Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles)

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  As the river continued on its rushing path, the gloomy forest around the little boat faded away in favour of a darker and more menacing landscape. Mountains, valleys and various other less familiar land-masses formed ominous shapes against the horizon.

  And that was another thing. The horizon was in entirely the wrong place.

  The boatman leered at Aragon—obviously a man who enjoyed his work. “Git airseeck at all do ye?”

  “Airsick?” replied Aragon, trying to sound as aloof and dignified as possible. “What has that got to do with anything? We’re going to the Underworld. Isn’t the Underworld underground?”

  “Een a manner o’ speykin,” grinned the boatman.

  The horizon turned upside-down, inside out. Aragon’s stomach flipped around in circles and ended up somewhere around his ankles. Somewhere along the way he lost consciousness, which was quite a relief.

  Aragon awoke to find himself face down at the foot of a vertical cliff; the river and the boatman nowhere to be seen. He looked up. He looked around. Apart from the small section of rock on which he was sitting, the landscape surrounding him was a featureless void. He didn’t want to risk finding out if it was a featureless void. He stood up, and looked up again at the vertical cliff.

  The bronze twig, still glowing, was stuck jauntily in his belt. He picked it out and stared at it, turning it over in his hands and trying to remember what Tmesis had told him about being stranded by a mad boatman in the middle of a void. She hadn’t covered that part. Her implication had been that after getting aboard the boat, the rest would be easy. So much for the advice of the Priestess of Forgotten Gods.

  Aragon flung the bronze twig away from him as hard as he could. It bounced off the cliff and lay still on the rocks, teetering on the edge of the void. And then…

  A translucent spiral staircase grew out of the rock, twisting and turning its way up the vertical cliff. Aragon looked at the staircase, then at the twig, and turned his back on both of them. “If I climb up there,” he said aloud, “I’ll get almost to the top and then the whole bloody thing will collapse under me and I’ll end up at the foot again, possibly with multiple fractures. Life is so predictable.”

  He turned back, staring at the glittering staircase. He moved to pick up the bronze twig, sticking it back into his belt. “Then again, so am I. Predictable as anything.”

  Aragon Silversword began to climb the staircase.

  The Underworld tavern bore the name, “Rusty Ballads,” scrawled across the door in large golden lettering. It could have done with a new lick of paint, but then so could everything in the Underworld.

  Kassa pushed open the door.

  She had been to a great many taverns in her time, but this one took the biscuit. Kassa hadn’t thought it was possible for any place to be so entirely devoid of atmosphere. Imps slouched in and out, hanging over small seedy tables or taking turns to jab a slow stick around the pool table.

  Kassa took a deep breath and went up to the bar. “I want something with bubbles in it, please. Preferably a drink.”

  “Mineral water,” grunted the imp behind the bar.

  Kassa blinked. “I’m sorry—did you say mineral water?”

  “Only thing we got with bubbles.” The imp picked up a damp wash cloth and rubbed it half-heartedly over the bar. It only moved the grime around a bit.

  “All right,” she said calmly. “I’m willing to compromise. What do you serve which doesn’t have bubbles in it?”

  The imp snorted once into a spotted hanky which he then shoved back into his pocket. “Mineral water,” he grunted.

  Kassa waited. “And the difference between bubbled mineral water and non-bubbled mineral water is…” she invited.

  “About a week.”

  Kassa’s friendly smile had dissolved into something altogether less friendly. “I’ll have a fresh mineral water with bubbles, please,” she said.

  The imp put a glass in front of her. It was bubbled water. Kassa regarded it with distaste, and then laughed at herself. “I’m in the Underworld and I’m worrying about the quality of the water?”

  She took a mouthful, and tried tactfully not to spit it out again. It was almost entirely tasteless. She pushed the glass back along the counter. “Put a teaspoon of sea salt in it, and just maybe it will be drinkable.”

  By the time she reached her fourth salty mineral water, Kassa was becoming quite maudlin. “Gods but you’ve got a depressing place here,” she muttered into her empty glass.

  “Been working here all my life,” said the bartender imp sadly.

  She lifted her head and stared at him, her deep golden eyes slightly unable to focus. “How long’s that?”

  The imp, who was also on the mineral water (but without the salt), counted vaguely on his fingers. “When was the dawn of time?” he said finally. “Cos it was sometime before that. About four days before. Maybe less.”

  “How sad,” said Kassa sympathetically. “That’s so sad. Do you ever get a holiday?”

  “Every other millennia,” said the imp, on the verge of tears. “My cousin Stanley comes in, and I go tend his bar for a while. It’s the one at the other end of the Underworld. The one that not even the imps use. I stand there behind the bar, and nobody ever comes in. That’s my holiday. Compared to that, this place is Fun City.”

  Kassa took hold of the imp’s shoulder in a comradely gesture. “You are the bravest imp I have ever met in my entire…death.” She stared down at her empty glass. “There isn’t a drop of alcohol in this water, is there?”

  “Not an iota!” bawled the imp, big fat tears dribbling down his nose.

  Kassa sighed. “Thought not.” She turned on her stool, looking around the entire tavern, trying to spot something which might cheer her up. After a moment of concentrated searching, her arm lashed out and grabbed hold of the bartender imp by the collar, only just managing to avoid giving him a nasty scratch with her purple-painted fingernails. “Is that a piano over there?”

  The imp followed her gaze to a large object covered with a grey floral dust sheet. “Could be,” he hazarded.

  Kassa smiled an evil smile, her eyes lighting up for the first time since her death. “Well, then. Let’s get this party started!”

  19: The Other Silversword (Imperator Aragon I)

  The ballroom was thronged with dancing noblemen and glamorous women wearing peacock feathers. Sparrow, uncomfortable in her dreamlike golden gown, was dancing with the young and horribly handsome Lord Tangent.

  “I say,” he said cheerfully. “You’re not like other girls.”

  “No,” said Sparrow, forcing a friendly smile. “Ordinary girls do not hack people’s heads off for a living.”

  It was to Lord Tangent’s credit that he didn’t even blink. “I say, do you really? Jolly good show.”

  Daggar hovered behind the hat-stand, doing his best to be inconspicuous. Ostensibly keeping a nervous eye on the Emperor, he couldn’t help kept darting the occasional suspicious glance at Sparrow and her dancing partner. Not that he was jealous or anything. Of course not.

  Lord Tangent suavely whispered something in Sparrow’s ear. She smiled slightly, tilting her head up as if to hear him better. Then she slapped him soundly around the face and stalked off across the dance floor. She couldn’t quite manage a full military stride in her clingy golden skirts, but it was an impressive march nonetheless.

  Daggar tried not to grin too hard as she approached him. “Staying in character, are we?”

  Sparrow scowled darkly. “I want my armour back. No one tries to seduce me when I am armoured.”

  Daggar looked ruefully down at his ceremonial plate and uniform. “So that’s why no one will dance with me. Did the dashing young Lord Tangent insult your maidenly modesty? I could beat him up, if you like.”

  Sparrow glanced back at the wounded Lord Tangent, and then carefully looked Daggar up and down. “I do not think you could.”

  “True, true,” he agreed amiably. “So, what do we do ne
xt?”

  “We cannot risk searching for the ship until tomorrow. Let us hope Lady Reony is as generous with snowboots as she is with fancy dresses.”

  Daggar eyed her, not quite leering. “That is quite a dress.”

  “Oh, be quiet.” Sparrow scanned the hall. “What is your friendly neighbourhood Emperor up to?”

  Daggar nodded towards a corner of the hall, where the Imperator Aragon I was playing chess with Lady Reony, who was looking nervous. “He’s behaving himself. No executions yet, in any case. Why don’t you and I steal a platter of hors d’oeuvres and slink off for a while?”

  Sparrow looked amused. “Is that an improper suggestion?”

  Daggar thought about it. “Probably not,” he said glumly.

  Lady Reony Cooper had only just about figured out how the horse-shaped figures were supposed to move when the Emperor captured her last one. “I knew your uncle once,” he said as he picked the ebony knight off the board and tossed it into the little velvet bag beside the chessboard. “The infamous Reed Cooper.”

  “I know,” Reony said hesitantly. “He always spoke very highly of you.”

  The Emperor’s chilly grey eyes flickered briefly, though there was little humour in his gaze. “Indeed? Then he became more of a hypocrite in his middle age than I.”

  Reony flashed a quick, worried smile, hoping that he was joking. “Perhaps,” she admitted. “Is our hospitality to your liking, your Imperial Majesty?”

  The Emperor waited for her to make her next move. “Perhaps,” he mimicked.

  Daggar was pouring drinks for himself and Sparrow at one of the buffet tables when she stumbled, and almost fell. He stuck out his arm to steady her, dropping the ladle back in the tureen of mulled wine with a splash. “You all right?”

  Sparrow straightened up, staring in horror at the yellowish colour of her hands. For a moment, they seemed to age before her eyes. “I thought I had more time.”

  “You can’t believe anything that Opia woman tells you,” Daggar said authoritatively.

  Sparrow opened her mouth as if to make a sarcastic retort, but giddiness overwhelmed her.

  Daggar swung his arm around her waist. “Come on outside for some fresh air.”

  “I will not go outside,” Sparrow protested as he steered her towards the corridor. “It is still snowing, we will freeze.”

  “The tower room, then. I found it when I was looking for somewhere to put on this fancy suit. This way.”

  “Your breastplate is on backwards,” she noted as he pushed open a second set of double doors. Then she stared at the unfamiliar room in surprise.

  The walls, several storeys higher than the rest of the manor put together, were lined with wide glass windows. Translucent spiral stairs lined the tower, leading up to an elegant balcony at the highest point. Even the ceiling was glass, and the softly-falling snow traced patterns everywhere.

  Sparrow straightened up, breathing in the cool air of the glass-lined room. “I feel better now.”

  “Thought you might,” grinned Daggar. “Feel up to a climb? It’s a hell of a view.”

  Sparrow looked undecided. “We should go back to the party in case that Emperor friend of yours decides to execute everybody.”

  “It’ll only take a minute,” Daggar urged, grabbing her hand and heading for the steps. “Come on.”

  The view from the top of the glass tower was extraordinary—but puzzling. Sparrow turned around, trying to get her bearings. “We must be close to Zibria—the time trip never takes us far from where we left. But I cannot see it. That mountain is familiar, but that one is in the wrong place.”

  “Maybe it’s the snow,” suggested Daggar. “It makes things a funny shape sometimes…”

  “It should not swallow cities,” Sparrow said darkly. “Something is wrong. Mocklore cannot have changed this much in little more than twenty years!” She turned, staring in the opposite direction. “Daggar, there is a city.”

  “See, I told you it wouldn’t have gone far,” he said.

  “Not Zibria. There is a city on the Troll Triangle.”

  Daggar turned, and peered out into the snowy landscape. He could just about catch a glimpse of the familiar orange-coloured rocks of the Troll Triangle in the distance, almost completely covered up by snow…and the spiky towers of what looked very much like a city. “I didn’t think trolls had any interest in urban architecture,” he said thoughtfully.

  Sparrow’s voice was icier than the snow-patterned glass. “We do not. Trolls do not, they would not. That city is the work of humans.”

  “Hang on,” said Daggar, turning around again. “If that’s the Troll Triangle, where the hell is Zibria?”

  “That is what I asked!”

  “An interesting question,” said the Emperor. “If you don’t mind me saying so.”

  Sparrow and Daggar both swivelled their eyes downwards. The Emperor of Mocklore stood at the foot of the glass stairs, looking up at them. Very slowly, he began to make his way up the stairs. “Hello, Daggar,” he said almost conversationally. “I thought it was you.”

  “It’s been a long time,” said Daggar dubiously. “I could be…my son, for instance.” So very convincing.

  “Your son looks nothing like you,” said the Emperor dismissively, as he reached their level at the top of the tower. He surveyed the glass balcony with some interest, peering at the intricate furniture and finally raising his eyes to examine the view through the wide windows. “Incidentally, why have you suddenly lost at least two decades in age?”

  Daggar eyed him suspiciously. “What son? Are you telling me I have a…”

  Sparrow digged him sharply in the ribs with her elbow. “Time travel,” she said calmly. “Your Imperial Majesty.”

  A look of horror crossed the Emperor’s face. “So it was true.” He sat down on a flimsy glass chair, staring numbly at the snow-swirled scene outside. “I didn’t believe you.”

  “So,” said Daggar, taking a deep breath. “What happened to Mocklore?”

  The Emperor shrugged a single shoulder. “Civil war. Lady Talle left quite a mess for her successor to clear up. The city states are a thing of the past. Everything is feudal now.”

  “What about the weather?” demanded Daggar. “This isn’t normal. Neither are volcanoes or avalanches and whatever else has been going on around here. Speaking of which, what happened to Zibria?”

  “It sank,” said the Emperor calmly. “And then exploded.”

  Daggar’s face was a picture of disbelief. “What happened?”

  “The magic build-up was getting far too dangerous,” said the Emperor, matter-of-factly. “There was a consignment of warlocks who seemed to know what they were talking about. I gave them a great deal of money to sort out the problem, back when I was first on the throne. They managed to tear most of Mocklore apart. The Skullcaps sank, and there’s a whole new mountain where the Middens used to be. We lost Dreadnought last year.” He stood up, straightening his Imperial tunic with a quick tug. “We get by.”

  “You get by,” said Daggar in a strangled voice. “How many died of starvation this winter? How many did you murder for not having your soup hot enough, or not providing the right number of bread rolls? What would Kassa say if she could see you now?”

  The Emperor’s face hardened, and his eyes blazed bright grey. “Kassa died a long time ago.”

  Daggar looked at the man who had once been Aragon Silversword, professional traitor. “And when were you planning to get over it?” he demanded.

  The Emperor was angry now. “You don’t understand. I got her out of the Underworld. I rescued her, but it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t keep her in the mortal world. She slipped through my fingers.” He looked suddenly very lost. “The cat ran away when I became Emperor. Even the cat ran away.”

  “He is mad, I think,” hissed Sparrow.

  Daggar nodded steadily, trying to understand. “Then what happened?”

  The Emperor laughed bitterly. “I met you. You to
ld me you had a time ship.” His eyes flicked to Sparrow. “Her as well. You told me you could bring her back. But I didn’t believe you.” He unclenched a tightly folded hand, revealing a worn, twisted piece of metal. “I refused to believe you.”

  Daggar vaguely recognised the object in the Emperor’s outstretched palm as Kassa’s spiral ring, but it was heavily tarnished and warped as if it had been squeezed and held and examined for too many years.

  Sparrow spoke now, her voice tightly controlled. “There is a city on the Troll Triangle. A human city.”

  The Emperor looked surprised. “Before the blizzards started, we were building my next capital there. It’s almost finished.”

  She advanced on him, her jade-green eyes flashing. “What happened to the trolls?”

  “They were wiped out over a decade ago. Too many of them had been leaving the Triangle, coming into human territory. It made some sort of sense at the time.”

  “Thunderdust,” swore Sparrow. “You are lucky I do not have my sword with me.”

  Taking his life into his hands, Daggar stepped between the two of them. He stared up into the Emperor’s face. “Listen to me, Silversword. I want to change this. We haven’t met you yet. You haven’t not believed me yet, not as far as we’re concerned. If there’s some way that time travel can bring Kassa back, we might still be able to change all this.”

  The Emperor’s expression flickered slightly. “You would remove me from the throne?”

  “I’d make bloody sure you never even got a sniff at the throne!” Daggar said explosively. “Look what you’ve done to the place. All this doesn’t have to have happened.”

  The Emperor tugged again at his Imperial robes. “I could have you executed,” he mused.

  “Yeah,” said Daggar. “I know.”

  The Emperor looked thoughtfully at Daggar and then at Sparrow, who looked as if she wanted to throttle somebody. He moved to the glass stairs, descending the translucent steps. His body held rigidly, he trod the slow spiral back to the ground level. “Do your worst, Daggar,” said Aragon Silversword. “Do your worst.”