The girl frowned. “Officer?”
“Um,” said Finnley, realising his blunder. “Ex-army?” he suggested.
“Ohhh.” The girl widened her smile. “I like soldiers, too,” she purred. “Would you like to come to my room?”
“Um,” he said, lost for words. “Maybe?”
Sparrow appeared, wearing her clingy golden silk gown as if it were a suit of armour. “Finnley, I need you!”
“Oh,” said Officer Finnley, snapping to attention. “Right. I’m coming.” He smiled apologetically at the peacock girl. “Sorry. Maybe…”
“Forget it,” the girl snitted, going into her room and slamming the door.
Finnley hurried in Sparrow’s wake. “What exactly is it you want me to do?” he asked, skidding to a halt as Sparrow stopped outside her own room.
“I want you to stay out here on duty for the next couple of hours,” she told him. “Make sure Lord Tangent of the sweaty palms does not get in this door. Understand?”
“Absolutely,” said Finnley. Finally, he could feel useful doing something which didn’t involve soap-suds. He stood to attention, sticking out his chest proudly. “You can rely on me.”
“Good,” said Sparrow. She hesitated. “Thanks.”
Sparrow only just got inside her room before Lord Tangent came whistling around the corner with a bunch of rather droopy silk carnations in one hand. He paused when he saw Finnley. “Ah. This wouldn’t be Mistress Sparrow’s room by any chance?”
Finnley employed his most efficiently policeman-like voice. “Bog off,” he said.
“Ah,” said Lord Tangent. “Right. Thanks anyway.” Looking rather cast down, he wandered off in the direction of the peacock ladies.
Sparrow moved towards the gratuitously luscious four-poster bed. She gave a few experimental tugs at the lacings on her bodice, and failed to notice any significant change in the silk’s death-grip over her rib cage.
“Need a hand?” said a friendly voice.
Sparrow whirled around, and sighed in exasperation when she saw Daggar sitting in an over-stuffed armchair. “I have just put Officer Finnley on guard outside to stop unwelcome male visitors,” she complained.
“Lord Tangent still pressing his suit, is he?” asked Daggar with mild interest.
“It is not his suit that I worry about,” she grumbled. “It is his hands.”
“And do you need a hand with that bodice?”
“I might take offence at that remark,” Sparrow said tiredly. “If it was not for the fact that I have no idea how to get out of this monstrosity.”
Daggar hopped to his feet and made a show of examining the laces holding the dress together. He pulled at one, and started unravelling the other. “I used to be quite good at this sort of thing, you know. In the good old days before I went pirating.”
“Women’s clothing?”
“The removal thereof,” Daggar corrected, with a wink.
Sparrow looked curious. “How did you spend your time? Before you went adventuring. What does a profit-scoundrel do with his days?”
Daggar made a show of thinking about it. “Not a lot, really. Hence all the spare time devoted to learning about bodices.” He moved around to the small of her back, working on the complex weavings of ribbons. “Cripes, bodice technology has made some advances since our time. I’m not absolutely sure how this thing is supposed to work.” He pulled at one length of ribbon and Sparrow gasped as her waist was squeezed in another inch.
“Sorry,” said Daggar cheerfully. “It must be the one on the left.”
“Are you absolutely certain that you know what you are doing?” Sparrow growled. “I could do a lot of damage to you if I had sufficient provocation.”
“Promises promises,” said Daggar. “Hey, if I pull this bit, I can make your arms go up and down!”
Mistress Opia provided a hearty breakfast for the Manor “staff”, which mostly consisted of egg. The breakfast, that is. Not the staff.
Sparrow bit into her single toasted soldier as Daggar balanced two boiled eggs and a pile of scrambled omelette on to his towering mound of toast. “Pass me a couple of poached and a couple of devilled, will you?” he said hopefully.
“I think I am going to be sick,” said Sparrow, looking away as Daggar squelched various mustards, sauces and ketchups all over his assembled breakfast. She was wearing another borrowed dress, but this one was far more suited to everyday wear. It fitted quite nicely under her breastplate.
Lady Reony brought an armful of boots and protective clothing into the kitchen. “If you do find your carriage, you will still stay with us until the Emperor has moved on, won’t you?” she asked anxiously. “I don’t think we can manage without you.”
Daggar looked sidelong at Sparrow. She had already had one relapse, which suggested that the liquid gold would be taking its toll on her body sooner rather than later.
Sparrow didn’t even hesitate. “A deal’s a deal,” she said crisply, swallowing half a glass of juice. “Let’s get going.”
Lord Tangent, wrapped and muffled in various layers of wool and leather, joined them in the kitchen. “I’m ready when you are!” he said cheerfully. The only visible quarter of his face looked longingly at Sparrow. “It will give me a chance to tell you about my poetry,” he told her happily.
It was snowing lightly as they trudged along the plains, searching for the sword Sparrow had left as a marker. Lord Tangent proved to be almost useful by providing a pocket compass. They walked slowly back to where Daggar thought the ship might be, waiting for the little needle to behave erratically. It turned out to have been a fairly unnecessary precaution, however. Yellow dandelions were even now pushing their way up through the heavy snowfall, and scattering yellow pollen everywhere, marking the path that Sparrow had trod on her way here.
“Are you sure you don’t want to hear the rest of the poem?” asked Lord Tangent, smiling hopefully. He had been reciting his idea of romantic verse ever since they started off.
Sparrow glared at him. “No!”
“Hey,” said Daggar, shaking the compass wildly. “It’s started saying that west is north! I think.”
Sparrow snatched the compass from him and lay it flat on the snowy ground. “You are right. The flowers also stop here. We must be close.”
“And why exactly did you leave your sword to mark the spot?” asked Lord Tangent curiously. “Surely if you have a carriage out here, it would be more noticeable than a sword?”
“Do not ask,” said Sparrow. “It is a very long story.”
“Suffice to say,” said Daggar, “the carriage in question is a ship about yay big at the moment.” He held his finger and thumb a little way apart.
Lord Tangent hesitated. “If you say so, old boy.”
There were only the three of them, shovels at the ready, on the snowy search. Mistress Opia had volunteered to stay behind as a hostage, and Lady Reony had confiscated Finnley for some urgent bottle-washing duties.
“Got it!” said Sparrow triumphantly, shoving mittened hands into a strangely-shaped snowbank and producing her sword. “It has not even rusted!”
“Right,” said Daggar glumly. He stood where the sword had been. “So the ship’s around here.”
“Somewhere,” agreed Sparrow. She handed him a shovel.
Daggar brightened somewhat. “I’m quite good with shovels.”
It took close to three hours of concerted digging, shuffling and swearing before the tiny glitter of gold was uncovered. Daggar grabbed it happily, and Sparrow promptly took it off him and hid it in the bodice of the dress she wore beneath her armour. “I think we have conclusively proven that you are not to be trusted with important items,” she said.
“I resent that!” said Daggar, who didn’t. “Still, I can always steal it back…”
Sparrow gave him a sidelong look. “You think I am going to allow you near my bodice again? You almost strangled me last night.”
As they approached the manor, a strange silence fell over them al
l. Sparrow’s eyes flicked from window to window, trying to find some explanation for her sudden feeling of dread. She glanced at Lord Tangent. “What is wrong here?”
He looked puzzled. “I don’t know. It shouldn’t be this quiet.”
Daggar, whose danger-detecting reflexes were kicking into overdrive, kept behind Sparrow as they approached the front doors. “I’m so glad you got your sword back,” he said fervently.
The doors opened, and two herald-serfs stared blankly out at them.
“Let us through,” commanded Lord Tangent importantly.
One of the heralds stepped to one side, and the other produced a single lock of hair, dangling it in front of him.
“That’s Ree’s!” announced Lord Tangent in horror, snatching it from the herald’s outstretched hand.
“What is going on?” demanded Sparrow, fiercely.
The herald-serfs said nothing, silently motioning all three of them towards the Great Hall.
“I have a nasty feeling that Mistress Opia burned the breakfast,” moaned Daggar quietly. “Either that, or something much more horrible has happened.”
“No,” said Sparrow evenly. “Horrible is what I do if that bastard Emperor has harmed anyone in this house.”
The double doors to the Great Hall swung open.
“Ah, the wanderers return,” said the Emperor of Mocklore. His tone might not have been quite so menacing were it not for the cages which hung from the ceiling, framing their view of him. Lady Reony, Mistress Opia and Finnley were all imprisoned behind the spidery steel bars.
“Practicing diplomacy, are we Aragon?” said Daggar in a strangled voice.
“I want the time ship,” said the Emperor. “If anyone is going to change history, it is going to be me.”
Sparrow offered a cool smile. “You don’t trust us to get the job done?”
The Emperor seemed amused. “I intend to rescue Kassa and ensure that I still gain the throne of Mocklore. Can you guarantee to do the same?”
“It’s one or the other,” said Daggar steadily. “I don’t think you can have both.”
“Well,” said the Emperor. “Let’s just see about that, shall we?”
22: Escape Plans and a Three-headed Hound
“Aragon Silversword,” said Kassa Daggersharp. “Not to sound pushy, but what took you so long?”
The present-day Aragon rested his elbows on the counter and looked into her eyes. “I think I should warn you, I’m not dead.”
Kassa absently tugged the ripped remains of her slinky black dress into some semblance of modesty. “That’s all right. Neither am I. At least no one seems to think so. Except me, but apparently I have no say in the matter.” She frowned for a moment. “Why are you here?”
He raised his eyebrows slowly. “Why do you think?”
Kassa laughed, looking sidelong at him from under her long lashes. “What happened to that rule we had about flirting games?”
When he spoke, his voice was deadly serious. “You died.”
She sobered, staring at him. “So I did.” Her eyes narrowed. “Have you come here to rescue me, like in the fairytales?”
“That’s right, tell the universe,” Aragon snapped.
Kassa couldn’t help feeling terribly pleased with herself. “I don’t know what to say.”
Aragon stood up, grabbing her hand roughly. “Let’s get this over with. According to the priestess I tortured, as long as you haven’t eaten any substance of the Underworld, I can just walk out of here with you.”
“You tortured a priestess?”
Aragon looked mildly embarrassed. “Well, not exactly torture. But I had tea with her.”
Kassa pulled her hand away suddenly. “When you say I can’t have eaten anything, does that include drinking?”
“Well, of course it does…” Aragon’s voice trailed off as he realised the implication of her guilty expression. “Kassa, you didn’t! You should know the songs better than anyone—you know the rules about rescuing people from the dead.”
Kassa glanced back, along the polished counter to where her collection of empty glasses stood, salt still clinging to the rims. She smiled sadly. “Ah, well. It was a nice idea.”
Aragon exhaled explosively. “I’m not putting up with this.” He banged angrily on the counter. “Bartender!”
The bartending imp sidled over. “Yessir?” he said suspiciously.
Aragon indicated Kassa’s empty glasses. “This water you served—it was water, wasn’t it?” This question was directed back at Kassa.
Kassa gave him a complicated salute, and a half-curtsey. “Wench’s honour.”
“This water you served the lady,” Aragon continued. “A natural product of the Underworld, was it?”
“Oh, yessir,” said the imp proudly. “Best quality min’ral water there is.”
Aragon raised an eyebrow. “Would I be right in thinking that this water came from one of your fine rivers?”
“Oh, yessir,” said the imp. “Travelled miles, it has. Quality stuff, no question.”
“I see,” mused Aragon. “Travelled miles. Outside the Underworld, by any chance?”
“Well,” said the imp dubiously. “A river’s gotta start somewhere.”
Aragon pounced on this. “So your water is imported.”
“Well,” said the imp slowly. “I suppose if you looks at it like that…”
“That’s all I needed to know,” said Aragon with some satisfaction. He glanced back to Kassa. “Unless there’s anything else?”
“Salt,” she whispered.
He turned back to the bartender. “Sea salt?”
“Best quality…” started the bartender.
“Right,” said Aragon. “Also imported. Anything else, Kassa?”
She shook her head soundlessly.
“Right. Let’s go.”
“Wait!” Kassa said suddenly. “Aragon. Of all the people who might be affected by my death, I would have thought you were the least likely to object—not to mention the least likely to do something about it.”
Aragon almost smiled, but it was an expression devoid of humour. “That only goes to show how much we have in common. Until recently, I thought the same thing.”
The Dark One tapped enthusiastically on the door of the throne room for the last time. “Yoo hoo, Pomegranate?”
“I’m not coming out,” came the surly reply.
“Oh, I don’t want my job back,” said the Dark One cheerfully. “I’m going on a holiday. I just wanted to wish you good luck.”
The double doors opened a fraction, and Pomegranate stuck her snub nose through the crack suspiciously. “You wanted what?”
“I remembered that I never wanted to rule the Underworld,” the Dark One beamed. “So I’m off for a bit of a holiday.” He stuck out his hand. “All the best.”
Still eyeing him with distrust, Pomegranate shook the hand. “You don’t mind?”
“Oh, no. You’re welcome to the grisly old dump.” The Dark One straightened the collar of his dizzyingly apricot suit and winked at the hemi-goddess. “Don’t let the goth girls use more than their monthly allowance of face paint, make sure the imps are properly groomed at all times, and don’t forget to feed the three-headed guard dog.”
Pomegranate looked faintly startled. “What three-headed guard dog?”
“Oh, it’s around somewhere,” the Dark One said airily.
“Wait,” she protested. “What do three-headed guard dogs eat?”
“Heroes, usually,” the Dark One tossed over his shoulder as he lifted his suitcases and turned to leave. “Don’t worry, there’s no shortage. Hardly a week goes by without some hero in a second-hand lion skin knock-knock-knocking on our doors and demanding to be allowed to rescue some cross-eyed maiden.”
“Yes,” said Pomegranate faintly. “We’ve got one in at the moment.”
“Splendid,” said the Dark One. “Well, you needn’t worry, good old Roverspotfido will track him down in no time. Splendid beast
. Amazing teeth. Byeee.”
“Are you absolutely certain you know what you are doing?” asked Kassa.
Aragon glared at her. “I rescued you, didn’t I?”
She looked around the dank, claustrophobic tunnel they had found themselves in. It was built for imp proportions rather than humans, and a funny smell wafted from somewhere. “I don’t feel very rescued.”
An eerie howling sound filled the tunnel. Kassa grabbed Aragon’s arm. “What was that?”
He removed her hand, irritably. “I don’t know—probably the three-headed guard dog. I was wondering when it would turn up.”
“Three-headed guard dog? What three-headed guard dog? You never said anything about a three-headed guard dog!”
“You’re the tavern wench,” Aragon said, casually examining the ceiling. “Don’t you know any ballads about the three-headed guard dog of the Underworld?”
“If I did, I might have elected to stay where I was!”
Aragon drew his sword and tapped thoughtfully at the ceiling. A fine film of yellow dust drifted down. “Dead, you mean?”
“Better dead than enduring your second rate rescue attempts!”
Aragon shoved the blade of his sword hard into the ceiling, dislodging a few tiles and several clumps of dirt and rock. When the minor rockfall had subsided, he gestured at the hole he had created. “You first.”
Kassa folded her arms, glaring at him. “Just because you rescued me doesn’t give you any right to order me around!”
Aragon rolled his eyes, stepped forward, and kissed her. It was a real, 24 carat, world class, thoroughly effective kiss, and it lasted for quite some time, mostly because she was kissing him back. When they separated, Kassa had a stunned look on her face. It rather suited her.
“Now,” said Aragon, more gently than he meant to. “Will you please climb out of this tunnel?”
Kassa turned away and pulled herself through the hole in the low ceiling. As she scrambled up, the torn ribbons of her goth dress caught at various ragged edges ripping even further. She kept darting funny looks down at Aragon, not quite able to believe what had happened.
Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles) Page 47
