Leximandra Reports, and other tales (4 page)

E.
Glostrum

The paper
trembled in Lexi’s hand. Grabbing at the nearest chair, she dropped
into it, her mind blank with disbelief. An interview? That was
infinitely better than a mere picture; readers universally loved to
hear about recent events in the protagonists’ own words. And none
of the other society papers had published anything but speculation
about Lady Glostrum’s possible marriage.

Perhaps her job
was safe after all.

Sagging with
relief, Lexi noticed with a start that the seventeenth hour was
already past. Leaping up from the chair, she set about making her
preparations.

***

The
seventy-third issue of Brysold’s Society Week was sold out within
hours. A large picture of Lady Glostrum and her betrothed, Chief
Investigator Lord Vale, appeared on the front ; inside, the
interview ran to four whole pages. Lady Glostrum had not stinted on
her revelations to the paper. The interview bore a new byline:
“Leximandra Reports”. That had been part of Lady Glostrum’s
conditions for giving the interview. Lexi swelled with pride and
excitement at seeing her name in print, for the very first
time.

Brysold had
waited only for the engagement to be announced by the city boards
before he had published the much-anticipated issue of his paper. He
had grumbled a little about the delay, but he knew as well as Lexi
did that it was useless to complain. The bulletin boards were
operated by the city council and they took to themselves the duty
of breaking any news relevant to city business. The principles in
this case were the High Summoner, leader of one of the realm’s two
magical organisations, and the chief of the realm’s investigative
force; as such, Brysold had been obliged to defer to the boards.
But in the end this proved to be an advantage. As soon as the news
had been announced, Glour’s interested citizens had gone straight
to the nearest newspaper vendor and bought everything that promised
more information.

Within days, two
more popular society figures sought Leximandra Greyne to interview
them for the paper. At least one was a known associate of Lady
Glostrum’s: her ladyship’s help clearly extended beyond the
confines of a single interview. Lexi may be no good at the
clandestine style of reporting, but where she was invited and
welcomed she excelled. It wasn’t long before “Leximandra Reports”
took its place as the most popular society column in
Glour.

Rikbeek Earns His
Keep

The gwaystrel
hung, upside down, in the folds of a voluminous skirt. With his
webby wings clamped firmly around his furred body and all sounds
muffled by the thick fabrics that surrounded him, he existed in a
state of perfect repose, quite ready for sleep.

Until his host
giant’s body shifted and began to descend in a manner that he
recognised. The too-tall was sitting down.

A flash of brief
panic.
Which side am I on? Front or back? If too close to the
rear side this fourteen-wing-spans-tall monstrosity will adhere me
to the
- a quick swivel of the head -
hard surface rapidly
approaching - evacuate
-

The gwaystrel
twisted his small body, opened his wings and darted out and away,
just as the host giant merged its lumbering body with the thing it
thought of as a chair.

Spitting with
indignation, the gwaystrel circled the giant’s head, dragging his
claws through her no-colour hair to pull strands of it loose. The
host always hated that.

Good.

She made a noise
of protest and swatted him away. Her mind touched his with a brief
note of apology for almost sitting on him.

He ignored that.
Swooping at the hand that tried to banish him, he bared his small
but well-sharpened teeth and bit.

‘
Eeaw,’ the giant said, or something of that sort.
‘
Rikbeek!
’

Rik-beek. He
often heard those sounds, usually spoken in a manner rich with
annoyance. Rik-beek. If it was supposed to be a name, it was a
stupid one.

But at least her
blood tasted good. He sampled a bit more, enjoying the musicality
of her voice when she swore at him again. He’d chosen this
particular too-tall because she smelled good, tasted good and
sounded good. And she had such a succession of visitors; their
blood never tasted as good as hers, but the flavours were varied
and interesting. It was an endlessly renewing banquet, all for
him.

A babble of
sounds interrupted his reflections, rending his delicate ears.
Testing the confines of his surroundings, he found that he was in a
space, one of those too-big ones with a top on it. No access to
sky. Many more too-talls streamed in, turning themselves into
giants with chairs stuck on the back as his host had done. They
brayed like worvilloes, their horrible sounds merging into an
appalling cacophony that echoed painfully in his ears.

Meeting
,
his own too-tall told him in the silent way.
Government.

Meeting-Government
, he thought resentfully.
Crush
and noise. Babbling echoes. Mess of smells, danger of death. Stupid
meeting. Stupid Government.

His too-tall
host showed no signs of moving, so he flew up, over the heads of
the babbling worvillo-imitators. A familiar whiff of scent reached
him as he flew; he surveyed its source. Height: taller than the
host giant, fifteen-and-one-half wing spans. This dark figure
smelled of moonglow; his sounds were Ang-Strun.

This one had
good blood too. The gwaystrel tasted it on his way past, nimbly
dodged the resulting blow and hurled himself at the
exit.

He passed
through several rooms beyond, all full of too-talls, all
reverberating with too much noise. Points of light streaked past
his vision, searing his tiny, sensitive eyes. He careened onward,
his mind a panicked blur of chaotic noise and lights and smells,
until at last he reached somewhere new and everything faded into
tranquillity.

This space was
better.

Quiet. Dark. Not the thin stuff but real dark darkness, quiet
quietness. Sleep!

He circled the
room, seeking a suitable roost. His senses mapped the shapes of two
too-talls lying horizontal on the floor.

Sleeping? This must be the sleeping-place.

Only the layout
did not match his notion of the generality of too-tall sleeping
places. There were no
beds
, no
blankets
. But there
were
desks
, as big as the one his host giant used. More of
the chair-things crouched behind them.

No
matter. Suitable quiet-dark. Sleep.

He settled,
snapping his wings shut around himself. Consciousness faded
gradually...

Light seared
through the comfortable cocoon of his webbed wings, hauling him out
of slumber. He opened his wings and launched himself into the air,
screaming his rage, arrowing at the source of the disturbance. He
threw sounds at the thing, his large ears swivelling to catch the
echoes. His mind built a picture of a too-tall, bending over the
desk-thing. This one was careful in its movements,
stealthy.

Doesn’t want to be discovered.

The intruder
prowled through the contents of the desk, opening things and
picking up pale, flat objects that rustled when they brushed
against each other.
Paper.
The too-tall kept lifting its
head, so its eyes would see if either of the two sleeping giants
should wake. It had a nasty ball of light hovering near its
face.

None of these
activities justified the interruption.

Ruined my sleep. Stupid too-tall, too-fat, too-loud and
too-bright.

The gwaystrel
flew at the figure, teeth ready. He pierced the skin and blood
flowed into his mouth.

Eurch. Tastes like crap.

He bit again
anyway. He was hungry, now that he thought about it, and he might
as well be recompensed for the loss of slumber. The too-tall ducked
and moved away from the desk, flapping its hands at the gwaystrel.
After another few bites the intruder began to make the harsh noises
that indicated displeasure.

Good
, he
thought, and bit some more.

Rikbeek?
His distant host giant’s words came to him in the silent way. He
replied with fury, hurling at her an image of the skulking too-fat
that had destroyed his rest.

He felt her
approval before she withdrew. She applauded his torment? Betrayal!
He would bite her extra hard when he saw her again.

In the meantime,
this one had plenty of flesh left to puncture.

He drove the
intruder before him, relishing the lumbering thing’s attempts to
drive him off. But his entertainment was short-lived; several more
giant-ones spilled into the room, his own nice-smelling host giant
among them. They stopped and made some startled noises.

‘
I
don’t see anyone,’ said one of them.

‘
Follow the gwaystrel, gentlemen,’ his host-giant replied.
Rik-Beek had time for one last dive, one last bite, before the
skulking one was grabbed and hauled away.

‘
A
spy,’ said one, shaking the intruder. ‘From?’

If the giant
expected an answer, he didn’t get one. The skulker blessed the
gwaystrel’s ears with beautiful silence.

‘
Vale
will get it out of you,’ the giant said. He sounded happy about
it.

Rik-Beek hoped
that this “getting it out of him” would hurt.

Some of the
giants folded themselves over, peering at the horizontal ones.
‘One’s drugged,’ said one. ‘Other’s knocked out.’

This prompted
some head-shaking and more of the harsh words. Then the talkative
giant looked at his host.

‘
Good
work, Lady Glostrum. But, um, how did you know he was
here?’

Glos-Trum. Yes,
those were the sounds that went with his too-tall.

If that was a
name, it was stupid too.

‘
I
had some help,’ she replied, pointing at him. Heads turned and
bright eyes settled on the gwaystrel.

‘
You
wouldn’t care to sell him, I suppose?’

Glos-Trum
laughed.

Sell
. He
knew that word. It meant to send something (him) away, replacing
him with something more desirable (something that clinked and shone
and that all the giants loved) in return.

Sell me? Sell
me to some too-fat, too-stupid?
He dived at her
head.

‘
No,’
she said to the other giant with a trace of regret. ‘I don’t think
so.’

Rik-Beek bit her
anyway.

Sigwide and the Bokren
Birds

The black-scaled
drauk was at least twice the size of Sigwide, but the little grey
orting wasn’t fazed. He squared off against his scaled and clawed
opponent, growling deep in his small soft-furred chest.

The drauk
ignored him. It continued its advance on the one remaining bokren
bird, sending the dim-witted creature into a noisy panic. Irked by
this lack of consideration, Sigwide gathered his round little body
into a crouch and prepared to charge.

Ynara Sanfaer
stood watching the development of this little three-way battle,
suffering some indecision. Egora was one of a small flock of six
bokren birds she had owned, the only one still living after a spate
of drauk attacks. The bird was as dense as a stump, of course, but
with her jaunty red feet and wings she was a rather attractive
thing. And she laid wonderful eggs. Ynara would prefer not to lose
her as well.

Sigwide, on the
other hand, had been her daughter’s beloved pet for the last eleven
years and was completely irreplaceable. And just now he was intent
on impaling himself on the drauk’s spiked tail.

It wasn’t much
of a choice. With a sigh, she stooped and scooped up the orting.
Sigwide fought, as she had expected; she was obliged to use both
hands to keep him from jumping free, and in that instant the drauk
struck. The bokren squawked and struggled, feathers flying; then
its neck snapped between the drauk’s strong jaws and it fell
silent.

Ynara thought
briefly about rescuing the corpse - at least the poor stupid beast
would make good stew - but a glance at the drauk’s wicked claws
changed her mind. Gripping the wildly struggling Sigwide a little
harder, she opened her wings. With a small jump she was airborne
and wending her way up to the top of the broad-capped glissenwol
tree in which her family lived.

The house was
built inside and around the trunk in a motley collection of
wooden-walled rooms. A wide balcony hung near the top, sheltered
and kept dry by the overarching glissenwol cap. Ynara landed here
and stepped into the house, releasing Sigwide with some
relief.

‘
Ow,’
she muttered, inspecting the red scratches now striping the
honey-brown hue of her skin.

She found her
husband and daughter in the kitchen, sharing a bowl of tea. Sigwide
ran straight to Llandry and climbed her leg, his fur bristling as
he chattered out his rage. Llan’s eyes travelled from the enraged
orting to Ynara herself, taking in the new wounds.