Yowler Foul-Up (2 page)

A moment later, the duke’s faithful manservant erupted through the bedroom door. His face was redder than a beetroot.

“You all right, milord?” he wheezed, leaning against the door frame for support.

The duke, still grasping his back, glared at him.

“Only, did you hear that almighty bang?”

Modeset nodded.

“So did we. What was it, d’you reckon?”

“It was me, Pegrand,” Modeset managed, suppressing a groan. “Go and tell the innkeeper that I want another bed. This mattress is thinner than your anorexic aunt.”

“I’ll have a word in his ear, milord.”

“Good man. Where’s your room?”

Pegrand pointed skyward. “’Snot exactly Marble Heights, though,” he confided, lowering his voice to a whisper. “There’s a big leak in the roof. The innkeeper says it doesn’t let much in, but I’ve been speaking to a few of the guests and they reckon the last bloke who stopped in the attic drowned. I dunno how the others’re getting on.”

Modeset put his head in his hands and tried to focus on the positives. Firstly, he was on holiday. That, generally speaking, was a good thing. He was accompanied by a full complement of personal staff, which was another. Negatively speaking, the inn was a dump; the city, a nightmare he’d spent the best part of seven years trying to forget; and the staff, a pair of depraved cultural dropouts from a depressing backwater he couldn’t wait to forget. Then there was Pegrand. He imagined a series of public humiliations and disastrous misunderstandings festering on the horizon, and he determined to escape before they arrived. After all, fate was avoidable; it was destiny that caused trouble.

M
ODESET CHECKED HIS POCKET WATCH. THERE WAS STILL HALF
an hour to go before dinner. Having already paced back and forth in his room for what seemed like a millennium, he decided to take a nap. He carefully lowered himself onto the bed, worked his body into a halfway comfortable position, and tried to drift off.

CRASH
!

His eyes flicked open, and he sat bolt upright.

The inner shutters were devastated; one had been wrenched off its hinges and the other had slammed into the far wall with such velocity that it had spawned a network of cracks in the plaster.

For a moment the duke observed the rules of stunned silence and remained absolutely still. Then he leaped off the bed and hurried over to the window.

The street below was dark and shadowy, and the bleak light offered by the lamp wicks betrayed no obvious signs of an explosion.

And so it begins, he thought bitterly. Word of my arrival has got around and suddenly everyone’s out wandering the streets with a brick in each hand. Ha! So much for moving on!

He peered cautiously out of the window, expecting at any second to be bombarded by the rest of someone’s garden wall.

Nothing: the street was empty. Silence reigned. From what he could make out, the rest of Royal Road’s crooked buildings were largely undisturbed. There was a fire blazing somewhere to the north, but nothing to account for the sudden, meteoric destruction of the shutters.

Modeset sighed and pulled the outer shutter closed. He was about to return to bed when he saw the rock on the floor beside the bureau. It was wrapped in parchment which, in turn, was fastened with string. For a moment he just stared at the rock, as if waiting for it to sprout legs and run under the door.

Then he sighed despondently, bent down, and tried to pick it up, groaning when it turned out to be a stone heavier than the average cannonball.

Puffing and panting with effort, he hefted the rock onto the bed, untied the string, and folded out the parchment. There was a note on the back.

Modeset squinted at the writing, which was crude and betrayed a certain loathing for punctuation. It certainly wasn’t what he expected:

ToNiGht WAS a tASTer TherE iS MoRE tO coME StaY away frOm wareHouse six if You don’t yOu Will wAke up FEEling NOt vEry well wiTh a cRosSboW bolT iN Your bAck yOu have beEN warned thEre are many ToRture instruMEnts whicH wE Are NOT aFraid to uSe in aN EmerGeNcY aNd we knoW yOuR arE A lOFtWing bECAuSe YOu ONly folloW at niGHT aNd We hAvE lots oF SiLvEr WhicH KiLLS YOu lOT So BE wArNEd

No More OuT of YOu aFTEr tHaT thEN MisTeR X lANd that’S NOT My ReAL naME SO DoN’T ThiNK YOU’VE GoT Me theRE.

Modeset looked from the rock to the note and back again, his attention finally diverting to the window. The remaining inward shutter broke off from its hinge and crashed onto the floorboards. He was about to hide the note under the bed when there was a heavy-handed knock on the bedroom door.

“Milord?”

Modeset started, thrust the parchment under his pillow, and pulled the bedcovers over the cannon-ball rock.

“Yes?” he shouted testily. “What is it, Pegrand?”

“Dinner’s in five minutes, milord. Thought you might like a quick reminder.

“Mmm? Oh, yes. Thank you.”

“No problem. Just yell if you need anything else.”

“Good show. I’ll be along presently.”

“Okay, milord. No worries, then. Everything all right in there, is it? Only, I thought I heard a noise.”

“Yes, that was me, Pegrand. I … tried to close the wardrobe.”

“You’ve got a wardrobe in there now, milord? That’s a first-class accommodation.”

Modeset looked around frantically. “No!” he yelled. “It … fell out of the window, I’m afraid. Look, I’ll be out in a few moments.”

“Right you are, milord.”

When the manservant’s footsteps had dissipated, Modeset snaked a hand under the pillow and retrieved the parchment. After a second reading, he rolled it up and stowed it away inside his tunic. He had a funny feeling that it was going to be one of those nights.

E
LSEWHERE.

From the state of the room, you could tell it was part of a hovel in one of the seedier parts of the city. The furniture was threadbare, the walls were collapsing, and a dynasty of cockroaches fought terrible wars beneath the floorboards. The occupant of the room, a gnome with brass teeth and a network of terrible scars, was studying something of great importance.

The book stood open on the table. It was a heavy tome, more than five times the size of a regular book, and its pages were inked with bold script and elaborate illustrations. The turning of each leaf was accompanied by a dull crackle, and the gnome spent several moments smoothing the pages down so that the book would close properly. It had to close properly. Otherwise it wouldn’t fit in the gap in the wall, and some filthy thief would sneak in and steal it. Such was the norm in Dullitch.

Eventually, when the Ultimate Goal was achieved, he’d move somewhere smaller. Still, that was a long way off, and many parts of the mistress’s plan still needed to be realized. Nobody had heard from the lizard thief, yet, and he’d been gone for weeks! Oh well … that was definitely not his problem.

The gnome closed the book and stowed it away in the wall, pulling the old, half-rotted dresser in front to conceal it. Then he returned to his little stool and gazed down at an area of the table containing an inkwell, a feathered quill, and a box. This, he reflected, shouldn’t be too difficult.

He was certain that Obegarde, the loftwing who’d been following him for two, maybe three days was either from or employed by the palace. Unfortunately, his research hadn’t turned up much more than a name, but then, an official palace employee wouldn’t be shacked up at a coaching inn.

Hmm … a freelancer, then; some sort of investigator. He grimaced at the thought. This was disastrous! How could they possibly have found out? Mistress Lark had worked at the palace, but it wouldn’t have been her, surely? She was much too smart, far too careful. Well, whatever, someone had let slip. Ha! And they’d had the nerve to call
him
stupid. All things considered, it was a miracle the group had managed to keep their little secret at all.

Still, the threat
should
suffice. He certainly hoped it would, because the loftwing was no minor irritant. If the creature found out enough to make a report, he had the potential to ruin everything. It just wasn’t fair; he’d been so
careful
!

What to do, what to do …?

First things first: the old inventor. Mistress Lark had been very definite about that; he knew too much and was the most immediate threat to the group. Besides, he was long past being useful; the machine was built and it wasn’t likely to go wrong. Even so, assassination
was
a little harsh. Perhaps he should give the old boy a scare, instead. Then he might leave town of his own accord. …

Muttering under his breath, the gnome took up the quill and, dipping it into the inkwell, began to write. He folded the parchment into segments, tore neatly along all the edges, and placed a number of blank pieces inside the pockets of a dark cloak he’d stolen, keeping hold of the original piece he’d written on. Then he took the quill
and
its grimy inkwell.

There, he thought. That’s just about everything.

Fastening his cloak about him, the gnome hurried from the hovel. It was going to be a busy night. …

W
HEN MODESET REACHED THE
first-floor landing, most of his staff was already out in force.

Pegrand was dressed in the standard leather britches and scruffy doublet he always wore, hair spilling out from behind his ears while managing to avoid the top of his head completely. Flicka, Hopkirk’s daughter, and the only member of Modeset’s staff still enjoying her twenties, had settled for a pure white robe that made her look more like a sacrifice for Druids than a royal aide. Her long dark hair, pale skin, and delicate elfin features were somewhat marred by the quizzical expression that had camped out on her face since the day she was born.

The two of them constituted quite a picture. Modeset didn’t think much of the presentation, but then, judging by their collective stare, they were just as disgusted by his choice of formal dress. He couldn’t for the life of him understand why; the armored suit might be old, but at least it wasn’t paid for.

“Now, this evening represents my first experience of Dullitch hospitality for some time,” he said. “I want everyone to make a conscious effort, and that includes you, Pegrand.”

“Yes, milord. Got some impressive jokes lined up for the after-dinner discussions.”

“None of your sledgehammer wit, please.”

“No, milord. Right you are, then. I’ll keep a zip on the monkey gag until the crockery’s collected. Do we know how many other guests are coming?”

“Not many, I fear. It’s just us, the landlord, and supposedly one other gentleman. We’re getting special treatment by order of the throne. As I understood it, most of the guests are confined to their rooms until after the meal.”

“Should be okay, then, as long as they don’t try to dig themselves out. Who’s the jailer?”

“I don’t find that even remotely amusing, Pegrand.”

“Sorry, milord.”

“And how about you, Flicka?” said Modeset. “All ready for your first dinner in Dullitch?”

Flicka swept back a lock of her long, ebony hair and fixed Modeset with her sparkly blue eyes. “Do I have any choice?” she said.

“Good, good.” Modeset beamed. “We’ll descend the stairs in single file. Ladies first,” he said. “That’s you, Flicka, just in case there’s any doubt. I noticed Pegrand took a step forward then and, while he undoubtedly has the tongue of a washerwoman, he is by no means a lady.”

Flicka rolled her eyes and took to the stairs.

“Mind your head on that candelabra as you go,” the duke called out. “Very tasteful, isn’t it?”

“Milord?”

“Yes, okay, Pegrand. Down you go, then. Be sure to announce me as soon as you get to the dining hall … and no silly voices this time, I implore you.”

A
UGUSTUS VRUNAK HAD JUST
climbed into bed when the doorbell clanged. Nobody else in Dullitch would have had such bad luck, he thought bitterly. And he was right: nobody else in Dullitch had a doorbell. Such was the price of being an inventor in a city that never sleeps. He’d rigged up the device on a rope-pulley system that ran from the entrance door of his cottage to a bracket above his bedroom door.

He grimaced, swore under his breath, and waited for the small brass tinkle to subside.

Clank
,
clink
,
clink
,
clink
;

Clank
,
clink
,
clink
;

Clank
,
clink
;

CLANG
,
clank
,
clink
,
clink
,
clink
.

Augustus scowled. Whoever it was, they obviously had no intention of waiting until the morning to see him. He climbed out of bed, padded over to the window in his slippers, and peered out at the front lawn. Unusual: his mystery visitor had closed the gate after himself. Perhaps it was his sister. She’d spent most of the evening having dinner with him, and he supposed she might have forgotten something.

CLANG
,
clank
,
clink
,
clink
.

“Okay, for goodness’ sake!” Augustus bellowed. “I’m coming.”

He pulled a dressing gown over his nightshirt and went downstairs, muttering under his breath. On the way down, he glanced into his stairway mirror and reflected, rather bitterly, that he was beginning to look like a chubby old walrus. Oh well, age tended to do that to you. …

Odd: the front door was stuck.

He put all his weight behind his heels and leaned back, but the door just wouldn’t budge. He spat on his hands and tried again, then put one foot against the frame and heaved with all his might. Nothing happened. Either damp had expanded the wood in a ludicrously short space of time or—he hesitated to think of the alternative—somebody else was pulling from the other side.

The brass bell clanged again, and Augustus suddenly felt extremely cold and alone.

“Is there anybody there?” he called.

He looked down. A small square of paper had been pushed underneath the door. There was writing on it. He reached down carefully and picked it up, one eye on the door in case an axe head came through it.