Mongrel

by K. Z. Snow

  “I’m counting on them to be intrigued enough to show up,” he told Will.

  “I think they’ll be intrigued, all right,” Will answered, “but you might also want to count on them circumventing your conditions. I can’t imagine Pushbin or Hunzinger coming to meet you without some kind of backup. They don’t trust you, Fan. They know you’re a light sucker. So don’t be surprised if they either insist on being allowed a security detail or they sneak one onto the site. I’ll wager they won’t show up without protection.”

  Will made sense, and it turned out he was right. Pushbin contacted Fanule by voxbox just hours after receiving his letter. He and Mr. Hunzinger were considering the offer, he said, but were concerned about “not being allowed any bodyguards.”

  “I’ll be there by myself,” Fanule responded. “You’ll be able to see that I’m alone when you arrive. The point of meeting in a meadow is that there’s no place for would-be attackers to hide.”

  Pushbin seemed somewhat reassured when he learned Fanule would be alone, but the mayor still haggled with him. They finally agreed that each of them could be accompanied by no more than two men, including the drivers of their vehicles. Fanule insisted those extra men remain a certain distance away from the conference tent. And so they haggled about the appropriate distance.

  In the end, though, Pushbin agreed to the meeting. In the end, Fanule still didn’t trust him or Hunzinger.

  There was one last detail to attend to. After debating with himself for days and consulting with Marrowbone about enlisting the aid of Simon Bentcross, Fanule approached the disenfranchised bounty hunter.

  “Have you ever worked with explosives, or incendiary devices?” Fanule asked one day as Simon puttered with his aeropod behind Fanule’s house.

  “Twice. Why?”

  “How would you feel about destroying some buildings after making certain no people were in them? I know of three Taintwellians who’d be willing and able to help.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Simon replied.

  Fanule was ready to battle the dragon.

  Chapter Sixteen

  THREE lamps burned on the large round table Fanule had borrowed from the White Inn, and only three chairs were set around it. The canopy that covered the meeting area was large enough to allow for comfortable movement around the table. Veils of mosquito netting served as walls.

  Fanule arrived at the site first. He’d put the materials for his presentation in a wood box, and this he set on the ground beside his chair. Then he went back to his horse and wagon and waited for his guests to arrive.

  Around mid-afternoon, the inn’s proprietors had called Fanule and told him a group of men had shown up in the meadow. Mr. Stitch had hurried outside to see what they were up to, but it seemed all they were doing was examining the lay of the land. They walked along, sweeping their feet through the grasses and wildflowers, and peered at the surrounding distant woods and farm fields. Then they looked beneath the canopy, where there was little to see. And then they departed.

  Fanule assured the innkeepers there was nothing to be concerned about. Pushbin and Hunzinger were obviously being overly cautious. “That’s what I figured,” said Mrs. Stitch. “It’s always the most untrustworthy people who are the least trusting of others.”

  Hunzinger and Pushbin arrived in two separate but equally ostentatious steamers. Each man sat beside his driver and had a third person stationed in the rear seat. Fanule had driven his own conveyance, the small, horse-drawn wagon, and his men had both ridden in the back. Now, though, they both sat on the driver’s bench as Fanule stood beside Cloudburst.

  The steamers were parked roughly fifty yards to the south of the tent, on the Purinton side of the meadow. The cart stood roughly fifty yards to the north of the tent, on the Taintwell side of the meadow. In spite of the distance that separated the two groups of attendees, they seemed to be facing off like knights at a jousting tournament.

  Fanule glanced up at Will, perhaps for inspiration and a final infusion of strength, and Will gave him a smile of encouragement. Then he glanced at Clancy Marrowbone, just to make sure the vampire’s distinctive hair wasn’t visible beneath the hood of his cloak, but Marrowbone didn’t acknowledge his look. The vampire’s gaze was trained on Fanule’s adversaries.

  The three principals simultaneously approached the tent, their footfalls rustling through the grass.

  Fanule, who got there first, pulled aside the mosquito netting and stepped up to his seat at the table. He remained standing. This would be, he realized, the first time he’d come face-to-face with Alphonse Hunzinger.

  Pushbin, looking edgy and defensive, entered the tent first. Fanule acknowledged him with a nod. The mayor cleared his throat as his gaze skittered around the table. Fanule waited for the larger bulk of Hunzinger to slip between the veils. And when it did—when that fleshy, whiskered face appeared, scowling through the lamplight, and those eyes, as charmless as plugs of tobacco, fixed on Fanule’s face—palpable hatred filled the tent. It came from two sources and virtually gushed across the table.

  Hunzinger seemed grudgingly impressed by Fanule’s appearance and stature. There’d been an almost imperceptible lift to his heavy brows and a tic betrayed by his facial hair when the two of them finally stood facing one another. “There’s no preparing for standing beside you and seeing you up close,” Will had once told him, and this had indeed been borne out by Fanule’s experience with other people.

  Using his height to his advantage, Fanule stood ramrod straight, his arms crossed over his chest, and gazed at Hunzinger from beneath slightly lowered eyelids. “Permit me to introduce myself,” he said coolly. “I am Fanule Perfidor, the Eminence of Taintwell.” He smiled, with even less warmth. “The Dog King.”

  “I know who you are,” Hunzinger muttered. “Why are we here?”

  Fanule lowered his arms. “Let’s take a seat—shall we?—and I’ll explain.” He pulled out his chair.

  The other two men reluctantly did the same.

  “Mr. Pushbin,” Fanule said, refusing to address him as mayor, “I’d brought you a petition and asked that you respond to it within a fortnight. But I’ve heard nothing, either from you or from anybody in your office.”

  “We’re very busy,” Pushbin said peevishly. “The issues facing Purinton take precedence over the grumblings of disaffected Mongrels.”

  Fanule’s pot of hatred again began to simmer. “We’re merely ‘disaffected’, you say.”

  “For the most part.”

  “Would you also say that being the target of a hired assassin is good cause for disaffection?”

  Pushbin’s eyes shifted around. “I don’t know what—”

  “And I beg to differ,” Fanule said, leaning forward and skewering the mayor with his gaze. “You know exactly what. You know all about the nutless weasel named Robin Thornwood and the scorpion called Hackenslash.”

  The flickering lamplight seemed to lap all the color and firmness out of Pushbin’s face.

  “What does any of this have to do with me?” Hunzinger snapped. “I’m merely a businessman.” He’d tried to sound indignant at being put-upon, like an innocent man unfairly stained with guilt through association, but there was tension in his voice.

  “I’m getting to that,” Fanule said.

  He began drawing items from the box at his feet. As he put each one on the table, he explained the progression of events that had led to an unavoidable conclusion: a conspiracy against Mongrels was afoot, and it involved City Hall, every agency within the Truth and Justice Building, and Hunzinger’s Mechanical Circus.

  His guests couldn’t dispute the seamless logic that resulted from fitting together the personal accounts and physical evidence. Although Hunzinger was outraged by some of Fanule’s materials, for it was clear they’d been acquired through trespassing, snooping, and theft, he had no defense for the existence of those damning materials.

  At one point, when Hunzinger seemed to reach the height of his impotent fury,
he rose from the table and pulled aside the cascade of netting. Fanule thought he might be leaving, but he merely stared into the darkness and drew deep breaths. After ten seconds, he resumed his seat.

  He might have calmed his temper, but he hadn’t conceded defeat. That much was evident from his bearing. “Why should we take you seriously?” he asked. “We know most Mongrels have no special powers. They’re simply… freaks of nature. And we know Taintwell has no organized government, much less any kind of militia.”

  As Fanule considered his answer, he noticed that Pushbin had grown distinctly more ill at ease. His gaze swerved over his shoulder, although there was nothing to see, then to Hunzinger’s face, then over his other shoulder. It was just as Fanule realized something must be going on, something he was unaware of, that he heard movement in the grass—a soft, steady whisper of displaced blades and stems.

  Fanule bolted from his chair just as he heard Will shout, “Fan, get down!” He immediately dropped to the ground.

  For countless moments, chaos reigned. A gunshot tore through the night, a man uttered a strangled cry of shock and terror, Pushbin and Hunzinger tried to duck beneath the table, Will rushed into the tent and immediately dove for Fanule, asking if he was hurt, and Clancy Marrowbone’s voice sounded from somewhere above.

  “You can get up now, Fan,” he said, placid as a pigeon.

  With Will still touching his back and gripping his arm, Fanule rose to his feet. Pushbin and Hunzinger struggled up from beneath the table. The mayor, his eyes like saucers, stumbled backward and clumsily fell into his chair. Hunzinger’s hand flew to his throat as a startled sound came from his mouth.

  Petrified, they stared at the figure in the middle of the table.

  “Hello,” said Marrowbone. “As you gentlemen know, I’m not the Eminence of anything, unless it’s a room full of rather short people.” He licked his lips in a leisurely way. “Or lifeless bodies.”

  “You always did know how to make an entrance, Clancy,” Fanule said as he resumed his seat.

  Marrowbone, who’d been kneeling on all fours, lackadaisically fell back on his haunches. Blood streaked the lower half of his face. He held a pistol in his left hand.

  His gaze slid over Pushbin and Hunzinger, dousing them with contempt. “You silly, overfed, overconfident cockroaches. You stupid, stupid bugs. What were you thinking? When are you going to learn that attempting to cause harm to innocent people will only get you into trouble?” Clancy lifted the pistol and regarded it as his awe-inspiring tongue swept over his lips, savoring the blood that still clung there.

  Pushbin’s shoulders bounced as his cheeks puffed out. He clamped a hand over his mouth.

  “If that disgusts you,” said Will, “try drinking some Dr. Bolt’s Bloodroot Elixir.”

  Hunzinger glared at him. “You have been diddling Perfidor, you miserable, traitorous little twor. How did you get away from Bentcross?”

  Will’s face melted into a cherubic smile. “Maybe I’ve been diddling him, too.”

  Fanule chuckled. He wanted to grab Will and kiss him. Even Clancy grinned.

  Hunzinger and then Pushbin began to get up. Marrowbone lazily waved the pistol in front of their faces. “I suggest you both sit down and remain seated until Mr. Perfidor dismisses you.” His forehead creased. “Do you truly have no idea how fast I can move? Your scorpion just found out. Would you also like a demonstration?” He swiped two fingers past a corner of his mouth and sucked them clean.

  “Clancy,” Fanule said, resuming his seat, “please take a moment to clean up. You might want to turn your back while you do it.” He knew the vampire routinely carried a large handkerchief and two flasks with him—one filled with spirits of alcohol, the other with water—as well as a sprig of wintergreen or mint. He was very fastidious.

  Marrowbone placed the pistol between Fanule and Will. He leapt from the table as nimbly as a praying mantis and stood facing the meadow. “You might want to look to the west,” he said to the men at his back.

  The four men in the tent turned their heads toward the White Inn, which sat directly across Whitesbain Plank Road. Its lights were no longer visible. Instead, hundreds of dark silhouettes packed the area between conference tent and highway. More figures trickled around the tent until the temporary shelter was encircled.

  “Who are they?” Pushbin breathed out.

  “The people you and Mr. Hunzinger must answer to,” Fanule said.

  Feeding the grapevine had worked marvelously well. The Branded Mongrels of Taintwell had been more than happy to congregate at the White Inn and the outbuildings behind it. They were supposed to wait for a signal from the Eminence before flowing into the meadow, but the ruckus caused by Marrowbone’s surprise attack on the creeping scorpion had apparently drawn them outside.

  “I told you something like this would happen,” Hunzinger growled at Pushbin.

  “If you’re so prescient,” Fanule said caustically, “why didn’t you tell me a scorpion would be riding with the mayor?”

  Hunzinger didn’t answer. Pushbin winced. They both pulled their arms against their bodies and curled their shoulders in, as if trying to contract themselves into unnoticeable specks.

  Fanule could see what their plan had been: have the scorpion slither through the grass and up to the tent after one of them summoned him. The man would pop up at the gap Hunzinger had left in the wall of netting, point his gun at the Eminence, and fire. If the scorp was swift and agile, as most of them certainly were, Fanule would’ve had precious little time to react.

  Hunzinger and Pushbin would undoubtedly have gathered up all of Fanule’s evidence and beat a hasty retreat. They would’ve said the shooter was some crazed stranger who came out of nowhere. Later, the Enforcement Agency might’ve even claimed they’d captured him and discovered he was an escapee from the Cindermound Asylum.

  “We Mongrels have been easy targets until now,” Fanule said to his guests. “First, because we’ve had no champions in Purinton, thanks to the demonization that’s gone on for countless years. Second, because most Mongrels have no special powers with which to defend themselves.”

  Will, who stood behind Fanule, asked in surprise, “Then why draw their blood to put in a tonic?”

  “Because of other characteristics. Like longevity, sharp senses, sexual endurance, athletic prowess. Mongrels possess quite an array, depending on lineage.”

  Hunzinger, his face expressionless, turned down his eyes.

  Fanule slid one last piece of paper across the table. “The petition I gave you, Mr. Pushbin, is no longer a petition. It’s now a list of demands. Here’s an addendum. There will be no compromises.”

  “You can’t coerce us,” Pushbin muttered.

  Fanule arched one eyebrow. “No?”

  His gaze shifted from Pushbin’s florid face to the tongue of flame clinging to a lamp wick. The flame elongated for a moment, stretching toward him, leaving a smear of black soot on the chimney. Then, in a blink, the light was gone. Hunzinger and Pushbin drew back in their chairs as the mayor made an abrupt sound that stuck in his throat. They could obviously see the flare of illumination in Fanule’s eyes.

  “I assure you, gentlemen, many Mongrels do have special powers. You just don’t know who those Mongrels are. Or what they can do. We have among us an air spinner, animal caller, fog weaver, rearranger, and earth shaker. There are others as well. Like that stinger who got away from you.” He paused, then motioned to his left. “Oh, and let us not forget Mr. Marrowbone, who has quite a few acquaintances. It would be in your best interest not to underestimate what we’re capable of doing.”

  Pushbin chewed on something that wasn’t there. “So you’re saying if these ‘demands’”—he gave the newly introduced paper a petulant flick with his fingertips—“aren’t met, you’ll unleash those creatures on all of Purinton?”

  “No. Those creatures,” Fanule said, “myself included, would only be unleashed against specific targets. And only as a last resort. Another part
of our plan is to contact newspapers throughout this and other provinces and expose the sordid underbelly of Purinton.”

  Marrowbone, the blood washed from his skin, turned to face the gathering. “Seems to me,” he said, “the Lord High Mayor and his staff have little recourse but to resign, and Mr. Hunzinger has little choice but to sell his circus and retire to a distant land.”

  “That sounds like a good start,” Will said, curling a hand over Fanule’s shoulder.

  Fanule covered Will’s hand with his own.

  Pushbin opened then closed his mouth. He glumly perused the list of demands. Hunzinger looked deflated. His gaze moved continuously over the restless, shadowy figures outside the tent, as if their stares and muted chatter and occasional bursts of laughter meant they were plotting his doom.

  Fanule didn’t tell his neighbors they could go home now. He wanted the effect of their presence to settle deep within the suited and bejeweled men at the table.

  Suddenly, Pushbin looked from the page to Fanule. “You want to raze the Truth and Justice Building?”

  “Yes.” At that moment, he felt William tenderly stroke the hair over his ears. “A team of Taintwellians will handle the demolition.”

  “But—”

  “No compromise,” Fanule said frigidly.

  The crowd in the meadow sent up a collective, questioning murmur. Light pulsed into the sky in the northeast, past Granite Point Lighthouse. Shortly thereafter, faint rumblings came from the same direction.

  The stark realization that a deathblow had been struck drained the last vestiges of smugness from Alphonse Hunzinger’s face.

  “It’s too bad,” Fanule said quietly, “that the dunes won’t reclaim Civic Center Plaza the way they’ll be reclaiming Seagrass Lane.”

  Epilogue