The Ickabog(59)

Unlike the Ickabog, which was moving slowly, Basher John was soon galloping south, to warn Lord Spittleworth of the danger marching on Chouxville.





Sometimes — I don’t know how — people who live many miles apart seem to realize the time has come to act. Perhaps ideas can spread like pollen on the breeze. In any case, down in the palace dungeons, the prisoners who’d hidden knives and chisels, heavy saucepans and rolling pins beneath their mattresses and stones in their cell walls, were ready at last. At dawn on the day the Ickabog approached Kurdsburg, Captain Goodfellow and Mr. Dovetail, whose cells were opposite each other, were awake, pale, tense, and sitting on the edges of their beds, because today was the day they’d vowed to escape, or die.

Several floors above the prisoners, Lord Spittleworth too woke early. Completely unaware that a prison break was brewing beneath his feet, or that a real, live Ickabog was at that very moment advancing on Chouxville, surrounded by an ever-growing crowd of Cornucopians, Spittleworth washed, dressed in his Chief Advisor’s robes, then headed out to a locked wing of the stables, which had been under guard for a week.

“Stand aside,” Spittleworth told the soldiers on guard, and he unbolted the doors.

A team of exhausted seamstresses and tailors were waiting beside the model of a monster inside the stable. It was the size of a bull, with leathery skin, and was covered in spikes. Its carved feet bore fearsome claws, its mouth was full of fangs, and its angry eyes glowed amber in its face.

The seamstresses and tailors watched fearfully as Spittleworth walked slowly around their creation. Close up, you could see the stitching, tell that the eyes were made of glass, that the spikes were really nails pushed through the leather, and that the claws and fangs were nothing but painted wood. If you prodded the beast, a trickle of sawdust ran from the seams. Nevertheless, by the dim light of the stables, it was a convincing piece of work, and the seamstresses and tailors were thankful to see Spittleworth smile.

“It will do, by candlelight, at least,” he said. “I’ll simply have to make the dear king stand well back as he looks at it. We can say the spikes and fangs are still poisonous.”

The workers exchanged relieved looks. They’d been working all day and all night for a week. Now at last they’d be able to go home to their families.

“Soldiers,” said Spittleworth, turning to the guards waiting in the courtyard, “take these people away. If you scream,” he added lazily, as the youngest seamstress opened her mouth to do so, “you’ll be shot.”

While the team that had made the stuffed Ickabog was dragged away by the soldiers, Spittleworth went upstairs, whistling, to the king’s apartments, where he found Fred wearing silk pajamas and a hairnet over his moustache, and Flapoon tucking a napkin beneath his many chins.

“Good morning, Your Majesty!” said Spittleworth with a bow. “I trust you slept well? I have a surprise for Your Majesty today. We have succeeded in having one of the Ickabogs stuffed. I know Your Majesty was eager to see it.”

“Wonderful, Spittleworth!” said the king. “And after that, we might send it around the kingdom, what? To show the people what we’re up against?”

“I would advise against that, sire,” said Spittleworth, who feared that if anybody saw the stuffed Ickabog by daylight, they’d be sure to spot it as a fake. “We wouldn’t want the common folk to panic. Your Majesty is so brave that you can cope with the sight —”

At that moment, the doors to the king’s private apartments flew open and in ran a wild-eyed, sweaty Basher John, who’d been delayed on the road by not one, but two sets of highwaymen. After getting lost in some woods and falling off his horse while jumping a ditch, then being unable to catch it again, Basher John hadn’t managed to reach the palace much ahead of the Ickabog. Panicking, he’d forced entry to the palace through a scullery window, and two guards had pursued him through the palace, both of them prepared to run him through with their swords.

Fred let out a scream and hid behind Flapoon. Spittleworth pulled out his dagger and jumped to his feet.

“There’s — an — Ickabog,” panted Basher John, falling to his knees. “A real — live — Ickabog. It’s coming here — with thousands of people — the Ickabog … is real.”

Naturally, Spittleworth didn’t believe this story for a second.

“Take him to the dungeons!” he snarled at the guards, who dragged the struggling Basher John from the room and closed the doors again. “I do apologize, sire,” said Spittleworth, who was still holding his dagger. “The man will be horsewhipped, and so will the guards who let him break into the pal —”

But before Spittleworth could finish his sentence, two more men came bursting into the king’s private apartments. These were Spittleworth’s Chouxville spies who’d had word from the north about the Ickabog’s approach, but as the king had never laid eyes on them before, he let out another terrified squeal.

“My — lord,” panted the first spy, bowing to Spittleworth, “there’s — an — Ickabog, coming — this — way!”

“And it’s got — a crowd — with it,” panted the second. “It’s real!”

“Well, of course the Ickabog’s real!” said Spittleworth, who could hardly say anything else with the king present. “Notify the Ickabog Defense Brigade — I shall join them shortly in the courtyard, and we’ll kill the beast!”