“Eh,” yawned Conker as he poured the tea into a long starry trough so they could all drink as equals, “she wanted to? And no one else minded?”
Tugboat laughed gruntingly. “These bludgers don’t like the taste of the laws. Oh, they’re nasty, they taste like sour nuts and bitter old stinky fur and being responsible for things! Waa, waa, waa! Gnawknuckle over there took one lick of the Law for Fair Distribution of Gravy and sicked up all over the place like a picky little baby. They taste fine to me! Fine as a yam in a pot that says ALL FOR TUGBOAT on it!”
“I like the taste of anything,” Blunderbuss gruffed happily.
“I bet you do, you great fat Sunday roast! Ah, but that’s the trait of a true wombat. Good to know even the Chicago mob shares our values! Unconquerable Bellies! Mighty Bities! Stiff Upper Pouches! That was my campaign slogan, you know. Pickiness is for mammals! We are marsupials! And you can’t make a marsupial without soup, and it is time for my soup, and I want my soup. Watchpot! Soup me!”
The Tobacconist of the Land of Wom trundled off to the soup barrels.
“Did you hear, September?” whispered a breathless Blunderbuss. “She called me a great fat Sunday roast! Tugboat the Tobacconist called me a fat glob of meat!”
“Congratulations?” ventured September. “Can we ask the way to the Worsted Wood? Or is that only polite after tea?”
“I swear, you lot never listen to a word I say. That means she thinks I’m beautiful and wonderful and practically her daughter and I should definitely, definitely come round for All Bowls Day this year—that’s in November. You can come, too, I’m sure she won’t mind—”
A vicious, booming roar crashed through the Night-Barn. It rang in September’s ears. Ell groaned, digging at his. Saturday spun to defend himself, drawing his scissors and holding his breath. The wombats of Nightgown lifted their noses and snuffled at the sound, mildly interested.
“Just knock, how about that?” Conker hollered. He waddled over and flung the barn doors open.
Outside stood Thrum, the Rex Tyrannosaur, his teeth out and his eyes blazing. His green-black scales shone darkly in the sunshine.
“Thrum! What are you doing here?” September’s ideas of what was sensible and what wasn’t shoved her right out of being scared. “What could you possibly be doing here? We didn’t even mean to come here! Did you actually come looking for the Heart of Fairyland in a wombat town?”
The tyrannosaurus looked a little shamefaced—but only a little, for dinosaurs would rather drown in tar than admit they’re wrong. That unfortunate attitude played a key role in their extinction. Naturally, they have steadfastly refused to own up to it, so I cannot tell you where it all went reptiles-up.
“A Heart is meat,” Thrum said stubbornly. “No one knows more about food than wombats. They might know. You don’t know anything!”
September laughed in his face. “Wow, you really have no ideas, do you? And I thought we were bungling the whole thing!”
Ajax Oddson’s voice filled the air above Nightgown. “My, oh my! What have I got in my sights? A couple of brawlers raring to fight! Let’s all get our napkins for…”
“See what you’ve done now?” September sighed. She had had enough of dueling, and dueling a dinosaur was just ridiculous. Absurd! Her sense of sensibility would not accept it. But the green and violet fireworks burst into the sky once more, showering the Night-Barn with sparks that reflected in the deep sky of its beams. They spelled out the words:
The Duel du Jour!
“A duel?” said Conker. “In Nightgown?”
“Like a boxing match or with swords and that?” asked Meatpie. “Or a joust?”
“Who cares?” Tugboat yelled. “Looks like my shop’s got the best seats! I’ve got corncakes and pepper pies for all! And a jug of sunshine!” Sunshine is what wombats call their local home brew. It would knock all of our grandfathers clean over with one sip.
Conker and Bluestocking hurried back to their own porch. The Nightgown mob rushed to safe cover—so long as the safe cover offered a good view.
“We’ve got prime front-row rump-space!” Bluestocking called out in her best hawking voice. “Sunshine and sausages! A cup for sevenpenny, a link for two Tugbits!”
The familiar judge’s frame shimmered into the air a few feet above the dusty road. Wreathed grasses and gooseberries braided up into a ring around a terrible pale face covered in tattoos. Vicious magenta eyes glowed with hate. Gratchling Gourdbone Goldmouth opened his mouth and screamed wretchedly at them. His gold teeth, his gold tongue, his gold lips reflected the black night-boards of the town.