Harry Potter Fans With No Life

Chapter 13

The Accident

The two lords had no choice but to leave the king and Captain Roach in their little clearing in the fog and proceed onto the marsh. Spittleworth took the lead, feeling his way with his feet for the firmest bits of ground. Flapoon followed close behind, still holding tightly to the hem of Spittleworth’s coat and sinking deeply with every footstep because he was so heavy. The fog was clammy on their skin and rendered them almost completely blind. In spite of Spittleworth’s best efforts, the two lords’ boots were soon full to the brim with fetid water.

“That blasted nincompoop!” muttered Spittleworth as they squelched along. “That blithering buffoon! This is all his fault, the mouse-brained moron!”

“It’ll serve him right if that sword’s lost for good,” said Flapoon, now nearly waist-deep in marsh.

“We’d better hope it isn’t, or we’ll be here all night,” said Spittleworth. “Oh, curse this fog!”

They struggled onward. The mist would thin for a few steps, then close again. Boulders loomed suddenly out of nowhere like ghostly elephants and the rustling reeds sounded just like snakes. Though Spittleworth and Flapoon knew perfectly well that there was no such thing as an Ickabog, their insides didn’t seem quite so sure.

“Let go of me!” Spittleworth growled at Flapoon, whose constant tugging was making him think of monstrous claws or jaws fastened on the back of his coat.

Flapoon let go, but he too had been infected by a nonsensical fear, so he loosened his blunderbuss from its holster and held it ready.

“What’s that?” he whispered to Spittleworth, as an odd noise reached them out of the darkness ahead.

Both lords froze, the better to listen.

A low growling and scrabbling was coming out of the fog. It conjured an awful vision in both men’s minds, of a monster feasting on the body of one of the Royal Guard.

“Who’s there?” Spittleworth called, in a high-pitched voice.

Somewhere in the distance, Major Beamish shouted back:

“Is that you, Lord Spittleworth?”

“Yes,” shouted Spittleworth. “We can hear something strange, Beamish! Can you?”

It seemed to the two lords that the odd growling and scrabbling grew louder.

Then the fog shifted. A monstrous black silhouette with gleaming white eyes was revealed right in front of them, and it emitted a long yowl.

With a deafening, crashing boom that seemed to shake the marsh, Flapoon let off his blunderbuss. The startled cries of their fellow men echoed across the hidden landscape, and then, as though Flapoon’s shot had frightened it, the fog parted like curtains before the two lords, giving them a clear view of what lay ahead.

The moon slid out from behind a cloud at that moment and they saw a vast granite boulder with a mass of thorny branches at its base. Tangled up in these brambles was a terrified, skinny dog, whimpering and scrabbling to free itself, its eyes flashing in the reflected moonlight.

A little beyond the giant boulder, face down in the bog, lay Major Beamish.

“What’s going on?” shouted several voices out of the fog. “Who fired?”

Neither Spittleworth nor Flapoon answered. Spittleworth waded as quickly as he could toward Major Beamish. A swift examination was enough: the major was stone dead, shot through the heart by Flapoon in the dark.

“My God, my God, what shall we do?” bleated Flapoon, arriving at Spittleworth’s side.

“Quiet!” whispered Spittleworth.

He was thinking harder and faster than he’d thought in the whole of his crafty, conniving life. His eyes moved slowly from Flapoon and the gun, to the shepherd’s trapped dog, to the king’s boots and jeweled sword, which he now noticed, half-buried in the bog just a few feet away from the giant boulder.

Spittleworth waded through the marsh to pick up the king’s sword and used it to slash apart the brambles imprisoning the dog. Then, giving the poor animal a hearty kick, he sent it yelping away into the fog.

“Listen carefully,” murmured Spittleworth, returning to Flapoon, but before he could explain his plan, another large figure emerged from the fog: Captain Roach.

“The king sent me,” panted the captain. “He’s terrified. What happ —?”

Then Roach saw Major Beamish lying dead on the ground.

Spittleworth realized immediately that Roach must be let in on the plan and that, in fact, he’d be very useful.

“Say nothing, Roach,” said Spittleworth, “while I tell you what has happened.

“The Ickabog has killed our brave Major Beamish. In view of this tragic death, we shall need a new major, and of course, that will be you, Roach, for you’re second-in-command. I shall recommend a large pay rise for you, because you were so valiant — listen closely, Roach — so very valiant in chasing after the dreadful Ickabog, as it ran away into the fog. You see, the Ickabog was devouring the poor major’s body when Lord Flapoon and I came upon it. Frightened by Lord Flapoon’s blunderbuss, which he sensibly discharged into the air, the monster dropped Beamish’s body and fled. You bravely gave chase, trying to recover the king’s sword, which was half-buried in the monster’s thick hide — but you weren’t able to recover it, Roach. So sad for the poor king. I believe the priceless sword was his grandfather’s, but I suppose it’s now lost forever in the Ickabog’s lair.”

So saying, Spittleworth pressed the sword into Roach’s large hands. The newly promoted major looked down at its jeweled hilt, and a cruel and crafty smile to match Spittleworth’s own spread over his face.

“Yes, a great pity that I wasn’t able to recover the sword, my lord,” he said, sliding it out of sight beneath his tunic. “Now, let’s wrap up the poor major’s body, because it would be dreadful for the other men to see the marks of the monster’s fangs upon him.”

“How sensitive of you, Major Roach,” said Lord Spittleworth, and the two men swiftly took off their cloaks and wrapped up the body while Flapoon watched, heartily relieved that nobody need know he’d accidentally killed Beamish.

“Could you remind me what the Ickabog looked like, Lord Spittleworth?” asked Roach, when Major Beamish’s body was well hidden. “For the three of us saw it together and will, of course, have received identical impressions.”

“Very true, Roach,” said Lord Spittleworth. “Well, according to the king, the beast is as tall as two horses, with eyes like lamps.”

“In fact,” said Flapoon, pointing, “it looks a lot like this large boulder, with a dog’s eyes gleaming at the base.”

“Tall as two horses, with eyes like lamps,” repeated Roach. “Very well, my lords. If you’ll assist me to put Beamish over my shoulder, I’ll carry him to the king and we can explain how the major met his death.”

Chapter 14

Lord Spittleworth’s Plan

When the fog cleared at last, it revealed a very different party of men than those who’d arrived at the edge of the marsh an hour earlier.

Quite apart from their shock at the sudden death of Major Beamish, a few of the Royal Guard were confused by the explanation they’d been given. Here were the two lords, the king, and the hastily promoted Major Roach, all swearing that they’d come face-to-face with a monster that all but the most foolish had dismissed for years as a fairy tale. Could it really be true that beneath the tightly wrapped cloaks, Beamish’s body bore the tooth and claw marks of the Ickabog?

“Are you calling me a liar?” Major Roach growled into the face of a young private.

“Are you calling the king a liar?” barked Lord Flapoon.

The private didn’t dare question the word of the king, so he shook his head. Captain Goodfellow, who’d been a particular friend of Major Beamish’s, said nothing. However, there was such an angry and suspicious look on Goodfellow’s face that Roach ordered him to go and pitch the tents on the most solid bit of ground he could find, and be quick about it, because the dangerous fog might yet return.

In spite of the fact that he had a straw mattress, and that blankets were taken from the soldiers to ensure his comfort, King Fred had never spent a more unpleasant night. He was tired, dirty, wet, and, above all, frightened.

“What if the Ickabog comes looking for us, Spittleworth?” the king whispered in the dark. “What if it tracks us by our scent? It’s already had a taste of poor Beamish. What if it comes looking for the rest of the body?”

Spittleworth attempted to soothe the king.

“Do not fear, Your Majesty, Roach has ordered Captain Goodfellow to keep watch outside your tent. Whoever else gets eaten, you will be the last.”

It was too dark for the king to see Spittleworth grinning. Far from wanting to reassure the king, Spittleworth hoped to fan the king’s fears. His entire plan rested on a king who not only believed in an Ickabog, but who was scared it might leave the marsh to chase him.

The following morning, the king’s party set off back to Jeroboam. Spittleworth had sent a message ahead to tell the Mayor of Jeroboam that there had been a nasty accident at the marsh, so the king didn’t want any trumpets or corks greeting him. Thus, when the king’s party arrived, the city was silent. Townsfolk pressing their faces to their windows, or peeking around their doors, were shocked to see the king so dirty and miserable, but not nearly as shocked as they were to see a body wrapped in cloaks, tied to Major Beamish’s steel-gray horse.

When they reached the inn, Spittleworth took the landlord aside.

“We require some cold, secure place, perhaps a cellar, where we can store a body for the night, and I shall need to keep the key myself.”

“What happened, my lord?” asked the innkeeper, as Roach carried Beamish down the stone steps into the cellar.

“I shall tell you the truth, my good man, seeing as you have looked after us so well, but it must go no further,” said Spittleworth in a low, serious voice. “The Ickabog is real and has savagely killed one of our men. You understand, I’m sure, why this must not be widely broadcast. There would be instant panic. The king is returning with all speed to the palace, where he and his advisors — myself, of course, included — will begin work at once on a set of measures to secure our country’s safety.”

“The Ickabog? Real?” said the landlord, in astonishment and fear.

“Real and vengeful and vicious,” said Spittleworth. “But, as I say, this must go no further. Widespread alarm will benefit nobody.”

In fact, widespread alarm was precisely what Spittleworth wanted, because it was essential for the next phase of his plan. Just as he’d expected, the landlord waited only until his guests had gone to bed, then rushed to tell his wife, who ran to tell the neighbors, and by the time the king’s party set off for Kurdsburg the following morning, they left behind them a city where panic was fermenting as busily as the wine.

Spittleworth sent a message ahead to Kurdsburg, warning the cheesemaking city not to make a fuss of the king either, so it too was dark and silent when the royal party entered its streets. The faces at the windows were already scared. It so happened that a merchant from Jeroboam, with an especially fast horse, had carried the rumor about the Ickabog to Kurdsburg an hour previously.

Once again, Spittleworth requested the use of a cellar for Major Beamish’s body, and once again, confided to the landlord that the Ickabog had killed one of the king’s men. Having seen Beamish’s body safely locked up, Spittleworth went upstairs to bed.

He was just rubbing ointment into the blisters on his bottom when he received an urgent summons to go and see the king. Smirking, Spittleworth pulled on his pantaloons, winked at Flapoon, who was enjoying a cheese and pickle sandwich, picked up his candle, and proceeded along the corridor to King Fred’s room.

The king was huddled in bed wearing his silk nightcap, and as soon as Spittleworth closed the bedroom door, Fred said:

“Spittleworth, I keep hearing whispers about the Ickabog. The stable boys were talking, and even the maid who just passed by my bedroom door. Why is this? How can they know what happened?”

“Alas, Your Majesty,” sighed Spittleworth, “I’d hoped to conceal the truth from you until we were safely back at the palace, but I should have known that Your Majesty is too shrewd to be fooled. Since we left the marsh, sire, the Ickabog has, as Your Majesty feared, become much more aggressive.”

“Oh, no!” whimpered the king.

“I’m afraid so, sire. But after all, attacking it was bound to make it more dangerous.”

“But who attacked it?” said Fred.

“Why, you did, Your Majesty,” said Spittleworth. “Roach tells me your sword was embedded in the monster’s neck when it ran — I’m sorry. Your Majesty, did you speak?”

The king had, in fact, let out a sort of hum, but after a second or two, he shook his head. He’d considered correcting Spittleworth — he was sure he’d told the story differently — but his horrible experience in the fog sounded much better the way Spittleworth told it now: that he’d stood his ground and fought the Ickabog, rather than simply dropping his sword and running away.

“But this is awful, Spittleworth,” whispered the king. “What will become of us all, if the monster has become more ferocious?”

“Never fear, Your Majesty,” said Spittleworth, approaching the king’s bed, the candlelight illuminating his long nose and his cruel smile from below. “I intend to make it my life’s work to protect you and the kingdom from the Ickabog.”

“Th-thank you, Spittleworth. You are a true friend,” said the king, deeply moved, and he fumbled to extract a hand from the eiderdown, and clasped that of the cunning lord.

Chapter 15

The King Returns


By the time the king set out for Chouxville the following morning, rumors that the Ickabog had killed a man had not only traveled over the bridge into Baronstown, they’d even trickled down to the capital, courtesy of a cluster of cheesemongers, who’d set out before dawn.

However, Chouxville was not only the farthest away from the northern marsh, it also held itself to be far better informed and educated than the other Cornucopian towns, so when the wave of panic reached the capital, it met an upswell of disbelief.

The city’s taverns and markets rang with excited arguments. Skeptics laughed at the preposterous idea of the Ickabog existing, while others said that people who’d never been to the Marshlands ought not to pretend to be experts.

The Ickabog rumors had gained a lot of color as they traveled south. Some people said that the Ickabog had killed three men, others that it had merely torn off somebody’s nose.

In the City-Within-The-City, however, discussion was seasoned with a little pinch of anxiety. The wives, children, and friends of the Royal Guard were worried about the soldiers, but they reassured one another that if any of the men had been killed, their families would have been informed by messenger. This was the comfort that Mrs. Beamish gave Bert, when he came looking for her in the palace kitchens, having been scared by the rumors circulating among the schoolchildren.

“The king would have told us if anything had happened to Daddy,” she told Bert. “Here, now, I’ve got you a little treat.”

Mrs. Beamish had prepared Hopes-of-Heaven for the king’s return, and she now gave one that wasn’t quite symmetrical to Bert. He gasped (because he only ever had Hopes-of-Heaven on his birthday), and bit into the little cake. At once, his eyes filled with happy tears, as paradise wafted up through the roof of his mouth and melted all his cares away. He thought excitedly of his father coming home in his smart uniform, and how he, Bert, would be center of attention at school tomorrow, because he’d know exactly what had happened to the king’s men in the faraway Marshlands.

Dusk was settling over Chouxville when at last the king’s party rode into view. This time, Spittleworth hadn’t sent a messenger to tell people to stay inside. He wanted the king to feel the full force of Chouxville’s panic and fear when they saw His Majesty returning to his palace with the body of one of the Royal Guard.

The people of Chouxville saw the drawn, miserable faces of the returning men, and watched in silence as the party approached. Then they spotted the wrapped-up body slung over the steel-gray horse, and gasps spread through the crowd like flames. Up through the narrow cobbled streets of Chouxville the king’s party moved, and men removed their hats and women curtsied, and they hardly knew whether they were paying their respects to the king or the dead man.

Daisy Dovetail was one of the first to realize who was missing. Peering between the legs of grown-ups, she recognized Major Beamish’s horse. Instantly forgetting that she and Bert hadn’t talked to each other since their fight of the previous week, Daisy pulled free of her father’s hand and began to run, forcing her way through the crowds, her brown pigtails flying. She had to reach Bert before he saw the body on the horse. She had to warn him. But the people were so tightly packed that, fast as Daisy moved, she couldn’t keep pace with the horses.

Bert and Mrs. Beamish, who were standing outside their cottage in the shadow of the palace walls, knew there was something wrong because of the crowd’s gasps. Although Mrs. Beamish felt somewhat anxious, she was still sure that she was about to see her handsome husband, because the king would have sent word if he’d been hurt.

So when the procession rounded the corner, Mrs. Beamish’s eyes slid from face to face, expecting to see the major’s. And when she realized that there were no more faces left, the color drained slowly from her own. Then her gaze fell upon the body strapped to Major Beamish’s steel-gray horse, and, still holding Bert’s hand, she fainted clean away.

Chapter 16

Bert Says Goodbye

Spittleworth noticed a commotion beside the palace walls and strained to see what was going on. When he spotted the woman on the ground, and heard the cries of shock and pity, he suddenly realized that he’d left a loose end that might yet trip him up: the widow! As he rode past the little knot of people in the crowd who were fanning Mrs. Beamish’s face, Spittleworth knew that his longed-for bath must be postponed, and his crafty brain began to race again.

Once the king’s party was safely in the courtyard, and servants had hurried to assist Fred from his horse, Spittleworth pulled Major Roach aside.

“The widow, Beamish’s widow!” he muttered. “Why didn’t you send her word about his death?”

“It never occurred to me, my lord,” said Roach truthfully. He’d been too busy thinking about the jeweled sword all the way home: how best to sell it, and whether it would be better to break it up into pieces so that nobody recognized it.

“Curse you, Roach, must I think of everything?” snarled Spittleworth. “Go now, take Beamish’s body out of those filthy cloaks, cover it with a Cornucopian flag, and lay him out in the Blue Parlor. Put guards on the door and then bring Mrs. Beamish to me in the Throne Room.

“Also, give the order that these soldiers must not go home or talk to their families until I’ve spoken to them. It’s essential that we all tell the same story! Now hurry, fool, hurry — Beamish’s widow could ruin everything!”

Spittleworth pushed his way past soldiers and stable boys to where Flapoon was being lifted off his horse.

“Keep the king away from the Throne Room and the Blue Parlor,” Spittleworth whispered in Flapoon’s ear. “Encourage him to go to bed!”

Flapoon nodded and Spittleworth hurried away through the dimly lit palace corridors, casting off his dusty riding coat as he went, and bellowing at the servants to fetch him fresh clothes.

Once in the deserted Throne Room, Spittleworth pulled on his clean jacket and ordered a maid to light a single lamp and bring him a glass of wine. Then he waited. At last, there came a knock on the door.

“Enter!” shouted Spittleworth, and in came Major Roach, accompanied by a white-faced Mrs. Beamish, and young Bert.

“My dear Mrs. Beamish . . . my very dear Mrs. Beamish,” said Spittleworth, striding toward her and clasping her free hand. “The king has asked me to tell you how deeply sorry he is. I add my own condolences. What a tragedy . . . what an awful tragedy.”

“W-why did nobody send word?” sobbed Mrs. Beamish. “W-why did we have to find out, by seeing his poor — his poor body?”

She swayed a little, and Roach hurried to fetch a small golden chair. The maid, who was called Hetty, arrived with wine for Spittleworth, and while she was pouring it, Spittleworth said:

“Dear lady, we did in fact send word. We sent a messenger — didn’t we, Roach?”

“That’s right,” said Roach. “We sent a young lad called —”

But here, Roach got stuck. He was a man of very little imagination.

“Nobby,” said Spittleworth, saying the first name that came into his head. “Little Nobby . . . Buttons,” he added, because the flickering lamplight had just illuminated one of Roach’s golden buttons. “Yes, little Nobby Buttons volunteered, and off he galloped. What could have become of him? Roach,” said Spittleworth, “we must send out a search party, at once, to see whether any trace of Nobby Buttons can be found.”

At once, my lord,” said Roach, bowing deeply, and he left.

“How . . . how did my husband die?” whispered Mrs. Beamish.

“Well, madam,” said Spittleworth, speaking carefully, for he knew that the story he told now would become the official version, and that he’d have to stick by it, forevermore. “As you may have heard, we journeyed to the Marshlands, because we’d received word that the Ickabog had carried off a dog. Shortly after our arrival, I regret to say that our entire party was attacked by the monster.

“It lunged for the king first, but he fought most bravely, sinking his sword into the monster’s neck. To the tough-skinned Ickabog, however, ’twas but a wasp sting. Enraged, it sought further victims, and though Major Beamish put up a most heroic struggle, I regret to say that he laid down his life for the king.

“Then Lord Flapoon had the excellent notion of firing his blunderbuss, which scared the Ickabog away. We brought poor Beamish out of the marsh, asked for a volunteer to take news of his death to his family. Dear little Nobby Buttons said he’d do it, and he leapt up onto his horse, and until we reached Chouxville, I never doubted that he’d arrived and given you warning of this dreadful tragedy.”

“Can I — can I see my husband?” wept Mrs. Beamish.

“Of course, of course,” said Spittleworth. “He’s in the Blue Parlor.”

He led Mrs. Beamish and Bert, who was still clutching his mother’s hand, to the doors of the parlor, where he paused.

“I regret,” he said, “that we cannot remove the flag covering him. His injuries would be far too distressing for you to see . . . the fang and claw marks, you know . . .”

Mrs. Beamish swayed yet again and Bert grabbed hold of her, to keep her upright. Now Lord Flapoon walked up to the group, holding a tray of pies.

“King’s in bed,” he said thickly to Spittleworth. “Oh, hello,” he added, looking at Mrs. Beamish, who was one of the few servants whose name he knew, because she baked the pastries. “Sorry about the major,” said Flapoon, spraying Mrs. Beamish and Bert with crumbs of pie crust. “Always liked him.”

He walked away, leaving Spittleworth to open the door of the Blue Parlor to let Mrs. Beamish and Bert inside. There lay the body of Major Beamish, concealed beneath the Cornucopian flag.

“Can’t I at least kiss him one last time?” sobbed Mrs. Beamish.

“Quite impossible, I’m afraid,” said Spittleworth. “His face is half gone.”

“His hand, Mother,” said Bert, speaking for the first time. “I’m sure his hand will be all right.”

And before Spittleworth could stop the boy, Bert reached beneath the flag for his father’s hand, which was quite unmarked.

Mrs. Beamish knelt down and kissed the hand over and over again, until it shone with tears as though made of porcelain. Then Bert helped her to her feet and the two of them left the Blue Parlor without another word.

Chapter 17

Goodfellow Makes a Stand

Having watched the Beamishes out of sight, Spittleworth hurried off to the Guard’s Room, where he found Roach keeping watch over the rest of the Royal Guard. The walls of the room were hung with swords and a portrait of King Fred, whose eyes seemed to watch everything that was happening.

“They’re growing restless, my lord,” muttered Roach. “They want to go home to their families and get to bed.”

“And so they shall, once we’ve had a little chat,” said Spittleworth, moving to face the weary and travel-stained soldiers.

“Has anyone got any questions about what happened back in the Marshlands?” he asked the men.

The soldiers looked at one another. Some of them stole furtive glances at Roach, who’d retreated against the wall, and was polishing a rifle. Then Captain Goodfellow raised his hand, along with two other soldiers.

“Why was Beamish’s body wrapped up before any of us could look at it?” asked Captain Goodfellow.

“I want to know where that bullet went, that we heard being fired,” said the second soldier.

“How come only four people saw this monster, if it’s so huge?” asked the third, to general nods and muttered agreement.

“All excellent questions,” replied Spittleworth smoothly. “Let me explain.”

And he repeated the story of the attack that he’d told Mrs. Beamish.

The soldiers who’d asked questions remained unsatisfied.

“I still reckon it’s funny that a huge monster was out there and none of us saw it,” said the third.

“If Beamish was half-eaten, why wasn’t there more blood?” asked the second.

“And who, in the name of all that’s Holy,” said Captain Goodfellow, “is Nobby Buttons?”

“How d’you know about Nobby Buttons?” blurted Spittleworth, without thinking.

“On my way here from the stables, I bumped into one of the maids, Hetty,” said Goodfellow. “She served you your wine, my lord. According to her, you’ve just been telling Beamish’s poor wife about a member of the Royal Guard called Nobby Buttons. According to you, Nobby Buttons was sent with a message to Beamish’s wife, telling her he’d been killed.

“But I don’t remember a Nobby Buttons. I’ve never met anyone called Nobby Buttons. So I ask you, my lord, how can that be? How can a man ride with us, and camp with us, and take orders from Your Lordship right in front of us, without any of us ever clapping eyes on him?”

Spittleworth’s first thought was that he’d have to do something about that eavesdropping maid. Luckily, Goodfellow had given him her name. Then he said in a dangerous voice:

“What gives you the right to speak for everybody, Captain Goodfellow? Perhaps some of these men have better memories than you do. Perhaps they remember poor Nobby Buttons clearly. Dear little Nobby, in whose memory the king will add a fat bag of gold to everybody’s pay this week. Proud, brave Nobby, whose sacrifice — for I fear the monster has eaten him, as well as Beamish — will mean a pay rise for all his comrades-in-arms. Noble Nobby Buttons, whose closest friends are surely marked for speedy promotion.”

Another silence followed Spittleworth’s words, and this silence had a cold, heavy quality. Now the whole Royal Guard understood the choice facing them. They weighed in their minds the huge influence Spittleworth was known to have over the king, and the fact that Major Roach was now caressing the barrel of his rifle in a menacing manner, and they remembered the sudden death of their former leader, Major Beamish. They also considered the promise of more gold, and speedy promotion, if they agreed to believe in the Ickabog, and in Private Nobby Buttons.

Goodfellow stood up so suddenly that his chair clattered to the floor.

“There never was a Nobby Buttons, and I’m damned if there’s an Ickabog, and I won’t be party to a lie!”

The other two men who’d asked questions stood up as well, but the rest of the Royal Guard remained seated, silent, and watchful.

“Very well,” said Spittleworth. “You three are under arrest for the filthy crime of treason. As I’m sure your comrades remember, you ran away when the Ickabog appeared. You forgot your duty to protect the king and thought only of saving your own cowardly hides! The penalty is death by firing squad.”

He chose eight soldiers to take the three men away, and even though the three honest soldiers struggled very hard, they were outnumbered and overwhelmed, and in no time at all they’d been dragged out of the Guard’s Room.

“Very good,” said Spittleworth to the few soldiers remaining. “Very good indeed. There will be pay rises all round, and I shall remember your names when it comes to promotions. Now, don’t forget to tell your families exactly what happened in the Marshlands. It might bode ill for your wives, your parents, and your children if they’re heard to question the existence of the Ickabog, or of Nobby Buttons.

“You may now return home.”

Chapter 18

End of an Advisor

No sooner had the guardsmen got to their feet to return home, than Lord Flapoon came bursting into the room, looking worried.

“What now?” groaned Spittleworth, who very much wanted his bath and bed.

“The — Chief — Advisor!” panted Flapoon.

And sure enough, Herringbone, the Chief Advisor, now appeared, wearing his dressing gown and an expression of outrage.

“I demand an explanation, my lord!” he cried. “What stories are these that reach my ears? The Ickabog, real? Major Beamish, dead? And I’ve just passed three of the king’s soldiers being dragged away under sentence of death! I have, of course, instructed that they be taken to the dungeons to await trial instead!”

“I can explain everything, Chief Advisor,” said Spittleworth with a bow, and for the third time that evening, he related the tale of the Ickabog attacking the king, and killing Beamish, then the mysterious disappearance of Nobby Buttons who, Spittleworth feared, had also fallen prey to the monster.

Herringbone, who’d always deplored the influence of Spittleworth and Flapoon on the king, waited for Spittleworth to finish his farrago of lies with the air of a wily old fox who waits at a rabbit hole for his dinner.

“A fascinating tale,” he said, when Spittleworth had finished. “But I hereby relieve you of any further responsibility in the matter, Lord Spittleworth. The advisors will take charge now. There are laws and protocols in Cornucopia to deal with emergencies such as these.

“Firstly, the men in the dungeons will be given a proper trial, so that we can hear their version of events. Secondly, the lists of the king’s soldiers must be searched, to find the family of this Nobby Buttons, and inform them of his death. Thirdly, Major Beamish’s body must be closely examined by the king’s physicians, so that we may learn more about the monster that killed him.”

Spittleworth opened his mouth very wide, but nothing came out. He saw his whole glorious scheme collapsing on top of him, and himself trapped beneath it, imprisoned by his own cleverness.

Then Major Roach, who was standing behind the Chief Advisor, slowly put down his rifle and took a sword from the wall. A look like a flash of light on dark water passed between Roach and Spittleworth, who said:

“I think, Herringbone, that you are ripe for retirement.”

Steel flashed, and the tip of Roach’s sword appeared out of the Chief Advisor’s belly. The soldiers gasped, but the Chief Advisor didn’t utter a word. He simply knelt, then toppled over, dead.

Spittleworth looked around at the soldiers who’d agreed to believe in the Ickabog. He liked seeing the fear on every face. He could feel his own power.

“Did everybody hear the Chief Advisor appointing me to his job before he retired?” he asked softly.

The soldiers all nodded. They’d just stood by and watched murder, and felt too deeply involved to protest. All they cared about now was escaping this room alive, and protecting their families.

“Very well, then,” said Spittleworth. “The king believes the Ickabog is real, and I stand with the king. I am the new Chief Advisor, and I will be devising a plan to protect the kingdom. All who are loyal to the king will find their lives run very much as before. Any who stand against the king will suffer the penalty of cowards and traitors: imprisonment — or death.

“Now, I need one of you gentlemen to assist Major Roach in burying the body of our dear Chief Advisor — and be sure and put him where he won’t be found. The rest of you are free to return to your families and inform them of the danger threatening our beloved Cornucopia.”

Chapter 19

Lady Eslanda

Spittleworth now marched off toward the dungeons. With Herringbone gone, there was nothing to stop him killing the three honest soldiers. He intended to shoot them himself. There would be time enough to invent a story afterward — possibly he could place their bodies in the vault where the crown jewels were kept, and pretend they’d been trying to steal them.

However, just as Spittleworth put his hand on the door to the dungeons, a quiet voice spoke out of the darkness behind him.

“Good evening, Lord Spittleworth.”

He turned and saw Lady Eslanda, raven-haired and serious, stepping down from a dark spiral staircase.

“You’re awake late, my lady,” said Spittleworth, with a bow.

“Yes,” said Lady Eslanda, whose heart was beating very fast. “I — I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d take a little stroll.”

This was a fib. In fact, Eslanda had been fast asleep in her bed when she was woken by a frantic knocking on her bedroom door. Opening it, she found Hetty standing there: the maid who’d served Spittleworth his wine, and heard his lies about Nobby Buttons.

Hetty had been so curious about what Spittleworth was up to after his story about Nobby Buttons, that she’d crept along to the Guard’s Room and, by pressing her ear to the door, heard everything that was going on inside. Hetty ran and hid when the three honest soldiers were dragged away, then sped upstairs to wake Lady Eslanda. She wanted to help the men who were about to be shot. The maid had no idea that Eslanda was secretly in love with Captain Goodfellow. She simply liked Lady Eslanda best of all the ladies at court, and knew her to be kind and clever.

Lady Eslanda hastily pressed some gold into Hetty’s hands and advised her to leave the palace that night, because she was afraid the maid now might be in grave danger. Then Lady Eslanda dressed herself with trembling hands, seized a lantern, and hurried down the spiral staircase beside her bedroom. However, before she reached the bottom of the stairs she heard voices. Blowing out her lantern, Eslanda listened as Herringbone gave the order for Captain Goodfellow and his friends to be taken to the dungeons instead of being shot. She’d been hiding on the stairs ever since, because she had a feeling the danger threatening the men might not yet have passed — and here, sure enough, was Lord Spittleworth, heading for the dungeons with a pistol.

“Is the Chief Advisor anywhere about?” Lady Eslanda asked. “I thought I heard his voice earlier.”

“Herringbone has retired,” said Spittleworth. “You see standing before you the new Chief Advisor, my lady.”

“Oh, congratulations!” said Eslanda, pretending to be pleased, although she was horrified. “So it will be you who oversees the trial of the three soldiers in the dungeons, will it?”

“You’re very well informed, Lady Eslanda,” said Spittleworth, eyeing her closely. “How did you know there are three soldiers in the dungeons?”

“I happened to hear Herringbone mention them,” said Lady Eslanda. “They’re well-respected men, it seems. He was saying how important it will be for them to have a fair trial. I know King Fred will agree, because he cares deeply about his own popularity — as he should, for if a king is to be effective, he must be loved.”

Lady Eslanda did a good job of pretending that she was thinking only of the king’s popularity, and I think nine out of ten people would have believed her. Unfortunately, Spittleworth heard the tremor in her voice, and suspected that she must be in love with one of these men, to hurry downstairs in the dead of night, in hope of saving their lives.

“I wonder,” he said, watching her closely, “which of them it is whom you care about so much?”

Lady Eslanda would have stopped herself blushing if she could, but unfortunately, she couldn’t.

“I don’t think it can be Ogden,” mused Spittleworth, “because he’s a very plain man, and in any case, he already has a wife. Might it be Wagstaff? He’s an amusing fellow, but prone to boils. No,” said Lord Spittleworth softly, “I think it must be handsome Captain Goodfellow who makes you blush, Lady Eslanda. But would you really stoop so low? His parents were cheesemakers, you know.”

“It makes no difference to me whether a man is a cheesemaker or a king, so long as he behaves with honor,” said Eslanda. “And the king will be dishonored, if those soldiers are shot without trial, and so I’ll tell him, when he wakes.”

Lady Eslanda then turned, trembling, and climbed the spiral staircase. She had no idea whether she’d said enough to save the soldiers’ lives, so she spent a sleepless night.

Spittleworth remained standing in the chilly passage until his feet were so cold he could barely feel them. He was trying to decide what to do.

On the one hand, he really did want to get rid of these soldiers, who knew far too much.

On the other, he feared Lady Eslanda was right: people would blame the king if the men were shot without trial. Then Fred would be angry at Spittleworth, and might even take the job of Chief Advisor away from him. If that happened, all the dreams of power and riches that Spittleworth had enjoyed on the journey back from the Marshlands would be dashed.

So Spittleworth turned away from the dungeon door and headed to his bed. He was deeply offended by the idea that Lady Eslanda, whom he’d once hoped to marry, preferred the son of cheesemakers. As he blew out his candle, Spittleworth decided that she would pay, one day, for that insult.

Chapter 20

Medals for Beamish and Buttons

When King Fred woke next morning and was informed that his Chief Advisor had retired at this critical moment in the country’s history, he was furious. It came as a great relief to know that Lord Spittleworth would be taking over, because Fred knew that Spittleworth understood the grave danger facing the kingdom.

Though feeling safer now that he was back in his palace, with its high walls and cannon-mounted turrets, its portcullis and its moat, Fred was unable to shake off the shock of his trip. He stayed shut up in his private apartments, and had all his meals brought to him on golden trays. Instead of going hunting, he paced up and down on his thick carpets, reliving his awful adventure in the north, and meeting only his two best friends, who were careful to keep his fears alive.

On the third day after their return from the Marshlands, Spittleworth entered the king’s private apartments with a somber face, and announced that the soldiers who’d been sent back to the marsh to find out what happened to Private Nobby Buttons had discovered nothing but his bloodstained shoes, a single horseshoe, and a few well-gnawed bones.

The king turned white and sat down hard on a satin sofa.

“Oh, how dreadful, how dreadful . . . Private Buttons . . . remind me, which one was he?”

“Young man, freckles, only son of a widowed mother,” said Spittleworth. “The newest recruit to the Royal Guard, and such a promising boy. Tragic, really. And the worst of it is, between Beamish and Buttons, the Ickabog has developed a taste for human flesh — precisely as Your Majesty predicted. It is really astonishing, if I may say so, how Your Majesty grasped the danger from the first.”

“B-but what is to be done, Spittleworth? If the monster is hungry for more human prey . . .”

“Leave it all to me, Your Majesty,” said Spittleworth soothingly. “I’m Chief Advisor, you know, and I’m at work day and night to keep the kingdom safe.”

“I’m so glad Herringbone appointed you his successor, Spittleworth,” said Fred. “What would I do without you?”

“Tish, pish, Your Majesty, ’tis an honor to serve so gracious a king.

“Now, we ought to discuss tomorrow’s funerals. We’re intending to bury what’s left of Buttons next to Major Beamish. It is to be a state occasion, you know, with plenty of pomp and ceremony, and I think it would be a very nice touch if you could present the Medal for Outstanding Bravery Against the Deadly Ickabog to relatives of the dead men.”

“Oh, is there a medal?” said Fred.

“Certainly there is, sire, and that reminds me — you haven’t yet received your own.”

From an inner pocket, Spittleworth pulled out a most gorgeous gold medal, almost as large as a saucer. Embossed upon the medal was a monster with gleaming ruby eyes, which was being fought by a handsome, muscular man wearing a crown. The whole thing was suspended from a scarlet velvet ribbon.

“Mine?” said the king, wide-eyed.

“But of course, sire!” said Spittleworth. “Did Your Majesty not plunge your sword into the monster’s loathsome neck? We all remember it happening, sire!”

King Fred fingered the heavy gold medal. Though he said nothing, he was undergoing a silent struggle.

Fred’s honesty had piped up, in a small, clear voice: “It didn’t happen like that. You know it didn’t. You saw the Ickabog in the fog, you dropped your sword, and you ran away. You never stabbed it. You were never near enough!”

But Fred’s cowardice blustered louder than his honesty: “You’ve already agreed with Spittleworth that that’s what happened! What a fool you’ll look if you admit you ran away!”

And Fred’s vanity spoke loudest of all: “After all, I was the one who led the hunt for the Ickabog! I was the one who saw it first! I deserve this medal, and it will stand out beautifully against that black funeral suit.”

So Fred said:

“Yes, Spittleworth, it all happened just as you said. Naturally, one doesn’t like to boast.”

“Your Majesty’s modesty is legendary,” said Spittleworth, bowing low to hide his smirk.

The following day was declared a national day of mourning in honor of the Ickabog’s victims. Crowds lined the streets to watch Major Beamish’s and Private Buttons’s coffins pass on wagons drawn by plumed black horses.

King Fred rode behind the coffins on a jet-black horse, with the Medal for Outstanding Bravery Against the Deadly Ickabog bouncing on his chest and reflecting the sunlight so brightly that it hurt the eyes of the crowd. Behind the king walked Mrs. Beamish and Bert, also dressed in black, and behind them came a howling old woman in a ginger wig, who’d been introduced to them as Mrs. Buttons, Nobby’s mother.

“Oh, my Nobby,” she wailed as she walked. “Oh, down with the awful Ickabog, who killed my poor Nobby!”

The coffins were lowered into graves and the national anthem was played by the king’s buglers. Buttons’s coffin was particularly heavy, because it had been filled with bricks. The odd-looking Mrs. Buttons wailed and cursed the Ickabog again while ten sweating men lowered her son’s coffin into the ground. Mrs. Beamish and Bert stood quietly weeping.

Then King Fred called the grieving relatives forward to receive their men’s medals. Spittleworth hadn’t been prepared to spend as much money on Beamish and the imaginary Buttons as he’d spent on the king, so their medals were made of silver rather than gold. However, it made an affecting ceremony, especially as Mrs. Buttons was so overcome that she fell to the ground and kissed the king’s boots.

Mrs. Beamish and Bert walked home from the funeral and the crowds parted respectfully to let them pass. Only once did Mrs. Beamish pause, and that was when her old friend Mr. Dovetail stepped out of the crowd to tell her how sorry he was. The two embraced. Daisy wanted to say something to Bert, but the whole crowd was staring, and she couldn’t even catch his eye, because he was scowling at his feet. Before she knew it, her father had released Mrs. Beamish, and Daisy watched her best friend and his mother walk out of sight.

Once they were back in their cottage, Mrs. Beamish threw herself facedown on her bed where she sobbed and sobbed. Bert tried to comfort her, but nothing worked, so he took his father’s medal into his own bedroom and placed it on the mantelpiece.

Only when he stood back to look at it did he realize that he’d placed his father’s medal right beside the wooden Ickabog that Mr. Dovetail had carved for him so long ago. Until this moment, Bert hadn’t connected the toy Ickabog with the way his father had died.

Now he lifted the wooden model from its shelf, placed it on the floor, picked up a poker, and smashed the toy Ickabog to splinters. Then he picked up the remnants of the shattered toy and threw them into the fire. As he watched the flames leap higher and higher, he vowed that one day, when he was old enough, he’d hunt down the Ickabog, and revenge himself upon the monster that had killed his father.

Chapter 21

Professor Fraudysham


The morning after the funerals, Spittleworth knocked on the door of the king’s apartments again and entered, carrying a lot of scrolls, which he let fall onto the table where the king sat.

“Spittleworth,” said Fred, who was still wearing his Medal for Outstanding Bravery Against the Deadly Ickabog, and had dressed in a scarlet suit, the better to show it off, “these cakes aren’t as good as usual.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Your Majesty,” said Spittleworth. “I thought it right for the widow Beamish to take a few days off work. These are the work of the under–pastry chef.”

“Well, they’re chewy,” said Fred, dropping half his Folderol Fancy back on his plate. “And what are all these scrolls?”

“These, sire, are suggestions for improving the kingdom’s defenses against the Ickabog,” said Spittleworth.

“Excellent, excellent,” said King Fred, moving the cakes and the teapot aside to make more room as Spittleworth pulled up a chair.

“The very first thing to be done, Your Majesty, was to find out as much as we could about the Ickabog itself, the better to discover how to defeat it.”

“Well, yes, but how, Spittleworth? The monster is a mystery! Everyone’s thought it a fantasy all these years!”

“That, forgive me, is where Your Majesty is wrong,” said Spittleworth. “By dint of ceaseless searching, I’ve managed to find the foremost Ickabog expert in all of Cornucopia. Lord Flapoon is waiting with him in the hall. With Your Majesty’s permission —”

“Bring him in, bring him in, do!” said Fred excitedly.

So Spittleworth left the room and returned shortly afterward with Lord Flapoon and a little old man with snowy white hair and spectacles so thick that his eyes had vanished almost into nothingness.

“This, sire, is Professor Fraudysham,” said Flapoon, as the mole-like little man made a deep bow to the king. “What he doesn’t know about Ickabogs isn’t worth knowing!”

“How is it that I’ve never heard of you before, Professor Fraudysham?” asked the king, who was thinking that if he’d known the Ickabog was real enough to have its own expert, he’d never have gone looking for it in the first place.

“I live a retired life, Your Majesty,” said Professor Fraudysham, with a second bow. “So few people believe in the Ickabog that I’ve formed the habit of keeping my knowledge to myself.”

King Fred was satisfied with this answer, which was a relief to Spittleworth, because Professor Fraudysham was no more real than Private Nobby Buttons or, indeed, old Widow Buttons in her ginger wig, who’d howled at Nobby’s funeral. The truth was that beneath the wigs and the glasses, Professor Fraudysham and Widow Buttons were the same person: Lord Spittleworth’s butler, who was called Otto Scrumble, and looked after Lord Spittleworth’s estate while he lived at the palace. Like his master, Scrumble would do anything for gold, and had agreed to impersonate both the widow and the professor for a hundred Ducats.

“So, what can you tell us about the Ickabog, Professor Fraudysham?” asked the king.

“Well, let’s see,” said the pretend professor, who’d been told by Spittleworth what he ought to say. “It’s as tall as two horses —”

“If not taller,” interrupted Fred, whose nightmares had featured a gigantic Ickabog ever since he’d returned from the Marshlands.

“If, as Your Majesty says, not taller,” agreed Fraudysham. “I should estimate that a medium-sized Ickabog would be as tall as two horses, whereas a large specimen might reach the size of — let’s see —”

“Two elephants,” suggested the king.

“Two elephants,” agreed Fraudysham. “And with eyes like lamps —”

“Or glowing balls of fire,” suggested the king.

“The very image I was about to employ, sire!” said Fraudysham.

“And can the monster really speak in a human tongue?” asked Fred, in whose nightmares the monster whispered, “The king . . . I want the king . . . where are you, little king?” as it crept through the dark streets toward the palace.

“Yes, indeed,” said Fraudysham, with another low bow. “We believe the Ickabog learned to speak Human by taking people prisoner. Before disemboweling and eating its victims, we believe it forces them to give it English lessons.”

“Suffering Saints, what savagery!” whispered Fred, who’d turned pale.

“Moreover,” said Fraudysham, “the Ickabog has a long and vengeful memory. If outwitted by a victim — as you outwitted it, sire, by escaping its deadly clutches — it has sometimes sneaked out of the marsh under cover of darkness, and claimed its victim while he or she slept.”

Whiter than the snowy icing on his half-eaten Folderol Fancy, Fred croaked:

“What’s to be done? I’m doomed!”

“Nonsense, Your Majesty,” said Spittleworth bracingly. “I’ve devised a whole raft of measures for your protection.”

So saying, Spittleworth took hold of one of the scrolls he’d brought with him and unrolled it. There, covering most of the table, was a colored picture of a monster that resembled a dragon. It was huge and ugly, with thick black scales, gleaming white eyes, a tail that ended in a poisonous spike, a fanged mouth large enough to swallow a man, and long, razor-sharp claws.

“There are several problems to be overcome, when defending against an Ickabog,” said Professor Fraudysham, now taking out a short stick and pointing in turn to the fangs, the claws, and the poisonous tail. “But the most difficult challenge is that killing an Ickabog causes two new Ickabogs to emerge from the corpse of the first.”

“Surely not?” said Fred faintly.

“Oh, yes, Your Majesty,” said Fraudysham. “I’ve made a lifelong study of the monster, and I can assure you that my findings are quite correct.”

“Your Majesty might remember that many of the old tales of the Ickabog make mention of this curious fact,” interjected Spittleworth, who really needed the king to believe in this particular trait of the Ickabog, because most of his plan relied on it.
“But it seems so — so unlikely!” said Fred weakly.

“It does seem unlikely on the face of it, doesn’t it, sire?” said Spittleworth, with another bow. “In truth, it’s one of those extraordinary, unbelievable ideas that only the very cleverest people can grasp, whereas common folk — stupid folk, sire — giggle and laugh at the notion.”

Fred looked from Spittleworth to Flapoon to Professor Fraudysham; all three men seemed to be waiting for him to prove how clever he was, and naturally he didn’t want to seem stupid, so he said:

“Yes . . . well, if the professor says it, that’s good enough for me . . . but if the monster turns into two monsters every time it dies, how do we kill it?”

“Well, in the first phase of our plan, we don’t,” said Spittleworth.

“We don’t?” said Fred, crestfallen.

Spittleworth now unrolled a second scroll, which showed a map of Cornucopia. The northernmost tip had a drawing of a gigantic Ickabog on it. All around the edge of the wide marsh stood a hundred little stick figures, holding swords. Fred looked closely to see whether any of them were wearing a crown, and was relieved to see that none were.

“As you can see, Your Majesty, our first proposal is a special Ickabog Defense Brigade. These men will patrol the edge of the Marshlands, to ensure that the Ickabog can’t leave the marsh. We estimate the cost of such a brigade, including uniforms, weapons, horses, wages, training, board, lodging, sick pay, danger money, birthday presents, and medals to be around ten thousand gold Ducats.”

“Ten thousand Ducats?” repeated King Fred. “That’s a lot of gold. However, when it comes to protecting me — I mean to say, when it comes to protecting Cornucopia —”

“Ten thousand Ducats a month is a small price to pay,” finished Spittleworth.

“Ten thousand a month!” yelped Fred.

“Yes, sire,” said Spittleworth. “If we’re to truly defend the kingdom, the expense will be considerable. However, if Your Majesty feels we could manage with fewer weapons —”

“No, no, I didn’t say that —”

“Naturally, we don’t expect Your Majesty to bear the expense alone,” continued Spittleworth.

“You don’t?” said Fred, suddenly hopeful.

“Oh, no, sire, that would be grossly unfair. After all, the entire country will benefit from the Ickabog Defense Brigade. I suggest we impose an Ickabog tax. We’ll ask every household in Cornucopia to pay one gold Ducat a month. Of course, this will mean the recruitment and training of many new tax collectors, but if we raise the amount to two Ducats, we’ll cover the cost of them, too.”

“Admirable, Spittleworth!” said King Fred. “What a brain you have! Why, two Ducats a month — people will barely notice the loss.”

Chapter 22

The House with No Flags

And so a monthly tax of two gold Ducats was imposed on every household in Cornucopia, to protect the country from the Ickabog. Tax collectors soon became a common sight on the streets of Cornucopia. They had large, staring white eyes like lamps painted on the back of their black uniforms. These were supposed to remind everybody of what the tax was for, but people whispered in the taverns that they were Lord Spittleworth’s eyes, watching to make sure everybody paid up.

Once they’d collected enough gold, Spittleworth decided to raise a statue to the memory of one of the Ickabog’s victims, to remind people what a savage beast it was. At first Spittleworth planned a statue of Major Beamish, but his spies in the taverns of Chouxville reported that it was Private Buttons’s story that had really captured the public imagination. Brave young Buttons, who’d volunteered to gallop off into the night with the news of his major’s death, only to end up in the Ickabog’s jaws himself, was generally felt to be a tragic, noble figure deserving of a handsome statue. Major Beamish, on the other hand, seemed merely to have died by accident, blundering unwisely across the foggy marsh in the dark. In fact, the drinkers of Chouxville felt quite resentful toward Beamish, as the man who’d forced Nobby Buttons to risk his life.

Happy to bow to the public mood, Spittleworth had a statue of Nobby Buttons made, and placed it in the middle of the largest public square in Chouxville. Seated on a magnificent charger, with his bronze cloak flying out behind him and a look of determination on his boyish face, Buttons was forever frozen in the act of galloping back to the City-Within-The-City. It became fashionable to lay flowers around the statue’s base every Sunday. One rather plain young woman, who laid flowers every day of the week, claimed she’d been Nobby Buttons’s girlfriend.

Spittleworth also decided to spend some gold on a scheme to keep the king diverted, because Fred was still too scared to go hunting, in case the Ickabog had sneaked south somehow and pounced on him in the forest. Bored of entertaining Fred, Spittleworth and Flapoon had come up with a plan.

“We need a portrait of you fighting the Ickabog, sire! The nation demands it!”

“Does it really?” said the king, fiddling with his buttons, which that day were made of emeralds. Fred remembered the ambition he’d formed, the morning he’d first tried on battle dress, of being painted killing the Ickabog. He liked this idea of Spittleworth’s very much, so he spent the next two weeks choosing and being fitted for a new uniform, because the old one was much stained by the marsh, and having a replacement jeweled sword made. Then Spittleworth hired the best portrait painter in Cornucopia, Malik Motley, and Fred began posing for weeks on end, for a portrait large enough to cover an entire wall of the Throne Room. Behind Motley sat fifty lesser artists, all copying his work, so as to have smaller versions of the painting ready to deliver to every city, town, and village in Cornucopia.

While he was being painted, the king amused Motley and the other artists by telling them the story of his famous fight with the monster, and the more he told the story, the more he found himself convinced of its truth. All of this kept Fred happily occupied, leaving Spittleworth and Flapoon free to run the country, and to divide up the trunks of gold left over each month, which were sent in the dead of night to the two lords’ estates in the country.

But what, you might ask, of the eleven other advisors, who’d worked under Herringbone? Didn’t they think it odd that the Chief Advisor had resigned in the middle of the night, and never been seen again? Didn’t they ask questions, when they woke up to find Spittleworth in Herringbone’s place? And, most importantly of all: did they believe in the Ickabog?

Well, those are excellent questions, and I’ll answer them now.

They certainly muttered among themselves that Spittleworth shouldn’t have been allowed to take over, without a proper vote. One or two of them even considered complaining to the king. However, they decided not to act, for the simple reason that they were scared.

You see, royal proclamations had now gone up in every town and village square in Cornucopia, all written by Spittleworth and signed by the king. It was treason to question the king’s decisions, treason to suggest that the Ickabog might not be real, treason to question the need for the Ickabog tax, and treason not to pay your two Ducats a month. There was also a reward of ten Ducats if you reported someone for saying the Ickabog wasn’t real.

The advisors were frightened of being accused of treason. They didn’t want to be locked up in a dungeon. It really was much more pleasant to keep living in the lovely mansions which came with the job of advisor, and continue wearing their special advisor robes, which meant they were allowed to go straight to the head of the queue in pastry shops.

So they approved all the expenses of the Ickabog Defense Brigade, who wore green uniforms, which Spittleworth said hid them better in the marsh weed. The Brigade soon became a common sight, parading through the streets of all of Cornucopia’s major cities.

Some might wonder why the Brigade was riding through the streets waving at people, instead of remaining up in the north, where the monster was supposed to be, but they kept their thoughts to themselves. Meanwhile, most of their fellow citizens competed with one another to demonstrate their passionate belief in the Ickabog. They propped up cheap copies of the painting of King Fred fighting the Ickabog in their windows, and hung wooden signs on their doors, which bore messages like PROUD TO PAY THE ICKABOG TAX and DOWN WITH THE ICKABOG, UP WITH THE KING! Some parents even taught their children to bow and curtsy to the tax collectors.

The Beamish house was decorated in so many anti-Ickabog banners that it was hard to see what the cottage beneath looked like. Bert had returned to school at last, but to Daisy’s disappointment, he spent all his breaks at school with Roderick Roach, talking about the time when they would both join the Ickabog Defense Brigade and kill the monster. She’d never felt lonelier and wondered whether Bert missed her at all.

Daisy’s own house was the only one in the City-Within-The-City that was entirely free of flags and signs welcoming the Ickabog tax. Her father also kept Daisy inside whenever the Ickabog Defense Brigade rode past, rather than urging her to run into the garden and cheer, like the neighbors’ children.

Lord Spittleworth noticed the absence of flags and signs on the tiny cottage beside the graveyard, and filed that knowledge away in the back of his cunning head, where he kept information that might one day prove useful.

Chapter 23

The Trial

I’m sure you haven’t forgotten those three brave soldiers locked up in the dungeons, who’d refused to believe in either the Ickabog or in Nobby Buttons.

Well, Spittleworth hadn’t forgotten them either. He’d been trying to think up ways to get rid of them, without being blamed for it, ever since the night he’d imprisoned them. His latest idea was to feed them poison in their soup, and pretend they’d died of natural causes. He was still trying to decide on the best poison to use, when some of the soldiers’ relatives turned up at the palace gates, demanding to speak to the king. Even worse, Lady Eslanda was with them, and Spittleworth had the sneaking suspicion she’d arranged the whole thing.

Instead of taking them to the king, Spittleworth had the group shown into his splendid new Chief Advisor’s office, where he invited them politely to sit down.

“We want to know when our boys are going to stand trial,” said Private Ogden’s brother, who was a pig farmer from just outside Baronstown.

“You’ve had them locked up for months now,” said the mother of Private Wagstaff, who was a barmaid in a Jeroboam tavern.

“And we’d all like to know what they’re charged with,” said Lady Eslanda.

“They’re charged with treason,” said Spittleworth, wafting his scented handkerchief under his nose, with his eyes on the pig farmer. The man was perfectly clean, but Spittleworth meant to make him feel small, and I’m sorry to say he succeeded.

“Treason?” repeated Mrs. Wagstaff in astonishment. “Why, you won’t find more loyal subjects of the king anywhere in the land than those three!”

Spittleworth’s crafty eyes moved between the worried relatives, who so clearly loved their brothers and sons very deeply, and Lady Eslanda, whose face was so anxious, and a brilliant idea flashed into his brain like a lightning strike. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before! He didn’t need to poison the soldiers at all! What he needed was to ruin their reputations.

“Your men will be put on trial tomorrow,” he said, getting to his feet. “The trial will take place in the largest square in Chouxville, because I want as many people as possible to hear what they have to say. Good day to you, ladies and gentlemen.”

And with a smirk and a bow, Spittleworth left the astonished relatives and proceeded down into the dungeons.

The three soldiers were a lot thinner than the last time he’d seen them, and as they hadn’t been able to shave or keep very clean, they made a miserable picture.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said Spittleworth briskly, while the drunken warder snoozed in a corner. “Good news! You’re to stand trial tomorrow.”

“And what exactly are we charged with?” asked Captain Goodfellow suspiciously.

“We’ve been through this already, Goodfellow,” said Spittleworth. “You saw the monster on the marsh, and ran away instead of staying to protect your king. You then claimed the monster isn’t real, to cover up your own cowardice. That’s treason.”

“It’s a filthy lie,” said Goodfellow, in a low voice. “Do what you like to me, Spittleworth, but I’ll tell the truth.”

The other two soldiers, Ogden and Wagstaff, nodded their agreement with the captain.

“You might not care what I do to you,” said Spittleworth, smiling, “but what about your families? It would be awful, wouldn’t it, Wagstaff, if that barmaid mother of yours slipped on her way down into the cellar, and cracked open her skull? Or, Ogden, if your pig-farming brother accidentally stabbed himself with his own scythe, and got eaten by his own pigs? Or,” whispered Spittleworth, moving closer to the bars, and staring into Goodfellow’s eyes, “if Lady Eslanda were to have a riding accident, and broke her slender neck.”

You see, Spittleworth believed that Lady Eslanda was Captain Goodfellow’s lover. It would never occur to him that a woman might try and protect a man to whom she’d never even spoken.

Captain Goodfellow wondered why on earth Lord Spittleworth was threatening him with the death of Lady Eslanda. True, he thought her the loveliest woman in the kingdom, but he’d always kept that to himself, because cheesemakers’ sons didn’t marry ladies of the court.

“What has Lady Eslanda to do with me?” he asked.

“Don’t pretend, Goodfellow,” snapped the Chief Advisor. “I’ve seen her blushes when your name is mentioned. Do you think me a fool? She has been doing all that she can to protect you and, I must admit, it is down to her that you’re still alive. However, it is the Lady Eslanda who’ll pay the price if you tell any truth but mine tomorrow. She saved your life, Goodfellow: will you sacrifice hers?”

Goodfellow was speechless with shock. The idea that Lady Eslanda was in love with him was so marvelous that it almost eclipsed Spittleworth’s threats. Then the captain realized that, in order to save Eslanda’s life, he would have to publicly confess to treason the next day, which would surely kill her love for him stone-dead.

From the way the color had drained out of the three men’s faces, Spittleworth could see that his threats had done the trick.

“Take courage, gentlemen,” he said. “I’m sure no awful accidents will happen to your loved ones, as long as you tell the truth tomorrow . . .”

So notices were pinned up all over the capital announcing the trial, and the following day, an enormous crowd packed itself into the largest square in Chouxville. Each of the three brave soldiers took it in turns to stand on a wooden platform, while their friends and families watched, and one by one they confessed that they’d met the Ickabog on the marsh, and had run away like cowards instead of defending the king.

The crowd booed the soldiers so loudly that it was hard to hear what the judge (Lord Spittleworth) was saying. However, all the time Spittleworth was reading out the sentence — life imprisonment in the palace dungeons — Captain Goodfellow stared directly into the eyes of Lady Eslanda, who sat watching, high in the stands, with the other ladies of the court. Sometimes, two people can tell each other more with a look than others could tell each other with a lifetime of words. I will not tell you everything that Lady Eslanda and Captain Goodfellow said with their eyes, but she knew, now, that the captain returned her feelings, and he learned, even though he was going to prison for the rest of his life, that Lady Eslanda knew he was innocent.

The three prisoners were led from the platform in chains, while the crowd threw cabbages at them, and then dispersed, chattering loudly. Many of them felt Lord Spittleworth should have put the traitors to death, and Spittleworth chuckled to himself as he returned to the palace, for it was always best, if possible, to seem a reasonable man.

Mr. Dovetail had watched the trial from the back of the crowd. He hadn’t booed the soldiers, nor had he brought Daisy with him, but had left her carving in his workshop. As Mr. Dovetail walked home, lost in thought, he saw Wagstaff’s weeping mother being followed along the street by a gang of youths, who were booing and throwing vegetables at her.

“You follow this woman any farther, and you’ll have me to deal with!” Mr. Dovetail shouted at the gang, who, seeing the size of the carpenter, slunk away.

Chapter 24

The Bandalore

Daisy was about to turn eight years old, so she decided to invite Bert Beamish to tea.

A thick wall of ice seemed to have grown up between Daisy and Bert since his father had died. He was always with Roderick Roach, who was very proud to have the son of an Ickabog victim as a friend, but Daisy’s coming birthday, which was three days before Bert’s, would be a chance to find out whether they could repair their friendship. So she asked her father to write a note to Mrs. Beamish, inviting her and her son to tea. To Daisy’s delight, a note came back accepting the invitation, and even though Bert still didn’t talk to her at school, she held out hope that everything would be made right on her birthday.

Although he was well paid, as carpenter to the king, even Mr. Dovetail had felt the pinch of paying the Ickabog tax, so he and Daisy had bought fewer pastries than usual, and Mr. Dovetail stopped buying wine. However, in honor of Daisy’s birthday, Mr. Dovetail brought out his last bottle of Jeroboam wine, and Daisy collected all her savings and bought two expensive Hopes-of-Heaven for herself and Bert, because she knew they were his favorites.

The birthday tea didn’t start well. Firstly, Mr. Dovetail proposed a toast to Major Beamish, which made Mrs. Beamish cry. Then the four of them sat down to eat, but nobody seemed able to think of anything to say, until Bert remembered that he’d bought Daisy a present.

Bert had seen a bandalore, which is what people called yo-yos at that time, in a toy shop window and bought it with all his saved pocket money. Daisy had never seen one before, and what with Bert teaching her to use it, and Daisy swiftly becoming better at it than Bert was, and Mrs. Beamish and Mr. Dovetail drinking Jeroboam sparkling wine, conversation began to flow much more easily.

The truth was that Bert had missed Daisy very much, but hadn’t known how to make up with her, with Roderick Roach always watching. Soon, though, it felt as though the fight in the courtyard had never happened, and Daisy and Bert were snorting with laughter about their teacher’s habit of digging for bogies in his nose when he thought none of the children were looking. The painful subjects of dead parents, or fights that got out of hand, or King Fred the Fearless, were all forgotten.

The children were wiser than the adults. Mr. Dovetail hadn’t tasted wine in a long time, and, unlike his daughter, he didn’t stop to consider that discussing the monster that was supposed to have killed Major Beamish might be a bad idea. Daisy only realized what her father was doing when he raised his voice over the children’s laughter.

“All I’m saying, Bertha,” Mr. Dovetail was almost shouting, “is where’s the proof? I’d like to see proof, that’s all!”

“You don’t consider it proof, then, that my husband was killed?” said Mrs. Beamish, whose kindly face suddenly looked dangerous. “Or poor little Nobby Buttons?”

“Little Nobby Buttons?” repeated Mr. Dovetail. “Little Nobby Buttons? Now you come to mention it, I’d like proof of little Nobby Buttons! Who was he? Where did he live? Where’s that old widowed mother gone, who wore that ginger wig? Have you ever met a Buttons family in the City-Within-The-City? And if you press me,” said Mr. Dovetail, brandishing his wine glass, “if you press me, Bertha, I’ll ask you this: why was Nobby Buttons’s coffin so heavy, when all that was left of him were his shoes and a shin bone?”

Daisy made a furious face, to try and shut her father up, but he didn’t notice. Taking another large gulp of wine, he said:

“It doesn’t add up, Bertha! Doesn’t add up! Who’s to say — and this is just an idea, mind you — but who’s to say poor Beamish didn’t fall off his horse and break his neck, and Lord Spittleworth saw an opportunity to pretend the Ickabog killed him, and charge us all a lot of gold?”

Mrs. Beamish rose slowly to her feet. She wasn’t a tall woman, but in her anger, she seemed to tower awfully over Mr. Dovetail.

“My husband,” she whispered in a voice so cold that Daisy felt goose bumps, “was the best horseman in all of Cornucopia. My husband would no sooner have fallen off his horse than you’d chop off your leg with your axe, Dan Dovetail. Nothing short of a terrible monster could have killed my husband, and you ought to watch your tongue, because saying the Ickabog isn’t real happens to be treason!”

“Treason!” jeered Mr. Dovetail. “Come off it, Bertha, you’re not going to stand there and tell me you believe in this treason nonsense? Why, a few months ago, not believing in the Ickabog made you a sane man, not a traitor!”

“That was before we knew the Ickabog was real!” screeched Mrs. Beamish. “Bert — we’re going home!”

“No — no — please don’t go!” Daisy cried. She picked up a little box she’d stowed under her chair and ran out into the garden after the Beamishes.

“Bert, please! Look — I got us Hopes-of-Heaven, I spent all my pocket money on them!”

Daisy wasn’t to know that when he saw Hopes-of-Heaven now, Bert was instantly reminded of the day he’d found out his father was dead. The very last Hope-of-Heaven he’d ever eaten had been in the king’s kitchens, when his mother was promising him they’d have heard if anything had happened to Major Beamish.

All the same, Bert didn’t mean to dash Daisy’s to the ground. He meant only to push it away. Unluckily, Daisy lost her grip on the box, and the costly pastries fell into the flowerbed and were covered in earth.

Daisy burst into tears.

“Well, if all you care about is pastries!” shouted Bert, and he opened the garden gate and led his mother away.

Chapter 25

Lord Spittleworth’s Problem

Unfortunately for Lord Spittleworth, Mr. Dovetail wasn’t the only person who’d started voicing doubts about the Ickabog.

Cornucopia was growing slowly poorer. The rich merchants had no problem paying their Ickabog taxes. They gave the collectors two Ducats a month, then increased the prices on their pastries, cheeses, hams, and wines to pay themselves back. However, two gold Ducats a month was increasingly hard to find for the poorer folk, especially with food at the markets more expensive. Meanwhile, up in the Marshlands, children began to grow hollow-cheeked.

Spittleworth, who had spies in every city and village, began hearing word that people wanted to know what their gold was being spent on, and even to demand proof that the monster was still a danger.

Now, people said of the cities of Cornucopia that their inhabitants had different natures: Jeroboamers were supposed to be brawlers and dreamers, the Kurdsburgers peaceful and courteous, while the citizens of Chouxville were often said to be proud, even snooty. But the people of Baronstown were said to be plain speakers and honest dealers, and it was here that the first serious outbreak of disbelief in the Ickabog happened.

A butcher called Tubby Tenderloin called a meeting in the town hall. Tubby was careful not to say he didn’t believe in the Ickabog, but he invited everyone at the meeting to sign a petition to the king, asking for evidence that the Ickabog tax was still necessary. As soon as this meeting was over, Spittleworth’s spy, who had of course attended the meeting, jumped on his horse and rode south, arriving at the palace at midnight.

Woken by a footman, Spittleworth hurriedly summoned Lord Flapoon and Major Roach from their beds, and the two men joined Spittleworth in his bedroom to hear what the spy had to say. The spy told the story of the treasonous meeting, then unfurled a map on which he’d helpfully circled the houses of the ringleaders, including that of Tubby Tenderloin.

“Excellent work,” growled Roach. “We’ll have all of them arrested for treason and slung in jail. Simple!”

“It isn’t simple at all,” said Spittleworth impatiently. “There were two hundred people at this meeting, and we can’t lock up two hundred people! We haven’t got room, for one thing, and for another, everyone will just say it proves we can’t show the Ickabog’s real!”

“Then we’ll shoot ’em,” said Flapoon, “and wrap ’em up like we did Beamish, and leave ’em up by the marsh to be found, and people will think the Ickabog got ’em.”

“Is the Ickabog supposed to have a gun now?” snapped Spittleworth, “and two hundred cloaks in which to wrap its victims?”

“Well, if you’re going to sneer at our plans, my lord,” said Roach, “why don’t you come up with something clever yourself?”

But that was exactly what Spittleworth couldn’t do. Cudgel his sneaky brains though he might, he couldn’t think of any way to frighten the Cornucopians back into paying their taxes without complaint. What he needed was proof that the Ickabog really existed, but where was he to get it?

Pacing alone in front of his fire, after the others had gone back to bed, Spittleworth heard another tap on his bedroom door.

“What now?” he snapped.

Into the room slid the footman, Cankerby.

“What do you want? Out with it quickly, I’m busy!” said Spittleworth.

“If it pleases Your Lordship,” said Cankerby, “I ’appened to be passing your room earlier, and I couldn’t ’elp ’earing about that there treasonous meeting in Baronstown what you, Lord Flapoon, and Major Roach was talking about.”

“Oh, couldn’t you help it?” said Spittleworth, in a dangerous voice.

“I thought I should tell you, my lord: I’ve got evidence that there’s a man ’ere in the City-Within-The-City what thinks the same way as those traitors in Baronstown,” said Cankerby. “’E wants proof, just like them butchers do. Sounded like treason to me, when I ’eard about it.”

“Well, of course it’s treason!” said Spittleworth. “Who dares say such things, in the very shadow of the palace? Which of the king’s servants dares question the king’s word?”

“Well . . . as to that . . .” said Cankerby, shuffling his feet. “Some would say that’s valuable information, some would —”

“You tell me who it is,” snarled Spittleworth, seizing the footman by the front of his jacket, “and then I’ll see whether you deserve payment! Their name — give me their name!”

“It’s D-D-Dan Dovetail!” said the footman.

“Dovetail . . . Dovetail . . . I know that name,” said Spittleworth, releasing the footman, who staggered sideways and fell into an end table. “Wasn’t there a seamstress . . . ?”

“’Is wife, sir. She died,” said Cankerby, straightening up.

“Yes,” said Spittleworth slowly. “He lives in that house by the graveyard, where they never fly a flag and without a single portrait of the king in the windows. How d’you know he’s expressed these treasonous views?”

“I ’appened to over’ear Mrs. Beamish telling the scullery maid what ’e said,” said Cankerby.

“You happen to hear a lot of things, don’t you, Cankerby?” commented Spittleworth, feeling in his waistcoat for some gold. “Very well. Here are ten Ducats for you.”

“Thank you very much, my lord,” said the footman, bowing low.

“Wait,” said Spittleworth, as Cankerby turned to go. “What does he do, this Dovetail?”

What Spittleworth really wanted to know was whether the king would miss Mr. Dovetail, if he disappeared.

“Dovetail, my lord? ’E’s a carpenter,” said Cankerby, and he bowed himself out of the room.

“A carpenter,” repeated Spittleworth out loud. “A carpenter . . .”

And as the door closed on Cankerby, another of Spittleworth’s lightning strike ideas hit him, and so amazed was he at his own brilliance, he had to clutch the back of the sofa, because he felt he might topple over.

Chapter 26

A Job for Mr Dovetail

Daisy had gone to school, and Mr. Dovetail was busy in his workshop next morning, when Major Roach knocked on the carpenter’s door. Mr. Dovetail knew Roach as the man who lived in his old house, and who’d replaced Major Beamish as head of the Royal Guard. The carpenter invited Roach inside, but the major declined.

“We’ve got an urgent job for you at the palace, Dovetail,” he said. “A shaft on the king’s carriage has broken and he needs it tomorrow.”

“Already?” said Mr. Dovetail. “I only mended that last month.”

“It was kicked,” said Major Roach, “by one of the carriage horses. Will you come?”

“Of course,” said Mr. Dovetail, who was hardly likely to turn down a job from the king. So he locked up his workshop and followed Roach through the sunlit streets of the City-Within-The-City, talking of this and that, until they reached the part of the royal stables where the carriages were kept. Half a dozen soldiers were loitering outside the door, and they all looked up when they saw Mr. Dovetail and Major Roach approaching. One soldier had an empty flour sack in his hands, and another, a length of rope.

“Good morning,” said Mr. Dovetail.

He made to walk past them, but before he knew what was happening, one soldier had thrown the flour sack over Mr. Dovetail’s head and two more had pinned his arms behind his back and tied his wrists together with the rope. Mr. Dovetail was a strong man: he struggled and fought, but Roach muttered in his ear:

“Make one sound, and it’ll be your daughter who pays the price.”

Mr. Dovetail closed his mouth. He permitted the soldiers to march him inside the palace, though he couldn’t see where he was going. He soon guessed, though, because they took him down two steep flights of stairs and then onto a third, which was made of slippery stone. When he felt a chill on his flesh, he suspected that he was in the dungeon, and he knew it for sure when he heard the turning of an iron key, and the clanking of bars.

The soldiers threw Mr. Dovetail onto the cold stone floor. Somebody pulled off his hood.

The surroundings were almost completely dark, and at first, Mr. Dovetail couldn’t make out anything around him. Then one of the soldiers lit a torch, and Mr. Dovetail found himself staring at a pair of highly polished boots. He looked up. Standing over him was a smiling Lord Spittleworth.

“Good morning, Dovetail,” said Spittleworth. “I have a little job for you. If you do it well, you’ll be home with your daughter before you know it. Refuse — or do a poor job — and you’ll never see her again. Do we understand each other?”

Six soldiers and Major Roach were lined up against the cell wall, all of them holding swords.

“Yes, my lord,” said Mr. Dovetail in a low voice. “I understand.”

“Excellent,” said Spittleworth. Moving aside, he revealed an enormous piece of wood, a section of a fallen tree as big as a pony. Beside the wood was a small table, bearing a set of carpenter’s tools.

“I want you to carve me a gigantic foot, Dovetail, a monstrous foot, with razor-sharp claws. On top of the foot, I want a long handle, so that a man on horseback can press the foot into soft ground, to make an imprint. Do you understand your task, carpenter?”

Mr. Dovetail and Lord Spittleworth looked deep into each other’s eyes. Of course, Mr. Dovetail understood exactly what was going on. He was being told to fake proof of the Ickabog’s existence. What terrified Mr. Dovetail was that he couldn’t imagine why Spittleworth would ever let him go, after he’d created the fake monster’s foot, in case he talked about what he’d done.

“Do you swear, my lord,” said Mr. Dovetail quietly, “do you swear that if I do this, my daughter won’t be harmed? And that I’ll be permitted to go home to her?”

“Of course, Dovetail,” said Spittleworth lightly, already moving to the door of the cell. “The quicker you complete the task, the sooner you’ll see your daughter again.

“Now, every night, we’ll collect these tools from you, and every morning they’ll be brought back to you, because we can’t have prisoners keeping the means to dig themselves out, can we? Good luck, Dovetail, and work hard. I look forward to seeing my foot!”

And with that, Roach cut the rope binding Mr. Dovetail’s wrists, and rammed the torch he was carrying into a bracket on the wall. Then Spittleworth, Roach, and the other soldiers left the cell. The iron door closed with a clang, a key turned in the lock, and Mr. Dovetail was left alone with the enormous piece of wood, his chisels, and his knives.

Chapter 27

Kidnapped

When Daisy arrived home from school that afternoon, playing with her bandalore as she went, she headed as usual to her father’s workshop to tell him about her day. However, to her surprise, she found the workshop locked up. Assuming that Mr. Dovetail had finished work early and was back in the cottage, she walked in through the front door with her schoolbooks under her arm.
Daisy stopped dead in the doorway, staring around. All the furniture was gone, as were the pictures on the walls, the rug on the floor, the lamps, and even the stove.

She opened her mouth to call her father, but in that instant, a sack was thrown over her head and a hand clamped over her mouth. Her schoolbooks and her bandalore fell with a series of thuds to the floor. Daisy was lifted off her feet, struggling wildly, then carried out of the house, and slung into the back of a wagon.

“If you make a noise,” said a rough voice in her ear, “we’ll kill your father.”

Daisy, who’d drawn breath into her lungs to scream, let it out quietly instead. She felt the wagon lurch, and heard the jingling of a harness and trotting hooves as they began to move. By the turn that the wagon took, Daisy knew that they were heading out of the City-Within-The-City, and by the sounds of market traders and other horses, she realized they were moving out into wider Chouxville. Though more frightened than she’d ever been in her life, Daisy nevertheless forced herself to concentrate on every turn, every sound, and every smell, so she could get some idea of where she was being taken.

After a while, the horse’s hooves were no longer falling on cobblestones, but on an earthy track, and the sugar-sweet air of Chouxville was gone, replaced by the green, loamy smell of the countryside.

The man who’d kidnapped Daisy was a large, rough member of the Ickabog Defense Brigade called Private Prodd. Spittleworth had told Prodd to “get rid of the little Dovetail girl,” and Prodd had understood Spittleworth to mean that he was to kill her. (Prodd was quite right to think this. Spittleworth had selected Prodd for the job of murdering Daisy because Prodd was fond of using his fists and seemed not to care whom he hurt.)

However, as he drove through the countryside, passing woods and forests where he might easily strangle Daisy and bury her body, it slowly dawned on Private Prodd that he wasn’t going to be able to do it. He happened to have a little niece around Daisy’s age, of whom he was very fond. In fact, every time he imagined himself strangling Daisy, he seemed to see his niece Rosie in his mind’s eye, pleading for her life. So instead of turning off the dirt track into the woods, Prodd drove the wagon onward, racking his brains as to what to do with Daisy.

Inside the flour sack, Daisy smelled the sausages of Baronstown mingling with the cheese fumes of Kurdsburg, and wondered which of the two she was being taken to. Her father had occasionally taken her to buy cheese and meat in these famous cities. She believed that if she could somehow give the driver the slip when he lifted her down from the wagon, she’d be able to make her way back to Chouxville in a couple of days. Her frantic mind kept returning to her father, and where he was, and why all the furniture in their house had been removed, but she forced herself to concentrate on the journey the wagon was making instead, to be sure of finding her way home again.

However, hard as she listened out for the sound of the horse’s hooves on the stone bridge over the Fluma that connected Baronstown and Kurdsburg, it never came, because instead of entering either city, Private Prodd passed them by. He’d just had a brain wave about what to do with Daisy. So, skirting the city of sausage makers, he drove on north. Slowly, the meat and cheese smells disappeared from the air and night began to fall.

Private Prodd had remembered an old woman who lived on the outskirts of Jeroboam, which happened to be his hometown. Everyone called this old woman Ma Grunter. She took in orphans, and was paid one Ducat a month for each child she had living with her. No boy or girl had ever succeeded in running away from Ma Grunter’s house, and it was this that made Prodd decide to take Daisy there. The last thing he wanted was Daisy finding her way back home to Chouxville, because Spittleworth was likely to be furious that Prodd hadn’t done what he was told.

Though so scared, cold, and uncomfortable in the back of the wagon, the rocking had lulled Daisy to sleep, but suddenly she jerked awake again. She could smell something different on the air now, something she didn’t much like, and after a while she identified it as wine fumes, which she recognized from the rare occasions when Mr. Dovetail had a drink. They must be approaching Jeroboam, a city she’d never visited. Through the small holes in the sack she could see daybreak. The wagon was soon jolting over cobblestones again, and after a while it came to a halt.

At once, Daisy tried to wriggle out of the back of the wagon onto the ground, but before she’d hit the street, Private Prodd seized her. Then he carried her, struggling, to the door of Ma Grunter’s, which he pounded with a heavy fist.
“All right, all right, I’m coming,” came a high, cracked voice from inside the house.

There came the noise of many bolts and chains being removed and Ma Grunter was revealed in the doorway, leaning heavily on a silver-topped cane — though, of course, Daisy, being still in the sack, couldn’t see her.

“New child for you, Ma,” said Prodd, carrying the wriggling sack into Ma Grunter’s hallway, which smelled of boiled cabbage and cheap wine.

Now, you might think Ma Grunter would be alarmed to see a child in a sack carried into her house, but, in fact, the kidnapped children of so-called traitors had found their way to her before. She didn’t care what a child’s story was; all she cared about was the one Ducat a month the authorities paid her for keeping them. The more children she packed into her tumbledown hovel, the more wine she could afford, which was really all she cared about. So she held out her hand and croaked:

“Five Ducat placement fee,” which was what she always asked for, if she could tell somebody really wanted to get rid of a child.
Prodd scowled, handed over five Ducats, and left without another word. Ma Grunter slammed the door behind him.

As he climbed back onto his wagon, Prodd heard the rattle of Ma Grunter’s chains and the scraping of her locks. Even if it had cost him half his month’s pay, Prodd was glad to have gotten rid of the problem of Daisy Dovetail, and he drove off as fast as he could, back to the capital.

Chapter 28

Ma Grunter

Having made sure her front door was secure, Ma Grunter pulled the sack off her new charge.

Blinking in the sudden light, Daisy found herself in a narrow, rather dirty hallway, face-to-face with a very ugly old woman who was dressed all in black, a large brown wart with hairs growing out of it on the tip of her nose.

“John!” the old woman croaked, without taking her eyes off Daisy, and a boy much bigger and older than Daisy with a blunt, scowling face came shuffling into the hall, cracking his knuckles. “Go and tell the Janes upstairs to put another mattress in their room.”

“Make one of the little brats do it,” grunted John. “I ’aven’t ’ad breakfast.”

Ma Grunter suddenly swung her heavy, silver-handled cane at the boy’s head. Daisy expected to hear a horrible thud of silver on bone, but the boy ducked the cane neatly, as though he’d had a lot of practice, cracked his knuckles again, and said sullenly:

“Orl right, orl right.”

He disappeared up some rickety stairs.

“What’s your name?” said Ma Grunter, turning back to Daisy.

“Daisy,” said Daisy.

“No, it isn’t,” said Ma Grunter. “Your name is Jane.”

Daisy would soon find out that Ma Grunter did the same thing to every single child who arrived in her house. Every girl was rechristened Jane, and every boy was renamed John. The way the child reacted to being given a new name told Ma Grunter exactly what she needed to know about how hard it was going to be to break that child’s spirit.

Of course, the very tiny children who came to Ma Grunter simply agreed that their name was John or Jane, and quickly forgot that they’d been called anything else. Homeless children and lost children, who could tell that being John or Jane was the price of having a roof over their heads, were also quick to agree to the change.

But every so often Ma Grunter met a child who wouldn’t accept their new name without a fight, and she knew, before Daisy even opened her mouth, that the girl was going to be one of them. There was a nasty, proud look about the newcomer, and, while skinny, she looked strong, standing there in her coveralls with her fists clenched.

“My name,” said Daisy, “is Daisy Dovetail. I was named after my mother’s favorite flower.”

“Your mother is dead,” said Ma Grunter, because she always told the children in her care that their parents were dead. It was best if the little wretches didn’t think there was anybody to run away to.

“That’s true,” said Daisy, her heart hammering very fast. “My mother is dead.”

“And so is your father,” said Ma Grunter.

The horrible old woman seemed to swim before Daisy’s eyes. She’d had nothing to eat since the previous lunchtime and had spent a night of terror on Prodd’s wagon. Nevertheless, she said in a cold, clear voice:

“My father’s alive. I’m Daisy Dovetail, and my father lives in Chouxville.”

She had to believe her father was still there. She couldn’t let herself doubt it, because if her father was dead, then all light would disappear from the world, forever.

“No, he isn’t,” said Ma Grunter, raising her cane. “Your father’s as dead as a doornail and your name is Jane.”

“My name —” began Daisy, but with a sudden whoosh, Ma Grunter’s cane came swinging at her head. Daisy ducked as she’d seen the big boy do, but the cane swung back again, and this time it hit Daisy painfully on the ear, and knocked her sideways.

“Let’s try that again,” said Ma Grunter. “Repeat after me. ‘My father is dead and my name is Jane.’”

“I won’t,” shouted Daisy, and before the cane could swing back at her, she’d darted under Ma Grunter’s arm and run off into the house, hoping that the back door might not have bolts on it. In the kitchen she found two pale, frightened-looking children, a boy and a girl, ladling a dirty green liquid into bowls, and a door with just as many chains and padlocks on it as the other. Daisy turned and ran back to the hall, dodged Ma Grunter and her cane, then sped upstairs, where more thin, pale children were cleaning and making beds with threadbare sheets. Ma Grunter was already climbing the stairs behind her.

“Say it,” croaked Ma Grunter. “Say, ‘My father is dead and my name is Jane.’”

“My father’s alive and my name is Daisy!” shouted Daisy, now spotting a hatch in the ceiling that she suspected led to an attic. Snatching a feather duster out of the hand of a scared girl, she poked the hatch open. A rope ladder fell, which Daisy climbed, pulling it up after her and slamming the attic door, so that Ma Grunter and her cane couldn’t reach her. She could hear the old woman cackling below, and ordering a boy to stand guard over the hatch, to make sure Daisy didn’t come out.

Later, Daisy would discover that the children gave each other extra names, so they knew which John or Jane they were talking about. The big boy now standing guard over the attic hatch was the same one Daisy had seen downstairs. His nickname among the other children was Basher John, for the way he bullied the smaller children. Basher John was by way of being a deputy for Ma Grunter, and now he called up to Daisy, telling her children had died of starvation in that attic and that she’d find their skeletons if she looked hard enough.

The ceiling of Ma Grunter’s attic was so low that Daisy had to crouch. It was also very dirty, but there was a small hole in the roof through which a shaft of sunlight fell. Daisy wriggled over to this and put her eye to it. Now she could see the skyline of Jeroboam. Unlike Chouxville, where the buildings were mostly sugar white, this was a city of dark gray stone. Two men were reeling along the street below, bellowing a popular drinking song.

“I drank a single bottle and the Ickabog’s a lie,

I drank another bottle, and I thought I heard it sigh,

And now I’ve drunk another, I can see it slinking by.

The Ickabog is coming, so let’s drink before we die!”

Daisy sat with her eye pressed against the spy hole for an hour, until Ma Grunter came and banged on the hatch with her cane.

“What is your name?”

“Daisy Dovetail!” bellowed Daisy.

And every hour afterward, the question came, and the answer remained the same.

However, as the hours wore by, Daisy began to feel light-headed with hunger. Every time she shouted “Daisy Dovetail” back at Ma Grunter, her voice was weaker. At last, she saw through her spy hole in the attic that it was becoming dark. She was very thirsty now, and she had to face the fact that, if she kept refusing to say her name was Jane, there really might be a skeleton in the attic for Basher John to frighten other children with.

So the next time Ma Grunter banged on the attic hatch with her cane and asked what Daisy’s name was, she answered, “Jane.”

“And is your father alive?” asked Ma Grunter.

Daisy crossed her fingers and said:

“No.”

“Very good,” said Ma Grunter, pulling open the hatch, so that the rope ladder fell down. “Come down here, Jane.”

When Daisy was standing beside her again, the old lady cuffed her around the ear.

“That’s for being a nasty, lying, filthy little brat. Now go and drink your soup, wash up the bowl, then get to bed.”

Daisy gulped down a small bowl of cabbage soup, which was the nastiest thing she’d ever eaten, washed the bowl in the greasy barrel that Ma Grunter kept for doing dishes, then went back upstairs. There was a spare mattress on the floor of the girls’ bedroom, so she crept inside while all the other girls watched her, and got under the threadbare blanket, fully dressed, because the room was very cold.

Daisy found herself looking into the kind blue eyes of a girl her own age, with a gaunt face.

“You lasted much longer than most,” whispered the girl. She had an accent Daisy had never heard before. Later, Daisy would learn that the girl was a Marshlander.

“What’s your name?” Daisy whispered. “Your real name?”

The girl considered Daisy with those huge, forget-me-not eyes.

“We’re not allowed to say.”

“I promise I won’t tell,” whispered Daisy.

The girl stared at her. Just when Daisy thought she wasn’t going to answer, the girl whispered:

“Martha.”

“Pleased to meet you, Martha,” whispered Daisy. “I’m Daisy Dovetail and my father’s still alive.”