Watch a hotel chapter scene here.

Chapter 12

“Wait here,” Oscar said, leaning into a taxi. “And on no account let any other animal demand your fare, is that understood?”

There was a shrug from the driver, who didn’t even bother turning. Oscar would have reiterated the demand, but hadn’t time. They’d pulled up outside Liebe’s International Airport, and as much as he despised the things, he hurried into a throng of animals spilling out of it. Already mid-morning, its interior was a confused cauldron of passengers, baggage and timetables in varying degrees of bedlam. The building, broad and modern, was relieved to play no more than an observational role in proceedings, having no intention of becoming involved in luggage disputes or ticket refunds, as its architecture didn’t go in for that sort of thing.

Oscar wasn’t late, but because of previous experiences with airports, he wanted to ensure a better one.

Inside the arrivals terminal, a sign indicated he had plenty of time before the Loud Purr arrived. Beyond the crowd there was a café and he pondered the risks of ordering a hot-fin. Although there was nothing like a well-made hot-fin, there was nothing like a badly made one either. In a city he knew little of, and in an airport he knew even less, he hoped it brewed something resembling the former. Despite his preference for anonymity in populous, battling a bolus of disgruntled passengers had him scowling by the time he reached it. Its tables were clean and dry, which was good. If a venue made bad hot-fin, known as hot-bin, they’re sprayed in disgust all over the table, along with some sick, and a shredded napkin is left in warning to other patrons in case the sick goes unnoticed. At the counter he asked for a mug of the stuff and mentioned the tables’ dryness.

“What do you mean by that?” the animal behind it asked with a scowl. “Are you being sarcastic?”

“No,” Oscar said. “I mean it in a good way.”

“I haven’t just dried them or anything, you know.”

“What?”

“I haven’t just dried them quickly and thrown out masses of shredded napkins soaked in sick.”

“I’m sure you haven’t.”

“My customers don’t spray mouthfuls of hot-bin all over my tables,” she said.

“Of course they don’t. Why would they?” He wondered which of them was more guilty of sarcasm.

“Do my tables look damp to you?” she asked.

“Not remotely. As I said, they look very dry. Frankly, they look like they’ve just come from the factory.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Oscar stared. He’d ordered a hot-fin, not an argument. “I mean that they’re quite clean.”

“You mean they look unused, don’t you.”

“No, I—”

“You’re insinuating that my hot-fins are so clinically disgusting, that I’ve never had any customers at all, ever.”

“Actually, that’s not—”

“Well, let me tell you something.” She waved a mug at him in a manner suggesting it was multipurpose. “The reason I’ve only ever had two customers is because I’m very picky about who I serve.”

“I see, look—”

“And as I don’t care for your attitude, you’re not one of them.”

Oscar waved his paws in a frenzy of wanting to start again. He smiled, too. Although he’d made a second telephone call to the Catacombs to apologise for his first one, it had made marginally less sense. As a consequence, the Loud Purr was imminent in arrival, and if Oscar didn’t have a hot-fin before he got here, there was a good chance he’d embarrass himself by trying to explain everything that happened all at once and in the wrong order.

“Look,” he said, “this place is lovely, your tables are lovely, I’m sure you’re lovely, occasionally, and I’m certain your hot-fin is lovely. So may I please have one?”

She glowered at him.

He ramped up his smile until it hurt.

“Are you going to pay for it?” she asked.

Oscar nodded through his smile.

“Because I don’t give refunds, you know, regardless of how much you vomit.”

“That’s nice.”

When she folded her paws, scowled and waited in that order, he asked again. “Please may I have one?”

“If you’re such an expert,” she said, thrusting the mug at him, “you do it.”

“What?”

“If you want one so badly, why don’t you do it?”

“Do it?”

“Yes. Make one. Go one, make a hot-fin. I’ll watch and see if you do it properly.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. Make one. And I’ll watch.”

“You’ll watch?”

She nodded and opened a little door in the bench. “Come on. If you’re so clever, you come in and make a hot-fin while I watch.”

“I don’t understand—”

“Really? Even though I’ve already explained it five times?”

“But I don’t think—”

“Come on.”

With a sigh, he entered. He’d been behind a counter once before, in a ridiculously crowded café in Asquith. This one, however, was deserted, and he stood for a moment looking at the sorts of things he generally wasn’t privy to.

“Well?” she said, her paws folded. “Go on then.”

He looked around for a saucepan, a dead fish and some milk. On a stove he heated the latter and stirred it with the former, while the owner scribbled the procedure down on a little pad.

“Do you have cinnamon?” he asked.

“No,” she said, “it’s just the way I tie my apron.”

“No, I mean the stuff that’s sprinkled on hot fin. You know, a sort of powdered bark.”

“I have some cheese,” she said. “Would that do?”

“Is it powdered?”

“No, but it’s brown.”

“What about some hickory sticks?”

“I have some cheese.”

“And gelatine?”

“Again, cheese.”

“Do you have anything besides cheese?”

She thought. “A dead fish and some milk.”

“What about lemons?”

“No, but I could cut some cheese and make it circular.”

“Do you actually know how to make a hot-fin?” he asked.

There was a pause. “Does it contain cheese?”

After a sigh, he hunted through some cupboards and found three chipped mugs, another saucepan, one bent spoon and an aubergine.

A passenger arrived at the counter and smiled.

“Yes?” said Oscar.

“A mug of hot-fin, please.”

“A mug?”

“Yes. Of hot-fin.”

Oscar glanced at the owner who shrugged hopefully.

“Look, how about just the mug,” said Oscar.

“I beg your pardon?”

“We’ve got a special on today, which involves a chipped mug.”

“A chipped mug?”

Oscar nodded.

“Presumably with hot-fin in it?” He made a helpful gesture to illustrate what he had in mind.

“Actually, no.”

“So—” His uncertainty was remarkable, “what’s in the mug, then?”

“Air,” said Oscar.

“Air?”

“Yes.”

“But I can get air out there,” said the dog, pointing at the terminus.

“Yes, but not in a chipped mug.”

“Look, I really just want a hot-fin,” said the dog. “In a mug. I don’t mind if it’s chipped, you know.”

With a sigh, Oscar nodded, turned back to the saucepan and asked for the cheese. The owner got it and threw it at the wall until it softened enough to be cut with the spoon. After bringing everything to the boil, including the spoon, Oscar decanted it into a mug and offered it to the dog.

“How much is that?” their customer asked, taking it.

“Well, a mug-full, obviously.”

“No, I mean how much does it cost?”

“You want to pay for it?”

“Well, yes.”

“I’d try it first,” said Oscar.

He did, and sprayed it across several tables and the counter, before collapsing to the floor where he began writhing.

“Sorry about that,” said Oscar to the owner, who was already calling for an ambulance.

“That’s all right,” she said, waiting to be connected. “At least he wasn’t sick first.”

Oscar peered at the customer, realising he had been, but that his writhing had ironed most of it out.

“I’m surprised he’s back, actually,” she said, still waiting. ‘He was hospitalised last week.”

“He’s been here before?” asked Oscar.

“Oh, yes. He’s one reason I’m being closed down on Thursday.”

Oscar thought for a moment. “So you do make hot-fin?”

“Inadvertently lethal ones, yes. I think it’s the cheese.”

When her call was answered, Oscar left the counter, offered the spoon to the frothing animal and left the premises.

The arrival’s board indicated the Loud Purr had already landed, and he considered the best way to explain the Returned Poet’s rantings. Not the bits about cheese or curtain rails, or that packets of solidified phlegm were intentionally secured beneath bus seats. Instead, he pondered the bits about enslaved poets, the Morrigan and the Creed, but got nowhere.

A ruckus began when fresh bolus spilled from the arrival’s gate. He saw Messington first, who waved, and then the Loud Purr. After they’d battled through the throng, he saw Binklemitre struggling behind them.

“Oscar Teabag-Dooven,” Messington said, extending a paw. “Thank you for meeting us. I hope all is well with this poet of yours?”

When Oscar shook it, the Loud Purr grunted something resembling a greeting also, before ordering Binklemitre to fetch their luggage.

“As well as can be expected, under the circumstances,” said Oscar, “which are decidedly confusing ones. I’ve managed to get him into a secure room at the Matriarch Hospital, but I’m relieved you were able to arrive so promptly, as I have no idea what to do next.”

“And what state is he in?”

“A very troubled one, to say the least.”

“You have done remarkably to find such a lead,” the Loud Purr said. “Let alone having managed to extract him from the Halls without conflict.”

Although thrilled at such praise, Oscar was also uncomfortable, and looked at the floor until Binklemitre returned with masses of bags.

“Our luggage, I believe,” he said, dropping a huge number of suitcases on the floor.

Further instructions had him collect them again, before the Loud Purr asked some questions of his own.

“I am primarily concerned about his well-being,” said Oscar, answering the first of them. “He appears very much the worse for wear. I can only imagine what he’s been through to arrive at the lecture in such a state. It seems he hasn’t eaten for weeks, and his clothes look even older than he is.”

“And he mentioned both the Creed and the Morrigan?” the Loud Purr asked, as they fought their way to the airport’s exit.

“Yes, Your Auspiciously Amazingliness. More importantly, he insisted that the Elder Pom-Wimple knows about such things also. But the Elder seemed unsurprised at his rant and remained indifferent until the animal had been removed from the auditorium. I wonder whether the Elder’s stoicism was to refuse the accusations any credence. Either that, or he simply doesn’t care.”

Messington humphed. “It seems odd that the Pivotal Elder wouldn’t be concerned over such accusations.”

“Well, exactly. Perhaps he’s involved in whatever’s going on with the Ar’dath-Irr.”

“Have you asked the poet specifically?”

Oscar shook his head. “I haven’t, no. Partly because he’s in no state to answer, and partly because I thought it best to wait for your arrival. He’s quite safe, after all.”

Both the Loud Purr and Messington nodded. Binklemitre didn’t, however, being too busy trying not to suffocate beneath luggage.

Oscar continued, “He seems to be struggling beneath the weight of something immense.”

“Yes, but he insisted on coming,” said Messington, glancing at Binklemitre. “After your adventure together in Barras it seemed a reasonable request.”

“No, I’m referring to the Returned Poet. He was very distressed during the lecture. In fact, to facilitate our escape, I suggested that he act mad, which seemed to agree with him remarkably. I suspect he finds a relief in such pretence. Or familiarity. The trouble is that it’s difficult to tell which of his rantings are true, though I’m inclined to discount anything cheese-related.”

They trotted down steps and into sunshine. Binklemitre struggled after them, descending carefully, considering he couldn’t see where he was going. Oscar relieved him of one suitcase so he could breathe more than handles and see more than buckles. Messington and the Loud Purr refused to slow, however, both keen to reach the hospital.

“And how was he after being admitted?” the Loud Purr asked.

“Well, he began a veritable torrent of plea, and begged me to help release other poets who had been enslaved along with him. When I asked what he meant, he began ranting again and insisting that the world was teetering in their paws. He also said that there was no time to explain, which was odd, considering he was explaining.”

“Teetering in whose paws, Pantaloons?”

Oscar shrugged. “I don’t know. The poets, presumably. I asked where these others were being held, and he said a place called Magnatherial, or something. But when I asked where that was, he hit his head repeatedly while insisting it was apparently inside.”

“How peculiar,” said Messington.

“He began sobbing then, after admitting that he’d tried seeing the Elder a week ago by forcing his way into the Halls. But the Elder refused him an audience, apparently, which seems incredibly heartless considering the state of he’s in. From then on, his rantings made no sense at all. He’s clearly exhausted.”

“He said nothing further?” Messington asked, when Oscar led them to the taxi.

“Well, there was quite a lot about cheese, though I suspect that was my fault. He kept hitting his head too, through frustration, I suppose. He obviously has more to confess, but wasn’t up to it. I only hope he’s in a better state when you meet him today.”

The Loud Purr grunted in agreement.

Oscar helped Binklemitre stuff the taxi’s boot with suitcases. Around them, traffic beeped as animals and cars fought for right of way, in much the same way they had inside but with less ceiling and fewer cars. After the disturbing confessions of the Returned Poet, Oscar found the sun and arguing traffic a welcome reprieve.

“What concerns me,” he said to Binklemitre, “is not so much that he confirms what we overheard the Ar’dath-Irr talking about, but that he’s so terrified.”

“Terrified of what?” asked Binklemitre, while struggling with the last one.

“The Ar’dath-Irr.”

Binklemitre dusted himself down, saying, “Well, at least we know the Returned Poet is genuine: his arrival at the lecture fits with the Ar’dath-Irr’s suspicions regarding an escapee.”

“Yes, but where’s he escaped from? This Magnatherial means little to me.”

Messington frowned in thought. “I’ve certainly heard of no such place.”

“Nor do we know how many others might be restrained, if they are at all,” Oscar said.

“Or for what purpose.”

“Indeed, though I have heard rumors that poets do go missing from the Inaugurate Halls of Liebe.” He shivered when recalling it. “There’s a sinister air about the place, which isn’t something I’d expected of such a renowned poetic institution. It’s a beautiful building, but it’s shrouded in a dark atmosphere. The bizarre rantings of the Returned Poet rather suit the place.”

“If this poet has fled the Ar’dath-Irr,” Messington said, “then we must get to him quickly, as he’ll presumably want him even more than we do.”

They glanced at each other, feeling to have stumbled into a world colder and darker than the sun-tinged brightness of the one they stood upon.

They were interrupted by a very large dog who looked as though he’d just returned from such a place.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he growled, indicating their stuffed luggage.

“Stuffing luggage,” said Binklemitre, wedging a final suitcase. “I’d have thought that was obvious, unless you’ve been away a particularly long time. Have you been away a particularly long time?”

“Get those suitcases out now.”

“You must be joking! I only just finished stuffing them!”

“Sorry,” said Oscar, “but this taxi is taken.”

“Yes, I know,” the dog growled, placing a large suitcase on top of their stuffed ones. “By me.”

“Actually, no. You see, I arrived in this one not long ago and asked the driver to wait for my return.”

The dog snarled with laughter. “Is that so?”

“Yes. It’s not an unreasonable explanation, surely?”

“Well, why don’t we ask him?”

“Ask him?”

“The driver.”

The driver, however, wasn’t interested, and suggested they sort it out between them by auctioning the fare before he left to find one requiring less deliberation.

Turning back to Oscar, the large dog said, “I suggest you find another means of conveyance before I find one for you in the shape of my hind paws.”

“Now steady on,” Oscar said. “I’ve just told you this taxi was waiting for us. You go and find another one.”

The dog’s eyes narrowed and his lip curled. “If I were you, I’d shut your mouth, otherwise you’ll be kicked so hard you’ll end up in orbit.”

“Look here—” He hesitated when a second dog extricated himself from the vehicle with a scowl even bigger than the first’s. The taxi rose when his weight was removed, and he had a very specific air of not tolerating much, even himself, which presumably accounted for his scowl. Oscar had enough of scowls for one day, and refused to be pushed around by animals sporting them, regardless of the possibility they could put his bottom into orbit without the rest of him attached.

The second dog rolled up his sleeves and said to the first, “Why don’t you take out those two ponces, and I’ll take these.” He indicated the Loud Purr and Messington.

Astonished at hearing the Loud Purr described as a ponce, Oscar saw more red than if he’d been smashed in the face with a traffic light. “Tell your friend,” he growled to the first, “to keep his mouth shut if he doesn’t want a clenched paw through it.”

The dog laughed. “Oh, I don’t think so! If you tried it would be severed before you had any chance of retrieving it!”

“Do you know who this animal is?” Oscar asked, indicating the Loud Purr.

The first shrugged. “Your mother?”

The red turned green. “This is our taxi, you great fat ponce,” Oscar snarled, “so I suggest you remove your bottom from its vicinity before I turn both cheeks into a single, swollen and collectively bruised one!”

The Loud Purr weighed in on proceedings, suggesting something similar, though more diplomatically. The dog’s amusement evaporated and more sleeves were rolled. When a further insinuation was made regarding the Loud Purr’s intellectual capacity, Oscar sprung across the taxi and grabbed so many pawfuls of the dog that it bordered on ownership. Having not expected such athleticism, the dog froze in astonishment.

Oscar shoved his face into the animal’s. “Apologize,” he hissed.

But the dog’s astonishment permitted little more than some serious eye-widening.

“Apologize.”

With a roar of rage, the second dog lunged for Oscar. Binklemitre, having found similar indignation, leapt and flailed more paws across the second dog’s face than either of them recalled individual animals having. The first released Oscar and turned to do some flailing of his own, while his colleague’s astonishment allowed Oscar to thread a claw into nostril and tug in a manner suggesting he’d unzip it if apologies weren’t forthcoming. The Loud Purr, uttering the sort of growl often associated with heavy industrial machinery, jumped onto the taxi, before slamming a hind paw into the second dog’s face. With a cry, the dog relinquished Binklemitre and collapsed to the ground with a bewilderment on par with his colleague, especially when Binklemitre finished proceedings with a well-administered four-paw lock. Thrilled at their communal acrobatics, Oscar leant close to the dog and tugged.

“I said apologize.”

The dog managed a snort whilst trying not to move.

“Hurry up,” Oscar said again, “before I render your nostrils even larger than you are.”

Another sound of surrender resulted in a scattering of applause from an intrigued audience. Being an end to the matter, Oscar and Binklemitre relinquished their grips, while the Loud Purr heaved the dog’s suitcase from the taxi’s boot and placed it on the pavement.

“It’s nothing personal,” Oscar said to the dog, who nursed his snout as though having a tertiary degree in it. “If it wasn’t for your already massive nostrils, I’d probably have missed and this taxi would be yours after all.”

“That really, really hurt,” the dog growled from behind paws.

The audience had hindered traffic. A taxi hooted and some inappropriate things were yelled. Oscar waved it down and said to the dog, “Look, here’s a new taxi with lots of lovely boot space. It’s much shinier than this one, too.”

The dogs turned to look, before glancing at each other. They gathered their suitcases, growled at everyone and limped towards it.

“Are you all right?” Messington asked, pushing through the crowd he’d inadvertently become part of.

Oscar, Binklemitre and the Loud Purr dusted themselves down.

“Perfectly,” said Oscar, and the Loud Purr grunted something similar.

Binklemitre, however, was less conservative. “That was brilliant!” he cried. “I have never done anything like that before! My curiosas have always involved writing things down, not bashing things up! I don’t want to write dossiers anymore! I want to smash windows and awnings and flower beds!”

When he began a re-enactment of what had transpired, his colleagues stopped dusting and stared. “Did you see me, Dooven? Did you see my moves? Presumably I learnt them from training! Did you see me do this?” He spun around and fell over. After getting up, he dusted himself down also, though his enthusiasm wasn’t dampened. “And I didn’t even think about it either,” he said. “It just happened! That’s training for you. It becomes instinct!”

The audience dispersed, no longer impressed.

Turning to the Loud Purr, Oscar said, “I’m sorry for entering into such a fray, Your Great Massive Roundness. As a Velvet Paw of Asquith I’m aware of the importance of discretion. But I could not abide such disrespect.”

The Loud Purr humphed. “There’s no need to apologize, Pantaloons. I would have done the same. There are times for discretion and times for thwarting, and this was definitely a time for the latter.” He returned to dusting. “We have wasted enough time. I believe a Returned Poet awaits our acquaintance.” He looked at Oscar quizzically. “That was rather impressive, Pantaloons: the whole nostril thing. I don’t recall that from my day.”

“It was something I picked up when surfing a hippopotamus,” Oscar said. “A technique adapted from the D’dôdôSette’s management of stampeding Cantelopes during the previous book, believe it or not.”

While the Loud Purr stared, tending towards the latter, the taxi driver alighted and demanded to know if anyone wanted his taxi.

They did, and said so, before scrambling into it.

A distance away, four animals watched. They stood motionless amongst crowds leaving and arriving. Their robes were dark and long, and although they were silent, all were concerned by Oscar’s prowess. Having already confronted him in a darkened laneway, they realised how difficult he would be to recruit: harder than any poet so far.

Nevertheless, they would manage.

They would recruit the animal who interpreted the Tome of Cadre. They had to: for although they knew a great deal about poetry, it seemed this cat knew almost as much.

He was dangerous.

But they would enslave him to the Creed.

His intuition would become theirs.

The author hasn't added any updates, yet.