Ratastrophe Catastrophe

by David Lee Stone

  “Your guess then, Mr. Quarry?”

  “Well, if it was me—not that I’d kidnap a load of kids—”

  “Of course not,” said Modeset. “Please continue.”

  “But if I did, and I wanted to get a ransom or something, I’d go for one of the big mountains. Lot of blind spots, see, caves and such. You could hide an army up there. Mind you, Great Rise is a good day and a half away, so I’d hedge bets against that. The Twelve is nearer, and it’s the biggest mountain this side of Phlegm.”

  “Right, well, at least we’ve got a few possibles to go on. Now, about the lame boy. Doesn’t it seem strange to you that this lone youth broke the spell and returned unscathed?”

  Quarry took a deep breath. “Apart from the leg, you mean?”

  “You said he was lame anyway!”

  “Yes, Duke Modeset, but I just don’t think…”

  There was a disapproving murmur from the gathered officials, but Modeset forged on, regardless. “So there’s the chance of a conspiracy between the boy and the foreigner?”

  “Um…no…not unless you think he’s intentionally inciting a riot, milord.”

  A smile spread slowly across the duke’s face. “Exactly! You see? Now you know what to suggest. I’ll keep an eye on this boy during your speech.”

  “M-m-my speech?” stuttered Quarry.

  Modeset clapped his hands together and motioned to two of the palace guards. They marched into the fray of city officials and each snatched one of the chancellor’s arms.

  “Pegrand,” the duke went on. “Have a scroll nailed to every notice board in the city. There’s to be a public announcement and, soon,” he continued, smiling, “a public execution. Mr. Sands, assemble the council and prepare a statement to satisfy all the parents in Dullitch that their children will be returned.”

  Modeset peered over a collection of muttering heads. “I’ll have my breakfast now, Pegrand,” he added.

  The diamond clock on Crest Hill chimed eleven.

  Quaris Sands, who’d had to stand in for Tambor Forestall when the chairman had failed to arrive, shuffled a ream of parchment and leaned forward across the table. From what little he could make out, only a few members of the council had bothered to turn up. “Right,” began Quaris.

  “Go on—”

  “Well—”

  “Yes?”

  “The fact is—”

  “What?”

  He narrowed his eyes at the troglodyte translator, whom he’d patiently observed at the last meeting. Its long warty nose still dripped a horrid mucus that burned holes in the new oak table and smelled acrid. Quaris stared around the room and noticed that the orc representative was absent. “Where’s that fella you’re translating for?” he asked. “There’s no point in your being here if he’s not present. You might as well disappear.”

  The troglodyte smiled. “I’m part of the council now, official-like. I joined yesterday.”

  “You can’t be a member,” said Quaris, shaking his head at the little creature.

  “The duke’s secretary seemed to think I could,” said the translator, holding something under Quaris’s nose. “He gave me this scroll. It’s signed and everything.”

  “So it is,” said Quaris, with a defeated sigh.

  “So I’m a member now, right?”

  “It would appear that is the case.”

  “My mum’ll be proud. She always wanted me to go into politics. I remember when I was little she used to say—”

  The chairman closed his eyes and prayed for patience. “Right,” he snapped. “I’d like to call to order the, er, latest meeting of the Dullitch Council. We’re gathered here today—”

  “Sounds like the start of a funeral,” interrupted the translator.

  “—to compose a speech for Duke Modeset,” Quaris continued. “To address to the citizens of our fair city.”

  The translator shuddered. “That’s going to be tricky,” it said.

  “I wonder if I may make a suggestion,” said Taciturn Cadrick.

  Everyone stared at him expectantly. “Perhaps,” he continued, “we could blame transdimensional demonics.”

  A collection of blank faces gave not the merest indication of understanding.

  “That is to say, the infringement of demons into our civilized society. Something very similar happened a while back, when I was Trade Minister for Legrash.”

  “What’s that got to do with kidnapped children?” asked Quaris, with a frown.

  “Quite a lot, actually,” said Cadrick, taking a deep breath. “I believe that Diek Wustapha has been possessed by a despicable demonic fiend.”

  This didn’t engender quite the reaction he was expecting.

  “A show of hands for Mr. Gadrick’s suggestion?” Quris ventured.

  Only two went up, and they both belonged to Taciturn.

  “Right,” said Quaris. “Then that’s firmly voted down. Anyone else?”

  “How about this,” said the translator, rummaging in his satchel and producing a roll of parchment which he then proceeded to unravel. “Citizens of Dullitch. There has been a terrible catastrophe, but I, your duke, and the honorable members of your City Council have come up with a solution. We have dispatched a hunting party to find the stolen children and bring the terrible fiend who has abducted them to justice.”

  Quaris opened his mouth and closed it again. A few members at the other end of the table clapped their hands in approval. Taciturn Cadrick rested his chin on his hands and tried to look miserable.

  “Excellent,” Quaris managed. “Where did you say you were from?”

  “I didn’t,” said the translator, his candlewax nose disgorging another globule of mucus. “And, besides, it’s not perfect. For a start, we don’t have a hunting party.”

  An air of gloom settled over the table.

  Taciturn Cadrick was the first to speak. “How about that barbarian fellow in the Rotting Ferret the other night? The one with the dwarf?”

  “No,” said Quaris firmly. “They came at the city’s request and we told them to get lost. They’re hardly likely to help us now. Besides, they’ve probably left already. They’re bound to be miles away.”

  Taciturn shook his head.

  “Pity. They had our chairman with ’em too.”

  “Tambor?”

  “Yes: Chas Firebrand told me.”

  Quaris was still shaking his head. “Tambor Forestall socializing with mercenaries?” he gasped, as if the very thought were abhorrent to him.

  “Absolutely, and he got a fair bit of ale down him, I’d say. In fact, I think I heard Chas Firebrand say something about his leaving the city with them.”

  “Well, that’s fantastic,” Quaris snapped, glaring at the Trade Minister with naked distaste. “How unutterably superb! Our chairman has run off to join a mercenary band. That’s just rosy, isn’t it? Does anybody actually feel like pretending to be a member of the council, you know, just for the afternoon?”

  He turned to the troglodyte translator. “What did you say your name was?”

  It shrugged. “I guess you can call me Burnie.”

  “Burnie,” repeated Quaris. “Send a message to the Rooftop Runners. I wish to speak with a young man called Jimmy Quickstint.”

  Three hours later, Duke Modeset sat in the throne room of Dullitch Palace and gazed down at an exhausted Quaris Sands.

  “You really must do something about those stairs, milord,” the acting chairman managed between puffs. “I can’t see me lasting long in my new post if I keep having to mission it up here every afternoon.”

  “I didn’t build the palace, Mr. Sands,” Modeset pointed out. “And I certainly don’t have enough money to call in the stonework specialists.”

  “Ah yes…um…humble apologies, but I think they’re called masons.”

  “Whatever,” snapped Modeset. “You have my speech?”

  “Indeed. And a progress report, my lord.”

  The duke raised one eyebrow.

&nb
sp; Quaris fought on. “It appears that we have in fact formulated a plan.”

  “Really? How splendid,” said Modeset.

  “Yes. We, that is, the council, have decided to send a hunting party after the villain.”

  “A hunting party?” The duke smiled. “How traditional.”

  Quaris nodded. “A powerful sorcerer who, until recently, was in fact, um, a city dignitary and, um, hopefully, the two mercenaries you met yourself. There’s only one problem,” he added.

  “Which is?” said the duke, impatiently.

  “They’ve already left the city. We’ve found the, um, sorcerer’s grandson: he’s a trainee member of the Rooftop Runners. He thinks they may still be on the Dullitch road, and he’s agreed to go after them and ask for help.”

  Modeset scratched his chin thoughtfully before continuing. “So, in point of fact, we have hired a hunting party that doesn’t yet realize it is either hired or that it is a hunting party. Splendid work. By the way you’re staring at your feet, I assume there is a problem even with this pitiable lack of a plan?”

  “Well, as you say, milord,” Quaris went on. “The problem is that they’re bound to ask why the Wustupha lad kidnapped the children. And when Jimmy, that’s the grandson, tells them it was because you didn’t pay him, they’re hardly likely to trip themselves up in a rescue attempt, are they, milord?”

  The duke relaxed, flexed his arms, and offered Quaris awry smile. “Not a problem, Mr. Sands. When does this ‘Jimmy’ leave?”

  “In approximately…” Quaris stared out of the eastern arch toward the diamond clock on Crest Hill, one hour.

  “I see. Then give him this to take with him.”

  Duke Modeset rose purposefully, marched through a door in the north wall, and reappeared carrying two small but heavy-looking pouches. He tossed them to Quaris and went back for another two.

  “There are more than a hundred crowns in each pouch,” he said. “They’ll get a further five hundred each, if and when they return the children unharmed, and have disposed of this young freak.”

  “May I ask where all this money came from, milord?” asked Quaris, eyeing the heavy pouches.

  “Certainly,” said Modeset. “The good chancellor was looking after some of it for the greater prosperity of the city. In a room above the silversmith’s on Furly Lane, I might add.”

  “I’ll make sure the boy gets going as soon as possible,” said Quaris.

  “Can we trust a thief with the city’s entire gold reserve, do you think?”

  “I don’t think we’ve got much choice, Duke Modeset.”

  “Quite right. Let’s just hope Quarry’s execution will satisfy the crowd. Oh, and Mr. Sands?”

  Quaris hesitated at the door, turned and raised an eyebrow. “Milord?”

  “This dignitary turned sorcerer…it wouldn’t be Tambor Forestall, by any chance?”

  “Oh no, er, um, no, my word, absolutely not…”

  “That’s a yes, then, is it?” asked the duke.

  “I’m afraid so, my lord,” answered Quaris.

  “I feared as much. You are excused.”

  Quaris muttered something unintelligible under his breath, and ambled off.

  FOURTEEN

  CHARCOAL CLOUDS GATHERED OVER the Varick Pass, hung there motionless for a time, and then began to spit all over the place like the worst kind of ball player.

  Low-lying cloud formations encircled the tallest peaks. It was said that, upon reaching the summit of the Twelve, a man could be forgiven for thinking that he had entered a land of balding giants. Patches of sparse woodland dotted the mountainsides, where a few of the region’s more unsociable dwarf tribes lived. These wooded areas were also frequented by trolls, ogres, and the occasional wandering Notjusyeti (a strange beast with big feet and a tendency to keep mountaineers waiting).

  High on a rocky path, approximately halfway up the Twelve, Diek Wustapha stopped dead before a rock wall and listened. Moments before, he’d emerged from the clouds like an apparition, stepping through thin air as if descending an invisible staircase. The children had followed in a straight, orderly line, their eyes focused on some distant preoccupation.

  And, still, Diek listened.

  A number of the smaller children careened into him, their zombielike eyes wide. Diek pushed them back, drew in a breath, and raised his arms. The voice that came forth was not his own.

  “Eliumariss toomathane. Rastarinimpetus kadant!”

  For a time, nothing happened. Diek just stood motionless before the rock face, his hands shaking from the sheer mental effort the spell required. He took a few tentative steps, then strode right through the barrier as though it had never existed. One by one, the children followed him beyond the wall and down, down into the darkness.

  Far below, Gordo had decided to go around the base of the Twelve, but this had turned out to be a very unfortunate choice in terms of their progress. Their problems had begun with a chance meeting with a group of nomads who had set up camp in the gargantuan mountain’s lower foothills. The nomads mixed warm hospitality with a seemingly endless supply of ale. Consequently, the group had been in their company for the best part of a day. Now, thanks to some friendly nomad advice about the dangerous creatures lurking on the Twelve’s eastern base, they’d elected to go over the mountain instead. To do this successfully, Tambor had reasoned, they needed to start from the well-worn path that they had been on the day before, and that meant starting the whole journey over again from scratch. During these difficult hours, they spent much of their journey retracing their steps in hushed silence (or at least the sort of silence that’s regularly interrupted by muffled curses).

  A glimmer on the horizon signaled that thunder was lurking and a bitter wind whistled down the path, making progress as difficult as possible.

  “I don’t suppose either of you carries a readable map of the area?” Tambor said, his teeth chattering in the wind.

  Groan and Gordo stared blankly at each other. Then they cast a glance in every direction, hoping to see some signs of a path that wouldn’t involve conquering the mountain.

  “I take it that’s a no, then?” the old man continued.

  “Oh, look at this,” Gordo replied. “It’s not enough that we’ve landed up with a sorcerer with no spell book, now he’s whining along the way!”

  Tambor averted his eyes. He had a rolled-up carpet under one arm, which he’d collected from his lodgings in Laker Street. It was a magic carpet, he’d assured them, but one that definitely wouldn’t support a man of Groan’s size and stature. He had just been preparing to roll the carpet out, when he’d remembered his missing spell book and the not insubstantial conjuration that was required to start the thing.

  Gordo spat at the grass and fiddled with a strap beneath his helmet. Eventually it became unhooked.

  “We should go back,” said Gordo. “I saw something last night that I didn’t much like the look of. I think there was a magic—”

  “Damn magic,” said Groan. “An’ damn the city. ’S never done us no favors.”

  “I just thought maybe we could have a look—”

  “You’re goin’ soft, Gordo Goldeaxe,” said Groan.

  “I am not!” the dwarf protested, taking instant offence at the use of his full name. “But we don’t know where we’re going! You might walk the land, Groan Teethgrit, but some of us have homes and families that love and care for a dwarf…who brings home gold for the village.”

  He dropped his battle-axe, slumped onto a rotting tree stump, and began beating himself over the head with the dangling chinstrap of his helmet. “I’m fed up with this traveling lark,” he said. “I wish I’d stayed in the village with the rest of my tribe. Uncle Grimson always said I was crazy to be a mercenary.”

  “There might be a friendly village in the foothills,” said Tambor. Groan sniffed and peered up at the Twelve.

  A flash of lightning lit up the sky.

  “There’d better be,” said Gordo, snatching up
his battle-axe.

  A knowledge of geography is always useful when traveling on foot, but the odd trio carefully negotiating the Twelve weren’t too hot on geography (Groan suspected it had something to do with keeping fit). And, unlike Diek, they didn’t have the advantage of being aided by dark magic.

  They were a quarter of the way up the mountain, when Groan suddenly stopped them dead in their tracks.

  “Don’t like it ’ere,” said Groan. “It’s too quiet. I reckon they’re all waitin’ in the trees to jump out at us.”

  “Who?” asked Tambor, looking blindly around.

  “Them.” Groan sniffed. As far as he was concerned “us” was whoever he was with and “them” was anybody else. Gordo swung his battle-axe experimentally.

  An arrow landed in the grass beside the path. Upright.

  “’S an arrow,” announced Groan, in case anyone had missed it.

  No one moved. A few seconds passed without incident. Somewhere off among the trees, a shadow shifted. Tambor took this as his cue to make a definite exit and dove into a convenient bush at the side of the path. Three more arrows rained down upon the group.

  “I’d just like to point out,” whispered Tambor from his bush, “that I think you can take the bravery thing a bit too far.”

  “I’ve got little to worry about,” said Gordo, out of the corner of his mouth. “Small target.”

  Tambor muttered something under his breath and tried to dig a hole beneath the bush by scooping out mounds of dirt with his hands.

  “Coward,” said Groan.

  Gordo grimaced. Four arrows was fair indication of trouble. “What is it, d’you think?” asked Gordo, staring at the barbarian hopefully. “Trolls? Orcs?”

  A fifth arrow landed just beyond Tambor’s bush, making the sorcerer yelp.

  Groan shook his head. “Too ’igh for orcs,” he said. “Too low fer trolls.”

  “Great,” whispered Tambor. “Now we know who’s definitely not attacking us. Any chance of a guess in the opposite direction? I’d just like to know who to curse when I’m picking an arrowhead out of my aaaarrhh…!”