Vandolin laid down a recent copy of the Diurnal Journal on the bedside pot locker (a necessary evil in the tower rooms, the newly installed water closet being some distance away) and cast an eye over his breakfast tray, a sumptuous feast of coddled goose eggs and slices of Hairy-Back ham – such a delicacy! Its meat was addictive, more succulent, more aromatic, more satisfying than any other. Once you had tasted a Hairy’s ham no other swine’s could ever match it. And for Bovrik the taste was always bittersweet. He loved and hated the Hairy-Backed Hog because with every delicious mouthful he was reminded of where he had ended up and of his own true and lowly beginnings . . .
‘Those days are long gone,’ he thought with a shudder of relief as he mopped up the juices with a slice of bread. His eye flicked back to the sketch on the open page of the journal. Yes, it did him justice, and Lady Mandible too.
Looking around himself Bovrik still couldn’t believe just how well things had turned out. He resided in the highest, most spacious tower of the six at Withypitts Hall, lavishly and gaudily furnished exactly as he would have done it himself. The sumptuousness of the surroundings seemed to physically thicken the air. His bed, a large four-poster, was specially shaped to fit against the curved wall and he sat under a gold-embroidered velvet cover which fell to the floor, where its fringed hem sat in soft undulations. He was surrounded by plump orange pillows and he leaned against a tasselled short-furred bolster that stretched across the full width of the bed. The curtains were also of velvet, scarlet with thick coiled golden ties, like ships’ ropes, and golden fringes. The wooden floor – those parts which were exposed – shone almost like a mirror as a result of hours of polishing. The remainder was covered in soft-furred bearskin rugs. Sometimes Bovrik just threw himself on the fur and rolled around in its deep, enveloping loveliness. Other times he would sit in his feather-cushioned armchair, wrap himself up in his cloak and rub its expensive Jocastar fringe all over his face.
All this, of course, was done with the door locked.
Since his latest metamorphosis his life had changed immeasurably for the better and he congratulated himself daily on the success of his latest swindle. His plan had been simple enough: in the guise of an exotic foreigner (north Urbs Umidians loved the exotic) to charm his way into the wealthy circles of the City and live the rich life he had so long envied. He would find ways to relieve those around him of their valuables, large and small (to be disposed of by Badlesmire and Leavelund via their contacts in the Nimble Finger), to keep him in pocket. Perhaps trick an old, wealthy lady or two into writing him into their will, maybe even marry one . . .
And what a great start it had been. With his new wardrobe, mysterious accent and bottomless reservoir of charm, not to mention his ever-expanding collection of eyeballs, he had been welcomed with open arms into northside society. After all, as Hector himself well knew, the north side was a place where people were judged in the main on appearance. The ladies in particular had taken to him and he was invited into all the best drawing rooms. He might have arrived with only his personality but he always left with a memento – a ring, an ornament, a piece of cutlery, all items small enough that they wouldn’t be missed for a while. Indeed sometimes, if he had been shaken, he would have jangled like Christmas bells.
But it was his encounter with Lady Mandible that set him on a fateful and even more lucrative course.
Lady Lysandra Mandible was well known in Urbs Umida. Her wealth – rightly rumoured to be significant – had been rapidly attained by a succession of marriages to rich, much older men. She came to the City just when old Lord Mandible, painfully aware of young Lord Mandible’s shortcomings, was seeking a wife for him to ensure
‘Those days are long gone,’ he thought with a shudder of relief as he mopped up the juices with a slice of bread. His eye flicked back to the sketch on the open page of the journal. Yes, it did him justice, and Lady Mandible too.
Looking around himself Bovrik still couldn’t believe just how well things had turned out. He resided in the highest, most spacious tower of the six at Withypitts Hall, lavishly and gaudily furnished exactly as he would have done it himself. The sumptuousness of the surroundings seemed to physically thicken the air. His bed, a large four-poster, was specially shaped to fit against the curved wall and he sat under a gold-embroidered velvet cover which fell to the floor, where its fringed hem sat in soft undulations. He was surrounded by plump orange pillows and he leaned against a tasselled short-furred bolster that stretched across the full width of the bed. The curtains were also of velvet, scarlet with thick coiled golden ties, like ships’ ropes, and golden fringes. The wooden floor – those parts which were exposed – shone almost like a mirror as a result of hours of polishing. The remainder was covered in soft-furred bearskin rugs. Sometimes Bovrik just threw himself on the fur and rolled around in its deep, enveloping loveliness. Other times he would sit in his feather-cushioned armchair, wrap himself up in his cloak and rub its expensive Jocastar fringe all over his face.
All this, of course, was done with the door locked.
Since his latest metamorphosis his life had changed immeasurably for the better and he congratulated himself daily on the success of his latest swindle. His plan had been simple enough: in the guise of an exotic foreigner (north Urbs Umidians loved the exotic) to charm his way into the wealthy circles of the City and live the rich life he had so long envied. He would find ways to relieve those around him of their valuables, large and small (to be disposed of by Badlesmire and Leavelund via their contacts in the Nimble Finger), to keep him in pocket. Perhaps trick an old, wealthy lady or two into writing him into their will, maybe even marry one . . .
And what a great start it had been. With his new wardrobe, mysterious accent and bottomless reservoir of charm, not to mention his ever-expanding collection of eyeballs, he had been welcomed with open arms into northside society. After all, as Hector himself well knew, the north side was a place where people were judged in the main on appearance. The ladies in particular had taken to him and he was invited into all the best drawing rooms. He might have arrived with only his personality but he always left with a memento – a ring, an ornament, a piece of cutlery, all items small enough that they wouldn’t be missed for a while. Indeed sometimes, if he had been shaken, he would have jangled like Christmas bells.
But it was his encounter with Lady Mandible that set him on a fateful and even more lucrative course.
Lady Lysandra Mandible was well known in Urbs Umida. Her wealth – rightly rumoured to be significant – had been rapidly attained by a succession of marriages to rich, much older men. She came to the City just when old Lord Mandible, painfully aware of young Lord Mandible’s shortcomings, was seeking a wife for him to ensure
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