The Indigo King by James A. Owen Read Free Book Online Page B

you’ve been stabbed by swords, and even shot with an arrow—and you’re complaining about a blister?”
    “It’s a really big blister,” said Jack.
    “Here,” Fred said, hopping forward. “I can help with that.”
    The little badger started flipping through pages in the Little Whatsit, humming to himself as he did so. Then he seemed to settle on the page he wanted, scanned it twice, then replaced the book in his coat.
    “I’m going to need the penknife, please, Scowler John, and Scowler Jack, tell me—are any of your coins silver?”
    “One of them,” Jack said as John handed over the knife. “What are you going to do?”
    “This’ll sting a little, and I’m sorry for that,” said Fred, “but I can keep it from getting infected.”
    Jack removed his stocking and let the animal examine his blistered foot. Fred clucked and purred over it a moment, then swiftly lanced the blister with the knife. As it drained into the cloth Jack pressed against it, Fred used the knife to scrape tiny slivers of silver from the coin, which he then ground to a fine dust between two stones. Finally satisfied with the powdered silver, he pressed it to the wound, then bound the foot tightly with a strip of cloth from his coat. Standing back, he handed the coin to Uncas and told Jack he could replace his stocking and shoe.
    “It’ll sting a bit, there’s no helping that,” Fred repeated, “but it’ll be healed in a few hours, and it won’t get infected.”
    “Amazing,” said Jack. “How is it you learned this?”
    Fred patted the book in his pocket. “The Little Whatsit,” he said proudly. “I told you—it has something about everything in it.”
    “Handy, that,” said John. “I’d like to take a look at it—but later. I think someone’s followed us.”
    There was a bulky shape moving along the road some distance back, coming straight toward them. It was too small to be one of the giants, but large enough to be worth hiding from.
    Jack led them under one of the stilt-houses and under the fallen archway of a house that had been burned. With any luck, they’d blend in with the protruding ribs of the frame that were sticking out of the rubble.
    “I think something must have died,” Jack whispered, wrinkling his nose and checking his shoes. “It smells horrid over here.”
    “Uh, that would be me,” Uncas admitted sheepishly. “I stepped in a puddle. Sorry.”
    “Wet badger fur,” Jack groaned, nodding. “Charles never told me it was this bad.”
    “Quiet,” said John, hunkering down. “It’s coming.”
    The thing that followed them resembled a motorcar, but it had no engine. Instead it was drawn by two skeletal-looking horses with bandaged heads. With horror, the companions realized that these were dehorned unicorns. And the appearance of the carriage’s driver gave the impression that he’d happily have done it himself, and then used the horns as toothpicks just for spite. He stepped down from the carriage and looked about, eyes narrowed. From their concealment, the companions could see he wore a great gray trench coat and a matching top hat. His beard was full and black, he was all of eight feet tall, and he wore a blue rose on his lapel. A Cossack, out on the town.
    Then he opened his coat.
    Where his torso should have been was a great wicker cage, and through the weave they could just make out the shapes of small creatures moving about inside. At first John thought they might be monkeys, but then the large man stopped and opened his chest to let them out, and the true horror was laid bare in the chalky moonlight.
    They were children.
    Little boys, perhaps ten but certainly not as old as twelve, and thin as bamboo. They were filthy, and dressed in rags. Each had a thick iron ring fastened around its neck, which was connected to a leash held by the man. The dozen or so boys who emerged from him spread out at his feet, sniffing the ground.
    “Ah, my little Sweeps, my precious Sweeps. Finds us the