The Order of Odd-Fish

by James Kennedy

  “You’re new in town—Jo Larouche, isn’t it?” Olvershaw coughed and spat something black and slimy on the floor. “Let me ask you something, Jo Larouche. Do you like to eat fine food?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s great, that’s really great. You know what I eat? The only thing that I can eat?”

  “What—”

  “Lint. That’s it. I’ve eaten nothing but lint for the past fifty years.”

  “You eat lint?”

  “I eat lint. If I ate anything else, my pancreas would literally explode. But you’d like to see that, wouldn’t you? That’d be a big hoot for you and your good-time pals. Mean old Olvershaw’s pancreas explodes—should be good for a larf! Well, here’s another ‘larf.’ Do you know what the only thing I can drink is? Don’t say water, because I can’t even drink that. It makes my ears bleed. No, I have to drink a special kind of water that has all the water taken out of it—I don’t even know what that is!

  “WHY? Why do I do it? Why do I bother to keep on living? Dear God, why? Because this city would fall apart without me. Because someone must uphold the knightly code. When someone violates the knightly code, I must lay down the law. Does that make me popular? No. But how popular can I be, when I have no legs, and no arms—just this thumb? I won’t leave you wondering: not very popular. So go ahead, hate me. But if you cross me, I will bring the power of this thumb crashing down upon you. And you will not be a happy little lady.”

  Jo kept her mouth shut. But she managed to glimpse at Korsakov, and he gave her a small, bashful smile. That was all Jo wanted; that was enough.

  “I am a fair man,” said Olvershaw. “I won’t ruin your career right at the start, just because of one obnoxious remark. I will overlook your impertinence—this time. Lackey! Take Miss Larouche back and register her. I’m ready to assign this week’s quests.”

  To Jo it sounded like the entire room gave a sigh of relief. Olvershaw turned away from Jo and was at once surrounded by a tense cloud of clerks, who rushed hither and thither in a panic of efficiency, delivering envelopes and taking back stamped documents. One of the clerks glared at Jo and motioned her to follow.

  The clerk guided her through a maze of wooden partitions and ragged tents, back to a tiny stall covered by a patched cloth roof, every available surface heaped with stacks of loose papers. The clerk filled out some forms, snatched a ring from a box, ran it through a stamping machine, and then threw it at her, muttering, “Congrats, you’re a squire. Next!”

  Jo walked past the rows of office-stalls in a daze of anticlimax. She looked at her new ring. Compared with the beautiful silver ring Aunt Lily had found in the Inconvenience, it wasn’t much: just a cheap iron band with JO LAROUCHE punched on the inside.

  She passed Ian on his way in.

  “Well?” he whispered. “What do they do to you?”

  “They stick you full of pins to see if you’ll scream. Good luck.”

  The squires were standing in line against the wall when Jo returned. At first she didn’t know what to do, until Maurice impatiently motioned her to stand next to him. Olvershaw was being wheeled back and forth in front of the line, scrutinizing the squires, mumbling insults and coughing on them. Every once in a while he nodded, and a clerk would give an envelope to a squire. A minute later Ian returned and slid in next to her, grinning goofily and examining his new ring again and again.

  Jo shifted from foot to foot, trying to keep calm. She was vague on what exactly a quest was, but she wanted one anyway. Especially after Maurice’s wondering if she could “handle it,” and especially after Olvershaw had chewed her out.

  But when the final envelope was passed out, there was no quest for her.

  “That’s all,” said Olvershaw. “See you next week. Enjoy your arms and legs. Damn you all.”

  Jo blurted out, “Wait! Don’t I get a quest?”

  “None left. Well, I do have a quest for Dugan, but since he’s not here…”

  Jo said, “I’ll take it.”

  Olvershaw closed his eye and sighed, as if calling upon a rapidly dwindling patience. “Pushy little creature, aren’t you? No. You couldn’t handle this quest. It’s from Lady Agnes.”

  At the mere mention of “Lady Agnes,” the other squires began clamoring: “Oooh! Let me do it, Commissioner!”—“I don’t have a quest, either!”—“I haven’t had a quest in weeks, sir!”

  Ian shouted over the noise: “Commissioner! What if Jo and I take it?”

  “Silence, all of you! Absolutely not, it’s out of the question! Especially you two—you’re rookies, greenhorns, got it? This quest will wait for Dugan.”

  “But I’ve helped Dugan on quests before,” insisted Ian. “And Jo, she’s been Dame Lily’s unofficial squire for years! Doesn’t that experience count for anything?”

  Jo didn’t have the heart to point out that most of her “experience” with Aunt Lily consisted of watching old movies and playing canasta.

  “For the last time, the answer is no!” said Olvershaw. “And if my remaining eye is any judge, I believe our man has arrived.”

  The doors opened, and Dugan Barrows came in—a tall, olive-skinned boy with shaggy black hair and bright green eyes, hauling a squirming burlap sack. A great shout went up as Dugan was surrounded by squires. Dugan hoisted up the kicking, wriggling sack and dumped it onto the refreshments table.

  “Finish your quest, Barrows?” growled Olvershaw.

  Dugan said, “It nearly finished me.”

  Everybody laughed—a bit louder and longer than really necessary, Jo thought. Over the hubbub, she asked Ian, “What did Dugan do?”

  “A squat-snouted nangnang escaped from the zoo. Dugan’s quest was to catch it and bring it back. He always gets the good quests.”

  “Why?”

  Ian shrugged. “Because he’s Dugan. You’ll understand.”

  Jo watched Dugan; she already kind of understood. With his mussed dark hair and glazed eyes, Dugan seemed more adult than the other squires. He also looked as if he hadn’t slept in days, and seemed barely to be listening when Ian said, “Dugan, this is Jo Larouche. Jo—”

  “Oh, the new girl,” said Dugan. “I heard you got barfed out of a fish last night.”

  “I travel in style,” said Jo.

  “Enough introductions!” coughed Olvershaw. “Let’s have your report, Dugan. How’d you catch the nangnang?”

  Dugan bowed to Olvershaw. “Thank you, sir. As you know, I’d been tracking the nangnang for days. I couldn’t go to sleep or I would’ve lost its trail, but I was getting more and more exhausted. And I was running out of fingernails.”

  Jo couldn’t help but interrupt. “Wait, fingernails?”

  “The nangnang eats fingernails,” said Dugan. “That’s why it’s such a dangerous animal.”

  “Doesn’t sound so bad.”

  Dugan smiled. “Oh, really? Tell that to someone who’s had his fingernails chewed off. Anyway, I was clipping my own fingernails and using them to bait the nangnang. I was in Lower Brondo, and I thought I had the nangnang cornered, but then the—HEY! Watch out!”

  Dugan’s sack had burst open, and a wrinkled, yellow, shrieking seahorse-like creature popped out—its nose curling and uncurling wildly, its bulging eyes as big as grapefruits, squealing so piercingly everyone’s hands flew to their ears.

  “Catch it! Don’t let it get away!” shouted Olvershaw.

  The nangnang stretched out its bony arms, coiled its tail, and sprang straight into the crowd of panicking squires. The squires scattered, pushing each other out of the way as the nangnang bolted across the room, crashing through the cloth walls.

  “What are you gutless mollycoddles doing?” roared Olvershaw. “Catch that thing!”

  The nangnang exploded out of the waiting room, rampaging through the maze of stalls, tearing down the tattered cloth and splintering the wooden partitions. Squires dashed after the nangnang, blundering through a storm of flying papers; Colonel Korsakov lumbered back and forth, b
locking off the exits, and Olvershaw howled at his clerks, who ran around in panic, trying to wheel him out of danger.

  “Save my thumb!” screeched Olvershaw. “It’s all I’ve got left! My beautiful, beautiful thumb!”

  But Olvershaw’s thumb had a long, juicy fingernail. And the only thing standing between the nangnang and Olvershaw’s fingernail was—

  Jo didn’t intend to be there. She had no desire to save Olvershaw’s fingernail. But before she could move, the nangnang barreled into her chest, and she clutched at it as they rolled across the floor, with clerks shrieking and squires trying to grab them.

  “Hold on to it, Jo!” shouted Colonel Korsakov.

  The nangnang leaped up and smashed through a bookcase, dragging Jo behind. Jo could hardly keep hold of the panicking thing—and then she had an idea.

  She shoved her finger, with its new ring, into the nangnang’s mouth.

  Her finger exploded. Jo screamed as the nangnang tore through her fingernail, tears sprang to her eyes, stars blinked furiously all around—and then Ian tackled them, wrestled the thrashing animal down, and forced open its jaws.

  Jo snatched out her chewed-up finger as the nangnang howled in disappointment, and suddenly Dame Delia and Aunt Lily were there, grabbing the kicking, shrieking thing and thrusting it back into the sack.

  Jo lay on the ground, her eyes closed, the world spinning under her. Her fingernail was ragged and crushed, she was bruised all over, she tasted blood—but her heart was pounding so hard and her body felt so electrified that she almost didn’t notice the pain.

  “Are you okay?” said a dozen voices. There was a confused babble, and then Dugan said, “I don’t know whether to tell you that was brave or stupid.”

  “Tell me later,” said Jo. “Where’s Ian?”

  “Right here.” Ian crouched, helping her get up. “Easy…there you go. Is your finger okay?”

  The squires gathered around Jo and Ian with a new respect. As Maurice, Phil, Daphne, and Dugan congratulated them, Jo could hear squires from the other orders murmuring: “That’s her, Dame Lily’s squire. I saw her last night, riding on top of that building….”

  Clerks started to emerge, blinking and trembling, from the wreckage. Some of them wandered in a shocked daze through the stew of torn-up papers and trampled files; others quietly wept, cradling heaps of documents, singing tenderly to them. A half-dozen clerks fussed over Olvershaw, offering him tea, hot towels, and backrubs, but Olvershaw seemed dryly amused.

  “It will take years to repair this damage,” he said with a certain relish. “What a marvelous ruckus…Larouche! Barrows! Front and center!”

  Jo looked up at Olvershaw. Dread settled in her stomach like a block of ice. She and Ian limped up to Olvershaw, who glowered down on them.

  “As a rule, I do not approve of ruckuses,” he said sternly. “Ruckuses churn up my insides. Of course, I have no insides…just dust and cobwebs, and a tiny pancreas rattling around in me like a gray, shriveled pea. And still…and still…I find myself agreeably invigorated.” Olvershaw rocked back and forth, considering. Finally, he said: “Very well. You may take the Lady Agnes quest. You and this Barrows boy. But I hold—”

  He had to pause over Ian’s whoop of joy.

  “But I hold you both to the same standards as an advanced squire! My lackey will give you the details. Lackey! Where’s the envelope? Be quick about it! Now get me out of here—I can’t stand the sight of these young, healthy children a moment more. It makes my hair ache.”

  A clerk thrust an envelope into Jo’s hand, and then Olvershaw was gone, trundling and coughing deeper into the dark maze of offices. Aunt Lily patted her on the back.

  “Well done, Jo. But you do leave a mess, don’t you?” Aunt Lily looked around the torn-up offices with amused satisfaction. “Okay, squires, move out! We’ve got a lodge to clean!”

  Jo found her way over to Ian. Olvershaw had given him an envelope, too, and he was already reading aloud its contents, surrounded by a group of curious squires. Ian turned to her, excitedly telling her about the quest they had been assigned. Jo didn’t understand what he was saying; she was still scattered and woozy, and she wasn’t listening very carefully, anyway. She was too caught up in a strange feeling, something she almost couldn’t recognize. For the first time in her life, she felt like she belonged.

  WHEN Jo and the others came back to the lodge, they found the rest of the Odd-Fish gathered in the common room with brooms, mops, and buckets of soapy water—and Cicero, the head cockroach, already in the middle of a passionate speech:

  “It shatters my heart to utter these words,” said Cicero, his voice trembling. “But this is without doubt the blackest day in the history of the Order of Odd-Fish. Before our lodge was stolen, I would defy you to find a cleaner, tidier, tighter-run establishment in all of Eldritch City. And yet now…now…”

  “Steady on, Cicero,” said Sefino, handing him a handkerchief.

  “And now,” wailed Cicero, swatting the handkerchief away, “after three months of festering in the Belgian Prankster’s unsanitary clutches, our lodge has degenerated into a grimy, seething muckpot—a feculent, slime-soaked, filth-dripping crapshack—oozing with the greasiest, scummiest—oh! I dare not say more!”

  “Oooh! Say more!” begged the cockroaches.

  “Odd-Fish, our mission is clear!” roared Cicero. “With a will, we shall beat back this encroaching wave of putridity, and restore our lodge to its pristine splendor! Who is with me?”

  “Hoo-hah!” shouted the cockroaches, exultantly shaking their mops and brooms (the knights and squires shook theirs rather less exultantly) as Cicero went on to announce everyone’s chores.

  Jo was assigned to clean out the basements with Daphne and Phil. At first she thought Cicero had been exaggerating—the lodge was messy, yes, but certainly no “filth-dripping crapshack”—but that was before she opened the basement doors and was hit by a stink so foul it was like a punch to the head.

  The basement was full of rotting fish slime. A swamp’s worth had oozed into the foundations when it was in the giant fish’s stomach, and now the basement was waist deep in milky, chunky sludge, here and there crusted over with pink mold. The sour air withered Jo’s nose and wrenched tears from her eyes.

  Daphne took one sniff and said, “I am not going down there.”

  “Oh yes you are,” said Phil. “I don’t like it, either, but it’s no good whining. Let’s go.”

  They pulled on plastic boots and overalls and got down to work. Jo was sure there was no fouler job than this. First they had to wade through the sea of fish goo and shovel it into wheelbarrows; then they had to haul the wheelbarrows outside and dump them into wagons headed for the eelmen’s neighborhood (who the “eelmen” were, and why they wanted rotten fish gunk, Jo didn’t even want to know).

  When they were finally done, Jo was worked to the bone, as wrung out as an old rag. But there was some satisfaction in it. By helping to clean the lodge, Jo felt she was earning her place there. And working with Phil and Daphne broke the ice much better than any awkward conversation could have.

  That night the cockroaches served a late dinner out on the roof of the lodge. After cleaning Jo took a long, hot shower, changed into a sweater and jeans, and came up onto the roof. The evening was chilly, with a salty wind blowing off the ocean, and the roof blazed with hundreds of flickering candles. Other knights and squires were already there, eating bowls of steaming beef stew and drinking spicy cider. The cold night air smelled fresh and clean, and everyone’s face looked more intense in the warm light. Jo sat with Daphne and Phil, devoured her stew, took second helpings, and sopped up the juices with warm hunks of bread. When she was finished, sitting back and drinking hot cider, she had never felt so satisfyingly exhausted.

  “I still can’t believe you got a Lady Agnes quest,” said Daphne. “Some squires have been trying for months.”

  Jo held up her bandaged finger. “It did nearly cost me this.”

 
; “Totally worth it,” said Phil between bites.

  “Why?” said Jo. “Have you ever had a quest with Lady Agnes?”

  “Yes, just last year,” said Phil. “One of her better ones. Lady Agnes made me take off my clothes and put on a pink furry bear suit and a saddle. Then she rode me around town all day, chasing down children, throwing eggs at them. We got arrested!”

  “What!” Jo put down her cider in shock. “That’s a quest?”

  “Oh, sure. If you have enough money, you can submit any quest you want to the city, and the squires have to do it.”

  Jo crinkled her brow. “But isn’t that…”

  Daphne said, “I had a quest with Lady Agnes, too. She ordered me to assassinate the mayor’s cat. She swore to me it was broadcasting evil radio signals into her dentures.”

  “But…this woman sounds insane!” said Jo.

  “Oh yes,” said Daphne. “Mad as mutton.”

  “But I don’t understand—if Lady Agnes’s quests are ridiculous—”

  “Or pointless.”

  “Okay—if Lady Agnes’s quests are ridiculous or pointless, then—”

  “Or impossible.”

  “Ridiculous, pointless, or impossible—no, wait! let me finish—then why does everybody want one?”

  Phil and Daphne looked at each other blankly, as if that kind of question had never occurred to them before. Then Daphne finally replied: “Well—for respect.”

  “That’s right.” Phil nodded slowly. “For respect.”

  Dinner was over, and the knights and squires started to mingle. The cockroaches had dragged out a xylophone, a clarinet, some drums, and a brass contraption that looked like a half-dozen tubas and a pinball machine mashed together, and they were struggling through a chaotic waltz. Soon Sir Alasdair was dancing with Dame Isabel, Phil asked Daphne out onto the floor, and Sir Festus was teaching an awkward Nora how to jitterbug.

  Aunt Lily swung over, looking fresher and younger than Jo had ever seen her. “It’s all just as I remember it,” she said, looking around the roof happily. “I’ve missed this so much. Even when I didn’t remember it. But this is it.”