Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles)

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  So the Lady Emperor bathed for a few hours and returned to her luxurious bed in the comfortable knowledge that there was nothing very important to do today, and she deserved a nice rest.

  The royal carriage rattled into the scholarly little town beyond the Midden Plains and the Teatime Mountain. The Lordling of Cluft hurried out to meet them. He was a shambling, bespectacled sort of fellow with a half-hearted grey beard and rather tweedy clothes with leather patches in the elbows and knees.

  “Ah, there you are!” he said with some satisfaction as the carriage rolled to a halt. “Splendid. I’m the Vice-Chancellor. I do have another name, but I’ve momentarily forgotten it. Bertie. Yes, I’m fairly sure that it used to be Bertie. You may call me that, if it makes you feel better. Would you like to come into the library for tea and chocolate biscuits?”

  Reed climbed up on a nearby park bench to take a good look at the horizon. “I think we’d better,” he said hurriedly.

  There were no chocolate biscuits in the large, sprawling library tower that squatted in the centre of the town. The teapot had gone cold as well, but Bertie, Vice-Chancellor of the largest educational institution in Mocklore and Lordling of the area immediately surrounding it, appeared very certain that someone called Mrs Miffins was going to appear at any minute and remedy both the biscuit and the tea situation. She failed to materialise.

  The Queen of Anglorachnis sat up very straight on an unpleasantly green chair which wobbled slightly and oozed horse-hair stuffing all over the faded carpet. She smiled politely, trying not to make it obvious that she was peering at the ramshackle bookshelves in the hope that a new scroll of romantic epic might be displayed. Most of the books near her appeared to be about gardening.

  King Durraldo had thoughtfully brought the dartboard and page inside and now challenged Vice-Chancellor Bertie to see which of them could miss the dartboard and hit the page in the most embarrassing places most often. Bertie became quite interested in this game, even if he did keep wandering away to pull the bell-rope (broken for several years) to summon Mrs Miffins.

  The grim priestess-in-waiting stood sentry at the door to the library tower, her sturdy boots scuffing the elderly carpet as she marched back and forth. Mrs Miffins from downstairs had been attempting to bring a fresh tea-tray in for some time, but the priestess-in-waiting had thrown her bodily down the stairs twice, determined to fulfill her duties as bodyguard and chastity-supervisor for Queen Hwenhyfar.

  The Queen, having given up searching the shelves for interesting books, was at this moment in silent ecstasy because she believed Reed Cooper was casually playing footsie with her under the coffee-table. As it happened, the constant nudges against her foot were the work of the Vice-Chancellor’s tabby kitten, who was hoping someone might think to spill some milk or sugar cubes in a convenient place.

  Reed Cooper, meanwhile, doing his best not to be recognised by the Vice-Chancellor who had been trying to place him. Every now and then he would turn around, frown thoughtfully, and say something like. “You weren’t that lad who got expelled from the Department of Highly Improbable Arts for turning your gamesmaster into a banana were you? Splendid things, bananas.” Or, “Weren’t you that boy in the Lower School who had a scholarship for the Department of Certain Death but never came back from his work experience with those pirate chappies?” Reed denied both suggestions equally fervently, and tried to sit with his face away from the Vice-Chancellor as much as possible. This wasn’t difficult, as he spent most of his time staring anxiously out of the library windows. The lights in the sky were getting bigger, brighter and more insidiously colourful.

  The Foreign Minister was nowhere to be found, as he had wandered into a section of the library labelled ‘X-tra curricular texts’, and had his nose in the new centrefold edition of an encyclopedia of erotic hieroglyphs. He was busily engrossed in learning what the actress had really done to the bishop.

  Mrs Miffins appeared on the window ledge, a tea-tray balanced in one hand and a stack of serviettes in the other. Determined not to allow the grim priestess-in-waiting to prevent her fulfilling her duty, she had shinned up the drainpipe and was now waving desperately at the Vice-Chancellor.

  The grim priestess-in-waiting chose that moment to declare that her Majesty looked rather unhealthy. Queen Hwenhyfar was in fact blushing furiously because the tabby kitten had just jumped on to her lap and she was still convinced that it was Reed Cooper’s foot. The priestess-in-waiting strode to the windows and flung them open with a flourish of satisfaction, saying something about the splendid benefits of fresh air.

  Luckily for Mrs Miffins, there were some rather stout rhododendron bushes beneath the tower windows, and she remained relatively unharmed by the near-fatal fall. The chocolate digestives, however, were severely damaged. Mrs Miffins was rather cross at this, and most people in Cluft knew what happened when Mrs Miffins got rather cross.

  “The sky is awfully colourful, isn’t it?” ventured Queen Hwenhyfar, who always spoke about the weather in mixed company.

  “Looks like rain,” agreed Vice-Chancellor Bertie. “Fish, I expect.”

  “Does it rain fish often?” replied Hwenhyfar politely, but with a certain degree of trepidation.

  “Oh, I think so,” said Bertie in surprise, having never much thought about it before. “Once or twice a week, I suppose. Netted a splendid brace of lobster out of the gutters last week.” He peered at the multi-coloured sky, which was still sparkling in various menacing hues. “You know what they say. Purple, green, yellow, indigo and red sky during the day, crops of fish are on their way. Should be trout tonight. Splendid, eh, Mavis?”

  “Splendid,” replied Mavis placidly.

  No one paid much attention to Mavis. She appeared to be a fixture in the library, curled up in a woolly armchair with an expanse of pink knitting on her lap and the rest of the kittens snuggled up at her feet. Of middling-age with reddishbrown hair cut into an unfashionable bob and tortoise-shell glasses glued haphazardly to her face, she had a hot-water bottle under one arm, and a cold cup of cocoa beside her.

  “And what do you do, Mavis?” asked Queen Hwenhyfar, aware in her dimly socially-conscious way that people who were not kings and queens actually did ‘do’ things.

  “I’m the local goddess, dear,” said Mavis pleasantly, her hands knitting and purling neatly. “Patron goddess of window-boxes, knitting, wet weather and learning curves. We all have rather a lot of duties since the decimalisation, you know. I’m probably goddess of quite a few other things I don’t know about.”

  “Decimalisation?’ said the Queen faintly.

  “HO!” cried the King, who had just scored a direct hit on the page’s left ear.

  “Oh, yes,” said Vice-Chancellor Bertie. “Didn’t you hear about it? It was in all the news-scrolls. We had our gods decimalised a while ago…one of old Timregis’ daft ideas. It worked out quite well, actually. We only have ten gods now, technically speaking. Of course, it meant that a lot of them had to cease to exist or retrain for other professions, but yes, it seems to have worked out rather well.”

  “I think I would like a cup of tea,” said Hwenhyfar pallidly. She was becoming more and more anxious about this strange little Empire, and more and more positive that she did not want to be here. It was an odd sensation, for she had never been positive about anything before.

  Then she caught sight of Reed Cooper anxiously pacing in front of the windows, and smiled to herself. Perhaps, after all, there were some rather good things about remaining in Mocklore…

  Suddenly the door to the library tower burst open. Standing there was a grim figure in a suit of reinforced steel, a red bandanna tied around her forehead and a steaming pot of tea on a tray with biscuits and the best china cups. Mrs Miffins slammed a metal-clad arm into the stomach of the grim priestess-in-waiting and bopped her over the head with the tea-tray, admirably keeping the tray steady so that the heaped plate of chocolate digestives and the steamingly fat china teapot did not spill.


  Mrs Miffins strode with pride across the library and set the tea-tray in front of Lordling Bertie, Vice-Chancellor of Cluft. She smiled a triumphant smile, bobbed a quick religious observance in the direction of the knitting Mavis and marched away, her armour clanking slightly.

  “Ah,” said Bertie in a cheerful sort of voice. “Here’s our tea. Splendid.”

  19

  The Witch’s Web

  The decimalisation of Mocklore’s religious structures had succeeded beyond all expectation. There were now only ten gods, although no one was quite sure what had happened to all the others. Each god was only allowed ten supernatural servants such as angels, imps, djinni, mutant spiders, etc. This was all fairly straightforward. Unfortunately, some of the gods had taken it all a bit too seriously—such as the case of the god who now refused to be known by anything other than Number Seven, and had enlisted endless humans in promoting his new image. Even the most fearsome of warlocks had to stifle a shudder when they heard, “Have you heard the glorious word of Number Seven?” drifting in through their letterboxes.

  And then there was the Witches’ Web. Technically, in this newfangled modern system, they counted as one god. The fact that there were three of them appeared to have gone unnoticed. There was Fate, a haggard old woman with a mean spirit, bitter heart and bad attitude. Then there was Destiny, who was known to be young and interesting-looking, as well as dangerous to know.

  The Other One’s name was only whispered in dark corners, lest she be summoned and do her vicious work. She was known to be calculating, manipulative and utterly unscrupulous when it came to using her powers. If the truth be told, the whole decimalisation thing had been a ruse to get rid of her, and it was only through assimilation with the Witches’ Web that she had emerged unscathed. Strangely enough, she remained unaware of all plots to remove her from Mocklore’s religious structure. It had never occurred to her that she was not the most popular and beloved of goddesses who ever let her sandal touch the earth. She worshipped the ground that she walked upon, so it just didn’t occur to her that others might not feel the same way.

  Her name, as it was whispered in the murkiest of corners, was Lady Luck. No one ever called her that to her face, perhaps because they feared it might give her ideas.

  The ghost of the Splashdance swirled through layers of green cobweb, caught inexorably in the net of fate. At least, that was the plan. But every time Kassa gave the order to sail up into the Witches’ Web, Daggar screamed a panicky countermand. The ghost-ship was annoyingly democratic, and remained on the cusp between one reality and another.

  “Will you stop that?” snapped Kassa, getting seriously annoyed.

  “No!” said Daggar wildly. “We are not going in there!”

  “You didn’t seem to mind us plunging headfirst into a Glimmer! Would you prefer to stay here until you get turned into a three-headed walrus?”

  “Anything’s better than calling ourselves to the attention of gods. Particularly those gods.”

  “Consider the alternative,” said Kassa in a voice of dry ice. She gestured below them.

  The beach was a dazzling spiral of fierce colours, devastating magic and supernatural creatures. Daggar gulped once, and closed his eyes. Kassa took this to be a sign of assent, and this time when she commanded the ship forward, he did not try to stop her. He squeezed his eyes even tighter shut.

  “I don’t suppose the rest of us have a say in this,” demanded Zelora loudly.

  “No,” said Kassa Daggersharp. The ghost-ship plunged upwards, into the Witches’ Web.

  The Vice-Chancellor was busily trying to convince the Queen of Anglorachnis to sign up for some evening classes, while handing around the biscuits and pouring tea for everybody. Every time someone mentioned the storm brewing outside the library windows, he politely changed the subject.

  The windows rattled, the roof shuddered and the occasional small tree flew past, smashing into some unfortunate undergraduate. A veritable hurricane was building up, and the sky was still daubed in unnatural colours.

  “And we offer many splendid subjects here at the Polyhedrotechnical,” chattered Bertie, handing a half-buttered chocolate digestive to Queen Hwenhyfar. “You know, if you did one evening class a week, you could complete your Bachelor of Nobility in only thirty-six years!”

  The grim priestess-in-waiting was trying to close the windows against the raging storm outside. She heaved her weight against them, but was bowled off her feet by a sudden surge of powerful weather.

  “Good gravy,” said Bertie as she skidded crazily across the floor and fell into a waste-paper basket. “Are you all right, madam?”

  Reed Cooper looked out of the open window, the wild wind plastering his black hair away from his face. “The sky is changing,” he said.

  “It’s green,” said Hwenhyfar in surprise. “No, silver. Goodness, what funny colours!”

  A silver talon lurched out of the horizon and zapped an unfortunate undergraduate riding a bicycle. The young man turned into a startled looking lemon tree, then a small badger and finally a winged unicorn before dissolving completely into a puff of silver dust.

  “She’s done it,” muttered Reed in a low, stunned voice. “She’s done this, I know she has. She’s done it again!”

  Vice-Chancellor Bertie joined him at the window, speaking in a hushed voice so as not to alarm the other guests. “I assume you realise the import of these portents, young man?”

  “Another Glimmer,” said Reed Cooper flatly. “A cataclysmic plague of epic proportions, all over again.”

  “Well, obviously, dear boy. But better than that, it means I can finally finish that old thesis of mine. Such splendid luck!” The elderly Lordling peered at Reed from beneath his extraordinary eyebrows. “I don’t suppose you can ride a bicycle?”

  Colour bled out of the world. In black and white technicolour, the Splashdance ghosted between one reality and another, finally coming to rest in a small cave. The colours gradually seeped back, starting with an expanse of a damp sort of green which spread everywhere. There was grey in coils and lengths, spiralling out in too many directions. For no reason that anyone could immediately fathom, there was also a slight undertone of a very tasteful creamy beige.

  In the middle of the cave, a woman sat at a desk, making a clattering sound as her fingers tapped rapidly on an old clockwork typewriter. She was a tall creature with perfect posture, neatly coiffeured blonde hair and expensive earrings. “Can I help you?” she inquired in a smooth, aristocratic voice.

  Kassa clambered down from the deck, feeling ungraceful. This was probably because Tippett was still holding on to her leg. Aragon followed her, swinging down to ground level in a much more dignified fashion. Daggar peered once over the edge, decided that there was nothing immediately threatening in this scenario, and began scooping his hoard of silver into a large brown sack so he could carry it with him.

  Zelora Footcrusher refused to even look, and only came down from the ship at all because Braided Bones showed no hesitation in jumping overboard, with Singespitter the winged sheep tossed carelessly over one shoulder.

  Kassa realised what a sight they must all look. She coughed in an embarrassed way. “My name is Kassa Daggersharp, and…”

  The aristocratic blonde glanced at her appointments diary, which was bound in the best blue leather. “Yes, Mistress Daggersharp, you have an appointment.”

  “I don’t!” said Kassa automatically, before remembering where she was. “Oh. One of those appointments.”

  The aristocratic woman stood up, revealing her long legs and superior dress sense. She was clad in a long, sinuous dress of soft linen which clung to her contours in a shimmering pale colour.

  Kassa was still wearing her ‘pirate’ outfit of black leather bodice and swirling red skirts, and she felt decidedly tawdry.

  The woman glided towards a door which hovered unaided in the middle of the cave. “Fate will see you now,” she said sweetly.

  The door opened to reveal
a swirling grey void. They all trooped through—Kassa, Tippett, Aragon, Daggar with his sack, Braided Bones with the sheep, and Zelora with a sulky expression. The door closed behind them.

  Lady Luck smiled to herself, straightened her lovely pale dress, and went back to her typing.

  Fate was not a nice person when you got to know her. But then, if a person spent her whole time deciding what would happen in other people’s lives without having a life of her own, it was understandable that she might grow bitter. Fate was an old woman, grey-haired and stringy. If there was anything she hated more than sago pudding, it was attractive young women with their whole lives before them. It was for this reason that so many attractive young women were dealt rather nasty cards by Fate.

  Kassa stepped through the doorway to find herself alone. Even Tippett’s powerful grip on her leg had vanished into thin air. Grey fog surrounded her, seeming to go on forever. “Hello?” she called, hearing only a cackled echo in reply.

  Something flashed towards her through the fog. It was a deck of elaborately illustrated fortune cards, swirling and shuffling themselves in mid air. “Pick a card,” cackled a faraway voice. “Pick a card!”

  Kassa chose one, plucking it out of the air and turning it over. “The Hanged Serpent,” she said.

  “Good choice,” cackled the voice. “What do you want?”

  “Passage through your realm,” replied Kassa. “I want to get my crew to safety, away from the Glimmer.”

  “Which you caused,” accused the faceless cackle.

  “Possibly,” Kassa admitted. “Will you help me?”

  “Why should I?”

  “I’m willing to offer a deal,” Kassa called into the foggy void. “I keep being offered different destinies, and none of them seem to suit me. That must be very inconvenient for your paperwork. So I’ll sort out the matter now, if you like.”