The Order of Odd-Fish

by James Kennedy

  “Of course,” said Sir Festus breezily, “it’s only fair to warn you that I have little idea how they work, or what they actually do.”

  “You don’t know what these weapons do?” said Albert.

  “I was hoping you’d help me figure that out. Well, I do know about some of them.” Sir Festus took the spiky gun from Jo. “This is one of the most impressive weapons in my arsenal, and a personal favorite—a long-range, triple-accuracy Apology Gun.”

  “That doesn’t sound so impressive,” said Jo.

  “Are you off your head, girl? The Apology Gun is most impressive. And quite ancient. This little lovely goes back to the legendary war between the Vondorians and the Snoosnids, known to history as the Very Polite War.”

  By now, Jo could tell when Sir Festus was about to launch into one of his long, confusing, tedious stories. His mustache perked up, he licked his lips, and he wiggled his fingers with delight, beginning:

  “The Vondorians were renowned throughout the ancient world for their etiquette. Their civilization had a proper way to do everything, from opening a door to proposing marriage. Their entire lives were elaborate ceremonies, in which you were required to recite a certain thousand-line poem every time you bumped into someone on the street, or do a traditional dance whenever you took off your hat. Every action of a Vondorian was ritualized and beautiful.

  “But then the Vondorians came up against the Snoosnids. The Snoosnids were ruthlessly, dangerously polite. They were masters of the deadly thank-you note, the murderous curtsy, the lethal tea party. It was rumored the Snoosnids had a special way of saying ‘excuse me’ that could kill you instantly. Snoosnid assassins were so charming and courteous that their victims would literally die of tact.

  “So when the Snoosnids declared war on the Vondorians (because of a disagreement over the placement of the soup spoon at a diplomatic dinner), it was one of the strangest wars in history. Luckily, some artifacts of the era still survive, such as the Apology Gun.”

  “I still don’t understand what it does,” said Jo.

  “There were many great battles in the Very Polite War,” said Sir Festus. “But so many improper things happened in those battles that both sides were bound by etiquette to continually apologize for what they were doing. The apologies on either side grew more extravagantly effusive as each side tried to outdo the other, degenerating into chaotic mass apologies, an ugly free-for-all of manners. Imagine the horror! Thousands of soldiers charging toward each other, saying they were sorry, and then running away before they could hear their opponent’s apologies. The war was stalemated like this for years—until the Vondorians invented the Apology Gun.”

  “Why?” said Jo.

  “Watch.” Sir Festus pointed the gun at Colonel Korsakov. There was a POW, a puff of blue smoke, and a small tube of paper flew out and bounced off Korsakov’s chest.

  Colonel Korsakov picked up the tube, unscrolled it, and read aloud: “‘Sorry for the rudeness.’ Thank you, Sir Festus. Apology accepted.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Sir Festus, bowing slightly. “See? Very civilized. And this baby can shoot up to three hundred apologies per second. Pretty devastating stuff.”

  “But what good did that do in the war?” said Albert.

  “Aha,” said Sir Festus. “The apologies were extremely sarcastic.”

  “A brilliant strategy,” nodded Korsakov.

  Sir Festus showed Jo a small dial. “You can adjust this knob from ‘sincere’ to ‘sarcastic,’ depending on what kind of apologies you want to fire. Because of the overwhelming number of apologies the Vondorians made, and the withering irony of each apology, the Vondorians swiftly crushed the Snoosnids and won the war.”

  Jo said, “But what good will this be against the Schwenk?”

  “Against the Schwenk? Oh, none at all.”

  “What about these other weapons—?”

  “Utterly useless.”

  “Then why are we using them?”

  “Style, my girl. Style.”

  Sir Festus divided the squires into groups and assigned each group a neighborhood to search for the Schwenk. Jo, Ian, and Nora were assigned to East Squeamings, a district of wooden shacks, narrow streets, and a sprawling fish market.

  All morning Jo, Ian, and Nora snooped through stinking alleys packed with stalls of outlandish undersea creatures. There were slimy purple sacs hanging in dripping bunches, moist piles of wriggling white blobs with shimmering fins and panting mouths, neatly arranged rows of bulging tubes with staring eyes and dozens of tentacles, and the occasional massive sea beast, twenty times bigger than Jo, trussed up and gored on thick hooks. The market was raucous with the shouts of hawkers, customers, and auctioneers calling out to circles of gesticulating bidders. The slime, stink, and noise were overwhelming; Jo almost forgot about the Schwenk and let herself be swept up in the bustling cacophony.

  But even after hours of combing through the markets, they found not a trace of the Schwenk. Ian suggested lunch at one of the neighborhood’s famous fish restaurants.

  “I don’t come down here often enough,” said Ian happily as they settled into a booth. “This is one of my favorite restaurants.”

  “I’m down here all the time,” groused Nora. “Dame Isabel can’t get enough of the smells. She says that for someone with a trained nose, it’s like being at the bottom of the ocean. I say, why settle for second best? She can go to the bottom of the ocean, and stay there, for all I care. And take her precious nose with her.”

  “I thought you liked Dame Isabel,” said Jo.

  “Are you kidding? She doesn’t give me a minute to myself. If I’m not out hunting smells with her, I’m cataloguing her stupid collection. I barely have enough time to work on my Teenage Ichthala theories…. You know, Jo, Isabel has it in for you, but I can’t guess why.”

  “Maybe because she hates my aunt,” said Jo.

  “Could be.”

  The waiter came around. Jo didn’t recognize anything on the menu, so Ian and Nora ordered for her.

  Ian was tapping his fingers. “I really hope we find the Schwenk.”

  “I don’t,” said Jo.

  “What, aren’t you excited to take on your first monster?”

  “Take on? How? By telling it I’m sorry three hundred times per second?”

  “At least you know what your weapon does,” sighed Nora. Hers was a metal sphere bristling with antennae, buttons, dials, and lights, all equally mysterious. She had lugged it around all day, pressing buttons and trying the dials; occasionally the sphere would light up, vibrate, smoke, and make promising noises; but so far, it had done nothing else.

  “I just want to get Commissioner Olvershaw off Korsakov’s back,” said Ian.

  “Olvershaw really let him have it, didn’t he?” said Jo. “I thought Korsakov was going to cry.”

  “He wasn’t going to cry,” said Ian.

  “Don’t snap,” said Nora.

  “I’m sorry. I know, I get defensive about him,” said Ian. “I mean, everyone admires Dame Lily. She’s the one who killed Sir Nils, right? But Korsakov…he’s just the guy who got knocked down and then was saved by his butler. I hear what people say.”

  Their food arrived, and conversation paused as they passed around the plates, taking a little from each. Jo had never had food like this: it was like sushi from Jupiter. Blubbery cubes floating in black-licorice broth, spheres of flaky crust enfolding morsels of nutty meat, a bowl of warm eyes that burst juicily in her mouth, blue worms wriggling in a pot of cream…

  Just as they were finishing eating, Nora sat up in surprise, staring at a group of people across the restaurant. “Look, look! Over there!”

  “Who is it?” said Jo.

  Nora said, in an awed whisper, “That’s Audrey Durdle. That’s the girl who plays the Ichthala on Teenage Ichthala. I think that’s the whole cast right there!”

  Jo could just barely make out, through the hubbub of diners, a blond girl slouching in her chair, indifferen
tly studying a script and drinking coffee, ignoring the half-dozen chattering men and women at her table.

  Ian snorted, “Nora, you are too into that show.”

  “I’m going to casually walk over there and eavesdrop,” said Nora, standing.

  Ian said, “Why don’t you ask them to do an episode about us finding the Schwenk? According to your logic, then we’re sure to find it.”

  “A comedian,” said Nora, and left.

  After Nora was gone, Ian said to Jo, “I saw them setting up to film their show around the corner, but don’t tell Nora. She’ll just hang around the set all day and forget about hunting the Schwenk.”

  “What’ll you do if we find the Schwenk?”

  “I’m not sure. Well, I do have this.” Ian took out the jewel-encrusted needle Sir Festus had given him and placed it on the table.

  Jo said, “Did Sir Festus tell you what it does?”

  “He said he forgot,” said Ian. “He does recall it was something devastating.”

  “Big deal. Mine’s ‘devastating,’ too.”

  “I’m hoping for the best,” said Ian. “Sir Festus advised me to hold my fire until I actually see the Schwenk, though. He said there’s only one shot left in it.”

  “So there’s no way of telling what it does,” said Jo. “It might shoot flowers and romantic poetry.”

  “It might. But that’s all right.”

  “Really?”

  “Colonel Korsakov says hunting the Schwenk is a gentleman’s pursuit. It wouldn’t be sporting to use effective weapons.”

  “There’s something in that,” said Jo.

  Nora was haunting the area around Audrey Durdle’s table, drifting back and forth, desperately trying to eavesdrop. But after a few pointed glares, she got embarrassed and slunk back to Jo and Ian.

  “Well?” said Jo. “What’d they say?”

  “It’s so exciting!” said Nora. “They had just gotten the scripts for the latest episode! They’re all talking about what will happen—there’s a scene in the Silent Sisters’ secret cathedral, and—”

  “Nora, do you talk about anything other than that show?” murmured Ian as he scanned the bill. He dropped some money on the table and stood up. “Come on, let’s go find the Schwenk.”

  Just outside the restaurant and down the street there were some actors in costumes, surrounded by cameramen. Nora grabbed Jo’s arm and said wildly, “I knew it! They’re filming Teenage Ichthala right here! That’s why Audrey Durdle was in the restaurant!”

  Ian winced. “I was hoping you wouldn’t see that.”

  Nora stopped short. “You knew they were filming in the neighborhood? And you didn’t tell me?”

  “If I’d told you, you wouldn’t have helped us look for the Schw—”

  “Screw your Schwenk!” said Nora, her eyes blazing. “You know what this means to me!”

  “I thought you were going to help us,” said Ian.

  “Just because Korsakov can’t finish his own quest doesn’t mean we should do it for him,” said Nora.

  “That’s not fair,” said Jo.

  “No, it’s not fair,” said Nora. “Neither is lying to your friends so they’ll do what you want. Good luck, Jo. I hope you find it.” She gave Ian a final glare and stalked off to the Teenage Ichthala set, dragging her bulky sphere behind her.

  Ian glumly watched her go. “I didn’t know she’d get that mad.”

  “C’mon, let’s get out of here,” said Jo.

  Jo and Ian resumed the search for the Schwenk, but it wasn’t the same now. Nora, bouncing along at their side, breathlessly babbling her theories, had seemed exasperating before, but now they missed her. Searching for the Schwenk wasn’t fun anymore.

  Then Ian saw Dugan about a block away. Jo was about to call out to him, but Ian stopped her.

  “What’s he doing down here?” said Ian. “He was assigned to Eelsbridge. Look, he doesn’t even have the weapon Sir Festus gave him!”

  “Let’s go ask him,” said Jo.

  “No, wait. Let’s follow him.”

  “Isn’t that sneaky?”

  “Dugan himself has been sneaky lately. I think he’s up to no good. Come on, he’s getting away.”

  Dugan slipped through the streets easily, slicing through the crowds like a knife. Jo and Ian loped behind, caught in snarls of traffic, baffled by Dugan’s twisting route. Sometimes Dugan doubled back, ducking down an alley, as though he suspected someone was following him.

  Ian looked around nervously. “I don’t know this neighborhood very well. Be careful.”

  They had followed Dugan into Snoodsbottom, a dark warren of caverns hewn out of the heart of the mountain. Sunlight was replaced by the pale glow of luminous fungus and strings of lanterns flickering dimly over the streets. But any light seemed unnatural here. It was gloomy, hot, and stuffy, and the cramped lanes made Jo claustrophobic, the buildings crowding her on either side; she could almost feel the millions of tons of mountain looming over her head.

  Dugan pushed on, faster now, his eyes anxious, glancing around every few seconds, now and then breaking into a hurried trot. Finally, getting a hold of his nerves, he turned a corner and walked calmly toward a storefront, where a long lean man awaited him.

  What happened next was quick. The man, dressed in an ugly maroon suit with a three-cornered hat, looked up at Dugan with sleepy eyes. Dugan gave the man a small red bag. The man turned and left without a word, and Dugan walked off in the opposite direction.

  And then Dugan might have turned to dust, for Jo and Ian could find no further trace of him, and now they were lost, deep in an unfamiliar neighborhood.

  “Um…I think there’s a subway that goes from here to West Rumple,” said Ian. “That’s probably our best bet.”

  “Where’s the station?”

  “I don’t know. I think I can find it.”

  “Let’s ask directions,” said Jo.

  “No! Don’t speak to anyone!” hissed Ian.

  Jo blinked at Ian’s sudden fierceness but said nothing. Still, they needed directions: the maze of tunnels and caves confused them, and more than once they found themselves at a dead end or forced to hurry through pitch-black alleys toward uncertain lights at the other side. One time they saw the subway station, but from a cliff that overlooked a vast cavern, and there was no direct route down to it, and their efforts to head toward it led to a quagmire of wrong turns and frustrating circles. They never saw the station again.

  “What was Dugan doing down here?” murmured Ian. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “What are we doing here?” said Jo. “This is like a bad dream. Can’t we just ask someone?”

  “Don’t talk to anyone!” growled Ian. “I mean it!”

  Now Jo was annoyed. Who did he think he was, talking to her like that? She silently fumed, but Ian didn’t explain himself, and so they walked on together in angry silence.

  Even though Jo’s mood had soured, and the labyrinth of caverns only led them in circles, there was a crammed, convoluted beauty to the neighborhood. Creepers dangled down over carved walls, blooming with flowers that half hid stone monsters underneath. The streets twisted, dipped and curved, and there were bubbling little fountains everywhere—silver basins of black water in which lilies floated and strange shapes slithered. There was no escaping the sweaty, dismal heat, and the stale air was spiced with heavy incense, smoking in brass pots hanging from the windows. The stuffy vapors went to Jo’s head; she was beginning to feel woozy.

  “Watch out!”

  “Out of the road!”

  Three sleds burst out of the gloom, rocketing past—silver sleds, shimmering in the darkness, carved in patterns as delicate and complex as lace. Each sled was pulled by three lizard-dogs tearing down the tunnels with startling energy, their eyes bugged out, long black tongues flapping out of their mouths. A driver with a whip and reins stood in each sled, but the sleds flew by so quickly it was impossible to see anything about them other than purple cloaks, steel g
oggles, and long yellow scarves billowing behind.

  “Who are they?” said Jo.

  Ian groaned. “I knew this would happen. We’ve got to get out of here. They’re squires from the Order of Wormbeards.”

  “So what?”

  “This is their territory. Shhh, they’re not on to us yet…keep your head down.”

  More sleds came barreling around the corner, crashing and clattering down the cobbled street. The sleds’ iron runners scraped, jounced, and threw sparks, skipping off the stones as the lizard-dogs hauled them down the tunnels.

  “Looks like fun,” said Jo.

  “Why don’t you ask them for a ride?” said Ian sarcastically. Then: “Get back!”

  Ian yanked Jo out of the road just as a sled burst out of the alley. They pressed their backs against the wall as the lizard-dogs went bounding past, nearly running them over, barking and howling down the tunnels.

  “Hey! Odd-Fish!” shouted the driver.

  “Now we’re in for it,” said Ian. “Stupid, stupid coming down here…we’ve got to hide.”

  Jo frowned. “Hide?”

  “There’s ten of them and two of us. If you want to get through this alive—” Ian looked around quickly; down the tunnel, whips cracked, the lizard-dogs yapped, and the ferocious shouts of the Wormbeard squires got louder as the sleds turned around toward them. “Get in here,” said Ian, pushing her into a small crag behind some vines. “Don’t come out until I come for you.”

  Jo poked her head out of the cave. “Wait, you’re going to leave me here?”

  “There’s not enough room for both of us!” said Ian. “I’ll be all right. Just stay in there.”

  He pulled the vines back over her, and then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the alley. Soon she couldn’t even hear the footsteps.

  Jo crouched in the little cave and shuddered as the sleds shot past her in shimmering streaks, back and forth, bouncing and skittering over the paving stones. She could barely see through the thick vines, but she heard the Wormbeard squires, shouting, cursing, and mocking: