The Spell of Undoing (2 page)

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

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

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

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

‘Wotcha doing?’

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

‘C'mere!’ roared Masher.

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

‘You little wretch!’ he bellowed.

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

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

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

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

Masher's grin hardened. He lurched forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And with that he walked off.

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

‘Mmm,’ he said.

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

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

‘I wasn't
sneaking,’
muttered Tab.

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

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

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

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

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

‘Experienced, are you?’

‘Um … yeah.’

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

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

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

‘What doesn't?’

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

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

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

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

‘How much?’ said Tab.

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

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

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

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

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

‘I need a hand.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That shut him up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Masher's face oscillated between mirth and misery.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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