Voice

1 > He Pretends To Be A Gutter-man

"Halt! Who goes there?" Strong, stern and arresting, the voice belonged to the Captain of the Regular Guard. An arc of light swung around and illuminated the area. The blinding white brightness made the squad of policemen blink. 

The voice that answered him was rough and sly and sounded like it came from somewhere near the ground. "Nobody but that belongs 'ere."

"Name and business?" inquired sharply a Sergeant, who stood off to the Captain's right.

"Tryllie," replied the voice, after a slight pause. "I live 'ere."

"What, in a doorway?" burst out a young, slim constable, who turned beet red and clamped his mouth shut when his commanding officers turned in surprise at the breach of protocol.

"A doorway's much better than under a bridge, ye knows," came the gutter-voice, wavering in rueful laughter. "Ain't all lucky enough to ha' a warm, cosy 'ouse wit' a nice cosy bed."

The Captain sighed. He had been ordered to find a rogue Lordling and his retainer - what's more, by the time the sun rose, too. The Captain glanced down the road, eerily lit in places all along it with the lamps of the other squads out in search. Fog was rolling in from the port. Soon even the police lamps, which were strong and bright and burnt with more ferocity than any other light in the city, would not be able to give them more than a few steps' view ahead of them. 

"Have you seen this man?" a constable was asking the gutter-man, squatting to show him a colored sketch of a young man dressed all in black. 

"Handsome one, ain't he," observed the gutter-man. The young man in the sketch was handsome, in fact. He had hair of a strange reddish-brown, which in the sketch looked more red than brown. The artist had captured his eyes very well; they sparked and were intelligent even on paper, and promised a store of pranks and jokes yet to come. 

"So?" said Constable No. 2.

The gutter-man contemplated the picture. "Rather pointy nose."

"I beg your pardon?" 

"No, no, I 'aven't seen 'im," said the gutter-man, snuggling into his rags even more. The constable fought to keep from wrinkling his nose. The man's movement had released a stench that should be illegal, so foul it was. It smelt rather like poop and a body unwashed for a year and mud and rain and all kinds of disgusting things. Quickly, Constable No. 2 stood and backed away. 

"He says he hasn't seen the Lordling," he reported to his Captain. 

"Yes, I can hear that," said the Captain. He'd caught a whiff of the gutter-man's stench as well. He didn't think for a moment that any Lordling, no matter how adventurous or rogue he could be, would ever stand to be anywhere near that pile of rags for longer than it can take to get away from it. "Let's move on, men," ordered the Captain. 

Obediently, the squad moved on and away. When the light had faded away around a corner, the gutter-man threw off his rags and shot away from them as fast as his legs would take him. 

Muffled laughter sounded from inside one of the huge crates stacked against the wall of one of the alleys connected to the gutter-man's road. The gutter-man strode up to it, knocked off the crates above it and lifted its lid. 

Abruptly, the laugher began to choke and gag. "Get away, you idiot!" he choked out, holding his nose and trying to press his big body into the crate's wall. "You stink something awful!"

"Is that any way to speak to the person who saved you from arrest - yet again, might I add?" sniffed the gutter-man. Then he pulled a face. "On the other hand, I smell what you mean. Give me the bag."