Island of Doom: Hunchback Assignments 4 (The Hunchback Assignments) by Arthur Slade Page A

squalor of Kuala Lumpur, the son of an Irish merchant. It was a small settlement, made ugly by the tin mines that scarred the muddy rivers and lush countryside. He had embraced that ugliness; things were meant to be scarred. As a consequence he hated anything picturesque and perfect. Montreuil-sur-Mer brought out that loathing. Another perfect French town.
    His mute companion slouched a step behind him, eyes dead as ever.
Typhon
. Lime disliked the beast’s name. Itshould have been Grunt or Lump or Dunghead. But it had been named Typhon, and that was the only name the sack of flesh and muscle responded to. Oh, how the Guild Master loved his word games and his Greek mythology. Lime loathed the Greeks.
    Lime had spent the first three days in town looking for Monsieur and Madame Hébert. The French townspeople had begun to all look the same. And no one had any memory of potters with the last name Hébert. But there were many potters in Montreuil—half the population. He’d bought their wares, spoken with them, and uncovered nothing. He took pleasure in smashing the bowls and plates in the fireplace of his room at the hotel.
    The first potter he visited was the right age to have been Modo’s father, but he’d never been married. The second potter and his wife had ten squalid brats running around half naked; the mother was too young to have given birth to Modo.
    Every street Lime explored, Typhon slouched behind him. Why the Guild Master had sent the beast with him was obvious. Its brute strength was beyond any Lime had ever witnessed. And as far as he could tell, the thing was indestructible. Mute and dumb as a stone, with the occasional glimmer of intelligent light in its eyes.
    They approached the hut and he commanded Typhon to stand a few feet back. The size and extreme ugliness of the monster was helpful for intimidation, but not so helpful when one needed to appear friendly.
    The door creaked open and a gray-haired woman poked her head out. “May I help you?” she asked in French.
    He guessed her to be fifty-five, a little too old to have had a child fifteen years ago.
    “Are you Madame Hébert?” he asked.
    She shook her head. “
Non
, Lambert. I do not know an Hébert.”
    “So you have never met a potter named Hébert?”
    “I have not.”
    Typhon let out a rumbling grunt and the woman looked behind Lime and went pale. Leave it to the monstrous lump of flesh to make a noise now!
    “My brother has a simple mind,” Lime said, “and he was disfigured at birth.”
    She continued to stare in fright. “Disfigured at birth? Is he an abomination?” She crossed herself. “Cursed by the devil?”
    Lime laughed. “No, only cursed with an abundance of ugliness.”
    The woman did not smile back. Instead, she crossed herself again. Lime glimpsed a man with reddish-gray hair at the table, his back to them. Then the door closed.
    “Thank you,” Lime said to the door. Another dead end.
    He turned and walked down the edge of the road. The leaves in a tree rustled, a bird chirped. The frost would take care of them soon enough. A moment later he realized that Typhon was missing. The beast’s brain was useless gray sludge. He turned to see Typhon standing in the same spot as before. “Follow me, you mud-headed dunderbuss!” he shouted. It had been one of his father’s favorite curses. The beast didn’t move. “Follow me, Typhon.” The monster trudged behind him. Such a literal creature.
    They returned to the inn and he asked for three roast hens to be delivered to his room. Once inside, he laid his greatcoat on the wooden chair, knives clicking together, and sat on the bed to gather his thoughts. “Sit beside the hearth, Typhon,” he said, and the man sat on the floor and stared straight ahead, shoulders against the wall, legs stretching halfway across the room, his feet bumping a bowl that Lime had been using to water the beast. Lime was impressed by his size. Even his hands were thrice the length and width of a