Ratastrophe Catastrophe

by David Lee Stone

  but actively supports it.

  NOTHING TO SEE HERE.

  Diek sighed; unfortunately, the Ferret was clearly the best of a bad bunch. He turned the handle and made to go in. As he did so, he felt a surge of sudden confidence. The voice was ringing in his ears.

  Onward, it urged. Down into the bar. They will cower before us.

  Groan Teethgrit and Gordo Goldaxe both had a lifetime’s experience with violent taverns. If asked to pick the most acutely evil drinking pit in the entire expanse of Illmoor, they would undoubtedly have settled on the Rotting Ferret. Death wasn’t just a regular occurrence there; the business enjoyed a twenty percent discount at Domino’s Funeral Parlor (located, rather conveniently, in an alley that paralleled the street on which Ferret customers tended to land face-first).

  The place was a dive, an underground drinking pit that gave shelter to thieves, assassins, and a variety of other miscreants. It also boasted the largest mixed species clientele in Dullitch; there were elves, ogres, trolls, orcs, goblins, sprites, pixies, and woodlings. Occasionally, you even got the odd tooth fairy (though they seldom stayed until closing time).

  Groan was having a very good day; first he’d seen an attractive barmaid, and then he’d been delighted to see Grid Thungus, a rangy barbarian who’d worked for the same warlord over in Legrash. Neither of them had been paid; so, in barbarian terms, they had a great deal to talk about. The conversation went something like this:

  “Groan, wass happenin’?”

  “Nuffin’. You get paid fer that Legrash job?”

  “Nah.”

  “Me neither.”

  “See you round.

  “P’r raps.”

  Gordo was annoyed; he couldn’t get a word in edgeways. Instead, he decided to forge a path to the bar. He was halfway through the crowd when a voice rang out over the fray and the entire room fell silent.

  EIGHT

  YOU COULD HAVE HEARD a pin drop. Every eye in the house was fixed on the young stranger who had just strode into the center of the room. He stood tall despite his height, and proud, but remained a veritable portrait of curiosity. Chas Firebrand, the tavern owner, leaned forward and put one beer-stained hand to his ear. “Could you repeat that, son?” he said.

  “Certainly, humble bartend,” Diek spat, an alien energy coursing through his veins. He could feel The Voice welling up inside him. “I wish one of the lesser classes seated in this establishment to announce me at the palace. It won’t take very long, and for the privilege, I will spare his life.”

  On any other day this speech would have been suicide, plain and simple. A knife in the back if Diek were lucky, a knife somewhere else if he weren’t. Today was worse. Out of the corner of his eye, Chas noticed that the local thug ring was assembling for a late lunch and, at a corner table, he spotted several likely-looking Yowlers. Chas twitched nervously; it was only a matter of time.

  Strangely enough, the boy oozed an ethereal confidence, and several people were edging away from him. One group of thugs, however, was preparing to rise from their seats. They quickly thought better of it when two shapes loomed into view behind the foreigner, one unquestionably dwarfish and the other implausibly muscular.

  Diek smiled on, oblivious, as a number of drawn daggers disappeared into pockets and sleeves.

  “’Scuse us,” said Gordo, shoving his way past. He’d noticed Diek enter the bar and now felt strangely compelled to help him; after all, anyone with no muscles brave enough to talk down to the inhabitants of the Ferret couldn’t be far from earning his first million.

  He looked up at Diek Wustapha. “I think this, er, master assassin’ll want us to announce him at the palace. Yes?”

  The bar, as one, looked momentarily doubtful.

  “Um, yes,” Diek said, his voice beginning to waver. “You will be adequate, possibly.”

  “I’d get over to a table pretty sharpish if I were you, lad,” Gordo whispered, grabbing Diek’s arm. “’Cause talkin’ like that in a place like this is gonna get you nailed up real, real quick.”

  Diek’s expression changed to one of confusion. His confidence seemed to desert him and, eyes glazed, he began to sidle toward the nearest vacant table. A number of undesirables made to pursue him, but Groan put a hand to his sword hilt and they quickly reconsidered. Diek reached the table and slumped down onto a stool. His head hurt; it felt as if his mind were involved in a slow and painful wrestling match with some invading army…and it was losing. He felt sleep overcome him and realized, for the first time, that he hadn’t slept since he’d left Little Irksome.

  Slowly, the hubbub of tavern noise rose back to its usual level at the Ferret.

  Groan sighed, sniffed, and shoved his way to the bar, Gordo shuffling along in his wake. Most of the conversations had resumed, aside from one being undertaken by a group of zombies in a darkened corner. This was nothing unusual. One of their number had muttered a few syllables just after lunch and was unlikely to complete the sentence by closing time.

  “Toofache, please,” Groan said, arriving at the bar.

  Gordo climbed up onto a stool and gave Chas a sympathetic grin. “It’s an old barbarian joke,” he said. “Don’t for juggers’ sake take it the wrong way.”

  Chas mumbled under his breath and smiled back. “What’ll it be, gents?”

  “Three, er no, better make that two ales…and a peppermint punch,” said Gordo. “That kid’s going to need a medicinal brew.” He rested his battle-axe on the top of a nearby stool. “Groan, you’d better go and see if he’s all right. He is a foreigner, after all. There might be some money in it.”

  As the barbarian lurched off in the direction of the table, Gordo turned back to the barman. “How do we get in to see the duke ahead of any competition?” he asked, standing on tiptoe in order to see over the bar.

  Chas pointed over toward a table where a figure sat slumped over a mug half filled with ale, the other half having plastered his beard to the table. “See that bloke over there? You could do worse than talk to him. In fact, he might go straight to the palace when he leaves.”

  “Why, who is he?” asked Gordo, stepping aside as Groan returned, supporting the foreigner with a ham-size fist gripping his shoulder.

  “That’s Tambor Forestall, Chairman of the City Council,” answered the bartender.

  Groan raised the ghost of an eyebrow. “And he drinks in ’ere?”

  “Yes.”

  Gordo frowned. “Doesn’t get a lot of attention for being in charge of the council?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?” asked Gordo.

  “The council don’t do naff all in Dullitch. The duke gets blamed for everything.”

  “Nice,” Gordo said, nodding.

  “Yeah,” Groan agreed. “Seems fair.”

  Tambor didn’t like it when shadows fell across his drinking table, especially during the day. He lowered his head again and tried to examine the bottom of his tankard, but the shadow just kept lengthening.

  “Oi, you. Come an’ sit wit’ us.”

  Tambor looked up. He soon wished he hadn’t. Groan Teethgrit was a sight to behold, but the man was probably not best viewed within the smoky depths of the Ferret. For a moment, Tambor thought he’d become the focus of attention for an angry mountain troll. Then he realized that, against all odds, the creature had spoken syllables, albeit fractured ones. And the face was familiar. Tambor had been an ordinary councillor during the Virgin Sacrifice Scandal, but there were some faces you simply didn’t forget.

  “I beg your pardon?” Tambor ventured, desperately.

  “I said, come an sit wit’ us.”

  The bulky giant pointed over to a table that was already playing host to a stocky dwarf and a boy who looked severely drugged.

  “Um…I’m fine as I am, thanks,” said Tambor, turning his gaze back to his drink.

  “How d’you mean?”

  Tambor hesitated. “Er…what I mean is, I’d quite like to go on sitting here, if it’s a
ll the same to you.”

  “Right,” muttered Groan. “An’ I’d like a frog in a box, but we don’t always get what we want, do we?”

  Tambor managed a weak grin, picked up his drink, and sidled over to the table. The muscled mountain loomed over him.

  “Pull up a stool,” Gordo said, offering the elderly councillor a companionable smile. “And tell us about this plague of yours.”

  A sudden, all-knowing look came into Tambor’s twinkling eyes. “Ah,” he said. “Now I see. You’re mercenaries.”

  “An’ you’re a damn sorcerer!” boomed Groan, who’d taken offense. “I can spot one a mile off.”

  The councillor shrugged. “I used to be, back before the art was banned. I was a very good one, too. Not any more, though. Now I’m in politics.”

  Gordo took a gulp from his tankard, and frowned. “Don’t you miss the life of adventure?”

  “Desperately…but I suppose you can’t throw fireballs forever. At least, not in this city. Hahahaha!” Tambor forced a laugh.

  “Yeah, so I heard. Any children?” asked Gordo.

  “None that’d admit to it. Got a grandson who talks to me, though; young Jimmy. He’s a good lad, bit of an idiot, but you know how youngsters are these days. He works down at Spew’s, mornings, and scouts for the duke in the afternoons. I think he works at night, too, fetching stuff for people.”

  “Ah, a noble trade,” said Gordo, tactfully.

  “All thieves’re scum,” said Groan, who’d heard of tact but hadn’t bought any shares.

  “I’ll get rid of your plague.”

  The table fell silent, and three pairs of eyes turned to consider Diek Wustapha. The boy looked momentarily electrified, then slouched forward and collapsed onto the table. Everyone looked at Groan.

  “What? I didn’t touch ’im.”

  “Kids these days,” Tambor mumbled, shaking his head sadly. “Drugged up to the damn eyeballs. Still, this city needs all the help it can get. D’you two think you could help him to the palace?”

  Gordo nodded. “I don’t know about that,” he muttered. “But, if you can get us in, we might be persuaded to dump him inside the door. That way, we get to pitch to the duke, first. Agreed?”

  Tambor smiled awkwardly, but the look on Groan’s face advised him against argument.

  NINE

  SLOWLY, DIEK RETURNED TO consciousness. It was strange waking up in a palace and not remembering how you’d arrived there. It was even stranger waking up dazed and confused in a palace that looked as though it had been designed by a confirmed lunatic. The place was an absolute mess.

  Cobwebs parted before Diek as he entered the kitchen. The staff consisted entirely of ghouls, hollow-eyed grave walkers who lurched around without purpose, stopping every few seconds to turn their empty eye sockets toward vats filled with bubbling soup.

  Chickens squawked in cages suspended on ropes from the kitchen ceiling. A dark-skinned wench with a flaking scalp brought down a chopper and severed one of her own fingers, which fell into a bowl of flour. She didn’t look too surprised, though; perhaps it was part of the dish. Diek shook his head, wondering if the palace officials ever came down here. He hadn’t seen so many dead people walking around since his grandmother’s eightieth birthday.

  Diek chose the section occupied by the fewest zombies and sidled into it unobtrusively, careful not to draw attention to himself. On reflection, he decided that these people probably wouldn’t notice an invasion, and moved on at greater speed.

  The central passage wasn’t much better. True, it wasn’t full of the living dead, but it was full of Modeset family portraits which, though marginally more welcoming, were just as ugly. He fancied that he heard voices echoing far above; so, stepping over a toppled bench, he cautiously ascended the stairs.

  A little farther up, he huffed on a pane in an arched landing window, wiped a circle, and peered out. Dullitch sprawled beneath the palace, a cityscape of rooftops and towers. So many people and—he paused to remember the words of the herald—three rats to every man. He had to be confident. A confident demeanor is second only to a crystal-clear mind, the perfect instrument for attracting faith in others. The Voice was getting stronger.

  Diek shook himself from his reverie; he was beginning to feel unusually disoriented.

  “Twice in one day,” said Tambor, puffing and panting as he conquered yet another flight of steps. “I’ll tell you fellows something for nothing; if I had my time again, I’d choose magic over politics and that’s a fact. In my early days, I could’ve shot up here on a magic carpet.”

  “You can’t go up stairs on a magic carpet,” said Pegrand, still straining under his personal burden. “It’d go on a diagonal and you’d fall off.”

  “Well, I never fell off a magic carpet in ten years as a sorcerer and I’ll be damned if I’d have fallen off one going up here.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Gordo, who’d seen an opening in the conversation. “If you fall off a magic carpet anywhere, you’re stuffed. It’s always a long way down unless you’ve just taken off.”

  “Yeah,” said Groan.

  Tambor scowled. “Not if you were flying with old Wally Sprinkle. His takeoffs were legendary. Birds used to migrate in accordance with his flight schedules.”

  “Anyway, we haven’t got one now,” said Gordo, trying to change the subject.

  “Sometimes he didn’t even need the carpet,” Tambor continued, mumbling to himself. “Just used to take off on his own.”

  To take his mind off the rat crisis, Duke Modeset had spent the afternoon searching for his current canine companion. He had only seen the dog once since his manservant, Pegrand, had purchased it, and he felt a distant pang of guilt for the neglect.

  He was down on his hands and knees, peering into the darkness underneath the ducal throne. From what little he could see, it wasn’t a patch on the Snowland husky he used to own, but it was a dog nevertheless, and was probably in need of care and attention. He wondered if it would like a biscuit.

  The sound began even before Modeset had attempted to move away. A low-throated snarl rose steadily in pitch and crescendoed to a growl bordering on insanity. Modeset found himself frozen to the spot in sheer terror.

  Surely it can’t be coming from the dog, he thought, keeping one eye on the curled-up fur ball under the throne. He suddenly realized that he couldn’t tell which way the animal was facing. He was still speculating about it when an eye flicked open.

  Even Diek heard the scream. It ripped through the palace; ornaments shattered, windows shook, and latches rattled. He watched as a flock of birds erupted from the gardens and took flight. Then, just as suddenly, the sound faded away. All was silent.

  Diek shook his head. He was beginning to realize that palaces were very strange places, especially this one.

  Pegrand burst into the throne room and dropped his pile of luggage. The party of mercenaries and Tambor Forestall filed in behind him.

  “Are you all right, milord?” he said. “Milord…?”

  The room appeared entirely empty. Pegrand looked to the left and right, then up at the ceiling. Eventually he looked down. “What’re you doing on the floor, milord?” he asked.

  Modeset sighed. “Practicing my yoga, Pegrand. Would you be so kind as to pass me that marrowbone over by the door?”

  The manservant motioned to Tambor, who rushed over to fetch the bone. He handed it on to Pegrand, making sure to keep a fair distance between himself and the shape lurking under the throne. Pegrand tossed it to the dog, then helped the duke to his feet. “That’s Vicious,” said Pegrand.

  “You’re telling me,” said Modeset.

  “No, milord. You named the dog Vicious, remember?”

  “Oh, so I did. Quite right, too. Little bast—”

  “These are the mercenaries, milord,” interrupted Pegrand. “You’ll, er, you’ll probably remember Groan Teethgrit and, um—”

  “Yes. Only too well.”

  In what seemed like th
e blink of an eye, Modeset crossed the room and seated himself behind his pearly white marble desk. “Assemble!” he shouted.

  Pegrand hurried around the room, ushering everyone into a straight line or, at least, the nearest approximation of a straight line they could manage. Groan would’ve stood out on a map.

  “Are these all the mercenaries we have?” Modeset asked.

  Tambor thrust one hand into his robe and produced a tattered scrap of parchment. He squinted at it. “There is a young man unconscious downstairs. I believe he is this…um…how do you say it? I believe it’s said Diyek, Diyek Wustaphor,” Tambor managed, edging around every vowel as if it might suddenly leap out of the word and bite him.

  “I see. Let’s just leave him there for the time being, shall we? I’ll deal with him later.”

  Groan muttered under his breath, bumbled across the room, and sat in the throne. Nobody in the room batted an eyelid, but Vicious took the opportunity to gnaw at the barbarian’s ankles. It gave up after ten minutes.

  Modeset continued: “Now, if we can just—”

  “I don’t believe you’ll have need of these men,” said a voice.

  Tambor stepped aside to admit the young traveler, who marched over to the desk with an air of authority befitting a king. He treated the duke to a haughty grin.

  “My name is Diek Wustapha, and I am the only one who can rid your city of all unwanted guests, for a far lower price than these mercenaries.”

  Gordo spat on to the mosaic tiles. “How do you know?” he said. “We haven’t even quoted a bloody price yet!”

  “Don’t take it personally, boys!” Tambor shouted. “These yokels, they’re all the same.”

  “My methods will cause little civic unrest,” Diek continued. “I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.”

  His voice had a strange, melodic quality.

  Modeset looked from Diek to the mercenaries and back again. Then he steepled his fingers and used them to prop up his chin. A smile was forming.

  Diek strode out of the palace like some sort of dark god, marching with purpose and shoving the occasional surprised maid out of his path. As he arrived at the foot of the central staircase, he snatched a black cloak from an ornate stand and draped it around his shoulders. The sentries, having just signed in for evening duty, parted automatically when he approached, then shuffled back together again like a set of swing doors. No questions were asked when the gates swung open to allow Diek’s exit, and no comment was made when they clicked back together behind him.