The Luck Uglies by Paul Durham Page B

Crier unrolled a long scroll and cleared his throat. He was a tiny man with a voice as loud as a trumpet.
    â€œPuddlers,” the Crier began; this was how the Earl always referred to the residents of Mud Puddle Lane. “This proclamation is delivered upon the order of the Lord of this county, the ward of this village, the wise and honorable, the fashionable and handsome”—the Crier rolled his eyes at that last part—“Earl Morningwig Longchance.”
    A disgruntled murmur came from the crowd.
    â€œDenizens of Drowning,” the Crier continued, “it is hereby confirmed that a semi-aquatic lowland Nobificus—more commonly known as a Bog Noblin—has been sighted by credible sources in or about the village proper.”
    The crowd groaned and shrieked. An old woman next to Rye looked like she might faint. The Constable held up his hands to silence the crowd. The Village Crier began again.
    â€œA village-wide curfew is now in effect. Henceforth, any man, woman, or child found roaming the streets after dark and not acting on official village business shall be subject to immediate arrest and imprisonment. Even during daylight hours, villagers should remain vigilant at all times. Any suspicious behavior is to be reported to the constable of your local ward.”
    Boil puffed out his bony chest at the mention of his status. The Crier continued.
    â€œTypical Bog Noblin activities include clawing, biting, growling, consumption of humans and livestock, vandalism, and recreational dismemberment.”
    There were more yells from the crowd. Folly and Quinn just looked at each other. Rye raised a well-picked fingernail to her mouth and began to chew.
    â€œWhat about the Treaty?” someone yelled.
    â€œWe need the Luck Uglies!” cried someone else over the crowd.
    â€œThe Luck Uglies don’t care about us any more than Longchance does,” a third person objected.
    â€œWe don’t need their brand of help,” croaked a fourth.
    A few other residents quietly cursed the Luck Uglies under their breath, but such contrarians were quickly shouted down.
    The Village Crier cleared his throat loudly. “Your attention, please. As you know, the Luck Uglies have long since disavowed the Treaty—”
    â€œRubbish!” another voice called. “Longchance is afraid of them!”
    â€œThe Earl reminds all residents that the Luck Uglies are and remain wanted criminals.” The Crier looked at the scroll and read the prepared words carefully. “The Luck Uglies are outlaws, thieves, liars, scoundrels, ruffians, scalawags, turkeyholes, and all around bad apples.”
    Someone nudged Rye on the shoulder.
    â€œI guess the Earl won’t be inviting them to his Winter Feast anytime soon,” he whispered.
    Rye looked back. A hooded man stood behind her. Peeking from under the hood, he gave her a little wink. It was Harmless.
    â€œAnd furthermore,” bellowed the Crier. Rye turned back toward him. “For the avoidance of all further doubt, the illustrious House of Longchance confirms that it shall henceforth be the sole guardian of the health, wealth, and welfare of the great northern county of the Shale, and the not-so-bad Village Drowning. By the Laws of Longchance, any resident found harboring any Luck Ugly shall be subject to immediate imprisonment in the dungeons of Longchance Keep for a period of not less than one year.”
    The noise of the crowd was uncontrollable now. Folly gave Quinn a shove and mouthed, “I told you.”
    The Village Crier finished up quickly. “The Lord of this county, the ward of this village, the wise and honorable, the fashionable and handsome, Earl Morningwig Longchance”—the Crier took a breath after spitting all of that out—“hereby bids you all a good day.”
    Constable Boil watched the restless crowd with a smug grin, reveling in their discontent. But as he studied their hovel-like homes