Yowler Foul-Up (9 page)

“That’s fine,” said Flicka, beaming. “I’ll grab the carriage from the stables and you can get some rest on the way to the guardhouse.”

“The guardhouse?”

“Yes. They’ve still got Pegrand, and they won’t let him out until you apologize to the guard. They only let me out because I’m a woman.”

She swept back her hair with both hands, bunched up two fistfuls of it, and secured the resulting locks with a length of twine. Then, still grinning, she took a step toward the door.

Modeset held up a hand. “We’re not going to the palace,” he said. His tone was set in lead.

“What? But you said you were—”

“It’s not done for a duke to apologize, and besides, that guard had it coming. All elves are deviants.”

“That’s a rotten attitude for a duke, especially here. It’s not right to persecute any of Mother Nature’s children.”

“Not right? You can’t rely on Mother Nature, you know. Just look at what she did to Pegrand. Besides, we don’t have time for this nonsense, or to mess about rescuing people. I need some sleep and so do you.”

Flicka looked suddenly wretched. “What about Pegrand?” she said.

“I’ll get him out in the morning,” said Modeset, after a pause.

“You promise?”

“Yes. Now go!”

He watched her turn and make for the stairs, listening for any hint of a giggle. He was about to retire himself, when the innkeeper came barrelling out of the dining hall.

“Bloody nuisance,” he spat. “Shutters broken. More bloody money.”

“Yes,” said the duke. “I’m terribly sorry if that puts you out.”

“Puts me out, you say? Puts me out? You’re a nuisance.”

“Yes, again, my apologies. Any chance of a new room tonight?”

“Any chance? No chance. Sleep in the alley, far as I’m concerned. You’re a bloody curse, the lot o’ you.”

Modeset shot forward. The movement was sudden and unexpected, and the innkeeper found himself pinned against the hall wall.

“Now listen up,” snapped the duke. “I’ve told you you’ll see your money, so get this straight; you’ll give me a new room, a better room with a nice soft bed and a proper window; you’ll stop moaning; you’ll be pleasant to my staff; and if I get even the slightest hint that you’ve been spitting in the wine, they’ll find you where I leave you. Now, do we have an understanding?”

The innkeeper swallowed, and Modeset thought he could just make out a nod.

D
ULLITCH WAS A CITY FULL
of filth and, as Obegarde could testify, it all floated to the surface at downtime.

Downtime. He repeated the word over and over, working it into a steady rhythm. His boots splashed water as they hit the puddle-strewn cobbles.

Downtime was the affectionately named period between midnight and sunup when some of Dullitch’s darkest, weirdest, and most nocturnally bound citizens began to stir. It was also a time in which the city had a strangely isolated air; the streets were shadowy, lamplight was bleak, and, nine times out of ten, it was pissing rain in the bargain. Downtime was the only time certain people could walk the streets.

People like Obegarde.

The wind whistled, rolling bottles along the damp cobbles and turning over rubbish bins across the city.

On the roof of Karuim’s Church, an ancient, rust-riddled weather vane moaned in the wind, broke from its support, and fell. It landed three inches short of Obegarde.

The investigator flinched. His hearing went fuzzy. A breeze ruffled the flaps of his dark coat. He looked behind him.

Embedded deep in the cobbles, the weather vane was still taller than a man, its base jutting out of the earth like the hilt of a giant’s dagger. A few twisted brackets hung loose. The metal finger that acted as the vane’s indicator had folded back on itself. Obegarde noticed, with some small degree of amusement, that it now pointed skyward.

The entrance to the church flew open, and a man came hobbling up a stone flight of stairs that ascended from the tunnel below. He was elderly, awkward, and bespectacled. He wore a ragged suit of leather.

Obegarde squinted through the rain. “Nasty night,” he said, when the old man was within earshot. He nodded down at the fractured weather vane. “Narrow escape, there. I was lucky.”

The stranger’s scowl suggested that “lucky” would have meant that Obegarde had been underneath the vane when it fell.

Obegarde extended his hand, waited for about a minute, and then withdrew it.

“Good evening,” he began, his mind racing for a suitable ruse. “I’ve come about thejdjffkfkdk.”

“What?”

“I’ve said I’ve come about thejdjjfjdfjfj.”

“I can’t hear you. Speak up!”

“Can I come in?”

The old man hobbled up to him and, to Obegarde’s extreme surprise, actually stepped on his toes. When he spoke, uncomfortably close, his breath smelled like rotting flesh.

“Eh? What’s that?”

“The church! Can I come into the church?”

“I wouldn’t advise it.”

“Why?”

“There’s nobody there.”

“Oh. Nobody at all?”

The church acolyte cocked his head to one side and gave Obegarde a critical stare, practically from inside his own eyeballs.

“You could always talk to Lopsalm,” he said eventually. “Lopsalm’s inside.”

“I thought you said there was nobody inside.”

“Yes, yes, but Lopsalm doesn’t count. He’s mad, you see. Quite, quite mad. It’s
your
funeral.”

Obegarde shoved the old man backward, then took a step forward himself.

“Lopsalm it is,” he said, pushing past. “Thanks for your help.”

 
“WELL,” JIMMY SAID, LOOKING
around the haunted expanse of the church roof. “Where’s Grab? I don’t see him anywhere.”

Mixer put an experimental foot to the nearest gargoyle and leaned forward. Then he turned to Jimmy and gave a shrug. “Who knows? Maybe he took off.”

“Um … right.”

“Thieves are like that, aren’t they? Unreliable, I mean.”

“I wasn’t.”.

“You? You were a thief?”

“Yeah, a while ago now, but I was never very good at it. Not like Grab; he’s one of the best.”

Mixer nodded. “I’m sure he wa … I mean
is
.”

“Right. I wonder where he went.”

“Hmm … a mystery.”

“Yeah.” Jimmy wandered across to the edge of the church. “Cold up here, isn’t it?” he ventured, squinting at the gravestones far below. He shivered and shook his head. “Long way down.”

He started to head over to the small tower containing the church’s gargantuan brass bell.

“Well?” he said. “Let’s see this thing chime, then.”

“Indeed,” came the reply. Mixer grinned. “It’ll chime like never before.”

“Without you touching it, o’ course,” Jimmy added.

“Of course. Here goes. … ”

The gnome raised his crossbow and leveled it.

“Ah … of course; I should’ve guessed. You’re gonna shoot it, eh?”

Jimmy took a step back.

“No! Stay exactly where you are,” Mixer snapped.

“What? But I’m in the way!”

“Yes, you
are
… and so was Grab Dafisful. He had to die too.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Mixer’s grin bled away; he looked suddenly humorless. “People exceed their use,” he said. “Take Grab, for instance, he was
extremely
useful, but he also had a very big mouth. You, on the other hand, were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, and there’s just a chance that you know too much. Sorry.”

“Hold on a minute! Wrong place? What place? I don’t know anything about anything. Are you crazy?”

“No. I’m Mixer. Good-bye, young fool.”

The gnome straightened his crossbow, but just as he was about to fire, something dropped on him. The barrowbird, which had followed the duo religiously from the Ferret and possessed the kind of frenzied death dive that others of the avian family could only dream of, subsequently exploded in a flapping, squawking cacophony.

During the struggle, Jimmy heard a click and a snap, and then he flew backward. Fast.

There was a heavy, sonorous clunk as he hit the giant bell.

Then he fell.

Down.

Dowwnn.

Dowwwnnn …

Mixer finally managed to shake off the bird and swiftly realign his crossbow to bring it down with a bolt. He missed.

The barrowbird soared back into the sky and flew away.

T
HE YOWLER KNOWN AS
Lopsalm was an undiluted lunatic. At least, he was acting like an undiluted lunatic, and Obegarde suspected that the man might be a very good actor. He certainly had the “crazed priest” archetype down to a tee.

Lopsalm was perched atop a communion table in the southern wing of the church, his hands tied behind his back in some sort of supplication ritual, and his small, bearded face enclosed in one of the weirdest cowls Obegarde had ever laid eyes on. The cloth monstrosity, apart from its giant hood, had six wayward cords that hung down to cover the priest’s ears, and almost extended past his scrawny neck as well.

“Don’t you speak to me like that!” he snapped at the investigator. “How dare you come in here and fire your ignorant questions at me. I, who am of the Chalice.”

“I’m sorry,” said Obegarde. “I didn’t think ‘You must be Lopsalm?’ was a particularly intrusive question.”

“Hah! That’s what they all say!”

“Listen—”

“What? Where?”

Obegarde rolled his eyes. “No, listen to me. I need to ask you a few more intrusive questions. If it helps any, I’ll break your neck unless I’m completely satisfied.”

“It’s like that, is it?”

“It is.”

Lopsalm scratched his wiry beard. “Go on, then, if you must!”

Obegarde slid an old cloth robe off the table and took a seat beside the priest, who immediately spun around to face him.

“Do you know any gnomes who might work here?”

“Yes and no.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, he comes here. But I’ve never seen him do any work.”

Obegarde smiled. “What’s his name?”

“Tricky.”

“He’s called Tricky the gnome?”

“No, he isn’t. I meant it’s tricky to remember what his name is. Mixer, I believe, or perhaps Twixer; something of that variety. I’ve only met him once, and I wasn’t too impressed. He’s supposed to guard the sacred books.”

“I see. And he doesn’t do his job properly?”

“He read more than he guarded. Obsessed with them, he was. He was only here three days when the big book went missing. Haven’t seen him since. Less astute minds might consider that a coincidence.”

“But not you,” said Obegarde with a grin. “You obviously think he stole it.”

“Not at all. I reckon he was given it.”

“By who?”

Lopsalm shrugged. “The Lark was fairly fond of him; she spent a lot of time teaching him the ways of Doiley.”

“Doiley?”

“God of Stone; Lord Immortal and creator of the original rock.”

Obegarde frowned. “The original rock? What’s that?”

“Ha! Ignoramus! It’s
the
rock, the rock upon which the foundations of Illmoor were set. The living rock, the rock immortal. The rock that is none other than the Great Yowler himself, deep in his thousand-year slumber.”

“Oh, come on. Living rock? You don’t honestly believe all that rubbish?”

“It’s written in the sacred book; of course I believe it. The sacred book tells no lies. It forecasts a time when the Great Yowler will rise. They tell of the second coming of Doiley, the prophet who’ll bring about his resurrection.”

“Second coming? What happened the first time?”

“He didn’t quite manage it.”

“Oh, right. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“As are we all. Nevertheless, he will come again. Our Lady Lauris assures us that it is so.”

“Lady—”

“Lauris. We call her the Lark.”

“Ah, yes, I remember you mentioning her. She runs the church?”

“No one runs it. We’re an autonomous collective; all are equal in the eyes of Yowler. We, that is, myself, the Lark, the behemoth called Moors, and his spindly friend Edwy, are all even-footed. However, the Lark has … strong beliefs.”

“Stronger than yours?”

“Stronger than most.”

“And why would this Lark give your gnome the sacred book? More to the point, if you’re all equals, why did you let her?”

Lopsalm fiddled with the strange cloth hat. “I’ve told you too much already,” he said without feeling.

“Oh, I don’t doubt you’ve told me everything, yet you’ve shown me nothing. Clever.”

“Clever? Ha! I’ve betrayed church secrets, and I’ve double-crossed friends! I’ve endangered my standing in the high order; I’ve put my soul at risk! Indeed, my only consolation will be that you won’t live to tell anyone about my indiscretion.”

“Ah, that explains the smile,” Obegarde said. “You’re planning to have me killed.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Obegarde. You planned to have yourself killed the moment you stuck your nose where it wasn’t wanted.”

The investigator peered around. “There’s nobody here,” he said. “I could just kill you now. … ”

“You could, but I don’t think you will. After all, if you did strike me down, the rest of my order would make it their business to have you sent straight back to Dorley House. …”

Obegarde froze. “What?”

“Dorley House, in Spittle? Isn’t that the breeding ground where most of your pathetic kind struggle to exist? Isn’t that the wretched pit where all the poor, breadline loftwings are forced into servitude? And isn’t that why you came to the city, to make enough money so that you might forget your terrible origins?”

The investigator’s expression hadn’t changed.

“We are Yowlers, Mr. Obegarde,” Lopsalm continued. “We have the dirt on everyone and every
thing
in Illmoor. How else do you think we hold sway? In fact, I believe you have an appointment at the palace tonight?”

“How—”

“Let’s see if you can survive the night to keep it.”

Obegarde turned very slowly and headed for the nearest door. Halfway across the sanctuary, he stopped and looked back at Lopsalm’s evil grin. “This isn’t over,” he said.

“Oh, it is, Mr. Obegarde. I assure you it is.”

Obegarde departed the sanctuary and didn’t look back until he realized that he’d taken the wrong door. Still suffering from the shock of Lopsalm’s revealed knowledge, he stumbled upon a strangled route through a twisted maze of passageways into the southern wing of the church.