The figure at the end of the tunnel paused, shook a fist in Jimmy’s direction, and disappeared left.
“Who’s Jort?” said the gravedigger, hurrying after him.
“Powerful god.”
“Really? I’ve never heard of him.”
“No, well, I can’t say I’m totally shocked. He doesn’t get much publicity in these parts.”
Jimmy nodded. “Who does?”
They pursued Lopsalm to the end of the tunnel, where a door gaped open to reveal an ancient and precipitously steep staircase. Footsteps were just barely audible some six or seven flights up.
“Where d’you reckon they go?” asked the barrowbird.
Jimmy shrugged. “A fair way, I imagine. Judging from the echo, they might even lead to the cathedral roof.”
“Incredible! The architect who built this place must’ve been out of his bloody mind.”
“Or religious,” Jimmy added. “In practice, it seems to amount to the same thing.”
The stairs went on and on. Jimmy counted more than four hundred before they ran out on him. There was an old wooden trapdoor in the ceiling, and nowhere else to go.
He took a second to sniff the air and cautiously lifted the door. A blanket of rain splattered on his face.
Thunder rumbled overhead.
The barrowbird took off.
Jimmy padded out onto the flat expanse of the roof. Unfortunately, before Jimmy could begin the hunt, Lopsalm dropped from a gargoyle’s outstretched wing and clubbed him on the back of the neck with a candlestick.
Lopsalm stepped forward, his lips curled in a terrible smile.
He reached down and snatched hold of Jimmy’s leg. Then he dragged the gravedigger into the center of the cathedral roof and, after observing his handiwork for a few minutes, produced a minibow from the depths of his robe.
“Your death will be … interesting,” he muttered. “Certainly not fast, but enjoyable nevertheless.
Jimmy was beginning to come round, his vision clearing to reveal the demonic features of Lopsalm, and beyond, a tiny black speck descending from the sky at an alarming rate. The priest noticed Jimmy’s wandering gaze.
Lopsalm stepped back and squinted up at the sky, mere seconds before the barrowbird came into view. He raised the minibow and fired. The arrow arced into the air, striking the bird with such force that it flew backward a few feet before it began to plummet.
But the bird’s diversion had bought Jimmy a few valuable seconds. The gravedigger catapulted himself to his feet, kicked the bow from Lopsalm’s grasp, and shoved the priest backward, hard.
Lopsalm faltered and tried to right himself, but it was too late. Jimmy lashed out with a fist and sent the Yowler priest hurtling dangerously close to the edge of the cathedral roof. Lopsalm managed to snatch at a protruding slate and save himself, but as he struggled to regain his footing, the momentum of his impromptu flight overtook him.
Jimmy saw his chance.
He leaped, landing with a well-placed boot in the middle of Lopsalm’s chest.
The collision was fast and furious. Lopsalm gasped and toppled backward, flapping his arms furiously in a last-ditch attempt to save himself.
A scream erupted.
And Lopsalm fell.
For a moment, there was silence.
Jimmy Quickstint, hunkered down on all fours and bleeding at the mouth, peered out over the edge of the roof. Through a blanket of fine rain, he glimpsed something very messy spread out on the steps below. The tally of Yowler followers in Dullitch, he reflected, had just gone down by one.
Jimmy sighed, and his heart slowed. He stared down dispassionately at the corpse, before the strangled cries of the barrowbird shook him from his reverie. He struggled to attain a standing position, and made his way over the damp tiles to where the bird lay squawking weakly, the arrow still protruding from its puffy breast.
“Awwk!”
“Be quiet. Let me pull it out.”
“It’s no good, mate. I’m a goner.”
“Nonsense. One sharp tug and—”
“I’m telling you, boy, it’s fatal. I’ve had it.”
“Where did you get such a negative attitude?”
“No joke. I’m—I’m—I’m—”
There was a sudden, pulse-stopping pause. Then a flash of lightning arced from the sky and struck the barrowbird. Surrounded by a shimmering wave of electric energy, it squawked, shuddered, and began to change shape.
Jimmy looked on, openmouthed, as the distortion took on the recognizable form of a small and very wiry old man. He was wearing a tattered piece of cloth stretched (rather to its limits) into a sort of diaper arrangement.
Thunder rumbled. Erratic lightning flashed again, even more brilliantly than before, and the skies darkened.
“What the bloody hell is this?” shouted Jimmy. “Who are you, some kind of metamorphic wizard?”
“No, mate,” said the old man, his breath beginning to fail. “Never gone much on wizardry, myself.”
“Necromancer?”
“N-no.”
“Sorcerer?”
“N-n-no.”
“A god then, I’m guessing.”
The old man shrugged. “No, th-though I was cursed by the disciples of a particularly watchful one.
Jimmy’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re just a mortal man who annoyed a god?”
“Ha! Y-y-you g-got it.”
“Are you going to die?”
“Y-yes, but not before you promise me something.”
Jimmy’s concerned expression drained away; it was replaced by an apprehensive twitch. “It doesn’t involve another roof, does it? I’m actually pretty terrified of heights.”
“L-L-Lopsalm’s n-not alone. M-make sure you g-g-get the others. T-t-terrible doooom.”
“What? How can I? I don’t even know who the others are, damn it! These are the Yowlers we’re talking about. There might be hundreds of them!”
“P-p-p-promise.”
“No …”
“P-p-p-p-promise.”
“No!”
“P-p-p-p-p-promise.”
“NO!”
“P-p-p …”
“All right, I promise!! But I can’t—”
The old man died.
“Damn you!” Jimmy screamed. “Now I’ve made a promise I can’t bloody keep. You crafty, vindictive, decrepit old … corpse!”
As if in reply, the skies opened up and Jimmy was pelted with hailstones. Throwing his arms up over his head, he made a valiant turn against the rain and out over the wide, statue-covered roof. With any luck he’d be able to get to the trapdoor before the gods stoned him to death. He certainly wouldn’t be taking the shortcut down.
THIRTY-FIVE
THE FRENZIED ACTIVITY OF the city guard had brought most of the inhabitants of the harbor district out into the streets.
Viscount Curfew, who’d decided to personally oversee the destruction of the machine in Warehouse Six, stood at the rear of the demolition team, shouting orders and offering the occasional boon of encouragement when a particularly big chunk crashed to the ground. The team, who’d obviously been informed of the machine’s imminent threat to the city, were hacking away at its various extremities like men possessed, while an ogre-led brute force (employed at the very last minute by an inspired guard sergeant) made light work of the many bits the main team couldn’t handle. Giant, angled mirrors came crashing to the floor, while various tubular wooden arms containing even more reflective barriers were ripped off and soundly stamped into dust. Curfew prayed to the gods of justice that those responsible surfaced quickly.
Obegarde and Spires mingled among the growing assembly of late-night harbor workers, assuring them that there was nothing to worry about, and urging them to return to their business.
“It’s a routine inspection,” Spires explained to one bystander, while Obegarde, bluffing with greater success, offered another the explanation that “His lordship got a letter of complaint from the Harbor
Master; we don’t know who owns the thing, but it’s taking up far too much room.”
As was usually the case in Dullitch, the crowd ended up squabbling among themselves and generally forgot what all the fuss had been about in the first place.
Curfew sidled up to his secretary. “Well, it’s done, Spires,” he whispered. “We’ve managed to destroy the machine and avoid any repercussions from the Yowlers.”
“You think so, milord?”
“Absolutely. They can’t interfere while they’re trying to disassociate themselves from this breakaway group. All we have to do now is round up the stragglers and haul them in. At least, all those still at large in Dullitch.”
“Very good, Excellency.”
“I want you to send a group of guards to Karuim’s Church. As soon as anyone sets foot outside that building, I want them arrested.”
“Yes, Excellency.”
Curfew turned back to face the demolition squad. “The most important thing would seem to be the machine and, thankfully, we’ve annihilated that.” He pointed over at the massed heap of rubble. “Dump it on a barge and ship it out!” he screamed at the city guards. “You’ve done a good job, men. A very good job!”
As the crowd dispersed, Obegarde spotted Alan Sorrow and managed to catch up with the quartermaster before his guards vacated the warehouse.
“Yes, what is it now?”
“Did you catch the gnome?”
“Now, listen—”
Obegarde made a frantic grab for the quartermaster. “Did you or didn’t you?” he yelled, as three of Sorrow’s subordinates wrenched him away from their commander.
“No, we didn’t,” Sorrow fumed, shoving Obegarde into the impromptu wall formed by his men. “In fact, I very much doubt if there even was a frigging gno—Lord Curfew, what can we do for your excellency?”
The guard group parted to admit the viscount, Spires waddling along after him like an affectionate puppy.
“Is there a problem, here?” the viscount said.
“No problem, lordship, but this fellow here is getting to be a—”
“Hero?”
“Well, no—”
“City defender? Champion of the people? Choose your words wisely, Master Sorrow. You have the gnome known as Mixer in custody?”
Sorrow looked to his men for support but, unsurprisingly, they had all mooched away.
“Um … not exactly, lordship.”
“I assume you’re working on it.”
“Absolutely, lordship.”
Obegarde shook his head and marched from the warehouse. “As I said before, I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
THIRTY-SIX
OBEGARDE WAS QUITE SURPRISED when, returning from the harbor district, he ran straight into the ragbag youth from the church. He was even more surprised when the stranger saw him, turned on his heel, and fled off up the lane.
“Hey, you! Wait there!”
The loftwing gave chase, hurtling over the cobbles and leaping the odd rubbish bin strategically kicked in his path. Eventually he cornered the stranger in an alley between Winding Way and Birch Street.
“My name’s Jimmy Quickstint,” Jimmy bleated. “I’m just a gravedigger. I’m not a thief, or an assassin, or a priest, or a curate, or anything to do with Yowler. I don’t know how I got involved in all this—just leave me alone!”
Obegarde grinned and nodded. “Jareth Obegarde, investigator; and you’re not going anywhere until you tell me why the gnome tried to kill you.”
“I don’t know why!” said Jimmy, exasperated. “He just did. He killed Grab, too.”
“Grab?”
“Yeah, Grab Dafisful; mind you, that was probably due to stealin’ for those cultists. That was why the bird was after him in the first place.”
“What’s this? A bird? I think you’d better tell me everything from the beginning.”
Jimmy collapsed into a sniveling heap on the floor. “I was afraid you’d say that,” he said. “But I’m tired. I’m so tired I can barely stand up.”
Obegarde helped the gravedigger to his feet. “I think I know somewhere you’d get a really good night’s sleep,” he said. “You can tell me all about your adventures on the way.”
So they walked, and they talked. At least, Jimmy talked and, apart from the occasional “What’s that?” and the more frequent “You’re having me on,” Obegarde listened.
THIRTY-SEVEN
ELSEWHERE IN THE CITY, Duke Modeset was nodding off to sleep in his new room, when the window rattled. He turned over and tugged on the mangy rag that the innkeeper had assured him was a blanket.
A wolf howled, and the window rattled.
Modeset frowned, opened one eye, and peered over the edge of the blanket. Outside, the twin moons kept up their nighttime vigil. He couldn’t see anything beyond the barrier, so, hugging his knees for warmth, he tried to drift off again.
An owl hooted, and the windows rattled.
It’s that rotten bastard of an innkeeper, he thought. I bet there was a wedge for that window and he’s had it removed … out of spite.
He sat up in bed and fixed his gaze on the glass as the downtime rains began their vigorous bombardment of the city.
The window rattled.
Modeset sighed, leaped out of bed, and padded across the room. He didn’t know what he expected to see, but it’d be fair to say that a vampire hanging from the gutter probably wouldn’t have made his top ten.
Inconceivable, he thought. Forty-seven rooms and he’s still gone and bloody found me.
The window was opened, and Obegarde barreled into the room. He did a neat little forward roll onto the floorboards, stood up, patted himself down, then spun around. Modeset thought he looked bigger in the half-light of the moons.
“Hello again,” Obegarde said, not unpleasantly.
“Yes, indeed,” said Modeset. “Good of you to visit. Er … how’s everything going?”
Obegarde shrugged. “So-so,” he said. “Nice room, this. Classy furniture.”
“Yes, indeed,” said the duke. “I expect you’re wondering how I persuaded the innkeeper to part with it?”
“No,” said Obegarde, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “Actually, I was wondering why you didn’t open the window sooner.”
Modeset smiled humorlessly. “Now just look here: I’ve said I’ll go and see this Vrunak chap. What more do you want?”
“I just wanted to tell you what I’ve found out.”
Modeset folded his arms. He looked nonplussed. “I thought you didn’t want me to stick my nose in,” he said. “And then, as I recall, you almost broke it.”
“Yeah, okay, but you might as well help now you’re involved.”
“What? I’m not involved! Not one bit.”
Obegarde straightened himself up. He was well over six feet tall and, as far as Modeset could see, his wide chest didn’t contain one ounce of flab.
“You’re involved because I say you’re involved,” he began. “If you wanted to stay out of the case, you shouldn’t have broken into the warehouse.”
Modeset threw up his arms. “I didn’t break into the warehouse, you idiot! I already told you what happened.”
“Mmm. A likely story, and you’re still going to Vrunak’s house tomorrow. Now, listen—oh! I almost forgot.”
Obegarde hurried over to the window, stuck his head outside, and motioned down toward the street. A few minutes later, a figure fell, puffing and wheezing, through the window and onto the floor of the room.
Obegarde gave Modeset a friendly grin. “I believe you know Jimmy Quickstint,” he said.
When the duke had stopped shouting, Obegarde proceeded to tell him about Lopsalm, the second coming of Doiley, the missing book, and Jimmy’s involvement with the barrowbird. Modeset eventually got to sleep at a quarter to seven.
THIRTY-EIGHT
IN THE FRONT GARDEN of a small cottage on Royal Road, a bush rattled in an extremely suspicious manner.
Jimmy Quicksti
nt, who had circled the building twice, leaped over the low front wall to crouch beside the bush.
“There’s nobody about,” he said. “The kitchens are deserted, and I’ve had a squint in all the windows on the first floor. Why don’t you just go and knock?”
Modeset stuck his head out of the biggest bush. “This is a very delicate matter,” he said. “I’d thank you not to interfere beyond surveillance suggestions.”
“It’s up to you, Duke Modeset. I’m just trying to help.”
“Well, don’t.”
Modeset was getting sick and tired of Jimmy. He’d already sent Flicka back to the inn because of her constant nagging—now he had to put up with the gravedigger’s irritating chatter.
Jimmy yawned. “At least you can tell Obegarde we’ve checked the place out,” he said. “There’s obviously no one here.”
“Please be quiet.”
“Fine, fine.”
Modeset got to his feet and stepped out of the bush, shoving the gravedigger aside. He marched up the garden path and hammered on the door.
“Mr. Vrunak? Mr. Vrunak! My name is Modeset. I wondered if I could have a quick chat with you.”
Nothing.
Modeset put an ear to the door and listened, but he couldn’t hear any movement from within.
“Kick it down,” Jimmy urged. “No one’ll hear.”
“Shh! There must be another way.”
“What d’you mean? A key under the welcome mat?”
Modeset looked down. There was no welcome mat. “Probably not,” he admitted. “I’ll try the flowerpot instead.”
He reached down and lifted the pot, but there was nothing underneath it. He then tried running a hand under the wooden overhang at the foot of the door, working a finger into the keyhole and, finally, trying to get his fingernails around the edge of a fractured pane.
“Pity,” said Jimmy, when he’d given up. “Full marks for effort, though.”
Modeset shrugged. “Well, I’ve done what he asked me to do,” he said, knowing deep down that it wouldn’t be enough. “What more can he reasonably expect? It’s not my fault if the man’s not in.”
“Exactly. We should go; I mean, we can hardly wait here all day.”
Yowler Foul-Up Page 10
