Chapter Nine: In Which I Am Accused Of Murder

Sir Bashful had already been and gone by the time I rode over to check in at the Catapultery. He wasn’t at the trebuchets on the ramparts either, though he’d clearly been there: they were stocked and loaded and ready to wang some serious beef, by which I mean throw boulders. It was a shame; Sir Bashful was a dab-hand at the trebuchets, a true artisan when it came to convincing bits of wood to sling heavy objects enormous distances. I realised with a disappointed huff that I must have missed the calibration process, which, given that it involves testing the trebuchets by launching criminals over the horizon, is quite obviously my favourite bit.

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