Furnaces of Forge (The Land's Tale) (19 page)

Aunt Mag tilted her head and gave Megan a critical look. Then she smiled. ‘Perfect,’ she said.

‘Hey, don’t forget me,’ Wave broke in. ‘I’ll go, too.’

‘I’d like to see the High Mountains,’ mused Slight. ‘Count me in.’

‘That makes six,’ yelped Calamity.

‘Five,’ Grunge corrected her. ‘Brian, Megan, Wave, Slight and me.’

‘That’s what I said. Five plus me. Six,’ Calamity barked.

‘Seven,’ rumbled Eugene.

‘Eight,’ came a growl from the floor.

Everyone turned and looked at Flyte. The Beadles didn’t need to understand her to know what she was saying. Aunt Mag started to speak but was stopped by the wolf’s low growl.

‘Eight,’ Flyte repeated. She padded to the hearth. ‘I’ll be fine after a good night’s sleep.’ She lay down in front of the fire and closed her eyes.

Aunt Mag shook her head. She turned to Megan. ‘You’ll need some things.’

‘I’ll drive back to Beadledom tonight and pick up some stuff for Brian and me. Gertrude can drive me back again,’ said Megan.

Gertrude was Beadleburg’s solicitor. Beadles being what they are (which is to say, very particular and fussy), Gertrude was kept very busy. Her secret passion was driving, though, and whenever Megan needed her, she would close her office and drive the bus for Megan.

‘I’ll stay here and plan our trip,’ said Brian.

‘Thank you, Brian,’ said Grunge, though quite what there was to plan escaped him. Still, planning was one of Brian’s specialities and Grunge figured the Beadle must know best.

Brian tugged on the small chain attached to a button on his waistcoat and looping into a small pocket. He pulled out a key, which he removed from the chain.

‘My house key,’ he said to Megan and handed her the key.

Wave whispered in Slight’s ear. ‘Why do you think he locks his house?’

‘Don’t know,’ whispered Slight. ‘Maybe it’s some Beadle superstition or something.’

Aunt Mag got up from the table. ‘Well, I’ll go with Megan.’ She went to the hearth and softly patted Flyte. ‘Be careful,’ she whispered. She turned back to Megan. ‘Shall we go?’

Megan nodded. ‘I’ll be back in the morning, Brian. Goodnight all,’ she said, and left.

Aunt Mag stopped at the door. ‘Good luck, Grunge. I know you’ll bring them back.’

‘Sure. Thank you, for everything.’ Aunt Mag was almost out the door when a soft throaty rumble came from the hearth.

‘Thank you, Aunt Mag’ said Flyte. Aunt Mag hesitated mid-step, nodded once, and was gone.

When the door closed, the others gathered round the table.

‘What about Patch and Japes?’ asked Slight. ‘Should we wait for them to return from Forge before we go after Crimson? They might have learned what the man and the woman are up to.’

Grunge shook his head. ‘We can’t risk it. They’ll have to stay overnight in Forge and won’t get back until after midday tomorrow. If those strangers are going back to The Place, we might miss them if we wait.’

Brian wondered if Grunge’s concern for Crimson was leading the Muddle into a mistake. ‘Crimson said that these strangers were somehow mixed up with the Myrmidots. Knowing how might tell us where to find them. I think it’s worth waiting a few hours.’

‘We’re all worried about Crimson and Kevin, Grunge,’ said Wave. ‘But I think Brian’s right. Anyway, then Shift can take us to Bourne Bridge in the bus. Beats walkin’.’

‘OK, we’ll wait,’ said Grunge wearily. ‘I just hope Patch and Japes can find out what’s going on.’

Chapter 10

All Is Right with the World

B
ellow’s Inn is Forge’s most popular place for older Muddles to eat and relax after work. Younger Myrmidots who have had quite enough grown-up company for one day head next door to Ichabod’s Creamery.

Ichabod’s is a bright, colourful place, perfect for young people. In the very middle is the Shake ’n’ Bubble bar, where the youngsters sit on blue and pink seats and drink frothy cream shakes and bubble water. Tables and chairs and big, deep booths – blue and pink, of course – fill the rest of the establishment. The walls are bright yellow, fringed by a tube of red light running round the top and hemmed by a tube of blue light running round the bottom. Alternating yellow and red tiles cover the floor and all the fittings are polished silver.

One of the most popular attractions is the Spinning Glass. It stands against the wall near the front door. It’s a large wheel decorated in blue, pink, red and yellow. In the centre of the wheel is a mirror, with thin triangular mirrors radiating from it like spokes. When the wheel turns, fragments of everything and everyone in Ichabod’s are reflected in the mirrors, like a giant, reverse kaleidoscope.

The best thing about the Spinning Glass is that it plays music. All night long it spins, first one way, then the other, playing song after song.

That evening, Cres and Touch sat at the Shake ’n’ Bubble bar drinking coffee-flavoured shakes. They were having a wonderful time. There was a steady stream of young Myrmidots clapping them on the back and congratulating them. Cres was embarrassed at first, but before long she was revelling in the pleasure of being famous. They had only been at Ichabod’s an hour and already they had been asked four times to describe how they had broken off the piece of cinerite; and they had lost count of the number of times they had been asked whether it really burned water.

There had been a few incidents which threatened to spoil the evening. At one or two of the booths, the harsh sound of arguing had risen above the music, then faded into truculent silence. And Touch and Cres had been taken aback when an apprentice had said rudely that he “didn’t see what was so special about bringing back a piece of old rock” adding that “If Touch and Cres did it, it was sure to blow up sooner or later.” A few of the other apprentices had laughed, though most had ignored the outburst. Yet Touch and Cres had soon forgotten the incident and continued to enjoy the good wishes of their friends. Cres sipped on her straw. The rasping gurgle of the last drops of froth being sucked through the straw could be heard over the music. She caught Touch’s eye and the two friends laughed.

As their laughter faded, they realised that the music was the only noise around them. All the other young Myrmidots had stopped their lively chatter. Swivelling in their seats, they saw everyone staring at the door. There stood Achillia and Beatrice; but it wasn’t they who drew the astonishment of the crowd. It was the pirate and the jester who stood next to them.

≈

Crimson regained consciousness. Her head throbbed painfully, her body was being jolted and something was pressing on her chest and stomach. She opened her eyes slowly. The ground was passing beneath her. Horses’ hooves flashed in and out of view.

The last thing she remembered was trying to help Flyte . . . The man had grabbed her arm and she had yelled at him to stop the dogs. She remembered him shouting something and his arm going back, and the pot coming straight at her head. That was all. She tried to lift herself to relieve the pressure on her chest and stomach. Pain sliced through her head and she groaned and closed her eyes.

‘Ah, awake at last,’ said a familiar voice.

The horse stopped and Crimson felt the rider dismount. Hands grabbed her jacket and pulled her from the horse. She fell in a heap on the ground. As she opened her eyes, wincing, a man’s face, framed by the darkening sky, came into view. He smiled, but Crimson could see malice in his eyes.

‘Head hurt, does it?’ he said without concern. ‘You’re quite a handful. You’ve cost us a great deal of trouble, Crimson.’

The pain made it difficult for Crimson to focus on what the man was saying. She breathed deeply and evenly, trying to clear her head and rid herself of the fear that welled inside her.

He leaned down until Crimson could feel his breath on her face. ‘You and that wolf hurt my hounds. One of them will always limp.’ His voice was full of hatred. ‘I’m not happy with you, Crimson. And the hounds aren’t thrilled with you either. I think they’d like another go at you.’

Crimson looked him steadily in the eye. She didn’t want him to see how much he frightened her.

Hazlitt took a step back. He whistled sharply. The next instant the four hounds were beside him, their eyes fixed on Crimson.

‘Let me introduce them,’ said Hazlitt with mock politeness. He pointed to the largest of the dogs. ‘Crimson, meet Chaos. The one with half an ear is Strike. And that’s Spite. He lives up to his name. He’ll never forgive that wolf of yours for his limp. And this one is Clash. They’re all eager to get to know you better, Crimson.’

Clash, Strike and Spite stood snarling, showing their long fangs dripping with saliva. Chaos just stood and stared, his eyes boring into Crimson’s.

‘Hazlitt, are you going to exchange pleasantries with her all day or are we going to keep moving?’

Crimson turned her head towards the sound of the voice. Edith sat on her horse a little distance away. Crimson noticed four legs astride the horse’s back, two that were obviously the woman’s and two that could only belong to a Beadle.

‘Kevin?’ Crimson called.

Kevin’s face appeared from behind the woman’s waist. Edith pushed him back with her elbow. ‘Hazlitt, we really don’t have time for this. Get her up again and let’s get going,’ she said. Her voice was hard and impatient.

‘Right you are, Edith my dear. If you’re sure we have to take her with us,’ said Hazlitt. He nodded to something behind Crimson. ‘Chaos there looks positively bloodthirsty.’

Crimson swivelled round. The largest of the hounds was directly behind her. His eyes were locked on her and his jaws were drawn back slightly, revealing the tips of his razor-sharp front teeth and his dagger-like incisors.

‘I told you. Now that we know of the other one, we can’t take the chance,’ Edith snapped. ‘Not until we are sure.’

Hazlitt leaned forward and lifted Crimson’s chin with his fingertips. ‘Get on the horse behind me and make sure you behave.’ The menace in his voice chilled her. She dropped her eyes and nodded.

Hazlitt mounted. Crimson had never ridden a horse and she hesitated, wondering how to climb on. Hazlitt stared straight ahead, his feet in both stirrups. Crimson realised that this was just the start. Hazlitt intended to make life as difficult for her as he could.

She took a deep breath, grasped the back of the saddle and vaulted on to the horse. Her momentum nearly carried her over the other side. Instinctively, she clutched at Hazlitt’s jacket. With a sharp shrug of his shoulders, he wrenched free. Before Crimson was settled he kicked his horse into a trot, nearly throwing her off the back.

It took all of Crimson’s concentration to stay on the horse. The strange rhythm and hard movement of the trot took their toll and soon her back and shoulders felt like they were burning and her thigh muscles ached. Chaos trotted alongside them. Every once in a while the hound looked up and glared at Crimson. She knew if she fell, he would be on her before Hazlitt or Edith could stop him.

It was a little while before Crimson was reasonably sure she wasn’t going to fall from the horse. For the first time since regaining consciousness, she took note of the land around them. It was nearly dark and it took her a few minutes to work out where they were. She had assumed they were heading for Bourne Bridge and then into the High Mountains, so she felt a jolt of surprise when they passed the road to Bourne Bridge. Hazlitt and Edith were heading towards Welcome Bridge. They were taking their prisoners to Myrmidia.

≈

Japes looked around at the decor in Ichabod’s Creamery. She looked down at her matching blue, yellow and red outfit. ‘Amazing!’ she whispered to Patch. ‘This is my kind of place!’

‘There they are,’ said Achillia, nodding in the direction of Touch and Cres. ‘Beatrice, would you please ask them to come with us?’

‘We could always talk to them here,’ suggested Japes, who felt right at home.

‘Here?’ exclaimed Achillia, her eyebrows rising in surprise and disapproval. ‘This is not a suitable place for Myrmidots to have a serious discussion.’

‘But perfectly suitable for Muddles, it seems,’ said Beatrice. Her impassive voice made it impossible for Patch to tell whether she was being sarcastic or polite to the Muddles. ‘I’ll ask Ichabod for a quiet booth in the corner.’

Touch and Cres slid off their chairs as Achillia and the Muddles approached.

‘Good evening, Touch. Good evening, Cres,’ Achillia said. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt but I’d like you to meet Patch and Japes. They have come from Home to talk to you.’

‘To us?’ Touch and Cres said together. They were so surprised that a Muddle would want to talk to them that they forgot their manners and didn’t even hug the visitors.

Beatrice returned with Ichabod, a tall, thin Myrmidot with a long, narrow face, small, round eyes, a sharp nose and a narrow chin with a little grey beard. It had been mentioned by more than one person that he bore a reasonable similarity to a kookaburra – except, of course, for the beard.

He was proud of his establishment, which undoubtedly accounted for his willingness to wear a vivid blue shirt under a white suit with alternating pink and yellow chalk stripes. His dress sense may have been questionable but his manners were impeccable, which is why he didn’t forget to hug Patch and Japes when Achillia introduced them, and why he offered them his own personal booth, next to the window, despite the fact that having the Lord Mayor and her assistant in Ichabod’s Creamery was not good for business. His young customers came there to talk about their troubles or to drink cream shakes to forget them, and having the major cause of their problems in a nearby booth put an unwelcome restraint on their freedom to do either.