All the same, Bert didn’t mean to dash Daisy’s to the ground. He meant only to push it away. Unluckily, Daisy lost her grip on the box, and the costly pastries fell into the flower bed and were covered in earth.
Daisy burst into tears.
“Well, if all you care about is pastries!” shouted Bert, and he opened the garden gate and led his mother away.
Unluckily, Daisy lost her grip on the box, and the costly pastries fell.
By Petra, Age 9
Unfortunately for Lord Spittleworth, Mr. Dovetail wasn’t the only person who’d started voicing doubts about the Ickabog.
Cornucopia was growing slowly poorer. The rich merchants had no problem paying their Ickabog taxes. They gave the collectors two ducats a month, then increased the prices on their pastries, cheeses, hams, and wines to pay themselves back. However, two gold ducats a month was increasingly hard to find for the poorer folk, especially with food at the markets more expensive. Meanwhile, up in the Marshlands, children began to grow hollow-cheeked.
Spittleworth, who had spies in every city and village, began hearing word that people wanted to know what their gold was being spent on, and even to demand proof that the monster was still a danger.
Now, people said of the cities of Cornucopia that their inhabitants had different natures: Jeroboamers were supposed to be brawlers and dreamers, the Kurdsburgers peaceful and courteous, while the citizens of Chouxville were often said to be proud, even snooty. But the people of Baronstown were said to be plain speakers and honest dealers, and it was here that the first serious outbreak of disbelief in the Ickabog happened.
A butcher called Tubby Tenderloin called a meeting in the town hall. Tubby was careful not to say he didn’t believe in the Ickabog, but he invited everyone at the meeting to sign a petition to the king, asking for evidence that the Ickabog tax was still necessary. As soon as this meeting was over, Spittleworth’s spy, who had of course attended the meeting, jumped on his horse and rode south, arriving at the palace at midnight.
Woken by a footman, Spittleworth hurriedly summoned Lord Flapoon and Major Roach from their beds, and the two men joined Spittleworth in his bedroom to hear what the spy had to say. The spy told the story of the treasonous meeting, then unfurled a map on which he’d helpfully circled the houses of the ringleaders, including that of Tubby Tenderloin.
“Excellent work,” growled Roach. “We’ll have all of them arrested for treason and slung in jail. Simple!”
“It isn’t simple at all,” said Spittleworth impatiently. “There were two hundred people at this meeting, and we can’t lock up two hundred people! We haven’t got room, for one thing, and for another, everyone will just say it proves we can’t show the Ickabog’s real!”
“Then we’ll shoot ’em,” said Flapoon, “and wrap ’em up like we did Beamish, and leave ’em up by the marsh to be found, and people will think the Ickabog got ’em.”
“Is the Ickabog supposed to have a gun now?” snapped Spittleworth. “And two hundred cloaks in which to wrap its victims?”
“Well, if you’re going to sneer at our plans, my lord,” said Roach, “why don’t you come up with something clever yourself?”
But that was exactly what Spittleworth couldn’t do. Cudgel his sneaky brains though he might, he couldn’t think of any way to frighten the Cornucopians back into paying their taxes without complaint. What he needed was proof that the Ickabog really existed, but where was he to get it?
Pacing alone in front of his fire, after the others had gone back to bed, Spittleworth heard another tap on his bedroom door.
“What now?” he snapped.
Into the room slid the footman, Cankerby.
“What do you want? Out with it quickly, I’m busy!” said Spittleworth.
“If it pleases Your Lordship,” said Cankerby, “I ’appened to be passing your room earlier, and I couldn’t ’elp ’earing about that there treasonous meeting in Baronstown what you, Lord Flapoon, and Major Roach was talking about.”
“Oh, couldn’t you help it?” said Spittleworth, in a dangerous voice.
“I thought I should tell you, my lord: I’ve got evidence that there’s a man ’ere in the City-Within-The-City what thinks the same way as those traitors in Baronstown,” said Cankerby. “’E wants proof, just like them butchers do. Sounded like treason to me, when I ’eard about it.”
“Well, of course it’s treason!” said Spittleworth. “Who dares say such things, in the very shadow of the palace? Which of the king’s servants dares question the king’s word?”
“Well … as to that …” said Cankerby, shuffling his feet. “Some would say that’s valuable information, some would —”
“You tell me who it is,” snarled Spittleworth, seizing the footman by the front of his jacket, “and then I’ll see whether you deserve payment! Their name — give me their name!”
“It’s D-D-Dan Dovetail!” said the footman.
“Dovetail … Dovetail … I know that name,” said Spittleworth, releasing the footman, who staggered sideways and fell into an end table. “Wasn’t there a seamstress … ?”
“’Is wife, sir. She died,” said Cankerby, straightening up.
“Yes,” said Spittleworth slowly. “He lives in that house by the graveyard, where they never fly a flag and without a single portrait of the king in the windows. How d’you know he’s expressed these treasonous views?”
“I ’appened to over’ear Mrs. Beamish telling the scullery maid what ’e said,” said Cankerby.
“You happen to hear a lot of things, don’t you, Cankerby?” commented Spittleworth, feeling in his waistcoat for some gold. “Very well. Here are ten ducats for you.”
“Thank you very much, my lord,” said the footman, bowing low.
“Wait,” said Spittleworth as Cankerby turned to go. “What does he do, this Dovetail?”
What Spittleworth really wanted to know was whether the king would miss Mr. Dovetail, if he disappeared.
“Dovetail, my lord? ’E’s a carpenter,” said Cankerby, and he bowed himself out of the room.
“A carpenter,” repeated Spittleworth out loud. “A carpenter …”
And as the door closed on Cankerby, another of Spittleworth’s lightning strike ideas hit him, and so amazed was he at his own brilliance, he had to clutch the back of the sofa, because he felt he might topple over.
Daisy had gone to school, and Mr. Dovetail was busy in his workshop next morning, when Major Roach knocked on the carpenter’s door. Mr. Dovetail knew Roach as the man who lived in his old house, and who’d replaced Major Beamish as head of the Royal Guard. The carpenter invited Roach inside, but the major declined.
“We’ve got an urgent job for you at the palace, Dovetail,” he said. “A shaft on the king’s carriage has broken and he needs it tomorrow.”
“Already?” said Mr. Dovetail. “I only mended that last month.”
“It was kicked,” said Major Roach, “by one of the carriage horses. Will you come?”
“Of course,” said Mr. Dovetail, who was hardly likely to turn down a job from the king. So he locked up his workshop and followed Roach through the sunlit streets of the City-Within-The-City, talking of this and that, until they reached the part of the royal stables where the carriages were kept. Half a dozen soldiers were loitering outside the door, and they all looked up when they saw Mr. Dovetail and Major Roach approaching. One soldier had an empty flour sack in his hands, and another, a length of rope.
“Good morning,” said Mr. Dovetail.
He made to walk past them, but before he knew what was happening, one soldier had thrown the flour sack over Mr. Dovetail’s head and two more had pinned his arms behind his back and tied his wrists together with the rope. Mr. Dovetail was a strong man: he struggled and fought, but Roach muttered in his ear:
“Make one sound, and it’ll be your daughter who pays the price.”
Mr. Dovetail closed his mouth. He permitted the soldiers to march him inside the palace,
though he couldn’t see where he was going. He soon guessed, though, because they took him down two steep flights of stairs and then onto a third, which was made of slippery stone. When he felt a chill on his flesh, he suspected that he was in the dungeons, and he knew it for sure when he heard the turning of an iron key, and the clanking of bars.
The soldiers threw Mr. Dovetail onto the cold stone floor. Somebody pulled off his hood.
The surroundings were almost completely dark, and at first, Mr. Dovetail couldn’t make out anything around him. Then one of the soldiers lit a torch, and Mr. Dovetail found himself staring at a pair of highly polished boots. He looked up. Standing over him was a smiling Lord Spittleworth.
“Good morning, Dovetail,” said Spittleworth. “I have a little job for you. If you do it well, you’ll be home with your daughter before you know it. Refuse — or do a poor job — and you’ll never see her again. Do we understand each other?”
Six soldiers and Major Roach were lined up against the cell wall, all of them holding swords.
“Yes, my lord,” said Mr. Dovetail in a low voice. “I understand.”
“Excellent,” said Spittleworth. Moving aside, he revealed an enormous piece of wood, a section of a fallen tree as big as a pony. Beside the wood was a small table, bearing a set of carpenter’s tools.
“I want you to carve me a gigantic foot, Dovetail, a monstrous foot, with razor-sharp claws. On top of the foot, I want a long handle, so that a man on horseback can press the foot into soft ground, to make an imprint. Do you understand your task, carpenter?”
Mr. Dovetail and Lord Spittleworth looked deep into each other’s eyes. Of course, Mr. Dovetail understood exactly what was going on. He was being told to fake proof of the Ickabog’s existence. What terrified Mr. Dovetail was that he couldn’t imagine why Spittleworth would ever let him go, after he’d created the fake monster’s foot, in case he talked about what he’d done.
“Do you swear, my lord,” said Mr. Dovetail quietly, “do you swear that if I do this, my daughter won’t be harmed? And that I’ll be permitted to go home to her?”
“Of course, Dovetail,” said Spittleworth lightly, already moving to the door of the cell. “The quicker you complete the task, the sooner you’ll see your daughter again.
“Now, every night, we’ll collect these tools from you, and every morning they’ll be brought back to you, because we can’t have prisoners keeping the means to dig themselves out, can we? Good luck, Dovetail, and work hard. I look forward to seeing my foot!”
And with that, Roach cut the rope binding Mr. Dovetail’s wrists, and rammed the torch he was carrying into a bracket on the wall. Then Spittleworth, Roach, and the other soldiers left the cell. The iron door closed with a clang, a key turned in the lock, and Mr. Dovetail was left alone with the enormous piece of wood, his chisels, and his knives.
When Daisy arrived home from school that afternoon, playing with her bandalore as she went, she headed as usual to her father’s workshop to tell him about her day. However, to her surprise, she found the workshop locked up. Assuming that Mr. Dovetail had finished work early and was back in the cottage, she walked in through the front door with her schoolbooks under her arm.
Daisy stopped dead in the doorway, staring around. All the furniture was gone, as were the pictures on the walls, the rug on the floor, the lamps, and even the stove.
She opened her mouth to call her father, but in that instant, a sack was thrown over her head and a hand clamped over her mouth. Her schoolbooks and her bandalore fell with a series of thuds to the floor. Daisy was lifted off her feet, struggling wildly, then carried out of the house, and slung into the back of a wagon.
“If you make a noise,” said a rough voice in her ear, “we’ll kill your father.”
Daisy, who’d drawn breath into her lungs to scream, let it out quietly instead. She felt the wagon lurch, and heard the jingling of a harness and trotting hooves as they began to move. By the turn that the wagon took, Daisy knew that they were heading out of the City-Within-The-City, and by the sounds of market traders and other horses, she realized they were moving out into wider Chouxville. Though more frightened than she’d ever been in her life, Daisy nevertheless forced herself to concentrate on every turn, every sound, and every smell, so she could get some idea of where she was being taken.
After a while, the horse’s hooves were no longer falling on cobblestones, but on an earthy track, and the sugar-sweet air of Chouxville was gone, replaced by the green, loamy smell of the countryside.
The man who’d kidnapped Daisy was a large, rough member of the Ickabog Defense Brigade called Private Prodd. Spittleworth had told Prodd to “get rid of the little Dovetail girl,” and Prodd had understood Spittleworth to mean that he was to kill her. (Prodd was quite right to think this. Spittleworth had selected Prodd for the job of murdering Daisy because Prodd was fond of using his fists and seemed not to care whom he hurt.)
However, as he drove through the countryside, passing woods and forests where he might easily strangle Daisy and bury her body, it slowly dawned on Private Prodd that he wasn’t going to be able to do it. He happened to have a little niece around Daisy’s age, of whom he was very fond. In fact, every time he imagined himself strangling Daisy, he seemed to see his niece Rosie in his mind’s eye, pleading for her life. So instead of turning off the dirt track into the woods, Prodd drove the wagon onward, racking his brains as to what to do with Daisy.
Inside the flour sack, Daisy smelled the sausages of Baronstown mingling with the cheese fumes of Kurdsburg, and wondered which of the two she was being taken to. Her father had occasionally taken her to buy cheese and meat in these famous cities. She believed that if she could somehow give the driver the slip when he lifted her down from the wagon, she’d be able to make her way back to Chouxville in a couple of days. Her frantic mind kept returning to her father, and where he was, and why all the furniture in their house had been removed, but she forced herself to concentrate on the journey the wagon was making instead, to be sure of finding her way home again.
However, hard as she listened out for the sound of the horse’s hooves on the stone bridge over the Fluma that connected Baronstown and Kurdsburg, it never came, because instead of entering either city, Private Prodd passed them by. He’d just had a brain wave about what to do with Daisy. So, skirting the city of sausagemakers, he drove on north. Slowly, the meat and cheese smells disappeared from the air and night began to fall.
Private Prodd had remembered an old woman who lived on the outskirts of Jeroboam, which happened to be his hometown. Everyone called this old woman Ma Grunter. She took in orphans, and was paid one ducat a month for each child she had living with her. No boy or girl had ever succeeded in running away from Ma Grunter’s house, and it was this that made Prodd decide to take Daisy there. The last thing he wanted was Daisy finding her way back home to Chouxville, because Spittleworth was likely to be furious that Prodd hadn’t done what he was told.
Though so scared, cold, and uncomfortable in the back of the wagon, the rocking had lulled Daisy to sleep, but suddenly she jerked awake again. She could smell something different on the air now, something she didn’t much like, and after a while she identified it as wine fumes, which she recognized from the rare occasions when Mr. Dovetail had a drink. They must be approaching Jeroboam, a city she’d never visited. Through the small holes in the sack she could see daybreak. The wagon was soon jolting over cobblestones again, and after a while it came to a halt.
At once, Daisy tried to wriggle out of the back of the wagon onto the ground, but before she’d hit the street, Private Prodd seized her. Then he carried her, struggling, to the door of Ma Grunter’s, which he pounded with a heavy fist.
“All right, all right, I’m coming,” came a high, cracked voice from inside the house.
There came the noise of many bolts and chains being removed and Ma Grunter was revealed in the doorway, leaning heavily on a silver-topped cane — though, of course, Daisy, bei
ng still in the sack, couldn’t see her.
“New child for you, Ma,” said Prodd, carrying the wriggling sack into Ma Grunter’s hallway, which smelled of boiled cabbage and cheap wine.
Now, you might think Ma Grunter would be alarmed to see a child in a sack carried into her house, but, in fact, the kidnapped children of so-called traitors had found their way to her before. She didn’t care what a child’s story was; all she cared about was the one ducat a month the authorities paid her for keeping them. The more children she packed into her tumbledown hovel, the more wine she could afford, which was really all she cared about. So she held out her hand and croaked:
“Five ducat placement fee,” which was what she always asked for, if she could tell somebody really wanted to get rid of a child.
Prodd scowled, handed over five ducats, and left without another word. Ma Grunter slammed the door behind him.
As he climbed back onto his wagon, Prodd heard the rattle of Ma Grunter’s chains and the scraping of her locks. Even if it had cost him half his month’s pay, Prodd was glad to have gotten rid of the problem of Daisy Dovetail, and he drove off as fast as he could, back to the capital.
She felt the wagon lurch, and heard the jingling of a harness and trotting hooves.
By Breanna, Age 10
Having made sure her front door was secure, Ma Grunter pulled the sack off her new charge.
Blinking in the sudden light, Daisy found herself in a narrow, rather dirty hallway, face-to-face with a very ugly old woman who was dressed all in black, a large brown wart with hairs growing out of it on the tip of her nose.
“John!” the old woman croaked, without taking her eyes off Daisy, and a boy much bigger and older than Daisy with a blunt, scowling face came shuffling into the hall, cracking his knuckles. “Go and tell the Janes upstairs to put another mattress in their room.”
The Ickabog Page 9
