Текст книги "The Spell of Undoing"

Автор книги: Paul Collins

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Paul Collins
The Spell of Undoing

A DEAL IS STRUCK

Tab Vidler was having a bad day and it was about to get worse. She wrung out her mop and rested on its handle. By her reckoning, it was her birthday. But no one at the orphanage knew, and none would care even if they did. She couldn't even afford to buy herself something special to celebrate. The Dung Brigaders weren't aid for their work – it was enough, said Mrs Figgin, the orphanage owner, to have a roof over their heads and two square meals a day. Grub ’n’ keep, it was called.

Bone-weary, Tab sighed. She had just scrubbed the latrines, mopped the floors, washed and dried the morning's dishes, and next she was expected to go to market and collect the dung deposited by an army of horses, oxen, and other creatures used to haul wagons. All she wanted to do was lie down and daydream of being a famous magician like Nisha Fairsight – someone who commanded great respect in the community. A person of restrained power. Someone people left alone. Of course, if she'd had even a smidgen of magical power she would have cast a spell on the orphanage, making it sparkling clean. Then she could have had the day off and gone to the Great River celebrations on the eastern bank, just beyond the cemetery. Everyone was either going or had gone already. Everyone except her, and those Dung Brigaders currently sweeping the streets.

Tab paused by a window. A family, mother and father, boy and girl, strolled past the orphanage. They were laughing. Tab's stomach churned. If only she had a family. Despondency fell on her like a shroud.

‘Wake up, you stupid girl,’ snapped Mrs Figgin.

Tab jumped. Her green cats’ eyes narrowed as she returned the landlady's glare.

‘Look alive! I'll have no shilly-shallying on my deck,’ said Mrs Figgin, prim lips pulled into a thin line. ‘Shape up or ship out.’ Mrs Figgin, whose husband had fled to sea soon after their marriage, liked her naval terms. ‘And get that look off your face, if you know what's good for you.’

Tab hung her head. It didn't pay to answer back, especially when the old prune was in one of her ‘moods’. Food was scarce as it was, and being sent to bed without supper was just about the worst punishment a Dung Brigader could get. Or so Tab thought at the time.

Mrs Figgin shook her head. ‘I don't know what I'm going to do with you. There's more water on this floor than what's in the bucket.’

‘It leaks,’ Tab said.

‘What? What did you say?’ Mrs Figgin demanded.

‘It leaks,’ she said stubbornly. ‘The bucket. It leaks.’

Mrs Figgin picked up the bucket and inspected the bottom. ‘It does no such thing, you little liar.’

Just then the rusted handle snapped. The bucket tipped.

‘Oh! Oh!’ Mrs Figgin gasped.

Water grey as pig swill emptied on her head. She staggered back, stepped on a cake of soap, floundered, and fell with her skirt up around her waist.

Tab hadn't seen such a funny sight in all her life. One hand flew to her mouth as she tried to stifle the giggles that welled up inside her, but it was impossible. She doubled over with gurgling laughter.

‘Get out you little wretch! Out!’ Mrs Figgin screeched.

Tab backed away quickly as Mrs Figgin gathered her skirt and clambered to her feet. A tall sharp-faced woman with beetling brows and a hook nose, she was a formidable sight when provoked.

‘I'm – I'm sorry!’ Tab babbled. Try as she might, it was hard to sound sincere.

‘You will be,’ growled Mrs Figgin. ‘Get out of here. Now.’ Tab stared back, not comprehending. The woman's voice became a nasty snarl. ‘You will leave this house at once, do you hear? At once. And if I ever see your useless carcass again, I will summon the City Watch and have you locked up for vicious assault. Now get out!’

Tab stood stunned, but not for long.

A bucket came hurtling towards her and she turned and ran. More missiles followed. Ducking and weaving, Tab fled the house. By the time she'd reached the far side of the square, she was starting to realise the dilemma she was in.

She was homeless.

Worse, she was without a copper round. Unless she could get back into the orphanage and get her few belongings. These included the silver coins she had stashed under a loose floorboard in the cellar. Without them she was in danger of being arrested for vagrancy. If that wasn't enough, it was strictly forbidden to keep money from Mrs Figgin (not that anyone was stupid enough to hand over any valuables found while digging dung) and if caught, she would be flogged to within an inch of her life.

The morning dragged by. Tab shifted locations every hour. That was the best way to avoid the City Watch, who would arrest children who stayed in one place too long. Those arrested, if unclaimed, were put to work, sometimes beneath Quentaris, so it didn't pay to get arrested. Luckily the bulk of the Watchmen were at the Tolrush siege. But even so…

By midday Tab was footsore, anxious and hungry. The stiff breeze gusting off the river carried with it the lunchtime smells of fried fish, jellied eels, and – from the harbour inns – the divine odour of roast duckling, fresh-baked mince pies, and the pungent Quentaran coffee. Tab's stomach rumbled loudly, but as there was nothing she could do about it right now, she tightened her belt and waited outside the orphanage.

She knew Mrs Figgin was taking her favourite Dung Brigaders – her ‘shipmates’ as she called them– to the celebrations outside the city; most of the others would be out on their shifts. That would leave the orphanage pretty much deserted. As she was thinking this, Mrs Figgin flounced out the front door, followed by a bunch of smug-faced Dung Brigaders. A wagon pulled up and the woman climbed into the seat beside the driver. The children scampered into the back and the wagon pulled away.

Tab didn't move till the clip-clop of the horse's hooves faded down the cobbled street. Then, nonchalantly, she strolled down the lane that ran beside the orphanage, pausing to check that no one was watching her. Here at the back of the building, a drainpipe that Tab and the others used when they wanted to go on errands after ‘lights out’ offered easy access to one as nimble as she. Though highly dangerous, certain disreputable people liked to employ the Dung Brigaders as runners at night: it was the only way the youngsters could make any real money.

One more check to make sure the coast was clear, and Tab shinnied up the pipe. With a little persuasion, a window lifted from its latch. Tab slipped though the opening, flinching as the frame creaked alarmingly.

Creeping down the stairs, Tab made for the cellar where she had hidden her silver coins. She'd already made up her mind not to risk going for her other belongings, which were pitifully few in any case. She reached the bottom of the stairs and paused, listening.

Where was Masher Mildon, Mrs Figgin's trusted rift world custodian? Masher, who was part-troll, hadn't gone with Mrs Figgin's party. Which meant he was lurking about the orphanage somewhere. The obnoxious creature, who had gotten his name because he liked ‘mashing’ children's faces with his gigantic fists, was always spying and reporting back to Mrs Figgin.

‘Wotcha doing?’

Tab's heart nearly stopped. If she had been thinking clearly she would have acted naturally, as though she had every right to be in the cellar. But no. Masher's voice came so suddenly, and was so suspicious, that Tab took flight.

‘C'mere!’ roared Masher.

Tab leapt forward. Behind her, Masher's rasping breath sounded close but laboured.

‘You little wretch!’ he bellowed.

Tab hit the cellar floor running. She swung around a large boiler. The slab floor was slick. Her feet skidded as though in slow motion and she slid smack bang into a wall.

Dazed, Tab shook her head. Masher slowed, stop ping just short of her. Already he was smacking his fist into the palm of his hairy hand. Tab's insides shrank. She cast about wildly. There was no escape, and the leer on Masher's face merely reflected that. One entrance – the stairway – was also the exit. In desperation, Tab backed away. Masher advanced. His toothless mouth was wide open and ropy threads of drool dribbled from it.

‘Cop your hiding, as is right,’ Masher crooned. ‘You done wrong. Been caught out. Take what's coming to you. Haw!’

Tab stumbled and fell. Something rattled underneath her. A metal grate. Quick as a flash, she fumbled at it with her fingers. Yes! The sluice pit. She yanked with all her strength. The grate didn't budge. Masher laughed. Tab relaxed her grip, pushed and jiggled to loosen the grate in its seat, then pulled again. It came up with a slurping sound.

Masher's grin hardened. He lurched forward.

Tab flung the grate across the floor. It skimmed the flagstones and crunched into Masher's toes.

‘You li'l horror!’ he screamed, hopping on one foot while he clutched the other.

Tab sucked in her breath and went feet first into the drainpipe.

It was a tight squeeze, but grease and oil and slime aided her passage. She dropped like a rock. Down she slid into darkness. Light above cut out abruptly. Around she swirled, panic making her gasp. She would never, ever, be able to climb out of here.

‘Argh!’ she screamed. ‘Noooo!’ Tab spread her feet apart. Nothing seemed to slow her race down into some horrible depths but she had to try.

Bright light flashed overhead. Street grates. Flash. Flash. Flash. She whizzed beneath them. Finally she came to a jarring halt. Every bone in her body ached.

Tab looked down. Her feet had wedged her at a T-junction. Water and unimaginable things swept around her and fell into a stinking culvert. If she fell in there she would never get out again. Rift world monsters were said to live in the sewers below Quentaris. True or not, she didn't want to find out.

She was stuck under a street grate. Water fell like a shower, splashing her. She daren't think what else was falling on her. Standing on tiptoes Tab reached up but her fingers fell short by at least two feet.

Exhausted, Tab slumped. ‘Help!’ she called feebly, expecting no reply.

Something blocked out the light. Tab looked up. Someone was looking down. It was a man. Tab couldn't be too sure, but he looked to be Simesian. They fancied mutton-chop whiskers and wore what they called classical clothing: ornate, and rather… colourful, with lots of frills and lace. He was lugging a leather case like an out-of-work actor.

‘Dear me, what do we have here?’ said the man, peering more closely down through the grille. His eyes narrowed. ‘You appear to be in something of a pickle… ’

‘I'm stuck,’ said Tab. ‘Could you lend me a hand?’

‘I? Surely you're jesting? I am Fontagu Wizroth the Third. Himself. And I make it a rule never to lend anything to anyone,’ said the man, looking pompously indignant. ‘Especially oversized sewer rats stuck in drainpipes. Good day to you.’

And with that he walked off.

Tab was left fuming, and was about to start cursing when the Simesian sidled back into view.

‘Mmm,’ he said.

Tab glared up at him. ‘What do you want now?’ she said.

The Simesian made a humming sound as though deliberating her question. ‘It may be that I was a little… er… hasty.’ He cast a quick, nervous glance up and down the street. ‘You see, I asked myself, what kind of child would be sneaking around in the sewer -’

‘I wasn't sneaking,’ muttered Tab.

But Fontagu hadn't heard, and he went on: ‘Then the answer hit me,’ he said. ‘A thief.’ He sounded very pleased with himself.

‘If I was in the Thieves’ Guild you'd be in big trouble right now,’ Tab threatened. ‘The Venerable Lightfingers would… I only went to get what's mine.’

Fontagu continued as if she hadn't spoken. ‘It just so happens that I'm in the market for a… a burglar, so to speak.’

Tab started to say she wasn't a burglar and maybe if he cleaned his ears out then he'd – but she stopped herself. She was down here and he was up there.

‘I – I might be able to help,’ she said.

‘Experienced, are you?’

‘Um… yeah.’

‘I don't suppose you have any references?’

Tab gritted her teeth. Luckily, Fontagu couldn't see because of the grille. ‘In my back pocket. I – can't quite reach them at the moment.’

‘Quite, quite,’ said Fontagu. He looked up and down the street again. ‘Of course, it doesn't look terribly good, you know.’

‘What doesn't?’

‘Getting stuck in a drainpipe. Perhaps you're not a very good burglar?’

Tab said hotly, ‘I'm the best burglar in Quentaris!’

The man smiled. ‘In that case, I propose a contract. Limited duration. High remuneration, plus expenses. Negligible danger. How say you?’

Tab frowned. She wasn't quite sure what ‘remuneration’ was, but understood that not only would she escape her present situation, she might get paid as well.

‘How much?’ said Tab.

‘Let us retire to a cosy tavern and discuss terms and conditions over a drink.’ ‘I'm too young to drink.’

‘Lemonade then,’ said Fontagu, showing some exasperation. ‘Agreed? If not, I'll be on my way and -’

‘Fine, fine,’ said Tab hurriedly. She felt she was being forced into something she might regret, but she had little choice.

The man gripped the street grate and pulled. It didn't budge. He gave a little high-pitched laugh and tried again. His face went red with the strain and his eyes bulged. ‘Bit. Out. Of. Shape,’ he gasped. Suddenly, the grate flew upwards. Fontagu staggered back and fell on his backside.

He got to his feet, looking thoroughly disgruntled. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Climb out of there.’

‘I need a hand.’

‘I need a hand.’ He mimicked her perfectly, though he made her sound even more pathetic. Grumbling, he knelt down, but even with Tab's outstretched hand he still couldn't quite reach her.

Tab flashed Fontagu a quick smile, the type Dung Brigaders reserved to appease Mrs Figgin and confuse Mildon. ‘You might have to lie down,’ she wheedled.

‘In the gutter?’ Fontagu sounded horrified. ‘Just who do you think I am?’

‘You're Fontagu Wizroth the Third,’ said Tab, as sweetly as she could. ‘And you've struck a deal with me.’

Fontagu glared at her. ‘I do hope you're worth it,’ he snapped. He took some silk handkerchiefs from his pocket and placed them strategically on the ground, then stretched out, wrinkling his nose as he did so.

This time his hand clenched Tab's and he hauled her up, grunting with the effort. She popped out of the drain, showering him with muck.

He sat up, looked down at his bespattered tunic, and wailed. ‘Oh, look what you've done! How could you?’

Fontagu was making so much noise Tab glanced nervously up and down the street. ‘Shhh!’ she hushed. ‘You'll have the City Watch on us!’

That shut him up.

Fontagu picked himself up out of the gutter, muttering that he'd never get his clothes clean again. Then his nose wrinkled. ‘Do you always… pong like that?’

Irritated, Tab said, ‘Tab Vidler, former Dung Brigader, at your service.’

‘I should have known.’ Fontagu wiggled his nose. ‘Oh, what have you got yourself into this time, Fontagu?’ He eyed Tab with distaste. ‘You may call me Fontagu,’ he said. ‘But don't presume that this makes us anything but casual acquaintances.’

‘Wouldn't think of it.’ Tab held out her hand to shake.

Fontagu looked at the grubby fingers in horror. ‘If I must,’ he muttered. He lightly shook Tab's hand and then carefully wiped his own manicured hand with a clean handkerchief.

‘Well, I'd best be going,’ Tab said. ‘Thanks for the help.’

‘Not so fast,’ said Fontagu. His hand shot out lightning fast, grasping Tab's shoulder. ‘There is the little matter of… our verbal contract.’

Tab was about to dislodge Fontagu's restraining hand – a simple flick of her wrist would do it – when she spied Masher. He didn't look happy. Certainly not if his face was any indication.

‘There you are, you little gutter thief!’ snarled Masher. Red-faced with anger he raised his belt.

Fontagu somehow manoeuvred Tab out of Masher's reach. ‘I say,’ said the Simesian. ‘I've just caught this child pickpocketing.’ He cuffed Tab's ear and taking her cue from this, she yelped and tried – not too desperately – to escape. Fontagu shook her.

‘She's a thief all right,’ said Masher, trying to duck around Fontagu to deliver his own brand of punishment.

Fontagu reached under his cloak and drew a shining sword. He didn't exactly point it at Masher but he kept it between the custodian and the girl. Masher eyed it with grudging respect. ‘Don't trouble yourself, good sir,’ said Fontagu. ‘I shall personally see to it that this one never bothers anyone again!’ With that, Fontagu frog-marched Tab across the square.

‘Please, Mr Mildon!’ Tab called piteously. ‘Help me!’

Masher's face oscillated between mirth and misery.

Tab took one last look at the fuming half-troll as Fontagu marched her around a corner. Masher stood with his hands on his hips, glaring after them.

The moment they turned the corner, Tab burst out laughing. ‘You saved me from a thrashing. I guess I really owe you now.’

Fontagu released her. ‘Where in the world did you learn to act like that? You were marvellous.’

‘I go to Fenn Morrow's Paragon Playhouse. It's the best in Quentaris.’ When Tab saw the disbelieving look on Fontagu's face, she added, ‘I never pay. I just sneak in at intermission. I've seen all the classics.’

Fontagu started to sheathe his sword but the sound it made caught Tab's attention. She suddenly reached out and felt the blade, then turned her own disbelieving eyes on Fontagu.

‘It's wooden,’ she exclaimed. ‘You used a sword made of wood against Masher?’

Fontagu looked pleased. ‘All that glitters is not gold,’ he said. Appearances can be rather deceiving, can't they?’

Fontagu steered Tab into a nearby tavern. They took a booth at the back and Fontagu made sure no one occupied the booths on either side. Tab noted all this, filing it away, but most of her attention was on the tavern itself. She had never been inside one, much less ordered food and drink.

Fontagu hailed the waiter and ordered a mouth-watering array of food but when it arrived he set it down in front of himself and began to eat. Tab's stomach rumbled loudly but Fontagu didn't seem to hear it.

Finally, Tab said in annoyance, ‘What about me?’

Fontagu looked up from his plate, frowning. ‘Pardon? What, what about you?’

‘Don't I get to eat too?’

Fontagu's mouth dropped open. ‘Am I correct in thinking that you want me to pay for you?’ He sounded genuinely shocked.

‘Well, we're partners, aren't we?’

Fontagu looked slightly ill. ‘What a vulgar notion. Really, you can't expect me to finance every -’ But the look on Tab's face stopped him. Her stomach rumbled again. He looked annoyed. ‘Oh, very well!’

He snapped his fingers at the waiter and ordered Tab a steaming pork pie, mashed potato, bread, and lemonade. All the while, Fontagu muttered about becoming a charity for street waifs.

Tab's pie arrived and she reached for it with her filthy hands.

Fontagu slammed the table. ‘That won't do,’ he said crossly. ‘That won't do at all. Go and clean yourself up at once, do you hear?’

Tab opened her mouth to say something but changed her mind. She hurried into the washroom and returned a minute later, looking pinker and cleaner.

‘Now for some table manners,’ said Fontagu, and he spent fully five minutes instructing Tab how to hold a knife and fork and what to do with them. Tab bit her tongue several times but figured she should humour him, at least for now.

Finally, Tab got to eat her pie. She dug in with enthusiasm, munching happily, while Fontagu took bird-sized bites of his roast pheasant, chewing each one carefully. After each swallow, he fastidiously dabbed at his lips with a white napkin, as if he were Lord Chalm himself.

Tab didn't care. She was sitting in a real tavern, scoffing real pie, with real lemonade, and on her birthday too! It almost made up for losing her silver coins.

Fontagu was starting to look nervous again. He checked the clock on the wall. ‘Do hurry up,’ he said at one point. ‘We don't have all day you know. There is the little matter of our contract -’

‘Yes?’ Tab asked, mid-bite.

Fontagu puffed out his chest. His knobbly chin and mutton chops quivered. ‘I am on a mission of enormous importance. The Archon himself has commissioned me.’

‘The Archon?’ said Tab. She was becoming a little suspicious of Fontagu. ‘Why you? He's got people to do stuff for him. Like the army and the City Watch.’

‘Most of whom are away at war,’ Fontagu re minded her.

‘Well, if it's some kind of spying -’

‘Shhh!’ Fontagu hissed. He leaned forward con-spiratorially. ‘Sometimes he needs men of special talent,’ – Tab looked sceptical although Fontagu didn't seem to notice – ‘men who can blend in, who laugh at danger, who know when to talk and when to listen -’

‘That's all very well,’ said Tab, but Fontagu was oblivious to the interruption.

‘– and who will lay down their lives without hesitation.’ Fontagu gave her a smug look, as if this description fit him perfectly but he was too modest to say so.

Meanwhile, Tab had begun to frown. ‘You know, you sound just like that actor at the Playhouse, the one who does Scurrilous. In fact, that sounds just like one of his speeches.’

Fontagu choked on a small piece of pheasant. ‘What a coincidence,’ he said. ‘Was the fellow any – er – good?’

‘I thought he was brilliant,’ Tab said truthfully.

Fontagu beamed. ‘Really? Well, what can I say, I was quite -’ he stopped suddenly, swallowed, and went on: ‘– impressed with him.’

‘You saw him too?’

‘Many times,’ said Fontagu. ‘But look here, time's a-wasting. And we have a deed to do.’

‘Well, you'd better spill it then,’ said Tab.

Fontagu's eyes became furtive and he lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘There's a precious gem that belongs to the Archon that was stolen by magical means.’

‘And it's your job to steal it back without anyone knowing it's been returned to the Archon?’

Fontagu smiled. ‘The moment I saw you, Tab, I said to myself, “Self,” I said, “that girl is almost as smart as I was when I was her age!” Now, now, don't let it go to your head. We must stay focused on the mission.’ Tab had that sceptical look again.

This time Fontagu noticed. ‘Oh, dear me, did I mention how much I'm being paid? More than enough to slip you a rather handsome fee, if I do say so myself. On top of my services already rendered, that is.’

‘How handsome is handsome?’ asked Tab, trying to sound as shrewd as possible.

‘What? Well, let's say ten silver moons. That should provide you with lodgings and food for some months.’

Tab sat back. Ten silver moons would last her beyond a year. ‘I'm in,’ she said.

In that moment, the fate of Quentaris was sealed.