by J M Sanford
As if he felt Meg's gaze upon him, Harold looked up, sullen and resentful still. “How can I do a proper job of bein' Amelia's Paladin when I'm stuck down on the ground and she's up there?” he demanded. He pulled up a handful of the sparse yellow-green grass, scattering it to the wind. “This is all wrong. I should be up there with her.”
And how do you think I feel? Meg thought, being the girl's own mother, and nothing I can do to help her… “You're the one who decided we should stay hidden for now,” she reminded him. It hadn't been a bad idea, and Percival at least had been impressed with his pupil's ability to think beyond the next battle, but Meg really was beginning to fear that Amelia had been captured. Maybe she should send Perce and Harold away to fetch a sturdy birch broom from some nearby village, and then she'd bind enchantments into the twigs and fly the thing up to Ilgrevnia herself, since wyvern and fire sprite and Amelia herself had all fallen silent and left her in less-than-blissful ignorance. She was at a loose end herself… Beyond a low rocky ridge that lay to the south-west, she could see a thin column of smoke curling up to join the clouds: maybe a traveller's campfire, but maybe a cottage's hearth smoke. “Perce!” she shouted. “Perce! We've got to find this boy something to do!”
Sir Percival appeared at the mouth of the cave. “Meg, please, keep your voice down,” he pleaded. The enormous construct they'd seen the night before still roamed the moor, evading capture by the twin gentlemen, although it seemed to have no will to escape far.
Meg looked around at the shallow, grey-green bowl of land that extended from jagged hill to jagged hill. There might well be golems about, but for the time being nothing looked like troubling them besides possibly the shaggy red cows. “We're off to beg, steal or borrow a good birch broom,” she said. “It could be a long walk, and it'll seem longer with bad company, so tell this boy to stop sulking that he's got no chances to swing a sword at anything.”
“I'm supposed to be the Paladin!” Harold protested, his round face reddening. “I'm supposed to protect Amelia!”
“And I should be the White Commander,” said Percival, “leading an army fit for a queen. But if Meg and Amelia have their way, there will be no army for our Side. Stealth is not one of the virtues expected of the White Queen,” he pointed out primly, for Meg's benefit.
“Oh, put a sock in it,” said Meg, stomping off in the general direction of civilisation. What did he want from her? To build an army of golems to rival the ones that had hunted them? She didn't know how, and wouldn't do it even if she could. Far better to spend her time teaching Amelia to defend herself. In the old days, when the Queens' Contest had been new, it would have been expected for each candidate queen to be accompanied by a small army, but then the contest had run on for hundreds of years – something nobody had predicted – and the powerful, wealthy family of the White Queen's line was not so wealthy nowadays. Nevertheless, Amelia had a Mage, a Paladin, a Commander, a Warship of sorts… well, a battlesnail, anyway… They would just have to make do. Meg spared a glance over her shoulder to be sure that the White Paladin and the White Commander were following. They were: reluctantly and at a distance. For the players who supported the White Queen now, their titles were little more than symbolic, like the elaborately carved pieces on her old chessboard. “You should count yourselves lucky if this doesn't turn into a real war,” she warned the pair of them. “Neither of you are cut from the right cloth for it.” She picked her way carefully up the wet and rocky slope, keeping an eye on the distant smoke. Crows cawed and the red cows lowed, cowbells clanking, sounds carrying far on the speedy squealing wind. The presence of cows meant a farm somewhere close by, and even a small cottage should have a broom of some description… Then the capricious wind turned, pulling the streak of smoke into a pirouette, and brought with it the ring of steel on steel. Meg crouched and crept closer, to the brow of the rocky ridge, and looked down into the valley below.
The two swordsmen fought like cats, in short and vicious clashes almost impossible to follow with the eye. As Meg watched, the duellists soon broke apart. One familiar dark-haired gentleman in fancy clothes, and one fellow dressed in an outlandish outfit of long padded black coat and some sort of black scarf that covered his hair and most of his face. A short distance from the duellists, a third figure stood holding the reins of two marbled grey horses, which stood ambivalent to the fighting. The golem twins had found a diversion from their hunt.
Even from a distance, Meg could see that the stranger in the padded coat was flagging, while the golem looked unconcerned with anything other than seeking that moment of unguardedness when he might move in for the kill. His opponent stumbled, only just raising his sword arm in time to block the next blow. If he was a mortal man, the golem would surely kill him – it was only a matter of when.
“Damned if I'm going to sit here and watch you die,” Meg muttered. She raised her fist and hurled lightning into the valley, throwing the golem backwards. “Get out of here!” she shouted at the man in the black coat. “That's no fair fight you've got yourself into!” A moment later the golem was back on his feet. Meg had been expecting that this time, readying a second lightning bolt to follow the first, but the strange gentlemen must have learned from their encounter with the witch at Ilamira: they leapt onto the backs of their marbled horses and urged the fine beasts into a gallop, soon out of range of Meg's wrath.
The man in black sheathed his sword and began to hike slowly towards Meg, who scrambled down the hillside to better ask him what on earth he thought he was doing, facing up to such opponents alone.
“Are you out to get yourself killed?” she demanded. “Who do you think you are?”
Worn, breathless, and baffled by this mad mistress of lightning bolts who had appeared out of the sky to save his skin, he stared at her with steel-blue eyes. “I am Master Greyfell of the Antwin Academy of Iletia,” he said. “Paladin in service of the Candidate Black Queen, Elizabeth Jane Castle of the Iletian Castles.” He unwound the black scarf, revealing a scarred face impossible to mistake for anybody else.
“Oh. You again.” If Meg had recognised him earlier, she might well have left him to his futile battle with the tireless automatons. “Meg Spinner,” she introduced herself, more brusquely. “White Mage.”
“Ah yes: I thought I knew that voice.”
Percival came clanking down the hill with Harold in tow, careful on the slippery rocks. “What's going on here?”
“How'd you get him off his horse?” asked Harold, ever keen to learn more about being a knight.
“I challenged him to a duel,” said the Black Paladin, as if this was the most natural and reasonable thing in the world.
“Why?” said Meg, who didn't much care for the ways of most knights.
“My rival was a gentleman in service of Prince Archalthus,” said the Black Paladin, “suitably armed for duelling, and therefore I was quite within my rights to –”
“Wait,” Meg interrupted, “those golems belong to Prince Archalthus, so I thought. But you don't?”
The man in black looked highly offended. “I am the Black Paladin,” he said again. “If it can be said that I belong to anyone, then it is Miss Castle, the Black Queen. Of course, after our defeat at the jade temple, I wanted Miss Castle out of the contest, as per the rules, but the prince's men pursued her to her home. We set out to discover what they want from her, and I elected to act as an agent of the night, striking down my Queen's enemies one by one if necessary.” He studied the blood on his blade a moment before wiping it on the grass.
Meg thought she understood his plan, even if it wasn't working. She raised an eyebrow at her own gleaming knight. “Stealth, Perce,” she said, meaningfully. And if Prince Archalthus and his rotten golems threatened both Black and White Queens, then perhaps a temporary truce was in order.
The Black Paladin narrowed his fierce eyes at the figure in armour. “Sir Percival Wintergard: so it is you, after all.”
“The White Mage wanted no-one else,” said S
ir Percival, haughtily.
“Hmm. I'd heard rumours you were making inquiries about certain rebel Cities, seeking illegal maps.”
“But where could a son of the noble house of Greyfell possibly have heard such distasteful rumours?”
Meg rolled her eyes, not bothering to ask what ancient bad blood existed between the houses of Wintergard and Greyfell. “All right,” she said to the Black Paladin, “I’ve seen how brave your girl is, but she's young and green. If you sent her into Ilgrevnia alone, it might well be more than she can handle.”
“I instructed Miss Castle to return to me before first light,” the Black Paladin admitted. And now the weak shadows were short, and the sun sailed towards the western horizon. He glanced skyward, at the looming bulk of the Flying City half-obscured amongst the grey clouds. “I fear she's been captured.”
“I 'spect something's gone amiss for our Amelia, too,” Meg admitted. “How about we put aside our differences long enough to get the girls back safe and sound?” She jumped when Percival’s gauntleted hand closed like a vice on her arm.
“Have you run mad?” the knight hissed, “Or have you merely forgotten that this man tried to kill us before?”
Meg scowled at him. “Yes, yes – at that nice pebbly beach. I do remember, Perce.” They'd have to be on their toes if they allied themselves with the Black Queen's men, but she could see clearly enough how the Black Paladin cared for his young charge, and she hoped he would see that Prince Archalthus was the greater enemy for all of them.
17: A CHAT WITH A RAT
Every night since leaving Iletia, Bessie had dreamt of falling through the clouds, towards the vast green spread of the earth below, and each time she woke with a jolt as if her soul had just plummeted five thousand feet back into her sleeping body. Finding herself in the overwarm softness of many cushions and blankets with another sleeping body curled up against her side, it took a minute for her to remember where she was. Beside her, Amelia slept soundly, while down in the kitchen below, the redheaded servant was singing happily to herself again, splashing and sloshing water about as she scrubbed pots and pans. Bessie cursed. How could she have allowed herself to fall asleep? How many hours had she wasted? She lay in the hidden nook above the kitchen, her muscles tense and her senses alert. She should awaken Amelia and they could be on their way, but she wanted a few minutes to herself to think. Even once she'd returned to Master Greyfell, he'd expect her to have some plan of her own for what to do next, even if he dismissed it as rash or ignoble. Having been convinced to her satisfaction that Prince Archalthus really was a dragon masquerading as a man, she couldn't go through with any plan to marry him. Could she? It would only be a political marriage, and once she had that crown firmly on her head, then there would be nothing to stop her from hiring an Antwin Academy alumnus and ridding herself of the unwanted Black King so that she could rule alone. Her family had sent her to the Academy in order to forge just such useful connections, as well as learn the skills she'd need. Of course, before that, there was the problem of how to persuade Amelia to hand over the crown to her instead of the prince. And then what to do about Rose… The thought of the spoilt merchant's daughter and her tale of woe finally jogged Bessie's memory: the name Scarlet had rung a bell right from the start and now Bessie remembered why. Of course, the redheaded servant from Rose's story… Well, at least Bessie had been woken by Scarlet's empty-headed singing, and not by griffins or guardsmen. But why had Scarlet acted as if she didn’t already know about Rose, locked away upstairs and awaiting marriage to the dragon prince? Bessie was just about to call down when she heard footsteps ringing on the flagstones in the corridor outside.
“Hello, Ginger,” said a voice, and Bessie peeked over the edge to see Commander Breaker standing there.
“Oh, hello Mister Breaker,” said Scarlet, weakly. Her face was a picture of guilt, even seen from above. “Where did you spring from? Would you like a bite to eat?” She turned away to hide her guilty expression, busying herself with her frying pan as the Commander sat down to the table.
Bessie lay still and silent as she knew how, and could only pray that Amelia neither woke nor snored. Barely daring to breathe, Bessie listened as Scarlet and Commander Breaker talked over the news and gossip of the palace. He had a lot to talk about: the dreadful mood Master had been in all morning – a brewing storm of something worse, he was sure; the childish tantrum Her Ladyship had thrown because she wanted to see the intruders in the dungeon but hadn't been allowed; something strange that had appeared in the City overnight – some demon of smoke and fire that had eluded capture by his men… for now. And Scarlet kept up her side of the conversation with 'no, really?' and 'how terrible', and 'isn't Her Ladyship excited for the wedding, though?'
Eventually, Scarlet sent the Commander on his way, apparently suspecting nothing, but only when Bessie could be absolutely certain that he'd gone did she risk looking over the edge again. “What was all that about?” she hissed.
Scarlet jumped, clutching dramatically at her heart. “I'm sorry, poppet. That was a bit of a close call, wasn't it?”
“A 'close call'? Whose side are you on?” Bessie demanded.
Scarlet at least had the decency to look uncomfortable. “I'm not on anybody's side. I told you before: I won't help you escape, but I won't call Master on you either. It's all I can do.”
“That's not what I meant.” Bessie didn't think Scarlet had summoned Breaker to recapture the prisoners, because why bring him here and then fail to turn them over? She didn't believe the Commander even knew they were missing from their cell. “Why don't you want to help us escape?”
“My brother says he has a clever idea,” said Scarlet. “I don't want to see it ruined by some thoughtless thing I've done.”
Beside Bessie in the comfy nook, Amelia stretched, yawned, and muttered, “What's going on?”
“Your new friend Scarlet is one of them. She's friends with Breaker and all! The one who wanted to torture us!”
“Well I don't know that I'd call him a friend,” Scarlet protested, “But I'm certain he's not as bad as you make him out to be! What harm does it do to be friendly, anyway?”
Bessie knew she'd overheard the Commander say something about torture when they'd been up in front of the dragon prince and hiding the whereabouts of the crown, but if Scarlet was even more naïve than Amelia, then what was the point in waiting around to argue about it? “So you're not denying you're a golem?” she said instead.
“I am not a golem!” Scarlet snapped, stamping her foot. “I'm a –” then she clapped a hand over her mouth.
“A what?”
“Never you mind. But I got a heart, just like you have, not a cold lump of stone, or a bitty slip of paper, or, or… whatever…”
“The prince's guards were here?” Amelia looked worried. “Where's Stupid?”
“Your fire sprite?” said Scarlet. “Lucky for all of us he's been baking biscuits in my oven for the past half hour. I hear he's making himself very unpopular with Mister Breaker's gentlemen lately.” Scarlet was trying her best to look stern, but the look just didn't fit her face. “And I think it's about time you two girls run along, now. If you want to escape, best get a move on, before you do get me into trouble, for all your best intentions.”
~
After poring over the sheaf of yellow and mildew-smelling schematics Scarlet had acquired for her, Bessie had decided that the quickest way to the surface was a short climb up the Keystone shaft, no more than ten feet. Amelia wasn't keen to risk the Keystone shaft again – what if they had more trouble with the untamed magic, when she'd only just got back to her usual height? But the other options would all take them either through inhabited portions of Archalthus' palace, or up ladders and along gangways over the grumbling, clanking guts of the Flying City. As Bessie was on her way out of Scarlet's kitchen, Amelia lingered, still leafing through the maps, turning them this way and that in the hopes that the thin ink scratches would somehow resolve into a clear a
nd direct way out.
“I can't wait here all day while you dither,” said Bessie. “You can try waltzing through the prince's parlour if you like, but I prefer to take my chances with the Keystone. It was nice to meet you, Miss Lamb.” And with that and a brief smart curtsey, she was on her way.
“Wait!” Amelia ran after her. “Just one minute!” she pleaded. Bessie hesitated, while Amelia turned to her fire sprite. She didn't even want to think what might become of him in the turbulent wild magic of the Keystone shaft. She wouldn't take the risk. “Stupid, get back to Meg and try to let her know I'm safe. I'll be back as soon as I can. And if you meet any more of those golems along the way, you just carry on with whatever it was you were doing before.” At least it might keep some of those eerie gentlemen out of her way as she tried to escape.
Glowing a searing shade of turquoise, Stupid shot off down the corridor, before Amelia could change her mind about giving him permission to make a nuisance of himself.
Amelia then proceeded with considerably less enthusiasm than her fire sprite, as she followed Bessie past the lead-lined hatch and into the service tunnel. Just ten feet up, that was all.
In the darkness, little feet pattered rapidly over the stone, and Amelia shuddered: rats. Or worse, as if rats weren't bad enough. One of them brushed past Bessie, and she squeaked. She squeaked? Amelia didn't think she'd ever heard the young assassin-in-training make such an undignified noise before…
The rat paused and turned its beady eye on Bessie. “Funny not the usual man oh well,” it said in Bessie's voice, too fast.
Bessie squeaked again, this time with a shrill edge of unmistakeable panic.
The rat paused between Bessie and Amelia, eyeing them both curiously, first one then the other. “Two men how strange must be a Thursday,” said the rat with Bessie's voice, and then – with a bunching motion that looked suspiciously like a shrug – went on its way.
