Updated_PerilInTheOldCountry_SamHooker_EbookFormatting_Nook

by Peril in the Old Country (retail) (epub)

  “But what about little Willie?”

  “Little Willie? The younger Lord Hapsgalt doesn’t have a son that I’m aware of.”

  “Well of course he hasn’t,” said the stranger. “He’s six years old!”

  “Who is? The younger Lord Hapsgalt is forty-two, or perhaps forty-three.”

  Sloot and the stranger showed each other their best expressions of confusion, and Myrtle joined them just for good measure.

  “Right,” said the stranger after a while. “Look, I don’t want to argue, I just want to work for Willie.”

  “You mean Lord Hapsgalt,” countered Myrtle.

  “”Yes! Of course. Whatever gets us there.”

  “Do you …” Sloot paused. “Do you know the younger Lord Hapsgalt?”

  “No! Never met Willie in my life. I swear it on his wittle toesies.”

  “Then why do you keep calling him Willie?”

  “What? No, I don’t. Look, do you want my services or not? This place is crawling with goblins!”

  Her point was punctuated by a suit of armor flying through a second-story window and landing in a cacophony of clanging steel and tinkling glass. A chorus of laughter erupted from within the suit. It got clumsily to its feet and ran cackling back into the house in a haphazard way that only a suit of armor full of goblins could have managed.

  “No argument there,” said Sloot. “We’re going to need a lot more brooms if we’re ever to―”

  “I can do it,” said the stranger.

  Sloot looked her up and down. She was vital in a way that people her age tended not to be, as though she’d fought tooth and nail to give the ravages of old age the slip and succeeded; or at least come to agreeable terms following a standoff, and walked away with just the wrinkles and the enormous nose.

  “It’s not a one-woman job,” said Sloot. “No offense intended, Mrs …”

  “Never mind that. I can have that house goblin-free by sun-up, you have my oath on it!”

  Sloot heard at least half a dozen distinctive “pops” of new goblins arriving in the house to join the already formidable congress. Oath-breaking was a particularly serious way of calling goblins, to the extent that even making somewhat-difficult-to-keep oaths was invitation enough for goblins with a penchant for gambling.

  Sloot shrugged. “No one else is chomping at the bit to do it, no harm in giving you a chance.”

  “You do look like you’ve lived a long life,” said Myrtle in agreement.

  “Never you mind how old I am either,” said the stranger, waggling a finger at Myrtle.

  “Good luck to you.” Sloot gathered up his papers. “If you manage to succeed―”

  “When I succeed, I’ll be guaranteed a permanent position in the household.”

  “But not as the housekeeper,” said Myrtle.

  “Fine,” said the stranger.

  “Very well,” said Sloot.

  “I want your oath on it.” The stranger’s expert finger-waggling took aim at Sloot. “Swear it on the salt, and spit in your hand!”

  Sloot balked. Salt was something that the residents of Salzstadt took very seriously, and a risky oath sworn on salt and spit ran the risk of ballooning the already formidable Whitewood congress up to a bicameral parliament. He was already dubious with regard to her ability, and fortifying the goblins’ numbers before going up against them seemed deranged in a way that would cause professional lunatics to draw the line.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Sloot. “We have an agreement, no need―”

  “Swear it!” The stranger spat in her own hand and extended it toward him, causing Sloot to wonder if the gesture was intended as an enticement.

  “Do it,” said Myrtle.

  “Why,” said Sloot from the side of his mouth, “did Arthur tell you something?”

  Myrtle’s face grew dark, and her hands went to her hips. “I can have insights without the assistance of dead philosophers, you know.”

  “Right,” Sloot muttered. “Sorry.”

  Sloot was a loyalist, a good salt through-and-through (with the singular exception of recently having become a Carpathian spy, of course). As such, he had never once brought goblins into a house by making oaths of any kind; but his natural timidity won out in the end, and he spit in his hand.

  “Clear out the goblins,” he warbled as though his voice had decided to crack from puberty for a second time, “and your permanent position in Whitewood is assured. I s-s-swear it on-n the s-s-salt.”

  Then came the most disgusting handshake of his life, to the rumbling of an entire freshman class joining the congress inside.

  “I’ll see you at sunrise,” said the stranger. Her head tilted to the side, causing her neck to make a sound like half a hundred twigs snapping, and then she walked into the house with nothing but her broom. She turned, nodded to Sloot, and shut the door behind her.

  “I’ve just murdered an old woman,” said Sloot.

  “She seemed really eager to have a go at it,” Myrtle remarked. “Why not say that you gave an old woman her dying wish?”

  “Her dying wish just gave us more goblins to deal with later,” said Sloot, who was starting to gulp down air in anticipation of a proper panic.

  “She seemed very sure of herself.”

  Anyone can panic, but it takes a worrier to make a real spectacle of it. Sloot was a tried and true worrier. He’d just made a sure-to-be-broken oath on salt and spit, and sent an old woman to a grisly death. He was seeing stars, clutching his chest, and sinking to his knees with aplomb. He really made it look easy.

  He wasn’t typically a fainter, but he was on the cusp of it when he felt hands on his cheeks. Soft hands. Ones that smelled nice.

  “It’s going to be all right,” said Myrtle in an even voice.

  His breathing started to slow. The stars faded from his vision, and there was Myrtle, her eyes locked serenely on his.

  It’s going to be all right, she’d said. It was an unusual phrase, one he thought he could vaguely remember having heard before. A magic spell, perhaps? If he was being frank, Sloot had to admit that he didn’t really understand what philosophy was. It was altogether possible that it’s going to be all right was some sort of incantation, and that the ethereal remains of a wizard were rolling around in Myrtle’s head.

  If it was a spell, it had worked. He wasn’t sure if her smelling nice was a part of it, but it certainly helped.

  “Thanks,” Sloot managed after a moment.

  “Don’t mention it,” said Myrtle. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

  As he closed the courtyard gate behind him, Sloot paused to listen as thuds and screams reverberated from within the house. He hoped the screaming was the goblins, but it was hard to be sure.

  To the Library

  At the end of the day, a true worrier doesn’t just hang his cloud of lurking dread on a hook and drift peacefully off to sleep. Years of practice have made it no trouble at all to stay awake for hours on end, torturing themselves over trivial details. Their haunted, waxy expressions are the result of countless wakings in cold sweats. Their dedication to their craft can be measured by weighing the bags under their eyes.

  Sloot jolted awake, short of breath and sweating profusely, and why wouldn’t he? It was only the second time he’d awoken as a disloyal traitor to the Old Country, and he had no idea how many times he’d have to do that before he either got used to it or gave in and reported himself to Uncle.

  His heart continued to race. He couldn’t catch his breath. The human heart only beats a certain number of times before it quits for good. Sloot worried that his heart’s current pace would put him in the grave before he’d even had a chance to do something properly disloyal. His epitaph might read no worse than “Here Lieth Sloot Peril, Struck Down Ere He Could Be Convicted for Possession of Heresy with Intent to Distribu
te.”

  He took a deep breath and decided to give self-delusion a try.

  “Things aren’t that bad,” he said aloud, forcing a smile and willing himself not to make a rational argument to the contrary.

  “That’s the spirit,” said Roman, who was sitting in the chair beside the bed.

  Sloot shrieked. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, pulling his bedsheet up to his face with white-knuckled fists.

  Roman leaned in close. “Spy stuff,” he replied with a wink. “Had to make sure you’re not the sort who talks in his sleep. Good news! Just a lot of whimpering noises.”

  “Perhaps that was just tonight. What if I talk in my sleep tomorrow night? Would that mean I’m unfit for duty?”

  “Oh yes,” said Roman.

  “Well, don’t you think you should check in again? Tomorrow night, perhaps?”

  “Good idea,” said Roman. “You’re a smart lad. Better that we find out as soon as possible, in case we need to give you the treatment.”

  “Treatment?”

  “I can’t say too much, or you’ll be expecting it. The redacted version is that I wake you up the hard way every time you make a noise in your sleep. Did you know that freezing water can cause quite a lot of bruising if applied correctly?”

  “I didn’t,” answered Sloot, with equal parts disappointment and terror. “Probably not a problem then, forget I mentioned it.”

  “I know a good idea when I hear one.” Roman stood and stretched. “I knew I was right about you. Improving the program already, and it’s only your second day!”

  Sloot groaned.

  “Well, long second day ahead of us,” said Roman. “I’ll see myself out. See you at Whitewood, Mister Peril. Ha! I’m going to enjoy pretending to take orders from you!”

  Roman made a bit of theatre to go along with his exit, pausing to listen to the door, peeking through the keyhole, then eventually, slowly, opening it and slipping through. Sloot initially dismissed it as ridiculous, then wondered whether he should be doing the same.

  Eventually, the sun came up, and Sloot was left facing the grim reality that he did, in fact, have to get out of bed. He had to restart the Loyalist Oath five times before he managed to get all the way through it without breaking down into tears, so he slapped himself twice as hard to make up for it. It left him a bit short on civic pride as he made his usual walk to the north gate.

  There it was, as massive as ever, but it gave him no comfort to rest his hand upon it. All these years, and it had done nothing to keep the enemy out after all! Sloot himself was the proof! He turned on his heel and started off for Whitewood, secretly wishing the entire time that he’d succumb to a spontaneous fit of rage, and do to himself what every other Carpathian savage would love to do to any salt they happened to meet: drown him in the river and make balloons from his guts.

  Except perhaps he’d find a quicker way to do the former, and he’d need to arrange for someone else to handle the latter.

  Unfortunately, Sloot had to swallow his disappointment and walk through the front gates of Whitewood as unmurdered as ever. Also there, alive, sweaty, and smoking a pipe, was the stranger.

  “Is it done?” The shock was apparent on Sloot’s face.

  “Aye,” said the stranger. She took the pipe from her mouth, leaned to her left, and spit a glob of red onto the ground.

  “But how? There must have been―”

  “Never you mind how,” said the stranger. “I done what I said I’d do, and now I’m owed what you swore on salt and spit.”

  “But where are the bodies? Are they still in the house?”

  “You’ve never swept a goblin,” the stranger surmised with a grin. “Can’t say I’m surprised. No bodies, only smoke! You don’t kill a goblin, you just send ’em back to the shadows whence they came.”

  “I never knew,” said Sloot.

  “You hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “Nothin’,” said the stranger with a satisfied smirk. “Nothin’ as far as the ear can hear. No goblins cacklin’, or smashin’ furniture, or commentatin’ on their boulderchuck league matches. Can’t beat nothin’ for proof that I done what I said I’d do.”

  She was right. There was a stillness emanating from within the house that screamed “no goblins in here, that’s for sure!” Sloot could hardly believe it, yet there was the silence.

  “Sure enough,” said Sloot. “Well done, friend! As promised―”

  “Sworn!”

  “Sorry, as sworn, your position in the house is guaranteed. We’ll put you on the books as ‘goblin sweep’ for now, Missus―”

  “Nan!” Sloot turned in surprise to see a burgundy satin-swaddled Wilhelm Hapsgalt running toward him with an exaggerated high step that one only sees in courtly runs designed for high-heeled shoes. Sloot didn’t practice them himself, but had walked through the arts district often enough to know it was probably called something like the Ponzi Ponce or the Bishop’s Trot. Unsure of what else he could do, he curled himself into the classic Coward’s Defense and resolved to think happy thoughts until after the younger Lord Hapsgalt was finished colliding with him.

  But the impact never came. After a moment, he looked up to see the younger Lord Hapsgalt snuggled into the lap of the stranger, who was stroking his hair.

  “Wait,” said Sloot, “did you say ‘Nan’?”

  “Well of course I did. It’s her name, silly!”

  “That’s enough cheek, Willie,” said Nan. “I hadn’t given Mr. Peril my name, there was no way he’d have known.”

  “Oh. All right.”

  “Oh dear,” said Sloot. His panic regarding the whole Carpathian spy bit yielded the floor, albeit briefly, to the terrifying realization that he’d just unwittingly defied the elder Lord Hapsgalt.

  “Run along for a moment Willie,” said Nan, ruffling Willie’s hair. “Nan’s got to have a talk with Mr. Peril.”

  “I can stay,” whined Willie, his jaw jutting outward in defiance.

  “If you want,” said Nan, “but it’ll be boring. Grown-up stuff.”

  “Oh.” Willie appeared to weigh his options for a moment, then picked up a stick, brandished it like a sword, and ran into the house with a “tally ho!”

  “Look,” said Nan, “I know that Lord Hapsgalt don’t want me around Willie.”

  “Well, in point of fact, no,” said Sloot. The fact that she’d broached the subject for him did little to mollify his feeling of awkwardness, which was currently standing naked in front of a fictive classroom, unable to move.

  “He says I’m keeping the boy soft.” Nan paused to relight her pipe. “He’s six years old! How hard were any of us at that age? Not fair to hold that against me, in any case.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Sloot, “how old did you say Willie is?”

  “Six. His birthday’s not for another month. Don’t worry, plenty of time to buy him a present.”

  “We must be talking about a different Willie. The younger Lord Hapsgalt is forty-two, unless I’ve got my math wrong.” He hadn’t. Not once in his life.

  “Ha! The younger Lord Hapsgalt! You’re a riot! I mean, that is his proper title, but to talk like that of a six-year-old boy!”

  “I’m confused,” said Sloot, who was. “The fellow who just walked into the house?”

  “Aye.”

  “That’s the younger Lord Hapsgalt.”

  “So formal!” said Nan with a delighted chuckle.

  “In the high heels and the burgundy satin. Big nose, thin moustache.”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve eyes, ain’t I?”

  “You believe that he is six years old?”

  “’Tis the truth! Whether I believe it or no matters not.”

  “And the moustache?”

  Nan shrugged. “Early bloomer.”

  Reality
and Sloot were old friends. Until recently, that friendship had been boring and predictable, much to his satisfaction. He was starting to miss that reality, and the Sloot-shaped impression he’d made in it by sitting in it the same way every day of his life.

  “Listen,” said Sloot, in an attempt to get the conversation back on a sensible track. Unfortunately, unaccustomed as he was to managing lunacy, that was as far as he managed to get.

  “No, you listen! You’ve sworn an oath on salt and spit. Break it now, and there’ll be no unseating the congress of goblins that moves in on Whitewood. I’m your goblin sweep until I say otherwise!”

  “That’s true, but―”

  “But nothing!” Nan planted her fists on her hips. “I don’t care what old Constantin has to say on the matter, and I don’t care how old Willie is. He’s only six years old, and he needs his Nan!”

  Sloot was at a disadvantage. He couldn’t break his oath, and he had an utter dearth of talent for dealing with irrationality. He briefly entertained the notion that she’d be more receptive to absurdity than reason, and tried to concoct some; unfortunately, all he could think of was ducks eating toast, which was a small step away from ducks eating bread, which wasn’t absurd at all.

  In the end, Nan agreed to keep out of sight when the elder Lord Hapsgalt or his agents turned up at the house. She said that she’d been doing just that for years.

  “Where’s Master Wilhelm?” asked Roman, having appeared suddenly.

  “Don’t call me that,” said Willie, whose timing was impeccable. “Call me Willie, that’s my name. Also, I have a question. Where is my house?”

  “Er, this is it,” Sloot replied. “The one you were just in.”

  “I doubt it,” said Willie. “That house is all wrecked up. I’m supposed to move into Whitewood. It’s very fancy.”

  “It will be,” said Sloot. “We’ve only just got the goblins out. We’ve got workers coming in today to fix it up and bring the furniture.”

  Folding his arms, Willie glanced back at the house. His face showed no deference to anyone else’s busy schedule, taking its sweet time in wrinkling into an expression of dissatisfaction.