“Well, good evening,” he said, surprised at how well his voice carried in the auditorium’s acoustics. “I’m really pleased you could all make it here for this very significant meeting about a very significant dog, especially after a previous meeting was interrupted by collapsing palace and disappearing sun, though not necessarily in that order. I must admit, however, that the audience of this meeting is significantly larger, though I suppose that’s understandable, considering that collapsing palace and disappearing sun really highlights what this dog’s capable of. Now, I’m certain that many of you are tired or hungry, and that those of you who aren’t are both.”

He paused for effect, but there wasn’t any.

“And I’m certain there are some buns awaiting outside, somewhere, waiting for some serious scoffing. But before we can get to them and start scoffing, I am obliged to say something.” He indicated Mironaelk and the others. “However, before I do, I’d like to acknowledge the excellent lectures you’ve had today from so many experts. Let’s have a round of applause for them all, shall we? What lectures! I mean, not only have these animals got real staying power, but so have you lot!”

When this had no effect either, other than another glare from Mironaelk, he decided to get on with things.

“Look, I’m obviously not here as a dignitary, all right? And despite what you’ve read about me recently, or heard from this lot today, I’m not even here as an expert. If anything, I’m merely a guest who’s just passing through. Well, not through, exactly, as I’m still waiting for that bit. But I’ve arrived, nonetheless. And although it’s lovely to be a guest in your beautiful world, I’m quite keen to leave it and go home.”

He took a moment to allow a mood to descend.

“Look, the thing is that when I first arrived in your world, I encountered something rather odd: a crowd of screaming animals that had been forced to flee their home. You may have heard of it, Vierlême.”

There was a small murmuring thunder that many had.

“Lovely place. Lots of roofs. Excellent tiling. But the thing is, it was being eaten by beasts, you see. Absolutely massive ones that didn’t have skin.”

Recollection hit him like an out-of-control cart.

“Why didn’t they have skin?” he said. Despite it being rhetorical, several paws rose. “I mean, I have skin.” He indicated the Boeviss. “He has skin, so why didn’t they?” Several paws remained and waved frantically, but he ignored them. “The fact remains that they were eating Vierlême and setting fire to most of its lovely bits. Being inadvertently accosted by those fleeing their homes made me realise how much I’d appreciate being able to return to mine. I’m from Asquith you see, which is north, apparently.” He gestured in the general direction. “And although Asquith isn’t on fire or being eaten, it has had some really dreadful parking restrictions recently. What I’m getting at is that once your home has gone you’re really going to miss it. I miss mine, terribly. The simple fact is that you must listen to these animals.” He indicated his colleagues again. “They’ve all got really useful tips on how to remove the unbelievable parking restrictions that have recently been imposed on you lot. I mean, this lot are real experts. You have no idea how much they know about this sort of thing. Lydia, for example, up there.” He waved, but it wasn’t returned. “The skills she has in inadvertent hospital admissions are extraordinary. The things she could teach you about inadvertent rhinoplasty. I mean, you wouldn’t read about it—”

“Oscar!”

He ignored Mironaelk’s growl. “And Flumpt. Again, fluff me, the things he can do with flour, petrol and ovens literally redefines the word ridiculous. Yes, it’s unconventional, but so is throwing ensuites around and eating staircases.”

He let this sink in for a moment as it was heavily context-based.

“Look, the thing is that there is someone behind all this madness. A dog who I have met on several occasions. He’s not from here. I mean, he’s not from your world. He’s from mine. Not Asquith, but a place called Liebe, which is renowned for being the seat of poetry. And he wasn’t up to much good there either, I can tell you. So the thing is that he really ought to be stopped before he turns this place into the sort of thing that Flumpt’s baking specialises in. Frankly, if you don’t get your act together and do something about him, fetes will not only be the last thing on your minds, but you’ll really be struggling for reasons to celebrate anything. And considering that organising fetes is the only thing on your mind, then that says a great deal about the extent of his influence. I’m talking about the Ar’dath-Irr, you understand, not Flumpt, who’s influence many of you are already all too aware of after The Daily Spoon’s incineration—”

“Inadvertent incineration,” Flumpt corrected.

“Inadvertent, yes,” agreed Oscar. “I mean, how can that sort of destruction be intentional? There would have to be something clinically wrong with the animal responsible.” He gave Flumpt a withering glance, which was met with an encouraging smile and another wave.

He looked across the audience again.

“The Ar’dath-Irr is pretty bad news, it is true, and stopping him and his six minions from destroying this world requires two things: firstly, you lot learning how to defend it, and secondly, destroying him before you actually have to. Now, while the technicalities of that sort of thing are not my areas of expertise—being the reason you need to heed the advice of Mironaelk and Lydia and Prince Letherin—I do, nevertheless, happen to know more about the Ar’dath-Irr than anyone else here. I’ve met him twice. I was even in his house once and helped with his gardening.”

There was an impressed murmur to this.

“In fact, I’ve had several dealing with him already, none of which were good and all of which were painful.” He indicated Lydia, whose concerns remained apparent. “If it wasn’t for Lydia, I wouldn’t be here now to tell you how dangerous he is, simply because of how dangerous he is.”

Her stance relaxed a little.

“The reason he’s so dangerous is because he welds magic, but it’s not the sort of magic you are accustomed to. He doesn’t do cards tricks, for example—”

There was a murmur of disappointment.

“Instead, he manifest horrendous beasts that ravage your lands and casts spells that steal the sun, which, I think in anyone’s book, is far more impressive.”

More murmur conceded this.

“Now, today has been full of lectures on various aspects of behaviour that my world specialises in: violence and revenge, viciousness and loathing. And while these are certainly required to counter him, they will, I suspect, only get you so far. Defeating the Ar’dath-Irr and his minions—saving your world and mine also—requires more than knowing how to effectively smash snouts or make exploding pumpkins. It requires knowing something about who the Ar’dath-Irr, ultimately, is.”

A silence of anticipation.

“He’s a poet.”

It continued.

“A poet, just as I am, though with a shiny certificate from the Inaugurate Halls of Liebe to prove it.”

A low murmur began as animals tried determining the corollary of this, which grew because none had heard of the Inaugurate Halls of Liebe. As murmur rose, he had to raise his voice against it.

“And so, while you lot learn how to smash each others’ snouts in,” he continued, “I’m going to work on a small theatre production that should allow me to hone my own poetic tendencies so I’m better equipped to counter his—”

“Oscar!”

Again, he ignored Mironaelk’s interjection.

“And so while you lot learn how to turn your existing armies in savage armoured killing machines—and frankly, good luck with that—I intend holding auditions next Thursday for a theatre production in which I intend exploring some of the vengeance themes discussed here today through imagist verse and interpretive dance—the opening night of which you’re all invited to attend, provided we’re still alive, of course.”

The enthusiastic applause, cheers and whistles that exploded to this was remarkable, as was the standing ovation he received for it. Knowing Mironaelk and Lydia would not share their excitement, he basked in it until realising Lydia had arrived on the stage with a look on par with Mironaelk’s.

“Oscar! What in fluffing fluff is going on?”

It was hissed, which was hard to hear over the cheers, so he ignored her until fervent clapping paws got sore.

“What are you talking about?” she demanded, stepping closer. “What’s this about a theatrical performance? You’re supposed to be giving a lecture on the Ar’dath-Irr!”

“I did give a lecture on the Ar’dath-Irr.”

“That wasn’t more than two sentences!” she cried. “You can’t just give two sentences! You have to tell them more! Everything you know! Everything you’ve seen!”

“Well, considering you were there for most of the important bits,” he said. “you tell them.”

“I already have! I’ve told them everything I know. But it isn’t enough! You’ve met him—”

“And I told them that.”

“Yes, but you have to say more!”

“More?”

“Of course! From your curiosa. With Binkl-thingy—”

“Binklemitre.”

“—and the Loud Purr and Messington. And all the things you learnt in the Inaugurate Halls of Liebe! You need to explain. They need to understand!”

He turned to her, despite a rousing chorus of Let’s All Hug Until Next Tuesday that had been instigated by one of the more enthusiastic audience members, before another changed it to Wednesday, which resulted in some surprisingly good harmonies from the first three rows, despite their earlier confusion infection.

“You need to tell them everything you know, Oscar. Everything. Anything that could be useful in determining the Ar’dath-Irr’s weaknesses—”

“He has no weaknesses, Lydia. You may have got one up on him by punching him in the face, but that was pure luck. And as I’ve already explained to you: our luck has run out to such an extent that is borders on marathonic.”

Marathonic? You actually think that’s a word?”

“I’ve used it so it must be.” He turned back to the audience, which had joined in a refrain and was swaying in unison. “And anyway, I’m the poet, so I can do things like that.”

“Not here, Oscar. You’re not a poet here. That has to wait. You need to be more than mere poet—”

“Lydia,” he said, raising his paws to bask in their adoration, “I’m more a poet here than I’ve ever been!”

With the audience distracted by improvised four-part harmonies, Mironaelk arrived and grabbed him roughly.

“Oscar, that’s enough. Stop this at once. You know why you’re here. You know what you must do—”

He pulled away. “I’ve told them and you,” he said, ensuring a growl usually reserved for animals like the Ar’dath-Irr, “I am going to write a play with poems. If you don’t like it then you shan’t come to its opening night!”

The ovation gave him a assertiveness he could have done with in the pervious book.

He prodded her fur. “You focus on the strategy—” He prodded Lydia also. “You teach them violence—” He prodded himself. “I’ll work on poetry.” He moved closer and glared at both in a manner also reserved for creatures like the Ar’dath-Irr. “You clearly haven’t been listening: you can use all the strategy and violence you like, but it will ultimately get you nowhere. The only way to counter that creature is with his own weapon: verse. And as you consistently point out: I’m the Velvet Paw, and I know more about any of this than any of you. So stop lecturing me, Mironaelk, and start fluffing listening! If you’re so desperate for my expertise then fluffing accept it when given! Everything hinges on poetry! And I’m the only one who knows anything about both verse and the Ar’dath-Irr! And if you can’t get that into your combined thickness of skull, then you don’t even deserve to have any!”

A genuine frown from Lydia. “Any what?”

“Skull!”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and marched off the stage.

There was nothing more to be said.

No greater defence could there be.

He knew the Ar’dath-Irr better than anyone and he knew poetry better than anyone.

Arguing with him only highlighted their ignorance of both.