‘Actually,’ said Barunko, ‘There’s six of us, provided you count yourself, too.’
‘What?’ Plaintly stared at Barunko.
‘Never mind. Let’s get out of here. I’m getting the shakes.’
Lurma fumbled for the latch for a moment, found it at last, and then edged open the door. Plaintly pushed Le Groutt forward, and then Mortari. ‘Symon, have that head ready just in case,’ she whispered, nudging him past her. ‘Barunko, take up the rear.’
Barunko let out a loud fart, and then shrugged. ‘Sorry, what you said was a code phrase. It’s all coming back.’
Plaintly reeled against the wall. ‘Hood’s wind, Barunko, what have you been eating?’
‘It’s the d’bayang oil, Plaintly. You can’t really drink it straight. Instead, you fill the bottle with slugs and let them soak it all up, then you swallow down the slugs.’
‘That’s what I’m smelling all right,’ nodded Plaintly. ‘Slug farts! I thought it was familiar. Now, stay right behind me, will you, as we make our way through the crowd.’
Barunko nodded.
Heart thudding with excitement, Plaintly slipped through the doorway after the others, and out into the street.
She caught a momentary glimpse of Symon, screaming soundlessly as he fought with a headless undead. Both had a grip on Dam Loudly Heer’s head, and then Plaintly saw that the headless body was Dam Loudly Heer herself. Then she saw that almost the entire mob consisted of undead, most of them headless though a few sported two, even three heads, artlessly sewn onto shoulders. Still other figures were writhing jumbles of arms and legs, sprouting from mangled torsos. In the midst of this seething crowd were citizens shrieking in panic, along with palace guards busy getting their armour torn off, ears ripped off and eyes gouged from the sockets. Here and there swords swung, punctuated by meaty thuds or shocked screams; spears jabbed, fists flew, pitchforks stabbed – Barunko pushed past her. ‘It’s a fête!’ he shouted, wading in.
‘No, Barunko! Wait!’
To her utter astonishment, Barunko turned.
‘We’ve got to gather the others! Get us all to cover! Anywhere! We’ve got to get out of this!’
He frowned, and then nodded. ‘Okay. Follow me!’
There were dead demons everywhere. Bruised, bloody and exhausted, Tiny stood glowering, flanked by Flea and a one-eyed Midge, who now had a collection of eyeballs cupped in one hand and was poking them about, presumably looking for the right one.
Steck Marynd, with Tulgord Vise on his back, finally appeared in the doorway, and Shartorial – now mostly naked after her spat with a few demons – rushed towards him. Behind them all, Brash Phluster slipped round and stumbled into the Apothecary, heading straight for the shelves at the back of the room and their rows of phials, flasks, bottles and jars.
Apto straightened what was left of his prisoner’s tunic. ‘That was hairy,’ he said. ‘If not for my bad back I’d have joined in the slaughter. I’m sure you’re all aware of that—’
Shartorial had said something – something probably unflattering regarding Apto – and now Steck Marynd carefully set Tulgord Vise down, straightened, and walked towards the critic.
Who backed away. ‘What’s wrong, sir? Look at us – we all made it out alive! There’s nothing – she’s lying! Whatever she said is a lie!’
‘Don’t kill critic,’ said Tiny. ‘Tiny kills critic.’
Steck paused and glanced back. ‘Not this time. This time, Steck Marynd will see justice done—’
‘No! Tiny sees justice! Done!’
At the back of the chamber, Brash Phluster pushed into his mouth the piece of grey meat that had once been the front half of his tongue, and then started guzzling one bottle after another. He choked, gagged, coughed out the meat, stuffed it back in and resumed drinking.
‘Look at the poet!’ Apto cried.
Everyone turned.
Apto rushed past them all, back into the corridor, where he ran for his life. He heard angry shouts behind him. He found another corridor, pelted down it, and then, at the end of a short side passage, he found another set of stairs. At the threshold he paused. Up? No! They would expect that! Down! Down he ran.
Very faintly, from somewhere above, he heard Flea say, ‘I thought he had a bad back!’
Apto laughed nastily. Then stumbled, fell, bounced and flounced wildly down the steps, and finally came to rest on a landing, or, perhaps, the lowest level. In agony, he lay gasping in the darkness, and then heard something shuffling towards him. Panic gripped him. ‘What’s that? Who’s there? Leave me alone. I only ever speak the objective truth! Not my fault if I crushed your love of doing art, or whatever! Was it me who cut off your head? No! Listen, I own a villa and it’s all yours! I promise!’
There was a low, weak chuckle, and then a demon’s drawn, ashen face loomed over Apto Canavalian. The demon grinned. ‘I remember you,’ it said. ‘From Crack’d Pot Trail.’
‘No! Not possible! We’ve never met, I swear it!’
The demon’s smile broadened. ‘You’ve caught the attention of the Indifferent God. Very rare gift, this meeting here, oh, yes, very rare!’ It held up a flaccid length of knobby, bruised meat that dripped from both ends. ‘Look, I used it so much it fell off. Mother warned me but did I listen?’
‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘But I bet you have one. Should last me a week or two, easy.’
Apto suddenly laughed. ‘You’re wrong there! I’ve just broken my spine! I can’t feel a thing from below the neck! Hah hah hah, you lose!’
The possessed demon scowled. ‘Truly?’
‘Truth! In fact, I’ve never been more spineless than I am right now!’
‘Now you lie!’
‘All right,’ Apto admitted, ‘that was perhaps an exaggeration. But that doesn’t change anything. I broke my back, and I’ll probably die right here, lost and abandoned by all my friends. It’s a horrible way to go, and you know, if you were a merciful god, you’d—’
‘Kill you? But I’m not a merciful god, am I?’
‘You’re not? Oh, damn. I’m doomed, then.’
The demon’s face split into a wide grin again. ‘Yes, you are. That’s right, no audience for you! All alone! Forgotten! Discarded!’ The demon pulled back, began shuffling away. ‘Need,’ it whispered, ‘to find another. Another … oh me, oh my, Mother was right! Why didn’t I listen? I never listen, oh why? Why?’
Apto listened to its whining dwindle, and then, finally, all was silence.
He sat up. ‘Shit,’ he muttered, ‘that was close.’
‘It worked!’ cried Brash Phluster. ‘It worked! I can talk again! And sing! Aaalahh la la lah leeee!’
‘Tiny tear out his tongue again,’ said Tiny. ‘Everyone cheers. A standing ovation.’
Brash Phluster snapped his mouth shut and shrank back to cower beneath the shelves.
‘We’re forgetting why we’re here,’ said Steck Marynd. ‘The Nehemoth.’ He turned to Shartorial Infelance. ‘Milady? Can you lead us to the throne room?’
‘Yes, of course, but I fear there will be many, many guards—’
‘On your authority, however?’
She considered, and then nodded. ‘Yes, a special audience. But I will need a change of attire if I am to be convincing.’
‘I would advise,’ said Steck, ‘that you do so on your own, and then return here when you are ready.’ He glanced at Tulgord Vise. ‘That salve is working, but the bones still need more time to properly knit.’
‘Soon,’ promised the Mortal Sword. ‘I can feel the heat of their mending!’
‘Very well,’ said Shartorial. She then leaned close and kissed Steck Marynd, before rushing out of the room.