The Lot of a Lichnik/6
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Another day, another summons to the Houndmaster's lair - although he continued to insist on calling it an office.
"Take these tickets," he said, his gnarled hand offering me an envelope. "And your entry permit to Sansabury. Your train leaves at fifteen of the clock."
"Sansabury, sir?" I said, opening the envelope to study the contents. I'd been to the capital many times, but never on Lichnik business.
The Houndmaster raised an irritated eyebrow. "Yes," he growled. A moment of silence suggested that he expected me to get out of his office and follow his vague order without any further question - it wouldn't have been the first time. "A phylactery has gone missing," he said as I was about to turn for the door. "From one Doctor Irina Eisensilber, an academic bigwig. Deputy head of the Necrophysics Faculty at &zeter, but she worked in Sansabury most of the time. Researching... the agitative channelling of carnosa through the indirect stimulation of graviational fields by electromagnetic metaphasing. The Sansabury Kennel gave me one of her papers to read, heavily redacted. Those parts I could read, I could not understand at all. But she is, I am told, an asset of strategic Imperial importance."
"And it's just the phylactery which has gone missing, sir?"
"Yes, the body is quite accounted for. It seems Doctor Eisensilber made the unfortunate decision to step in front of a truck in Sansabury without looking. To swerve around her, the truck would have needed to pass through a group of breather schoolchildren passing by. The zombot driver identified the least damaging option and took it. Needless to say there was very little left of Doctor Eisensilber. The front wheels went over her, and the back wheels stopped on top of her when the truck came to a halt. The phylactery stayed intact and was released to her sister. Her sister recently chose to move from Sansabury to Novodolorsk... she wanted a quiet place for the Doctor to regenerate this Lichmas. But upon arriving here, she found the urn containing the plylactery was empty. It has disappeared at some point along the journey... and you, Harkavin, will find it."
"Understood, sir," I said. "May I ask why the Sansabury Kennel is not leading this investigation? Given the importance of the subject, it seems a little..."
"You guess is as good as mine, Harkavin," hissed the Houndmaster. "But they asked for you by name. It seems you are known to them. They apparently regard you as my least incompetent Inquisitor."
"Do take care, sir," I said. "You were in danger of giving me a compliment there."
As usual, the sarcasm went completely over the Houndmaster's head. "I always take care, Harkavin," he said. "Someone from the Sansabury Kennel will meet you off the train and provide you with more details. I need not remind you of the conduct required so close to the Shrubbery. You are representing Novodolor, and you are representing me. I must request that you refrain from totalling vehicles or causing permanent injuries to innocent bystanders. The Sansaburians have shorter fuse for such things than I do."
At this point that I remembered the main source of the destructive incidents on my record. "Will I be accompanied by Inquisitor Shepilov, sir?" I said.
"On this occasion, no," said the Houndmaster. "He has taken leave to visit friends in Southern Lywall."
"I didn't know Shepilov had friends, sir," I said.
"Nor did I," said the Houndmaster. "At any rate, you will be on your own. Questions?"
"None, sir."
"Dismissed."
The train journey from Novodolorsk to Sansabury took a leisurely six hours, with five of those spent crawling from Novodolorsk to Stonetree. The railway beyond Stonetree - much of it underground - was built for higher speeds by expert Deep Singer tunnellers, allowing for a brisk final hour into Sansabury.
One of the many advantages of being a Lichnik is that strangers of a nervous disposition generally avoid one's company, meaning I always had a passenger compartment to myself when travelling in uniform. All the better for me to engage in that habitual grooming which every Minarborian performs before entering Sansabury, the spotless phylactery of the Empire. Nor was I alone in that; in adjacent compartments Deep Singers were unpacking their most iridescent fine-scaled attire, brought from the burrows at home they called wardrobes. Those breathers honoured enough to have business in the capital wore smart, usually tailored suits or dresses. The elite natives of Sansabury tended to look as if they were perpetually on their way to a night at the opera, and it was important to blend in. For my part, I had spent much of the journey brushing down the pitch-black wool of my frock coat and polishing my boots until they resembled black scrying mirrors. I even quietly worked on eliminating the native Novodolorian warble out of my accent - not that is was particularly strong, but the elite were the elite for a reason; they would surely notice if I didn't make the effort.
The train got to Sansabury a little after twenty-one of the clock, having gone underground at the city walls and arrived in an enormous, cathedral-like cavern which served as the city's principal railway station. Having given my face a few final squirts from a spray-bottle full of dermal fixer solution, I took my briefcase and stepped onto the platform to find my Lichnik contact. In the initial bustle of passengers scurrying away, I could not see him at first. Nor could I see him after the last lingerers had finished greeting their own loved ones, picked up their luggage and left. Amid a deafening echo, the other platforms hummed with activity as trains screeched in and out - but beside a solitary zombot station guard I was now the only one on my platform.
My contact had failed to arrive.
So this is Sansabury these days, I thought to myself. All mouth and no pants. My phylacteric field simmered with amusement that a Sansabury Lichnik, of all people, could be late for anything. I checked my papers - I had definitely arrived at the right time and place. After waiting another half hour and watching a new slew of passengers arrive to board the train I had just left, I decided to leave the station and head toward the Sansabury Lichnik Kennel by myself. From previous trips to the city I knew vaguely where it was - about two blocks from the East Gate of the Shrubbery, close enough to reach on foot from the station.
Night had long since fallen - on the surface Sansabury's streets were spattered with the Lywind blue light of its streetlamps, twinkling through the black silhouettes of the trees which lined every road. The sight would have been calming were it not for the roar of traffic, which like everything else in the city had little care for breather sleep patterns and continued all night long. Amid the bustle, expertly dodged by pedestrians who knew better than to obstruct a Lichnik, I headed toward the Shrubbery; something a lich can do with his eyes closed, given the sheer pull exerted on the phylacteric field by the place. Ley lines from all over the Empire ran into it, causing sudden sensations of being pulled to or pushed from it. Undead natives of Sansabury were well accustomed to the phenomenon, but to a common provincial like myself it was still a little unnerving to feel like I was being dragged around every few seconds while my body kept walking straight. But I pressed on, my route running broadly diagonal against Sansabury's grid system, and I decided to cut across a small park to see where I emerged.
It was a little after I entered the park that I realised I was being followed.
The handful of lamp posts in the park did a poor job of illuminating the place, and the stealthy glances over my shoulder didn't reveal anything more than a silhouette following me. I turned right at a fork in the path - my pursuer turned right also, their footsteps tracking me at a steady pace. At another fork I turned right again, back the way I had come. My pursuer followed me still. At this point I had become a little concerned, although I was now approaching the gateway by which I had entered the park. If I could escape into the light again I could throw my pursuer off, or at least confront them in a place where I'd get backup. My hopes were quickly dashed by the silhouettes of two more figures stepping into that gateway to block my path. They were similarly unidentifiable, but lithe of movement; breathers or Singers, most likely breathers given their unadorned shapes. This part of my journey was not going well at all. Slowing my pace a little, I prepared to draw my pistol and escape sideways through a thicket of well-trimmed bushes on my right.
As soon as my hand rested on my pistol holster, the park's lamps all shut off at once and plunged me into darkness. The running footsteps of multiple people suddenly erupted from the bushes all around, and before I could draw my pistol a blunt object of some kind smashed into my legs, sending me to the ground. Within a second my arms and legs had been seized, within five more seconds they had been bound. To top it all off, a gag was tightened over my mouth and a hood was pulled over my head. As a Lichnik in the field my strength had been surgically enhanced by the lich-adepts, but now there were too many attackers for it to achieve much except undue strain on my sinews. I stopped struggling and contented myself that they seemed to want me in one piece. Without a word to each other they lifted me, carried me for some distance, then threw me onto a hard but hollow surface. Two doors slammed shut, an engine started, and I was moving.
Being bound and gagged in the back of a moving vehicle has a tendency to disrupt one's sense of time, and I couldn't say how long the journey took. It was an hour, at least; maybe two. My mind began racing - 'what gang of breathers is powerful enough... audacious enough... to kidnap a Lichnik from the streets of Sansabury? Will I be ransomed? Perhaps a public execution... a ceremonial destruction of my phylactery for some political cause? No, keep calm... maybe they got the wrong man. Maybe they were expecting someone else to walk into that park. I wonder if the Sansabury Kennel have reported me missing yet? Will they have informed Novodolorsk by now...?'
The many tight turns taken by the vehicle suggested I was heading out into the countryside. This suspicion of mine was confirmed when the vehicle arrived at its destination, and my captors bundled me out of it with the same silence they kept when they threw me in. Instead of being carried I was dragged roughly to my feet and my leg bindings were relased, permitting me to walk. This was, however, less easy than usual due to the earlier cudgelling of my legs. Judging by the flat echo from the footsteps, I was in some kind of courtyard. Then I was inside, marched down some hard steps into some kind of basement. A turn here, a turn there... until finally a firm hand on my shoulder instructed me to stop, pushing me down hard into a rickety seat.
When my hood and gag were removed, all I saw at first was a yellow glow - then my eyes slowly found their focus and I took in my surroundings. The place was rural, all right - the walls were rough-hewn cobblestones, the sparse items of furniture were decidedly rustic, and the yellow glow came from an oil lamp set on a table in front of me. 'Dear Shrub,' I thought, 'they don't even have electricity here.'
"Typical spoiled lich," said a voice. "We take you away from your cosy conveniences and you shit a brick."
My eyes squinted to identify the source of the voice, directly in front of me. Just beyond the table with the oil lamp sat a breather of middle age, his face coated in grey stubble. He was flanked by two henchmen, breathers of slightly younger appearance, armed with heavily beaten-up OAH-BK machine carbines which appeared to owe their continued function to the strategic application of zip ties and duct tape. At the sight of them I said nothing, quietly cursing myself for having muttered my thoughts out loud.
The older breather was studying my ID card. "Lichnik six eight four zero nine two," he said. "Care to tell us your actual name? This card doesn't give it."
The last thing I was going to tell this man was my name. I remained silent.
"Oh, you're giving me the silent treatment?" said the interrogator. "How quaint. Everyone makes that mistake at first." He motioned to one of his goons, who racked the bolt on his machine carbine and pointed it directly at my face. "I see you tarted yourself up nicely for your trip to Sansabury," the interrogator continued. "It'd be a shame if someone were to make a mess of it."
I twitched. They knew I was in Sansabury visiting; they must have followed me from the station. "What do you want with me?" I said.
The interrogator smiled. "We can get to that once you've given your name, can't we?"
"Lichnik six eight four zero nine two," I said. "That's my name."
"Not the one on your birth certificate though, is it?" said the interrogator. "Tell me, what jolly business brings you to Sansabury?"
"Nothing that need concern you."
"How do you know it doesn't concern us? You don't even know who we are."
"Then perhaps you can tell me who you are," I said, the gun barrel at my face causing me to refrain from smirking. "You might get an answer from me then."
"I'll be asking the questions, revenant," said the interrogator. "I'll show you to your lodgings. Perhaps you could use some time to come up with some proper answers for us."
Again the interrogator motioned to his men. They hauled me out of the little chair and led me down a narrow passage, at the end of which was a studded oak door some four inches thick. Beyond was an unlit cell into which I was unceremoniously hurled. The door swung closed, and with a rattle of old iron keys I was left in complete darkness, my arms still bound together behind my back. I did the usual thing of feeling around as best I could. The cell was very small, made of the same rough cobble as the rest of the building. The floor appeared to be covered in straw, patches of which were oddly moist. Having rapidly completed my exploration of the pitch-black cell, I propped myself up in a corner and considered my fate.
'...When the Kennel finds out I'm missing they'll assign top priority to finding me... we always put our own first. They'll have Shep lead the case... he knows me best. But will they call him off leave or wait until he's finished it? Can they get hold of him at all? But... he won't have anything to go on when he is alerted. To outside eyes, I showed up in Sansabury and promptly disappeared again. If I'm still near Sansabury they won't even be able to trace me by phylacteric resonance, what with all the ley lines... the only person who could is what's-her-face... that Doctor Eisensilber, who has no body and a missing phylactery. Dear sweet Shrub-God, what irony... now come on, Kazimir, calm down... there has to be a way out of this. Minarbor helps he who helps himself...'
After what felt like some days but may only have been a few hours, I was no nearer to an answer. My thoughts had turned, in a rather vain way, to what people would be saying at my memorial service. There was no sign that I was going to be released from the cell any time soon. I'd heard no movement outside. My one shred of hope was the fact that my captors were breathers, and would be moved to do something with me within their limited lifetime.
Until then, all I could do was wait.
I was genuinely irritated when a sharp jangle of keys shook me out of my reverie; I had come to enjoy the monastic silence and darkness. The light outside, although undoubtedly dim, was blinding to my eyes which had seen nothing but darkness for days - or was it weeks? At any rate, it took some seconds for me to distinguish the shape of the figure in the doorway; the unmistakable outline of a uniformed Lichnik. I sat bolt upright; suddenly I was getting somewhere.
Like me before him, this Lichnik's arms were bound. After looking around enquiringly at his captors, he was thrown into the cell just as I was. The door slammed shut, and all was darkness again.
"Welcome to the hole," I said.
My cellmate violently scrambled away to the corner opposite me. "Shrub almighty," he hissed, "I thought I was alone."
"Yes, it is dark in here," I said.
The other Lichnik shuffled himself into as comfortable a position as his bound arms would allow. "So why have they got you in here?" he said.
"Wrong place, wrong time," I said. "Aside from that, I have no idea."
"You're an officer of the Lichnina too?"
"Yes."
"What Kennel?"
"Lynik," I lied.
"Ah, I'm from Novodolorsk myself."
"Really?" I said. "I, uhh... did a secondment to Novodolorsk once. What's your name?"
"Volshebnik. Six seven nine three eight zero. I'm a Courier with the Fetcher."
Dear Shrub-God Minarbor, I thought. I knew Volshebnik. I'd been part of an assessing panel when he applied for promotion to Inquisitor; a promotion he'd failed to attain, I recalled. But something didn't feel right about him now. I remembered him as a little slow, in both thought and speech. Now he was a raspy little chatterbox. Something didn't add up. "Volshebnik..." I said. "I can't say I met anyone by that name while I was there. I wasn't around for long, though."
"Ah right," said the lich who called himself Volshebnik. "So how did you get to Sansabury? From what I hear, the Lynik and Sansabury Kennels are like chalk and cheese. Never the twain shall meet..."
"How did you know I was in Sansabury?" I said.
"W-well... it was a guess. They took me from Sansabury too. I was delivering some essential files from Novodolorsk."
"On your own?" I said.
"Indeed. For some case that drifted across jurisdictions."
"They wouldn't send you out on your own!" I snapped. "Procedure states... something different. I don't know what your real name is, mister, but I do know you're a Shrub-damned stool pigeon. Don't talk to me any more."
"Hey now!" hissed my cellmate. "Maybe you've been in here a long time. Maybe it made you a little cranky... but that's no excuse to go defaming me! I swear by the Shrub I'm a Courier from Novodolorsk Kennel!"
I contemplated telling him that nobody brags about being a Courier - the lowest ranked of all Lichniks - but he only would have used the information to refine his deception. "Shut up," I offered instead.
After maybe an hour of unsuccessful pleadings by my cellmate, the door was hauled open and he was removed. Again, I cursed myself for telling him too much about Lichnik courier protocol; but at least I'd learned that whoever was holding me had access to Lichnik personnel records in Novodolorsk. Volshebnik was a real Lichnik who really did hold the lowly rank of Courier; but the man in my cell who had claimed to be him was evidently not. However he was definitely a lich. For hours afterwards the question burned in my mind: if he wasn't Volshebnik, what was his real identity and why was he helping out a gang of terrorist breathers?
It kept the boredom at bay for a while, at least.
For all the distorted sense of time in the darkness of the cell, I had found one reliable measure; I could feel my undead flesh beginning to sag from my bones without proper ointment, and I was pining for a shot of lich gravy to arrest the rotting stench that was beginning to rise from beneath my collar. This meant I'd been imprisoned for at least two weeks. It did occur to me that my captors would have to do something with me soon, if only to address the smell.
No sooner had that thought run through my mind than I heard the great iron key rattle in the lock once more, and my eyes were flooded with light again. I was lifted to my feet and led out of the cell, staggering with even greater difficulty now the sinews of my legs were well wasted. I was put in the room with the oil lamp and the breather interrogator again. This time, after dropping my slack body into the seat, the guards left the two of us alone.
"Well then, six eight four zero nine two," said the stubble-faced interrogator, as cheerful as ever. "Had plenty of time to think?"
I nodded, not particularly caring what the result of the discussion would be.
The interrogator indicated a stoppered glass lichgravy boat and a small bottle of ointment on the table between us. "I've managed to procure some essential items for you," he said. "Give us your name, the ointment is yours. Give us your reason for visiting Sansabury, the lich gravy is yours. Understood?"
"Understood," I said.
"Well then," said the breather, producing a pencil and some paper. "Name?"
"I said I understood, not that I'd comply," I said.
The breather sighed, pushing his pencil and paper aside. He stared into my eyes for a moment. "You know, I didn't want to have to do this..." he said, reaching behind his chair. He produced a sawn-off Tankgewehr - an heavy anti-materiel rifle of the kind that had famously been seized during a recent arms-trafficking bust in Rothaven. This particular example appeared in little better condition than the guards' machine carbines, the saw job having left rough burrs and striations all over the thing. The interrogator set it down on the table with a loud thud. "I was only going to give you one option," he said. "A simple execution by my men, filmed for our own purposes. The anniliation of your brain stem and the maceration of whatever remains, including whatever lump of magery about your person you have for a phylactery. The second part of this will be done regardless, but I must admit I've been impressed by your conduct. So I only thought it proper to skip the whole film thing and offer you the gentleman's way out." He took out a stopwatch. "The weapon is loaded with one high-explosive incendiary round and you have ten seconds, starting... now."
'Who is this flippant bastard?' I wondered. 'I'm a Shrublander, not a Leichenberger...' The correct course of action was, to me, entirely clear. I lifted the heavy stock of the weapon in both hands, aimed the stump of its barrel directly between the eyes of the interrogator, and enjoyed his horrified reaction as I squeezed down hard on the trigger.
Click.
"Oh well, it was worth a try," I muttered.
The interrogator was now smiling. "Indeed it was, Inquisitor Harkavin," he said. "Your reputation is well-earned, I see. Shrub be thanked that I had the firing pin removed."
Now I was bewildered again. "You knew my name after all!?" I honked.
"But of course," said the interrogator. "And you can relax, because you're not getting macerated today." He reached behind me and released my arm bindings. "Do follow me."
The interrogator beckoned me to a rickety door in the cobbled wall, one which I had not yet seen used. He duly opened it, revealing a corridor of grey brushed concrete illuminated by flourescent strip lighting. It appeared to run for some distance and was lined with several steel doors; an impressively modern extension to put on a farmhouse. As I was led along it by my mysterious breather host, a pair of Lichniks emerged from one door and walked past us, each offering me a salute in the process. Instinctively but with ever-increasing confusion, I returned it. Then we reached an elevator.
It was at this point I realised that this was not an extension to the farmhouse at all - the farmhouse was a mockup built within this large, presumably urban headquarters building. We entered the elevator and the breather muttered something to the zombot attendant within. Soon we were accelerating rapidly upwards, followed by a deceleration which almost lifted my trembling feet from the ground. The doors opened to a sumptuous, teak-pannelled office suite with velvet black carpets. More Lichniks were passing by in their razor-sharp uniforms, accompanied by no small amount of secretarial zombots. Wherever we were, it was upscale. Certainly no place for a lich who had just spent weeks quite literally rotting in a windowless cell. Despite this, nobody seemed unduly concerned by my dishevelled presence; nor by that of the ragged-looking breather who accompanied me.
Passing beneath the chandeliers of another corridor, my curiosity got the better of me. "May I ask..." I began.
The breather raised his hand to stop me. "Everything's in hand, my dear man!" he said. "The hard work is done. We're nearly there, we're going just to the end of here..."
We duly arrived in a small lobby, lined along one wall by the first row of windows I had seem for some time. While the breather spoke to a zombot secretary at her desk, I staggered impulsively toward these windows. We were six floors up. Below me lay the trees and the buzzing streets of Sansabury. It was mid-morning. Over the roofs of the surrounding buildings, I could see the shining towers of the Shrubbery on its little hill.
I was at the Sansabury Lichnik Kennel. I hadn't left the city at all.
"Inquisitor. Harkavin," chirped the zombot secretary. "The. Houndmaster. General. Will. See. You. Now."
From the leather waiting chair I looked up from the copy of 'Lichovina Unlife' I'd been leafing through and glared in horror - first at the zombot, then at my breather host who had just exited the teak double doors behind said zombot. "Houndmaster General!? I cried. "Of all the Lichnina!? Is that who you've just seen!? You didn't say I'd be... but I can't possibly see him now! Look at the state of me! My face is nearly falling off!"
The breather waved his hand. "It's fine," he said. "He's seen worse. He's inflicted worse, come to think of it. Go on through, I've got other business to take care of. It was a pleasure meeting you, Inquisitor. You did well down there." He offered his hand, which I shook in a helpless daze. "So long!" he said, and disappeared down the corridor whence we'd come. The double doors were still open, and the zombot secretary was rhythmically nodding her head for me to enter. I struggled to my feet and, with as graceful a stagger as I could muster, I made my way within. If I was going to get answers about this mess, surely I'd get them out of him.
The windows of the Houndmaster-General's office ran from floor to ceiling and offered an impressive view of the river Lichovina, glittering in the morning sunshine as it snaked around the city's distant periphery. The Houndmaster-General himself, resplendent in a hooded robe of black silk and silver hem, was looking out of these windows when I entered. The abrupt clatter of the zombot secretary shutting the doors behind me caused him to notice my presence. Pictures of him were kept out of the public domain, and now I could see why. Even as a breather his gnarled, hooknosed countenance would have caused a shiver. Now, hollowed and sharpened by centuries of undeath, his bloodshot eyes landed me a terrifying glare from deep within the sockets of his skull. His jaw, however, was slowly shaping itself into an attempt at a grin.
"Harkavin..." came a deep, measured hiss. "The lich... himself."
I bowed as low as my wasted tendons would permit without endangering my chances of standing straight again. "At..." I stuttered, "At your service, sir."
"Will you forgive the... Sansabury welcome..." said the Houndmaster-General. "It is... nothing personal. We had to be... quite sure."
"I quite understand, sir." I said, holding myself as stiffly upright as possible. "I only regret that... I could have done better."
"You did... quite well enough. My dear breathers... in Snatch Squad Chihuahua were... most impressed by you."
"Glad to have met your standards, sir," I said. "I only hope my skills will assist me to recover Doctor Eisensilber's phylactery in accordance with my orders."
The Houndmaster-General's face almost imploded with a shrivel and he slowly shook his head. "No..." he hissed, "Doctor Eisensilber was... a fabrication. I invented her myself. But her work is... real, of course, and promosing, from... what little I am told. No, this was... not the purpose of your journey at all..."
"I see, sir," I said, shifting in my now-grimy boots.
"We wished simply to... assess your conduct under the most... trying circumstances... with a view to your... transfer to Sansabury. We have been watching... your work in Novodolor... with some admiration. We wish... to include you among our own."
Each minute of my day, all things considered, was becoming exponentially weirder than the last. "I don't know what to say, sir," I muttered. "I had no idea, I..."
The Houndmaster-General raised his hand, revealing two fingers made of steel; perhaps even silver. "Of course..." he said, "This is... conditional upon... your acceptance."
"May I request leave to consider your proposal, sir?" I said.
"You may not," said the Houndmaster-General. "You will decide here... and now... and I shall respect that decision... whatever it may be..."
At that moment, a vision of my future flashed before me. Car chases along the Shrubbery wall, Deeds of Shrubliness benefitting the highest of undead society, grand clandestine joint operations with Reapers, Mandarins, maybe even Arborists... it was almost too much to behold. But then a question occurred to me.
"Sir," I said, "May enquire whether the suitability of my co-Inquisitor Shepilov is to be assessed, for similar transfer to Sansabury?"
The Houndmaster-General gently shook without hesitation. "We have heard of this... Shepilov..." he said, "In our craft, one requires... at least a pretence of Shrubliness. Your man Shepilov... we found him unable to maintain this pretence. He will not come to Sansabury."
Another vision flashed before my eyes; that of Shepilov without my presence to bail him out, crashing through progressively more violent incidents of his own making until his own indictment, a charge of degradation of lichdom, a sentence of hard labour, perhaps even... phylacteric termination...
My shoulders sank. "Sir," I said, "While your proposal is the greatest honour I am ever likely to receive, I regret to inform you that I cannot accept it... it is my professional conclusion that Sansabury's gain would be outdone by Novodolor's loss, were I to transfer here." I finished my statement with a bowed head.
The Houndmaster-General said nothing at first, then emitted a rumbling reply. "...and you are... sure of this? Be warned that you... will not receive this offer again."
"I understand, sir, and I stand by my decision. With the greatest respect. The interests of the wider Lichnina must prevail over my own."
"If this is... your conclusion..." said The Houndmaster-General, "if this is what... the famous Harkavin nose is telling you... then I can do no other... than trust one of my hounds. And trust you I shall..."
I bowed again, saying nothing.
"You will resume your work in Novodolor, then... with immediate effect," said the Houndmaster-General. "May your nose stay sharp... and may the luck of the Shrub be with you always." He raised his bony hand in salute. "woof woof!"
"Woof woof!" I called, saluting back.
"You are dismissed."
Shepilov got back to the Novodolorsk Kennel a day after I did, kicking the door of my office open with a more vigorous jollity than usual. "Morning Harks!" he chirped.
"Morning, Shep," I muttered, keeping my eyes on the Lichovina Unlife magazine which I'd successfully stolen from the Houndmaster-General's waiting room. "Good holiday, I take it?"
"Yup," said Shepilov. "Sea breeze, walks on the beach, catching up with old buddies, couldn't be better. You could do with a holiday yourself, you know. You're looking a little rough."
"I was sent to Sansabury."
"Sasnabury!? Shrub be tickled... what for?"
"Their Kennel wanted to hire me."
"Wait, what? The Sansabury Kennel... offered you a job!?"
"Yes."
"Forgive me if my eyes are playing tricks on me, Harks, but you're still here in Novodolorsk."
"I turned the offer down."
"...Harks..."
"What?"
"You're an idiot. An actual idiot! You turned down..."
"Yes, I turned down all that. And do you know why?"
"I don't know if I want to know why."
"I turned Sansabury down, because who else here is going to keep an eye on you when you're knocking skulls together?"
"Wait... you turned them down for my sake!? Then you're a double idiot. A triple idiot. Maybe even a quadruple..."
"Then I'm an idiot. Sansabury wouldn't take idiots anyway."
"But if you weren't such an idiot nannying after me, you wouldn't be an idiot. Therefore eligible to work in Sansabury."
"Shep...."
"What?"
"I refuse to argue with you." I put the magazine down and rose to my feet. "Also, it's lichcookie hour. I'm going down to Shrubway. Are you coming?"
"But I only just got here."
"Lichcookies, Shep. Lichcookies."
"Alright, alright..."
My pleas were futile, of course. We bickered all the way to the Shrubway, and all the way back. Normal business was, at long last, resumed.
