Outlaws Are Optional: Book Iv of the Cruickshank Chronicles

By David Mosey

Outlaws are Optional

As CEO of the worlds most successful outlaw band, Don Orlando should be laughing all the way to the bank, but hes not laughing today. An exiled duke, complete with toadies, minstrels and huntsmen has set up camp in the forest, just a short ride from outlaw headquarters, and thats the sort of thing that plays hell with the asset-redistribution business. And the busy seasons just about to begin. In desperation, Orlando turns to Mission Implausible, Albions premier adventure team. Its true that their appetite for beer and gratuitous violence is notoriously insatiable and its also true that Andrew Cruickshank, their mage, combines the efficiency of the postal service, the predictability of the weather and the destructive potential of a strategic nuclear weapon, but hell, what have you got to lose? Quite a bit, actually.

While Cruickshank studies the Shakespeare play As You Like It for clues on how to get rid of exiled dukes, his Designated Opposite, the black mage Montmorency arrives on the scene and begins to start stirring things up. As if that were not enough, Titus Handcarte, the First Speaker of East Castellian, wants to put Don Orlando out of business by establishing a Rural Roistering Experience in the outlaws forest and has persuaded usurping Duke Roger to spearhead this operation.

Things do not look good for Don Orlando, caught between an exiled duke on one side, and a usurping duke backed by East Castellians army on the other. But Mission Implausible is up to the challenge. They can, and do, call upon gratuitous violence, improbable disguises, forgery, blackmail, dubious transvestite rituals, shameless piracy of Shakespearean plots and occult incompetence. Handcarte, usurping Duke Roger and exiled Duke Frederick dont stand a chance, especially when Montmorency is persuaded to lend his formidable occult and diplomatic skills.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 11, 2004
• ISBN: 9781469109527

David Mosey

A transplanted Englishman, David Mosey hovers on the edge of unreality, an effect in search of a cause. He writes comic fantasy as a rearguard action against the sub-literate, venal sleazily expedient corporate culture that pervades the twenty-first century. Aside from that, he's a perfectly reasonable sort of chap who enjoys a few pints down at the local pub where he plays darts with more enthusiasm than accuracy.

Book preview

Copyright © 2004 by David Mosey.

ISBN :   Softcover   1-4134-5069-5

ISBN:    ebook   978-1-4691-0952-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

24347

Contents

Chapter 1  STEMBARK FOREST

Chapter 2  NOVA CASTRIA

Chapter 3  UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE

Chapter 4  STORMY WEATHER

Chapter 5  UNSETTLED… 

WITH SUNNY PERIODS

Chapter 6  CURTAIN RAISER

Chapter 7  A CLEARING IN THE FOREST

Chapter 8  ANOTHER PART OF THE FOREST

Chapter 9  A TEMPEST

Chapter 10  ENTER A HERMIT

Chapter 11  EXIT PURSUED BY BEAR

Chapter 12  EAST CASTELLIAN

Chapter 13  ALARUMS WITHOUT

Chapter 14  UNSETTLED CONDITIONS

Chapter 15  ILL-MET BY SUNLIGHT

Chapter 16  VOICES OFF

Chapter 17  DRUMS AND COLOURS

Chapter 18  ENTER A MESSENGER

Chapter 19  THE MEETING GROUND

Chapter 20  EXUENT OMNES

Dedication

This book is dedicated

to all those actors

whose names have been

misspelled in programmes.

Chapter 1

STEMBARK FOREST

Stembark Forest is a huge arboreal smear across the heart of Albion. It is home to the evil forest trolls. It is a place of enchantment. It is a designated environmentally sensitive area of outstanding natural beauty. And a nice place for a picnic on a sunny afternoon.

Stembark Forest is also Don Orlando’s Head Office. Don Orlando is the Chief of the notorious outlaws of Stembark Forest.

There have always been outlaws in Stembark Forest, just as there have always been forest trolls, but it was Don Orlando who made Outlaws of Stembark Forest Ltd into a world-class organisation, one of Business Greed’s top fifteen corporations.

It had not always been that way. When Don Orlando had arrived in the forest, the band had been a shambles – a scruffy bunch of herberts who couldn’t hit a barn door at twenty paces. They couldn’t even tell the rich from the poor. Revenues were derisory, and recruitment had dropped to a trickle. Fewer and fewer travellers even bothered to consider Stembark Forest – the National Association of Independent Highwaymen offered a service that was more frequent, more reliable and a lot more classy.

Don Orlando soon changed that. He simplified the Mission Statement Rob from the rich and give to the poor to Rob from the rich. Then removed any possible ambiguity by further shortening it to ROB. He established a strong corporate identity with a lincoln green uniform. And he started aggressive in-house training programmes in marksmanship, deportment and elocution.

The results were dramatic. In Don Orlando’s first year as Chief revenues rose by better than sixty percent. By the end of his second year, travellers from as far away as Nova Castria, almost ninety leagues to the north, were coming to Stembark Forest to experience his new and exciting approach to asset redistribution. And by the end of the third year travel agents were including a two day trip through Stembark Forest (Home of the Famous Outlaws) as a standard part of their high-end package tours. Suddenly it seemed that anybody who was anybody was rushing to Stembark Forest to see the famous outlaws whose yew bows could drive a cloth-yard arrow through a two-inch oak plank at a hundred paces. Thanks to the steady improvement in marksmanship, many of the outlaws could actually hit an oak plank at a hundred paces.

The outlaw band had never looked back, Don Orlando reflected proudly as he strolled through the forest glade on a misty spring morning. His outlaws were famous the length and breadth of the land, and beyond. It was a rare day when at least one prosperous party was not riding hopefully along a forest road waiting with eager anticipation for the sight of a group of men in lincoln green, their bows bent and ready for action. And for the summer season parties needed to book months ahead. Stembark Forest was fashionable now. It wasn’t just the robbing, either. The souvenir shops had more business than they could handle, the tea-room was making money hand over fist and the children’s playground was always crowded. And next season, they’d be diversifying into the ransom business.

Don Orlando was far too modest a man to attribute this success to any qualities he might possess. The two miserable years as a clerk in the Shore Enforcement Branch of the Revenue had, he supposed, given him some insight into business organization, asset redistribution and ethical principles, but that was all. In this he did himself an injustice. He was a natural leader who inspired by example rather than governed by precept, and there was not one of his faithful band who would have not cut off somebody else’s right hand rather than cause him a moment’s distress.

Morning Don! A cheery shout rang across the glade.

Morning Walter! Orlando returned the salute, bit of archery practice this morning? He pointed to the big straw target set up against the trees.

Aye. Qualification shoot. Walter was the band’s marksmanship instructor.

Jolly good! Orlando made to continue on his way, when something about the positioning of the target and Walter’s attitude made him stop in his tracks. Who’s qualifying? he asked.

Eric.

The instructor’s voice might have been a starting pistol for the effect that it had on Don Orlando. His head down and his shoulders thrust forward, he sprinted for the open door of his office on the far side of the glade. He was less than ten paces from the threshold when his foot caught in a tree root and he measured his length on the ground. As he lay there, winded, there was a vicious hiss above his head followed by the thunk-pronggg of an arrow striking home.

Eric!! Walter’s voice rose in agonized protest, how many times do I have to tell you: squeeze, don’t pull!

Safely inside his office, Orlando sat down behind his desk and waited to get his breath back. Eric was a mistake. No! He corrected himself, that wasn’t fair. If there was any mistake, it had been made by Don Orlando. At the archery trials, where young men from up and down the country competed fiercely to catch the eye of the outlaw leader, Eric’s very first shot had flown to the centre of the gold, neatly splitting the last arrow of the previous contender. Don Orlando, his enthusiasm aroused by this display, had not waited to see a second, but recruited the fellow on the spot. He was not to know that Eric had discharged that particular arrow by accident, when a horse had trodden on his foot. But it soon became clear that Eric’s marksmanship was of the statistical variety; he had to discharge a statistically significant number of arrows if one of them was to get within shouting distance of its target. Opinion varied on what constituted a statistically significant number. The more charitably disposed suggested it might be around a thousand. The more realistic (or more numerate) were inclined to think this low by two orders of magnitude.

So the new recruit was, much to his chagrin, not assigned to active duties but instead, retained by Don Orlando as an administrative assistant. Orlando never had cause to regret that decision. The eager, gangly youth was not only conscientious, with a meticulous eye for detail, but also had an uncanny insight to the whole business of asset redistribution. A delighted Orlando had given him the post of Special Assistant and soon found himself relying very heavily on the young man. The only problem, Orlando sighed to himself, was that Eric persisted in attempting to qualify for active duty. His shadow fell across the doorway.

Good morning Mr Orlando. V – v – very sorry about the – er –

Don’t worry about it lad.

I ca – can’t think what the problem is. Perhaps I underestimated the crosswind.

It really is just a matter of rhythm. Orlando tried to sound encouraging. Just take the pull, line up on the target breathe in slowly, then all the way out slowly, hold, and squeeze. Didn’t Walter tell you that?

Eric nodded unhappily. Perhaps there’s something the matter with the bow.

Don’t worry about it lad, Orlando repeated, there’s a lot more to the outlawing business than marksmanship.

But I just don’t feel that I’m pulling my weight.

Listen Eric! Orlando wagged a finger, this band has dozens – well at least half a dozen – blokes who can split a hazel wand at two hundred paces. If you make it two times out of three, then half the band can do it. But there’s only one bloke who really understands the theoretical side. And that’s you. I mean any twit can prance around the forest in a lincoln green tunic, waving a bow and shouting ‘hold!’ –

Splitting hazel wands at two hundred paces?

Yes, that too! But there isn’t anyone else in the band who can tell me what we should do about Gentleman Jim. Orlando slapped a sheaf of papers onto the desk.

Ah yes! Gentleman Jim! The troubled look faded from the young man’s eyes, replaced by a gleam of interest. He sat down opposite Orlando and leafed through the papers. Gentleman Jim wants our interest in a highwayman franchise in the north… figures look good… untouched territory… fair enough split of the net… Frowning, Eric read through the papers a second time, then looked up. I’d recommend we don’t.

We don’t? But you just said – Not in its present form. Eric spoke firmly and confidently, with no trace of the stammer which sometimes marred his speech. First thing is he wants to work too close to Nova Castria. And you know what the Nova Castrians are like."

Right! Orlando knew very well what the Nova Castrians were like. They were devoted to free trade, eating, drinking and brawling. Their attitude to asset redistribution was liberal in a general sense, but when the assets concerned were specifically theirs it was very illiberal indeed. Right! Orlando repeated, we just wouldn’t be able to afford his medical bills.

And the College of Duellists is located in Nova Castria as well, Eric reminded him.

Orlando shuddered. Gentleman Jim must be off his nut – those blokes are deadly! So we tell him ‘not on your nelly’?

Not entirely, no.

No? But you just said…

The basic idea is sound. There isn’t much in our line of business in the north now that Big Bill the Basher and his band are out of business – just footpads and a few brigands. It’s almost virgin territory, and a high-class operation like Gentleman Jim’s would clean up a packet. But not near Nova Castria.

Where then?

Other side of the country. Eric smiled. Just south of Cair Issel. Lots of traffic to and from Nova Castria, and lots more from the south – especially pilgrims since the Cair Issel Tabernacle of the Redeemer got its Holy Shrine operating licence.

Brilliant! Orlando thumped his desk and leaped to his feet. You see what I mean? Who else could have worked that out. Now I want you to meet Gentlemen Jim as soon as possible. Tell him we’re in, but only if he takes the Cair Issel South sector – I’ll leave all the negotiations up to you. Make him an offer he can’t refuse.

"You want me to handle the ne – ne – negotiations? Eric gulped, and his stammer reappeared. B – b – but I c – c – could lose – "

Nonsense lad! You’ll do fine – it’ll be good experience for you. At the very worst, Orlando reflected, it would only mean the loss of a lucrative contract – a bargain price to pay for keeping Eric away from archery practice for a while. Set up a meeting with Gentleman Jim as soon as possible. I’ll leave the whole thing up to you.

Eric was about to begin stammering his gratitude when across the quiet morning air floated the brazen tantivy call of a horn.

"What was that?" Orlando stared angrily through the still open door, as if daring the air to transmit the sound once more. It obliged.

I believe that must be the huntsman, Mr Orlando.

Huntsman?

Yes, the huntsman. I ran across him yesterday morning as a matter of fact.

"A huntsman?" Orlando repeated.

Yes indeed, Mr Orlando. He was quite unmistakeable; coat so grey, hounds, and his horn. And everything. In the morning.

"A huntsman!" Orlando repeated for the third time, his brow as black as a thundercloud. Don Orlando hated hunting and hunters. The look that crossed his face made Eric almost faint, and reminded him that Mr Orlando had not become the leader of the Outlaws of Stembark Forest just through his commercial acumen.

Tell me about this huntsman, Eric. Orlando’s voice was deceptively soft.

I – I – just bumped into him yesterday. I didn’t get a chance to mention it before –

"But what’s he doing here, Eric. Is he just some master of foxhounds of no fixed abode?"

He said he had come here with his master, Mr Orlando.

"His master?"

Yes. The Duke of Benbrock-Oldstairs, he said.

What is a duke doing in the forest? Without an appointment?

Oh, he didn’t come for the robbing, Mr Orlando. He’s been exiled.

An exiled duke! Orlando scowled. He had little time for the aristocracy. Then his expression changed to one of dismay. "You mean he’s being exiled here?"

Eric nodded. The huntsman told me they only arrived a few days ago, and they really like it here. Said something about it being much more free of perils than the envious court.

He said that did he? Orlando breathed heavily, and did he say anything about books in brooks or sermons in stones?

Something like that. And good in everything. Mind you, Eric tried to soften the blow, he did say that the duke always does go on a bit like that, but it doesn’t always mean a lot.

Sermons in stones, eh! Eric might not have spoken. We’ll see about that! Orlando crashed both fists onto his desk, jumped to his feet and, flinging his chair to one side, stalked from the office.

Walter! Form up a squad of six men and follow me! Eric heard him bellow. His head popped back round the office door. Where exactly did you say this duke was staying? he asked.

The exiled duke was closer than they’d realised. With Walter by his side and six outlaws at his back, Orlando had ridden only a few minutes before the smell of wood smoke and frying sausages told him they were close to the interloper’s camp. It was a good spot – a crescent-shaped clearing bounded at its far side by a rampart of sandstone. Ranged about the perimeter were half a dozen caravans – big ones – and the dark mouth of a cave gaped in the weathered rock. The set-up was ideal, the outlaw leader had to admit to himself, though he did wonder whether the exiled duke and his followers realized that the cave was the winter residence of a rather large migratory bear.

I say! Orlando dismounted and waved commandingly. Nobody took the slightest bit of notice. The clatter of utensils and the chatter of conversation continued unabated. Servants scurried this way and that, bearing platters of food and flagons of ale. Minstrels strummed hopefully on fragile-looking stringed instruments. And at the mouth of the cave, a group of richly-dressed men sat around a trestle table toasting each other with brimming tankards.

Alright then! Orlando said through his teeth. Walter laid a restraining hand on his arm.

Perhaps you should try again, sir, he suggested anxiously, we don’t want to provoke an incident.

Alright! Orlando made an impatient gesture. He raised his hand once more. I say!

By your leave, sir! A servant bearing a boar’s head tray on a tray brushed past. Steam began to issue from Orlando’s ears. That does it! he hissed, and before Walter could intervene, he drew his bow and loosed off a shaft. There was a vicious hiss and a twanging prongggg. The servant gazed open-mouthed at the boar’s head impaled to the side of the nearest caravan.

Oi! he said.

Orlando nocked another arrow. And there’s more where that came from! he shouted. Silence fell, save for the plaintive notes of a zither drifting hollowly from the cave. I warned you! Orlando’s bow bent. The zither stopped abruptly. That’s better! Right! Who’s in charge here?

Nobody spoke or moved. The servant made to remove the boar’s head from the side of the caravan, but stopped at a threatening gesture from one of the outlaws. Orlando decided to try again. Are there any dukes here? . . . any exiled dukes?

I am Harold, Duke of Benbrock-Oldstairs. One of the men at the trestle table rose to his feet. His voice resonated with the confidence of one whose every request sets countless lesser beings scurrying to meet it.

Ah, yes! I see. Orlando gazed at the man, wondering what he should say next. The duke certainly had presence. He was slightly above average height, broad shouldered and deep-chested with curly shoulder-length dark hair and a beard framing round-fleshed features.

And who is it I have the honour of addressing? he asked with the suggestion of an ironic bow, a band of honest woodcutters perhaps? There was a burst of sycophantic laughter from the other men at the table, clearly the duke’s toadies.

I am Don Orlando, leader of the Outlaws of Stembark Forest, the outlaw leader snapped.

You are a don? The duke’s eyebrows arched in surprise and enquiry. You are not native to these shores, then sir, bearing a foreign title?

"No, no! I mean my name is Don Orlando. Don is short for Donald."

"Dead giveaway, that is! one of the toadies sneered, positively lower middle-class."

Orlando frowned. The conversation wasn’t going the way he’d planned. What I wanted to know is what you’re doing here –

Outlaws! One of the servants darted forward. These are the notorious outlaws, your grace.

Oh of course! the duke smote his brow, how could I have forgotten the Outlaws of Stembark Forest! Robbing from the rich, and giving to the poor, isn’t that right?

Half right. Orlando smiled thinly. But I fear that we had no warning of your coming, your grace, and are ill-prepared –

Do not trouble yourself, good sir. We come not to Stembark Forest for the robbing, but to live.

To live! Orlando’s worst suspicions were confirmed.

Aye sir, to live. A brother’s sudden envy, at one blow deprived me of my dukedom, palace, court, fortune and followers.

Not all your followers, good sir! said one toady hastily.

Nor all your fortune, added a second, with a quick glance at one of the caravans.

But now we find he does us kindness, ignoring these interruptions, the duke swept on, for thus sweet are the uses of adversity. This wild wood holds no such perils as the envious court. Here is our roof the vault of heaven, our lanterns the stars. We find sermons in stones, books in running brooks, and good in –

Alright, alright! Orlando interrupted. He might have known it! How – er – long were you thinking of – er – staying? You see, our busy season is coming up and…

Fear not honest outlaw! We’ll not be a burden to you. Berries, the honey from the wild bee, and the forest’s sportive game shall be our sustenance – not at your charge.

Ah yes… about the hunting. You might find it easier to pick up your meat from Horsefred’s – he’s the butcher in Lecter. Only a league or so that way, and he’s very cheap.

And deprive my brave hounds of their sport? You jest sir! But yesterday they killed a stag this high. A noble beast!

There was a disapproving growl from the outlaws. They all loathed hunting.

Want me to take him out now, boss? whispered Walter

Can’t do that! Orlando hissed back, exiled dukes are protected, I think. He drew a deep breath, wishing he’d brought Eric along. The lad was good at this kind of thing – he had a talent for negotiation. Well… er… I suppose we should be getting along now. He lowered his bow.

For the moment, then, farewell. The duke beamed at him. You will come and feast with us soon. ‘Neath the greenwood tree we shall eat, drink and make merry. There will be dancing, singing and sweet music. The zither started up again. Orlando raised his bow again. The zither stopped. Perhaps not the music, agreed the duke. Farewell. The gods prosper thee, honest outlaw.

What was he going on about, boss? Walter asked, as they rode back, did he really mean he’d moved in for keeps?

Looks like it Walter.

Well I think that’s a dead liberty! someone grumbled, I mean there must be hundreds of them, what with the toadies an’ the minstrels an’ the huntsmen an’ all.

Their caravans could sort of catch fire, accidental like, someone else suggested.

‘Fraid not lads. Walter shook his head. You heard what the boss said. Dukes is a protected species.

"What! exclaimed one incredulous outlaw, who followed the sanguinary reports in the Court Circular column of his broadsheet with a mixture of horror and fascination. But the nobs is always knocking each other off."

"Exiled dukes are different, I’m afraid," Orlando told the man regretfully.

Well what are you going to do about it then?

Orlando’s tightened his lips and set his jaw. I’m going into Lecter to see Constable Dixon, he said decisively.

Lecter was a large village on the Basingstoke road where Constable Dixon enforced the Law with that intelligence and selectivity that is the hallmark of the really top class copper. Orlando’s relationship with the constable was a warm and long-standing one, based on mutual respect, enjoyment of a few pints, and a shared understanding of the iniquitous nature of the Revenue Service. On this day Orlando found Dixon in the parlour of the Three Pigeons where the landlord had, in deference to the policeman’s sensibilities, hung a dishcloth tactfully over the clock.

Don! Dixon got to his feet with a welcoming smile, come and sit down. Another two pints of the best, master Rowley! he called to the landlord.

Orlando sat down with a grateful sigh and took a long swallow of beer. There’s trouble in the forest, he told the constable, it looks as though I’ve got an exiled duke on my hands.

Exiled duke, eh? Dixon sucked his teeth dubiously. They say that’s the worst kind. He drew his chair closer to the table and opened his notebook. Perhaps you’d better tell me all about it.

His indignation increasing as he spoke, Orlando recounted the events of the morning while the constable busily scribbled away in his notebook. And it’s not just the noise and general disruption, he concluded, "but the swine hunts."

Hunts? Dixon looked shocked. You mean grey coat, hounds, horn and so on?

In the morning, Orlando confirmed.

Doesn’t sound very good, if you don’t mind me saying so, Don. Dixon shook his head gloomily as he read through his notes. Sermons in stones… books in running brooks –

And good in everything, Orlando reminded the constable.

Didn’t say anything about tongues in trees, I suppose? Dixon asked, that’d be the clincher.

Don’t remember that he did.

He will, the constable prognosticated gloomily. I’ll tell you what Don, you’re going to have to do something about this. It’s what we in the Force call the ‘Arden caper’. If you don’t put a stop to it soon, it’ll get worse. Courting couples –

Courting couples! Orlando was aghast.

Courting couples, Dixon confirmed, "and amateur dramatics, nightclub comedians, fairies, magicians – there’ll be no end to it."

But this is awful! Orlando gasped, in his agitation reaching for the constable’s beer. We’re coming up to the summer season! Isn’t there anything you could do…

Sorry. Dixon shook his head. You know I don’t do any constabling in the forest, no more than you do any outlawing in Lecter.

Orlando got up and went to the bar to collect fresh drinks. He walked like an old man, and when he returned to his seat he slumped, defeated at the table. It feels like some kind of insane nightmare… I spend years building up the outlaws into one of the best –

"The best," Dixon tried to comfort him.

" – and for what? To see it all ruined by an exiled duke with his huntsmen, minstrels, servants and toadies, not to mention courting couples and heaven knows what else. Magicians!" He sneered helplessly.

Just a minute! Dixon grasped his friend’s arm, you’ve just given me an idea. What you need is a magician of your own – or rather a mage.

A mage? Orlando looked very dubious, aren’t exiled dukes protected from mages too?

Yes.

Well what’s the use of a mage? Orlando asked crossly, fifty guineas an hour for some bloody consultant to tell me that he’s not permitted to transform an exiled duke into a slug? No thanks!

I wasn’t thinking so much of that, Don. But supposing the mage managed to persuade the duke to leave of his own accord?

How would he do that?

Ah well, Dixon gave a quiet laugh, "if we knew that sort of thing, we could charge fifty guineas an hour, couldn’t we?"

The outlaw leader gave a brief, humourless laugh. I didn’t think they did this sort of thing – I thought sitting around making ambiguous prognostications was more their hammer.

You’re thinking of oracles Dixon told him, not the same thing at all.

A mage… Orlando considered the idea. You know Dixon, it might be worth a try! He sat bolt upright in excitement, then slumped once more. But who’d be interested in a job like that? I mean it doesn’t sound much of a challenge – getting rid of an exiled duke.

Dixon flipped back through the pages of his notebook. I wouldn’t know about that, the maging not being the sort of thing one encounters very much in my line of work, but there is one… The constable reached the page he’d been looking for and scanned it carefully, following his notes line by line with the tip of his pencil. Here we are… this may be the man for you. But he’s not – er – your usual kind of mage…

How do you mean? Which guild does he come from?

Well… Dixon hesitated. The gentleman is a crimson mage –

"Crimson mage! But the Guild of the Crimson Mages has been out of business for hundreds of years – even I know that."

I said he wasn’t your usual kind of mage, Dixon continued imperturbably. He is, in fact, a Wardmaster, and comes –

A Wardmaster! Orlando almost dropped his drink in his agitation, but that’s the highest rank!

A Wardmaster, crimson mage, Dixon confirmed. The gentleman is not native to Albion. He has been brought over on temporary assignment from Earth Three several times, but now I understand he is here permanently, based in Nova Castria.

Ah… Orlando nodded. Like everybody else, he was aware that there existed a theoretically infinite number of parallel words, similar roughly similar in topography and climate but laughably dissimilar in every other way. The concept was of academic and scholarly interest, but had little practical commercial application. Earth Three, he understood, was principally remarkable for being an evolutionary dead end, without occult technology. But there’s no magic there! he protested, isn’t that the place where they still worship sub-atomic particles?

Something like that. Dixon gave a short, cynical laugh. And electrons. Amazing when you come to think about it.

Well what’s a Wardmaster doing, coming from a place like that?

Dixon shrugged. Beats me. Perhaps he’s some kind of throw-back. Or a mutation. Anyway, he’s here now, and permanently.

Just a minute! Orlando’s finger jabbed the air in front of Dixon’s nose, wasn’t he the one involved in the Basingstoke business almost two years ago?

That’s right. The constable nodded gravely, fine job he did there, by all accounts. Even if his methods were a bit… unusual.

"But isn’t he with a team? I can’t afford a full war party and a Wardmaster."

Call themselves Mission Implausible, the constable nodded, and I wouldn’t worry about the expense –

All very well for you to say!

– because if they find the job interesting they’ll probably forget to charge. And if they don’t find it interesting, then they won’t do it.

Not very good business sense. Orlando frowned censoriously. Where would I be if I decided to pick and choose my customers?

I believe you will find Mission Implausible’s business sense alarmingly well developed. Dixon’s face wrinkled into an expression mid-way between disapproval and reluctant admiration.

Who are they? Orlando felt a twinge of concern.

Let me see… the constable returned to his notebook, there’s Sir Tiresome. He’s a knight of Albion, a fine man! Dixon’s face registered unambiguous approval now, and then there’s Kodswallop – Nova Castrian fighter.

A Knight of Albion! And a fighter! Orlando whistled, you can’t get better than that!

"Right. Nothing much is going to get in their way – at least not for long. The leader is an elf by the name of Janus. A very sharp fellow."

Leader? Doesn’t the mage lead?

Only in the maging. Dixon observed the puzzled look on his friend’s face and explained, it’s like your band, Don. You’re the Chief – no doubt about it. But in matters of marksmanship, for example, you’d defer to Walter, wouldn’t you?

I see what you mean, Orlando nodded, it’s a team of specialists.

"That’s right. Clumpface the dwarf is their master-artificer, and he’s a useful fellow in a punch-up, by all accounts. And Cecil is their marksman. Crossbow specialist from Nova Castria, and a master of disguise. A bit of a bolshie, by all accounts."

Good, Orlando snapped. A bolshie marksman was just the sort of bloke to deal with an exiled duke. So… a team of six?

No. Seven Dixon paused to take a drink, and an observer might have noticed a slightly uneasy expression on his face.

Who’s the seventh then? A scholar? Some kind of clerical gentleman?

Not exactly, no. Actually he’s a nicker – name of Ratbag.

A nicker! Orlando jumped to his feet in alarm, no wonder they don’t charge. With a nicker around they don’t need to! The outlaw chief was only too well aware of the reputation of that diminutive tribe, to whom locked doors were as impervious as muslin curtains and for whom the term other people’s was meaningless when applied to property. A nicker could, and would, steal anything that wasn’t welded down, covered with thirty feet of reinforced concrete and guarded around the clock. The last nicker to come through Stembark forest had not only evaporated with the week’s takings, but had also made off with the customer data base and stripped three of the souvenir shops to the bare boards. A nicker! Orlando repeated, shaking his head as he resumed his seat, I think I’d be further ahead to keep the duke.

I would not go quite as far as that. Dixon put his notebook away and reapplied himself to his beer. Didn’t you say that this duke of yours seemed well provided?

Orlando thought for a moment, remembering the duke’s rich clothes and the rings that had sparkled on his fingers. Yes, that’s true. And he had all those people with him – servants, huntsmen, toadies and the like. Toadies don’t come cheap these days, so he must have brought a fair bit of cash with him.

Quite traditional that is, with exiled dukes, I understand. The constable wagged his head knowingly.

So perhaps this nicker would concentrate on the duke? Orlando asked hopefully.

Almost certain, I’d say. Your actual nobility always like to travel will a well-filled treasure chest – they don’t leave home without it. And nicker are very partial to gold, jewels, rich ornaments and so on, I am led to believe.

Well in that case… Orlando sighed with relief.

That doesn’t mean you might find you misplace the odd item here and there, Dixon warned him, but if you ask nicely you usually get it back. Sooner or later.

Very well! You’ve made up my mind for me, Dixon. I’ll send a message tonight.

If you don’t find him at this address… Dixon scribbled a couple of lines in his notebook, tore out the page, try the Duellists’ College.

The Duellists’ College?

Yes. The mage is by way of being a Master Swordsman there. A very useful man with the duelling sword he is, by all accounts.

But a mage! The outlaw chief was incredulous. It was unheard of for an occult professional to use conventional weapons.

Oh yes. Dixon began to fill his pipe. As I told you, this bloke isn’t the usual kind of mage.

Well what’s his name? Orlando took his own notebook from his belt.

Glad you asked me that. Dixon gave a lugubrious smile and returned to his notebook. He’s used quite a few… let me see… he flipped the pages over,  . . . ah yes. Anything addressed to Andrew Cruickshank should find him.

What was that again? Orlando scrabbled for a pencil.

Cruickshank, Dixon repeated, Andrew Cruickshank.

Chapter 2

NOVA CASTRIA

Kodswallop stood at the bar in the Nine Lapsed Abstainers and cast a benevolent yet watchful eye over the crowd. A careful observer would have noted that though his eyes flickered rapidly, and seemingly idly, around the smoky, noisy room, they lingered on the far corner, where the dartboard hung. Who’s that playing with him? Kodswallop jerked a thumb.

Motley did not need to ask who him was. The tall, slender mage with the slightly thinning hair and the permanent look of vague surprise was a familiar figure at the tavern. He was not wearing the crimson robe of his office, nor did his staff hover menacingly in attendance, for Andrew Cruickshank was a considerate man and knew that such things could put people off – indeed he only appeared formally garbed and equipped on such special occasions as when a visiting darts team turned up. The landlord squinted at the mage and his companion. Frank Arbuthnot, I think his name is. Up from the south. Motley shook his head disapprovingly.

Bit of a shark, is he? Kodswallop nodded at the dartboard where Arbuthnot was just pulling three darts from the treble twenty.

That’s what they say. Want me to have a word… sort of warn him off? Motley looked at the big fighter nervously. Kodswallop stood seven foot-six in his socks and was built proportionately, and he took his self-appointed role as Andrew Cruickshank’s particular guardian with great seriousness. And that could mean, the landlord reflected unhappily, that any moment now the new furniture in the far corner of the room would be reduced to matchwood. What Frank Arbuthnot might be reduced to, he didn’t want to think about. To his great relief, Kodswallop shook his head.

Nah. Don’t say anything… for the moment, that is. His eyes glinted, and he dropped his voice to whisper into Motley’s ear. The two men gave a conspiratorial laugh, then leaned back against the bar to watch the darts game.

Frank Arbuthnot was getting excited. He had, with the unerring instinct of his kind, spotted the pigeon as soon as he entered the tavern; the man sitting by himself at a table by the dartboard. Within five minutes he was chatting to the fellow, and minutes after that they were playing darts. Arbuthnot lost the first match with skill and precision and accepted the condolences of his opponent with a rueful laugh.

Got your eye in good tonight, squire. He nodded with the experience of an expert, you was putting them just where you wanted them.

Bit of bad luck, you missing that double sixteen, Andrew Cruickshank offered sympathetically, I was sure you were going to get it.

"That’s