Free Treachery of Kings by Neal Barrett Jr

chills, fear of urination, gastric irritation, swept all thought from his head.
    Shouts, howls, bellows and barks reached them from below. Discord, clamor, and harsh resonation filled the night. The flare of muskets, the smell of powder, the din of leaden shot stung his eyes, split his ears and burned his nose.
    Then, with a terrifying, sound, a sound more fearsome than the rest, the fat sphere above ripped asunder, from the bottom to the top, burst its vaporous innards with a great unearthly fart.
    Bucerius roared in anger as the basket gave a sickening lurch, tipped on one side and nearly tossed the pair to the ground.
    Finn hung on for dear life. From the corner of his eye, something big, something dark, something more solid than the night rose up at him in a blur. The basket jerked to a stop, snapping wicker, shredding cords, slamming the Bullie into Finn, squeezing him nearly flat.
    As he struggled for a breath, Finn saw a chimney rush by, saw the shattered basket fill with brick and soot, felt the clatter and the rattle as they slid down the steep-sided roof.
    For another awful moment, they were airborne again.Then, wicker, brick, lines, an avalanche of slate, came to a wrenching halt on the ground. A shroud of fabric settled gently over the Bullie and Finn.
    Finn rubbed his stinging eyes, spat a mouthful of soot. Wondered how he could possibly be alive.
    “It is no way short of a miracle,” he said to himself. “And even then, I have my doubts”
    “Don't be a'gabbin’, keep still,” Bucerius muttered, lifting him easily out of the mess. “You not be entirely livin’ yet, lest we hauling out of here.”
    “Thank you, friend. I'm terribly grateful for your help.”
    “Take a care, watch it where you step.”
    “What? Pots and Pans, what am I stepping on?”
    “I fear we be smushin’ a fair lot of chickens. More like a herd. Somethin’ bigger than a flock. Doubt anyone be thanking us for that.”
    As if in answer, a florid face, round as a moon, appeared in a window overhead. The fellow shouted and flailed his arms about, cursing in a gruff, unknown tongue, a language that seemed to greatly rely upon spit.
    Before the man's wife could join him, wide-eyed in a tasseled nightcap, Finn and Bucerius were out of the yard and into the dark, Bucerius stepping ahead, Finn doing his best to keep up, clutching the carefully bundled clock against his chest.
    E VEN AS THE FAIR REACHED AN ALLEY SOME DIS tance from the scene of their imperfect descent, it was clear there were deadly pursuers still about, determined to track them down.
    Barks and yelps resounded from the street just ahead; Finn and Bucerius crouched in the dark and watched them pass by.
    They were, indeed, Bowsers, as Bucerius had noted before their craft struck the ground. They were short, tall, bony, stout and lean, as Bowsers tended to be. Some had oversize noses, some had puglike features, perfectly flat. Most had tufted ears, and all had sad and droopy eyes.
    Finn, though certainly no bigot where Newlies were concerned, didn't care for Bowsers at all. He found them irritating at best. Some were quite friendly by themselves, but the moment they came together in a group, in a horde, in a pack, they seemed to become mean of spirit and intense.
    He had crossed their path before in a misadventure across the Misty Sea, and didn't care to meet them again.
    All of these fellows, he noted, wore varicolored pantaloons, natty striped jackets, red bow ties and straw boaters tipped at a rakish angle atop their heads. Wherever Bowsers seemed to settle, one nation or the next, they all preferred this ridiculous attire. And, if Bucerius was right, and they were after the Heldessian King, Finn thought their clothes seemed improper for assassination wear.
    “Why do they seek to do in the King?” Finn asked quietly, when the noisome bunch had passed. “And why, in all reason, on Tuesday and Thursday night? That seems peculiar to me.”
    “They be doin’ it ‘cause