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ROMARNY WAS NOT SUITABLY attired, having had to hastily dress herself from Polly’s wardrobe, but she found her way to the residence of Goro Karakuri nonetheless, by the simple expedient of following the crowd. People were five deep on the narrow street, quite blocking the traffic. She wormed her way through and caught the attention of one of the two policemen who stood guarding the entrance to Karakuri’s yard.
“I need to come in, sir.”
The policeman ignored her.
She didn’t relent. “Then please tell your commander that buttercups bloom best in Bessingate.” She handed the policeman the same words already scrawled on the back of a theatre flyer. He glanced at it, bemused, then showed it to his partner. They both laughed, then he swiftly cuffed her. She was too hung-over to dodge it entirely.
“Be off with you, strumpet!”
Annoyed, she snatched the paper from him, stood back, and shouted three words in a strange language, words that easily carried over the closed gates and into the yard beyond. As the policemen stood glancing at each other, the gate opened.
The Chairman himself came out, dressed for riding. Romarny held up her paper silently for him to see. The first policeman began to say, “Shall I give 'er a decent thrashing, sir?” and was promptly thrashed with a riding crop. As he flinched expecting a second strike, Romarny slipped through the gate. The Chairman turned upon her with vigour.
“How dare you come into this without my express order!”
She ignored that and countered with: “Why did you let this happen!?” She was furious with him, and somewhat uninhibited by the residual alcohol that permeated her constitution, “The most important thing in all of Varste, and you cannot even keep it safe for two days?”
The riding crop swung again. This time she was quicker, disarming him in seconds. He roared in rage, as three other gentlemen emerged from the workshop.
“Sir,” shouted one of them, “that is hardly becoming of you!”
The chairman turned, scowling at the challenge. Their leader, the one who had spoken, glanced meaningfully at the windows in the upper stories of the houses across the street. “Come inside, sir. We must be more discreet!”
Romarny went with them, still keeping the riding crop. She found herself in a tidy workshop, filled with the smell of timber and glue and death. Three bodies were lined up under covers. Beside them crouched the city’s most senior policeman, and standing discreetly in the background was Karakuri. She caught the Oriental’s eye. He held her gaze a moment then glanced down to where his hand hung relaxed by his side. His fingers moved briefly. – ‘TALK TO ME LATER.’
“Gentlemen,” spoke the policeman, standing to meet this unexpected arrival, “I know this is...” He stopped. “Who is this girl?”
“My... niece,” answered the Chairman quickly, “She has a tremendous memory for faces, and I was hoping ...”
“Sir, you cannot put this child through such an ordeal!”
“She is no child. The costume is... is...”
“I was rehearsing for a play, sir,” explained Romarny succinctly, and without invitation she bent and flicked the cover off the first of the bodies. Then the other two. None were recognisable to her.
No-one else knew them either.
“And you did not find them until this morning?” the investigator asked of Karakuri.
“My wife found the first of them outside the window where they have obviously entered.” He turned and pointed to the window that had been forced. “I dressed hastily and came out. The other two were in here.” This time he gestured at a dried patch of blood in the middle of the floor.
“Which of them was outside?”
“This one.”
The doctor did a thorough examination, puzzled. Finally he admitted, “The death was caused by some kind of force to the neck, yet it is not broken. Very curious.”
“Ninja Powers,” suggested one of the others. Another of them scoffed.
“Well, it is beyond me to explain,” said the doctor with a shrug.
“Consider their style of dress,” continued the one who favoured the ninja hypothesis, “and their weapons; these men were Ninjas, and it takes one to kill one!”
“Really sir!” interjected the skeptic, “These so-called ‘ninjas’ of yours are a myth! A fabrication by the natives Out East to try and...” he stopped suddenly and glanced uncomfortably at Karakuri, “... ha-hurm.”
“What were they after, Mr Karakuri?” asked the policeman before the bickering could get any worse, “Did you have anything here of great value?”
“I did. It was a commission I have worked upon this last month, reputed to be worth five thousand Maccas. A miniature by the famous Faber J. Egge, in fact.”
The policeman raised his eyebrows. “Is it still safe?”
“Oh yes, the original was returned two days ago. But the replica was still here. That was my commission – to make a precise copy. I added the final touches just yesterday. Anyway it appears to have gone missing.”
“Ah! So a well-organised team of thieves arrive to conduct a burglary, they found what they thought was their prize, fell out over the spoils, fought to the death, and the supreme victor got away with it. Over the wall and gone, the villain!”
“My conclusion exactly!” chimed in the Chairman, rather too quickly.
“How ironic,” sighed the Doctor, “that these fellows should die over something that was not even what they came for. Just a replica.” He threw the covers back over the corpses.
The policeman turned to Karakuri. “Well, it all makes sense, sir. I shall call in my men now to remove this mess, and you can put your affairs back in order.”
“Thank you.” A precise bow. The policeman mimicked it, somewhat embarrassed.
They retreated to the far end while the removals were undertaken, then were finally free to talk. The Chairman immediately asked the obvious question, “Is it secure, Mr Karakuri?”
He nodded, turned, and pulled the Charm from out of a sack of wood shavings. There was a collective sigh of relief.
“Well it is no longer safe here...” began the Chairman, taking it at once.
“And where will it be safe?” interrupted the agitated one, whose ninja theory had been so soundly rubbished.
“There are better places than this,” was all the Chairman said.
The bickering continued for some time, but in the end the Chairman got his own way. “It is to be secured in a deep vault I know of, behind seven locked doors. One way in, one way out. And in the interests of the security of the entire world, only three of us shall know of it.”
“Who, sir?”
“I’ll be making that decision in private, and contacting said persons in secret.”
“You should not just walk home with it!” protested one of them, as the Chairman made to put the charm into his Gladstone bag.
“And what do you suggest? Armed guards?”
“Absolutely!”
“And thus signal to the entire town that I’m carrying treasure? Really, sir!”
“I agree we need a discreet operation,” intercepted the doctor smoothly, “Perhaps Mrs Hanarrahar could arrange for some of the Apprentices to escort you?”
The Chairman turned to Romarny. “How about our fiery Firetail, who seems so distressed about what is no longer her concern? Perhaps you could walk ten paces behind me and tackle whatever assassins jump out?” He glanced at the flim-flammery that she had been forced to borrow that morning, “You do have your full kit on?”
She answered coldly. “Sorry. I was ordered to stand down. You’ll just have to risk the assassins alone.” Then she turned on her heel, having at least her own boots on (and thus three hidden weapons), and stomped out into the yard, pushed through the police cordon and merged with the crowd. She still felt hung over, and more deeply annoyed than ever about his arrogance.
As it was, all four of the gentlemen set off together with the thing after one of them admitted to carrying a two-shot pistol and another demonstrated that his walking cane concealed a blade. As soon as Romarny saw they were gone, and shadowed them a short way to ensure they were not being followed, she returned to knock politely at Karakuri’s front door. She used a coded knock, of course. The door was soon opened to her and she rejoined him in the workshop where she immediately began conducting her own investigation, and almost immediately found a distinctive footprint in the fine dust near the window. Not a man’s print, and of a certain make of shoe favoured by anyone engaged in her own line of work. Careful not to disturb it, she sighted across the yard, then went out to study the softer ground near the wall. More footprints there, and most significantly – more of the same.
Karakuri was watching her closely. “Well done,” he said in his own language.
“Thank you, master,” she replied in the same.
“And this?” He produced a black hood.
She took it carefully, studied the fabric and the stitching, sniffed it, then carefully opened it. Hair. Several long strands. She held them to the light and turned them a few times. “Did you get a good look at her?” she asked, abandoning his language for she knew so little of it.
He began on a description, but only got out five words before she said, “Margot! I’m sure of it!” Then she noticed his puzzled look. “Friennie Vorkers? You know her.”
He nodded but said nothing. She immediately wondered if he had merely been testing her. Surely he knew Friennie by sight, at least?
“You must have known her.”
“I personally chose each Prospect who attends my class. I had heard in advance about her inconsistencies and advised the staff that she was not to attend. So in fact I had not set eyes upon her until last night.” He turned and went back into the workshop. “Do you have any idea who she might be working for?”
“It has to be someone on the council. Who else knew it was here? And I fear that unless we find out who it is, and quickly, the Charm is never going to be safe.”
He nodded again, not disputing her analysis.
“Are you going to advise the Chairman?” she asked, “And if so may I beg a delay until I have made my own inquiries?”
“Take all the days you want. I’m curious to get to the truth of this too.”
“Is that official?”
He merely said, “I have no knowledge of your activities.”
She bowed. “Thank you, master!”
She was well down the street when she realised that her thoughts had turned to Rodney Hoverrim yet again, and at least felt glad that he was no longer in danger, at least in regard to being in possession of the Charm. But that was luke-warm comfort at best. Distractedly she wondered how he was getting on, even to glancing up at the palace. He was probably there right now; wallowing in luxury and without a care in the world, lucky bugger.
#
THE ELECTRIC SHOCKS continued with relentless and sickening regularity, and Rod continued to struggle, only managing to get one leg snared in yet another of the dastardly device’s automated clamps. After an unseemly delay, footsteps finally sounded in the room, but quite unhurried. Then they sped up. Moments later, Jyves hove into view, looking oddly tilted.
“Problem, sir?”
“Get me out of this blasted contraption!”
Rod felt the butler tugging at the clamps with increasing effort, yelping with each new jolt of electricity. “I’m sorry, sir, I cannot ...”
“Get a tool!”
“Yes, very well sir. Sorry! I’ll fetch help at once!”
An eternity seemed to pass, during which Rod heaved and twisted with all his strength. He felt the chair warping under him, but it would not break. All he managed to do was to eventually get his second leg ensnared as well and thus gave the electricity yet another pathway by which to infuriate him.
Footsteps finally returned – two people at a run. A grizzled chap in work-wear hove into view wielding an enormous screw driver. After a hasty consultation (largely consisting of Rodney shouting, “Just break the damned thing, will you!”) he inserted it entirely too close to Rodney’s skull and heaved vigorously. Something snapped and the tool smacked Rod painfully, but he was so glad of the relief that he didn’t even mention it. The chap (some sort of tradesman) then proceeded to break the remainder of the clamps. Rodney sprang up, suddenly aware that he was still in his nightwear.
The tradesman was hastily thanked and sent away.
“Just what the hell is that chair supposed to do anyway?” Rod asked, after giving his upholstered nemesis a violent kick with his only remaining fully-functional limb.
Jyves bent, found the label, turned it over and read aloud, “‘The Electricated Chair is designed to provide Soothing Stimulation of the Brain and Limbs ... resulting in Better Digestion and a Smoother Bowel Motion’, sir.”
“Well it’s entirely correct regarding that last detail. I nearly soiled myself!”
Jyves almost cracked a smile.
“I’m so terribly sorry about this, sir. I had no idea it was this dangerous. But I’m sure it wasn’t a plot to kill you. These chairs are very popular at the moment.”
“I can hardly think why,” muttered Rodney, still massaging his tortured limbs.
“I shall I have it removed, sir, if you wish.”
“Yes, do! Destroy it, I don’t care. I never want to see it again!” Rod kicked it again for good measure, then added as an afterthought: “But we’ll still send my benefactor a warm and sincere thank-you note, Jyves. Tell them it was ‘most stimulating’.”
Jyves actually smiled at that. “I’ll see to it, sir.”
#
ROD’S MORNING WAS OTHERWISE consumed by the business of visiting The Evening Bell and relating his promised revelations to Mrs Fukes, then he set off for the Royal Airship Works after dispatching a hasty letter to Miss Cluely, apologising for his absence and explaining that he had to discuss his repairs – which was true enough but hid the real reason: that he desperately needed to get whatever news he could about Mennase.
Once again he was mobbed on his way through town, and once again one of those stone-faced grey-clad villains shadowed him and proved dashedly difficult to shake. When spoken to (none too politely, it needs to be noted) the cold-hearted cur just said, “I am only here for your protection, sir.”
Fortunately Jollie was there and hard at work and the Lizzie was almost entirely back together, but there were few opportunities to talk what with that nasty piece of work shadowing their every move. Jollie had to wait until he had a piece of timber set to a powered bandsaw, then as Rod leaned close to watch he said, “Now this is a piece of squeelow, from the lowlands of Troppokava...” and as the saw bit and began to squeal he switched to, “Nothing definite yet on you-know-who, and Red-pants is lying low. We’re doing everything we can to protect you, and that’s why we use it because it keeps its shape no matter how many times it thaws and freezes.”
Later, up upon the Lizzie herself as they ran the motor for a final test, Jollie managed to add, “They dispatched a corvette across that way yesterday. We got a few crumbs of news about it from one of the crew. They found the crash, recovered two bodies, and the rumour is that Mennase was one of them, but of course you and I know that steady motoring uses less fuel than running her flat out.”
For at that moment someone had come up the ladder.
That was all he gleaned. Jollie set a time for a test flight for the next day, which was required to test the motor with the new generator and the electrical ‘running lights’, and with that Rod had to be content with retreating to Haven Towers once again, where Jyves, unusually, had but one matter for him to attend to.
“A letter for you, sir.”
Rod took the envelope and turned it over two or three times, puzzled. Hand-written, and no return address. “Usually you open them, Jyves. Why not this one?”
“It appears to be personal, sir. Excuse me if I am mistaken.”
Rod opened it. The handwriting was large and child-like, which made it easy to interpret except for two words that he finally deduced were mis-spelled.
Thank you for last nigth.
Meat me at the Prancing Peony at 9.
We’ll get a room. Smack, smack!
Rodney crumpled it with a growl, and uttered a small and clenched “No!”
“Problem, sir?”
“No, no, absolutely not!” Rod passed the ball of paper back and forth between his hands, agitated, then suddenly made a decision that he hoped would distract himself from this appalling temptation. “Um, Jyves, I would like to take Miss Cluely out some time, to a musical, perhaps, or the theatre. Can you suggest anything suitable?”
“A splendid idea, sir. I shall make inquiries. Tomorrow at the earliest, I expect?”
“Yes, yes, splendid.”
Even so, at nine o’clock that evening, Rod paced his room in a state of agitation, then took another three hours to settle to sleep. But at least his fears about the return of Mennase had abated. The monster was surely dead by now.
#
MENNASE WAS RECOVERING, finally, but Henche maintained a close watch on him all the same. It had been his first amputation and he was anxious to see that he had done it correctly. To complicate matters, he had to make it look as if the Major had done it himself with the tools available to him in the caves. On the surface it looked ugly, but underneath he had ensured it would survive for at least two days.
Curiously it had been the left hand and forearm that had become infected. It was as if they had been caught in a shredder. Surely no-one would stab a man repeatedly in the arm?
The right wrist, which seemed to have been pierced through with a pointed implement – had fared much better. Mennace had been very lucky. The barb had narrowly missed the artery and passed between the bones, and the hole had closed naturally upon itself after the implement had been pulled (or shaken) out, and miraculously begun to knit. He had to admire Mennase for getting himself to the caves and surviving three days. He was tough; which suited Henche’s plans very well.
There came a knock in the correct code. Henche moved to the door, quickly tugging on his mask and gloves. He asked for the password, got it, and opened.
“Gauche is heading to the morgue now,” said his most trusted man.
“Everything ready?”
“As you instructed.”
“Keep watch here. I’m on my way.”
#
GAUCHE WAS LOOKING quite recovered, and this did not surprise Henche at all. He had ordered the poisoning stopped some twelve hours earlier.
“You’re looking well, sir.”
Gauche did not respond to the good wishes. The stench in here was already setting him back. “Which one is Mennase?” he demanded bluntly. Henche pointed to the correct drawer. Gauche rolled it open and lifted aside the ice tray. The body stank of fire and decay. Most of the meat had been torn off by hungry beasts. Two of the limbs were laid loose. The face was but a stained skull. Mennase’s clothes were damp and partially burnt, ripped fully open down the front. Sodden with gore. Stretched and chewed. His greatcoat had survived it best – having been pulled and peeled open early in the feast, and then trampled by the ravening pack. There was still dirt and ash in the crevices where the beasts had kicked and strained.
(Henche was impressed. The men had done well at such short notice!)
Silently, Gauche began going through the pockets and laying aside whatever he could find. They were indisputably Mennase’s effects. In the inside breast pocket he found a letter, wet and scrunched. He carefully spread it out. Ah: the letter to Victor Vicario VII bearing King Attar’s imprint; instructions regarding Mennase’s role in the Britisher’s crossing (a perfect forgery, of course). Elsewhere he found Mennase’s distinctive brandy flask and a small bunch of keys. Gauche secured them with a noticeable grunt of satisfaction.
The big morgue attendant just stood, stony-faced. Henche waited too. Finally Gauche was done. He gathered the items onto a tray and retreated. Washed his hands. Departed without a word. They waited an entire minute, listening, then the attendant closed the drawer.
“Good work, Cousin,” murmured Henche.
“Thank you, Cousin.” The attendant pulled out a different drawer, dragged its occupant upright so his legs swung down, hauled him off the slide and across to the distant chair, unbuttoned his identical white uniform at the neck, pulled a half-finished bottle a liquor from a nearby drawer, plucked the cork and lay it on the floor below the fellow’s dangling hand, then stood back to admire his handiwork.
“He won’t remember a thing.”
#
ROMARNY SAT OUTSIDE the Prancing Peony, watching the slow ballet on the street. Jolly decent of Jyves, it was, to steam open Margot’s letter and get an aetherwave to the Cheese Nest in such a timely manner. The man was a miracle.
And so here she was, and she had the message in her hand, or at least a copy. She read it through again, noting those final two words, ‘Smack, smack’.
Gods, Margot was such a whore!
The temperature was somewhere below zero. Everyone’s breath smoked in the light of the gas lamps. Gentlemen would stroll by, often in pairs, and the night ladies would greet them softly. A little bit of conversation, maybe a laugh, as often not. Sometimes an alliance was formed, or the gentlemen might jeer or simply stroll onward. The ladies would turn away with worldly fatigue, murmur soft cruel remarks to their companion or jeer a parting shot. Just another night in their ordinary lives.
Romarny hoped Rodney would not come, but she was not that confident of it, and so she continued to watch. It was ten past nine now. Then a quarter past. Had she got it right? Margot was notorious for her bad spelling, but amazingly had got ‘Peony’ right.
Romarny suddenly stiffened. Or was it meant to be ‘Pony’!?
The Prancing Pony was a half-mile away!
She began to move, indecisive. What if this was all wrong? What if they were already at the Prancing Pony, busy ‘smack-smacking’? She began to hurry off, then stopped. “No! Check inside first.”
Inside she threw back her hood and looked around, struck by the heat and general stench of stale sweat and beer, the hubbub and a thin choking haze from the lamps and the primitive ovens in the kitchen. She coughed and started peering around.
“Can I getcha summut, sir?” said a cheerful voice right beside her. Romarny turned. It was one of the hostesses, all of sixteen at a guess. To this lass, Romarny looked like a typical midshipman in a stained workcoat and cap, but close-up that the face was not quite right. “Oh, sorry.” Confused, the girl turned away. Romarny ignored it and kept moving, weaving through the crowd and eyeing every woman she saw and the men with them.
Likely as not Margot would stand Rodney up, anyway.
‘Stand him up’. Yes!
“Shut up, stupid brain!” she murmured to herself, moving through to the next room. No sign of Margot. She went back. No sign of either of them. She tugged out her pocket watch. It was twenty past. She clicked it shut. A large red-faced man rose up before her.
“Arr air oo wha da far nook,” he slurred.
“Yes. Good. Ah... no thanks. Bye,” she quickly replied, veering off via another pathway back to the main entrance, got halfway around a boisterous bunch at a large table, and spotted her quarry at the edge of the room, her back to the wall, watching the entrance. There was a fellow with her, a bit of a dandy, but it was not Rodney.
Got you!
As she changed direction again, she noticed that the fellow in question was getting a little fresh with Margot... (No, better stick to ‘Friennie’. Keep things professional. Shouldn’t give away her true identity and all that, even if she is an idiot), and it looked like she was actually enjoying the fellow’s attentions.
Romarny went right up to the dandy and leaned in to be heard.
“Sir, it would be best if you left my wife alone.”
She had positioned herself so that the nearest lamp was directly over her shoulder from his point of view. He looked up, squinting. “Huh?”
“In other words, go away, sir, before I punch you!”
He laughed nervously. “Ah, bu’ the lady’s orready tol’ me she’s unatashed.”
“She lies. Don’t you Frienne?” Like a gunshot, she had her attention now.
Friennie immediately turned to her feckless admirer, “Off you go, Rudeboy!”
“It’s Roodbury,” he said dejectedly, getting up and slouching away. Romarny immediately took his place.
“So, waiting for someone?” she immediately asked, and with considerable anger.
“I’m working,” replied Vorkers curtly.
“Right, sure.” Romarny slapped herself twice on the leg of her airshipman’s leathers, “Smack, smack? You call that working!?”
“Who the... how did... Hey!”
“Listen! Rodney is not important to me. I’m officially off his case, but you stay away from him all the same! You could queer up the entire operation! Understood?”
“What operation? You just said...”
“I know what I said! Listen, I don’t know who you are working for, but whoever it is you need to just walk away. Karakuri could have killed you!”
Friennie huffed. “I was just fine!”
“You were there because you knew what it looked like, weren’t you? Who put you up to it? You were attacking a member of the Council, and that means you’re working for the enemy! Can I not make that any clearer?”
“You do not understand how complex it all is! And by the way: I’m not acting as The Firetail any more, so...”
“Shush! For the sake of all the Gods, keep it down! Alright, I’m glad to hear you know your place at last. Now, who activated you?”
“It has to be kept a secret!” Friennie hissed back, her voice edging up just as Romarny’s was. Several people glanced around.
Romarny was incredulous, “It? What ‘it’?”
Friennie just scowled back at her, very serious. “Can’t tell you.”
“Listen, girl, you need to get your arse to the Council and start explaining yourself!”
“Nooo,” hissed Friennie, at boiling point, “that would just queer it all up!”
“Queer WHAT up?!”
A voice interrupted from some four feet above their heads, “Oi, leedu-lady’lone.”
Romarny looked up. It was that big lunk from earlier, talking down at her.
“Oh bugger off!” was her ill-considered reply.
For a big man he moved fast. In moments she was dangling from his massive fist, staring into his scared face from a range of six inches. His breath was worse than skywhale squirt.
“Lissun, mate...”
Then he blinked three times, staring just past her ear. Her cap was coming loose and her long black hair was escaping. His grip loosened. “Huh?”
And right about then that dancing dandy Roodbury swept in and biffed Romarny on the ear, shouting, “Hah! And that’s for earlier!”
It rather hurt, actually.
Her simmering anger hit boiling point. As her cap slipped entirely off, her fist shot out sideways and hit the dandy fair in the snoot. He roared in agony and staggered backwards, colliding with a bar wench who was consequentially forced to deliver three tankards of beer randomly into the centre of a table and two more into the back of a man’s head.
Bellows of rage. Oaths and expletives. Screams. Men sprang up, enraged.
Roodbury recovered surprisingly fast and came back at Romarny with a roar, one hand holding his bleeding nose while the other swung a hastily organised haymaker, which did not make its mark because the hulk that had first wrenched Romarny off her feet had had a curious change of heart. Realising he held a woman, he used his not insubstantial elbow to deflect Roodbury’s rash revenge, thus deflecting Roodbury in his entirety. Once again the poor fellow flew back, his teeth clacking together decisively. He landed in the lap of a gentleman of modest means, dressed in his best and out for a good time. The gentleman’s drink, partway to his lips, flew away spinning – a frightful waste of gin and also one fifth of his entire evening’s budget. The glass bounced off his companion’s pillowy breast and skittered across the table, to be caught on the other side and swiftly pocketed.
By this stage some ten fellows, all drenched in beer, were up on their feet and, having just witnessed Roodbury’s second deflection, they decided the real villain of the piece was the big bruiser who appeared right then to be in the act of roughing up a woman (as oddly dressed as she was), so they decided that the self same bruiser deserved to be taught a lesson and began a less-than-well-choreographed attack.
Thus Romarny was finally released. She dropped low and dodged away from the centre of the action, only to collide with Friennie Vorkers. Vorkers seized her at once and pulled her violently aside, shouting, “Come on you, out!”
Romarny shook her off in a fury. “Don’t you tell me what to do!”
Vorkers tried again, and once again Romarny shoved her away. And she might possibly have punched her at this point as well. Her memory of subsequent events remains hazy to this day. Vorkers reported several punches, some hair-pulling and three instances of biting in the first thirty seconds. Romarny, on her part, recalled a lot of hair-pulling, a very sustained bite and a great deal of swearing on the part of her opponent. And a groin kick. There had definitely been a groin kick.
Witnesses variously reported a woman flying through the air, a table breaking, flying kicks, a sequence where the two combatants swung chairs at each other until they were both reduced to wielding a single chair leg with which they then battled for some five minutes (and up to twenty by some accounts), and a particularly memorable moment when the larger of the two women wrapped her thighs around the other’s neck and bounced up and down upon her until the lesser one bit her assailant on the buttocks.
This spectacle proved so entertaining that the other fight soon petered out. And anyway the big fellow had proved a reluctant pupil for the planned lesson. Cheering lustily, the combatants paused to watch the two women fight.
After wreaking most of the available furniture, Friennie flung Romarny out the loosely shuttered window, leapt after her, and they rolled about in the street for another thirty seconds until the shrill of police whistles penetrated their grunting and swearing. With moments to spare they sprinted from the vicinity in a south-easterly direction (via an alley that Romarny had reconnoitred earlier) and evaded arrest.
Some five blocks away they stopped and stood gasping. Tattered, bruised, each bleeding from a cut lip and skinned knuckles, Romarny without her cap and Friennie with most of her skirts missing. “Idiot!” she managed to say to Romarny.
Romarny was too fatigued to punch her for it. “I’m the idiot?”
“You started it.”
“Did not!”
“And the words: ‘Bugger off’?”
“Oh. That.”
“The Chairman...” gasp, gasp, gasp, “will be pissed.”
“Pissed off.”
“There you go again, always correcting me!”
A short pause for some essential gasping, both doubled over, then Romarny resumed, “Why are you still here?”
“Because You Are Still Not Listening!”
“I am just hearing The Same Old Margot Melcher...”
“Shut up down there!” bellowed an angry voice from above, and a shower of urine followed it moments later, catching them both unprepared.
Romarny shook herself hard, trying to share as much of it as she could with her rival. “Bastard!” she shouted upwards, then set off again briskly, vaguely knowing the way. This was going to mean another night at the theatre, and another morning wearing some flouncy thing from the costume trunk.
Margot ‘Friennie Vorkers’ Melcher followed, insistent. “Do you think I haven’t worked out what is going on?”
“Yes: someone has taken you for a fool and got you to steal the... that thing, and you need to think about who you are helping, because likely as not he’ll destroy the world!”
“No no no no. Other way round!”
Romarny stopped. “Huh?”
“That’s what I was trying to stop. But that crazy Kakaruchi ...”
“Karakuri!”
“...yeah, him. He messed it up, and now that thing is back in the Chairman’s hands.”
“Where it’s safe!”
“Where it’s NOT safe!”
“Hey, be quiet down there!” bellowed a voice from above. They sprinted on, narrowly avoiding the next shower. As it was, Romarny was quiet for a whole block.
Then, “Who told you that?”
“I’m sorry but I’m sworn to secrecy, but she’s been suspecting him for a long time.”
“Mrs Hanarrahar?”
“Whaaa! How’d you know?”
Romarny sighed and answered vaguely, “Female intuition. And is she also the one who activated you?”
Silence, but as good as a ‘Yes.’
“When?”
Another long silence. They were nearly at the theatre and Romarny wanted to have the matter out. “When? And why?”
Friennie finally sighed, “She said you were dead, or very likely dead, and I wasn’t at all surprised actually, but anyway she said there were others on the Council who didn’t agree with her and they didn’t want to activate a new Firetail until they knew for sure, but she said it was important to maintain the program so she selected me in secret to be the one.”
“When you were in Truncasia?”
“Yes. But I was to lie low until she sent specific orders. No change, just guard the prince, and watch out for Barcuss.”
Romarny nodded at this, “Ah, good.”
“Yes, he was a great help.”
“What!”
“And he brought me nice soap.”
Romarny leaned her head against an icy lamppost and quietly counted to ten, then realised that her bloodied forehead had frozen to the iron. She quickly pulled away, leaving a little bit of herself behind. It was now well below freezing, and she realised that after the heat of battle she was risking a severe chill. She set off at speed for the theatre, and Fiennie kept tagging along.
“Haven’t you got somewhere better to go right now?” growled Romarny.
“Yes, but I’m not finished with you yet!”
“Oh what is it?!” snapped Romarny tiredly, just wanting to get it over with.
“We have to investigate this, you and me. We’ll be... ahhhh... ‘Team Firetail’.”
Romarny let loose a very noticeable sigh of frustration, “Why do we have to do this?”
“Because if you’re wrong, we’re all in trouble, and if I’m wrong – we’re still in trouble.”
“Gods. Alright! But I’m in charge of this, understand?”
“That’s what I hoped.”
“Huh? Um, alright, good. Why?”
Friennie gestured vaguely, “Because, well, you’re smarter than me. And... and you didn’t die. And... um, I’m glad you didn’t, actually.” Finally her eyes lined up with Romarny’s, and they were actually filled with admiration.
Romarny was surprised, but said nothing. They had arrived in front of the Tivoli Theatre. By the hour and the activity on the street, the evening show was well and truly over. Hardly a soul around. Good. Romarny proceeded immediately to the stage door in the side alley. They went unobserved. Shivering now, she climbed the stairs and gave the secret knock. Waited. Gave it again. Heavy footsteps sounded from within.
“Who’s there?” asked a beautiful voice.
Romarny pressed her face to the door, “The midnight owl, she never sleeps.”
The voice answered, turning it into a song, “The midnight owl, she never eats.”
“Because the midnight owl only weeps,” ended Romarny, still watching the alley.
The door opened. There stood a giant of a man, beaming in delight, “Missy Hatchet!” His face fell, “Oh look at you! And who’s this?”
“She’s with me.” Romarny slipped inside where it was considerably warmer, then hugged the big fellow’s barrel chest, “Good to see you again, Bazzi.”
“Eeeuw!” he replied, “You ladies smell bad!”