Dwellings Debacle Read online

  “The stage is all yours,” he said to his restless captive. Then he stabbed it vigorously in the stomach.

  A few minutes later, the swordsman replaced the dead creature inside its box, and prepared to leave the kitchen. He stepped over a number of prone servants and several patches of shattered glass on his way to the first floor.

  Two

  VISCOUNT CURFEW LOOKED UP from his writing desk, his quill poised over the leather-bound diary that lay open upon it.

  Another flash: how he hated lightning. Still, his fear of the electric wrath was as nothing to his fear of the noise that always followed it. Thankfully, he had his earplugs firmly wedged in, and the mirrors had all been turned to face the wall: safety, first.

  The viscount stared out of the window opposite his desk at the rooftops of eastern Dullitch. It was a humid night, something that would undoubtedly help to prolong the storm.

  Still, he was far too busy to worry about such things: storm or no storm, he had work to do.

  Curfew returned his attention to the diary, and was about to put quill to parchment, when there came a loud clatter from the direction of the stairs.

  The viscount sighed, threw down his quill and stomped over to the bedroom door. However, because he was at all times a cautious man, he drew his sword before he opened it.

  No assassin, then, he thought, casting an annoyed glance at the men in grimy overalls who were attempting to fold a white sheet at the top of the stairs. He noticed that, as usual, his room guards were both fast asleep.

  “You two!” he snapped at the sheet-folders. “What are you doing?”

  The largest of the pair, a veritable lion of a man, turned to face him.

  “Cleaners, guv: we’re putting these sheets away.”

  Curfew rolled his eyes.

  “Well, try not to make so much noise.”

  “Right you are. Sorry, guv.”

  “Hmm,” Curfew began, a frown developing on his brow. “They look weighed down in the middle: do you have someone wrapped up in there? You do, don’t you?”

  In answer to this, the big man heaved at one end of the sheet, and a bruised and battered body fell out.

  Curfew started, and strained to see the face of the prone figure.

  “Isn’t that the fellow who delivers the vegetables?” he inquired.

  “Dunno,” hissed the second sheet-folder, who was a good deal smaller than his companion. “Isss it?”

  “Yes! What happened to him?”

  “He ssstuck his nose in where it wasn’t wanted; gave usss some trouble while we were trying to scrub the floors.”

  “He looks dead.”

  “Nah,” growled the giant. “He’ll be all right with a jug of ale thrown over ’im.”

  Viscount Curfew sighed.

  “Fine; just keep the noise down, will you?” he snapped. Then he turned and shut the portal behind him. Unfortunately, in doing so he failed to notice that the ears of his snoring room sentries were bleeding.

  Back in the bedchamber, Curfew muttered under his breath and carefully locked the oak door: then he turned around a second too late to avoid a gloved fist slamming into his face.

  He fell back against the wall, shook his head and frantically brought up his sword, just as the assassin he’d been expecting to see in the corridor drew his own weapon.

  Three

  IT WAS EARLY MORNING in Dullitch, and the icy shades of the night before were just beginning to recede.

  Down in the square, the first market traders were starting to assemble their stalls and several greedy merchants were preparing their caravans with great enthusiasm: it was all business as usual.

  Up at the palace, however, things couldn’t have been more different …

  Milquay Spires, royal secretary to the ruling lord of Dullitch, awoke in a pool of his own blood, which was never a good sign …

  He tried to lift his head, but it felt too heavy and he triggered off an unbearable neck pain in the process.

  What had happened? Why couldn’t he remember anything?

  “Help!” he shouted, but the sound came out muffled, as though he was talking through a mouthful of cotton wool. Moreover, his arms and legs were numb.

  “Guards! GUARDS!” He was shouting now, booming at the top of his voice, yet it still felt like whispering, even in his head.

  “P-please … somebody.”

  Spires found, to his frustrated embarrassment, that he was crying. Tears formed in the corner of his eyes and saliva dripped from the edge of his mouth onto the carpet.

  “Help.”

  The secretary gave one last gasp before his vision faded, and he lost consciousness. Time passed …

  … and nothing happened.

  Eyelids flickered in the light.

  “Is this the end? Am I dead?”

  It took a few seconds for Spires to recognize that he was speaking real words, very clearly. He tried again, saying: “Somebody help!”

  Then he realized that he didn’t need assistance.

  Spires began to peer around him. His office was not only devoid of attackers; worse than that, it was entirely normal.

  Still no memory …

  … and still the blood.

  The viscount’s secretary jerked his neck around in order to look behind him, sharply feeling the pain he’d suffered previously.

  His suspicions were immediately proved wrong: there was no one standing over him with a sword, no one rifling through his desk and no one climbing precariously out of the window. There was nothing, in fact, but heady silence.

  Right, then …

  Spires bit his lip as he pushed himself off the ground, partly because he was expecting some sort of surprise offensive but mostly because he was sure that several of his bones were broken. It would have surprised him to know that neither was the case.

  Attaining his stance, the secretary took a deep breath and tried to think. The first word he thought of was “theft,” and, being a man devoutly respectful of his gut instincts, he gritted his teeth and started to look around.

  When a cursory search of the room turned up nothing, he limped across to the office’s grand wall-mirror to study his reflection. There had been a heavy thunderstorm the night before, so all the palace mirrors had been turned to face the wall at the request of the superstitious viscount.

  Spires reached up to turn his mirror around, and started when the glass fell out of it and shattered into shards on the carpet. He muttered a curse, stepped back from the mess and crouched down to grab a shard large enough to look into. Then, viewing his fractured reflection, he slowly turned his head as he tried to locate the source of the crimson pool he’d been lying in. Odd: he could find nothing that looked or felt even remotely unusual.

  Still, there was something wrong, here … something missing.

  Spires started up another search of the room, but this time he spared no quarter: desk drawers went flying, pictures were taken down and carpet edges were wrenched from the boards beneath them. Nothing.

  Except …

  He hurried over to the fireplace and, crouching down, snaked an arm around the stone. Feeling his way nimbly with thumb and forefinger, he dislodged the palace deeds that had been secreted inside the fireplace since Viscount Curfew’s ascendancy. Finding the scrolls intact, he carefully replaced them.

  No theft, then. So what on Illmoor was wrong?

  Spires desperately tried to think, but it was only when he closed his eyes that the missing element presented itself.

  Silence. There was absolutely no noise from the corridor.

  Gasping with the realization, Spires darted forward and flung the portal wide. His personal sentry guard, a stout fellow called Morkus, was struggling to his feet, using a chair to pull himself upright.

  “Wh-what’s wrong, Mr. Secretary, sir? What is it?”

  Spires looked down at the carpet, which was stained where the man had been lying.

  “I didn’t fall asleep, sir! Honest! I just —”r />
  “Woke up? Yes, so did I. Can you remember anything?”

  The guard thought for a moment, then shook his head.

  “I must’ve hit me noggin, sir. Sorry about the blood, there … I’ll get it cleaned up.”

  Spires nodded.

  “Yes, you will … on your way out.”

  “Sir?”

  “You’re fired.”

  The guard looked suddenly bewildered.

  “Wh-what?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Wh-what do you mean, sir?”

  “I mean exactly what I say, Morkus. YOU. ARE. FIRED.”

  Morkus raised a shaking hand to his chin.

  “B-but, sir, you said you’d only just woken up yourself!” he managed. “S-so we were both sort of out, weren’t we, sir?”

  “That’s true,” Spires conceded. “But, then again, I’m not supposed to be protecting the royal secretary, am I?”

  Morkus’s lower lip began to tremble, and Spires noticed for the first time how young the man was.

  “P-please, sir! I really, really need this job!”

  The secretary grimaced.

  “Well, you should’ve thought of that before you allowed yourself to be … overcome.”

  “I don’t know what to say, sir! I’ve never done anything like this before. I don’t even remember being tired, sir. I don’t remember … anything!”

  Spires gave a cruel smile.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what, Mighty Morkus, we’ll just take a stroll around the palace and if we find the entire guard complement lying unconscious at their posts, you can keep your job. How does that sound?”

  “S-sir?”

  “You heard me. Pick up your sword and FOLLOW.”

  Spires turned and marched determinedly away.

  “Come on, man! Don’t dawdle.”

  Morkus fumbled for his blade and trailed after the secretary, who had picked up his pace and was striding down the corridor like an enraged flamingo.

  “I mean, it’s not a particularly difficult job!” he muttered, gesturing for the guard to keep up. He rounded a bend in the passage and started down the palace stairs. “I mean, all you’re expected to do is stand outside my room, that’s one lone door and a single solitary occupant that you have to attend. Now, as tasks go, it’s not what you’d call Herculean, is it?”

  “N-no, sir. But-”

  “Give me no buts, Morkus. The chips are down. You failed.”

  “Y-yes, sir. I know, sir. But still —”

  “That’s the problem with people like you, Morkus: you want something for nothing. You expect to be paid for a job at which you prove yourself entirely incomp —”

  Spires stopped at the foot of the stairs, his feet rooting so quickly that Morkus almost bowled into him.

  Not only was the palace’s giant portcullis raised, but the gate guards were all slumped in a crumpled heap beneath it, half asleep and — by the look of things — bleeding from the ears. Several were stirring and a few were beginning to get to their feet, but it seemed that all of them had been affected.

  Spires staggered back, raising a hand to cover his mouth.

  “Wh-what — how?”

  He spun on his heels, and snatched the shocked guard by his throat.

  “The alarm … NOW!”

  Determined to save his job, Morkus moved faster than he’d ever moved in his life, pelting across the hall and landing on the pull-rope in a frenzied leap. Bells erupted from every direction, piercing the silence and echoing through the shadowy halls of the palace.

  As the stout guard continued to throw his weight into the task, Spires retreated back up the stairs and hurried around the palace’s plush landing toward the viscount’s bedroom. When he arrived at the immense double doors, he soon wished he hadn’t. Both of Curfew’s elite room guards were semi-conscious.

  Spires didn’t bother to check the men for wounds, he simply snatched a sword from the nearest guard, threw open the doors and rushed inside …

  Part Two

  The Investigation

  One

  ENOCH DWELLINGS, THE YOUNGEST and in his own mind the Most Gifted Detective in the History of Illmoor, clicked across the floor of his study and slumped down on a rickety stool beside the fireplace.

  “So this is what I’m reduced to,” he snapped, folding the letter he’d been reading and tossing it into the crackling flames. When the letter had diminished to nothing, he turned to his colleague and mimicked: “‘Dear Mr. Dwellings, I’m terribly sorry to bother you but I haven’t seen my dog for two days.’”

  “Ha ha! Fantastic, Enoch! You’ve got to take that one on …”

  Doctor Edward Wheredad stepped from the shadows of the room and presented his friend and colleague with a welcome cup of coffee. He was tall and stout with thick lips and a moustache that didn’t seem to know when it was beaten. He also had a put-upon look, which was mainly due to the fact that his parents had given him such a dreadful name: most of the people he was introduced to thought he was a doctor.

  “I’m absolutely serious,” said Dwellings, accepting the coffee with an appreciative nod. “I tell you; this is no laughing matter! Since that half-breed vampire opened his doors, we’ve been steadily going out of business. If this drought continues, I’ll have to consider downsizing.”

  Wheredad, who’d been in the process of returning to his own steaming mug, stopped dead.

  “Downsizing?” he echoed. “But there’s only the two of us here!”

  Dwellings raised an eyebrow.

  “Precisely, my friend. And considering the fact that I’m hardly likely to sack myself, I think we both recognize the implication …”

  Wheredad’s face fell, and he gave a resigned nod.

  “Do you want me to leave now?” he hazarded.

  Dwellings boggled at him.

  “You? Leave? Now? Oh goodness no, I wouldn’t hear of it.”

  The assistant heaved an audible sigh of relief.

  “Thank the gods for that, Enoch. For a moment there I thought …”

  “Lunchtime would be fine.”

  “Mmm? What?”

  “I’m not discussing it, Wheredad. I absolutely insist that you stay here for the morning. What sort of heartless employer do you take me for, slinging a man out onto the street at ungodly hours in the pouring rain?”

  “B-but we’ve worked together for ten years!”

  “I know, my friend … and I have to be honest: I’m absolutely sick to the back teeth of you.”

  “I — what? What do you mean?”

  Dwellings sighed, then abruptly tossed the remains of his coffee into the fire and leaped to his feet.

  “I hate your face. I mean, I try to be polite about it most of the time but, honestly man, have you ever wondered why women never go out with you?”

  “I—”

  “It’s because they can’t SEE you under there. You’re like a great big hairy pie.”

  “How dare —”

  “And please, please don’t keep referring to your “young lady” from Recklans’ Inn.”

  “Now, look here: Marsha and I —”

  “There is no Marsha, Wheredad! I know because I visited the owners when she failed to turn up to dinner for the forty-seventh time! D’you know what they told me? They told me that Marsha is the name they give to the specials menu they parade around the city. Do you understand what I’m saying? You’re actually inventing a relationship with a sandwich board … exactly how low can you sink?”

  “You’ve never had a girlfriend either!”

  Dwellings’ gaunt features winced at the observation.

  “No, no I haven’t … and I can’t help but wonder why!”

  “It’s — er — it’s because you’re so busy, Enoch,” Wheredad managed, wondering if he’d gone too far.

  “Busy?” Dwellings exclaimed. “Ha! Not these days, old friend, and certainly not since Obegarde opened his accursed detective agency NEXT BLOODY DOOR!”

&n
bsp; Without warning, he rushed over to the far wall and began hammering insanely at the plaster.

  THUD.

  “Cut-down prices, my foot! Weekly specials! Your cheating husband caught or your money back! Two investigations for the price of one You’re a damn, stinking disgrace to the trade, you bloodsucking fiend, you!”

  THUD. THUD.

  “Haven’t got the guts to face me one on one, have you? I’ve solved more cases than you’ve had necks, you sissy fingered son of a …”

  THUD. THUD. THUD.

  Wheredad, now red with embarrassment, waited for his employer’s temper to abate. When, after several minutes, Dwellings still showed no signs of fatigue, he went to fetch his coat … and walked right into a near-frantic royal page.

  “E-e-enoch Dwellings?”

  The boy was so out of breath, he was almost crying. He’d evidently stripped off most of his uniform — highly irregular for a palace official — and was literally dripping with sweat. This wasn’t entirely surprising: Dwellings’ house was a good distance from the palace.

  “P-please, sir. You’ve got to come to the palace at once …”

  Wheredad spun around, but the wall thumping had ceased, and Enoch Dwellings was already standing to attention, his arms folded and his face bearing an almost sympathetic grin.

  “What’s the problem, young man?”

  The page leaned against the door-frame, and coughed a few times.

  “It — it’s the viscount, sir.”

  Dwellings raised an eyebrow.

  “Lord Curfew?”

  “Y-yes, sir. We think he’s been kidnapped.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Wheredad chimed, eyeing the boy dubiously. “The palace has more guards than —”

  “Knocked out, sir, and not just the guards — all of us! Cooks, maids, lookouts, even the royal secretary.”

  Dwellings pursed his lips, then disappeared for a moment and returned with a grey coat slung over his arm.

  “What time is it?” he said, reaching for his watch before anyone could answer. It was a strange habit, and one that Wheredad found increasingly annoying.

  “Nearly seven o’clock,” the assistant confirmed, redundantly.