The Sultan stared, open-mouthed. His horror at the loss of his favourite bargaining tool was suddenly replaced with greed as he realised what was happening.
The Silver Splashdance was silver no longer. The giant ghost-ship pulsated with amber light, glowing golden against a bright white landscape of broken glass and liveried guards.
“Liquid gold,” said Sparrow hoarsely.
Daggar gazed at the golden ship, his eyes wide with the realisation of what he had done. The first words out of his mouth bypassed his brain entirely. “Kassa’s going to kill me!”
10: Fishcakes and Philosophy
The various fortune-tellers of Entrail Row had offered Aragon Silversword very little as far as arcane knowledge went. He sat now on a park bench in Watchtower Square, staring at the pigeons and half-heartedly chewing on a fish cake. It was time to give up this mindless obsession. Time to get on with his life. If Lady Luck wanted Kassa dead, what could he do about it? Entering a butt-kicking contest with a god (or goddess) was one of his top ten list of things never to do to himself.
It was well past time he figured out some useful way to spend his life. And if the witchmark meant he couldn’t forget Kassa, then he would have to live with it. Or not, as the case might be. He shoved the spiral ring deep into his belt pouch.
The bench creaked as someone else perched on the other end. Aragon glanced up disinterestedly and saw an old man with a bushy white beard and a furled umbrella. He went back to his fish cake.
A clear, bell-like voice interrupted Aragon’s inner thoughts. “Young man, as Hypocritices once said, ‘There are no tragedies but those we create for ourselves.’ I think there’s a message in that for all of us.” The old man smiled, creasing his beard.
Aragon stared at the stranger with unfriendly eyes. “Is that your professional opinion?”
“It certainly is,” said the old man, sticking out a cheerful hand. “Psittacus the philosopher, at your service. ‘There is no art so wise as mine,’ as the Bard was wont to say.”
“Which bard?”
“Oh, any you choose to name, dear boy.”
“I see,” said Aragon darkly. “And you’re here to solve all my problems, are you?”
“Certainly not,” said the philosopher, horrified at the suggestion. “I don’t have all year. Besides, I can see what your main problem is straight away. It’s written all over your face.”
“Tell me,” said Aragon Silversword icily.
Psittacus the philosopher shared a conspiratorial smile, making himself comfortable on the rickety bench. “Well, it seems to me that you fell in love with a milkmaid at a very young age and soon after discovered that she was married to someone else, so you ran away to sea and returned only to discover that your entire village, milkmaid included, had been wiped out by the Green Plague.” He waggled his eyebrows and bared his surprisingly even teeth in a delighted grin. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“No,” said Aragon.
The grin faded slightly. “Oh,” said Psittacus the philosopher, only slightly discouraged. After a moment of what appeared to be studious thought, he brightened. “Try this one, then. You were involved in a torrid love triangle with a Chiantrian exotic dancer and a Sparkling Nun, and…”
Aragon held up a hand to ward off the rest of the half-baked theory. “No.”
“Oh.” Psittacus looked dejected. “No vampire squirrels involved in the scenario, by any chance?”
“Not a single one.”
“Oh.”
Aragon leaned back into the park bench. “Do you really want to know?”
Psittacus leaned forward eagerly, his elbows balanced precariously on his knees. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
Aragon wondered if it would sound quite as stupid if he told someone else. He tried, and it did. “I was forced into the service of a Pirate Queen with minimal magic powers who put a witchmark on me to seal my so-called loyalty. She then got herself killed, leaving me marked for life. This magically-enforced loyalty has ensured that I can not only not put her out of my mind, but I have also developed an unhealthy obsession with the afterlife, and with getting my revenge on the goddess responsible for this whole mess.”
He took a bite of his fish cake, which was cold.
“Oh, is that all?” said Psittacus the philosopher, slapping his thigh. “As Leodicranz the Unready once said, ‘A problem shared is a problem doubled twice, divided by two and multiplied into submission.’ Good thing you came to me when you did, we’ll get you sorted out in no time at all!”
“Of course you will,” said Aragon. He did not hold his breath.
Psittacus jumped to his feet, and to Aragon’s immense disgust, led them straight to Entrail Row. “I’ve just come from here,” Aragon protested. “They couldn’t tell me anything.”
Psittacus tapped his nose knowingly. “Ah, but you might not have known the right questions to ask,” he suggested. “Leave this to me.” And he barged right into one of the canvas-fronted scrying boutiques, snatched up a pack of fortune cards and started shuffling them quickly. “Self-serve, is it?” he asked the outraged gypsy behind the counter. “Won’t be half a minute.”
The gypsy stormed out, probably going to find six of her closest and largest friends to evict this interloper.
“Right,” said Psittacus. “This young lady of yours. What’s her date of birth?”
“I don’t know,” said Aragon.
Psittacus waggled his bushy eyebrows. “Approximate age?”
“Older than twenty,” Aragon hazarded.
“Is that the best you can do?”
“Younger than thirty?”
“Remember her name, by any chance?”
Aragon Silversword gritted his teeth. “Kassa Daggersharp.”
“Oh, her. Her fate’s been written in the constellations for at least half an eternity.” Psittacus gazed blankly at the fortune cards in his hand. “Hang on a mo. Dead, you say?”
“Dead,” said Aragon evenly.
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“We buried her at sea.” Aragon’s voice was beyond frosty. Ice dripped from it.
“Well,” grumbled Psittacus. He tossed the fortune cards into a corner. “Come on. These aren’t going to do us much good, they haven’t caught up to the cosmos yet. Someone’s been buggering around with the space-time continuum. Your girl’s just a symptom, I’d say. No one can die before their destiny’s up, no matter how hard they try. We’ll have to follow the problem to the source.”
“Lady Luck,” rasped Aragon Silversword.
“Oh?” replied Psittacus the philosopher. “Can’t say I’m surprised.” He looked slightly sick. “Planning to go toe to toe with Milady, are you? Brave lad.”
“Actually, I had just decided to give it up as a bad job,” admitted Aragon.
Psittacus looked outraged. “And let her win? Let her destroy the cosmos? Can’t have that!” He frowned. “Even so, better let you know what you’re up against. You’ll have to be invisible.”
“One of my life’s ambitions,” said Aragon dryly. Three minutes later, he couldn’t help waving a hand in front of his face. As predicted, he couldn’t see it.
“Of course you can’t see it,” said Psittacus irritably. “You’re invisible. I did explain this.”
“But if I’m invisible, how can I see anything at all? Surely I should be blind…”
Psittacus slapped a hand over Aragon’s mouth. “You know that, and I know that,” he hissed quietly, “But the cosmos hasn’t caught up with us yet, so let’s not give her any ideas, eh?”
“You haven’t explained why we’re invisible. Is there a reason for it, or are you just practising?”
“We, my boy, are about to trespass in the most exclusive club in Zibria—the Progressive Atheist’s Committee.”
Aragon hesitated. “We may be invisible, but are we lightning proof?”
Psittacus chuckled. “This way.”
Unaware of the two invisible observers who had crept
in at the back of the hall, the Progressive Atheist’s Committee was brought to order.
“Now then,” said the Chair, “Could you read the minutes from last meeting, Brother Garfunkl?”
A skinny, redheaded young man coughed and frantically swallowed his adam’s apple. “At 2:51 of the clock, the meeting was brought to order and minutes were read. At 2:55 of the clock, Brother Francine denounced the almighty fiction of the concept that divine beings exist within our rational universe. At 2:56 of the clock, a large tidal wave unexpectedly emerged from the community privy and swallowed Brother Francine whole. At 3:01 of the clock, the meeting was closed due to an outbreak of irrational prayers and similar religious observances by Brothers Caramel and Ortman.”
The Chair stared blackly at the two brothers in question, who stared apologetically at their boots.
The meeting was interrupted by a pale young woman who trudged in from a side door and cautiously took a chair. “Sorry I’m late, everybody,” she said in a quiet voice. “I wasn’t feeling very well.”
The Chair turned his fierce expression on to the young woman, eyeing her waistline. “You are not with child, are you, Sister Maughan?”
“Well,” she blushed suddenly, “I suppose I could be.” She burst into tears. “Oh, I’m sorry, Chair, but he appeared in a shower of gold, and he had such a commanding presence and…” She subsided into mutinous sniffles.
“Does anyone else have anything to confess?” asked the Chair dangerously.
A small brother put his hand up. “Well, actually…”
“Yes, Brother Belfry?”
“I, well you see, I sort of maybe had a visitation last night,” Brother Belfry muttered in an embarrassed tone.
“A visitation?” repeated the Chair ominously.
“Just a little one,” said Brother Belfry in a squeak. “But you see, well have you heard the glorious word of Number Seven?”
“OUT!” roared the Chair.
Brother Belfry ran for it, clutching the hand of Sister Maughan who had decided to make a break at the same time.
The Chair folded his arms and regarded his three remaining committee members. “Does anyone else have anything to report?”
Feeling an invisible hand plucking at his invisible sleeve, Aragon quietly made his way out of the Zibrian community hall. In the sunlight, he watched his feet gradually became visible again, as did the rest of him. Psittacus the philosopher was also visible now, although his left hand and half of his beard remained missing for quite some time.
“Why did we leave halfway through?” asked Aragon curiously.
“Between you, me and the hedgehog, they’re going to be struck by a divine fireball in about ten minutes,” said Psittacus cheerfully. “The gods can cope with individual atheists, but they take it personally when they start forming committees. Anyway, you’d heard enough, hadn’t you?”
“The lesson being that mortals should not pit themselves against the gods, I suppose,” said Aragon dryly.
“Something like that,” agreed Psittacus. “Still willing to go through with all this?”
Aragon was silent for a moment. “She wasn’t supposed to die, was she?”
“No,” said Psittacus the philosopher. “She wasn’t. It’s obviously a symbol that the cosmos is seriously ailing. Still, that’s hardly your concern.” He raised a bushy white eyebrow in a comical fashion. “Or is it?”
In one of the more tastefully decorated godly dimensions, Destiny wrinkled her nose. “When do the fireworks start?”
“I beg your pardon?” said Lady Luck haughtily.
“Well, you threatened to do all sorts of nasty things to Aragon Silversword, and it hasn’t happened.”
“Give it time,” replied Lady Luck. “True mortal manipulation requires skill and subtlety—neither of which you possess, incidentally—and it takes time to unfurl every level of the plot in a truly dramatic fashion.”
“I reckon you’ve lost your touch,” said Destiny slyly.
“Stuff and nonsense!” But a worried expression hovered behind Lady Luck’s superior smile. “Just because I can’t actually locate him at this exact moment does not imply any kind of failure on my part. It is a momentary setback, nothing more.”
“The thing about Lady Luck,” confided Psittacus. “None of the gods like her much, but they’re all scared stiff of her. When it comes to manipulation, she’s the best there is. And you haven’t a hope of doing what you have to do without assistance.” He seemed to be deep in thought for a few moments. “It’ll have to be Tmesis.”
“Who?”
“She’s the priestess of the lost gods, the mislaid divinities.” Aragon still didn’t seem to understand, so Psittacus spelled it out for him. “The ex-gods of Mocklore. From before the decimalisation. She’ll help you reach the Underworld. None of the gods will risk it, but she doesn’t have much to lose.”
“Fine,” said Aragon. “By the way, which one are you?”
Psittacus looked at him, a hint of a desperate smile taking over his heavily-bearded face. “Sorry, my boy? Didn’t quite catch that.”
“I think you know exactly what I mean,” said Aragon in a hard voice. “Which—god—are—you?”
Psittacus sighed, and for a moment his face fell away to reveal another, younger but infinitely seedier face with blotchy eyes and lopsided stubble.
“Binx,” said Aragon thoughtfully. “Patron god of Dreadnought…”
“Don’t tell everybody,” begged the Empire’s most disreputable deity, quickly restoring his ‘Psittacus’ face. “If Milady finds out my involvement here, she’ll make my eternity a living hell. Don’t look at me like that, you don’t have to live on the same plane of existence as her!”
“True,” said Aragon acidly, “What I would like is to be on the same plane of existence as Kassa Daggersharp. Is that going to be possible?”
Psittacus tugged at his beard. “Not sure, old boy. Probably not. I mean, destiny is one thing, but once a mortal’s dead that’s supposed to be it. No going back. Mind you, if it’s the cosmos at fault, and Lady Luck just took advantage of it, then there should be some way to unravel her handiwork. Loopholes are surprisingly common, if you know where to look. Anyway, if your priority is to find the dead lass, you’ll have to travel to the Underworld. Gods aren’t allowed there, except the Dark One, so only Tmesis the Forgotten Priestess can show you the way.”
“Fine,” said Aragon. “And where is she?”
Psittacus looked uncomfortable. “Ah. That’s the thing, you see. I don’t actually know…”
“What?”
“Come on!” The fake philosopher shuffled quickly down a marble-tiled avenue. “There’s an amnesty on priests, you see. They’re undetectable to any but their own gods. And as Tmesis’ gods are officially Forgotten, they can’t help you.”
“So where now?” demanded Aragon. He wasn’t going to let himself be dragged back and forth by a fake philosopher in the name of some indefinable goal—he had had enough of that sort of thing from Kassa.
“Well, there is another category who come under Tmesis’ guiding hand, so to speak. The hemi-gods.”
“Hemi-gods?”
“Certainly, old boy. This Decimalisation business is all very well, but gods are immortal. We don’t all stay chaste. At least, not all of the time. Unplanned offspring are bound to turn up every now and then. The half mortals are usually all right—the boys slap on a lion skin and turn hero, while the girls get up to all sorts of interesting things. But if they don’t have any mortal blood, the sprogs get stamped as hemi-gods and forgotten about. Not Forgotten, just forgotten. It means they could be gods if we had room for more than ten, which we don’t.”
“And you know one of these hemi-gods?” Aragon was discovering less and less sarcasm in his voice. He couldn’t be getting used to this sort of life, could he?
“Hemi-goddess, as it happens.” They were at the arched city walls now. Psittacus pushed Aragon out of the golden gates (foil-covered)
and pressed a large red fruit into his hand. “This is her calling card. Good luck.”
“Now wait a minute,” said Aragon Silversword, but it was too late. The ‘philosopher’ had vanished. “I’ve just about had enough of this,” he growled at the fruit, feeling stupid. It was round, an unfamiliar object with a red leathery skin. Aragon dropped it on the dusty ground where it bounced and lay still. He drew his sword and stabbed deeply down into the flesh of the fruit. As he pulled out the transparent blade, several pulpy seeds were clinging to it. Thoughtfully, Aragon picked off one seed, cracking it between his teeth.
The universe exploded for a little while.
Wordern the Sky-warrior, the god of thunder and lightning who was technically responsible for all the bearded and braided folk in Axgaard, had eight daughters. They were not gods, because the decimalisation of the religious structures of Mocklore had put an end to divine dynasties. They were not even demi-gods, because that wasn’t allowed either.
On the other hand, they weren’t mortal. Because they were girls, they weren’t supposed to be heroes. So they hung around in their father’s divine cloud mansion, braided their hair, rode around on flying horses while singing opera and generally made themselves available for the occasional odd job which was far too menial for any official god to bother with.
It was Pomegranate’s turn to do the washing up. Her long braids were pinned to the ceiling to keep them out of the suds, and her slender arms were engulfed in long yellow rubber gloves. She sighed plaintively. Thursday was always a rotten day for washing up, because of the weekly banquet the night before. The sink was piled to the brim with eating axes, knives, tankards and gobbets of leftovers.
Everything smelled of beer—but then, everything in Axgaard always smelled of beer and Wordern the Sky-warrior liked his mansion in the clouds to reflect his favourite city in every way possible.
Pomegranate Wordernsdaughter gave another plaintive sigh and set to work.
Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles) Page 37
