At the end of Larry’s
speech a great roar of approval from Captain Rotskagg Blenkinsopp caused several
small children to burst into tears. There had been little in Mad Jack or Larry’s
adjurations that had not rung true to the philosophy of the gaily-coloured
Tamworth Ranters. They began to saunter away to continue enjoying their gala.
The Scots and Corsairs however had travelled a great distance, prepared to
argue forcefully for their ancient and traditional right to pillage. They had
come down with the intention of arguing long and hard, winning concessions and
drunkenly conceding as few privileges as possible. Were they really going to go
away and just get on with each other? They hung around in small groups
shrugging and mumbling.
‘Well,
it sounds good enough to me,’ boomed Rotskagg. ‘Gué fatu, Camaradas? You
Reivers be masters of animal husbandry, though in the past they have tended to
been someone else’s animals. You will prosper. And us corsairs will find noble
outlets for our seafaring bravado. Here is ale and women and I shall have
exhausting of both. Vadu dal lavutana, fetch me a fiddler, I have a mind to
Hornpipe. Anna, wildling, put those matches away and teach me Stripping the
Willow.’
The
stage was cleared and the Massed Mariachi, taking up position at the microphones,
began to play La Cucaracha with the Kittens of Chaos doing a daring can-can in
the background. Barely into the second chorus the music tailed off, black
clouds covered the sun and the sky darkened. A large group of heavily armed
Chats Suterrains materialised onto the stage all in white leather coats,
purple-glassed goggles and pith helmets. They brushed the band aside whilst the
Kittens of Chaos seethed. Outnumbered and outgunned they sat heavily on Kiki le
Berserker before she could start a scrap. Her boggle-eyes fired imaginary
thunderbolts and her spittle ate corrosively into the smoking floorboards. Several
sturdy Chats dragged two heavy campaign chests to the front of the stage and
opened one of them out to reveal a Tesla coil on a copper coloured pylon. A
polished metal cage was bolted in place around it and heavily insulated high
tension cables were run out to the second crate. Le Chat-in-charge threw a
large knife switch and the contents of the box set up a wild humming that
ascended in pitch until it achieved a nerve shattering whine. Lightning
crackled outwards from the Tesla coil and an eerie green ionised mist began to
spread from around the arcing electro-magnetic discharge. Slowly an image
formed within the billowing cloud. It was a holographic figure, convincingly
life like except for being green, transparent and a bit wobbly. It was bipedal,
bulky and scaly. An angular reptilian head hissed and flicked out its tongue
and Phoebles felt he could discern something a bit tentacley around the upper
lip. Piercing, bilious eyes with narrowly slit-pupils seemed to grow and grow
until they were all that the onlookers were aware of. They appeared to glare
disconcertingly into the soul of each individual in the audience.
‘MEDLING
EARTHLINGS. WE KNOW WHO YOU ARE. WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE. AND WE KNOW WHERE YOUR
CHILDREN GO TO SCHOOL. WE WILL REMEMBER!’
Pause… then a
dramatic crack as the coil discharged and the plasma cloud dispersed. Les chats
packed up their equipment and departed without a word.
‘Bugger
me!’ exclaimed Dark Flo.
Everyone
seemed to be looking around at once, some scared, some bemused. A search for
Les Chats Souterrains was rapidly organised, Polly Karpova flew her Red Rata in
low-level sorties over the fair ground, but no trace of their presence could be
discovered. Slowly the skies cleared and daylight returned; for the moment the
prophetic threat was put to one side and the Mariachi struck up once more.
Much later the gang
were having a romantically lantern-lit picnic supper spread out on a luscious
vintage tangerine/red, Chiadma goats wool rug that Beryl had picked up in an Essaouiran souk. Scrumpled napkins and greasy paper
plates of discarded chicken wings and sandwich crusts littered the carpet and
surrounding grass.
‘Did
we actually fix anything?’ asked Phoebles.
‘Doubt
it.’ Googleberry looked up from his bowl of pyrotechnical bread-and-butter
pudding, with custard. ‘It looked a bit working class, so I stuck a sparkler in
it,’ he explained as he reclined, sucking noisily between mouthfuls on an Iznik
porcelain hubble-bubble pipe.
‘And
the Lizard Thing’s threat?’
‘Oh,
probably just the prelude to another adventure.’
Boz
watched a white plume moth carelessly spiralling in towards a guttering,
spluttering Tilly lamp that illuminated their repast, and he sighed.
