Yowler Foul-Up (6 page)

“Is that it? A bird?” Jimmy asked, dumbfounded. “Just ignore it.”

“I can’t! What if it’s waitin’ to see where I’m takin’ the sack? It might be a spy, workin’ for the viscount or even the Yowler leaders!”

Jimmy shook his head. “I don’t think Viscount Curfew has many spies in the Grinswood.”

“Well, that’s as may be, but I don’t want anything to go wrong with this job. If I make a mistake, lead an enemy to the door, so to speak, then bang goes my three ’undred crowns. Now, if you was to—”

“Stop right there,” Jimmy interrupted. “I think I can see where this is going, and there’s no way—”

“If we was to change clothes—”

“Not a chance.”

“And I unscrewed my mechanical arm—”

“No, I said. No.”

“Then you could put your ’ead down and run for it. By the time the bird saw that you weren’t me, I’d have delivered my sack an’ I’d be two ’undred and twenty-five crowns richer.”

Jimmy waited a moment while he worked this out. “Let me get this straight: you’re prepared to give me seventy-five crowns for impersonating you for an hour?”

“Yeah.”

“To get away from a bird.”

“’Sright.”

“You’re insane. I’ll do it.” He finished his ale and watched as Grab unscrewed his false limb. “Where is this bird, anyway?”

“Up the street.” Grab pointed toward the Ferret’s staircase. “It’s perched on the sign over the Burrow Street Bakery, waitin’ for me to come out. I’m convinced of it.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll see. Can we at least find a quiet spot to change clothes? I don’t fancy exhibiting my valuables in front of this crowd.”

J
IMMY QUICKSTINT WAS HAVING
a really bad night. Apart from avoiding the barrowbird, his luck was such that he’d nearly walked straight into it. The situation called for all of his speed and cunning, so it was rather unfortunate that he didn’t possess a great deal of either.

Then, to make matters worse, he’d dropped Grab’s mechanical arm in Winding Way, and he had to stoop to pick it up, all the while trying to keep his face down and maintain his friend’s insane half limp. It wasn’t easy.

Finally, when he was at least six streets away from the Ferret and the crowds had begun to thicken, Jimmy spotted a convenient alleyway. Taking a deep breath and steeling all the muscles in his legs, he darted left, right, left, backward, forward, did a somersault, and then nose-dived behind a pile of rubbish sacks just beyond the mouth of the alley. There, squatting in the shadows, he waited for the bird to fly past.

It didn’t.

Time passed, and there was still no sign of the creature.

The Diamond Clock on Crest Hill struck eleven and, motionless, Jimmy waited.

Eventually tiring of his awkward crouch, the gravedigger struggled to his feet and peered out into the street.

“Who’re we lookin’ for?” said a voice.

Jimmy turned and stared into the scruffy beak of the barrowbird. It had perched on a low wall opposite Jimmy’s hiding place, and he was sure it was looking at him with malice.

“Game’s up, genius,” it squawked. “Worked like a treat; well done. Now stop soddin’ about and tell me where your friend’s gone.”

“Wh-what? What friend? I don’t have any friends.”

“Don’t mess with me, boy. You’ve no idea what you’re getting involved in. I’m a magical bird, I am.”

“Oh.” Jimmy nodded. “Then I expect you can find him yourself.”

There was an uncomfortable pause.

“I’ll ask you once more, then I’ll have your eyes out.”

Jimmy looked nervously about, noticing on the edge of his vision that the gambling pits were opening for business.

“You don’t look very fast,” he said to the bird, edging carefully toward the alley mouth. “I could probably outrun you.”

The bird hopped along the wall. “Try it,” came the squawk.

“I might, at that,” Jimmy said, and darted off across the road. The bird took flight and flapped speedily after him. The chase had begun.

Jimmy ran like lightning.

The bird flew like a bullet.

Jimmy slipped through the door of the inn.

The bird hit it.

“
Squawk
!
Squaark
! I’ll get you yet, sonny. However long it takes, I’ll be waiting. You’ll rue the day you ever pulled the wool over my beak!”

The barrowbird flapped against the wood a few times, then flew up to sulk on the swinging sign of a nearby tavern.

Just after three o’clock, two bouncers carried out the comatose figure of a young man, dumping it unceremoniously in the alley across the street.

Before they disappeared back inside the murky depths of their pit, one of the bouncers was sure that he heard a menacing and somehow
feathery
cackle.

K
ARUIM’S CHURCH WAS UNIQUE
in that it was the only building on Oval Square to have its entrance on Bark Street. Well, unique was perhaps too strong a word. After all, the buildings that occupied the other side of the square would’ve been hard-pressed to have their entrances on Bark Street without some sort of magic door in use. Nevertheless, Karuim’s spurned the palace which dominated Oval Square, and many took this to be indicative of the Yowlers’ notorious defiance in the face of royalty. Not that the church was wholly Yowler-run: it hadn’t been so since a breakaway faction had claimed it a little more than a year ago.

The church itself was an eyesore, black as pitch and thoroughly shapeless, with an ugly gaping hole where its doors should have been. Worshippers walked into this cave mouth and through the ensuing tunnel system before emerging into the dark expanse of the sanctuary proper.

It was a frightening journey, especially for Grab Dafisful, who was increasingly of the opinion that his every move was being watched, and not by a bird. In fact, he couldn’t help but feel, as he was about to deliver his sack to the church’s vestry, that the kind of eyes currently monitoring his progress were the sort that traveled back and forth to a belt dagger between glimpses. Sweat beading on his forehead, Grab reached for his own blade.

“Hmm … I’d move that hand back pretty sharpish if I were you, especially since you’ve got only the one.”

Grab froze; the voice had come from behind him. His hand hovered an inch or so above his belt.

“Throw down the knife,” the voice commanded. “You shouldn’t bring such things into a house of the gods.”

The dagger clanked onto the stone floor, followed by three smaller blades and a set of knuckledusters.

“Well, well, well,” the voice continued. “You do come prepared, Mr. Dafisful. Now, please deposit your burden into the pew at your extreme left. Very good. Now, face front and prepare to answer a few questions.”

While Grab did as he was told, a hand snaked around from behind him and snatched up the sack.

“Where’s my money?” he shouted, being careful not to move a muscle.

“All in good time,” said the voice. “First, the questions.”

There followed some sort of commotion in the shadows before Grab noticed two cloaked shapes moving up the aisles on either side of him. Once in the center of the sanctuary, they separated, to stand not more than six feet apart. When given occasion to speak, they spoke together, more, Grab fancied, to disguise their individual voices than to create an air of mystery. It worked; the only thing he could be sure of was that one was male, the other female.

“Thief Dafisful. You have done as the brotherhood commanded?”

Grab nodded. “I ’ave.”

“You have retrieved no less than ten Batchtiki from the Grinswood?”

“I have.”

“You were not followed?”

“What? Er … not exactly, no.”

A male voice this time, solo. “What do you mean by ‘not exactly’? Either you were followed, or you were not.”

Grab’s movements became very fidgety. “There
was
this bird, you see, and—”

“A bird?”

“Yeah, and I thought it was—”

“As in ‘flap flap’ bird?”

“Er … yes.”

The female voice took up the questioning. “We have no interest in birds. When we asked if you were followed, we were talking beast, not bird.”

Grab’s features creased like a brown paper bag. “No, I’m sure I wasn’t followed by any of them.”

“Good. And you spoke of your endeavors to no one?”

“Nope. Definitely not. No, siree. I’m not stupid, me. I spoke to no one. Well, no one worth speaking of …”

“So, in fact, you
did
tell somebody.”

“Um … sort of. Yeah.”

There was a collective sigh. “More than one person?”

“No. Just the one, I swear. Just Jimmy, ’e’s a friend of mine, ex-thief, understands perfectly, ’e won’t tell a soul.”

“Hmm … we shall see. For now, you may go.”

“’ey! What about my money?”

“You will find it beside the decorative font on your way out.”

Grab nodded and turned to leave, muttering to himself about conspiracies and the kind of people who lurked in shadows. He didn’t see a soul on his way out of the church, but, even as he collected his money, he felt they were watching him. In the shadows.

As soon as Grab had left the sanctuary, two dark hoods were drawn back in unison.

“Your thief talks too much,” said the female voice. “He’ll have to be silenced.”

“And his friend?” echoed her male counterpart. “This Jimmy? A danger, you think?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“We can’t just leave it and hope. We’re too near!”

“Exactly.”

“Two jobs for Mixer, then?”

“Ha! If our little gnome’s as good as you say he is, Lopsalm, I’m sure he’s dealing with it already. … ”

“Oh, he is, my dear. I can assure you of that.”

“He’ll need to be fast, mind; thieves like Grab can be wily and resourceful.”

Lopsalm turned in the darkness.

“A good job we dispatched Moors and Edwy, then, isn’t it?”

G
RAB HAD A TERRIBLE
feeling in the pit of his stomach. Keeping a tight grip on the money pouch with his remaining hand, he began to run.

Footsteps echoed behind him.

On he ran, urging his tired body through the pain barrier.

The footsteps increased with him, and he heard the distinctive sound of a crossbow being primed.

Grab peered over his shoulder, caught the merest glimpse of a small figure as it slipped into a doorway, and then he started to run, very fast.

The streets, slippery and lashed with rain, were deserted; they seemed to flitter past as Grab hurtled around corners and leaped over bins in a frantic dash for the safety of the market square. He knew the stalls would be long gone, but there were
always
people in the square. There
had
to be.

Incredibly, the rainstorm picked up. Grab thought he saw a shape up ahead; large, almost impossibly so. Was it a troll or a person? Difficult to tell. Grab strained to see through the veil of rain. Yes, a person. Definitely. Thank the gods. Now, if he could just put on another burst of speed …

The shape lumbered forward, and Grab almost fell into it.

“Hey, watch it.”

“I’m sorry,” Grab managed, righting himself and standing back to stare in awe at the size of the human mass before him. “There’s someone after me. … ”

“I can’t see anybody.”

Grab swung around and squinted into the rain. “No, well. I could swear I was being followed.” He turned back. “Anyway, it’s a nice nigh—”

The lumbering shape threw out a fist so hard that Grab almost achieved flight as he fell backward, landing in the middle of a collection of rubbish bins with a resounding crash.

The rain hammered down. As Grab fought to get to his feet, he noticed that his noisy collision with the rubbish had failed to attract even the slightest hint of attention; not a light in a window, not the creak of a door. Grab moaned as he regained his footing.

Shapes loomed up ahead; the large man who’d hit him had now been joined by a second, slimmer figure. Grab turned on his heels and started to run, hopelessly, back toward the church. After a few steps, he hesitated, then stopped and peered over his shoulder. The two men weren’t moving; they were simply standing there, closing off the end of the street.

Grab tried to think clearly, his head still fuzzy from the strength of the big man’s punch. They were obviously herding him toward a greater danger. He shook his head, then turned back and practically walked into the gnome.

Mixer was standing in the street, his brass teeth glinting in the glow of the streetlamp beside him. He was holding a large and very nasty-looking crossbow.

Grab turned yet again, and ran. His hope was to break through the human barricade up ahead. He made a last, desperate dash.

Lightning split the sky, and thunder echoed through the clouds. The rain came down hard …

… and so did Grab Dafisful.

“Ahhhh!”

The bolt struck home, spearing into the thief’s back and forcing him forward. Grab gasped, his legs folded under him. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead. He laid a hand flat against the cobbles and tried to push himself up, but the gnome was on him.

Thunder boomed overhead, announcing its warning to any citizens who hadn’t already turned their mirrors to face the wall.

“Ahhh! No! Mercy, I beg you!”

Mixer drove a boot into the small of the thief’s back, reloaded the crossbow, and aimed it at his head. Then he pulled the trigger.

There was a sickening thud.

As the last of the rain came down, the corpse of Grab Dafisful was dragged into a nearby doorway and left propped up against the door like a stuffed dummy. Mixer smiled at his handiwork, and promptly departed.

M
ODESET WAS FUMING, AND
with good reason.

He’d been walking through the streets all night. He was dirty, hungry, and worst of all, he didn’t have anyone else to blame. All he had were choices. He didn’t want to go back to the Steeplejack Inn without the others (the innkeeper was enough of a pain as it was), and he certainly had no intention of loitering anywhere near the palace, so he’d decided to kick off his new day with a depressed stroll around the harbor district instead.