Ratastrophe Catastrophe by David Lee Stone Page B

patch on the Snowland husky he used to own, but it was a dog nevertheless, and was probably in need of care and attention. He wondered if it would like a biscuit.
    The sound began even before Modeset had attempted to move away. A low-throated snarl rose steadily in pitch and crescendoed to a growl bordering on insanity. Modeset found himself frozen to the spot in sheer terror.
    Surely it can’t be coming from the dog, he thought, keeping one eye on the curled-up fur ball under the throne. He suddenly realized that he couldn’t tell which way the animal was facing. He was still speculating about it when an eye flicked open.
    Even Diek heard the scream. It ripped through the palace; ornaments shattered, windows shook, and latches rattled. He watched as a flock of birds erupted from the gardens and took flight. Then, just as suddenly, the sound faded away. All was silent.
    Diek shook his head. He was beginning to realize that palaces were very strange places, especially this one.
    Pegrand burst into the throne room and dropped his pile of luggage. The party of mercenaries and Tambor Forestall filed in behind him.
    “Are you all right, milord?” he said. “Milord…?”
    The room appeared entirely empty. Pegrand looked to the left and right, then up at the ceiling. Eventually he looked down. “What’re you doing on the floor, milord?” he asked.
    Modeset sighed. “Practicing my yoga, Pegrand. Would you be so kind as to pass me that marrowbone over by the door?”
    The manservant motioned to Tambor, who rushed over to fetch the bone. He handed it on to Pegrand, making sure to keep a fair distance between himself and the shape lurking under the throne. Pegrand tossed it to the dog, then helped the duke to his feet. “That’s Vicious,” said Pegrand.
    “You’re telling me,” said Modeset.
    “No, milord. You named the dog Vicious, remember?”
    “Oh, so I did. Quite right, too. Little bast—”
    “ These are the mercenaries, milord,” interrupted Pegrand. “You’ll, er, you’ll probably remember Groan Teethgrit and, um—”
    “Yes. Only too well.”
    In what seemed like the blink of an eye, Modeset crossed the room and seated himself behind his pearly white marble desk. “Assemble!” he shouted.
    Pegrand hurried around the room, ushering everyone into a straight line or, at least, the nearest approximation of a straight line they could manage. Groan would’ve stood out on a map.
    “Are these all the mercenaries we have?” Modeset asked.
    Tambor thrust one hand into his robe and produced a tattered scrap of parchment. He squinted at it. “There is a young man unconscious downstairs. I believe he is this…um…how do you say it? I believe it’s said Diyek, Diyek Wustaphor,” Tambor managed, edging around every vowel as if it might suddenly leap out of the word and bite him.
    “I see. Let’s just leave him there for the time being, shall we? I’ll deal with him later.”
    Groan muttered under his breath, bumbled across the room, and sat in the throne. Nobody in the room batted an eyelid, but Vicious took the opportunity to gnaw at the barbarian’s ankles. It gave up after ten minutes.
    Modeset continued: “Now, if we can just—”
    “I don’t believe you’ll have need of these men,” said a voice.
    Tambor stepped aside to admit the young traveler, who marched over to the desk with an air of authority befitting a king. He treated the duke to a haughty grin.
    “My name is Diek Wustapha, and I am the only one who can rid your city of all unwanted guests, for a far lower price than these mercenaries.”
    Gordo spat on to the mosaic tiles. “How do you know?” he said. “We haven’t even quoted a bloody price yet!”
    “Don’t take it personally, boys!” Tambor shouted. “These yokels, they’re all the same.”
    “My methods will cause little civic unrest,” Diek continued. “I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.”
    His voice had a strange, melodic quality.
    Modeset looked from