Extreme Unicorn – Part Four

Chastity rode like the wind. Gusts or gale force blasts, it never seemed to have a clue where it was going either. The air in her face was having a good go at sobering her up and the lashing strands of the unicorn’s mane were annoying her. She flapped and flipped about like a poorly fitted harness, hanging off the animal’s neck. Parts of her felt like bruised leather. The rest of her felt plain mad.

“Where the hell’re you taking me?!” She yelled hard enough to deafen most creatures, but even with her head pressed close to its neck the unicorn’s ears were still half a mile away up a wild, windswept slope. And besides, she guessed, when your hooves clopped and clacked so loudly on cobbled streets you weren’t going to be bothered by a bit of shouting. All she got for her trouble was a slightly sore throat.

The unicorn galloped on, leaning fast and fearlessly into hairpin bends and blind curves. Chastity was used to seeing taverns in a blur, but not so many rushing by in swift succession. Locals joked that every other building in the town was a pub. There weren’t quite that many, but all their signs clocking by would have been a good gauge of distance travelled if Chastity hadn’t lost count somewhere around the fifteen or twenty mark. Didn’t help that she had to shut her eyes from time to time because the sight of all the houses charging out at her was doing her head in. She knew it was only the hangover, making her eyes like a pair of mead-misted magnifying glasses but knowing the cause wasn’t making it any easier to deal with.

She tried to thump the beast’s neck, but it was too thick-skinned to notice and anyway after every attempted punch she would realise – every time – that with her hand bunched into a fist she wasn’t doing a very good job of holding on. And she would have to grab on in a panic all over again. She tried a few times to get the animal’s attention by kicking its flanks with her heels, until she remembered that was the way riders spurred their mounts on. At least the unicorn paid her no heed and only carried on at its break-neck gallop. She tried to squeeze her knees together, digging them into the creature’s sides for a more secure purchase, but her legs had already been wobbly from alcohol and the added strain quickly reduced her muscles to jelly.

House after house, street after street, stores, taverns, market stalls just setting up for the morning, it was like bits of the town were being chucked at her. Downhill, up, down again, along the harbour front, uphill, down, around the bend. Few people were out and about, but those that were simply gawked as she sped on past. Or waved. Or laughed. Or cheered.

Chastity vowed to go back and find each and every one of them and give them a piece of her mind. Assuming her poor brain didn’t end up a scrambled mess on the flagstones.

Flagstones? Where’d the cobbles go?

Flippin heck, the stupid horse must have carted her most of the way across town. This was one of the nicer areas, where Chastity rarely ventured. Big posh houses, with two or three storeys of tall windows so the buildings could look down on you as much as the nobs that lived in them. Assuming they could still see you from all the way across their walled gardens as you shuffled shabbily past their shiny gates. Any time Chastity had run into stuck-up sorts they’d looked at her like she was something unpleasant that had dripped from the ends of their noses. She’d've happily introduced the same noses to her knuckles, but likely they’d have had her arrested and then she’d have been marched home by the Town Guard. And her mum had blue enough fits when she turned up at the door on her own most times. So she’d smile prettily and curtsey and behave all proper as she passed on by. Then make a face or direct a choice hand gesture at the backs of their heads. It was all manors and manners, this end of town.

Not somewhere she wanted to be.

“Hey! Enough already! Put me down NOW!” A split second later, it occurred to her the unicorn might get some funny ideas. “GENTLY!” she yelled, to make herself clear.

The unicorn surprised her by easing up on the pace. Soon she could tell the clips from the clops and before long they were down to a walk then a standstill.

Mazing, she thought. Her heart swelled with a sudden sense of power. There was a lot she didn’t know about unicorns and even if this one had said he didn’t care about the rules, maybe there were some he was subject to, no matter what. Like, maybe, if he let a girl ride him – a girl who wasn’t, well, you know – he risked falling under her spell. All right, he hadn’t obeyed the stream of shouted commands all the way here, but maybe the curse or whatever it was took a while to kick in. If so, cool, because she’d always wanted a horse. An adventuring warrioresses ought to have a steed of her own. Adventures involved a lot of traipsing about, for one thing, but also you cut a more impressive figure showing up anywhere on horseback.

Course, she’d never had the money for so much as a pony. And mum was always, “No, my girl, you are NOT having a horse so put them ideas right out of that head of yours right now, my girl.” She dearly loved to repeat herself, mum did. “My nerves can barely take it with your normal wandering off at every whip and flip but at least I know you’re generally in walking distance.” Blah blah blah yaddah yaddah et flamin cetera. Basically, no horse.

Bit ironic, now that she had one – sort of – the first thing she wanted to was to get off it. She swung her leg over and dropped to the ground like a battered rag doll. The stuffing knocked out of her, replaced with aches and pains. Head full of rocks and arms made of straw which someone had set on fire. Not great.

So the prospect of a new pet was some consolation, even if it did have a spike sticking out of its head and an attitude problem. Still, chances were she could work the kinks out now that it had decided to obey her. She knew a couple of stable boys who could give her some tips on training.

Chastity leaned against the unicorn, waiting for her legs to quit shaking. She patted its moon-coloured side. If wishes were horses, she’d have preferred one in black, but if beggars wanted to ride she guessed they couldn’t afford to be choosers. Or something like that.

“Mazing,” she said breathlessly, resting her head against its hide. “NOW you decide to listen?”

The thing performed a rapid sidestep away from her and she nearly collapsed. “Get off!” it said. “I’m not a pillow.”

Chastity steadied herself, arms out and legs braced as the world spun. As her vision settled, she focused a furious glare on the horned nag. “What the hell d’ you do that for? I thought you’d just started to do what you were told!”

“What?” The beast blinked. Then it made a noise that was half-snort, half-neigh. All laugh. “No. We’ve arrived, that’s all.”

“Arrived where?”

She cast glances in too many directions at once.

In the middle of a paved square, an elaborate copper fountain rose out of an ornamental garden. The raised beds were slightly overcrowded with unruly shrubs and ragged palms, the fountain was basically a giant upturned hand, the water – Chastity guessed – supposed to be spilling through its fingers, but at the moment it looked like it was lifting its palm in expectation of rain. Across the way, a row of fancy houses, tall fronts painted with pastel pinks and yellows and oranges, had been arranged in a crescent, while the rest of the square was flanked by some of those high garden walls that were such a feature of this part of town. Some of the walls had been crowned with a set of railings or metal spikes. Above those she could see trees and, at most, the roofs and upper storeys of the houses within. Whatever, despite the warm colours of the houses opposite, everything about the places proclaimed KEEP OUT. Just more reason to wonder what she was doing here.

She didn’t even know the name of this district. It was possible it didn’t have a name. Every house around here was an estate, maybe they didn’t need districts.

“If you wanted to drop me off somewhere,” she fumed, “I live that way.” She pointed – but then reconsidered and thrust her arm in a different direction. “Or that way.”

“What happened? Bump your head? Did you forget the part where I said I could use your help?”

Chastity blinked. She was so steamed, it was fogging her vision. Then she figured, what was she doing here, arguing with the thing. She gave it a dismissive wave, picked one of the directions she’d pointed in, then turned to storm off. “I’m going home. If I see a nuthouse for horses on my way, I’ll let you know.”

Storming was tough work on wobbly legs. The best she could manage was a poorly disguised stagger. After a few more bravely fought steps she surrendered and aimed for the pavement where she flopped down on the curb. The stone was the last thing her tenderised behind needed, but she didn’t have the strength to stand. “Damn it.” Rest here a bit, she told herself. You’ll be all right in a jiff. Just take it in stages. She shot a fiery look back at the unicorn and saw that she’d put a good three metres between herself and it in next to no time. So a few thousand more stages like that, ten minute breaks in between, she could be home by the end of the week. “Damn it,” she said again.

It regarded her with an expression a lot like one of her mum’s ‘Look at the state of you’ looks.

“Oh and damn you too! Yeah. My help? You’ve got a flamin nerve! Drag me halfway across town! What d’ you want my help for? Why me?”

The unicorn sniffed. “I asked myself the same thing all the way here. Why you, I mean. But I guess I can’t afford to be picky. Fate threw you into my path and – ”

“Mead,” Chastity corrected him. “Mead did that.” She clasped her head. “Too much mead.”

“Well, mead, fate, call it whatever you want. But I had those men in my sights. I was all set to run them down, get some answers out of one of them. You messed that up – royally too, your highness. So, princess, I figure you owe me.”

Chastity sagged, chin cupped in her palms, fingers massaging her brow. She had a horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach. Part of it was some seriously unsettled breaded warthog, but mostly it was the dread certainty that the nag was about to tell her its story.

She tipped herself slowly over and lay down on the pavement, taking the weight off her arse and hoping the horse’s tale would send her to sleep.

Extreme Unicorn – Part Three

Chastity was all at sea. Just not in the way she’d first thought.

She had a go at picking herself up but figured it was best to tackle it one stage at a time. Now that she was on all fours, the terra was feeling a good deal firma. Her stomach was still in nautical mood, mind you, on the verge of singing a shanty – opening with a chorus of ‘Heave ho!’ The volatile combination of breaded warthog and mead weren’t the only bits of last night coming back to her – images of some guy with a blurry face and bony knees – and she remembered that last feature because she’d been sitting on them. Had they locked lips? Probably. He must have been cute under all those blurs. Then again, he must have left her in a heavily sauced heap in the corner of the tavern. Jerk.

An impatient huff from somewhere overhead reined her back to the present. It was accompanied by a loud clomp, a single hoof hammered down on the cobbles.

“Honestly, it beats me why I didn’t just trample you into the dirt. You’re halfway there already.”

“Pull yourself together, Chast,” she told herself. Her head was in freefall, spinning and diving like a severely plastered seagull, but she refused to pay any heed to the voices. She’d tied one on like this many times before – heck, last night qualified as a ‘quiet few drinks’ – but voices were a new experience. She tipped her head at a gentle angle then turned her eyes up to see if the horsey hallucination was still lurking. It was, very much so. “Yer just a figment.”

“You reckon?” it said and stamped its hoof once more. Chastity’s skull felt the blow to the cobblestone like sympathy pains.

She waited for the murk in her head to dampen the pain to a dull ache. Despite the lengthy pause, the horse stubbornly lingered. Even if it had a look on its big horsey face “Well, yeah. A horse calls me a stupid mare, I know my magination’s havin a laff.”

“A horse? Take another look.” Even its voice was horsey – as opposed to hoarse like Chastity’s – mostly deep, but all sort of up and down as if it really ought to be neighing or whinnying but the sounds would insist on coming out as words.

Chastity blinked, focused as best she could. “Oh, okay. Stallion, then.”

“At my head.”

“You what?” She had to tip her head further back for that. Felt like her brain rolled to the back and she got a look up the horse’s nose. And – oh yeah, that big glittery spike sticking out of its forehead. “Oh right. The horn thing.”

“Or ‘horn’, as I like to call it.”

“Right, yeah. You’re one of them. Horned horse – creatures. Whatchamacall?”

“Unicorn?” ventured the Unicorn, throwing in a weary snort.

That was it for Chastity. She’d had just about enough of this beast’s attitude, figment or no. With a great effort of concentration, she staggered to her feet and made a token effort at dusting herself off before facing up to the animal. She raised a fist, ready to wipe that smirk off its grey muzzle. “You’re so tired of my company, why don’t you just bog on off? Eh? I didn’t ask you to come flyin down the street, did I? Crashin into me, knockin me flat on my butt.”

“That thing you landed on, that was your face. I can just about tell the difference. And I didn’t fly. You’re thinking of Pegasus, I expect.”

Chastity swayed about a bit, maintaining a steady aggressive pose turning out to be more challenging than usual. “Oh, you wanna split hairs, how about we start with some of them nice white ones on that mane of yours?”

“No offence – actually, yeah, with offence – but I don’t have time for this. I have to catch up with those men.”

“Men?” She recalled something else bumping into her before the horse – unicorn – had come charging down the hill at her. She guessed that, yeah, they had probably been men. She remembered she had been going to thump one of them too. “Chasing men, were you? So undignified. You seem so up yourself, I’d've thought that was beneath you.”

“Ha flaming ha.” The unicorn tossed its head irritably. “Tell you what, why don’t you lie quietly to one side in the gutter and we’ll pretend we never met.”

“Suits me.” Chastity stood aside and waved her arm in a massively exaggerated arc, gesturing down the street. “Go the hell on, see if I – ”

‘Care’ was the word that would have followed if her balance hadn’t deserted her at that point. As it was she abandoned her sentence and reached instead for the nearest available handhold to save herself from another fall. Just made it too. Phew.

“Let go,” said the Unicorn through clenched horsey teeth. “Let go of my horn right now.”

“Soooooo-oh-rry,” said Chastity, stretching the apology on a rack of sarcasm. The idea of having annoyed the beast amused her enough that she kept a hold of the horn just to wind it up a bit more.

“Second thoughts,” said the Unicorn. And with a big jerk – common feature of Chastity’s life – of the head, he flipped her up in the air.

Chastity screamed. Well, it was more of a yell. At least, that was how she’d describe it. Screams were so girlie. Anyway, whatever noise she was making she carried on making it as she sailed up, tumbling messily end over end, arms and legs flapping all over the shop, until she landed, her backside slamming down on the unicorn’s back.

“You’re coming with,” the animal informed her and launched into a canter, but only as a means of working up to a gallop.

This was bad. Not least because Chastity was sitting back to front. But also because her tender behind, already bruised by an unknown pair of boney knees, was taking even harder punishment as she bounced around on the beast’s saddleless back. Letting rip with plenty more ‘yelling’, she scrabbled frantically, trying to turn herself around. Ideally, she wanted off, but the buildings rushing past were a convincing argument for staying on until this stupid animal slowed the hell down. Finally, somehow, facing front, she threw her arms around the creature’s neck and held on for dear life. For added security, she shut her eyes tight.

The rush of images, the hangover, the blood and adrenalin pumping through her head were all too much. What she should do, throw up and teach this mad horse a lesson. That’d spoil his nice colour. Fair’s fair, because she was pretty sure she’d gone an unpleasant shade of green.

Instead, she thumped the side of its neck. “What the flip do you think you’re doing? This is kidnapping!”

“Grow up then!” it shouted back. The wind whipped its mane about, subjecting Chastity’s face to anywhere between twenty and forty lashes every few yards. “Pains me to say this, but it occurs to me I could use your help!”

“You what? I am NOT helping you, no flamin way!” She wished its hooves wouldn’t drum so hard on the cobbles. It hurt, almost as much as all the insane bouncing and bumping around, plus she had to shout to make herself heard and that was hurting too. Realisation hit and that was a bit gentler, mostly because she’d figured something that might just save her sorry arse. “Besides!” she hollered. “I read somewhere – well – you know, that there’s this thing about unicorns! And, well – !” She broke off, hesitant to share. But delicate matter or no, there were other more delicate things suffering at the moment. So, heck with it, she thought. “Thing is, I read, only virgins are allowed to ride unicorns.”

“That’s the rule, yeah!”

Damn this thing’s thick hide. He just wasn’t getting it. “Well!” she shouted, glaring so hard she hoped her eyes burned a hole in the back of its head. “You want me to spell it out for you?!”

“Something you should know about me!” it said. “I don’t care about rules!”

Extreme Unicorn – Part Two

Chastity woke with a head full of fog and hammers. Sitting up, she instantly threw her hands out to steady herself.

The deck was heaving and she felt like joining it. The strangest part was that, as far as she could recollect – which admittedly wasn’t very far through the brainfog – she hadn’t been on board a ship when she’d fallen asleep. She’d heard tales of folks having one too many then getting press-ganged into the service of some foreign navy or maybe pirates. Or worse, kidnapped and freighted off to be sold into slavery. Her stomach lurched at the thought and the boards beneath her feet just made matters worse by lurching in the opposite direction.

Her mum would be worried out of her wits. Which meant Chastity’s current headache would be nothing next to what would be waiting for her when she finally got home. Maybe a life of piracy or slavery would be okay…

Whatever the exact fix she was in, Chastity supposed she ought to start thinking about getting herself out of it. She also supposed an escape attempt ought to begin with an attempt at standing up. Her head lodged its protest, the blood pounding like a lot of Dwarven hammers trying to beat the iron into some useful shape. She clutched at her poorly gut, where last night’s drink and a hastily snarfed serving of breaded warthog churned about like the seas outside. Her hand felt cool metal, slightly sticky with spilled mead.

“Huh,” she said, and looked down at her front. Apparently whoever had abducted her had tossed her down in this dingy hold with her armour on and – she patted her side to check – her trusty blade still in its sheath. Idiots. They’d pay dearly for that mistake.

Spurred by that first bit of good news, Chastity stood, levering herself upright with a well-placed hand on the table in front of her. She looked around at her swaying, bleary world and decided that perhaps her captors hadn’t thrown her in the hold after all, but dumped her in the galley. It was dark with tables and chairs arranged randomly about the place. At first she thought the furniture was sliding all over the place in the swell, but she couldn’t hear it scraping on the deck so she guessed it was just her blurry vision that refused to stay still.

But yeah, the galley, she reckoned. Or whatever seafaring types called their dining hall. The mess? Well, that fit. Flippin stupid place to throw a prisoner. These idiots, whoever they were, probably expected her to cook for them.

That was another thing they’d pay for. They’d messed with the wrong warrioress when they took her. She drew her sword – then rocked about a bit as the weight of it in her hand did funny things to her balance. “Right, you shumps,” she warned, although she’d meant to say ‘chumps’. She had another stab at it. “Chuh – um – pss. Chumps.”

She touched her fingers to her neck. God, her throat was sore. Dry, like she’d downed a jug of sawdust. And the saw too, come to that.

Figuring that actions spoke louder than words and would be less prone to slurring, she sidled out from behind the table. Focusing hard on the shadows at the end of the room, she was pretty sure she could make out a door so she took a bold stride towards that.

And bumped the front of her hip bone on the table’s edge.

“Ow! God!” She hacked at the table with her sword. The blade bit deep and stuck. She swore at it and tugged on the hilt. It came free, sending her staggering backwards to collide with an untidy row of chairs. Her side folded hard over the back of one of them, which just about prevented a full-on fall. She swore some more, kicked the chair and hobbled towards the door slightly bent over and nursing a set of bruised ribs.

Already black with shadows, the air was now a deep shade of blue and Chastity was suddenly conscious that she’d made an awful lot of noise. She raised a hand, thinking to press a finger to her lips, then realised her sword hand wasn’t the best choice for that. But her injured side still needed the attentions of her other hand. “Shhhhhhhhhhh,” she told herself, without the accompanying gesture.

Silence descended. Her head was still beavering away like a Dwarven forge, but she was pretty sure her enemies wouldn’t hear that. There was no sign they’d heard any of her swearing or crashing about. Maybe they were that dense or, to be fair, maybe it had all been drowned out by the stormy seas. But Chastity didn’t feel like being fair, so she was going with dense.

She waited a moment for the room to stop spinning and go back to just swaying, then she pressed on with her long trek. Weaving her way between the obstacle course of furniture, she finally came face to face with the door.

So far, so good.

She pressed her ear to the wood, listening. Then closed her eyes. “Mmm,” she said, seized by a sudden desire to just rest her head there and grab some more sleep. Twenty winks couldn’t hurt, could it.

Blinking, she backed up from the door and shook her head. “Owwwww!” She clutched at her throbbing skull, massaged her scalp through lanky tangles of hair.

Oh, this was not good. She added the headache to the list of the things her captors were going to pay for. But pain or no, she was going to have to get a shift on

She wondered how far out to sea they must have sailed already. Assuming tossing and heaving about counted as sailing. At her best guess, she’d drunk enough to put her out for a whole night. Could be miles. And nautical miles were longer than land ones, weren’t they? Who knew. Chastity was no sailor, which was just one more reason her kidnappers had been dumb as treestumps to pick her. But up on deck, she reasoned, they would have boats. And even she ought to be able to row. How hard could it be? And she could take one of the pirates or navy types prisoner, make him point the pointy end of the boat in the right direction. Get him to do the rowing even. Yeah.

Wow. She had a plan, all of a sudden. An actual plan. That fact alone cleared her thoughts a smidge and steeled her resolve.

She was getting out of here. She was going home. And as for her mum, well, she’d face that music when she got there.

She gave the door a hefty kick.

It rattled, but didn’t budge. That made her cross. She leaned in for a closer look, spotted what the problem was, then drew the bolt.

Opting for stealth over violence, she eased the door quietly open.

Cold air came as a slap in the face, but there was surprisingly little wind. Gusty breezes at most really. Shouts rode those breezes and she heard the tramp of running feet and the clippety-clop of hooves. The deck outside also appeared to cobbled and lined with buildings, although that might have been a trick of the misty morning light.

Chastity frowned. She stepped outside and tipped her head back, trying to get a look at the sign that was swinging creakily above her.

Something rammed into her and she wheeled around. A motley cluster of bodies rushed past. She swung her fist at the nearest one, but hit empty air. The move spun her and she found herself looking up the hill, straight at a giant beast bearing down on her.

Silver-white like the moon, it reared, hooves up like a boxer’s fists, deadly inches from her head. Chastity got a vivid, looming portrait of some sort of horse-faced monster with a wild mane and a spike in its brow – just before she reeled away and crashed, face forward, on the cobbles.

“Out of my way, you stupid mare!” she could have sworn she heard the horse-thing yell.

And it was at that point she knew, for a stone cold certainty, she’d really overdone things the night before.

Extreme Unicorn – Part One

Some men wore a sword and called themselves a warrior. Barbas called himself no such thing. Fighting, killing, breaking a few skulls, it was all just part of business to him. Although he kind of liked hearing others call him a butcher.

Two of the men were talking about him now, behind his back. Fince, probably setting the new boy straight on a few matters. Every new recruit was the same, full of questions about the boss. Barbas couldn’t care less, as long as they kept it quiet.

They were closing in and he didn’t want their prey getting spooked, didn’t want to give them the chance to turn a simple spot of killing into a fight.

Like he always said, he was no warrior. He had a reputation to maintain.

***

Barbas was a monstrous black bulldog of a man. His skin was pasty, of a complexion that had seen every kind of weather but sunshine. There was ruddiness in his cheeks, fire from too much blood constantly on the rise, with nothing that could be called warmth. There was brown in his eyes, the colour of mud, hard as flint. But the rest of him was black. Thick hair and beard that was all one mass and might have been dipped in pitch, more black hair across the backs of his hands and knuckles. There was steel too, about his person – the axe and sword at his belt, buckles and studs decorating his leather armour – but they weren’t there for any brightness they added.

His back was impossibly broad, like a dam. He clenched and unclenched his hands all the time, as though they were unhappy without a weapon to hold.

It made Dayl nervous as he watched the man walk ahead of them along the forest path. Not for the first time, he wondered what he was doing here. But this band of ne’er-do-wells needed an archer and he needed a job.

“You’ll do fine,” said Fince, flashing his gold tooth and practically beating the air out of Dayl’s lungs with a slap to the back. “At least, you’d better do.”

Dayl nodded. He was very aware that this was a trial period. He trusted in his prowess with the bow, but he knew he had to show these men something more than archery skills.

“Otherwise,” Fince was saying, jerking a thumb towards Barbas, “he’ll kill you as soon as look at you. Sooner, if he can. Oh, don’t get me wrong, he’d not be shy of watching your face squirm, but he does like to stick a man in the back. Specially if it’s a man who’s let him down.”

Fince was a real piece of work, although no artist or craftsman was likely to claim responsibility for him. Gouged cheeks, stubbled scalp, cold-burning eyes that squinted out from between enough scars that some of them actually crossed paths. In a shabby jumble of leather and chainmail, he wore a bow and a jagged-edged greatsword slung over hunched shoulders.

There were a dozen men in all in Barbas’ crew and although all of them were prettier than Fince, there was no mistaking the kind of band he – Dayl – had signed up with. So he was under no illusions, if he was going to have any hope of fitting in with this lot, he was going to have to do more than shoot straight.

He was going to have to kill and take pleasure in it.

***

Barbas spat. The glade stank of harmony and tranquillity. It was the kind of place where peace had taken root and spread like weeds or mildew.

A clearing in a shallow bowl of the forest, the trees were like placid librarians, preserving the stillness, allowing only modest quantities of sunlight through to dapple the ground and sparkle on the surface of a small pool. Breezes whispered through the canopy overhead, gently calling for quiet. Even the few fallen trees looked like they had decided to lie down for a rest and let the moss and ivy play freely over their ancient trunks.

The stealth with which Barbas and his men moved in was a different breed of peace. A sinister, insidious thing, like a disease.

The creatures sensed it, lifting their heads and searching about. They stood beside the pool, the female torn between thirst and nerves. The male nuzzled its mate, attempting to calm her.

Good luck with that, laughed Barbas inside his head.

He motioned to his men to keep their distance as he continued down the gentle slope. The archers, new boy included, should be fanning out, picking their positions and notching up their arrows. Their first shots would win this or lose it. If they missed, well, they had best hope to their respective gods that Barbas ended up impaled on one of these animals’ horns. And if the new boy needed any incentivising, he should just ask himself why they’d had to find themselves a replacement archer.

Unicorns. Barbas had learned to hate them. In that sense, yes, this was more than just business. But there was no sense in holding a grudge against a beast. That’s all they were ultimately, for all their alleged majesty. Moonlight hides and gleaming horns be damned. They were just beasts. Beasts that happened to have, in a manner of speaking, a very handsome price on their heads.

Barbas stepped out into the open, bold as brass.

The beasts tossed their manes, huffing and puffing in indignation at the intrusion. Barbas fancied he could see the decision – fight or flight – weighing in their eyes.

His clenching hands grabbed for his axe and sword, drawing both weapons at once.

That was the signal.

***

Dayl let fly.

From this distance, the eye was little more than a black bead on the moon-hided beast. It had been easy to tell himself he’d seen no light in it, that it was just a target, a marker. A swift, flashing flight and the arrow found that marker and his part in the murder was done.

The animal reared and screamed, a raw, ragged and hellish sound. Kicking the air, it thrashed its head wildly as though fighting to shake the arrow loose. Fince, somewhere to Dayl’s right, was laughing, a cruel and ugly cackle but nothing that could compete with the bloodcurdling din tearing through the forest like a hurricane of torment. Double the hell now, as Dayl’s victim had a companion in its death throes: the mare, her majestic head pierced with three arrows. Messy placement, messy death.

Not messy enough for Barbas’ tastes, apparently. Before the stallion had toppled, he was moving in and raising his axe for a swing at the beast’s neck.

Dayl busied himself shouldering his bow. Men were charging from the trees, descending on the glade to join in the butchery. Dayl picked his way slowly down the slope, pretending to watch his footing. A chill tingle at the back of his neck prompted him to glance around. Several times. Probably nothing, but the more excuses to look elsewhere the better.

Before he’d reached the edge of the clearing, the unicorns had fallen silent. He hadn’t even heard their great bodies crashing to the forest floor, above the roars of the killers.

Dayl was a hunter. He’d killed animals without it feeling like murder.

He stepped up beside Barbas and assumed a heartless expression as he looked down on the carcasses. Blood was dripping from Barbas’ axe and sword and running in rivers from the dead unicorns to the pool. The rest of the men were sheathing their weapons, some of them laughing, some patting each other on the back.

“Our new boy did good,” said Fince, who was drawing a large knife and eyeing the unicorn horns greedily.

“He did,” agreed Barbas. He gave his lieutenant the nod and Fince crouched to work on liberating the first of the horns. Barbas’ gaze was fixed primarily on Dayl though. “The lad seems a little pale, mind you. Troubled, are you, boy?”

“No,” said Dayl quickly. “Nothing like that.” He recalled the nervous feeling he’d had and felt it all over again. He scanned the trees around the edge of the clearing. “I don’t know. I just have this feeling we’re being watched.”

Barbas snorted. “That’s a conscience, lad. Get rid of it. You’ll not be needing it where your career is headed.”

Dayl nodded, knowing he would have to work on that.

He forced himself to watch as Fince applied himself to his bloody harvest.

***

Barbas was wrong.

Two young eyes, peering out from the undergrowth, had witnessed everything.

Fun & Bones – Part Ten

Never run on a full stomach, Jocund’s dad used to say. Try using your legs.

Yes, his old dad was the source of many a stitch in his sides when he was a lad and he was getting another one now as he hared down the street. So he slowed himself to a more sensible jog, which would – unfortunately – give Lantisilio every chance to catch up with him, but it wasn’t as if he would have been able to lose the fellow anyway. At full pelt, his coat and hat flapping and thrashing about, the bells would probably give away his position as long as he was in the same quarter of the city.

There were all of two places he could be heading. Jocund wondered if Lantisilio would stick with him all the way to the Town Hall – or to Lusilda’s – where he would have to face the consequences of what he’d done as he stood there and listened to Jocund exposing Lantisilio Gogogoch as the ghoulish creature he truly was. Unfortunately, the idea of exposing him led to flashes of a skeleton chasing after him and Jocund had to make renewed efforts to hold onto his breakfast. Which involved physically holding onto his stomach and slowing up his pace a bit more.

Lantisilio’s partner-in-crime, the ever-present little doggie, was having no trouble keeping up in any case and was enjoying frolicking and yapping around Jocund’s ankles as he trotted along.

Lantisilio was only a short way behind now.

“Wait! Wait now,” the laird urged, in as gentlemanly a fashion as possible while moving at a pace that, while not speedy, was somewhat more than courtly. “Won’t you take a moment to consider? What about our contract?”

“Our contract? What about our contract?” Jocund might have expected a creature of the undead to attack him, drain his life force or – in this case – steal his skin before he was done with it. To have one about to quote the letter of their agreement back at him was something of a surprise.

“Clause Two, I believe. ‘A lord and his jester agree to stick together through thick and thin. Neither one will betray the other under any circumstances.’”

The pain pinching at Jocund’s side was getting worse and he had to ease down to a hurried walk. But he didn’t want Lantisilio to take that as any sign he was conceding the point. “That’s right. A lord and his jester. You’re a laird. If you’re even that.”

Lantisilio gratefully settled into a walk, his long energetic strides maintaining a position just behind Jocund’s shoulder. “Now let us not argue semantics. A laird is a lord. And as to my title and my professions for that matter, I am everything I claimed to be.”

“Okay! But unless I’m misremembering our original interview, you left out the part about being a skeleton!”

“It’s true, I neglected to mention that. But as I say, people have such prejudices against the living dead. And besides, I am really no different to anyone else.” Jocund would have turned his head at that point to stare at Lantisilio but he was afraid that instead of seeing a face he would only be able to see the structure of the man’s skull. “After all, what has changed here except your perception of me? With your other friends, you don’t normally make a habit of thinking about what lies under their skin do you? Your beloved Lusilda, for instance – you don’t – ”

“No! What? No – stop! Ewwww!” Jocund quickened his walk as much as he could and held up a hand as though to fence Lantisilio out. He turned his head aside and closed his eyes, desperately trying to rid himself of the image of Lusilda that had popped into his head. Even his treasured memories of her delicate hands were ruined by thoughts of boney digits.

“They say beauty is only skin deep,” Lantisilio persisted. “And you say you have never thought about what lies beneath that?”

“Her heart and soul, yes! But not bones and stuff!”

Jocund gave a grrr. The dog barked. Jocund looked down at the dog, attempting to focus on its big dewy puppy-eyes as a means of dispelling the skeletal portrait of his beloved that, like a particularly vivid ghost, seemed set to haunt him for some while yet. Right, he decided, just for that – for planting those pictures in his head – he was going straight to Lusilda. Not only was he sure that the sight of her would clear his mind and restore her to her full heavenly glory in his imagination, but he suspected that if Lantisilio had a conscience at all it would be more sharply pricked by having his secret declared before one of the innocents he had hurt. At the next corner, he turned a determined right, marching with a purpose to the Kandinsky house.

Now, rather than trying to hurry away from Lantisilio, he hoped the fellow stuck with him. He wanted Lantisilio right there when he told Lusilda what kind of creature this man was and the full extent of his crimes against her. And, afterwards – after the law had been called – he, Jocund, would hold her in his arms and comfort her and not think at all about the bones that were holding her body upright.

The dog, sensing some impending excitement, some shift in mood, yapped and panted in anticipation.

Lantisilio, meanwhile, didn’t appear to attach any special significance to the change in direction. “Which illustrates my point,” he was saying. “Eyes are the window to the soul. These eyes are mine, as well as a still-lively brain. This particular state of undeath left me that much. It is only the skin – plus a little flesh for padding – that I borrow. Clothes maketh not the man. Aside from the small deception concerning the ‘grave-robbing’, I have been quite truthful in my dealings with you. You have, I believe, seen me for who I am. You take such great care not to think of your beloved Miss Kandinsky’s constituent parts that I daresay you do not really know her. Almost as much care, I would venture, as you take in not showing her your true self.”

“I – !” Jocund stalled. He couldn’t properly defend himself on that point. He had deceived her, it was true, about his circumstances and certain aspects of his nature. She probably had a slightly idealised notion of his generosity towards urchins, for example, and no real idea of why he really availed himself of all the shortbread on offer when he came for tea. Still, he told himself, it was all nothing compared to the deceptions practised by a grave-robbing undead skeleton. “That’s besides the point! Skin is something you wear from birth! And it’s not meant to be a hand-me-down. You really ought to be able to take it with you, without – without people – or – or creatures like you browsing through the cemetery for the best fit! Actually, I don’t even want to think about how you get dressed. I just – you know what – just don’t say anything. You can forget about our contract. I’m turning you in and the local law can deal with you!”

“I’ll want that in writing, naturally.”

“What?”

“The termination of our contract. Until then, I will consider myself bound by its terms – even if you feel disposed to renege on our agreement.”

“What are you – I – I give up!” Jocund threw up his arms in despair. The dog jumped up, in expectation of some object being thrown. If it felt any disappointment when no ball or stick materialised, it hid it well. Jocund was grateful to see they were nearing the Old Mill House. “I’m turning you in and that’s that.”

Steely determination in the jingling of his bells, he marched on and up to the pretty blue gate.

There in the garden he saw his beloved Lusilda. Radiant and, thank the stars, beautifully robed in her familiar, pretty arrangement of flesh and her black mourning dress. She had company, which was a surprise. Standing on the lawn with her, as though the two of them had paused in a stroll around the garden, was Mayor Habius Vincenzo – and that was more than a surprise. It was, for reasons Jocund couldn’t quite pin down, more in the region of a shock.

Oh well, he shrugged – and fired Lantisilio a triumphant look, daring him to come with him into the garden. Unexpected as the Mayor’s presence here was, Jocund would be able to kill two birds with one stone. Report on his successful solving of the grave-robbing mystery to both parties.

He turned to open the gate and was stopped cold. The Mayor and Lusilda had turned to face one another and the Mayor clasped Lusilda’s hand. It might have just been the sunlight glinting naturally, but as she gazed up at the brute her eyes seemed to shine.

The birds had thrown the stone back and struck Jocund in the heart.

***

“Folderol!” bellowed the Mayor, advancing down the garden path and setting all the plants shrinking back as though from a coming storm. “Damn your hide, you had better not be showing your face to me without news of progress!” He spared a glare at Lantisilio as well and didn’t seem to like it that the fellow didn’t flinch. Jocund flinched for the both of them. The dog yapped. Mayor Vincenzo scowled down at it from the other side of the gate. The dog whimpered and hid behind Jocund’s legs. “Remarkable! You found a creature more pitiful and worthless than yourself. Well, Folderol, tell me you found something more!”

Jocund braced his nerves, stood straight and gestured at Lantisilio. “This is Lantisilio Gogogoch,” he declared. And Lantislio eyed him with a wary sidelong glance. “I enlisted his assistance in the investigation.”

Vincenzo looked Lantisilio up and down, a sneer making plain his distaste. “You look a better class of citizen than this wastrel,” he said.

Lantisilio answered with an arch of a single eyebrow. Considering those brows were part and parcel of a borrowed skin, he worked them with commanding dexterity. “Class, I find, is often akin to beauty – no more than skin deep.”

“Eh?!” It was plain the Mayor hadn’t a clue what Lantisilio was getting at, but it was equally plain he understood he was being insulted. Despite everything, the sight of a temporarily stumped Habius Vincenzo was the one moment in this whole sorry encounter that Jocund enjoyed. He almost felt like shaking Lantisilio by the hand, whether it was his own or not.

Vincenzo, stuck for some worthier response to the dig, turned his darkly frowning brow on Jocund. “Well, Folderol? I want results! Not hirelings and hangers-on.”

Jocund held his posture, fighting to maintain perfect stillness. He sensed the shakes wanting to seize him, but not because of Mayor Vincenzo. Or at least, not because of his intimidating bulk or wildness. The bells on his hat tinkled faintly, but Jocund commended himself for doing fairly well under the circumstances. If he leaned to the left, he might possibly be able to see past the Mayor for a glimpse of his beloved Lusilda – but then, he knew, he would tremble uncontrollably and his bells would have a field day. And their music would surely jar.

“Nothing,” he said, just about managing to look the Mayor in the eye. “Even with our combined efforts, we found nothing.”

The Mayor stared, stormclouds in his eyes. “What?!”

“My feeling, your Lordship,” Jocund continued, “is that whoever or whatever was raiding the cemetery has wandered off in search of fresh haunts. It may be connected with Miss Kandinsky’s sighting of the mysterious figure in the marketplace. Perhaps the villain sensed he was in danger of being caught and decided to move on. Either way, my feeling is that he won’t be bothering the good people of Florenberg ever again.”

“Feeling?! Feeling?!” For a moment, Mayor Vincenzo seemed trapped in a fit of silent stammers. Then he rediscovered the power of speech – with increased volume. “Now see here, I am NOT paying you for feelings and suppositions!” He shook a fist for added – albeit entirely superfluous – emphasis. “The reward was for evidence! A conviction! HARD RESULTS! I’ve a responsibility to the taxpayers!”

“I realise that, Your Honour.” Jocund nodded, his own words quiet and fragile in the booming aftermath of the Mayor’s. “I merely came here to report our findings – or lack of them. Not to collect a reward. I feel I’ve collected all the reward that Florenberg has to offer.”

“Good!” As satisfied as he was to hear that, the Mayor still wasn’t finished frowning. “But what the hell did you come here for? Official business should be conducted at the Town Hall, man! You’ve no business here, Folderol! No business at all!”

“I realise that too, Your Lordship.”

But Jocund’s words were barely audible, even to him, as he turned to go and his bells celebrated the newfound freedom of movement, like dozens of little spirits that had been held in one place for far too long.

***

“Here,” said Jocund, holding out the paper without quite being able to look Lantisilio in the eye.

“You wish me to safeguard our contract?” inquired the laird, sounding genuinely perplexed.

“Safeguard it?” Jocund met his gaze then, if only so he could blink at the fellow. “I rather imagined you’d want to tear it up.”

They had stopped on a quiet corner, just three streets from Lusilda’s house – not nearly far enough – when Jocund had realised he had company. He had turned and been surprised to see both Lantisilio and the pooch still following. Then, after a moment’s reconsideration, he realised he wasn’t surprised at all. For a start, he didn’t think they’d ever be rid of the dog – its happy, shiny eyes and lolling tongue spoke of love and/or hopes of its next meal. And of course, so Jocund thought, Lantisilio would deem himself legally bound.

Hence, before he had uttered a word, Jocund had fished in his pocket for their contract. And yet, here he was offering its return and there was Lantisilio regarding the paper as though wondering what earthly use it could be to him.

“As far as I can tell,” said the laird, “there has been no breach. It’s true, you skated close to a flagrant infringement of Clause Two, but what manner of partners would we be if we couldn’t find it in our hearts to forgive the occasional slip.”

Despite weight of the black cloud on his shoulders, Jocund had to laugh. “Our hearts? I’m not sure you have one and I know I’d have trouble finding anything in mine right now.” He laid a hand over the hurt in his chest. “It’s a mess.”

“Our souls then?” There was a glint in Lantisilio’s eyes then that seemed born of more than mere light. Jocund remembered the gentleman’s barbed remark about class, delivered like the slap of a glove to Mayor Vincenzo’s face and he wondered if that wasn’t simply Lantisilio being Lantisilio, but an act of friendship. A laird standing up for his jester.

Not only that, but he thought of that phrase – ‘windows to your soul’. And Lantisilio had stated categorically that, whatever else he had ‘borrowed’, his eyes were his own. For all his strange ways, there was an honesty in those eyes.

“You’d seriously choose to stick with me?” said Jocund. He tugged out the linings of his trouser pockets, exposing their emptiness. “We haven’t earned a bean between us on this job. You get seventy percent of nothing.”

“There will be other cases,” asserted Lantisilio, with the assurance of a gentleman who had just checked his crystal ball. “Besides,” he smiled, “we are not quite penniless. And you, I believe, are entitled to thirty percent of whatever coin we can secure in trade for this.”

He plucked a glimmering object from his pocket and twirled it around on its chain, allowing the sunlight to dance on its surface. Mortimus Kandinsky’s watch.

The dog yapped excitedly for some reason.

Jocund was struck with an image of all the breakfasts they could buy with that watch. He shook his head, his bells breaking him free of the hypnotic spell. He gave Lantisilio a long, hard look. It beggared belief, but he was actually contemplating teaming up with this – for want of a better word – fellow. “And you’re – you’re really a skeleton?”

“That is one of the many things I am, yes.”

Maybe he was dazzled by the spinning, flashing gold. Maybe he was tempted by the idea of extracting some small compensation from Mortimus Kandinsky. Maybe it was because the watch offered some tiny victory in all this, a way of thumbing his nose at Mayor Habius Vincenzo. Whatever it was, Jocund knew his heart might be broken but his mind was made up.

“Then I think we need to add another clause to the contract. Clause Eleven, we’ll call it. No more grave-robbing or” – he shuddered – “dressing up in other people’s skins unless absolutely necessary.”

“Of course. We will have to agree some definition of what constitutes necessary circumstances. For example, in the event I am recognised wherever we go. Or should this current skin lose its – freshness.”

“Fine fine fine.” Jocund waved a hand, not wishing to hear any more. And even if Lantisilio carried on talking at this point, all he would hear was a pleasant if mildly frantic jingling. “We’ll, ah, iron out the details on the way.” A hopeful whimper and a lot of panting drew his attention to the other – unofficial – member of their partnership. “And I guess we’ll be taking him along.”

Lantisilio sighed. A glance at the dog told him the lengths they would have to go to in order to lose the animal. “If we must. But on the proviso that he is your dog. And most emphatically not mine.”

Jocund shrugged. He could easily see how the dog could be a bit of a nuisance, but he was also kind of cute. And if he was really going to consider adventuring with an undead skeleton, he couldn’t very well share Lantisilio’s aversion to an innocent pup.

As for his heart, well, he guessed that would mend – with time and the open road. Adventure, he had to trust, was a great cure-all. Adventure and – he looked at his friends – companionship.

Besides, he perked himself up with a reminder, there had to be a limit to how long anyone could stay sad with a name like Jocund. And to prove the point, as he turned to head off down the street, he privately muttered his name to himself to the jaunty tune of his bells.

Jocund, he repeated again and again until he was almost singing the word in his head.

Folderol.

***

And there concludes our tale of Jocund Folderol, the adventuring jester, and his lord – or laird. I wish I could tell you they set off together into the sunset, but it was still relatively early in the day and in any case they headed east.

They left the great city of Florenberg behind them, but I remained faithfully at their heels every step of the way. Whither we roamed, the road ahead paved with new adventures and other mysteries waiting to be solved.

In the absence of any other name, they eventually took to calling me Sheltie. Which I supposed would do. I did not much care, as long as we were together. Technically, according to an addendum in their contract, I was the property and responsibility of Jocund Folderol. And Lantisilio Gogogoch pretended to have nothing to do with me.

But nothing he could do would shake my devotion. For I was convinced, as I had been since I had first met the fellow, of one essential fact that outweighed every other consideration.

Among his many qualities, I was sure he was a gentleman of taste.

SAF 2010

Fun & Bones – Part Nine

Jocund fought to contain an attack of the trembles, but his jingling bells were a dead giveaway.

“Y-y-you,” said Jocund. With all the musical accompaniment he could have broken into song, except he didn’t feel like it. He had to get a grip on himself, stand firm. “You’re the grave robber!”

“Don’t be absurd.” Lantisilio looked away and tutted. He crouched to pick up the watch. “I glimpsed this in the midst of all those bones and our canine friend here fetched it out.”

Jocund shook his head, which at least took the chimes in a new direction. “No. I would have seen it.” He wasn’t sure of much right then, but he was sure of that. And he felt an urgent need to drive the point home before he started to doubt himself. “The dog was returning it. To you. And you don’t need to tell me where you got it because there’s only one place you could have and that was Mortimus Kandinsky’s grave. I happen to know for a fact he had it buried with him.”

Lantisilio studied Jocund for a while, then slipped the watch into his coat pocket. He sighed through clenched teeth. “I was rather hoping that, as a friend of the Kandinsky family, you would recognise the item.” He cast his gaze groundward, as though in defeat, then scowled at the dog. “Curse this infernal hound.”

The dog licked its chops and perked up some more, flicking puppy-eyed glances from Lantisilio to Jocund and back again. Jocund rather suspected it would be waiting a long time for its next game of fetch. He stared at Lantisilio.

“You admit it then? You’re the grave robber?” His mind was a whirl of questions, but that seemed the most important one.

“I am no such thing.” Lantisilio stabbed the earth with his cane to drive home the point. “There are worlds of difference between the things we do and who we are. I am no more a grave robber than – than you, Jocund Folderol, are a campanologist.”

“Well, I – what?”

“A bell-ringer.” Lantisilo aimed the cane at various points on Jocund’s coat. “You ring bells. All the time. And yet, do you call yourself a bell ringer? Hmm?”

“Well, no. But – ” Jocund was feeling out of his depth. More out of his depth than when he’d had himself buried alive.

“Then I must state plainly that I have robbed far fewer graves,” Lantisilio pressed on, “than you have rung bells. So what does that make me?”

“I – ” Jocund began, but he realised that he didn’t have an earthly. There were still a number of aspects of the case that didn’t add up and arithmetic was never his strongpoint. He always figured he would get better at sums the more coins he had to add up at the end of a show, but so far he hadn’t been granted the opportunity to put that to the test. “I really couldn’t say. But – you do admit that it was you who robbed the graves? You’re the culprit I’ve – we’ve been looking for?”

“Alas, yes.” He touched the brim of his top hat. “You will recollect my disappointment when, shortly after I signed our contract, you revealed that our adventures would not immediately involve travel.”

Jocund nodded slowly. He was anxious to get to the truth, but he guessed he was going to have to take the slower, more patient route. Which actually suited him, since he had a horrible premonition that when he was in possession of the full facts he wasn’t going to like them one bit. “Right. You were in a hurry to get out of town.”

“Indeed. I think I would have readily agreed to less generous terms of employment.”

Now he tells me, thought Jocund. “So when you found out we were investigating the missing bodies – the bodies you’d stolen – you thought you’d try to steer us off course? You tried to frame this little dog?” Jocund’s voice was a perfect expression of his spiralling disbelief.

The dog yapped excitedly.

“Let us be clear on one point,” said Lantisilio sternly. “I did not steal any bodies.”

“Stop.” Jocund put up a hand. His head was spinning so badly now he could count anywhere between fifteen and thirty fingers in front of his eyes. “You’re making me dizzy. And wait – we haven’t even gotten to the part where you explain how Lusilda mistook you for her own father in the market place. That was you, I take it?”

Lantislio flexed his lips awkwardly and averted his gaze. “Yeeeeeeees,” he confessed at length. “But I rather suspect you will need to be sitting down for that particular piece of the puzzle.”

Jocund appreciated the man’s consideration, but the admission had him even more worried. “Fine,” he said and gestured at the derelict house. “Shall we see if there are any chairs inside?”

“I was thinking perhaps an early lunch…” Lantislio let the suggestion dangle on the air like a bacon butty on a string.

“More bread and ale at the Spoon & Badger?” Despite his rumbling belly, Jocund wasn’t keen.

“We can do better than that. I confess I have a few more coins at my disposal than I led you to believe.” Lantisilio offered an apologetic smile. It was weaker than a jug of the Spoon & Badger’s finest. “My finances are not what you would call healthy, but they will extend to a cooked breakfast at the Quail & Galleon. What do you say?”

Jocund was troubled at the prospect of sitting down to dine with a grave robber, but his stomach performed somersaults of joy. There was no contest really.

***

They didn’t allow dogs in the Quail & Galleon and their canine companion whined in protest when they shooed him away at the door. But the little animal planted itself right outside with such determination and devotion in its eyes that they had no doubt it would be there when they emerged.

Soon Jocund and Lantisilio were installed at a table and the waitress – they had waitresses at the Quail & Galleon – brought Jocund a glass of stout and a plate of fried eggs, bacon, beans and sausage, with two heavenly slices of lightly buttered toast. “If I’ve died and gone to heaven,” said Jocund, wagging his knife and fork as a warning,“I don’t want you robbing my grave.”

He sent his nose on a brief flight over his plate, his nostrils coasting on the rich thermals and sucking them in. Lantisilio was not joining him, but appeared content to sit back and watch. It occurred to Jocund that he had not once seen his partner eat. He wondered if that was common among grave robbers, their grisly business putting them off their food. The thought was an unpleasant reminder that they had relocated here to discuss unpleasant things.

“Listen, um, none of this story is going to upset my stomach is it?”

“It might.”

Jocund sagged. He regarded his beautiful cooked breakfast longingly and mournfully. A meal was one of the things in life you could love with all your heart and soul and yet have no desire to see ever again.

“What the heck. I’ll risk it.” He dug in. Between his first mouthfuls he gestured with his cutlery for Lantisilio to begin.

“First of all, I feel I should make it plain that the creature outside is by no means innocent in this affair.”

“Sure, mmm mmmf right.” Jocund’s sarcasm was having trouble making itself properly heard through the bacon and egg. He chewed, swallowed, licked his teeth clean then tried again. “The dog did it. We heard that one already.”

“No,” Lantisilio insisted. “I am not laying the full blame at the beast’s paws. I am merely stating – quite truthfully – that it has its share. I rather suspect that, as you theorised, the creature was one of those mongrels that, out of its boundless devotion and loyalty, frequented the cemetery where its master was buried. In any case, whatever its sad story, the little horror was present when I – when I first began my, ah, activities.”

Jocund may have been busy munching most of the time, but he wasn’t about to let Lantisilio get away with dressing up his dastardly deeds in euphemisms. “Your grave robbing, you mean. Talk about moonlighting.”

Lantisilio blinked. “Very droll. Should I applaud or continue?”

“Mm mm,” said Jocund, which was mouth-full-speak for ‘Go on.’

“Anyway, the animal indulged in its own thieving without any bidding from me. The creature loves bones. Believe me, it worked more industriously than I ever did, transporting each new supply to its secret cache whenever a body was unearthed. After the first time the animal began to – if you will pardon a pun – dog my every step. Occasionally it would return to its hoard and I would be able to give it the slip. Also, it is perhaps worth saying that I was doing my best to shake the creature off when I ran into your beloved Miss Kandinsky and her maid. But regardless, the animal would always find me again at the graveyard.”

“When you were ready to dig up another poor soul, you mean?”

“One does not usually dig up a soul. The soul has usually departed.”

“Whatever. I’m amazed you did any digging at all.”

“Well, in truth, once I learned of the extent of the dog’s dedicated interest, I allowed it to attend to the digging.”

“Oh, right. Regular partners in crime.” Jocund shook his head. Really, he thought, he should be heading straight to the Mayor and reporting this criminal right now. But he still had a third of his breakfast sprawled seductively on his plate. On top of which, gruesomeness aside, he was genuinely curious. He felt he had come to know this laird a bit and now he wondered if he knew the fellow at all. He had also come to like him and the strangest thing of all was that, as horrified as he was to learn that his partner was a grave robber, the revelation hadn’t driven all that liking away.

He was going to have to turn Lantisilio in, there was no question about that. It might hurt to do so, but the man had robbed the grave of his beloved’s dad. And he was sitting here discussing it calmly as though he had every justification. Luckily there had been no details to upset his breakfast as yet, but Jocund’s gratitude could only go so far.

As soon as he was done here and as soon as he had the full story, he would be heading for the Town Hall. Or maybe to Lusilda. She deserved to know. His poor love! To think, Lantisilio had stood there in her drawing room and declined her kind offer of tea, all the while knowing that he had looted her father’s grave.

“You know,” said Jocund, feeling the anger rising in him, threatening indigestion, “it’s reprehensible, what you’ve done. You deceived me, that’s fair enough – I’ll let you off the hook for that one. But – but – ” He was lost for words. He decided another mouthful of bacon was in order.

“It is not in my nature to deceive. That is to say, I would prefer not to. But the nature of the world dictates that I must keep aspects of my nature hidden.”

“Polite society does tend to frown on grave robbing, yes.”

“Oh, it’s more than that.” Lantisilio waved a hand. And Jocund stared, unable to speak. More? What more could there be? Maybe this was the part where his stomach was going to find the tale rough going. “The grave robbing is an incidental. A necessary evil, you might say. Polite society – or indeed society of most any kind – has a problem with dead people. They will stand at gravesides, honour the departed with flowers and their tears. Some will even kneel and caress the grass or press their hand to the headstone, as though striving for some fleeting touch of their lost loved one. And yet,” Lantisilio sighed, “and yet – the moment the dead are unearthed and above ground, there is all hell to pay.”

“Well, yes,” said Jocund. “People are funny like that.”

“Personally,” said the laird, “I blame the violin. The Vladivarius I told you about. I was careless. A virtuoso is apt to get carried away in the music sometimes. In any case, it meant that the first grave in which a body went missing – in which I had any involvement – was my own. So you can, I am sure, appreciate my aversion to cemeteries. It’s also why I must doff my hat to you for your willingness to box yourself up in a coffin. I could never contemplate such confinement again, least of all for the sake of something so ephemeral and vacillating as love.”

There were several points through that speech where Jocund felt compelled to interject, but he was stuck chewing a stubborn bit of bacon rind. Unless he was mistaken, Lantisilio seemed to be saying he was undead.

Which was strong cause for spitting out his food, but Jocund, in a spirit of waste not want not, fought the urge heroically. Eventually, he managed to swallow the rind with a gulp.

“So, um,” he ventured nervously, “what are you saying? You’re a vampire? But no, you can’t be that. Not if you were walking through the market place in daylight.”

“Really? As I said, you know more of these things than I. But no, I am not a vampire.” Lantisilio cleared his throat quietly. “That entire incident in the market place was unfortunate. I really should have considered the possibility that I might run into someone who knew Mortimus Kandinsky, but as I said I was rather distracted at the time with my efforts to lose the dog. I realised at once I had been recognised, of course. And that, I am sorry to say, necessitated another trip to the graveyard. I was fortunate that some other poor body – some lesser-known member of the Florenberg community – had been commended to the soil that day.”

“Oh yes,” said Jocund with a brave stab at humour. “Dead lucky.”

He washed down his most recent mouthful with a swig of actually very good stout and trusted the heady liquid to keep it down. The gentleman seated opposite had gone well beyond being just a strange fellow. To the extent that Jocund really had no idea who or what he was dealing with. “But, and I know I am going to regret asking this so badly, explain to me carefully now how it is you were hurrying through the marketplace and got mistaken for Mortimus Kandinsky. You did say you never stole any bodies, right?”

“It’s a question of definition.” Lantisilio smiled, again with that weak apology. He drummed his fingers on the table top. “A body, to me, means the whole article. The entire composition. Of, well, not wishing to put too fine a point on it, flesh and bone, muscle and sinew, organs and – an outer covering.”

Much as it pained him to do so, Jocund set down his knife and fork. He sat well back in his chair, but his food continued to waft divine smells in his direction.

He fixed Lantisilio with a stare and began, reluctantly, to appraise him anew. The man’s prominent cheekbones and loose jowls were painting a different and disturbing portrait. “So, um, what exactly are you?”

“Under this skin, I am, for all intents and purposes, the same as you,” Lantisilio assured him with a gentlemanly smile. “I am a skeleton.”

On top of breakfast, that was one morsel of information too many for Jocund. Without fully remembering how he got there, he was out the door and running down the street.

With a hey, ding a ding, ding.

Fun & Bones – Part Eight

The beast was asking to be let in, quite possibly by the hair of its chinny chin chin. And Jocund knew it wouldn’t take much more than another huff and a scuff to have this house made of packing crates caving in.

The huffs and scuffs became thuds and scrapes.

Something was right above Jocund, scratching at the wood with claws.

Suddenly there was a louder THUD! Something or someone heavier landing on the coffin. The wood creaked under the press of footsteps. There was a grunt and a sigh. The panting continued with an air of anticipation. Jocund could practically hear the creature salivating at the prospect of its dinner as what he could only assume was its master repositioned himself overhead, all the better to open up the casket.

More creaks and a sound like rubbing sandpaper as – Jocund was sure – fingers hooked themselves under the lid. He could sense the hand sliding along the gap close to his shoulder.

The lid was heaved aside. A dark stooping figure loomed overhead, straddling the coffin, his feet braced against the sides of the pit. Moonlight was reflected in his shoes where the polish wasn’t caked with mud. He was also partly propping himself up with a cane, its silver tip having collected a similar muddy cladding. Jocund ought to have recognised the lanky top-hatted figure immediately.

“YOU!” he fumed. Frankly he didn’t have a clue what was going on. He just knew he was angry instead of scared witless and he was more than willing to give the anger a whirl. Fear had already had more than a fair run.

“Now, before you go jumping to any foolish conclusions, permit me to help you out of there,” said Lantisilio. He leaned forward, extending a hand.

Jocund wasn’t furious enough to decline an offer of help. He clasped the gloved hand and allowed himself to be assisted towards the vertical.

“Where were you?!” he demanded, once standing face to face with his partner.

“I was right here.” Lantisilio gestured calmly to the left of the grave. “When our culprit there showed up, I thought it expedient to let him dig you out.” He nodded to indicate a point behind Jocund’s head.

Jocund was suddenly aware of a ragged panting from that direction and realised that what he had taken to be the warm night air or possibly his skin flushed with anger, was in fact the wash of hot breath at his neck.

He gulped. And whimpered. And slowly turned his head.

A cold damp canine nose brushed his own.

Jocund squeaked and backed up into Lantisilio. “It’s all right. I don’t believe he’s aggressive.”

From his improved distance, Jocund was treated to a better view of their foe. Where he had expected drool-dripping fangs and a fiery glare, he found shining friendly eyes, a perky pair of ears and a sleek doggy face above a fluffy bib of white fur. Despite the tangles and copious flakes of dirt that had worked their way into the fur, it also had the prettiest patchy coat of browns, tans and black on top of the white. It sat at the head of the grave, its head cocked to one side as it appraised him, apparently not the least bit fazed by a staring jester.

“If anything,” added Lantisilio with a sigh, “he’s insufferably friendly.” The laird proceeded to clamber out of the grave.

Jocund stayed put. Still staring.

One of the other things that struck him about the dog was its diminutive stature. Even with Jocund standing in a hole in the ground, it singularly failed to tower over him. He watched as the dog lost interest in him and padded over to sit in front of Lantisilio. Lantisilio ignored the animal and set about dusting down his coat and tapping his shoes with his cane.

The dog gazed lovingly up at his indifference, its flappy pink tongue lolling from between its smiling jaws.

“It’s a collie,” observed Jocund, his mood in stark contrast with the dog’s. “A pint-sized collie.”

“A Sheltie, I think you’ll find.” He shot the creature a sidelong glance and seemed displeased to find it still fixating on him. “I wish it would refrain from staring at me so. Its eyes go right through you, don’t you find?”

“Oh, so you have an aversion to dogs as well as menial labour, do you?” Jocund hauled himself up out of the grave. The doggie noted his movements but refused to be distracted for too long from Lantisilio. At least somebody liked the fellow right then. “So, remind me again, you thought you’d let this thing dig me out. And you think this is our culprit, do you?”

Lantisilio nodded. “In the absence of any other – ” He broke off, as though reluctant to utter the next word. But after a moment’s struggling for an alternative, he relented. “Leads,” he finished.

“And how was he, bless his little cotton paws, going to open the lid of the coffin exactly?”

“Perhaps I should have allowed him to continue. I fear now we shall never find out.” Lantisilio examined his shoes unhappily. Then gave the ground an emphatic prod with his cane. “The fact remains, we dug a fresh grave – and this specimen was the only individual who took the bait and fell for our cleverly laid trap.”

Jocund looked down at the animal. It turned its bright, hopeful eyes on him.

“Appearances can be deceptive,” Lantisilio pointed out. “For all we know, this creature could be some form of lycanthropic monstrosity.”

“A were-collie?”

“I am reasonably certain it’s a Sheltie.”

“Either way, it doesn’t look overly supernatural.” It really was such a cute little dog, Jocund would have been amazed if appearances ever managed to be that deceptive. “It’s probably just some random dog that happens to hang out at the graveyard from time to time. I’ve heard tales of dogs who return to their masters’ gravesides.”

“Hmm.” Lantisilio studied the animal warily. “It could be. Yes. And perhaps it developed a habit for digging up the remains of the departed.”

“I don’t know. I realise you’re the one with the powers of detection here, but there’s still the question of the coffin lids. I’m sure the little beggar could have clawed his way through my knocked-together bits of packing crate eventually, but old Mortimus Kandinsky would have been buried in the finest oak and securely sealed to keep anyone from thieving his pocket watch or whatever jewellery he had himself buried with. ”

Lantisilio raised a sagacious finger. “If the puzzle fails to make sense, it merely means we are still missing a piece.”

Jocund grabbed his hat from the pole and snapped the thread loose. “If this little doggie is a part of our puzzle, I will eat this.” He gave the hat a good shake, noting with some satisfaction that the bells rang as clear and true as ever and still had the power to annoy his partner.

Unfortunately, they also proved an attraction for the dog. Leaping up in lively fashion, it sunk its teeth into the hat and backed up, pulling and growling in an effort to instigate a game of tug-of-war. “Hey! Let go, you mongrel!”

Jocund’s attempts to yank his hat free only served to encourage the animal. It growled and pulled some more, loving every minute of the game. The resulting jingles added to the fun.

“See what I mean,” observed Lantisilio. “Insufferably friendly.”

Jocund looked at his poor hat, getting all scrunched up and stretched and soaked in canine drool. And he realised he would love nothing more than to find out that this beast was indeed the culprit behind the grave-robbing.

“All right,” he said, trying to tug his hat in different directions to fool the dog into letting it go, “what do you suggest we do next?”

“Once you are done playing your games, I would propose we go for a walk. At some point the dog will be sure to part company with us and head for wherever it calls home…”

“And then?”

“We shall track it to its lair.”

***

There were many things, in Jocund’s experience, that were easier said than done. Tracking a ‘beast’ to its lair when it refused to leave your side was one of them.

For the rest of the morning, the patter of its paws accompanied Jocund’s bells wherever they roamed. After numerous attempts to shoo it away, Lantisilio proposed that they go about their intended business and pretend it wasn’t ‘dogging their every step’. Eventually, he was convinced, it would tire of their company and wander off. At which point, they would discreetly turn about and follow it.

So they paid a visit to the carpenter to return the hammer and collect Jocund’s coat. And the dog was still there. They called in for a spot of bread and ale, which was all Lantisilio could afford in the way of breakfast, at the Spoon & Badger. And the dog was still with them. Jocund put down his mug of ale on the floor in the hope that a whiff of that would drive the animal away. The dog stayed. But didn’t touch the ale. Outside and resuming their walk about town, Jocund rooted around in one of the alleys for a bit of wood and threw it down the street, suggesting as soon as the animal scooted off that they run and duck out of sight around the nearest corner. The dog ran right back to them and dropped the stick at their feet, waiting to play some more.

Lantisilio scowled. “It followed the sound of your blasted bells.”

Jocund decided to give the game of fetch another go, this time tossing the stick high and long over the roof of a row of cottages so that it landed somewhere in a back street. He and Lantisilio watched the dog scamper eagerly away, then crept down the lane beside the Quail & Galleon, a more reputable drinking establishment than the Spoon & Badger. They hid themselves behind a cluster of barrels.

“A fine throw,” Lantisilio commended him in a whisper, “but ideally we needed to keep the thing in sight. If this succeeds we may have our work cut out for us trailing the creature.”

“Oops,” said Jocund. He hadn’t thought about that. “Sorry.”

The point was soon rendered moot, however, by the return of the dog with the stick. Dropping the wood at their feet, it hung its tongue out and panted energetically.

Jocund and Lantisilio stood, exchanging despairing looks.

The furrows piled up above Lantisilio’s brow and he tapped his fingers at his chin. “Wait now. If the creature grasps the principles of a simple game of fetch, perhaps it also understands a few basic commands.”

“It doesn’t grasp principles. It grasps the stick.”

“At this point, anything is worth a try,” insisted Lantisilio. He straightened himself, standing tall over the dog and pointed dramatically in front of him. “Home, boy! Home!”

And the dog was up on its feet, about-facing and scurrying off down the street.

The chase, apparently, was on.

***

As thrilling chases went, their pursuit of the miniature collie – or Sheltie, as Lantisilio would have it – lacked tension and excitement, mainly because the dog would insist on stopping and turning to make sure they were keeping up. Down main streets they raced, across the city’s famous Bridge of Hiccoughs and through several of the snaking avenues of the Artisans’ Quarter. At least in the latter area of town nobody was up yet, so there were no pedestrians or other traffic to impede their progress. Before long, the little dog led them into a large garden that fronted one of a dozen once-grand rowhouses, now all fallen into disrepair. The garden itself was little more than a patch of waste ground, bare except for a few scruffy tufts of grass, small piles of bricks, wood, pipe and roof tiles – and a solitary willow looking all withered and destitute in the corner.

Over to this tree the dog scampered and under its sparse shade he started to dig.

“What on earth could he be trying to show us?” said Lantisilio archly. “Or should I say, what under the earth?”

“This is ridiculous.” Jocund gestured at the busy little excavator. “There is no way – ”

But they were walking over to see the hole for themselves and Jocund could already see what the dog had unearthed in his modest but hastily fashioned pit.

Bones. Dozens upon dozens of bones.

And every indication of more embedded deeper in the soil. A veritable trove of buried treasure, Jocund was sure, from a canine point of view.

Even so, Jocund had to shake his head. “No,” he insisted. “It’s just not possible. How could he have opened the lids of all those coffins?”

Lantisilio frowned at the remains as the dog, apparently happy with his presentation, sat back as though awaiting their verdict. The laird massaged his jowls and crouched down for a closer examination.

Jocund looked at the dog, then turned away to scan up and down the stretch of street beyond the garden railing. It had been a quiet enough route from the graveyard and at night any similar route would have been devoid of life. So it might well have been possible for an industrious pup to ferry the bones of the deceased back and forth between the cemetery and this private stash. But the question of the coffin lids remained the stumbling block. To say nothing of the issue of the skin and flesh. Where had all that gone? A big fat Hellhound might have feasted on the meat, but somehow Jocund didn’t think this miniature collie could have snarfed as many bodies as had gone missing.

Of the dog’s involvement, he could have no doubts now. But there had to be more to this than met the eye. The dog must have had some assistance – perhaps a master. Some mysterious figure whose nature might even explain the alleged sighting of Mortimus Kandinsky in the market place.

Jocund sighed. And to think he had entertained the foolish notion that they might actually have been closing in on the solution to this case. “I think we’re going to have to dig deeper,” he said.

“Well now,” said Lantisilio, his thoughts almost sounding like they were disappearing down into the little dog’s freshly dug hole. Down amongst the bones. “What have we here..?”

Jocund turned to look. And Lantisilio was indeed peering down amongst the bones – quite intently – but the little pooch immediately obscured Jocund’s view by diving in and nuzzling around in there. In moments, the bright-eyed canine was up out of the hole and depositing a shiny gold object on the ground right at Lantisilio’s feet.

Jocund took a step closer and stooped slightly to study the artefact. It was Mortimus Kandinsky’s prized pocket watch. There could be no mistaking it. Old Mortimus was always taking it out with a flourish and making a big show of scrutinising the time whenever he had felt Jocund had outstayed his welcome.

The dog panted eagerly, his tongue hanging out and his tail wagging. Like he was waiting for something. Lantisilio stood, ignoring the animal, but the movement prompted the dog to perk up as though in expectation of action.

In fact, exactly like it was hoping for another game of fetch.

“Wait,” said Jocund, thinking back to his first look in the hole. “All I saw in there was bones and dirt.” He saw it in his mind again and he was more sure of it. He looked at the dog. It looked at the watch and up at Lantisilio. Lantisilio backed away a pace. Jocund eyed his laird with darkening suspicion. “Did you just drop that in there?”

“I did not. What are you talking about?”

Lantisilio’s reply was too quick off the cuff, flying too hastily off the neatly starched fabric. The laird seemed intent on a close study of his fingers, even though they were encased in his fine gloves.

Jocund was convinced of a number of things at once. One, that the dog had fetched and returned the watch. Two, that therefore Lantisilio had tossed the watch in there. Three, that there was only one place Lantisilio could have obtained that watch. And four, that it followed that Lantisilio had another profession he could add to his extensive curriculum vitae.

Grave robber.

Strange though he was, Jocund had begun to develop a measure of respect and admiration for Lantisilio Gogogoch. Now he could only stare, no longer sure what to make of the gentleman standing under the willow.

Willow willow willow.