Brash Phluster crept out a few steps. ‘I will sing of this, Steck Marynd, the love that defied chains, and bars, and locked doors, and the fact that you haven’t bathed in weeks and are pretty homely besides.’
‘That’s not his tongue,’ said Midge, ‘that’s someone else’s.’
Brash Phluster shrugged. ‘What if it was? There were plenty lying about, and besides, look at that new eye of yours!’
Midge scowled. ‘What about it?’
‘Well, where did you find the dead goat? Is what I’m wondering.’
‘It’s a demon’s eye!’ said Midge. ‘And with it I can see demon things!’
‘What demon things?’ Brash asked.
Midge waved about. ‘Things demons can see, of course. That table there, and those chairs.’
‘I can see those too.’
‘But I see them the way demons do!’
‘Well, with one eye at least.’
Midge made a fist. ‘Not if I tear out my other eye and find another demon eye!’
‘Possibly,’ Brash said, and then shrugged, ‘though I’m not convinced of that.’
Flea laughed and pointed. ‘Look, Tiny, Midge has a goat eye! Ha ha!’
‘It’s not a goat! It’s a demon!’
‘Does it even work?’ Brash Phluster asked.
Midge slumped. ‘It will. Soon.’
‘Tiny eats goats for breakfast and demons for lunch. Tiny eats dragons for supper.’
‘And then sits on the shit bucket for the rest of the night,’ said Brash Phluster.
Steck Marynd snorted, and then eyed the poet curiously. ‘Most peculiar. I now wonder what potion you’ve swallowed, beyond the one miraculously mending your tongue.’
‘The Make Tiny Kill Poet potion,’ said Tiny.
Brash Phluster sneered. ‘This is what an empowered artist is like, Tiny Chanter. No sharper weapon than talent, no crueller eye than that of an artist unleashed. Insult or threaten me again and I’ll see you flensed alive, mocked in a thousand songs, aped by ten thousand mummers and twenty thousand clowns. I’ll see you—’
‘Better cease the threats,’ advised Steck Marynd, ‘before the witless thug does what all witless thugs do.’
‘Which is?’ Brash Phluster asked.
‘Yes,’ said Tiny, ‘which is?’
‘Why, kill the artist, of course.’
‘Yes, this is what Tiny is going to do.’
Brash laughed, ‘Really? So, Tiny Chanter, you’re a witless thug, are you?’
‘Tiny’s not witless. Tiny’s not a thug. Tiny’s not a witless thug either.’
‘So you won’t be killing me after all?’
Tiny frowned, and then glanced at Midge, but Midge had one hand covering his good eye and was taking baby steps, his other hand held out lest he walk into something unexpected. Tiny then glanced at Flea, who looked back, smiled and waved.
Groaning, Tulgord Vise slowly regained his feet, wincing as he put his full weight on his legs. Then he straightened and let out a heavy sigh. ‘Almost ready,’ he said.
Shartorial Infelance rushed back into the chamber, wearing a new shimmery dress of creamy silk with rose petal patterns spilling down to the hem, which sat delicately above the tops of her small feet. Her hair was freshly coiffed, too.
‘That was … amazing,’ said Brash Phluster.
‘We have a chance!’ she said breathlessly, her cheeks pink, her eyes alight, ‘there’s no guards anywhere!’
Steck Marynd smiled. ‘Necromancers garner little loyalty, it seems. As expected. To your weapons, friends, it’s time to end this!’
Brash Phluster watched them all rush from the room, and then he turned back to the shelf and began pocketing as many phials and bottles as he could. He hummed under his breath as he did so, and it was a fine hum indeed.
Emancipor cursed as the mob seethed against one side of the carriage. He leaned down towards the speaking tube. ‘It’s no good, Master! The whole damned city’s in the streets! They’ve torn apart all the monsters!’
The side door opened and out stepped Bauchelain. One gesture cleared a space as bodies went flying. He climbed up beside his manservant and stood looking at the mobbed street ahead.
‘I see. How unfortunate. Can you see Korbal Broach?’
‘He veered into a crow and flew away, Master.’
‘Did he now? Well, to be expected, as he has every confidence in my ability to extricate ourselves from this situation.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ said Emancipor. ‘Uh, exactly how do you plan on doing that, by the way?’
‘Well, first of all, I shall set the horses on fire.’
‘Oh.’
‘Fear not, Mister Reese, they’re used to it.’
‘Right. That’s good, then. And after that?’
‘Well, as much as it offends my sensibilities, I shall have to walk ahead and clear for us a path. Shield your gaze as best you can, Mister Reese, as it shall be a messy traverse.’ And from somewhere he drew out a midnight blue two-handed sword that then burst into flickering blue flames. ‘In this blade,’ Bauchelain said, ‘are imprisoned a thousand hungry demons, and tonight, Mister Reese, they shall feed unto gluttony.’
‘Right, good for them I say. Just get us out of here!’
Bauchelain smiled. ‘Why, Mister Reese, whence the source of this admirable self-interest? Most enchanting.’
‘Aye, Master, self-interest, that’s me all over.’
Bauchelain brandished the sword, the gesture spraying out writhing tongues of blue flame – sufficient to draw some attention, as cries of terror arose on all sides. ‘Now then, allow me some room, Mister Reese, and keep tight the traces as you follow along.’
‘Aye Master, count on it!’
Bauchelain then leapt down.
And began the terrible slaughter.
Scratched, bitten, and battered, the Party of Five reached the back of the giant black carriage. Lurma Spilibus scrabbled at the latch of the storage trap and, eventually, found it. She then twisted the latch, only to turn her cross-eyed face at Plaintly. ‘Locked!’
‘Then pick it and hurry up!’
While she set to work, Barunko and Symon fended off wild, panicked citizens, most of whom seemed to be in a strange frenzy and disinclined to reason on this night, while Le Groutt scared people by leering with his misaligned jaw, and Mortari poked at his swollen head with a shard of broken glass, spurting goo at anyone who came too close.
‘It’s jammed!’ said Lurma, ‘and now I’ve broken the pick!’
With a bearish growl, Barunko stepped back, reached round and tore open the trap door.
Plaintly peered in. ‘You won’t believe this!’ she hissed. ‘It’s full of gold coins and gems and diamonds and bolts of silk and—’
‘Let’s go!’ cried Lurma, and she clambered inside. The others quickly followed. When Barunko, who was last, grunted his way into the narrow space, the trap door slammed shut, leaving them all in utter darkness.
Plaintly listened but only heard lots of harsh breaths and the rustle of coins shifting under them. ‘We all here?’ she asked. ‘Count off!’
Mortari said, ‘Me!’
Le Groutt said, ‘Eee!’
‘I’m here,’ said Barunko.
‘So am I,’ hissed Lurma Spilibus.
‘That’s it, then!’ said Plaintly Grasp. ‘We’re all here! The Party of Five!’
‘No,’ said Symon, ‘you forgot me!’
‘What? Oh, wait, we really are the Party of Six!’
‘You counted wrong,’ said Barunko, ‘although you’re right. What I mean is, with Symon included, there’s six of us, but only if that includes you, Plaintly. Or in my case, me.’
‘Why wouldn’t you include me?’ Plaintly demanded. ‘Or you? Anyway, until Symon spoke I counted five, so we must be the Party of Six!’