The Order of Odd-Fish (16 page)

“Oh, give it a go!” said Ian, and everyone started insisting. Sir Alasdair, red-faced from the attention, murmured, “Well, maybe just a little—couldn’t hurt.”

Jo immediately wished she hadn’t asked. There followed a minute of the most horrible noises she’d ever heard—a howling, farting crescendo of gurgling belches and groans. Even the urk-ack looked mortified as Sir Alasdair grunted with effort, poking and squeezing its innards.

When he finished, there was an awkward silence.

Sir Alasdair coughed. “Of course, it needs a little work.”

One morning Sefino woke Jo up and said, “I do hope you’ve finished with that piece I asked you to write, because today we’re going to the
Eldritch Snitch
.”

“Sefino, do we have to?” yawned Jo. “I’m sure everyone’s forgotten Chatterbox’s article.”

“My dear girl,
I
have not forgotten it,” said Sefino severely. “I shall not rest until they print a retraction. And an apology. And your version of the story. Is this it? You mind if I take a look?” Sefino took her papers and began to read.

“It’s a first draft,” said Jo cautiously. Actually, it was her fifth. She’d tried to be as truthful as possible without embarrassing Sefino, but that was difficult to manage.

The cockroach read: “
Sefino’s conduct reminded us time and again that he is a gentleman.
That’s a fine sentence. Hmmm. Ah…
Sefino passionately threw himself into the moment. We may very well owe our lives to his energetic action.
Ooh, that’s good. A little vague, but good.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

Sefino stroked his chin. “Why not change
We may very well owe our lives to him
to just
We owe our lives to him
?”

“No.”

“It flows better.”

“No.”

“You needn’t get snippy,” said Sefino. “It’s purely a matter of grammar. Hmmm…
Sefino passionately threw himself into the moment
…there’s a touch of bravado in that, isn’t there?
Passionately
…Yes, I threw caution to the wind, odds be damned…I charged into the thick of the fight…like a swashbuckler…what does
swashbuckler
mean? Who cares?
Swashbuckling Sefino passionately saved our lives.
There, that’s perfect. Write that.”

“You’re pushing it, Sefino.”

“Nonsense. I have excellent taste, and I can assure you that
Swashbuckling Sefino passionately saved our lives
would heighten the tone of the piece. It would lift it to a higher plane, to the psychological, to the sublime…the mystical, I daresay…”

Sefino strolled off happily, rolling the words about in his mouth. “
Swashbuckling Sefino
…
Swashbuckling Sefino
…why, it’s like a little poem.”

That afternoon Jo and Sefino visited the
Eldritch Snitch.
The newspaper’s offices were a hive of dark wood, a claustrophobic maze of mahogany niches, coves, and cubbyholes, and everywhere there was the soft, steady din of typewriters, hundreds of them, chattering away relentlessly. The newspaper was staffed by centipedes, and Jo watched in wonder as they scuttled through the twisting maze of wood, darting up and down ladders and popping in and out of narrow cracks. It was dark and smoky, which made the centipedes’ appearances and disappearances into the gloom, and their silhouettes in the haze, seem almost sinister.

“They’re going to hassle us,” warned Sefino. “They’re going to snub us. They’re going to make us wait. They’re going to play mind games with us.
I know their kind.
Be careful. Anything we do or say could be snatched up, blown all out of proportion, and blasted across the front page of the evening edition. It’s a nest of vipers! Anyway…what do you think of my necktie?”

“It’s a fine necktie.”

“Technically it’s an ascot. It’s a very forceful ascot. I call it the ‘Intimidator.’ You’re overwhelmed by it, aren’t you? The ascot overwhelms you. It’s almost
too
bold. When you see an ascot like this, your only choices are submit to it or fight it. And that is a fight you will surely lose.”

“How about fleeing?” said Jo. “One could submit, fight, or flee.”

“True,” said Sefino thoughtfully. “One might flee.”

A receptionist said, “Welcome to the
Eldritch Snitch.
May I help you?”

Sefino drew himself up. “I demand to speak to Chatterbox.”

“Right away, sir. Follow me.”

“That was unexpectedly easy,” said Sefino as the receptionist led them down the hall. “Of course, it may very well be a trap. They’re playing games with us, Jo,
psychological games
.”

“Maybe it was your ascot.”

“That’s certainly possible. This ascot almost constitutes an unfair advantage. I’ve even knotted it in an aggressive manner. It
juts.
It springs forth, it is a barely restrained beast, this ascot. It picks you up and shakes you. It says, ‘If you want this cockroach, you’ll have to come through me first.’”

They entered a waiting room with some comfortable couches and a frosted glass door with the word
CHATTERBOX
on it.

Sefino whispered, “This is where they’re going to start being rude to us. Just you watch.”

The receptionist said, “I’ll go tell Chatterbox you’re here. For now, why don’t you enjoy some of our award-winning appetizers?”

“
Award-winning
? I’ll be the judge of that,” said Sefino icily, and picked a sausage off a plate with a toothpick, dipping it in a bowl of mustard. The receptionist disappeared behind the door, leaving Jo and Sefino alone.

“Jo, let me do the talking here,” said Sefino. “I’m afraid the subtleties of this battle of wits may be beyond your abilities to keep up with, or indeed understand. Just sit back and be dazzled by the vigorous verbal vituperation as Chatterbox and I engage in a battle royale of intricate insult and calamitous calumny. You know, these appetizers really
are
delicious, and I shall have another.”

“Do you remember what Chatterbox looks like?” said Jo.

“All centipedes look the same to me. I will recognize him by his sheer ungentlemanliness.”

“Good, good.”

The receptionist reappeared. “Chatterbox is out at the moment. Would you please wait for five minutes?”

“Five minutes?”
thundered Sefino. “I shall not wait
five seconds
! I have come to this unholy temple of slander to seek justice, not to lounge about for five minutes and eat award-winning appetizers! Oh, I know your strategy. First you have us wait five minutes—then ten minutes—then an hour—then
ten hours!—
while you and Chatterbox giggle behind a one-way mirror—
such as this one
!” Sefino swung his walking stick, smashing a mirror to pieces.

There was only a wall behind it.

“Please stop breaking our mirrors,” said the receptionist.

“Another trick!” shouted Sefino. He grabbed Jo’s arm and, before she could protest, brushed past the receptionist, dragging Jo into Chatterbox’s office, where a centipede wearing a seersucker suit and a porkpie hat was standing at a desk.

“So! The infamous Chatterbox!” cried Sefino. “We meet again! But this time the advantage is
mine
!”

The centipede looked at Sefino calmly.

Sefino brandished a stack of newspaper clippings and waved them around. “Ooh, I have you now, you ink-stained
wretch,
you scandal-sniffing
hack
—I have it all here, all your salacious slander from the last ten years, libelously lambasting me in my exile!”

The centipede raised his eyebrows.

“Evidence!” roared Sefino. “You ask for evidence! What is this? Evidence! Ha, ha! Of what? Oho! Evidence of you, besmirching the sacred reputation of a gentleman! But it shall not stand! No! Sir! I call you to account!”

The centipede looked at his watch.

“You!” spluttered Sefino. “You…you look at your watch! To find out what time it is, no doubt! Well, I will
tell
you what time it is, my good man! It is time for you to apologize in full and retract the lies, once and for all! And print this correction,” he added, snatching Jo’s story away from her and flinging it onto the desk. “Ah ha, ha! No need to look at your watch now! I, Sefino, have told you what time it is. Now then!”

The centipede sighed softly.

“And still you do not speak!” said Sefino, dancing about in rage. “What do you have to say for yourself? Well, Chatterbox?
What do you have to say?
”

“I say,” said an unseen voice, “that your impertinence is matched only by your insufferable taste in neckwear.”

Sefino whirled. A huge centipede, twice his height, was looming behind him.

“Chatterbox!” said the centipede at the desk.

“Chatterbox?” said Jo.

“Er,” said Sefino.

Chatterbox circled Sefino, his long, snaky body undulating under his exquisitely tailored “fifteen-piece” suit. The centipede curled and stooped, closely inspecting the little cockroach; finally he reared to his full height and turned away.

“As a general rule, I do not speak to people with mustard on their ascots. Good day.”

Sefino looked down in horror. Indeed, he had dripped mustard from his award-winning appetizer onto the “Intimidator.”

At once every ounce of courage drained away from him. Sefino picked up his hat and, mumbling apologies, went out the door. Jo ran after him, but he waved her away. They left the
Eldritch Snitch,
and she kept trying to comfort him, but Sefino would not respond the whole way back to the lodge.

“Sefino, don’t take it so hard. You shouldn’t care what they write about you. Come on, Sefino!…Sefino?…Sefino, why won’t you answer me?”

“Please, Jo.” He turned away from her. “I know that I’m…I’m just a buffoon.”

Sefino went to his room, his jaw trembling. Jo did not see him again for days.

A couple of weeks later, Colonel Korsakov and Sir Festus gathered the squires on the porch.

“Today we go Schwenk-hunting,” said Korsakov. “My digestion feels adventurous this morning. A sprightly zing in my gastric acids…but enough! The Schwenk is out there,” he rumbled, gesturing at the street with a broad wave, “and we shall find him. Sir Festus?”

“Thank you, old boy.” Sir Festus stood beside a big oak chest full of curious devices. “As you all know, my field of study is weaponry. Now, Korsakov and I hit upon an idea—that is, to use the weapons I’ve collected over the years in today’s hunt! Yes, the Schwenk is a dangerous, elusive beast, and you should all be appropriately armed!”

The squires murmured excitedly as Umberto distributed the weapons. As a spiky, powerful-looking gun was pressed into her hands, Jo asked, “How will we know if we see the Schwenk?”

“Don’t worry, you’ll know,” chuckled Sir Festus. “It is five times the size of a full-grown man, although it can curl into a tiny ball. It is covered in purple, yellow, and red feathers. And it has four mighty wings that, when spread, span fully thirty feet.”

“So it flies?”

“No.”

“But it has wings?”

“Oh, it
can
fly. But it rarely does.”

“Why not?”

“Modesty.”

Umberto finished distributing the weapons to the squires. Each weapon was unlike the others; some were unlike anything else on earth. Ian was given a tiny, thin, jewel-encrusted tube; Daphne held a damp mass of prickly fur between her thumb and forefinger, looking confused about what to do next; and Dugan was unsuccessfully wrestling with something that resembled a hissing, gurgling clump of old computer parts.

“Of course,” said Sir Festus breezily, “it’s only fair to warn you that I have little idea how they work, or what they actually do.”

“You don’t know what these weapons
do
?” said Albert.

“I was hoping you’d help me figure that out. Well, I do know about
some
of them.” Sir Festus took the spiky gun from Jo. “This is one of the most impressive weapons in my arsenal, and a personal favorite—a long-range, triple-accuracy Apology Gun.”

“That doesn’t sound so impressive,” said Jo.

“Are you off your head, girl? The Apology Gun is
most
impressive. And quite ancient. This little lovely goes back to the legendary war between the Vondorians and the Snoosnids, known to history as the Very Polite War.”

By now, Jo could tell when Sir Festus was about to launch into one of his long, confusing, tedious stories. His mustache perked up, he licked his lips, and he wiggled his fingers with delight, beginning:

“The Vondorians were renowned throughout the ancient world for their etiquette. Their civilization had a proper way to do everything, from opening a door to proposing marriage. Their entire lives were elaborate ceremonies, in which you were required to recite a certain thousand-line poem every time you bumped into someone on the street, or do a traditional dance whenever you took off your hat. Every action of a Vondorian was ritualized and beautiful.

“But then the Vondorians came up against the Snoosnids. The Snoosnids were ruthlessly, dangerously polite. They were masters of the deadly thank-you note, the murderous curtsy, the lethal tea party. It was rumored the Snoosnids had a special way of saying ‘excuse me’ that could kill you instantly. Snoosnid assassins were so charming and courteous that their victims would literally die of tact.

“So when the Snoosnids declared war on the Vondorians (because of a disagreement over the placement of the soup spoon at a diplomatic dinner), it was one of the strangest wars in history. Luckily, some artifacts of the era still survive, such as the Apology Gun.”

“I still don’t understand what it does,” said Jo.

“There were many great battles in the Very Polite War,” said Sir Festus. “But so many improper things happened in those battles that both sides were bound by etiquette to continually apologize for what they were doing. The apologies on either side grew more extravagantly effusive as each side tried to outdo the other, degenerating into chaotic mass apologies, an ugly free-for-all of manners. Imagine the horror! Thousands of soldiers charging toward each other, saying they were sorry, and then running away before they could hear their opponent’s apologies. The war was stalemated like this for years—until the Vondorians invented the Apology Gun.”

“Why?” said Jo.

“Watch.” Sir Festus pointed the gun at Colonel Korsakov. There was a POW, a puff of blue smoke, and a small tube of paper flew out and bounced off Korsakov’s chest.

Colonel Korsakov picked up the tube, unscrolled it, and read aloud: “‘Sorry for the rudeness.’ Thank you, Sir Festus. Apology accepted.”

“You’re welcome,” said Sir Festus, bowing slightly. “See? Very civilized. And this baby can shoot up to three hundred apologies per second. Pretty devastating stuff.”

“But what good did that do in the war?” said Albert.

“Aha,” said Sir Festus. “The apologies were extremely sarcastic.”

“A brilliant strategy,” nodded Korsakov.

Sir Festus showed Jo a small dial. “You can adjust this knob from ‘sincere’ to ‘sarcastic,’ depending on what kind of apologies you want to fire. Because of the overwhelming number of apologies the Vondorians made, and the withering irony of each apology, the Vondorians swiftly crushed the Snoosnids and won the war.”

Jo said, “But what good will this be against the Schwenk?”

“Against the Schwenk? Oh, none at all.”

“What about these other weapons—?”

“Utterly useless.”

“Then why are we using them?”

“Style, my girl. Style.”

Sir Festus divided the squires into groups and assigned each group a neighborhood to search for the Schwenk. Jo, Ian, and Nora were assigned to East Squeamings, a district of wooden shacks, narrow streets, and a sprawling fish market.

All morning Jo, Ian, and Nora snooped through stinking alleys packed with stalls of outlandish undersea creatures. There were slimy purple sacs hanging in dripping bunches, moist piles of wriggling white blobs with shimmering fins and panting mouths, neatly arranged rows of bulging tubes with staring eyes and dozens of tentacles, and the occasional massive sea beast, twenty times bigger than Jo, trussed up and gored on thick hooks. The market was raucous with the shouts of hawkers, customers, and auctioneers calling out to circles of gesticulating bidders. The slime, stink, and noise were overwhelming; Jo almost forgot about the Schwenk and let herself be swept up in the bustling cacophony.

But even after hours of combing through the markets, they found not a trace of the Schwenk. Ian suggested lunch at one of the neighborhood’s famous fish restaurants.

“I don’t come down here often enough,” said Ian happily as they settled into a booth. “This is one of my favorite restaurants.”

“I’m down here
all the time,
” groused Nora. “Dame Isabel can’t get enough of the smells. She says that for someone with a trained nose, it’s like being at the bottom of the ocean. I say, why settle for second best? She can
go
to the bottom of the ocean, and stay there, for all I care. And take her precious nose with her.”

“I thought you liked Dame Isabel,” said Jo.

“Are you kidding? She doesn’t give me a minute to myself. If I’m not out hunting smells with her, I’m cataloguing her stupid collection. I barely have enough time to work on my
Teenage Ichthala
theories…. You know, Jo, Isabel has it in for you, but I can’t guess why.”

“Maybe because she hates my aunt,” said Jo.

“Could be.”

The waiter came around. Jo didn’t recognize anything on the menu, so Ian and Nora ordered for her.

Ian was tapping his fingers. “I really hope we find the Schwenk.”

“I don’t,” said Jo.

“What, aren’t you excited to take on your first monster?”

“Take on? How? By telling it I’m sorry three hundred times per second?”

“At least you know what your weapon does,” sighed Nora. Hers was a metal sphere bristling with antennae, buttons, dials, and lights, all equally mysterious. She had lugged it around all day, pressing buttons and trying the dials; occasionally the sphere would light up, vibrate, smoke, and make promising noises; but so far, it had done nothing else.

“I just want to get Commissioner Olvershaw off Korsakov’s back,” said Ian.

“Olvershaw really let him have it, didn’t he?” said Jo. “I thought Korsakov was going to cry.”

“He wasn’t going to
cry,
” said Ian.

“Don’t snap,” said Nora.

“I’m sorry. I know, I get defensive about him,” said Ian. “I mean, everyone admires Dame Lily. She’s the one who killed Sir Nils, right? But Korsakov…he’s just the guy who got knocked down and then was saved by his
butler.
I hear what people say.”

Their food arrived, and conversation paused as they passed around the plates, taking a little from each. Jo had never had food like this: it was like sushi from Jupiter. Blubbery cubes floating in black-licorice broth, spheres of flaky crust enfolding morsels of nutty meat, a bowl of warm eyes that burst juicily in her mouth, blue worms wriggling in a pot of cream…

Just as they were finishing eating, Nora sat up in surprise, staring at a group of people across the restaurant. “Look, look! Over there!”

“Who is it?” said Jo.

Nora said, in an awed whisper, “That’s Audrey Durdle. That’s the girl who plays the Ichthala on
Teenage Ichthala.
I think that’s the whole cast right there!”

Jo could just barely make out, through the hubbub of diners, a blond girl slouching in her chair, indifferently studying a script and drinking coffee, ignoring the half-dozen chattering men and women at her table.

Ian snorted, “Nora, you are too into that show.”

“I’m going to casually walk over there and eavesdrop,” said Nora, standing.

Ian said, “Why don’t you ask them to do an episode about us finding the Schwenk? According to your logic, then we’re sure to find it.”

“A comedian,” said Nora, and left.

After Nora was gone, Ian said to Jo, “I saw them setting up to film their show around the corner, but don’t tell Nora. She’ll just hang around the set all day and forget about hunting the Schwenk.”

“What’ll you do if we find the Schwenk?”

“I’m not sure. Well, I do have this.” Ian took out the jewel-encrusted needle Sir Festus had given him and placed it on the table.

Jo said, “Did Sir Festus tell you what it does?”

“He said he forgot,” said Ian. “He does recall it was something devastating.”

“Big deal. Mine’s ‘devastating,’ too.”

“I’m hoping for the best,” said Ian. “Sir Festus advised me to hold my fire until I actually see the Schwenk, though. He said there’s only one shot left in it.”

“So there’s no way of telling what it does,” said Jo. “It might shoot flowers and romantic poetry.”

“It might. But that’s all right.”

“Really?”

“Colonel Korsakov says hunting the Schwenk is a gentleman’s pursuit. It wouldn’t be sporting to use effective weapons.”

“There’s something in that,” said Jo.

Nora was haunting the area around Audrey Durdle’s table, drifting back and forth, desperately trying to eavesdrop. But after a few pointed glares, she got embarrassed and slunk back to Jo and Ian.

“Well?” said Jo. “What’d they say?”

“It’s so exciting!” said Nora. “They had just gotten the scripts for the latest episode! They’re all talking about what will happen—there’s a scene in the Silent Sisters’ secret cathedral, and—”

“Nora, do you talk about
anything
other than that show?” murmured Ian as he scanned the bill. He dropped some money on the table and stood up. “Come on, let’s go find the Schwenk.”

Just outside the restaurant and down the street there were some actors in costumes, surrounded by cameramen. Nora grabbed Jo’s arm and said wildly, “I knew it! They’re filming
Teenage Ichthala
right here! That’s why Audrey Durdle was in the restaurant!”

Ian winced. “I was hoping you wouldn’t see that.”

Nora stopped short. “You
knew
they were filming in the neighborhood? And you
didn’t tell me
?”

“If I’d told you, you wouldn’t have helped us look for the Schw—”

“Screw your Schwenk!” said Nora, her eyes blazing. “You know what this means to me!”

“I thought you were going to help us,” said Ian.

“Just because Korsakov can’t finish his own quest doesn’t mean we should do it for him,” said Nora.

“That’s not fair,” said Jo.

“No, it’s not fair,” said Nora. “Neither is lying to your friends so they’ll do what you want. Good luck, Jo. I hope
you
find it.” She gave Ian a final glare and stalked off to the
Teenage Ichthala
set, dragging her bulky sphere behind her.

Ian glumly watched her go. “I didn’t know she’d get that mad.”

“C’mon, let’s get out of here,” said Jo.

Jo and Ian resumed the search for the Schwenk, but it wasn’t the same now. Nora, bouncing along at their side, breathlessly babbling her theories, had seemed exasperating before, but now they missed her. Searching for the Schwenk wasn’t fun anymore.