Ratastrophe Catastrophe by David Lee Stone Read Free Book Online Page B

stood tall despite his height, and proud, but remained a veritable portrait of curiosity. Chas Firebrand, the tavern owner, leaned forward and put one beer-stained hand to his ear. “Could you repeat that, son?” he said.
    “Certainly, humble bartend,” Diek spat, an alien energy coursing through his veins. He could feel The Voice welling up inside him. “I wish one of the lesser classes seated in this establishment to announce me at the palace. It won’t take very long, and for the privilege, I will spare his life.”
    On any other day this speech would have been suicide, plain and simple. A knife in the back if Diek were lucky, a knife somewhere else if he weren’t. Today was worse. Out of the corner of his eye, Chas noticed that the local thug ring was assembling for a late lunch and, at a corner table, he spotted several likely-looking Yowlers. Chas twitched nervously; it was only a matter of time.
    Strangely enough, the boy oozed an ethereal confidence, and several people were edging away from him. One group of thugs, however, was preparing to rise from their seats. They quickly thought better of it when two shapes loomed into view behind the foreigner, one unquestionably dwarfish and the other implausibly muscular.
    Diek smiled on, oblivious, as a number of drawn daggers disappeared into pockets and sleeves.
    “’Scuse us,” said Gordo, shoving his way past. He’d noticed Diek enter the bar and now felt strangely compelled to help him; after all, anyone with no muscles brave enough to talk down to the inhabitants of the Ferret couldn’t be far from earning his first million.
    He looked up at Diek Wustapha. “I think this, er, master assassin’ll want us to announce him at the palace. Yes?”
    The bar, as one, looked momentarily doubtful.
    “Um, yes,” Diek said, his voice beginning to waver. “You will be adequate, possibly.”
    “I’d get over to a table pretty sharpish if I were you, lad,” Gordo whispered, grabbing Diek’s arm. “’Cause talkin’ like that in a place like this is gonna get you nailed up real, real quick.”
    Diek’s expression changed to one of confusion. His confidence seemed to desert him and, eyes glazed, he began to sidle toward the nearest vacant table. A number of undesirables made to pursue him, but Groan put a hand to his sword hilt and they quickly reconsidered. Diek reached the table and slumped down onto a stool. His head hurt; it felt as if his mind were involved in a slow and painful wrestling match with some invading army…and it was losing. He felt sleep overcome him and realized, for the first time, that he hadn’t slept since he’d left Little Irksome.
    Slowly, the hubbub of tavern noise rose back to its usual level at the Ferret.
    Groan sighed, sniffed, and shoved his way to the bar, Gordo shuffling along in his wake. Most of the conversations had resumed, aside from one being undertaken by a group of zombies in a darkened corner. This was nothing unusual. One of their number had muttered a few syllables just after lunch and was unlikely to complete the sentence by closing time.
    “Toofache, please,” Groan said, arriving at the bar.
    Gordo climbed up onto a stool and gave Chas a sympathetic grin. “It’s an old barbarian joke,” he said. “Don’t for juggers’ sake take it the wrong way.”
    Chas mumbled under his breath and smiled back. “What’ll it be, gents?”
    “Three, er no, better make that two ales…and a peppermint punch,” said Gordo. “That kid’s going to need a medicinal brew.” He rested his battle-axe on the top of a nearby stool. “Groan, you’d better go and see if he’s all right. He is a foreigner, after all. There might be some money in it.”
    As the barbarian lurched off in the direction of the table, Gordo turned back to the barman. “How do we get in to see the duke ahead of any competition?” he asked, standing on tiptoe in order to see over the bar.
    Chas pointed over toward a table where a figure sat