The Perils of Untying Love – Episode 8
I’d long exhausted my repertoire of indignant squeaks and terrified squeals, and could do nothing more than poke my whiskery snout between the strands of the net dangling over Grimmon’s shoulder so I could see where we were going. By the time he came to the end of the alley and stepped out into a cobbled street, my tiny stomach was like a ball of lead. The thought of Grimmon’s pointed teeth sinking into my flesh made my skin crawl.
On he wandered, deeper into the bailey, humming a tune, his heels clicking on the cobbles as he ambled along.
The peeling paint on the wooden houses sandwiched side by side at the sides of the street, looked like a multitude of scabrous tongues. Scattered among the houses were occasional older buildings, the mortar between their weathered stones crumbling like a philanderer’s promises.
When the castle had been new, the bailey had been a large courtyard encircled by the castle’s great fortified wall. Back then, the open ground of the bailey was used for things like exercising horses, and drilling the castle’s soldiers. Around the base of the wall, there would only have been a handful of structures like warehouses, barracks, stables, and an assortment of sheds and lean-tos for blacksmiths, fletchers and so on.
But once the castle started roaming between the worlds, it picked up an assortment of hangers-on who, over many years, filled the bailey with the buildings and streets Grimmon – and, reluctantly, me – were wandering around.
Those hangers-on are the folk I refer to as the Denizens. A sorrier bunch of ne’er-do-wells I have yet to see, what with the way they lounged in doorways, leaned against walls, or shuffled aimlessly along the street. Most were humans, but among them were dwarves, pixies, trolls and even an ogre. The range of clothing colours and styles would have made a costumier weep, but a few of the more respectable Denizens didn’t look too awful, I suppose.
In the past, when I’ve mentioned to Trewla how ghastly the Denizens are, she’s told me in no uncertain terms to take a long, hard look at myself. I’m not sure what she meant by that. I take great care over my appearance and I’m always perfectly groomed and attired whatever the occasion.
Jiggling around in the net, it occurred to me that earlier that day Trewla had pointed out I’d spilled my breakfast down my shirt, so perhaps she meant I should keep checking how I look to save myself embarrassment.
I cast an eye over my body. I had a nice glossy coat in an attractive shade of brown, my paws were nicely formed, and my… Actually, my scaly tail wasn’t terribly appealing, but if you ignored that, I was a rather handsome rat indeed.
Resolving to tell Trewla next time I saw her that I had taken her advice, I faced forwards again in time to see Grimmon had turned off the street, opened a door and was entering a shop.
A confusion of odours assaulted my nasal cavities. The walls were hidden by shelves groaning under the weight of jars of spices, seasonings, and condiments. Bunches of pungent herbs dangled from the rafters.
Grimmon threaded his way past a bench overflowing with piles of dried berries, heaps of desiccated frogs, and pyramids of tiny bones, and approached a squat figure with an enormous mane of grey hair, his back to us, tidying a shelf at the back of the shop.
“Hello Siggrann,” said Grimmon.
“The figure turned around, revealing the face of a plains dwarf. His brow creased in a frown and the hairs of his vast beard twisted around his downturned mouth as he gazed at the goblin.
“What do you want?” he said.
“Come on. Is that any way to speak to your old pal?”
“You’re not my pal. Not after what you did last time you came in here.”
“I’ve already apologised for that.” Grimmon scratched his nose. “Anyway, I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m running an errand for Cook.”
Siggrann gave the goblin a suspicious look. “Really? You? Running an errand?”
“Yes. She sent me ask you for your recommendations.”
“About what?”
“Herbs, of course.” Grimmon raised his eyebrows, his eyes wide. “For a dish she’s preparing.”
Siggrann seemed to be a decent sort of fellow for his face was a theatre of expressions as his suspicions warred with his natural inclination to believe everybody has some goodness in them
He must have decided to give Grimmon the benefit of his doubt, for he said, “What dish is she cooking? Pheasant? Goat? Fish…?”
“Rat.”
My world lurched as Grimmon swung the net, with me inside it, from his shoulder and thumped it down onto a nearby bench.
The dwarf leaned over and cast an eye over my body quaking under the strands of the net.
Siggrann snorted. “Cook doesn’t do rats. The herbs aren’t for her after all,” he said in a matter of fact tone. “They’re for you, aren’t they?”
“You have found me out.” Grimmon placed a hand over his heart. “I cannot lie. Cook has appointed me as tonight’s chef.”
My mouth dropped open.
Outrageous! Cook was about as likely to ask Grimmon to cook a meal as she would be to put a drooling werewolf in charge of a flock of lambs.
But Siggrann fell for it hook, line, and sinker. With a puzzled look in his eye, he said, “So, why did you say you were running an errand for her?”
Siggrann shook his head. “So, why did you say you were running an errand for her?”
Grimmon shuffled his feet. “If I’d said it was me who wanted your advice, I thought you might not want to help me… You know, after last time’s little incident.”
“Water under the bridge,” said Siggrann. A cloud of dust erupted from Grimmon’s jacket as the dwarf clapped him on the shoulder. “So, what sort of dish are you planning to put this wee fellow in?”
“I usually roast them, but seeing as this one’s rather scrawny… I’m not sure. What do you suggest?”
“Hmmm…” The dwarf stroked his beard. “Let’s have a better look at him.”
As you can imagine, I’d been frozen in horror by the proceedings up to that point. But when Grimmon reached into the net, grabbed hold of me and lifted me out by the tail, I squeaked and windmilled my legs like a miniature four-legged cyclist.
My heart hammered as Grimmon raised me to eye level.
Siggrann’s face grew enormous as he bent towards me. “Not much flesh on him. I think a casserole will be best. Add some vegetables to bulk out the dish. His meat will be vinegary, so you’ll need something to counter that.” He plucked a jar from the shelf behind him and showed it to the goblin. “Sweet basilisk tears should do the trick.”
Grimmon pursed his lips. “Vegetables? I’m not fond–”
His tongue froze as a flash blazed from my torso.
A cloud of mauve smoke engulfed me and I shook like a leaf in a gale.
When the smoke cleared, I found myself lying face down on the floor. Lifting my bruised head, I looked at my hands.
I sighed in relief. They were human.
I’ve mentioned Drucher’s modification before. It’s the process that automatically reverses transmogrification spells after an hour. Fortunately, the one I’d cast had the Drucher modification built in.
“You beast!” I said, glaring at Grimmon as I clambered to my feet. “You were going to eat me!”
He huffed. “You wouldn’t have made much of a meal anyway.”
“How dare you? I’m sure I–”
I broke off at a tugging on my sleeve. It was Siggrann.
“Does this mean you don’t want the basilisk tears?” he said.
“No! What’s more, I will never set foot in this emporium again!” I grabbed Grimmon’s arm and propelled him out of the shop. “Come with me! We have to find Trewla! She’s in terrible danger!”
*** Continued in episode 9 ***
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