The Crown of Dalemark (UK)
Page 29
But there were times when she got next to nothing, as when she asked, “Moril the Singer, Dad? Does history say anything about him?”
“No,” Dad said. “I never heard of him.”
“Hestefan the Singer, then?”
“Nope,” said Dad. “You must remember that things changed very fast in Amil’s reign. Singers were right out of date by the time Amil died.”
Poor Moril. Next time Maewen charged upstairs, she asked, “Earl Keril of Hannart, Dad. Was he a great nuisance to Amil the Great?”
Eyebrows up, like the image of Navis, Dad said, “Are you writing a historical novel or something? Far be it from me to discourage such a venture. But let it be accurate, please. Earl Keril supported Amil, like most earls of the North, but he never seems to have been very deep in Amil’s confidence. Historians usually put Hannart’s decline down to this period.”
“Thanks.” Oh. So history had Keril as just a politician who backed the wrong move. Right, in a way, but so wrong too.
Maewen went thoughtfully away. She was tired. Today had literally lasted two hundred years. But even if she could have borne to sit and wait for Kankredin, Maewen’s misery would not let her keep still. She patrolled wider and wider, through most of the palace by the afternoon.
Halfway through the afternoon the loudspeaker outlets crackled all over the palace. Here it comes! Maewen thought, and stood stock-still where she was, between two State Bedrooms.
“Attention. Your attention, please.” It was Major Alksen’s voice. “A bomb has been reported concealed on the palace premises. I repeat. A bomb has been reported somewhere in the palace or grounds. I must ask everyone to leave as quickly and quietly as possible. This applies to all visitors and staff alike. Please leave the palace and its grounds as quickly as you can. Doors and gates have been opened front and rear. Please leave by the nearest exit you can find. Please do not return until the bomb is located. Attention, please …”
The message went on and on, repeating.
The palace resounded softly as hundreds of people’s feet hurried through rooms and down stairs to find the doors. Presumably Dad and his ladies were on their way out too. Maewen wanted to know. Once more her feet took her on the familiar journey to the office. But the stairs were blocked by the office staff pouring down them.
“Your father, dear?” said someone, barely stopping. “Mr Singer’s gone down to Security. He’ll probably stay with them until the bomb squad gets here. You come down with us.”
Maewen hung back and let them pass until the stairway was empty. Dad was not safe, but there was nothing she could do. She went softly down again. The palace was weirdly empty, much emptier than she had ever known it. Maewen went on a zigzag course, quite unimpeded, from back windows to front ones, and then back windows again, as she went down. She saw people pouring out through gardens at the back and through the court at the front. Nothing would happen until everyone was gone. She was sure of that. Kankredin was after her. Maybe he would also destroy the palace as a belated revenge on Mitt, but he would not blow up all the tourists. Kankredin valued power over people, and you could not have that if all the people were dead.
She went on down, checking windows. By now she had come to the floors that opened on to the cloister balconies at the front. The windows were big glass doors, and Maewen had to go through those, into a roofed space held up by thin pillars, and then lean over the parapet to see into the front court. When she did this at the highest balcony, there was still a scatter of people hurrying away through the court and out under the arched gateway. At the next floor, everyone had gone. Everywhere was empty and still— No, it was not!
Maewen leant on the parapet and did not dare move. Over the multiple domes of Amil’s tomb, a big cloud of something nearly invisible rolled and coiled on itself. She could see it mostly by the way it distorted the wall and the city buildings beyond, in ugly, glassy waves. It was not person-shaped – yet. Kankredin was busy assembling himself. Maewen licked her lips. There was so much of it. Kankredin seemed to have brought more of himself from somewhere. The ugly shimmer was easily five times the size of the ghost thing that had been her horse. She supposed she ought to shout that word, but she had a feeling that the thing hovering there was too big to be dealt with like that.
On the other side of the court the gates in the big main gateway were softly closing, switched by remote control from Security, shutting her in with Kankredin. But Dad was inside too. She had to do something.
Before the gates had quite swung closed, a man in an old leather jacket slipped between them and pushed them shut with his back. He must be the bomb-disposal expert. Maewen had heard that bomb men were daredevils who dressed all anyhow and enjoyed risking their lives. The trouble was, he was not up against a bomb. She saw him realise. He stood as still as Maewen, staring up at the heaving, invisible cloud. Then his head switched— There was something odd about— There was somebody else in the court, running. Maewen could hear running footsteps. Then see who. It was Wend, racing towards Amil’s tomb.
The man by the gate gave a great shout. “GET BACK, YOU FLAMING FOOL!”
That was Mitt’s voice! Maewen was head down, leaning far out over the parapet, without knowing she had moved. She knew she was right. Except it couldn’t be true. The man was not gawky enough – was he?
Above the tomb, the coiling movement, which had been bunching and bending over itself ready to move down on the man by the gate, now swayed round and turned to face the movement Maewen had made. She saw – no, felt – eyes in its midst. Eyes that knew her. Eyes that hated her. Fat-lidded eyes she knew.
Mitt’s voice yelled a word. It was not the word Maewen knew. This was a word that made your brain clench and then prefer to forget you had heard it. It was a word that dragged shivers from deep, deep under the earth. A word that shook the palace. The invisibleness above the tomb coiled hurriedly round to throw itself at the shouter.
In the act of coiling it was caught, and held, and thrown high, high in the air, mixed with and part of a tremendous jet of water, a huge tsunami. Water burst from the tomb in a giant dark horn, throwing pieces of building aside like a card house. Maewen stared, with her neck twisted, at the immense column of water hanging into the sky, darker and darker with dissolving shreds of the coiling cloud, and all spouted to yellow froth at its distant top.
Then it fell.
Maewen threw herself flat beside the parapet. Even so, she was soaked. The open balcony bucked under her. Salt water stung her eyes. Salt? And the roar of falling tons of water was more deafening than any bomb. It went on and on, mixed with the crashing of stone. Maewen scrambled up in the midst of it, unable to care that she was deaf as a post. Three pillars that held up the balcony were missing nearby, and there was a gap in the parapet where she had been leaning. Unable to care about that either, she walked over balcony that swayed and grated until she reached the nearest whole pillar. Clinging to it, she stared at the courtyard awash with angry, grey, leaping waves. The gate was down. The gateway was mostly rubble. Water was roaring out into King Street. The salt that ran on Maewen’s face was partly tears. No one could have survived that.
But he had. He must have been swept over to the side wall. She could see him, nearly out of her view, where it was blocked by the ragged edge of the balcony, clawing himself along the wall, first shoulder-deep, then, very quickly, only waist-deep. The water was rushing away all the time, going back underground. Maewen could dimly hear the surge and growl of it running away. But she was staring at the man’s soaking, lank hair. It did look like Mitt’s.
Then he had clawed himself out of sight. Maewen had turned to dash away down into the court when she heard him speaking, right under the balcony. “Come on, get up, you fool. Walk.” It was Mitt’s voice, no doubt now.
Wend’s voice answered. “Let me go. I deserve to drown.”
And then Mitt’s voice again: “If that was true, the Earth Shaker wouldn’t have left you alive. Come on, stand up.”
Maewen heard splashing, and coughing. Wend said, “Don’t you understand? I was working with Kankredin.”
Mitt answered, “Well, you had the sense to phone and tell me when you realised how much of him he’d collected here. He’s an expert in blackmailing and tempting and all that. Stop kicking yourself. What I want to know— Watch it! These steps are all broken.” There were flounderings, and the sound of wet stones rolling and splashing. Then Mitt’s voice came from right underneath, where the palace door was. “What I want to know is how did he persuade you?”
“Noreth,” said Wend. Maewen could tell he was crying. “My daughter Noreth! All these years I thought you were the one who’d killed her.”
“Of all the idiots!” Mitt answered. “There were several hundred people you could have asked!”
Maewen found she could wait no longer. She had not dared believe it was really Mitt until now, but this proved it. She dashed back through the open window-doors and sped through the ballroom to the nearest stairs. Halfway down she found herself pausing – with an impatient skip, because of the vanity of it – to look at her draggled self in the grand mirrors: wet, salty hair, tear-stained face, damp rag of a best dress. Well, he’s seen me look just as bad, and he knows I’m only thirteen. But, as she sped down again, she found herself repeating, Only thirteen. He’s two hundred years old. I’m only thirteen. Over and over.
Across the slippery grand hall she sped. Rubble rolled under her racing feet, and she splatted in pools of seafoam. And there was the open door at last, open on to heaved-up paving stones and steaming water. A gust of sea scent blew in through it. Maewen hurtled out of it and stopped. There was only Wend, leaning against a pillar, soaking wet. In the distance, across uprooted cobblestones strewn with seaweed, blood-red and olive green, Mitt was just climbing over the rubble that had been the gate.
“Mitt!” she screamed.
He heard her. He stopped. She could see him think about it. He turned round and gave her a cheerful wave before he jumped off the pile of rubble and walked away down King Street.
Maewen was left gazing. Between her and the remains of the gate there was a scummy, odd-shaped pool, turgid with tainted waves, draining away into the ground as she looked at it. That was where the tomb had been, of course. That tomb must have been one of Mitt’s biggest jokes. By the time he had had it built, he must have known he was of the Undying. No wonder he made it so absurd. Maewen almost smiled, in spite of her misery. He’s two hundred years old. I’m thirteen.
She turned to Wend. Wend was staring straight ahead, dripping. “I owe you an apology,” he said.
“Yes,” Maewen agreed. “Did you take this job at the palace to wait until I turned up?”
“No,” said Wend. “I was never sure where you came from. I took the job for something to do. There’s so much time, you know.”
He said it very drearily. Maewen could see time stretch on and on, before and behind him.
“Why did you tell Noreth she was the One’s daughter?” she asked.
“I didn’t. That was an idea her mother had,” Wend said. He laughed, a nasty hacking sound, like a bad cough. “The One told me she would ride the royal road. He lied.”
“Are you sure that wasn’t Kankredin?” Maewen asked.
Wend turned and stared at her, as if this had never occurred to him. Beyond him she saw Major Alksen in the distance, followed by Dad, gingerly picking his way towards the empty slot that had been Amil’s tomb.
“Come with me,” Maewen said to Wend. “I’ve got an idea about you.” When Wend did not move, she took his chilly hand and dragged. “You ought to get into dry clothes, at least.”
“No problem,” Wend said. His clothes began to steam as if he were out in hot sun. But he made no protest when Maewen dragged him, in a trail of steam, through the rubbly hall and to the stairs. Thank goodness, she thought. For what she had in mind, it would be better that Major Alksen and Dad were busy outside. But why am I doing this? she wondered as she towed Wend upstairs. He thought he was sending me to be killed. He knew he was sending me to Kankredin. Am I trying to be worthy? But she knew why, really. She knew how Wend felt.
She dragged him through the ballroom and round into the smaller room where the pictures hung. She pushed him in front of the glass cabinet where the old cwidder lay.
“Get that out,” she said. “Play it. It’s yours, anyway.”
“Oh no,” Wend said. “I gave it to my son. And it’s the Queen’s property now.”
“Is it?” said Maewen. “I think Moril gave it to Mitt, not to Amil, and as Mitt’s still alive, it’s his. I know he won’t mind you having it in the least. It’s wasted, lying there.”
“Maybe,” Wend said. He looked down at the old beautiful instrument as if he were very tempted. “But someone will notice if I take it.”
“You are beginning to annoy me!” Maewen said. “From all I’ve heard, you’re one of the greatest magicians there ever was. Surely you can make it look as if the cwidder’s still there? Nobody’s going to try to play it, after all.”
“True.” Wend stared down at his uniform, now dry and trim. In a hopeless, fussy way, he picked a piece of dry seaweed off it. For a moment, he stared at the red-brown spray of weed as if he had never seen such a thing before. Then he smiled. He took his keys out, unlocked the cabinet, and raised the glass lid, tossing the seaweed spray inside as he did so. Then he picked up the cwidder. To Maewen, it looked as if he drew the ghost of the cwidder out of itself. There was a cwidder lying in the cabinet, fat, mellow and glossy. Wend had an identical cwidder in his hands and was hitching the strap over his shoulder.
“You’d better replace that strap,” she said. “It’s awfully frayed.”
Wend smoothed the strap. “I know. I made the strap too. It’ll hold.” His face already looked different. It was newer and happier. It became serious-happy as he turned the pegs and brought the strings into tune. And it changed to a dreamy pleasure as he picked out a little tune. The cwidder hummed, almost purred, with happiness. “Forgive me,” Wend said. He looked up at the portrait of Moril, as if Moril was really there.
“He will,” Maewen said. “It was always a burden to him.”
Wend sighed. “Yes, and that’s odd. Or perhaps not. It was my power I put in the cwidder – a good half of it.” He strummed another hasty tune. It made him stand in a different, easy way, and he looked stronger. “I should never have passed that power on,” he said, and looking as dreamy as Moril often did, he turned and walked out of the room.
“Oughtn’t you to tell my father you’re leaving?” Maewen said.
“A message is on his desk now,” Wend said, conjuring a small waterfall of notes as he walked off. His uniform had gone. He was wearing a shabby leather jacket, rather like Mitt’s.
He was really going. Maewen hurriedly called out the selfish part of why she had done this. “Wend! How can I get in touch with Mitt?”
Wend paused. “Through Cennoreth, I suppose.” Then he turned and looked at her over his shoulder, like Navis in the portrait behind her. His face had gone beyond happy to become the face of a man of power. Oddly enough, that made him look kinder. “Mitt gave me a message for you. I’m sorry – I’d forgotten until now. I’ve no idea what he meant. He said, ‘Tell her to make it four years, not two, to allow for inflation.’ Does that mean anything to you?”
It certainly did. Maewen almost laughed as she watched Wend walk away. Four years! No way! She was going to get the train to Dropthwaite tomorrow, and somehow, she was going to find Cennoreth there.
Read more from Diana Wynne Jones
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The Dalemark Quartet
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About the Author
Diana Wynne Jones’s first children’s book was published in 1973. Her magical, funny adventures have enthralled children and adults ever since, and she has inspired many of today’s children’s and fantasy authors. Among Diana’s best-loved books for older children are the Chrestomanci series and the Howl books. Her novel Howl’s Moving Castle was made into an award-winning film. She was described by Neil Gaiman as “the best children’s writer of the last forty years”.
Books by Diana Wynne Jones
Chrestomanci Series
Charmed Life
The Magicians of Caprona
Witch Week
The Lives of Christopher Chant
Mixed Magics
Conrad’s Fate
The Pinhoe Egg
Howl Series
Howl’s Moving Castle
Castle in the Air
House of Many Ways
The Dalemark Quartet
Cart and Cwidder
Drowned Ammet
The Spellcoats
The Crown of Dalemark
Archer’s Goon
Black Maria
Dogsbody
Eight Days of Luke
Enchanted Glass
The Homeward Bounders
The Merlin Conspiracy
Deep Secret
The Dark Lord of Derkholm
Year of the Griffin
The Ogre Downstairs
Power of Three
A Tale of Time City
Wilkin’s Tooth
The Game
The Islands of Chaldea (with Ursula Jones)
For older readers