Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles)

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  “Too late now, innit?” said Dame Veedie the baker, cackling. She spat deliberately into a tin cup. “Bog orf. I don’t want you. Bloody young generation, all ‘I want, I want!’ No commitment. Well, you can’t have what you want, missy. So there. Get lorst.”

  Kassa’s beautiful golden eyes went very sharp and angry-looking. Her mouth reddened, and her eyebrows twitched. “I’ll show you, crone!” she growled. “When I’m the best witch there’s ever been, I’ll come back and burn your rotten, smelly old gingerbread cottage to the ground!”

  She stormed away, slamming the gingerbread door behind her.

  Through a cloudy window of glazed sugar, Dame Veedie Crosselet watched Kassa stalk away. “Smelly?” she demanded in righteous indignation.

  Aragon Silversword went down into the cargo hold. His whole body was on the alert, ready for anything. His transparent sword swept the empty space before him, and his cold grey eyes scanned the area for any anomaly.

  In the dim light of the underbelly of the Silver Splashdance, something went scrape scrape kchink kchink kchink.

  The noise was coming from the wooden sea chest in which Kassa kept all her spare jewellery. For someone who claimed to travel light, she had managed to acquire a huge quantity of spangles and baubles. No matter how many lobe-rings, toe-rings, bangles and bracelets she managed to wear at any given time, there was always enough left over to fill a good-sized sea chest. It was all in silver, her favourite metal—highest quality, of course.

  A noise behind him warned Aragon. He spun and lunged, only just managing to prevent himself from skewering Daggar and Tippett together. “What do you want?” he demanded.

  “We were just wondering what was going on,” said Daggar, grinning uneasily.

  “You may as well make yourself useful,” said Aragon, lowering his sword. He indicated Kassa’s sea chest. “Are you any good at locks? I think there’s something alive in there.”

  Scrape, scrape, scrape. Kchink kchink kchink-chink.

  Daggar automatically put his hands behind his back. “Me? Couldn’t open a lock to save my life.” He sounded almost believable.

  Aragon raised his eyebrows slightly, and then glanced at Tippett. “What about you?”

  The little jester-poet sighed. Somehow, the dirty jobs always made it down to him, the lowest on the pecking order. “It belongs to Kassa, doesn’t it?” he said cautiously. “Won’t it be booby-trapped?”

  “Almost certainly,” replied Aragon Silversword.

  Tippett the jester took a deep breath and went forward to examine the sea chest, which had begun to shake wildly.

  Scrape, scrape, kchink kchink, rattle-attle-attle.

  On an alternate plane of reality Destiny was sulking, which meant that throughout the Empire, babies were being born who would grow up to be devastatingly normal: neither heroes, Emperors or damsels in distress.

  “I am playing by the rules,” chided Lady Luck, rattling her gemstone dice.

  “Sabotage, that’s what it is!” insisted her sister goddess, chewing a lock of rather ratty green hair.

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  “Well, I like Kassa Daggersharp. She had all sorts of bright skeins to her future. I only lost my temper with her once…”

  “And passed her along to me,” said Lady Luck in her cool, aristocratic voice. “Now bite your tongue, watch and learn.” She rolled the dice, which spun and danced and finally settled on a firm score of double-six.

  “There!” said Destiny triumphantly. “You said you were playing by the rules. You have to give them good luck now, lots and lots of good luck!”

  “Absolutely,” agreed Lady Luck. “I don’t cheat, my dear. Particularly not when I make up the rules. By an extraordinary stroke of luck, the lock they are so intrigued with will miraculously spring open, and the traitor, profit-scoundrel, jester and sheep will all survive the encounter with whatever is inside.” And she smiled her nasty smile, flashing her bright white teeth triumphantly.

  Tippett fell backwards as the lock sprang miraculously open. Something zinged out, bouncing off the walls and chittering in an angry burble.

  “The sacred bauble of Chiantrio!” they all yelled in unison.

  The bauble had been a prized possession of the Lady Emperor, before it had taken a fancy to Aragon Silversword and been passed hastily over to Kassa Daggersharp, who kept it in her bodice for a while. But time had passed and in the way of all cute new possessions, the bauble had found its way to the store of discarded spangles and abandoned glittering things. It didn’t seem too pleased about it.

  “Duck!” screeched Daggar, throwing himself flat on his face. The bauble skidded over his head, zinging its way out of the cargo hold.

  “When even the jewellery gets cabin fever, you know everyone’s been working too hard,” said Aragon caustically.

  “Shouldn’t we stop it?” suggested Tippett in a small voice.

  “Good plan,” agreed Daggar. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll put some armour on first. That little blighter could put a hole in your head without blinking!”

  Aragon lunged for the bauble and it zipped away from under his sword, bouncing madly off the silvery mast and finally zinging away from the ship.

  “Good riddance!” Daggar shouted after it, breathing hard and clanking slightly from all the armour he had put on in a hurry—most of it was on backwards.

  Then they saw who was standing at the edge of the beach path.

  Kassa stalked back through the island paradise of Chiantrio with murder on her mind. Hobbling slightly, as her efforts to seriously wound a tree in her path had resulted in a broken boot-heel, she couldn’t help noticing that something had changed.

  The flower-bedecked women of Chiantrio were no longer lounging in the shade, looking attractive and nibbling on tropical fruit. The beautiful men of the island were no longer oiling their muscles and picking fights with each other.

  Gathered together in the central oasis, they all wrapped their heads with translucent cloth, chanting loudly.

  Kassa stopped a cloth-wrapped girl with a lantern and a ceremonial paw-paw. “What’s going on?”

  The girl looked at her with a hazy expression which suggested she had been smoking the paw-paw rather than just eating it. “Our sacred icon is returning,” she said dreamily, swaying slightly. “It has returned to Chiantrio.”

  This didn’t sound like it had anything to do with Kassa, so she let the girl go about her business and headed off down the beach path, muttering to herself. What with one thing and another, it had not been a good day.

  The silver ghost-ship came into view, perched haphazardly on the sand. Kassa squinted against the dying sun. Her crew appeared to be dashing madly around on deck, even the usually cool and collected Aragon Silversword. They were all armed with swords, tennis rackets and what looked like giant butterfly nets. Odd.

  Kassa opened her mouth, preparing to hail the ship and give them all a piece of her mind. Was this what they called spring cleaning? Suddenly, she saw something coming towards her at a super turn of speed. Something small. And everyone was shouting…

  It could have been deliberate, some kind of punishment for inadvertently locking the sacred bauble in a chest of forgotten knick-knacks. Or it could have been an entirely random act. Either way, the sacred bauble zinged straight through Kassa Daggersharp’s chest like hot butter as it sped towards its temple and the people waiting to worship it.

  Kassa Daggersharp gasped, swayed and fell. Ignoring the immutable laws of physics, Aragon Silversword was there in time to catch her. He lowered her to the ground, very slowly.

  Daggar and Tippett caught up, breathing hard. “Is she all right?” Daggar demanded anxiously.

  Aragon was looking for a wound, some mark of the sacred bauble’s passage, but he couldn’t see anything. “You’re fine,” he assured her, ignoring the unexpected sensation of relief. “You’re not hurt.”

  Kassa coughed, almost laughing at him. “Oh, it hurts,” she assured
him. “Trust me on this one.”

  “What can we do?” demanded Daggar, awaiting orders as always.

  For no reason that he could immediately fathom, Aragon felt for Kassa’s hand and gripped it firmly. “It’s all right,” he muttered. “We’re here.”

  And this time Kassa Daggersharp really did laugh, the familiar throaty chuckle barely escaping her lips. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she challenged, and closed her eyes.

  A very long time passed, and she didn’t open them again.

  “Well?” demanded Daggar hoarsely. “What’s wrong?”

  “She’s dead,” said Aragon shortly.

  Daggar half-smiled, as if he couldn’t believe it. “What?”

  “Dead,” Aragon repeated, clearly.

  “Not—dead dead?” persisted Daggar.

  “Dead,” said Aragon for a third time, and to prove it he let go of Kassa and walked away across the sand.

  Daggar looked down at the body of his cousin. “She won’t like that,” he predicted sombrely.

  3: Thunderdust

  Sparrow was dreaming of gold. She ploughed waist-deep through the stuff, forcing her body onwards through the firm, globulous mass. It swamped around her, pulling her down and pushing her back. It clung to her skin, warm and supple. Golden waves crashed against her legs, golden arms reached up to catch hold of her.

  Under the surface, everything was thick and liquid and amber. Sparrow swam, her hair surrounding her like a wide cloak. She saw fire in the gold, and snow, and pirates. She saw a red-haired woman, and took an instant dislike to her. In the final, frivolous moments before the gold filled her mouth and choked her lungs, Sparrow thought she heard a chorus of tiny laughing voices.

  And then she woke up with her mouth full of dirt, a major disadvantage of sleeping on the ground. Still, she would sleep surrounded by stone tonight. Every step took her closer to familiar territory. Crossing the Skullcaps had been uncomfortable to say the least—that territory was so clogged up with residual magic that it was difficult even to sneeze without creating some strange and mysterious new species.

  After checking that the leather-wrapped vial was still safely stowed in her boot, Sparrow started walking. She had caught up to her own time, but somehow the liquid gold was still a part of her. She couldn’t stop thinking about it, resisting the urge to unwrap the vial and look at it again, even to taste it.

  This was no different to any other kind of valuable cargo. She was not immune to greed. But she had the willpower to deal with this. Nothing would stop her handing it over to the Sultan, intact. After all, her reward would be well worth it. Freedom was priceless…

  She didn’t notice the dandelion-like flowers which sprung up wherever her feet trod. Neither did she notice the tiny spores which lifted with the breeze and swirled upwards, beyond the mortal sphere.

  Aragon Silversword watched impassively as Daggar and Tippett brought Kassa’s body, heavily bundled in blankets, on to the deck of the Silver Splashdance. “What do you think you are doing?”

  “We’re going to bury her at sea,” said Daggar fiercely. “When we get out deep enough. Any objections?”

  “Do what you like,” replied Aragon Silversword, not sounding as if he cared one way or the other.

  Daggar and Tippett exchanged glances. “You mean—you’re not going to be Captain now?” said Tippett timidly.

  This seemed to genuinely amuse Aragon. “Would you want me to?”

  They both looked perplexed. Horrible though a life under the tyrannical hand of Aragon Silversword might be, it seemed a lot less trouble than being left to their own devices. “Well…” started Daggar.

  Aragon cut him off with a dismissive gesture. “As soon as we reach the mainland, I’m on my own. You would only slow me down.” He turned on his heel and went below decks, where he locked himself into the Captain’s cabin.

  Daggar trudged morosely to the wheel, and gave it a half-hearted spin. Sailing skills weren’t really necessary for this ship, which pretty much did what it was told. “Go on, then,” he ordered. “Open sea. Head back to Mocklore. Whatever.”

  The ghost-ship seemed to sigh, and glided away, over and through the shallow reef of the island.

  Tippett the little jester was standing sadly by the railing, slurping lukewarm tea from a thermos flask. “I suppose I’ll have to finish the ballad now.”

  “Not much point in stringing it out,” agreed Daggar. He had a small flask of salt-whisky under his belt, but didn’t fancy it much.

  “What do you think happens—you know.”

  “After death?” replied Daggar. “Ah, the usual. Imps. Black robes. That sort of thing.”

  “My mum always told me that there were mermaids,” said Tippett staunchly. “And butternut pancakes, and big monsters made out of jelly.”

  “Ah,” said Daggar. “How old were you, exactly?”

  “About six. An imaginative lady, my mum.”

  “She must have been.” Daggar yawned, and stared up at the twinkling stars that were just starting to emerge in the evening sky. “I reckon that everyone ends up somewhere different. You know, somewhere suited for them.”

  Tippett thought that over carefully. “So there’s an afterlife exactly suited for Kassa?”

  “I’d say so.” Daggar reflected on the subject a little longer. “Probably got crocodiles in it. And dress shops.”

  Tippett nodded. “At least there aren’t any gods in the Underworld. All the legends agree on that. Kassa never really got on well with gods, did she?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. She’s manipulated a few in her time.” Daggar leaned heavily against the ship’s wheel. “So if gods aren’t allowed in the Underworld, who runs the place, then?”

  Tippett dredged up a rare bit of humour as he slurped the last drops of tea from his flask. “Prob’ly Kassa, by now.”

  The little sisters of the Evangelical Turnip were an obscure order, devoted to one of the many gods who had been brushed under the carpet when a previous Emperor had decimalised the religious structure of Mocklore. The sisters were famous for their incredible cooking skills and high levels of gullibility, so that anyone in anything remotely resembling a priestly robe could claim endless hospitality and free meals without paying for the privilege.

  It was late when Sparrow let herself into the temple, and made her way unchallenged to the little courtyard where she had arranged to have her armour hidden by one of the Sultan’s lackeys. She pulled the leather satchel out from behind a clump of potted trees and checked the contents briefly. All was in order.

  She had run out of time. The week had passed as she made her way north, and the Brewers would be coming after her soon.

  A little sister in an embroidered cassock popped her head into the courtyard. “Ah, Sister Stranger. We are all going on a picnic, will you join us?”

  Sparrow straightened. “Picnic?” she replied blankly. Just when she thought she understood the Mocklorn language, a new word always turned up to perplex her. Of course, the Sultan had taken to making up words on the spot in order to make her feel inferior, and so she was always suspicious about new additions to her vocabulary.

  “Just for fun,” explained the cassocked sister. We’re going to take our lunch and eat it in the woods.”

  “Ah,” said Sparrow, filing the strange custom in her head for future reference. “What if it rains?”

  “That’s half the fun!” declared the sister gaily. “It always rains!”

  “I believe I will forego the fun,” said Sparrow. “Will all the other sisters be going with you?”

  “Oh, yes! Do come along if you change your mind.” The little sister scurried away.

  Sparrow pulled out her pouch of troll thunderdust and tossed it grimly from hand to hand. The strange customs of the little sisters made her plan so much easier to execute.

  As she walked out of the courtyard, tiny bunches of yellow flowers began to push their way up from between the cobbles.

  Someti
me the next morning, the ghostly Silver Splashdance glided along an anonymous beach on the mainland of Mocklore.

  Tippett was down in the hold, sniffing loudly as he completed his first significant work: The Significant and Informative Ballad of Kassa Daggersharp, a Pirate Queen who almost destroyed Mocklore twice, came to Blows with the Lady Emperor (who she was at School with, apparently) and Rampaged around the Empire in a Ghost-Ship made of Silver before coming to an Unfortunate End for No Apparent Reason (and was quite Nice really, when you got to know her).

  He thought the title needed some work. It wasn’t nearly elaborate enough for Big Time theatrics, but it would do for now. Tippett blew his nose loudly, and rewrote the last few couplets.

  Up on deck, Aragon hauled his bag over the side. There wasn’t much, just a spare cloak and a few odds and ends of treasure he had picked up on the various pirate rampages Kassa had dragged them through. He gave his sword a final polish, and called out for the ship to stop.

  The Silver Splashdance slowed and halted in mid-glide. The translucent silver hull sank slowly into the sand. “This is where I get off,” said Aragon Silversword.

  “So who gets the ship?” Daggar asked in a miserable sort of voice, shoving his hands in deep, patched pockets.

  “Keep it,” said Aragon. “You never know when—” He stopped himself from whatever he had been about to say. “I don’t need it. I don’t need anything.” He swung his legs over the railing and stepped down on to the sand. With one swift movement, he tossed his bag over a shoulder and walked away without looking back.

  Daggar went to pack his own bags. It took longer than it had Aragon, as there were hundreds of valuable little items Daggar had squirrelled away, and most of them were really hard to find. Eventually, it was time for him to tip his own laden sack over the side of the Silver Splashdance and jump down to the sand. He clapped his hands in the way that Kassa had taught him, to turn the ghost-ship back into a silver charm which could be tied around the neck or put into a handy pocket.