Ratastrophe Catastrophe

by David Lee Stone

  Tambor Forestall had never been one for company. He’d always preferred spending time by himself. It had nothing to do with the ancient adage about sorcerers being reclusive; he just didn’t find people very interesting. Besides, one mercenary tour of the palace a day was enough for him. “Bless the old sprout,” that dwarf had muttered under its breath. The nerve of it!

  He stared down miserably at his sorcerer’s hat, remembering his days of magic. He’d been through some hats in his time. He recalled, many moons ago, the woolen apprentice cap given to him on his arrival at the Velvet Tower in Legrash. He’d then progressed through the ranks of sorcery: from warlock to wizard, mage, and, finally, first-class sorcerer. He still couldn’t help but feel, what with all the sniggering and sarcastic remarks over the years, that it hadn’t been worth it.

  A tickling sensation in his foot made him lean back and peer beneath the tavern table. A small black rat was nibbling at the hole in his boots. He yelped, kicked it away and watched it scurry behind the bar. Then he inspected the boot. It was a pity the city council didn’t upgrade boots, he thought to himself. He’d be wearing golden sandals by now.

  The Rotting Ferret’s special performers for the evening were Farfl, Duk, and Orfo, members of a cross-species band from Legrash. They were currently engaged in a heated dispute with Inky Mamaskin, master hypnotist, who claimed that their performances were sleep inducing and therefore were putting him out of business.

  Tambor flicked through a heavy spell book he’d bought from a black-market dealer on Birch Street. Apparently, it was one of the lucky few to escape being burned. He grinned, arriving at a few dusty pages near the back in which he’d already stashed some incidental notes. The volume was in good condition, and practically identical to his original copy; Tambor felt sure the gods had meant for him to find it. “Excuse me?”

  A dwarfish face smiled up at him. “Mind if we join you again?” said Gordo, clambering onto a nearby stool without waiting for a reply.

  Tambor wondered who the “we” was and looked about him. Where he’d had a clear view of the performance, now there was nothing but solid muscle.

  Groan removed his helmet and set it down on the floor beside his stool, disturbing a gang of rats who’d evidently come looking for the one Tambor had booted behind the bar.

  “What’s happening tonight, then?” said Gordo. “Enjoying yourself?”

  “Not much,” said Tambor. “Getting old isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  He turned his empty mug upside down on the table and belched.

  Gordo shook his head, sadly. “We’ve just traveled over land and, er, grass to save this city from a major”—he paused—“ratastrophe.” He nudged Groan in the elbow but got no reaction. “And, d’you know what happened? Of course you do—the duke gave the job to a damn shepherd!”

  “Doesn’t surprise me a bit,” said Tambor, ignoring the accusation and staring gloomily at his upturned mug. “City’s run by ne’er-do-wells and bad politicians.”

  “You’re both, ain’t you?” said Groan.

  The sorcerer smirked humorlessly. “One or the other. In practice it amounts to the same thing. One big chain. Oh sure, there’s the council, but the city pretty much runs itself without too much hindrance from anyone but the duke.”

  “Who’s that li’l fella over there?” said Tambor, pointing toward a corner table at the back of the room. “He’s smaller than you!” he said, nodding his head at the dwarf.

  Gordo tried to see where the old sorcerer was looking, in case there was a relative he could sit with. His gaze fell on a bright red hat with green flowers painted on it. “That’s a gnome, you silly old fool.”

  Tambor blinked. “Ah,” he said. “What’s the difference?”

  “Dwarfs is bigger,” said Groan, to show he was paying attention. “An’ dwarfs as got beards, an’ dwarfs is fatter, an—”

  “All right!” Gordo snapped. “I think he’s got the point.”

  “Why’s he just sittin’ there, then?” asked Groan.

  Tambor coughed over his beer mug and gave himself a froth moustache on top of his beard. “P’raps he’s got gnome to go to,” he said, and spent the next minute in quiet hysterics.

  “May the gods help us,” said Gordo, looking out at the encroaching darkness. “Look, we’d better start thinking about lodgings. We can’t stay here all night, and I’ll be damned if I’m going back home without a brass nickel. The village elders would have me in disgrace.”

  “Stay ’ere with me,” said Tambor, throwing one arm around Gordo and making a valiant attempt to get the other midway round Groan. “My grandson’s comin’ to meet me in a minute. He’s a semi prof—proffec—proffectional thief. Gonna work for the Yowlers, he is. Best in the city.”

  “Marvelous,” said Gordo.

  TEN

  JIMMY QUICKSTINT WAS THE most incompetent thief in the history of organized crime. The chandelier creaked as he swung back and forth.

  Jimmy looked up at the chandelier—just as the chain snapped.

  It wasn’t a great fall, but it was certainly an unfortunate one. Most of the room was carpeted but, as fate would have it, Jimmy landed heavily on a square of floor Lord Moffet had purposely overlooked when the money ran out. The chandelier landed on top of him. I should’ve been a beggar, Jimmy thought.

  He heard someone approaching and, straining to lift his head, he turned to see who it was. A hairy Alsatian trotted over to him. And lifted one leg.

  “Where’s that no-good grandson of mine?” said Tambor, who had passed through two giggling fits and was nearing genuine joviality.

  Chas Firebrand leaned over his shoulder and collected three empty mugs. He then wiped each one “clean” with the flap of his beer-stained apron and passed them to the barmaid, a pretty young lass who had just fluttered in and caused Groan to pass out.

  “What’s he look like, this boy of yours?” said Gordo, checking Groan’s pulse to make sure his friend was still breathing.

  “Silly young bugger,” said Tambor. “Got his father’s face and his mother’s walk—or is it the other way round…?”

  Chas frowned at the barbarian. “Dear oh dear,” he said, shaking his head. “He all right, is he?”

  “He shouldn’t drink so much; it’s obviously bad for him.”

  “No it isn’t,” said Tambor, reprehensively. “I look after my drink, I do. Take it home with me.”

  Chas winced. “Blimey,” he said. “That’s some capacity you’ve got there, old man.”

  Tambor smiled at the middle distance, then tried and failed to get up.

  Halfway along Tanner Avenue, Jimmy Quickstint stopped and kicked out at the nearest wall in frustration. Then he unfolded the night’s remaining assignment and read;

  Date: Thursday 43rd Fortune, 1002

  Assignment Location: 14 Sack Avenue

  Task: Golden serpent-shaped idol

  Objective: Retrieval

  PLEASE INCINERATE AFTER DIGESTION

  Jimmy had always wondered if the last bit was metaphorical. Did they really expect you to eat it first, then set light to it? Even the Yowler’s multi-stomached mutant members would have had their work cut out trying that. He read the note through twice before producing a tinderbox from his knee pocket and igniting the paper. Sack Avenue, eh? The Rich District, the Merchants’ Quarter. He smiled to himself. This was it, his last chance to make it big. He would pass this assignment with flying colors and become Jimmy Quickstint, first-grade Yowler thief. Well, not quite. He still had to perform some exclusive, never-to-be-repeated act of theft for his coursework, but an honors entry to the Runners proper did not come easy. You’d have to steal something truly amazing to pull that one off.

  He replaced the tinderbox and headed in the direction of Sack Avenue.

  Several streets away, Diek Wustapha was heading toward the decrepit mouth of Dullitch’s ancient sewer system. Footsteps clicking on the cobbles, he made his approach. Surprising himself, he raised
a pointed finger toward the moss-covered doors of the sewer, and watched in amazement as a plume of green flame burst forth and burned the lichen away. As the flames died down, Diek’s other hand shot up and the sewer doors flew outward and crashed to the ground.

  Diek searched for his flute and automatically brought the instrument to his lips: he could already hear the rats approaching.

  Groan had recovered from his fainting episode with alarming speed. He was now over at the bar chatting away to the barmaid, who smiled coquettishly and chuckled on cue. As Gordo watched, he reflected that, when it came to women, Groan was never slow on the uptake.

  Tambor, on the other hand, was out for the count. It was way past the old man’s bedtime, and his head rested face-first in a plate of prunes he had only got a quarter of the way through.

  “Like her,” said Groan, returning to his seat with two giant mugs of something frothy. He banged one down in front of Gordo. “She said we could ’ave these on the ’ouse.”

  The dwarf peered inside his mug, suspiciously. “What’s that red thing floating in there?” he asked.

  “Hem’rhoid, I fink,” said Groan. “She said her farver’s bought himself a cherry orchard, on account of his trouble.”

  Gordo took the statement on board but decided it was best left unraveled.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  The voice shattered the silky silence of the night and Jimmy froze. Absolute terror descended on him like a sackful of lead. He spun around to find a member of the City Guard, a wiry man of no height with a bulbous nose, looking up at him quizzically.

  “No, thank you,” Jimmy replied, tapping his foot on the ground in what he hoped was a nonchalant, carefree manner.

  “It’s just that, well, I can’t help noticin’ that you seem to be actin’ somewhat suspiciously,” said the guard, eyeing the boy inquisitively.

  “Ah, I see. Er—”

  “Are you a Yowler by any chance?”

  “What, me? No, sir! What an idea!”

  “Hmm…well, if you’re not robbing the house, then what, may I ask, are you doing in the front garden?”

  Jimmy’s mind raced frantically for a plausible explanation. Unfortunately, none came to him. “I’m the gardener,” he said, unable to think of anything more likely.

  The guard continued to stare up at him, now sporting a look of vague incomprehension. “Funny time to be gardening, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve heard of—”

  “I’m trying to find a special flower for his Lordship’s indoor collection,” interrupted Jimmy, who was now talking too fast to think.

  “Why can’t you do that in the mornin’?” asked the guard.

  “Because it’s a special flower that only comes out at night.”

  Strangely, this last explanation seemed to appear distantly plausible to the guard and he looked momentarily baffled. “A nocturnal plant? Are you puttin’ me on?”

  “No, it’s true,” said Jimmy, beginning to believe his own story. “Usually they appear only in the Gleaming Mountains: ‘phodo’ they’re called. ‘Phodosithnisses.’”

  “Fair enough,” the guard nodded and turned to leave. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

  He stopped halfway toward the elderly wooden gateposts and turned around, a tired smile playing on his lips. He seemed to study the authenticity of Jimmy’s ludicrous facial expression, before whistling in an awkward fashion and disappearing into the gathering evening mist. Jimmy sighed with relief and prepared himself for the climb. The only foothold attainable from a standing position came in the form of one of the hinges that attached the drainpipe to the brickwork. He thrust his right foot hard between wall and iron and pulled himself toward his goal….

  He’d nearly reached the first-floor window when he slipped.

  Jimmy scrambled frantically, his feet beating against the brickwork in a valiant attempt to relieve the pressure on his aching arms. Finally he managed to regain his grip, haul himself through the narrow window, and slither into the room beyond.

  Relief swept over him.

  Jimmy made a number of keen observations about the candlelit chamber he now occupied. The first was that the golden idol he was looking for rested on a cushion inside an ornate glass cabinet standing against the east wall. Then, in the following order, he noticed the lock on the cabinet door; the imposing four-poster bed with an elderly couple snoring away peacefully inside it; and, finally, the key fastened on the chain hanging around the sleeping old man’s neck. In the silent shadows of that room, Jimmy discovered why the Rooftop Runners had just thirty-seven members. This situation looked, to all intents and purposes, impossible. How on earth was he supposed to retrieve the cursed key without waking the old boy?

  Suddenly the figure lying next to the key holder shifted uncomfortably beneath the blankets. Jimmy looked on in fascinated horror as the old woman sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and shuffled into a pair of bedroom slippers. Lord Buckly stirred in his sleep as his wife disturbed a number of creaking floorboards on her way to the door. Jimmy remained still, a silhouette against the window. When the old woman had departed, he breathed a sigh of relief; perhaps luck favored him tonight, after all. It was as he considered his good fortune that a plan became clear to him. He crept forward, dodging the planks that the old woman had identified on her noisy journey a few moments before.

  Hesitating to consider the implications should his plan fail, Jimmy climbed into the rickety four-poster bed and pulled the covers up over him. He remained perfectly still for a few seconds, pondering on how to advance his movement. Then, with lightning dexterity, he shot out a hand and looped the key up and over the old man’s head in one swift movement. Even Uole Twonk (the greatest thief in Dullitch history) would have been proud.

  The key now in his possession, Jimmy lay panting on the bed with the satisfaction of success. He was about to climb out when a hand reached around his waist and grasped him tightly. At first he feared that Buckly had awakened, but then it became apparent that the old lord, though sleeping, simply desired some affection from his wife. The thief considered briefly what her Ladyship would do in this situation and consequently shoved the old man aside.

  The key turned in the lock with a loud click, and Jimmy snatched up the idol, which felt strangely sticky against his palm. Reaching down into his trousers, he pulled out the sack and tried, in vain, to slip the ornament inside. It wouldn’t leave his hand. The vindictive old fool had daubed the piece with glue!

  However, Jimmy had no time to revise his actions, as Lady Buckly was now on her way back up the stairs, footsteps echoing loudly through the open door. Jimmy considered his drastic situation and dashed toward the window. He burst from the first floor of 14 Sack Avenue in a shower of glass and landed awkwardly in the petunia patch he had managed to avoid earlier. As screams erupted from the room above and various lights flicked on all over the Merchants’ Quarter, Jimmy struggled to his feet and frantically kicked over a group of dustbins.

  Unfortunately he didn’t have time to snatch up the idol—which had fallen off, along with half the skin from the palm of his hand—before Lord Buddy’s thirteen hounds bore down on him.

  “We can’t leave until his grandson turns up,” said Gordo, indicating the unconscious Tambor with a nod of his head.

  Groan looked puzzled. “Why not?” he asked.

  “Because,” Gordo began, wondering about his own chances with the barmaid. “Well, it just wouldn’t be right, that’s all.”

  The barbarian sniffed and downed his ale.

  High above the streets of Dullitch, a shadow danced along the rooftops.

  Jimmy dropped down a level, walked a little way with his back pressed firmly against a wall, and arrived at the ledge edge of City Hall. Problem. There was a considerable space between the roof of the building and the roof of the Alchemist Museum.

  He slid down a slated section of roof and onto a lower ledge, feeling the first touch of rain on his cheek. His fingers, which had been gro
ping frantically at the wall in case he lost his footing, found glass. He turned and peered through the window into a well-furnished office. He wondered how hard it would be to shatter the largest pane: too hard, probably.

  Far below in the street, a figure ascended the large flight of stairs that led to City Hall. A door opened and closed again. Jimmy didn’t pay much attention.

  As he was looking into the room, two things happened in quick succession. First the light came on and then somebody opened the window. Outward.

  “Oi,” said Groan, nudging Gordo’s helmet with his elbow. “You ’member that ’erald what met us on the road? He’s jus’ walked in.”

  Jimmy had entered the Ferret and was in the process of apologizing to all and sundry as he bumped his way to the bar. He was covered in hay. Gordo watched as he stumbled up to Chas Firebrand and muttered something in his ear. Then he looked over in their direction and sauntered toward the table.

  “That’s my granddad,” Jimmy said, pointing at the unconscious councillor and smiling feebly.

  “Aye,” said Gordo.

  “Wanna make somefink out of it?” said Groan, who immediately took issue with anyone who began his sentences with claims of ownership.

  “Nice helmet,” said Jimmy conversationally, nodding down at the battered-looking piece of metal by Gordo’s feet. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Sure,” said Gordo. “Did you have a nice walk back?”

  “Eh? Oh, yeah, thanks for that.”

  The dwarf grinned. “Sorry. No hard feelings. I’m afraid yer’ granddad here’s the worse for drink.”

  “He’s sleepin’,” translated Groan with satisfaction.

  Gordo belched. “Why are you all covered in that stuff?”