Pinch cackled, restored now to his throne atop Sir Guntifer’s shoulder. ‘What’s the use of secrets if you tell them to everyone?’
‘A reasonable point, Pinch,’ said Sophy drily.
‘Are they brothers?’ said Isabel, aghast. The two pixies had looked very much alike — too much so, for her comfort.
‘A horrifying thought, is it not?’ Sophy agreed. ‘As if Pinch were not enough by himself!’
‘Ungrateful!’ said Pinch in a mournful voice. ‘When we have but just saved both your skins from the most menacing band of trows I have seen in many a year! Tsk! But it is always that way with the ladies of England. You do them all kinds of favours and they only screech at you.’
‘When I first met you,’ Sophy said, ‘the favour you were doing me was to lead me off an incline.’
‘An incline of two feet!’ Pinch protested. ‘I would have been much surprised if you had done more than turn your ankle, and if you had suffered so much as that I should say it was due to your own clumsiness.’
‘I hope your brother is more congenial than you are!’ Sophy retorted.
Pinket answered this by shining a little brighter for an instant or two, which struck Isabel as rather like a smile — if wisps could be said to smile.
‘A pitiful band of trows!’ interjected Sir Guntifer. ‘Insolent noise-makers only! Thou art a plague, pixie. Thou and thy brother hath dispatched the miscreants, indeed, and with skill. But do not imagine that I would have allowed any harm to come to the ladies of our party if ye had not! Ye will find that my protection is no small thing.’
Pinch rolled his eyes and collapsed backwards upon the giant’s shoulder with an exaggerated display of exhaustion. ‘Lecture me later,’ he said, ‘for I am all to pieces with weariness. Heroism! It is so exhausting!’ With that, he began to snore.
Isabel could not help smiling a little. Pinch’s manner could irritate, but at times he could also be an amusing companion.
‘We must take more care,’ said Sir Guntifer, and the smile faded from Isabel’s face. ‘I had not expected to find such creatures so near to Mirramay, and methinks they will not be the only loathsome band lurking in these parts.’
‘What are “trows”, Sir Guntifer?’ asked Isabel.
‘They are part of the Goblin King’s Court,’ the giant replied. ‘Darkling beasts, full of mischief and noise, but no true threat to such as our party. However, worse may follow.’ He glanced around at the dark trees that crowded close to the road, his twisting brows drawn together. ‘I mislike the looks of this.’
Isabel guided her mount a little closer to Sophy’s, who responded with an encouraging smile. ‘All will be well,’ she said to Isabel. ‘Sir Guntifer will permit no harm to come to us, I am sure. Rarely have I encountered so impressive a gentleman in Aylfenhame!’
Sir Guntifer heard this, and Isabel judged by the softening of his mighty frown that he was pleased. ‘Onward with us,’ he rumbled. ‘Keep a wary eye upon the trees, gentle ladies.
Isabel did so, shaken more than she cared to admit by the trows’ unfriendly intentions and the oddity of their darkling music. As they rode, she could not shake the sensation that something — or someone — watched them still, even when they had ridden far from the spot where the trows had appeared. She thrice considered imparting her concerns to Sir Guntifer, and seeking his opinion. But neither he, nor any of the rest of her party, appeared to share her unease, and at last she put her unsettled feelings down to the effects of lingering alarm, and said nothing.
Chapter Ten
They stayed the next night at another wayside inn like the rest, though even this bore a changed character. The innkeepers — a pixie and a hobgoblin — were plainly uneasy, and when questioned, spoke of a lessening of such travellers as they were used to entertaining so close to Mirramay, and an increase of the troublesome kind. They stared in awe at Isabel and Sophy, and tended to their needs with alacrity.
On the following morning, the whole party set out for Mirramay. The sky was overcast and dull, and the atmosphere heavy with relentless heat. The conditions did nothing to raise Isabel’s spirits, which were rather oppressed. She was feeling far out of her depth; not merely because of the strangeness of her surroundings, nor the unpromising character of the fae they were now encountering in this part of the Outwoods. She was also suffering grave doubts as to her part in this curious adventure. Tafferty’s display of some of her witching powers had only increased her concerns, not assuaged them. To think that she, Isabel Ellerby, could ever even consider cursing a fellow being! She viewed the acquisition of such powers with dismay, and wished heartily that she could somehow separate herself from them.
But she could not, and never would. She rode towards Mirramay with a heavy heart, wishing fervently that she had never permitted her aunt to send her on such a journey.
Sophy sensed some of this, and in her typically kind way, she exerted herself to cheer Isabel. Stories of her customers at Silverling and the other people she had met in Grenlowe whiled away the hour’s travel that lay between the inn and Mirramay, and went some little way towards lightening Isabel’s heart — not least because Sophy’s tales emphasised some of the other, less alarming powers that witches were said to possess.
Halfway through her third tale, Sophy fell suddenly silent. Following the direction of her gaze, Isabel could clearly see why.
The trees of the Outwoods finally ended some short distance ahead of them, and the grandest city Isabel had ever seen rose in their place. Mirramay was beautifully laid out and looked as though someone had simply imagined it into being (which, perhaps, they had: how was she to know?). The buildings were graceful and tall, with many towering spires. They were all constructed from smooth stone like marble, in pale colours; many white, others palest golden, ice-blue or pearly. The windows were set with panes of glass of a size Isabel had never seen, nor ever thought possible to create. Ornate carvings, columns and statues decorated every one, some of them gilded in gold — or something else, something that glistened with magical iridescence.
The sounds of running water reached Isabel’s ears as they drew closer, suggesting the presence of several fountains not far away. Some delicious aroma teased at her senses, also: a mixture of the fresh scent of sea air, the perfume of summer flowers, exotic autumn spices and other things she could not name.
Truly, if she had set herself to imagine the most beautiful, magical city she was capable of dreaming, she would have fallen short of the magnificence of this place. She and Sophy rode under its vast main gate in utter silence, broken only by the ringing sounds their mounts’ hooves made upon the wide, white-paved street that led into the heart of Mirramay.
‘My goodness,’ Isabel breathed at last.
‘I had no idea,’ Sophy whispered. ‘Or I should have come here before now!’
Isabel merely nodded her agreement, struck briefly dumb by the sight of a breath-taking mosaic glimpsed through the gates of a mansion which rose to her left. So absorbed were she and Sophy in looking about themselves that they were falling behind; Sir Guntifer’s long stride had carried him some way ahead. He had been here often enough that he was unfazed by its beauty, which amazed Isabel. She could not imagine ever growing tired of it.
Sir Guntifer was, if anything, walking faster. His head began to turn this way and that, as though he were searching for something in particular. Isabel and Sophy hastened to catch up, urging their mounts to walk a little faster in pursuit of the tree-giant.
Gradually it dawned on Isabel that something was amiss with the beauteous city. They had been riding for some minutes through its wide main thoroughfare, and they had yet to see a single other person. Nor were there sounds of activity elsewhere; the air was still and she could hear little save for the sounds they themselves made. Looking more closely at the houses, she realised something else: as beautiful as they were, they were not well-kept. In fact, many of them bore an air of decay. When they came upon a wall which had partially tu
mbled down through neglect, she realised that Mirramay was not only quiet but abandoned.
Sir Guntifer had stopped, and was waiting for them. ‘Make haste, gentle ladies,’ he said as they caught up with him. ‘Fair Mirramay! Never did I think to see it thus!’ He looked distressed, and Isabel’s heart swelled with pity for him.
‘Why is it empty?’ she said, gently.
‘I do not know,’ Sir Guntifer said, in a grim tone. ‘Balligumph warned me that it was not as I remember, but this…’ He had taken off his moss-velvet hat and now twisted it around in his hands, his great emerald eyes sad as he stared at the abandoned buildings around him. ‘The Royals are gone from Mirramay, and the city herself mourns Their loss.’ He spoke of the monarchs with a reverence which surprised Isabel, for it seemed to her that it far exceeded the respect the people of England felt for theirs. Sir Guntifer shook his head in despair. ‘Twas said of old that the King and the Queen were the heart of Aylfenhame. Were they ever to fall, the realm itself would fall into disrepair until They should be restored. Never did I wholly believe it, until now.’
‘Do you mean that this—’ Isabel indicated the silence and decay with a sweep of her arm — ‘May happen to the rest of Aylfenhame as well?’
‘Who is to say that it shall not?’ replied Sir Guntifer. ‘Proud Mirramay! Fairest city of all, and once the beating heart of the realm. To see it thus, it breaks my heart.’
Isabel began to wonder whether it would have been wiser to bring Lihyaen after all, but the same thought had apparently occurred to Sophy. ‘She is not ready,’ Sophy said softly to Isabel alone. ‘There is more afoot here than is apparent. It is not as simple as a person’s sitting upon a throne. The land itself must accept a Queen — or a King.’
That Isabel might have guessed for herself, had she considered the matter. It could not be the case that no other person in the whole of Aylfenhame possessed sufficient Royal blood to assume the throne; so why had no one done so?
‘Why did I sleep so long!’ Sir Guntifer lamented. He was squeezing his hat so hard that his hands shook. ‘The death of the Princess, and the Queen! The King lost! Some part of this I — we — could have prevented!’
Isabel gently disengaged Sir Guntifer’s hat from his hands, and laid one of her own upon his arm. ‘You could not have known,’ she said softly. ‘It is not your doing.’
Sir Guntifer took a huge, gusty breath and exhaled, expelling a cloud of tiny green shoots from his mouth as he did so. He shook his great head and sighed again, sending a flurry of fluffy white seeds sailing after, and carefully restored his hat to his head. ‘We defeated the Kostigern,’ he said sombrely. ‘Never did I dream that a darker threat would follow, nor that another could carry out his foul intent when he had failed.’ He shook himself, and looked around, blinking. ‘Well, well. That is the past. ‘Tis to the future we must look.’
It occurred to Isabel belatedly that Pinch and Pinket were absent. Even as this dawned upon her she spotted them approaching, both in wisp-shape, their lights burning low. They reached Sir Guntifer and settled upon him, one on each shoulder. Pinch resumed his pixie shape with a strong shudder, and gasped something inaudible.
‘What manner of news have ye brought?’ Sir Guntifer said with some urgency.
‘Trows!’ announced Pinch, his face dark with disgust. ‘Goblins! Hobs! Redcaps and boggles, ogres, trolls — not the friendly Balligumph-a-like, you understand. They’ve even got a thrice-cursed wight down there.’
Pinket suddenly became a pixie, and said in a piping voice: ‘Imps, too.’
Pinch growled. ‘And those wretched dogs. Hill-hounds. The white ones, with the red eyes.’ He gave another violent shudder and wrapped his arms around himself, hugging tightly as though to ward off these combined perils.
Sir Guntifer shook his head slowly. ‘Twas once the case that all were welcome in Mirramay,’ he said. ‘Trows, goblins, ogres and all. These folk are not unwelcome here, even now.’
Pinch took off his hat and threw it down in disgust. ‘That is not what I’m saying, Gunty! They are here in force. They’re all over the city. There’s not a single one of the fair folk to be seen, either — just the darkling things. And there are rats.’
‘Rats everywhere,’ said Pinket.
‘And you’ve seen what’s become of “fair Mirramay”,’ added Pinch darkly. ‘It might be more rightly called Darkling Town by this time.’
Sir Guntifer rumbled something low and inarticulate, a sound reminiscent of crashing branches and fierce rain. ‘Where are these foul folk?’ he demanded.
Pinch waved a hand. ‘That way,’ he said vaguely.
‘What are they doing, Pinch?’ Sophy interjected. Her tone and expression implied that she found something amiss with Pinch’s story.
‘Taking over the city!’ he said dramatically. ‘They’re mustering, or something.’
‘All by themselves?’ Sophy put her hands upon her hips and stared hard at Pinch. ‘You know as well as I do that groups of darklings do not collectively decide to do anything whatsoever. In fact, persuading them to agree upon the smallest thing for more than five minutes together is bordering upon impossible.’
Pinch was silent.
‘Was that not why the Kostigern was so fearsome?’ she persisted. ‘Because he alone could.’
‘Say not that he hath returned!’ said Sir Guntifer, recoiling in alarm. ‘Pinch! It is not so?’
‘It’s not him,’ said Pinch.
‘So there is someone else involved,’ said Sophy triumphantly. ‘Tell us at once! Is it Hidenory?’
Isabel judged that Sophy was expecting an assent to her question — hoping for it, perhaps. But Pinch shook his head. ‘Tall fellow,’ he said. ‘Looks like one of your types.’ He nodded at Sophy and Isabel as he said so. ‘Red hair,’ he added as an afterthought.
Sophy blinked. ‘A human?’ she said. ‘A human has brought the darklings here?’
Pinch cackled madly. ‘Could be. Could be not.’
‘Let us resolve this question once and for all,’ Sophy said firmly. ‘Take us to this human, Pinch.’
‘Are you mad?’ Pinch gasped. ‘You cannot just walk into the middle of that lot! They’ll eat you alive!’
‘Tall, with red hair?’ Sophy repeated. ‘Pale sort of fellow? Bright green eyes?’
Pinch stared at her in awe. ‘You are reading my mind,’ he whispered.
Isabel caught on. ‘Wild hair?’ she suggested, gesturing with her hands to indicate a riotous arrangement. ‘And he smokes a pipe with a long, thin stem.’
Pinch stared from Sophy to Isabel and back, and shook his head in wonder. ‘I never knew,’ he whispered. ‘Do all the ladies of England read minds?’
Sophy made a shooing motion with her hands. ‘We know this gentleman,’ she said briskly. ‘Take us to him.’
‘It’s my thought that he’s dangerous,’ said Pinch dubiously. ‘I do not think you could know him.’
‘Certainly he is! But not to us. Onward, Pinch. Let us not waste any more time.’
Pinch glanced at Isabel, who smiled reassuringly at him. ‘It is all right,’ she said. ‘We do know him, indeed. He will not harm us.’
‘He might not, but his foul little friends might,’ muttered Pinch. As he spoke, he shifted to wisp shape with resentful slowness, and drifted off Sir Guntifer’s shoulder. Pinket followed.
‘Are ye certain, gentle ladies?’ said Sir Guntifer. ‘I mislike the scheme. Balligumph placed ye into my hands, and it falls to me to bring ye safely home.’
‘All will be well, sir,’ said Isabel, smiling upon him. She said it with conviction, for though Pinch’s stories of darkling creatures had alarmed her at first, she had felt much reassured the moment she realised who had them in charge. Indeed, she was positively looking forward to seeing him! She had always found him congenial, and it had been some time since she had last encountered him.
‘Very well, then,’ said the giant gravely. ‘Then we will follow the tricksy pixies.�
�� He gestured them ahead in the wisps’ wake and fell in behind them. Isabel felt further reassured by his presence behind; no malicious thing could creep up upon them while Sir Guntifer was there.
They wound their way through several long streets, turning so often that Isabel wondered how Pinch and Pinket could remember the way. As they rode, they saw increasing signs of habitation: some of the buildings were littered with rubbish, fires burned, and the smells of cooking rose into the morning air. Isabel began to glimpse movement here and there out of the corners of her eyes, though whenever she turned to look she saw nothing but an empty street, or an open gate swinging slightly in the breeze.
That changed, so abruptly as to draw a gasp from her. They turned a corner and found themselves riding into the midst of a crowd of fae creatures. Ogres even taller than Balligumph leaned against the walls, imps as tall as their kneecaps wandering around among them. Hobs and goblins fought over morsels of food and sparkling jewellery, and a troll sat by himself in a corner between two buildings, playing a horn which sounded eerily similar to the one the trows had used to lure their party into the trees. Over the crowd floated several wisps; Isabel could not tell if any of them were Pinch and Pinket.
In the middle of this ragged array of the fae there stood an enormous throne. Its seat was wide enough to accommodate four people sitting side-by-side, and its back was easily ten feet tall. The throne was made out of pure gold, or so it appeared; remembering Tafferty’s comments about Glamour, Isabel wondered whether it might look altogether different somewhere underneath the illusion. An enormous, deliciously soft-looking cushion of purple velvet covered the seat, atop which sat the Goblin King.
He looked just as Isabel remembered him. He even still wore the clothes of a gentleman of England, though the precision of his attire had deteriorated somewhat: his coat was missing, his shirt-sleeves were rolled up in a most improper fashion, and he was hatless. But it was unmistakeably the same man: he who had called himself Mr. Green, and occupied Hyde Place near Tilby for several months. He had departed the neighbourhood only recently, to the dismay of its residents, for the persona he had adopted had borne all the virtues of good looks, wealth and charm; more than a few young ladies had fixed their hopes and their affections upon him. None save Sophy Landon and Isabel herself had known his true identity.
Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman Page 12
