The Robe of Skulls

by Vivian French

  Lady Lamorna had been secretly reaching for her leather purse, but now she paused to stare thoughtfully at Foyce. “And why might that be?” she asked.

  “I have a way with animals,” Foyce said sweetly. “And”— she indicated the soldiers, who were marching up and down behind the gates with a great deal of impressive foot stomping —“with men. But I don’t wish to inconvenience Your Evilness. I want to benefit us both.” And she led the quivering Figs to the far side of the road, where there was a comfortable bench provided for the aged of Dreghorn on their way back from market.

  Lady Lamorna dismounted and sat down, her mind whirling. She was uncomfortably aware that her disguise had not been a success. Perhaps she was getting old and did need help. Human beings were so much more trouble than she remembered. Had it not been for her urgent need for gold, and plenty of it, she would happily have retreated to her castle that very moment . . . but her dress was ordered! And the Ancient Crones might take terrible revenge if she failed to pay her debts. Besides, she wanted that dress badly. Very badly.

  Lady Lamorna looked slyly at Foyce. Could they work together? The girl certainly seemed able to charm her way wherever she wanted. But could she be trusted?

  Foyce knew exactly what Lady Lamorna was thinking. She could smell her weariness and greed and suspicion, and she gave a tinkling laugh. “Trust is always such a problem, isn’t it? Let me tell you what I know about you, and then I will tell you something about me that no one else knows.” She paused. “You can use it against me if you need to.”

  Lady Lamorna leaned back against the bench. This girl was even cleverer than she had thought. “Go on,” she said.

  Foyce ticked off the points on her fingers as she spoke. “One: you are looking for princes. That is why you are here for the Royal Engagement Celebration. Two: you have plans for these princes. In the words of your green-faced servant: ‘Prince. Zap! Frog.’ Three”— and here Foyce was hoping that her beautiful mask of a face gave no sign that she was guessing —“as your disguise is distinctly unoriginal, it follows that you are short of cash, so you are intending to use those frogs in order to bargain for a large reward. Gold.” She laughed again. “I’m very fond of gold myself.”

  “You may be right,” Lady Lamorna said, “or you may not. Tell me your secret.”

  Foyce twirled a ringlet and swung her dainty foot. “My mother was a werewolf. In Gorebreath, Dreghorn, and all the kingdoms of the Northern Plains, such an inheritance is punished with banishment. That is why my beloved father took me to live in Fracture. But now my time has come, dear Lady Lamorna. I can smell your excitement. Tell me the rest of your plan!”

  Lady Lamorna made up her mind. She took a deep breath and leaned forward. “Listen,” she said.

  Marcus swung himself out of the saddle. The pony was hot and panting, and Marcus took time to walk him to and fro to cool him.

  “Good boy,” he said, “you did really well!” Then, leaving Glee to crop the long green grass in Dreghorn churchyard, he slipped into the doorway of the tall church tower and began to climb the steep stone steps. Up and up he climbed, the darkness only occasionally broken by a narrow shaft of light from a slitted window. Marcus tried hard not to think about what might be hiding in the gloom; it wasn’t so much the darkness he minded as the thought that he could be trapped at the top of a solid stone spiral staircase. He breathed a sigh of relief as he came out onto the dusty balcony where the bells were hung. Gritting his teeth, he headed for the wooden ladder that led to a small door that led to the top of the tower.

  Once Marcus was outside in the sunshine, all his fears fell away. He hurried to the edge and, as he had hoped, found he had a perfect view of the Royal Gardens. Anxiously he scanned the crowds and almost immediately saw Arry walking hand in hand with Princess Nina-Rose, while his parents beamed benevolently from behind.

  “Phew,” Marcus sighed. “So that’s all right!”

  “You reckon, kiddo? Keep watching. Look out for a dame with a great big basket!”

  Marcus jumped, his heart flip-flopping so wildly in his chest that he couldn’t speak.

  “Keep your hair on,” said the small squeaky voice. “And keep your peepers open. Action’s just about to start, if you ask me. Which you ain’t, but you should.”

  Marcus, having looked in all directions but the right one, finally found the owner of the voice crouched in the shadow of the weather vane. “Are you . . . are you a bat?” he asked in disbelieving tones.

  “Sure am, kiddo. Not usually out in this weather. Can’t see too good, so you keep looking.” The bat waved a scaly wing. “D’you see the dame yet?”

  Marcus obediently went back to the tower wall. “What sort of dame?”

  A horrible thought leaped into his head. “You don’t mean the tall one with whiskers? The one with the troll?”

  “Nah — they wouldn’t let her in.” The bat chuckled. “She was outside the gates last I saw. Spitting mad. And the troll was all over the place — head one side of the road, body the other.”

  Marcus squinted into the sunlight, but the gates were too far away for him to make out anything very clearly. “So who am I looking for, then?”

  “Told ya. Big basket.”

  “I can see lots of people with baskets,” Marcus reported. “They’re giving out ribbons and biscuits and flowers and stuff.”

  “Blond,” the bat said. “Skippy. Big blue eyes.”

  “Oh!” Marcus suddenly leaned so far forward he was in danger of falling over. “You mean the pretty one? Wow! She’s amazing! I always thought all girls looked the same, but she’s fantastic! What’s her name? Hey, maybe I should go and join the party after all!” He pulled himself back onto his feet, his face one big grin.

  “No!” the bat squeaked as loudly as he could. “Keep watching!”

  Marcus hesitated. There was urgency in the bat’s squeak, and reluctantly he looked down again. “She’s talking to Arry,” he said. “Nina-Rose is looking pretty sick. Now she’s walking Arry away into the rose garden — hey! Guess what? They’re going into the rose bower together. Rats! I can’t see them clearly . . . oh. Oh, no.” Marcus went pale.

  “Tell me, kiddo!”

  “It’s that purple smoke. . . . I saw it once before.”

  “That’s bad,” the bat said grimly. “What’s happening now?”

  “She’s coming out on her own and”— Marcus rubbed his eyes furiously —“she’s holding a frog! That’s so weird! Now she’s shoved the frog into her basket, and she’s sort of skipping away. . . . What’s going on? I don’t understand — why isn’t Arry coming out?”

  “Just keep watching,” the bat said.

  “The frog girl’s heading for the Royal Pavilion. Oh! She’s met Prince Albion! He’s talking to her and — yuck! — he’s kissing her hand. Oh, and there’s little Prince Vincent too —”

  Marcus’s voice was drowned out by a trumpet call, followed by the Dreghorn Brass Band bursting into a foot-tapping version of the conga. The bat groaned, flapped out of the shade, and landed on Marcus’s shoulder. “Keep looking,” he urged. “What’s the scene?”

  “They’re all dancing,” Marcus reported. “But I still can’t see Arry —”

  “The girl!” the bat hissed. “What’s she doing?”

  “She’s dancing too. She’s at the head of a line. . . . there’s Vincent and Albion and Tertius too — and Fedora’s there, but she doesn’t look too keen, she’s just hanging on to Tertius — and Nina-Rose as well, and about six of Nina-Rose’s little sisters. They’re doing the conga in and out of the tents — they look hysterical! Albion looks like a total idiot! Now she’s leading them around the Pavilion and across the yard to the walled garden.” Marcus snapped his fingers in time with the music. “Di-da-da-da-dah-da, di-da-da-da-dah-da! Nina-Rose’s little sisters have had enough . . . but the rest of them are going around and around and around the fountain, and they’re laughing like crazy — Hey! They’ve flung their crowns into the water! W
hat’s that frog girl doing? Oh, my sainted stars. There’s purple smoke everywhere — I can’t see. . . . Yes, I can! Oh, no. No! No!” Marcus went whiter than white and clutched at the stone wall for support. “She’s turned them into frogs!” he whispered. “The fountain’s full of them! She’s turned them into frogs — what’s she done to Arry?” Marcus lunged for the tower door.

  The bat fluttered wildly in his face. “Watch her!” he begged. “See what she does next!”

  But it was too late. Marcus was already hurling himself down the ladder. As he reached the belfry, his way was blocked by a burly Dreghornian in national costume.

  “Come to see the bells, m’lad?” he inquired cheerfully. “Well, I’d suggest you whiz down them stairs smartish. You don’t want to be in ’ere once they starts a-ringing, which they will do any second now.”

  Marcus seized the man by his suspenders. “Ring them now!” he yelled. “There’s a witch turning princes into frogs — you’ve got to warn them! Ring the bells!” And he shot away down the spiral staircase.

  The Dreghornian shook his head. “They starts drinking so young these days,” he said sadly as he checked his watch. “Exactly three o’clock.” He leaned over the stairwell and bellowed, “Let’s have those bells, Grebbin!”

  The bells rang out as Marcus reached the last step.

  At least that’ll warn everybody, he thought as he shot out the church door. Seconds later, the sound of cheering swelled up to mingle with the bells. Marcus groaned as he hurtled into the graveyard. “They think it’s part of the celebrations! I have to get there and tell them. . . . Glee! Glee! Where are you?”

  But there was no sign of the pony. Marcus groaned again and hurled himself at the thick holly hedge that separated the churchyard from the Royal Gardens. It was a solid hedge, grown to repel the boldest of intruders, but Marcus was desperate. Scratched and bleeding, he emerged at last on the other side to be greeted by a large soldier with his hands on his hips.

  “And what do you think you’re doing, laddie?” the soldier asked.

  Marcus was too breathless to answer at once. He glanced around and saw to his complete astonishment that the celebration party was continuing exactly as before. Crowds of Dreghornians were happily strolling among the tents and stalls, helping themselves from tables groaning under the weight of assorted pies and puddings. Various kings and queens were sitting in the shade of the Royal Pavilion’s golden canopy, sipping cooling drinks from silver cups. There was no sign of the frog girl.

  “I asked you a question, laddie,” the soldier said. “What do you think you’re doing? Scruffy little urchin —”

  Marcus shut his eyes, yelled, and head-butted the soldier in the stomach as hard as he could. The soldier grunted and collapsed. Marcus seized his opportunity, tore past him, and ran in between the tents until he found his way to the rose garden. Ignoring the shouts behind him, he rushed into the rose arbor . . . and found a small green frog sitting mournfully on a damp patch on the stone floor.

  “Ribbit,” it said. “Ribbit!”

  By the time Gracie had circled the house for the fourth time, she was getting cross. She was tired, she was hungry, and most of all she was parched with thirst. She stamped her foot sharply, and the path twitched back. “Path!” Gracie said. “Take me to the front door this minute! Or . . . or I’ll tell the Ancient Crones about you!”

  Gracie had no idea if her threat would have any effect, but the path immediately straightened itself and headed toward a small crooked side door covered in ivy.

  “Good path,” Gracie said kindly, and tried not to notice when the path attempted to trip her up at the very last moment. She knocked, and the door opened with a friendly squeak. Cautiously, Gracie stepped inside and looked around. She was standing in a long narrow corridor with at least two dozen doors at the far end. Some were tall and some were tiny, and various messages were tacked or pinned on each.

  Gracie hurried to look at the nearest door and was alarmed to read, DO NOT ENTER UNLESS ABLE TO SWIM. The next offered, WATER WINGS: THREE ACORNS AN HOUR. The acorns had been half crossed out, and a scratchy pen had added, PEPPERCORNS PREFERRED, BUT NOT ESSENTIAL.

  Gracie moved farther down the corridor and read, HEDGEHOGS ONLY, followed by WEB BUSINESS AND INQUIRIES. “Does that mean inquiries about webs?” She wondered aloud. “Or general inquiries? Oh, dear. I do wish there was someone to ask . . .”

  At once a quill pen dripping with violet ink whizzed over her shoulder and attacked the notice fiercely. WEB BUSINESS AND WEB INQUIRIES ONLY! it wrote, and Gracie sighed. The pen spun around and added a tiny PS: IF YOU WANT TEA, TRY DOOR SEVENTEEN. As soon as it had finished, it vanished.

  Gracie cheered up at once. She called, “Thank you!” down the empty corridor and began counting doors. “Hmm,” she said. “Which end should I begin at?”

  The pen reappeared, scratched FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE! on top of HEDGEHOGS ONLY, dropped a large violet blob of ink on Gracie’s arm, and disappeared again.

  Gracie found the seventeenth door and knocked. A crackly voice called, “Come in!” and she turned the handle, her heart pitter-pattering in her chest.

  Whatever Gracie had expected, it wasn’t what she saw. The room was enormous, with a low, heavily beamed ceiling. It was very warm but very dark; a roaring fire was the only source of light, and as the flames danced and flickered, long dark shadows leaped up and down the walls. Two huge looms dominated the room, and beside each sat an old, old woman; one was tall and skinny with a wig of wild red curls, and the other short and squat with coal-black hair. The tall one was weaving something so fine as to be almost invisible; spidery silver threads hung in the air, and only the steady clack! clack! of the shuttles passing to and fro convinced Gracie that there was anything there at all. On the other loom was a spectacular length of the blackest velvet. In the center, between the looms, was a massive armchair that at first glance looked as if it were covered in fur, but as Gracie’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she saw a third, even older woman almost entirely covered in cats. She appeared to be asleep, for the one eye in the center of her forehead was firmly closed, and every so often a long echoing snore floated across the room.

  The two weavers froze as they saw Gracie.

  The silence seemed endless.

  Even the snoring stopped.

  There was an ominous rumbling, and a silver thread snapped with a sharp ping!

  “The loom, sister, the loom!” shrieked the red-haired crone, and as the clack! clack! began once more, she waved a skinny arm in the air and let out a long banshee wail. “Ayoooooo . . . Here she comes . . . the one for whom we wait!”

  “Ayoooooo . . . Gracie Gillypot . . . the one for whom we wait!” droned the other.

  “Waiting for you to release us from our labors!” chanted the first. “You will take your place at the loom, so once more we may go back into the world . . .”

  “You will take your place at the loom . . .” echoed the other.

  Gracie stared at the two old women, trying to fight a tide of rising panic. What did they mean, take your place at the loom? “Excuse me,” she faltered, “but I think there must be some mistake . . .”

  “No, no, no, no!” the red-haired woman intoned. “We are the Ancient Crones, and our task is to spin the web of power . . .”

  “The web of power . . .” echoed the other.

  “And we may not leave this place until another comes willingly through the door . . .”

  “Willingly through the door . . .”

  “To weave the web forever and hereafter . . .”

  “Ever and hereafter . . .”

  Gracie swallowed hard. She was hearing a horrid little voice in her head. Marlon’s voice. “Never been too certain of the state of the old heart. Dodgy deals are my business. . . .”

  Had Marlon brought her here to turn her into what was, in fact, a slave? Weaving the web forever and hereafter didn’t sound much like a nine-to-five job. And what else had he said? Oh, yes. �
�Change of employment. New line. Different boss . . .” Gracie pulled at her pigtails. He had also said that she should trust him . . . but trust him to do what, exactly?

  Gracie sighed and, being a practical sort of girl, decided to deal with her most immediate problem. “I don’t suppose I could have a drink, could I?” she asked. “The purple pen told me I could have a cup of tea if I came into room seventeen, and this is room seventeen, isn’t it? I’m quite happy to make it myself, if you show me where the kettle is. Perhaps you’d all like a cup too?”

  The effect of Gracie’s suggestion was electrifying. The oldest crone sat bolt upright, opened a brilliant blue eye, and shooed the cats away. “Scat!” she said sharply. “Scat!” She turned to Gracie. “Pull the curtains, child, and let’s have a proper look at you. There’s a cord beside you. And you, Elsie”— she waved an arm at the red-haired woman —“go out and put the kettle on. And bring some cake. The child’s probably hungry as well as thirsty!”

  Gracie found the cord and pulled. Black velvet curtains flew back from tall windows all around the room, and sunlight poured in. Blinking hard, she moved forward as the oldest crone beckoned her to her side.

  “Come along, come along! I won’t hurt you. I’m sorry if you were frightened, but we have to keep up appearances. Couldn’t be certain Marlon was right about you, you see — sometimes that bat makes terrible errors of judgment. And who would take us seriously if they knew what we were really like? I’m Edna, by the way. You can call me Auntie. The redhead’s Elsie — she wears a wig. Bald as an egg underneath. The other one’s Val. She doesn’t say much. Been here thirty years, and she’s pining for the outside world. Silly, if you ask me, but there you are. She’s served her term and more besides. Of course, everyone outside knows us as the Youngest, the Oldest, and the Ancient One. Much more impressive than Val, Elsie, and Edna, don’t you think?”