Read Online Ratastrophe Catastrophe by David Lee Stone - Free Book Online

Diek to the mercenaries and back again. Then he steepled his fingers and used them to prop up his chin. A smile was forming.
    Diek strode out of the palace like some sort of dark god, marching with purpose and shoving the occasional surprised maid out of his path. As he arrived at the foot of the central staircase, he snatched a black cloak from an ornate stand and draped it around his shoulders. The sentries, having just signed in for evening duty, parted automatically when he approached, then shuffled back together again like a set of swing doors. No questions were asked when the gates swung open to allow Diek’s exit, and no comment was made when they clicked back together behind him.
    Tambor Forestall had never been one for company. He’d always preferred spending time by himself. It had nothing to do with the ancient adage about sorcerers being reclusive; he just didn’t find people very interesting. Besides, one mercenary tour of the palace a day was enough for him. “Bless the old sprout,” that dwarf had muttered under its breath. The nerve of it!
    He stared down miserably at his sorcerer’s hat, remembering his days of magic. He’d been through some hats in his time. He recalled, many moons ago, the woolen apprentice cap given to him on his arrival at the Velvet Tower in Legrash. He’d then progressed through the ranks of sorcery: from warlock to wizard, mage, and, finally, first-class sorcerer. He still couldn’t help but feel, what with all the sniggering and sarcastic remarks over the years, that it hadn’t been worth it.
    A tickling sensation in his foot made him lean back and peer beneath the tavern table. A small black rat was nibbling at the hole in his boots. He yelped, kicked it away and watched it scurry behind the bar. Then he inspected the boot. It was a pity the city council didn’t upgrade boots, he thought to himself. He’d be wearing golden sandals by now.
    The Rotting Ferret’s special performers for the evening were Farfl, Duk, and Orfo, members of a cross-species band from Legrash. They were currently engaged in a heated dispute with Inky Mamaskin, master hypnotist, who claimed that their performances were sleep inducing and therefore were putting him out of business.
    Tambor flicked through a heavy spell book he’d bought from a black-market dealer on Birch Street. Apparently, it was one of the lucky few to escape being burned. He grinned, arriving at a few dusty pages near the back in which he’d already stashed some incidental notes. The volume was in good condition, and practically identical to his original copy; Tambor felt sure the gods had meant for him to find it. “Excuse me?”
    A dwarfish face smiled up at him. “Mind if we join you again?” said Gordo, clambering onto a nearby stool without waiting for a reply.
    Tambor wondered who the “we” was and looked about him. Where he’d had a clear view of the performance, now there was nothing but solid muscle.
    Groan removed his helmet and set it down on the floor beside his stool, disturbing a gang of rats who’d evidently come looking for the one Tambor had booted behind the bar.
    “What’s happening tonight, then?” said Gordo. “Enjoying yourself?”
    “Not much,” said Tambor. “Getting old isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
    He turned his empty mug upside down on the table and belched.
    Gordo shook his head, sadly. “We’ve just traveled over land and, er, grass to save this city from a major”—he paused—“ratastrophe.” He nudged Groan in the elbow but got no reaction. “And, d’you know what happened? Of course you do—the duke gave the job to a damn shepherd!”
    “Doesn’t surprise me a bit,” said Tambor, ignoring the accusation and staring gloomily at his upturned mug. “City’s run by ne’er-do-wells and bad politicians.”
    “You’re both, ain’t you?” said Groan.
    The sorcerer smirked humorlessly. “One or the other. In practice it amounts to the same thing. One big