"Conduct a thowough search of the palace. I want those wetched wascals found and bwought diwectly to me."
"Yes, sir!" The captain of Lord Hirschnopple's personal guard saluted, and with a click of his heels, turned to leave.
"Oh, and Yobson?"
The guard turned back again. "Sir?"
With detached interest, Hirschnopple watched the butler who had served the Nanny and her guests carefully clearing away the glittering tea service the party had used. "Leave me a couple of guards, would you? Pweferably two of your least, ah...cosmetically endowed ones."
"Sir?"
The aristocrat sighed. "You know, captain, I don't understand why it is I so often need to wepeat myself to you. It's most fwustwating. Anyone one would think I was wegaling you in a foweign language, wather than wun-of-the-mill, wegular old Irmish."
The captain quite often thought that, but had long since recognised the wisdom of keeping the fact to himself. "Yes, sir. Sowwy...uh, sorry, sir."
"Hmm." Hirschnopple regarded him through narrowed eyes. "Consider yourself on thin ice, captain. Now, what I want is a couple of uglies. I want the two members of your squad with faces most capable of curdling milk. The ones able to make small children cwy with nothing more than a look. Do you compwehend?"
With a sense of relief, Yobson realised he did. And had just the guards for the job. "Yes, sir," he replied. "Smark and Felubble, attend to Lord Hirschnopple. The rest of you, come with me." And with a final hurried salute, he made his escape.
"Oh, yes." Hirschnopple regarded the faces of the two guards left to him. "Yes, indeed. That's the stuff. You two are just the ticket. Twuly gwuesome."
While Smark appeared unmoved by this assessment, Felubble—lower lip protruding further by the second—was unable to resist a good sniff.
"Oh, gwow up, for goodness' sake. A face like a bucket of goblin bums is pwactically an asset in your line of work. You should be gwateful. Now, the two of you gwab hold of that butler."
While they did so, Hirschnopple sauntered over to the table and picked up the gleaming silver teapot that formed the focal point of the service. He gave the stunned butler, standing pinioned between the two soldiers, a friendly smile.
"Hello there, my good man. I wondered if perhaps you might be so kind as to help us with our enquiwies. Tell me, who was it the Nanny was taking tea with, just now? And, pway tell, what did they discuss?"
Although clearly shaken, the grey-haired man lifted his chin. "I'm frightfully sorry, sir, but I'm afraid I'm unable to be of assistance. A butler simply does not listen and tell. As I'm sure a cultured gentleman such as yourself must be aware, discretion is one of our most crucial attributes."
"Yes, no doubt." Hirschnopple flopped into one of the armchairs and held up the teapot. "And so, quite clearly, is being a dab hand at polishing the silverwear. Just look at the sheen on this little beauty. Quite bwilliant."
The butler blinked at him. "I...thank you, sir."
"Yes, excellent work indeed. And I can't help but feel it would be a weal twagedy to see such work"—with a mischievous smile, he placed a fingertip on the pot's flawless silver surface—"smudged. Don't you think?"
The old man went pale. "You wouldn't."
Hirschnopple raised an eyebrow. "Twy me."
A rivulet of sweat ran down the butler's forehead. "I can't tell you," he gasped, as he struggled in vain to free himself. "It wouldn't be right. I simply can't."
"Oh, but I think you can." The tiniest of squeaks sounded as Hirschnopple moved his finger just a touch.
The butler winced. "You're...you're a monster!"
There came another squeak. "You can make it stop, you know." And then another. Expression hungry, Hirschnopple leaned forward. "Just tell me what I need to know."
"You heard what the Nanny said." As they made their through the bustle of Four Fingers Street, in the heart of the Downside, Slash cast an anxious look back over his shoulder. "We need to get out of Quollo, as quick as we can. You know, before Hirschnopple gets wind of what we're up to."
"Yeah, yeah." While Slash had to weave between his fellow pedestrians and Hobe simply barged through, the crowd seemed to part like magic before Carri's imperious passage. "The old crone might get to boss the royal brats around," she continued, "but she's not in charge of me. I'm not heading off on some wild goose chase until I've got a way to find said goose."
"But we've got a way," protested Slash. "The river."
"Oh, please." Carri didn't even turn to look at him. "The Erinoquo is hundreds of leagues long. Hundreds. We could search it for years and never find Vazor." A little smile of pure avarice played on her pale lips. "And I'm not waiting years for my cloak."
"Nor I for my beard-curler." Hobe's bluff, open features took on a look of uncharacteristic anxiety. "Gilda's a fine lass, but she's not what you might call the patient type."
While Slash shared their reservations, he failed to see how wandering about Quollo's seedier parts like a bunch of idiots, rather than heading off in a direction that might actually get them closer to the prince, helped their cause. Not least because, while the stories as to how exactly Four Fingers Street had come by its name were many and varied, none of them were engendered to inspire much in the way of a sense of civic pride—or safety. Hirschnopple and his cronies weren't the only reason he was jumpy.
He was about to say as much when Carri came to an abrupt stop before an unmarked door, squeezed between a fireworks stall and a shop whose crooked sign boldly proclaimed it to be 'Quollo's leading purveyor of recreational vegetables.'
"Right, you two. Don't touch anything, don't say anything, and it would probably wise not to breathe too much." Placing a hand on the door, she turned to glare at her companions. "And, most of all, don't embarrass me. Come on."
The interior of the shop, if such it was, was gloomy after the brightness of the sunlit street and it was a few moments before Slash could make out what it contained—which turned out to be nothing. Inside the cramped little room was nothing but bare floorboards and whitewashed walls, and at the far end, a simple wooden counter. And behind the counter, there stood...nobody.
Unperturbed, Carri strode up and gave its unvarnished surface surface a peremptory knock.
"Out you come, guys. We're here to do business."
Nothing happened.
"Okay, enough's enough. You're not fooling anybody, you know."
The nothing, which had happened moments before, continued unabated.
The elf sighed. "Fine, have it your way. You know, I really didn't want to have to tell Big Bonze down at the docks where that missing delivery of dried dragon gizzard wound up"—she turned to leave—"but if you guys are closed, it looks like I have no choice."
"Hey, not so fast!"
Searching for the source of the voice, Slash blinked, as the rear wall of the shop seemed to...waver. To waver, and then split down the middle, to admit a small head, bearing an ingratiating smile.
"Of course we're open. For special customers like you, Carri, we never close." A body emerged from behind the head, to reveal a gnome dressed in overalls stained all the colours of the rainbow. Making her way to corner of the room, the little figure grasped a string hanging from the ceiling, and pulled.
"Welcome," she called, as the rear wall, which had seemed solid and immovable just moments before, now split and spread apart like nothing more than a big curtain. Light and noise spilled from the space beyond, revealing a vast and teeming workshop.
"Welcome," she repeated, "to Little Bex's Great Big Thaumaturgical Phantasmagoria!"