The Bone Magician (11 page)

Beag had come to the City two winters ago carrying little more than the clothes on his back, the shoes on his feet and an old leather
bag with a wide strap that he wore across his chest. It contained, among other things, his writings: poetry and ballads – in the main lovelorn and unceasingly depressing – that he liked to recite and sing, and for which he hoped one day to
win acclaim.

He arrived at the city walls late at night and walked around them until he came to one of the four pairs of guarded entrance gates.
Unfortunately for Beag, it was the North Gate which led, naturally, into the northern half of the City. As soon as the guards saw his shabby dress, his wet woollen hat and heard his foreign accent they determined
that
he should not enter. The pair of them took a step forward in a most aggressive and unfriendly manner and crossed their muskets to block his way. Of course, on account of Beag’s size, the muskets crossed in front of his face, which was not the
guards’ intention, so they lowered them and stood rather awkwardly bent over and challenged him to explain himself.

‘My name is Beag Hickory,’ he said proudly, ‘and I have come to your fine city to make my fortune.’ He could not
understand why this pronouncement caused such hilarity between the guards.

‘Oho,’ said the uglier of the two, ‘and how do you intend to do that?’

Beag drew himself up to his full height by means of rising slyly on to the balls of his feet and pulling a peak in his sodden hat (which
sagged almost immediately). ‘I am a poet, a scholar, an entertainer, a teller o’ tales—’

‘Then you’re at the wrong gate,’ interrupted the other guard sullenly.

‘Is this not Urbs Umida?’ asked Beag.

‘Aye, it is. But you’re still at the wrong gate. I suggest you try south of the river,’ said the first guard, not
bothering to stifle a yawn. ‘You’ll find more of your sort down
there, or should I say, your
short
.’ Both men laughed heartily at this witticism.

Beag frowned. ‘What do you mean, my
sort
?’

‘Paupers, chancers, circus acts,’ replied the guard, and his voice had hardened.

‘Try the Nimble Finger Inn on the Bridge,’ said the other. ‘Betty Peggotty, the landlady, sometimes she exhibits
strange creatures.’ This set the other guard off into such a paroxysm of laughter that he was rendered incapable of speech.

Beag, who had learned both when to persist and when to yield, rightly concluded that this was one of those times when a person yielded.
‘Very well,’ he said, and he withdrew with his dignity intact and a slight gunpowder stain on his waistcoat where the guard had poked him. ‘You say the Nimble Finger? Perhaps I shall see you anon. I bid you goodnight and good
fortune.’

And so, some time later, Beag made his entrance rather less grandly than he had hoped through the South Gate. The guards there waved him
on without a second glance. Beag could not fail to notice almost immediately that the aroma on the south of the Foedus was distinctly unpleasant and by careful elimination he soon realized that
it was due to the river.
Yes, the streets were sludgy and muddy and scattered about with all sorts of debris, recognizable as vegetable and animal remains, but it was the river that gave off the odour that made his nose wrinkle involuntarily. Beag walked alongside the Foedus,
logically assuming that the bridge he sought must be on it somewhere, until he came to the marketplace. The stallholders were packing up for the day, but there were still plenty of people milling around looking for cheap scraps, so Beag took out from his
bag a piece of wood, cleverly hinged to create a small podium, upon which he stood.

‘Good evening, my fair ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. This generous assessment of the gathered company elicited more than
a laugh or two but also drew their attention. ‘Allow me to present myself to you. My name is Beag Hickory and I should like to entertain you with a song.’

He began to sing in a mournful, though undoubtedly tuneful, tone, but he had hardly reached the first chorus (one of many) when he heard
a strange whistling sound. His eyes being closed he had not anticipated the missile, and received a rotten cabbage on the side of his head.

He opened his eyes to see a second vegetable winging
its way towards him, and this time he ducked.
The poor fellow behind him took it full in the face. Through all of this Beag continued to sing bravely, or foolishly. Perhaps both.

‘Give it a rest,’ shouted someone and then he was hit again.

‘But,’ spluttered Beag with righteous indignation through a mouthful of tomato, ‘I have only just begun.’

‘No, you ain’t,’ called out a small boy at the back. ‘You’re finished,’ and he and his friends threw
a hail of rotten apples.

Beag was infuriated. Never in his life had he experienced such a hostile reception to his endeavours. ‘You little imp,’ he
shouted at the small boy. He jumped down from the podium, picked up the first thing that came to hand, a large putrid potato, and he threw it with such force and accuracy that when it hit the boy it knocked him clean off his feet.

‘Oi! That’s my son. Wotcher think yer doing?’

Beag stood rooted to the spot at the sight of the largest man he had ever seen. This great ape towered over the crowd and was bearing
down on Beag, who was actually shaking in his boots.

By
the holy! thought Beag, instantly regaining movement in his legs. He spun on his heel and took off like a streak of
lightning. The man and a small baying crowd were still following when he reached the Bridge. He ran on to its cobbled thoroughfare, looking around desperately for somewhere to hide.

‘Down here,’ hissed a voice. ‘Quick!’

Beag turned sharply and saw a long finger beckoning to him from the corner of an alley, and without a second thought he ran towards
it.

‘This way,’ said the tall man whose finger it was, and he pushed open a door in the wall and dragged Beag in just as the
crowd reached the entrance to the alley. Beag followed his rescuer up a short flight of stairs and down again into a crowded, low-ceilinged room filled with smoke and laughter.

‘Where are we?’ asked Beag of his nameless companion.

‘The Nimble Finger Inn,’ said the man. ‘I don’t know about you, but I fancy a jug of ale.’

Only minutes later, safely ensconced in a dark corner, Beag and his new-found friend were supping ale from a large jug that had been
brought over by the serving
maid. Beag was just about to speak when a commotion near the door made his heart pound again. It was the ape man.

‘I’m looking for a dwarf,’ he said and the whole tavern fell silent. A fierce-looking woman – the redoubtable
Betty Peggotty – glared at him with her hands on her hips. She wore upon her head an exotic hat that had seen far better days.

‘There’s no dwarf here, Samuel,’ she said firmly. ‘So either have a jug or be off with you.’

‘Bah,’ exclaimed the ape but faced with such a choice opted without question for the ale, and soon he was as merry as the
rest of them.

Beag relaxed and turned to his companion. ‘Might I ask who you are?’

‘My name is Aluph Buncombe.’

‘Well, Mr Buncombe, I owe you my life,’ said Beag and he shook his hand gratefully.

‘Think nothing of it,’ said Aluph with a broad smile. ‘Always ready to help a fellow in trouble, though I can’t
imagine how you had such a man as Samuel Lenacre after you.’

Beag
explained his sorry tale and Aluph listened with sympathy.

‘You’re looking for work, you say. What skills have you? Do you tumble?’

Beag laughed and shook his head wryly. ‘I can, of course. Is there a dwarf out there these days who cannot? But I think perhaps
you will favour my other talents.’

Aluph raised an eyebrow. ‘And these are?’

‘I am a poet and a balladeer.’

Aluph wrinkled his brow worriedly. ‘I am sure you are, but if you wish to earn money enough to survive in a city such as this,
then you must know your audience. Look around you, my friend, and tell me, do these people want stories or poetry?’

Beag surveyed the room and felt despair settling in his heart. ‘But poetry is my passion,’ he said. ‘I have been on
the
Cathaoir Feasa
.’

‘The what?’

But Aluph didn’t give Beag a chance to answer, just shook his head and placed a well-manicured hand on his shoulder. ‘Beag,
Beag,’ he said softly, ‘look at them. Is there nothing else you can do?’

Beag
looked around the tavern again and he understood. ‘I can throw potatoes,’ he said mournfully.

‘Aha.’ Aluph’s face lit up. ‘A potato-throwing dwarf. I think we might have something.’

UNEARTHLY GOINGS ON AT THE NIMBLE FINGER

by

Deodonatus Snoad

My Dear Readers,

I am sure that by now there are very few of you out there who have not seen, or at the very least heard of, the Bone Magician. It is no
surprise to me that once again we have Mrs Peggotty at the Nimble Finger to thank for the opportunity to witness such an intriguing character. Mr Benedict Pantagus, as he is known, and his assistant, his niece I believe, a Miss Juno Pantagus, are
currently
performing in the upstairs room at the tavern. Let us also not forget that down below, Mrs Peggotty’s cellar contains the Gluttonous Beast. What a feast of entertainment for us all. We are in her
debt.

Bone Magic, the art of corpse raising, has a long history. The same could not be said of potato throwers, one of whom I saw on the
Bridge the other day. I fear such a dangerous sport can only end in serious injury. Root vegetables aside, for the benefit of those of you who are not familiar with the practice of corpse raising, I shall gladly pass on what little knowledge I have of
it.

Of all the mysteries life throws at us, Death must be the greatest. In centuries past people had great faith in the power of the
dead. Once a person had made the transition from the real world to the unearthly one, it was believed they were endowed with great powers. But only Bone Magicians could tap into these powers and to do that they had to bring the dead back to life. Once
rejuvenated, these wise souls were called upon to advise the living and to prophesy the future.

I have seen Benedict Pantagus and the remarkable Madame de Bona and in all honesty it was not a pretty sight. One hopes she was
rather more attractive when
she was alive. Regardless of her looks, however, it cannot be denied that she fulfilled her obligations and answered all sorts of questions to the apparent satisfaction of everyone involved.
Mr Pantagus must be commended on his ingenuity and his excellent performance. It is certainly a cut above the usual trickery that goes on in this city. Whether Madame de Bona really did revive or not, I can say with certainty that I checked for strings
but saw none.

But enough of that. What news of the Silver Apple Killer, I hear you ask? Well, there is news, and it is with some sorrow I must
report that yesterday morning another body, the sixth now I believe, was pulled from the Foedus. And still Mr Coggley, our esteemed head constable, can provide us with no clue as to the identity of the fiend who is responsible. These are indeed dark days
for the City.

Deodonatus smiled to himself as he re-read the piece. ‘The Silver Apple Killer’. Yes, he liked that very
much. It rolled off the tongue. Then his mind turned to the Gluttonous Beast. Deodonatus was the first to admit that he had a cold heart – he felt little for others, unless it was scorn or hate
– but with
the Gluttonous Beast, it was different. When he looked upon him his insides seemed to twist. He did not like to think why.

Deodonatus was not surprised that the Urbs Umidians were so enthusiastic about the Gluttonous Beast and the Bone Magician. People wanted
to be shocked and entertained, and they wanted to know that there were things out there whose existence was just that little bit worse than their own. The Beast was certainly proof of that. As for the Bone Magician, well, where was the harm in it? And
there was undoubtedly money in it. ‘Not a job for me, though,’ thought Deodonatus, suddenly standing, holding a lapel with one hand and flourishing his paper with the other, to declare authoritatively:

‘
Ας εξασκησει ο
καθενας την τεχνη που ξερει
.’

He sat down with a smile. ‘I take my advice from Aristophanes. ‘‘
Let each man
practise the craft he knows
’’.’

Then he put pen to paper again and continued. Just as he signed off with his trademark ‘Until next time’, there was a knock
at the door.

‘You’re early,’ growled Deodonatus as he hurriedly rolled and tied the sheets. He slipped them through the
crack of the door, along with a penny, and listened as the boy scampered away. Then he went to the window and looked down on
to the street, absent-mindedly swatting a fly that buzzed around his head. How did they survive this damned weather? Would he go out tonight? Perhaps not. He was tired. He pulled down a well-thumbed volume from the mantelpiece and turned to his favourite
story. He had hardly read more than the first page when his heavy lids closed. The book slid to the floor and lay open, displaying in the flickering firelight a picture of a green and gleaming toad with jewels for eyes.