Dragon Removal Service Page 14

  "Save the children," Gulchima replied. "Don't worry about me." Because I'm the one who caused this anyway. I don't deserve saving.

  Anya from the Black Sea ran over to them. She was Tormo's mother.

  She scooped up Tormo in her arms. "What happened!" she wept. "Oh Tormo. Oh my boy. I told you to stay away from that dragon. I told you."

  He mumbled something to her.

  "It was my fault," Gulchima said. "I brought the children here. I told them it was safe." Her lower lip trembled. "I'm sorry."

  Anya looked shocked.

  "He may live, but I can't promise he will," Ninestone said. "Dragon fire smoke is dangerous too. Get him to the houseboats. We'll set up a hospital in the plaza there. And send someone to the fizz factory, ask for Man-of-Arms. I store my most important supplies with him."

  "Thank you," Anya said to Ninestone. Then she ran off into the smoke, carrying Tormo.

  Gulchima grimaced. "Do you have herbs, a salve, something? I can't feel my hand."

  Ninestone rooted around in her basket. She took out a small green bottle of liquid that fizzed when she poured it on Gulchima's hand. Then Ninestone went off to help the other crying children.

  Gulchima's hand throbbed, but that was better than feeling nothing. The white spot on her ring finger was just ash, not bone, she realized. Still, the burn would take weeks to heal.

  The siren of the wonder worms deafened her. The flames grew higher. Bayadev burned.

  Soon Uncle Rattbone was there, and the rest of the Outfit, both houseboats, came with him. The next few hours were full of panic and yelling, and buckets of water brought into the burgh. Gulchima helped with the fire fighting as best she could with one hand.

  Soltanabad was there too, with his workers and their glacier water, which was doubly-effective against magical fire. Lady Keyhide, Jaroo, everyone in the burgh, everyone yelling, everyone trying to save what they could.

  At last, the siren calls of the wonder worms faded, and Gulchima thought absently, that she wouldn't need to worry about them anymore. They were all burned up.

  Perhaps, she wouldn't need to worry about anything else on the contract either.

  Because this job was over.

  END OF PART II

  Chapter 23: Brunhild Has Second Thoughts

  Brunhild and the bandits had sauntered into the village of Boosh, just after breakfast.

  "It's just, I love Rattbone. I see that now!" Brunhild yelled. She was punching a baker who had come at her with a rolling pin. The baker fell backwards, toppling a barrel of flour.

  Kondo, the former bandit king, and current second-in-command to Brunhild, pulled at his long beard. His shaved head glistened from the fires they'd started. "Well naturally," Kondo said, in his deep rumbling voice. He picked up a small cow and threw it at a milkmaid. He grinned at the milkmaid's surprised oomph. "Love is like that."

  "Love is like what?" Brunhild asked.

  Now, she was shaking the mayor of Boosh, holding him upside down, by his foot. Coins poured out of his pockets like rain off a roof.

  Kondo was not one for introspection. He scooped up three piglets. "Love is like . . . like sometimes you just have to burn down a burgh with magical dragon fire to find it. That's what love is like."

  Kondo tossed the three little piglets at a gaggle of children, hitting them in their backs as they ran from him. They squealed. "How did you set that up, exactly? That thing with the dragon fire?"

  Brunhild paused. She dropped the mayor of Boosh, and he tried to crawl away. How had she done it? She couldn't remember. Brunhild put her boot on the mayor's neck, contemplatively.

  Brunhild could ensnare others with her singing; she was part River-Hag after all. And she was impossibly strong. Additionally, one could not ignore the magical scale armor she wore, which aided her in battles. But she didn't know dragon lore . . . She couldn't conjure that level of magic.

  "It's all a bit of a blur," Brunhild said. And that was true.

  The night of the fires at Bayadev, her voices had left her. She had set up the dragon fire trap indirectly—someone else had helped. Who was it? She couldn't remember.

  But the trap had been for Rattbone and his family. Not those innocent children. Those children . . . she'd hurt them. How they'd screamed!

  Brunhild couldn't get it out of her head.

  The burgh had caught fire as well, and that wasn't the plan either.

  Then Rattbone had shown up, barking orders, putting out fires, wonderful in the emergency. How she admired him in a clinch. Rattbone never started cackling when he got nervous. People followed his directions, even if he didn't pull out all their teeth.

  So Brunhild had—

  She released the mayor. The man had almost passed out anyway. What more could he give?

  —The night of the fire at Bayadev, Brunhild had taken off her armor and went to help. In the smoke, and the darkness, nobody recognized her. Who was she, without her armor?

  Did one exist, beyond one's job title?

  Brunhild's voices had left her that night. Perhaps they were ashamed of hurting those children. Perhaps, she was better off without her voices.

  "Well if you love him—" Kondo smashed the window of a cottage, threw in several flaming roosters. "I mean if you really love him, you gotta tell him. Get it off your chest."

  Brunhild nodded, uncertain. She watched as Kondo continued to demolish the cottage wall. He did not touch the door.

  She asked him why.

  "I like to knock down the whole cottage, but leave the front door standing."

  "That seems like a lot of work," Brunhild mused.

  Kondo grinned. "The important things always are. Even a band of bad bandits needs to advertise. It’s a form of social marketing, you see. Now they know we did it. I mean anybody could rob this village. They don't even have fortifications or protective walls."

  "They did have walls," Brunhild reminded him. "You and Toothless knocked them down, using those magical weapons I gave you. Toothless dented his magic dentures. Remember?"

  Kondo shrugged, but he blushed a bit in his pride. "I like what I do," he said. "And now with all the magical weapons you've supplied, we're going to be the best, strongest, richest band of bad bandits in Baltica."

  A screaming farmer burst out of a nearby hay bale, brandishing a pitchfork.

  "Surpr-i-ise," Kondo said, in a sing-song voice.

  With his two-handed long sword, Kondo sliced the pitchfork into three neat pieces.

  The farmer stopped his attack. His face dropped.

  Kondo chuckled. He used his magical sword to pick up the bale of hay, then tossed it back onto the startled farmer. Whumpf.

  One wishes for that level of job satisfaction, Brunhild mused. To enjoy what one does: Wouldn't that be a nice change?

  Did she enjoy this anymore? The looting, the pillaging, the mayhem. It was exciting, naturally, but did she enjoy it?

  [ . . . ]

  There was space, where her voices ought to have reassured her. But they were missing.

  Did she enjoy this anymore? Once, she had been a hero. The word was written on her heart.

  A man came at her with an old sword, dull, stained where it was used to move the coals around the fireplace for several decades.

  Brunhild sighed. "It appears you're trying to stab me through my chest," she said quietly. She gently headbutted the man, several times, until he went to sleep.

  No, there was only one man who could stab her through her chest. Brunhild knew that now.

  It was Rattbone.

  And she loved him.

  Chapter 24: Hubward Puts Down Roots

  The pumpkins were almost ripe, though it was only nearing mid-summer. But then again, when had there been better care of pumpkins?

  Seven devoted individuals cared for, watered, weeded, de-pested, and occasionally told bed-time stories to, these pumpkins. Grasshoppers were trapped mid-air. Bird traffic was redirected. The impossibly large squash and beets had been har
vested early. But the pumpkins were left alone.

  Hubward sat in the garden, with his seven undead helpers. He was utterly un-magical now. The fire had burned away more than his eyebrows. His magic was gone too. His team remained deadly, but still undead, and now they were visible.

  And as healthy as he was—Hubward still drank a flagon of butter each morning—Hubward could not restore their magic camouflage. People would notice his helpers—his team—eventually. And then he'd have to move on.

  "Pump-kin, p'mpkin," croaked the largest of his helpers.

  "Pummmmkin," answered another. She held up an oak branch to shade the smallest pumpkin vine that was just starting to grow into a vegetable.

  Now that he had some free time, Hubward should be chasing down the Sorcerer. Or at least, working on his play. But he was doing neither. He was waiting.

  He'd lost one job, at the factory. No surprise there. The Fizz-Meister was furious after finding the fairy poo in the fizz-water. And besides, after the small dragon fire mishap, the Fizz-Meister and Lady Keyhide and Jaroo had disappeared into the factory, locking the doors behind them. No one was admitted now.

  That had been almost four weeks ago.

  Hubward knew he should be digging up old magic to camouflage his team, but oddly, there was no more spare magic laying about. That had all disappeared the night of the fire too (along with his beautiful eyebrows and cool front-flip hairstyle).

  A redbird landed on the fence, intending only to peck at a small bug near the pumpkin patch. It was ejected with a squawk, and a triumphant "PumpKIN!"

  Two of his helpers exchanged high-fives, and then headbutted each other with a laugh. Laughing? Handshakes? When had they started doing that?

  Hubward probably shouldn't muck about with magic. Ninestone had trusted him to manage her small farm, and she'd even given him a place to stay. He had to help her now. He was an orphan after all. And she was alone.

  The good news was that Hubward had finally made a decision about his play.

  He'd decided that the evil sheep-shearer hadn't done the murder after all. That was too obvious. But who was it? Someone less obvious . . . someone with a secret identity.

  A Secret Identity.

  Sorta, kinda, exactly like the situation with the Sorcerer. Except that was real life.

  As for the Sorcerer, his final job—his real job—Hubward knew he should be tracking down clues. He just needed time to think about it, just needed to make a list of suspects and narrow it . . . .

  How can pumpkins grow so quickly?

  The thought jumped out at him. It was odd, now that he noticed it. The handshakes and laughing from his team was odd too.

  Hubward sniffed at the pumpkins, ignoring the warnings of his team. He wrinkled his nose. The pumpkins smelled like dirt. No clues there.

  In Hubward's opinion, people who ate vegetables were really just eating dirt. Weird shaped, mushy, seed infested balls of dirt; that's what vegetables were. Dirt was the secret identity of vegetables.

  The sound of footsteps startled him.

  Hubward looked up, surprised. His team had scattered.

  Ninestone was there. She was dressed in that modern style, wearing her patched dark blue skirt, white blouse buttoned to her neck, sleeves rolled up and pinned below her elbows. Her black felt hat tilted crazily on her head, which was how all the young women wore it.

  She looked tired, but bright, as if she had finally managed to fight off a bad cold a few days ago. Ninestone had been caring for the children and adults burned in the dragon fire. There'd been many injuries, but somehow, nobody had died.

  "I thought I saw you out here," Ninestone said. She glanced at the immaculate garden, and Hubward's clean tunic. "Been busy?"

  "Sure! Busy doing normal boy things. Breaking sticks, looking at dirt, stretching worms. You know!" He waved his hand. "Worms are of a particular interest to a person like me."

  Ninestone pressed her lips together. "Right. Well, I've got a soup on. Can you watch it? I have a new remedy for Tormo I want to try, and I'll have to run to the burgh. His beard is glowing now! It's bad enough that a five-year-old boy grows a beard, but Tormo's glows in the dark!"

  "Did you say soup?" Hubward asked. His eyes narrowed. "What kind of soup?"

  "The kind with squash, and beets, and a small bit of sausage," Ninestone said. "Now—"

  "Yes but: What kind of sausage?" Hubward asked, suspiciously.

  "Pork sausage. And—"

  "Yes but: What kind of pork sausage?" Hubward interrupted.

  "Country spiced. And no, you may not serve yourself, because you just spoon out all the vegetables and only eat the sausage. I've been watching you."

  "Yes but—Well, okay," Hubward said. He sniffed. "Guess I'll eat that dirt then."

  Ninestone squinted into the sun. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.

  Hubward thought she was incredibly pretty, in that tired, half-worn way his mother had been pretty. Hubward missed his mother. It had been only her and him for a while before the war, and then . . . well, he really was an orphan now wasn't he? Because Hubward's mother was dead. Real dead, as in, her skin had never turned blue.

  Just plain dead. Hubward wondered if that was worse or better than undead. Better, he thought. Better to be all the way something. Halfway would kill you.

  "Are those mysterious foreign strangers going to eat too?" Ninestone asked, casually.

  "Wha-What?" Hubward stammered.

  "The seven strangers who showed up the night of the fire. I see them out here sometimes. I know you've been feeding them." She glanced around, but by now his team was hiding half a mile away in the forest.

  "Old soldiers," Hubward lied. "I knew them during the war. I'm oath-bound to give them food and shelter. They didn't start that fire, I'll swear to—"

  Ninestone held up her hand. "There's enough soup for them too. But can they please stop stealing my vegetables before they're ripe?"

  "Good luck with that—" Hubward started to say. "I mean: I'll tell them. They like unripe vegetables. They're a different sort."

  "I expect dragon fire does that to a person," Ninestone said. She toyed with the ring that hung on her necklace. It was cracked and tarnished. Probably from the night of the fire.

  Hubward looked shocked. She knew? She knew the dragon had killed his team—made them un-dead anyway? Ninestone knew?

  "Arp?" he blundered.

  Ninestone turned to face him. "They were burned by the dragon fire, when the children were there. But they seem mostly unharmed."

  She stepped forward. "Some say they caused it."

  Ninestone stepped forward again; she was just a foot from Hubward now. He could smell her lavender soap. "Some say it's very mysterious to have foreign strangers show up in a place, and that very night, there is a magical accident."

  "Eep?" he squeaked.

  Ninestone leaned over, so her face was level with his. She stared into his eyes, searching. "Very. Strange."

  "Ipe?"

  "But nonsense," Ninestone said. She stood up straight. "Just a coincidence. And everyone knows they saved those children."

  "Orp?" Hubward asked.

  "Yes, utter nonsense," Ninestone assured him.

  "Uuhp," he exhaled.

  Ninestone lightly slapped his cheek, then spun away from him, twirling her skirt girlishly. She looked back at him and smiled over her shoulder, her eyes sparkling. "Take care of them Hubward, and don't fear. I won't tell anyone your secret."

  "Yip," Hubward said.

  "And Hubward! Don't burn our soup!"

  Chapter 25: Gulchima Splits Into Two

  It was summer, and he was leaving.

  Gulchima found Uncle Rattbone on the dock near Lake Pepsid. The large briny lake was set back from Bayadev, in the hills above the fizz factory. The air smelled cleaner here, with a faint hint of apple blossoms, and for once, the sun was bright and shining. She could make out a small island in the center of the lake, where a few young men wer
e laughing and bringing up nets filled with the small fish that the locals called Suish-Swash.

  It was a happy scene, but not for her. Uncle Rattbone was leaving.

  "Were you going to say goodbye?" Gulchima asked. She put down her bundle on the dock next to him. Her bandaged hand still bothered her. But it was healing.

  Uncle Rattbone continued looking out at the lake. "Thought I'd make it easier on the both of us. Save you an argument." He gripped his war-axe, held it in his right hand as if testing its balance.

  "I'm still running this Outfit." Gulchima said the words quietly. "You need my permission."

  "Yeah," Uncle Rattbone said grimly. "That's why I was leaving without telling you. Between your disappearing act and Isolde's screaming about the budgets every night at dinner, I'm almost happy to go to war. At least I'll finally get a decent night's rest."

  "You don't have to go," Gulchima said. She kept her arms down at her side, her fists clenched. She stood next to Uncle Rattbone, but she couldn't look at him. She might start crying. Might beg him not to leave.

  "As a matter of fact, I do," Uncle Rattbone said, with an edge in this voice. "I thought my killing days were behind me—ah, well." He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.

  "The war is over," Gulchima said firmly.

  "Yeah but there's always another," Uncle Rattbone said. "Besides, I'm good at it. That doesn't mean I want to fight forever, but . . . we can use the money. Killing is what I'm good at, Gulch. That's what people pay me to do. What was I thinking, trying to be a guardian to you three kids? Trying to change who I was? I couldn't have done any worse, now could I?"

  "You've been good—no, you've been great," Gulchima said. Her eyes were blurry with tears. "Better than we deserve. Don't leave."

  "Am I? You and your sister won't talk, the Outfit is in shambles, and every other day your brother is almost burnt up or drowned. What good am I at this fill-in-fatherhood stuff? It's too hard! I guess when they were handing out brains, I was off training for war."

  "It's not your fault!" Gulchima said. Her fingernails dug into her palms. Out on the lake a father and son were hugging each other, counting the fish they'd just caught. So, that was what a happy family looked like. "It's nobody's fault, really."