Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles)

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  “You’re not?” said Fredgic suspiciously.

  “Of course not,” she said in a wide-eyed voice. “I’m a lady.”

  “Hmm, no denying that!” agreed the Lordling wholeheartedly as he clambered out of his carriage. “Take the net off the lady, Frittchorn.”

  “But ladies can be pirates, your Lordship,” protested Fredgic. “Think of Bessemund, Bloody Mary, Black Nell!”

  “Hmm, true, true,” mused the Lordling. “Tie her up, then.”

  “Don’t be silly, your Lordship,” said Kassa. “I’m nothing like a pirate. I have red hair, you know.”

  “Hmm, why so you do,” said the Lordling, peering at her. “No denying it. Let her go, Frudgepup.”

  “And pirates don’t have red hair,” continued Kassa sweetly. “Especially lady pirates like Bold Brunhilde. They have fair hair, golden because of all the treasure they have stolen.”

  “I’ve never heard that before,” said Fredgic suspiciously.

  “Hmm, treasure,” said the Lordling, pleased. “So who is this Bold Brunhilde, then?”

  “Oh, I can show you where she is,” said Kassa. “And her gang.”

  “I’ve never heard of a pirate called Bold Brunhilde,” insisted Fredgic.

  “I bet Tippett has,” said Kassa confidently. “Go on, Tippett. I bet you have heard simply hundreds of ballads about Bold Brunhilde.” She smiled at him.

  Tippett smiled back hesitantly. He fetched his favourite lute, which was still in the Lordling’s carriage. Suspecting that Kassa would kill him if he even considered wasting time by tuning it, he plucked awkwardly at the instrument, improvising lyrics about Bold Brunhilde—she was gold of hair and blue of eye, bold enough to steal sun from the sky, and so on. Within five minutes, the Lordling was convinced.

  The Red Admiral clambered over the new boat, admiring it. “Marvellous, ingenious,” he kept muttering happily, pleased with his new toy.

  Lady Talle smiled. “You will notice, my lords, the ease with which the Blackguards and the mummers were returned to their rightful places.”

  “True enough,” muttered the Captain, not mentioning that his two best sergeants refused to work unless they were in a pantomime horse costume, and that most of the newly-restored Blackguards now insisted on applause every time they apprehended someone.

  The Chief Mummer also nodded reluctantly, but made a few hand signals which nobody felt brave enough to translate.

  “The Royal Visit was, I trust, to your satisfaction,” Lady Talle continued, looking pointedly at the purple-clad Anglorachnis Ambassador.

  “Indeed, my Lady,” he said jovially. “I’ve never seen the Queen so cheerful. She asked me to compliment you on your choice of ambassador.” He shot a suspicious look at Reed Cooper.

  “I believe I entertained her Highness to the best of my ability,” replied Reed, straight-faced. He was wearing new Imperial livery with his collar turned up high to conceal the royal lipstick smudges. He had even bought a glamour spell from the Brewer’s Pavilion to disguise the bruised eye given to him by Kassa Daggersharp. If it were not for the eyepatch and the earring, he would have almost looked respectable.

  “And his Majesty was very pleased with the standard of fighters at the tournament,” continued the Ambassador, nodding in the direction of the Imperial Champion.

  Aragon Silversword, also garbed in new black and white livery, nodded briefly in return.

  “So,” said the Ambassador with glee, rubbing his palms together. “I think my pension is safe, my Lady Emperor. Consider me to be one of your most ardent supporters.”

  “Splendid,” said Lady Talle sweetly. “And Master Lint, I hope you have nothing to complain about. After all, everyone was ordered to buy the souvenirs generated by the Royal Visit.”

  Tamb Lint regarded her flatly. “You really got no idea how the h’economy works, do ye?” he said in his greasy voice. “Luckily no one h’else does h’either. H’all the merchants reckon they were done right by, so I’m not making h’any complaints. Yet,” he added darkly.

  Lady Talle turned her attention to the member of the delegation who had always kept to the shadows. “And you, Chief Executive of Mercenaries? You never told me what you wanted in exchange for your support.”

  “We are mercenaries, my lady,” replied the Hidden Leader. “There is no politics in what we do. If you ever have need of us, pay us and we will aid you. Of course, you will need to find us first.”

  Finally, Lady Talle turned to Leonardes of Skullcap. She was a tiny slip of a thing next to his massive bulk. “I trust you have no objection to the percentage you received from the silver found in the Splashdance.”

  “You’ll do,” said Leonardes shortly.

  The delegation trooped out. The Red Admiral only agreed to leave if the Lady Emperor promised faithfully to deliver the ship to his harbour the next day.

  When the leaders of Dreadnought were all gone, Lady Talle turned to face her retinue. Aragon and Reed both looked very smart in their new livery, although it was obvious that they were trying to keep as much distance between them as possible. Lady Talle didn’t mind that at all. She approved of a little natural rivalry between colleagues. Griffin the urchin stood between the pirate and the champion, wearing an Imperial tabard big enough to cut into six urchin-sized robes.

  “It looks as if I’m here to stay, boys,” said Lady Talle in a silvery voice edged with pure pleasure. “I am the Emperor of Mocklore.”

  Three seconds after Lady Talle’s exultant announcement, a large clockwork net appeared out of thin air and threw itself over her. No one noticed at the time, but it was guided into place by a tiny bauble on a piece of ribbon.

  Reed and Aragon both reached for their swords, and realised that they had vanished. “Warlocks,” said Reed in disgust. “I recognise that net!”

  A large golden carriage towed by several mutant goats appeared in the large doorway, and a figure hopped out. He was youngish and rather flabby-looking, wearing the gaudiest gold lame tunic with jewelled cuffs that any of them had ever seen. “Hmm, he said cheerfully. “Finally captured you rascals, wot?”

  “You fool!” screamed Lady Talle, completely enraged. “How dare you do this to me? I am the Emperor of Mocklore!”

  “Hmm, impossible!” said the Lordling dismissively. “You’re a girl, don’t you know. Everyone knows that Emperors are boys. Anyway, I’ve met the Emperor, and he’s nothing like you. Fredgecutters, have you heard anything about a new Emperor?”

  “No,” said Fredgic honestly. He never paid much attention to current affairs. As far as he was concerned, old Timregis was still Emperor.

  Lordling Rorey decided to get back to the subject at hand. “Hmm, I know all about you, Bold Brunhilde.”

  “What?” shrieked Lady Talle, completely gobsmacked.

  “Hmm, and the one with the eyepatch, he’s a pirate too. And the dwarf, he’s Ruthless Rodger, don’t you know. It was all in the ballad.”

  Fredgic the warlock produced a large stick and herded Reed Cooper and Griffin the urchin towards the netted Lady Talle.

  “This is preposterous!” she screamed.

  “What about him?” said Reed suddenly, looking at Silversword.

  “Hmm, he’s not a pirate,” said the Lordling dismissively. “He’s a friend of the nice lady wench who told me all about you blighters. Now you’re going to steal gold bullion for me, don’t you know, and wear silk shirts and say ‘Avast me hearties’. Take it away, Frucheface.”

  Aragon went to the window. Out in the courtyard, he thought he saw a familiar shadow. “The lengths that woman will go to to keep me near her,” he murmured, wondering if he liked the idea. “Have a good trip, Talle,” he volunteered cheerfully.

  “Traitor!” Lady Talle screamed back as Fredgic tied her to Reed Cooper and Griffin with a length of white embroidery thread. “Craven, faithless apostate!”

  Aragon walked towards her and gently removed the sacred bauble from the ribbon which tied it to the clockwork
net. He put it in his pocket. “Well?” he said calmly. “What did you expect?”

  The writhing, clockwork-netted mass of Lady Talle, Reed Cooper and Griffin the urchin vanished, along with the Lordling, Fredgic and the golden carriage. The mutant mountain goats remained, dolefully nibbling at the Lady Emperor’s purple feathered chaise longue.

  Left alone for the first time in weeks, Aragon Silversword opened the little door to the courtyard and went outside. “You can come out now,” he said aloud.

  “I wasn’t hiding,” said Kassa Daggersharp as she emerged from behind a potted tree. “I dislike crowds.”

  He almost smiled. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “No,” she said softly, moving towards him. “You don’t.”

  “Don’t I?”

  “I’m in charge, Aragon,” she reminded him, very close now. “Never forget that.”

  “How could I forget?” he replied ironically.

  “And I know what you are thinking,” she continued.

  “Oh, really?” Aragon was amused now.

  “You are wondering why I didn’t just pack you off to Skullcap with the Lady Emperor.”

  “That doesn’t take a great stretch of imagination. I’m too useful to either of you. With me on her side, the Lady Emperor would be back in her Palace within a few hours. With those two bumbling around her, it could be weeks.”

  “And you think that’s the only reason?” said Kassa.

  His eyes held hers for a moment. “Of course not. You decided that if I wasn’t around, you would miss me terribly. You’ve grown accustomed to my face.”

  She laughed. “Not even close. I just wanted my ship back.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Really.” Her voice grew dangerous. “And you bear my mark, Silversword. Remember that. You took it of your own free will. You begged me to make you mine. And now you belong to me. I am not going to allow the Lady Emperor to benefit from my liegeman.”

  “Why are you so obsessed on the subject of liegemen?” he demanded impatiently. “What do you think you are, a princess?”

  “I am the daughter of a Pirate King,” snapped Kassa Daggersharp. “What do you think?”

  “I think that you like me, Princess. It is the only possible interpretation of your actions.”

  She drew in a frustrated breath. “You have so much potential, Aragon! If you could just stop thinking about yourself for ten seconds, you could be so much more…”

  “So much more dead,” he concluded sharply.

  “You might be a better person for it,” she retorted.

  Aragon raised an eyebrow. “If you want me, Kassa, my personality comes too. That’s the deal.”

  “Who says I want you?” she snapped.

  This time, he almost smiled. “You’re so obvious.”

  Momentarily lost for words, Kassa Daggersharp turned on her heel and walked towards the Silver Splashdance. After a moment, Aragon Silversword followed her.

  In the waters that surround the little island Empire of Mocklore, the magic still lurks as magic washed away by an unexpected rainstorm will do. Even the gods have little control over wild magic. It will be back.

  Elsewhere in Mocklore, a giant gargoyle-man and a gorgon argue fiercely about whether their life together will be as mercenaries or as pirates. The fight continues until he throws a sheep at her and she tries to scratch his eyes out. Eventually they declare a mutual truce in order to cook dinner in peace. It could almost be happy ever after.

  The sheep, of course, will run away at the earliest opportunity.

  Elsewhere again, a royal carriage from a distant land trundles along the only road in Mocklore. The King of Anglorachnis wonders why his Queen looks so pleased with herself, and so damned attractive. He muses about how to ensure that the grim priestess-in-waiting will not be standing guard outside her door tonight…

  Elsewhere again, the Lady Emperor of Mocklore is being forced to play croquet and Blind-Man’s-Billiards with her pirate and her urchin while the Lordling of Skullcap lectures them on correct methods of piracy. In time, she too will return…

  Deep in the multi-coloured forest which surrounds the deviously exotic Skullcap Mountains, a ghost of a pirate ship sails silently onwards. One of the crew is swabbing the deck and grumbling about how other people keep spending his money—he has obviously found out about the further ten per cent of his hoard that Lady Talle gave to the Profithood. Another member of the crew is writing epic-poetry, and hoping like anything that there will soon be enough material for a sequel…

  A third member of the crew is seriously considering jumping ship, although for some reason he can never actually bring himself to do so. Instead, he watches the Captain and wonders just what she does to inspire them all to follow her—or at least to travel in the same direction.

  Eventually, the sheep will meet up with them again, and then the crew will be complete.

  The Captain is halfway up the rigging, hanging on to the mast for dear life. Her dark red hair blows wildly around her, obscuring the view that she climbed up there to see. Sometimes she sings sea-shanties, and sometimes she murmurs more enigmatic songs with vaguely disturbing melodies.

  Eventually, she climbs down from the mast to discover that no one has done the washing up. This leads to a heated argument and much throwing of crockery.

  They are travelling North, and she hasn’t yet told them why, although they all have their suspicions. Their Captain is almost officially a Pirate of Note, but has not yet proved herself a Qualified Witch. There is also the morbid possibility that they are still, as far as they know, in the hands of Lady Luck. That particular curse will be hard to out-run.

  If there is somewhere that the Captain wants to go, none of them really have any say in the matter. The strange thing is that not one of them has objected yet—except beneath their breath.

  Some people are born to have ballads written about them, to cause major catastrophes, and to tell others what to do. That is the way of the world…

  LIQUID GOLD

  Mocklore Chronicles #2

  1: Gold, Gold, the Mistress of Us All

  The world was nothing special, but what world is when you get right down to it? There is nothing intriguing about a big round rock spinning through space. All those little creatures scampering around on its surface are what make a particular world interesting…

  On this world was an island. It was an extraordinary place to live, if only for the number of times it had nearly exploded, sunk, and generally caused trouble for all concerned. This island was packed to the gills with witches, warlocks, merchants, minstrels, criminals and things which go bump in the night. To all intents and purposes, the island was also an Empire. The Mocklore Empire, a multi-coloured blot on the universal landscape. They had an Emperor and everything, even if she was of the female persuasion.

  Below the surface of this cheerfully chaotic island (and simultaneously above the clouds, for various eldritch reasons) lurked the Underworld. From there, the dead watched the Mocklore Empire with hollow eyes, and thanked the various gods that they were well out of it.

  At the edge of the island, skimming through the grass like a sterling silver styling comb, was a ship. A ghostly galleon, not quite there and yet somehow very real. It was silver, and its Captain’s name was Kassa Daggersharp. Behind the ship, bobbing along on four stumpy little legs, trotted a sheep.

  At that specific moment in time, a story began to weave its perilous web. A brewer made something. A green-eyed woman stole something. A ghostly ship full of pirates (more or less) bounced its way across a daffodil-encrusted meadow. And somewhere, a goddess laughed.

  In one of the unworldly dimensions frequented by the gods, Lady Luck laughed unmercifully. She was the most elegant of goddess, with elaborate beige-blonde hair and hard eyes. “It can’t be helped now, Destiny darling. You cursed them. Such a nasty, malicious curse. ‘I leave you in the hands of Lady Luck,’ you said. That means that they belong to me, lock stock
and destiny.”

  Destiny, a green-haired girl goddess with translucent skin, made a far-from-elegant pout. “You’re jealous because you only have the power to affect people’s luck, whereas Fate and I work on much higher levels of manipulation.”

  “Not anymore,” said Lady Luck sharply. It was a sore point. “You gave me a nice little bundle of destinies and I can play with them how I like.” She smiled, and waved her manicured hand in the air. Images formed in the aether. Lady Luck examined each one critically, checking them for flaws. The profit-scoundrel, the jester…she lingered speculatively over the face of the traitor swordsman, but it was their leader who stood out from the rest, a proud, angry face surrounded by a cloud of hair the colour of old blood. “Miss High-And-Mighty Captain Daggersharp,” mused the goddess. “You must miss dabbling in that cute, anst-ridden little life of hers.”

  “She could achieve some really interesting things…”

  “Precisely my point,” said Lady Luck. “They all could, if I chose to let them.” She smiled a dazzlingly nasty smile.

  Destiny pretended not to be bothered, but a tiny wrinkle creased her brow. “You can’t randomly kill them off, you know. The framework of destiny is arranged at birth—you could only circumvent that if the cosmos was in total disarray.”

  Lady Luck clicked her tongue. “Well then,” she said. “I’m going to have to improvise.”

  In the dim light of the Brewer’s Pavilion, molten gold welled up out of the confines of the test tube, glowing in globules against the glass. A long droplet sank slowly from its rim down towards the canvas floor, elongating at an exceptionally leisurely pace. When it touched the ground, the droplet appeared to bounce, slowly being sucked up once more towards the residual mass in the narrow glass test tube. It was glorious. It was alien. It was liquid gold.