrand. “He’s still breathing, you see?”

Flicka forced a weak smile. “He’s been through a lot,” she said. “Maybe we should leave him be. You lot go on, I’ll stay here with him, make sure he’s all right.”

The manservant nodded. “See you around, then.”

“Good luck,” said Flicka. “Don’t get turned to stone or anything.”

“Yeah, right. We’ll try not to.”

Pegrand took one last look at the pale face of Jimmy Quickstint and made for the lighthouse door.

“Hello?”

Pegrand peered around the door of the lighthouse, swallowed, and stepped inside.

“Are you up there, milord?” he said, moving aside as Obegarde stepped across the threshold.