by J M Sanford
“Meg, where were you?” Sir Percival demanded.
“Don't fuss,” she said, her face reddening again. “You're still in one piece, aren't you?” Her gaze turned to the mired horse, which stood still, half-submerged in the mud and showing none of the panic or fear that a living creature would have. Either it didn't understand its fate, or it understood too well and was resigned to it. Meg's smile vanished at the sight. She approached it as if she wished she could offer the poor beast some comfort, but she was sensible enough not to get mired in the mud herself. “Knew those horses were golems, did you?” she asked Master Greyfell, sharply. She might not be as tender-hearted as her daughter, but she didn't stand for needless cruelty.
Master Greyfell's face showed no emotion. “The horse was the larger target,” he said, simply. Whether the horse had been a real horse, or even a talking horse, or just another stone creature, the only difference it made to him was a matter of strategy. He refrained from commenting on Meg's appalling marksmanship, but of course… Meg had been trying not to hit the horses before she knew exactly what they were.
“The larger target,” Meg muttered, looking suddenly ferocious. She punched Master Greyfell hard in the arm, much to his surprise. “I s’pose my snails were the larger target, back at that pebbly beach?”
Greyfell evaded the second punch – a lady may slap a gentleman in the face if he has done something dishonourable, but ladies’ etiquette books rarely mention punching. “Madam! Restrain yourself. We hoped to slow the progress of your Warship. They were only snails.”
Meg hissed and turned her back on him. “Well, Perce,” she said. “We've caught one of these wretched golems, like you wanted. Now what?”
21: THE ARCHMAGE’S WORKSHOP
Amelia stood before the heavy oak door of Archmage Morel's workshop, the brass plate of the lock gleaming new. Her lock-charming spell was simple enough, but she hesitated. Scarlet had told them that if they wanted the vessel of magically powerful lamb's love oil from the Archmage's workshop, it would be best for them to wait until dinnertime, when the sleepless Archmage would be away from his work the longest, so Amelia and Bessie had spent most of the day hiding in the nook where Scarlet slept, out of sight of passers-by.
“Do you think she's trying to get us caught?” Bessie whispered in Amelia's ear, making her heart leap and her legs turn to jelly. She wished the young assassin wouldn't just appear behind her like that…
“Who, Scarlet? I don't think so.” Those hours in the nook had been a tortuous and fraught kind of boredom, as the two fugitives emerged only occasionally to fetch food or stretch their legs, and feared betrayal by the two griffins at any moment. Amelia had tried to pass the time by teaching Bessie her invisibility spell, but that had done little to relieve the boredom.
“But I mean –”
“I know what you mean,” said Amelia, sharply. Now that the time had come, Amelia had her own growing doubts about their griffin allies: Archmage Morel's workshop occupied the floor below the palace's dining hall, and Scarlet warned that the Prince and his companions would be having dinner above while Amelia and Bessie broke into the workshop. Bessie had wanted to sneak in during the night, but Scarlet warned she couldn't guarantee that the Archmage would either go to bed or stay in bed, so she insisted that dinnertime was the best time. She'd keep an eye on the old Archmage throughout the meal. The two girls would have to be quiet as they could, though, and be ready to run or hide at first sign of a warning. With this in mind, Amelia whispered furtively to the lock while Bessie kept a look out. Amelia's spell for locks, the one she'd practised so diligently for the many times it would prove useful, was failing her for the first time. Her mind felt like a waterwheel trying to turn through ice. She began to raise her voice at the recalcitrant lock, forgetting Scarlet's warnings as her face grew hot and her temper frayed.
“Here comes trouble,” Bessie muttered.
Amelia looked round, alarmed, only to see the black griffin sauntering down the corridor towards them, carrying in his beak an enormous key of a dull purplish-grey metal. He offered the key to Amelia, and she took it nervously, recognising it for the magical metal amaranthine. But when she put the enchanted key in the lock, it refused to turn. She twisted it as hard as she could, first one way then the other, jiggling the door handle.
The black griffin stood watching expectantly. “Now the magician speaks the words,” he said.
Amelia sighed, feeling frustrated and foolish. Of course: only someone who knew magic would be able to enter the Archmage's private rooms, and only then with the key. She worried this puzzle had more layers she'd failed to consider. After all, the lock had kept the griffins out up until now, even though Sable was a combination of devious crow and agile cat, who'd apparently found little challenge in pilfering the Archmage's key. “But I don't know the words,” Amelia protested. “Do you?”
“The words are short,” said the griffin, as if that was any kind of answer. He cocked his head to one side, his eye gleaming silver-blue as he looked at her. “You are a magician?”
“No, I'm not! I'm just a witch!” Still a green and nervous witch, at that, with the memories of her mistakes and failures always quick to jump to the forefront of her mind.
“Perhaps your lock spell will work better now that you have the key?” suggested Bessie.
“I'd be surprised,” Amelia grumbled. Part of her, the more cautious and sensible part, wanted to use this as an excuse to give up and try a less reckless plan – the vessel of lamb's love oil hidden in the workshop might make her a more powerful witch, but at what cost? A more stubborn part of her – most likely the part that made her a witch in the first place – didn't want to be beaten by this irritating magical lock. She set to it again.
It might have been simple enough for the Archmage to whisper a quick spell to the lock and enter, but not so for Amelia. Whether it was her untrained ear or not, the lock seemed unmelodious: its magic jarred and jangled and made her teeth itch every time her quiet chanting dropped out of step with its reasonless rhythm. She thought she had it once, and lunged to twist the key, only to be rewarded with a vicious spike of pain. In a moment of gut-wrenching panic she feared she'd been struck blind, and she staggered back with a cry, Bessie catching her. Her vision came back slowly, blurred at first, and she found the black griffin watching her, no doubt wondering why she was making such a meal of the lock that the Archmage opened so casually. She persisted, working with the lock rather than against it, and just as the pressure behind her eyes became almost unbearable, it all slipped away. Jerkily, without the touch of any hand, the key turned in the lock, and the door swung open with a loud creak. Amelia hesitated on the threshold, wary of any traps the Archmage might have set for intruders who reached this far into his private domain. Only when Bessie tapped her on the shoulder and handed her a handkerchief did Amelia noticed the warm trickle of liquid inching from her nose towards her lip. She wiped it, and with a shock realised it was blood. She guessed then what an achievement it had been for her to open such a lock, set by a powerful mage, and was glad she hadn't given away the secret of her lock-charming spell just for Bessie's shoddy bird wings. Bessie would have got the better end of that bargain by a long way…
The black griffin slunk past her, into the workshop, and reluctantly Amelia followed. The Archmage must be a magpie by nature, hiding away anything that glittered or looked curious. The walls of the workshop were hidden behind what looked suspiciously like junk, for the most part. Old books and grimy jars, drawers and shelves of dusty things. Amelia eyed a rusted old suit of armour warily as she passed it, but it stayed crumpled and slumped against the wall, and didn't speak to her. More frightening by far were the twin statues, glossy black, of two smartly dressed gentlemen. Their eyes were open and staring straight ahead, carved of lifeless, sightless stone. Twin gentlemen, just like those she'd seen at Lannersmeet, Ilamira and the jade temple, only these two were dormant, resting… waiting. Bessie and Sable were both busy delving into drawers on opp
osite sides of the room. Unable to help herself and wondering when she'd got so bold, Amelia waved her hand inches in front of the face of one of the golems. Detailed as they were, for the time being their stone eyes couldn't see; their stone ears couldn't hear. She wondered who'd carved the fine details of these figures – the watch chains and the thread in their buttons, the hair, the folds in the fabric – so that when the time came, magic breathed life easily into these perfect simulacra. Surely not the trembling old man she'd seen at the jade temple?
The far wall was dominated by large arched windows, spellpapers plastered onto the glass – presumably they were a new addition like the shiny lock on the door. Before the window stood a crystal globe, bigger than the snailcastletank, on a cast iron frame over a large round hole. The globe was bound in more amaranthine, flurries like snow dancing through the fractures of the glassy depths, which sparkled in the golden glow of a sun sinking below the level of the Flying City. Bessie, quickly bored with petty theft, was drawn to this artefact like a magnet. Even her hair seemed to drift towards it as she approached. “Is this what I think it is?” she asked Sable.
“Orb!” said the griffin. He danced excitedly around a large switch to one side of the globe.
“Rose said something about the prince building an entire world for her. Is it…” Bessie peered into the crystal. “It's not in there, is it?”
The griffin snorted. “Not in the Orb: through the Orb. New world's not finished yet. Soon, though.”
Amelia felt weak in the strange presence, felt a flow like cool air currents over her skin, as the Orb drew power from all around it, pulling the magic from her very bones. She stepped back, hugging herself and glaring resentfully at this artefact of immense and unnatural power, before going to open one of the windows a crack. If the Archmage came back early from his dinner, it might pay them to have another way out of the workshop… The windows opened easily from the inside, onto a broad terrace overlooking Ilgrevnia's Keystone. It was a pleasant day for the time of year, as long as the sun shone and the wind stood still. Amelia heard the sound of conversation from a window the floor above, and remembered that they were directly below the dining hall. Carefully, quietly, she closed the window. Overhead, the scrape of chairs being pulled into a table could be heard – dinner must be about to begin.
Apparently heedless of any danger, Bessie orbited the Orb, examining it from all angles, and didn't need to say that she was looking for some way in. But the Orb was a perfect sphere, its smooth surface unbroken at any point. Dissatisfied, Bessie stopped and crouched to peer over the edge into the hole. “Water,” she muttered to herself. “It's some sort of… pool? Or a well? What's that for? Oh! Look at that!” she hissed, tugging at Amelia's sleeve. “It is in there, somehow!” There, hidden amongst the shards of the crystal's interior facets stood a palace of shining white towers, tall and regal, as blusters of snow swirled all around.
Amelia had no such curiosity as to how the Orb or the artificial world worked, and – keen to distance herself from its eerie pull – she turned her attention to the other contents of the Archmage's workshop. Soon enough she wished she hadn't. An Archmage didn't keep such innocuous bits and pieces as might pile up around the workspaces of a woodworker or a tailor. Apothecaries and surgeons might be more inclined to keep such grisly things: bones, sorted and labelled, and a bleached skeleton hanging from a hook – a human skeleton but for the skull, horned and too large. Jars of dead things, whole or in pieces, identifiable or not, bleached grey, or dark and slimy, or shrivelled and dry. Curiosities, and what Amelia suspected were spare parts. Other jars appeared empty, but they had neatly written spellpapers glued to them, and although Amelia couldn't read them, she guessed that invisible trapped souls lurked behind the dusty glass. She went to the enormous drawing board, lit magnificently by the large windows, to look at the jumbled, rumpled, tea-stained papers on it. She'd had a fleeting thought it might give her some insight into the enemy's plans, but she couldn't read the spidery language the Archmage wrote his notes in, and she found most of the diagrams more complicated and nonsensical than the line charts which steered the dance of the Flying Cities. A couple of the diagrams were clearly anatomical, and her gaze skidded quickly off these, nausea roiling in a stomach already unsettled by nerves. Close by there stood a large marble slab, grooved all around the edges to catch the blood from dissections and worse.
Bessie was still preoccupied with the Orb and its workings. “Yes I can see that, but what's that bit for?” she demanded of the black griffin. Her tone had changed from eager curiosity to frustration, and she was beginning to raise her voice, loud enough that Amelia glanced nervously at the silent stone men, but Sable only shrugged and ruffled his wingfeathers. He was looking for something in particular.
“Aha!” He'd found an old wardrobe and went scrabbling furiously through its contents, until something heavy rolled out across the floor. Amelia swore she somehow knew it for what it was, without ever having seen it before: the deadly Device that Scarlet had described. The black griffin tried to grab it, his claws clinking against the metal casing as he chased it across the floor, unable to get a grip on it. He growled, and Amelia realised what he might do – just too late. She turned away blushing from the black-haired, blue-eyed naked man who appeared crouched in place of the black griffin. Stifling embarrassed laughter, Bessie averted her eyes, too. Griffin claws were badly suited to human inventions, and Amelia thought for a moment that she might get the dangerous Device away from Sable by offering to help. But, if she could judge the black griffin's character, he would just as likely be insulted by such an offer. She heard a chirping like a particularly aggravated cricket, and glanced back just long enough to see that the noise came from Sable twisting the two halves of the Device. “Only need a couple of hours to get far away,” said the griffin. “Seven o'clock.”
“Where should we put it?” Bessie asked, still without looking at him. “Where will it work best?”
“Now wait a minute,” said Amelia, realising that she'd just seen her chance to implement any plan of her own flit right past her. “Scarlet said to take the Device back to her…”
Bessie shook her head. “I don't think so. Sable and I talked about it while you were sleeping, and we agreed that burning out the node is the best way to get rid of the prince. Isn't that what we all want?”
In the months that passed since she'd learned of the White King's existence, Amelia still hadn't made up her mind what she wanted to do about him. Right now, she was more bothered about what to do about that Device… Thinking quickly, she remembered the broom standing in its rack at the abandoned shop. Perhaps, if she saw where Bessie and the griffin hid the Device, she could fly it out into the wilderness, somewhere far from any innocent bystander, and be safely away before it… did whatever it would do. She might do some catastrophic magical damage to some lonely valley, but those hills had looked virtually uninhabited. She desperately tried to think not only where the shop with the broom had been, but also how long it would take her to run there, and without Bessie or the griffins catching on… But why should she have to take such a risk? Bessie was supposed to be her ally! They'd escaped together, and now… “You agreed we'd take the Device back to Scarlet,” she said, stubbornly.
“I don't know that we can trust Scarlet.”
“I don't know that I can trust you!”
“Sorry,” said Bessie, refusing to meet Amelia's eye. “But this way will work, I'm sure of it, and we may not get another chance to be rid of the prince.”
As both girls were waiting for Sable to turn back into his griffin form before they looked, neither of them saw him sneaking the Device over to where the Orb stood. Bessie glanced over her shoulder just in time to shout “No! Don't!” which only made him jump and drop the thing. The Device rattled down into the well beneath the Orb, dropping into the water with a loud splash. Amelia stared in horror at the Orb. She couldn't breathe, as she waited for whatever terrible thing would happen.
Bessie crept over and peered down into the water. “Well. That'll just have to do, won't it?”
“Well!” Sable cackled. “Well!”
Amelia forced her shaking legs to walk her across the room to join Bessie. Looking down into the shadows, she could just about make out the half-submerged Device, rocking slightly in the water. So much for her plan to remove it to some isolated valley… She glared at Sable, who was still laughing. “Didn't your sister say it would be tremendously dangerous to put it there?”
“It'll only be dangerous to that wretched pompous prince and his men,” said Bessie, although she sounded doubtful. “We'll be long gone by the time it goes off.”
“But what will it do?” Amelia thought of the unpredictable magic she'd encountered thus far: Meg's dire warnings about careless gesturing while wearing conjuring rings; the hazards of the Keystone shaft; the murky mysteries of soul magic.
With a floof of black feathers, Sable transformed back into his preferred form, cackling like a magpie, his blue eyes glittering. “Don't know. Bad things.”
22: TOO MANY QUEENS
The clock in Keystone Square struck five solemn chimes. Unaware of the events occurring not very far beneath his feet, Prince Archalthus sat at the head of the table in the grand dining hall, staring peevishly at his fine golden pocket watch as he awaited his intended bride. His Commander always arrived to dinner on time, and even his Mage had been pried out of the workshop by a servant, though the old man sat scribbling on a scrap of paper at the dinner table. In the beginning, when the delicate Miss Hartwood had still been suffering the shock of being transported to Ilgrevnia without warning, she'd often arrived to dinner an hour late and sullen with it, if she deigned to turn up at all. Now, although they'd come to an arrangement, she still liked to arrive late, just by a few token minutes. Archalthus found it almost unbearable. He'd begun to suspect that was the point of it, and wondered what marriage to this lovely but infuriating girl would be like. Perhaps one of the other two would make a better wife and a better queen. Miss Castle had shown promisingly good manners in their earlier meeting, but Archalthus sensed she had a devious streak, and perhaps more importantly, he doubted she would grow into any great beauty. Miss Lamb, on the other hand… well, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen such beautiful hair, gleaming like gold, and perhaps the girl was malleable enough that she could be taught good manners.
