Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles)

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  “Hmm, haven’t you ever seen pirates before, man?” said the Lordling dismissively. “Fetch the net thing, eh?”

  Fredgic threw his last clockwork net out of the window of the carriage and continued to cower under the plush velvet seat.

  “Ho, there,” said the Lordling amiably, approaching the couple who crouched beneath the polka-dotted elmworst tree. “Hmm, I don’t suppose you’d be so obliging as to step into this clockwork net, my dear fellows?”

  The woman, a hard-faced creature with a nest of vipers on her head and a red glint in her eyes, smiled nastily. “What do you want, old man?”

  Lordling Rorey was quite put out, as he was hardly in his dotage. “Hmm, now look here, there’s no call for that,” he said in an offended tone of voice. “Are you pirates or what, wot?”

  The massive gargoyle-man with the broken wing unfolded himself, putting the sheep to one side and standing to his full height. “Looking for pirates?” he growled.

  The Lordling, who had no sense of personal danger, nodded happily. “Hmm, I say old fellow, if you are a pirate, how would you like to come back to Skullcap and join the old retinue, wot?”

  The massive gargoyle smiled, thinly. “Honey?”

  The woman glanced up at him with the closest thing she could manage to a tender look. Then she turned her flat, unblinking gaze back to the intruding Lordling. “Scrag him,” she ordered her husband.

  The gargoyle advanced menacingly on the Lordling. “First turned into stone gargoyle,” he growled. “Then betrayed by bastard cabin boy. Ship sunk. Now turned into living gargoyle. Wife loses hair. Then flying boat stolen from under us. Fall. Break wing. Now you.” He made history by becoming the first gargoyle ever to lift a solitary eyebrow. “Time to run away.”

  “This is when you make your exit, Lord!” came Fredgic’s urgent muffled voice.

  “Hmm, is it, dear boy?” said the Lordling vaguely, not quite sure what was going on. “If that’s the way it’s done.” He backed away from the threatening figure of the gargoyle and clambered back into the carriage. “Onward!” he commanded the mountain goats.

  The goats, knowing a sensible order when they heard one, beat a swift retreat. As the little golden carriage bounced away, the Lordling’s voice could clearly be heard filtering through the trees. “Hmm, Fridgestick, but were they pirates or not?”

  The warlock’s response was not recorded for posterity.

  25

  Hitting Things

  At first light, the Imperial household was up and about, putting finishing touches on the tourney field. Banners had been ironed, pennants polished, and the whole lawn given a manicure. The knights started arriving shortly after sunrise. There were quite a few of them.

  The chivalric companies initiated by Emperor Timregis still retained a certain vaguely honourable reputation. The Orders of the Unmentionable Garment, the Tangerine Gooseberry Bush and the Sharp Pointy Object were the three most reputable of these ex-knightly orders.

  The various succeeding Emperors had attempted to create chivalric orders to replace Timregis’ lost Companies, but their endeavours had been rather less successful. The Order of the Silver Gerbil had failed mainly because of a heraldic error which meant that the shields came back from the printers displaying a gerbil dessicated rather than a gerbil rampant.

  Lady Talle’s immediate predecessor, the Emperor Maarstigan, had initiated the Order of the Purple Beard but had been hard pressed to find anyone willing to join. At the time of his unfortunate but timely demise, the Order had consisted of three peasants, a small dog and the Court Jester (under duress).

  Needless to say, most of the former knights who appeared at this particular Imperial Tourney were those known as Timregis’s Mob. Although the names of their Companies still commanded prestige, the knights themselves had either gone to seed—hair and beards everywhere—or now looked far too reputable to be in this line of business. Many retired knights had taken up other trades such as accountancy, executive management or associate professorhood.

  There were also the Spider-Knights provided by the visiting royals. They all wore identical tabards and shields displaying the coat of arms of Anglorachnis. None of them looked pleased to be there, probably because they had spent the last few days walking the length of the Empire to get to this tournament—in full battle dress. Luckily, none of them were expected to fight because they had not brought steeds with them. Only the King of Anglorachnis himself would compete as a Spider Knight.

  Most of the local knights were known to each other, or at least recognisable by their coats of arms. Only one was anonymous. He carried a shield marked with three drops of black blood on a field of red and white poppies and his visor was always kept down. His horse, of course, was black.

  His consort was a woman in a tightly-laced green dress, a blonde wig and a broad-brimmed hat. Her face seemed to be endlessly changing, as if she did not want anyone to recognise her. They were accompanied by a shifty-looking profit-scoundrel and a small jester who seemed to be writing some kind of poem.

  Only the Lady Emperor, seated in the Imperial pavilion with her royal guests, knew who the strangers must be. She smiled a mysterious, secret smile. The time for unmasking was not yet.

  Aragon was extremely uncomfortable in his dank jousting helm. There was no way to see out of it without tilting his head at an impossible angle. Despite this, he managed to get on his new horse and guide it towards where Kassa, disguised as a blonde, was seated on a picnic rug.

  He inclined his head, quite an achievement in full plate armour, and reached a gauntlet down to her. “My lady consort,” he said graciously in his best courtier’s manner. “May I carry a token of yours into the battle this day?”

  Out of the corner of his eye slot, he saw the glamour over her face shift suddenly as if she was disturbed. Kassa’s familiar golden eyes glinted out of the stranger’s face.

  “Of course, my lord,” she murmured, unclasping the silver thingummy shaped like a boat which she wore about her neck. Slowly, she looped the chain through his belt.

  For once in his life, Aragon did not know what to say. She actually trusted him. A feeling of relief washed over him. He knew now what he had to do. Saluting his consort, Aragon Silversword turned his horse and rode towards the jousting area. Everything was clear to him now.

  Queen Hwenhyfar watched intently as the armoured knights paraded before the Imperial Pavilion. Because of her husband’s paranoia that she might find herself a Champion to have a torrid affair with, she had never before attended an actual tournament. The only reason she was attending now was because the King seemed bewitched by the Lady Emperor, and had not been able to contradict Talle’s assumption that the Queen would be in attendance.

  The King and Queen were the only real guests in Lady Talle’s Imperial Pavilion, as all the Lordlings had got together and set up a game of strip poker in the Execution Tower which was underground somewhere in the East Wing. They had filched a significant number of ladies-in-waiting and most of the claret in the Imperial wine-cellars for this purpose. All the Lordlings had rather nasty memories of the sort of tournament Timregis used to hold, and they preferred not to be reminded of such hideous events as the Green Egg & Spoon Tourney or the Bewildered Hedgehog Derby.

  Reed Cooper, the dark and dashing Mocklorn Ambassador, had been ordered to wait upon the Anglorachnis Queen and see to her every need. He fulfilled his duty by providing fizzy drinks, frozen sherbets and trays of cucumber sandwiches, all with gallant courtesy and much kissing of her slender, pale hand. When no one else was paying attention, he murmured an indecent proposal in her ear.

  Queen Hwenhyfar gasped silently and turned the colour of a ripe strawberry.

  “What is this place anyway?” Kassa asked, craning her neck to look around the huge walled courtyard which happily contained at least thirty mounted knights and several hundred assorted nobles, observers, consorts and hangers-on.

  Daggar yawned, leaning back against a handy tree st
ump. “This is Dawn. Used to be the exercise enclosure for the Imperial concubines, though there are only a dozen or so left in the harem now, and I can’t think what use our Talle will have for them.”

  Kassa looked at her cousin through narrowed eyes. “Just exactly how do you know so much about Imperial concubines?”

  To his credit, Daggar did not blush. Neither did he answer the question. “Watch the tourney, Kassa.”

  The first part of the tournament was a joust. Time and again, one knight galloped towards another and attempted to push him off his horse with a long pointy stick. Those who fell while their opponent remained seated were eliminated.

  Aragon waited his turn, and was eventually led to the starting enclosure. “There will be no biting, no scratching,” announced the referee-herald in a booming voice. “No kicking the horse below the waist and no groin-shots with the lance unless absolutely justifiable. Lay on!”

  Aragon tilted his head low and charged towards his opponent, twisting the lance sharply so that it would strike his opponent in a damagingly central area. Too late, he realised that his opponent had attempted the same move.

  As he was hurled into mid air, Aragon recalled where he had seen his opponent’s shield before. It belonged to Sir Spotty Harbinger, who had once tried to usurp Aragon’s position as Imperial Champion by spreading a nasty rumour about him and the Palace dinner-lady.

  Then the grass came up to meet him with a thud.

  “Double toss!” announced the referee-herald. “At my Lady Emperor’s command,” he added.

  Over in the Imperial pavilion, Lady Talle stood up and surveyed the two fallen knights. “Continue,” she ordered gracefully.

  Two small squires leaped forward to drag the horses out of the way. Both knights returned to the edge of the tourney field to swap their jousting helms for something more practical.

  Aragon stood at the edge of the Daggersharp picnic rug, glaring at the fake blonde, the profit-scoundrel and the jester-poet. “Where is my foot-helm?” he demanded angrily.

  They all looked at Daggar. “I sold it,” he admitted.

  Aragon just looked at him in shock. “You sold it?” He was almost lost for words. “Why?”

  “I was bored,” said Daggar defensively.

  Aragon swung accusing eyes on Kassa, whom he blamed for this. She grinned amiably. “Don’t worry, I have a spare for you.” She rummaged in her handbag, producing a sturdy, reasonably attractive black steel helm.

  Aragon took it from her, turning it over in his hands. There was something strange about it which he couldn’t quite put his finger on. “It’s not bewitched, is it?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Aragon, you know how I feel about magic,” said Kassa sternly.

  “Good,” he said, fastening the helm over his head with a resounding click.

  “Of course it’s bewitched,” she added.

  Aragon glared at her through the bars of his new helm. “Not funny, Kassa.”

  “My lady Emperor,” murmured Griffin as the Nameless Knight and Sir Spotty Harbinger stalked towards each other, wooden swords in hand. “I presume you have some sort of programme in mind for this day’s events?”

  “Of course, boy,” said Talle without moving her lips. “The King of Anglorachnis shall win the tournament and the honour of being my Champion. The happy relations between our two societies will thus be sealed. All the Mocklore knights have orders to lose gracefully to the Spider Shield.”

  Griffin frowned. “I presume that the King does intend to return to Anglorachnis?”

  “Of course,” she said scornfully. “I shall accept one of his knights as a proxy. The point is that while he holds the honour of being my Champion, relations between our two cultures must remain cordial!”

  It made a vague sort of sense. “And what of the Nameless Knight, lady?” questioned Griffin. “Does he know that he must submit to the King?”

  “He will learn, Griffin,” murmured the Lady Emperor, her eyes fixed to the spectacle below. The Nameless Knight had just metaphorically removed Sir Spotty Harbinger’s head with his wooden sword. “He will learn.”

  The day wore on. Lunch was served. The occasional limb was accidentally hacked off. The occasional consort went off with someone else while her knight was being flung off his horse. All was as it should be.

  “So this is the good old days, ey?” said Daggar disapprovingly, chewing on a chicken wing. “Honour and chivalry and all that.”

  “Don’t mock what you don’t understand, Daggar,” chided Kassa, biting into a cream-cheese wafer with pickled herring sprinkled on top.

  Aragon returned, removing his helm and tossing down an exceptionally large jug of barley water in two gulps. “I have beaten everyone so far,” he announced.

  “So has the King of Anglorachnis,” noted Kassa. “But of course, he does not have a witch working for him. Just a Lady Emperor.”

  Aragon dropped the empty barley-water jug. “Are you saying that the tourney is fixed?”

  “It was fixed,” said Daggar. “But you know how good Kassa is at breaking things.”

  Aragon glared at Kassa. “Once and for all, have you hexed my helm?”

  Kassa batted her eyelids. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”

  “Why?” he demanded. “Didn’t you think I could do this on my own?”

  “I don’t know,” she retorted. “Could you? Look, it’s obvious by the way the knights are falling like flies as soon as they get near the King that she wants him to win. That means I have to go one better. I want my champion to beat hers, Aragon. You are going to win this tourney for me.”

  “Oh,” he said flatly, turning to stalk away. “Am I, now?”

  “Did you just win that argument?” Daggar questioned.

  “I always win, Daggar,” Kassa replied haughtily. “Even when I lose.”

  It came down to a bout between the Nameless Knight and King Durraldo of Anglorachnis, as everyone had guessed it would. The two opponents faced each other. There was no more jousting—just wooden swords, plain armour and multi-coloured shields.

  “The winner of this, the final bout in the Championship tourney, shall serve as my own Lord Protector, Champion of the Lady Emperor of Mocklore,” announced Talle, waving a silken scarf from the Royal Pavilion.

  The King of Anglorachnis frowned slightly. “Is that right?” he asked. “I mean, I thought the prize was a trophy or a box of chocolates or something. I don’t know if I could accept that kind of title…”

  The purple-clad Ambassador of Anglorachnis tugged on one of the King’s leather straps. “Do not fear, your Majesty,” he whispered. “Should you happen to win, I am sure we can come to some arrangement.”

  This was the first anyone had heard about the prize. Aragon Silversword stood very still, considering the possibilities that it offered.

  At the edge of the tourney field, Kassa Daggersharp stiffened with rising alarm.

  “Didn’t think of that, did you?” said Daggar casually.

  Beside the Imperial Pavilion, the Nameless Knight and the King of Anglorachnis both assented to the conditions of the tournament.

  “Best out of three, boys,” cooed the Lady Emperor. “And do not forsake chivalry in your pursuit to win this day.”

  Both knights turned and dipped their wooden swords in reverence to the Lady Emperor. Then King Durraldo bowed in the direction of Queen Hwenhyfar, who jiggled her hankerchief nervously in response and then turned back to continue her intimate dialogue with Reed Cooper. The Nameless Knight turned to scan the crowd for his consort, almost wishing that she had kept her red hair so that he could find her more easily. Finally he spotted a particularly unfamiliar face at the edge of the field, and bowed to her for what he fully intended to be the last time.

  The two knights saluted each other stiffly.

  The Lady Emperor raised her silk scarf and allowed it to drift slowly through her fingers. As it slid to the ground, the two knights leaped towards each other.

  Of cou
rse, neither of them were actually knights. King Durraldo had created the Company of Spider-Knights but had never been formally admitted to the Order. Aragon Silversword had belonged to the Order of the Unmentionable Garment, but murdering a patron Emperor was equivalent to a resignation. They leaped towards each other anyway, duelling with their wooden swords as if their lives depended upon it.

  A low buzzing sound filed the arena, but it was so quiet that no one heard it. A small silver needle flew straight past the spectators and whirled around for a while until it accidentally embedded itself in the helm of the Nameless Knight.

  Aragon Silversword did not notice the tiny clang. He had no way of knowing that an embroidery needle was sticking up out of his helm like a miniature lightning rod. Neither did King Durraldo notice—he was much too busy.

  Even the crowd did not really think anything was wrong until they saw what was following the needle.

  A steady stream of glittering glints, nasty flying things and patches of wild magic swept across the tourney field, homing in on the Nameless Knight’s helm.

  “Oops,” said Kassa Daggersharp.

  King Durraldo and the Nameless Knight fought steadily on, ignoring the swirls of magical energy and nasty flying things which surrounded them.

  The spectators were not so dedicated. When the first fop was transformed into a large rainbow trout, the screaming and rioting began. Tables were turned over, chairs were broken in half and three blonde ladies-in-waiting were transformed into mermaids.

  Reed Cooper bravely flung Queen Hwenhyfar out of the way of a flying electric eel and dragged her to safety under the prize table, taking the opportunity to give her heaving bosom a tender squeeze.