Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles)

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  The Fishy Judge went pale. “Towel,” he boomed.

  Amorata pushed several cats off the edge of the bath and produced a thick, fluffy towel out of nowhere. She held it out, politely averting her eyes as Skeylles wrapped it around his waist. “What Is The Point Of Organising the Future In Advance If People Like Milady Just Ignore The Filing System When It Suits Her?”

  Raglah the Golden, ferret-faced god of Zibria and its environs, swooped down on a lovely young maiden as she sat alone by the river. He spread his wings wide, and displayed himself seductively, waiting for her to run into his feathery embrace.

  She turned, and swatted him with her poetry scroll.

  Raglah the Golden trotted away and hid under a bush. “All right,” he quacked to himself. “A duck doesn’t work. Maybe something bigger.” His eyes lit up. “An emu! Hey, that could be sexy.”

  Just as he prepared to have another go at it, the ground opened up and a large lobster in a morning suit clambered out of the hole. He had a piece of parchment wedged into his claw.

  Raglah the Golden pecked at the parchment and managed to unfold it with his ducky beak. He read silently for a moment and then gave a squack of alarm. He took to the air, the girl almost forgotten, his ducky wings flapping wildly.

  The three-headed Pomeranian chased Aragon and Kassa around the skeletal meadow, three pairs of doggy nostrils flaring like mad. Eventually Aragon located the hole he had made and the two of them threw themselves back down into the relative safety of the tunnels.

  Aragon furiously sheathed the broken remains of his rapier. “I liked that sword. Where am I going to get another like it?”

  “So,” said Kassa, trying to catch her breath. “Given that dogs are relatively good at digging, what do we do next?”

  Aragon took a couple of lungfuls of the musty tunnel air. “That’s it,” he decided. “We’ll just have to use magic.” He looked meaningfully at Kassa.

  Kassa stared back at him, her eyes panicky. “I can’t use magic in the Underworld! It’s the number one rule!”

  “I don’t imagine that escaping is particularly well-received either,” said Aragon. “Since when were you one for keeping the rules? You always said witches were good at breaking things.”

  “I’m not an official witch yet,” Kassa said. Then the colour drained from her face. “Dame Veekie. She’s going to kill me. Aragon, you have to get me out of here now!”

  “Me?” said Aragon mildly. “I’m not the magical one, Kassa. I got in here by myself… I think it’s your turn.”

  “But you don’t understand!” she said wildly. “I don’t have any magic here! I wasn’t very good at it under the best of circumstances but now I’m just a…well, not exactly a ghost, but I’m not connected to my body.” She frowned. “At least, I don’t think so. I don’t even have any magical objects, and I don’t stand a snowball’s chance in a death canary of raising any kind of magic by myself!”

  “So,” said Aragon Silversword. “A magical object would help you?”

  Kassa hesitated. “It might. The Underworld only really affects life. If we could find some inanimate object with magical properties…”

  Aragon unfolded his palm. “Will this do?”

  Kassa stared at his hand, and the sparkling silver-and-steel spiral ring which rested lightly in his grasp. She touched it, taking it from him and turning it over in her hands. “You kept it?” Her eyes softened, and she gave him a melting look. “I don’t deserve you.”

  Aragon Silversword grimaced at the sentiment. “Oh, yes, you do.” It was not meant as a compliment to either of them.

  The ring, restored to Kassa’s third finger, felt warm. She reached up and touched the golden torc around her neck, her fingers nimbly finding the tiny black jewel which the Dark One had placed there. “When I went on my quest, I was told that if I stayed too long away from the Underworld my spirit would fade, but this little black thing would catch it.” She peeled off the black jewel and stuck it to the centre of her spiral ring.

  Aragon was outraged. “Rescuing you isn’t enough to keep you alive?”

  Kassa smiled sadly. “It never is.” She took his hand. “Shall we?”

  Aragon took hold of her other hand, swinging her around to face him. “Like this?”

  Her mouth twitched. “I keep expecting you to betray me again.”

  Aragon’s grey eyes displayed no emotion. “What would be the point of that?”

  Kassa gave him a glorious smile, and closed her eyes. After a moment, she began to sing.

  There was a reason why magic was not allowed in the Underworld. The improbability level caused by the Realm of the Dead being simultaneously underground and above the clouds, coupled with the meaningless of time in such a space, meant that if magic was used it would expand into a disastrous implosion of magical density with nasty repercussions hard on its heels. But, of course, no one would be silly enough to use magic while in the Underworld.

  The magic billowed. It poured out of the sky and up from under the earth, pouring purpleness everywhere. As the swirls passed, trees exploded into waterfalls of fairy dust, rabbits turned somersaults in the air, and frogs turned into printing presses. Out of the centre of the swirling magic, two figures exploded outwards, skidding along the Skullcaps and landing with an impossible splash in the Cellar Sea.

  In a tavern somewhere on the border of Zibria, Bounty Fenetre swallowed a glassful of suspiciously clear liquid. She frowned, staring out at the brilliant colours through the window. After a moment they faded, leaving the sky its usual colour.

  The bartender did a double take. “What was that?”

  Bounty bared her teeth in something like a grin. “I’d say it was the work of a woman called Kassa Daggersharp.” She tossed a coin in his direction. “Get me another. And have one yourself.”

  The magic shook the Underworld to its very core. Pomegranate clung to her new throne, preserving a semblance of dignity. Outside in the twisting and turning corridors, various imps ran about in a state of disarray.

  Golden pollen swirled everywhere. Time had finally infested the Underworld. Pomegranate reached out her fingers, desperately trying to keep it all together by will alone.

  She was ageing. A hemi-goddess with an immunity to time, here in a place supposedly outside time itself, and she could feel herself ageing. Her bones lengthened, her hair moved with a life of its own, and her gown was suddenly far too tight around the chest. Something ripped…

  One imp plunged headfirst into the throne room, gibbering. “More witches and warlocks have escaped!” he cried. “Vicious Bigbeard Daggersharp and Black Nell have holed themselves up in G Block with some other disreputables an’ they say they’re establishing their own independent city state! Lots more people are joinin’ them, some of the goths even!”

  Pomegranate groaned, pulling herself to her feet and back into her throne, wrapping a torn length of velvet around her newly adult body. What more could go wrong?

  “Hello, Pommy,” boomed a rugged, bearded voice.

  Still keeping a tight hold on her throne, Pomegranate whirled around. Her extra-long braids whirled with her, whipping around her waist in a tight grip. She struggled free of them, attempting to keep her composure. “Daddy, what are you doing here?”

  Wordern the Sky God, nine-foot tall and almost as wide, strode into the throne room. “Nice place you’ve got here,” he growled approvingly. “I like the madcap chaos. Very chic at this time of year. And you’ve grown up again. About time.”

  “What do you want?” his daughter asked, grating the words out from between her teeth.

  “Old Fishguts told Raglah and Raggers told the Slimy One, he’s calling himself Number Seven now by the way, and Slimy told Mavis and she told me.”

  “Told you what?” shrieked Pomegranate. Shattered remnants of the black and white mosaics fell all around them.

  “Oh,” said her father. “Kassa Daggersharp wasn’t destined to die. Milady was messin’ around. There’s a major l
oophole due to be discovered any time now. You’d better double-check some of your entries for a while, in case she tries to pull anything else.”

  Pomegranate went white. “A god can’t order the undestined death of a mortal! Do you have any idea what that does to the paperwork?”

  Wordern shrugged. “Something’s interfering with the cosmos. Gave her a window of opportunity.” He frowned at her. “Haven’t noticed any cosmological disasters, have you? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Daddy,” she shrieked exasperatedly as the ceiling collapsed around them.

  “Oh,” said Wordern the Sky-Warrior. He looked around. “Better leave you to it, then. And just you leave the Lady to us. We can handle her.” He cracked his knuckles sharply, and a piece of falling masonry lodged itself in his beard.

  Aragon’s salty, sea-drenched clothes had dried in the sun. He stood now on the rocks along the beach, staring out to sea. Kassa, her hair wilder than usual and her black dress so tattered that it was held together by willpower alone, lay on her stomach by a rock pool, scrabbling around in the sand. “Look at this,” she called.

  Aragon turned to see Kassa pulling a bedraggled tuft of grey fur out from between the rocks. “It’s a kitty,” she said, snuggling it to her.

  “What’s it doing here?” he asked.

  Kassa laughed. “What does that matter?” She cuddled the kitten some more.

  “It will cost a fortune to feed.”

  “You have the soul of a merchant,” she accused.

  Aragon smiled thinly. “And you have the soul of a poet. Dangerous thing, poetry.”

  Kassa held the kitten close, picking sand from its fur. “Where do you think we are?”

  “Somewhere along the West Coast. There’s Chiantro, see?”

  She peered out to sea. “Barely. Could we go there?”

  “We don’t have a ship any more.”

  Kassa glared sidelong at him. “Aragon Silversword, what have you done with my ship?”

  “Daggar’s probably sold it by now,” he said humourlessly.

  She laughed. “Oh, I miss Daggar. I wish I could see him again.”

  “He can’t have gone far. We could look for him if you like.”

  Kassa made a face at him. “How much time do you think I have left? I wasted most of my ghostly quota abducting Pomegranate. I don’t think I’m going to be around much longer.”

  “But I rescued you,” Aragon said forcefully.

  “And I told you it wasn’t enough! I’m not real. My body…what did you do with my body?”

  “They buried you at sea,” he muttered.

  “There you are then.” She waved a hand. “My physical substance is out there, in the Cellar Sea. Even if you did manage to find it, do you really think I want to inhabit some bloated, half-rotted corpse?”

  Aragon was staggered. “So all this was for nothing?”

  “Oh, thank you very much!” She made herself comfortable on the rocks, spreading out the remains of her skirts for the kitten to settle on. “There must be a way, there’s always a way. But you have to find it. In the meantime, of course, you could kiss me again.”

  Aragon gave her a stony look. “And why would I want to do that?”

  Kassa leaned back on her elbows. “Incentive?”

  “Incentive?” Aragon growled. “You put your mark on me, remember? That damned witchmark has been dragging me around by the nose for days, weeks—I don’t even know how long it’s been. It’s the only explanation for my insane behaviour lately. You do remember putting your mark on me, I suppose?”

  “In more ways than one, it would seem,” Kassa said slyly.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She tipped back her head, regarding him speculatively. “Take off your shirt.”

  “What game are you playing now?”

  “I could fade into non-existence any minute and I am not going to miss the look on your face when you figure this one out! Show me your witchmark.”

  Aragon ripped open his shirt and displayed the spiral she had scorched into his skin, more than a year before. At least, that’s what he thought he was doing.

  Kassa admired him openly. “It’s not there.”

  “What?” Aragon looked down. His chest was a blank canvas.

  “Aragon, I died,” Kass explained. “The witchmark I used to buy your allegiance…”

  “To steal my allegiance,” he said automatically.

  “Borrowed,” she corrected with a slow smile. “The witchmark left you when I died. That’s how they work. Until you die, or I die, or the world ends. Remember?”

  Aragon’s face was unmoving. “But why?”

  “Why did you assume it was the witchmark driving you crazy? Why have you been running around like a madman, trying to bring me back to life? Why don’t you tell me?” Kassa laughed delightedly, and stood up. She placed the kitten on her left boot, dusted sand from her tattered black dress and looked Aragon squarely in the eye. “We’re wasting good kissing time here.”

  Thoughtfully, Aragon moved towards her. Kassa tensed suddenly. “You buried me at sea,” she said.

  “I said that,” he said irritably.

  “But I died on dry land!” Her eyes were bright and luminous. “Pirates don’t die on dry land. It doesn’t happen. There’s the loophole, Aragon. Now you just have to figure out how to use it.”

  “So there is hope,” he said ironically.

  “Always,” said Kassa Daggersharp.

  Suddenly tempted, Aragon lunged for Kassa and caught her around the waist. She laughed at him again, and turned her face up to his. But he couldn’t hold on to her. His hands drifted through her body like smoke, and he could see the beach through her skin. He tried to touch her face, but only blurred the image.

  “Here we are again,” whispered Kassa, just before she vanished. “Leaving it too late.”

  Her spiral ring clattered to the rocks. Aragon reached for it, but the kitten got there first. It nudged the ring with its face and then stared cross-eyed at the tiny black jewel which was now attached to the kitten’s nose. Aragon picked up the animal, staring at it. Had its eyes been that colour before?

  “Kassa?” he said aloud, looking into the little cat’s dark golden eyes. Kassa’s eyes.

  The kitten mewed, and looked hungry.

  “Kassa,” said Aragon in a resigned voice. He put her spiral ring in a pouch and tucked the kitten into his belt. “Let’s go, shall we?”

  25: Lady Luck

  Time slowed. The descent, which should have been stomach-droppingly fast, stretched out in a seemingly endless ribbon of time.

  Sparrow gazed at the spaces between her fingers, and past them to the wide blue sky. Frame by frame, she drifted towards the ground below. Falling. The Labyrinth plaza was below, wasn’t it? She couldn’t remember whether it was cobbled or concreted, but she assumed it was one or the other. Too much to hope for an ornamental lake.

  She didn’t have time to look down and see what awaited her, surely. Then again, she had all the time in the world.

  The sheer side of the mountain rolled past. Sparrow arched her back and ran her eyes back up the wall of the Palace, counting the lines of windows, alternately arched, round and square panes of glass. Which was the window she had fallen from? She no longer remembered. But there—up there was the broken pane of glass, so far above her. Someone was leaning out. Was it Daggar?

  So gradually that it took her a while to realise it, time sped up to a normal rate. Sparrow rolled as she dropped, and hit something warm and furry. She blinked. Not dead after all. That was all right, then. Her time-related illness was good for something.

  She stared up into the face of her rescuer. “Magnus!” she cried, throwing her arms around the Minestaurus, surprising them both by hugging him hard. “You caught me!”

  “Well if you go diving out of high windows, you must expect someone to catch you,” replied Magnus in a perplexed voice. “It’s a law of nature, surely.”

&
nbsp; It was Daggar’s head sticking out of that window, yelling something. Sparrow waved once, to let him know she was all right, and the head ducked back in.

  Magnus the Minestaurus set her down carefully, rubbing his chest where her armour had scraped him. “Glad to be of service,” he said politely.

  Sparrow gave him a sidelong look. “Magnus, why did you not tell us you were a prince? The first-born prince?”

  “I assumed you knew,” he said in surprise. “After all, we met quite a few years ago when I was still publicly acknowledged in that role.”

  “Yes,” said Sparrow. “But last time when we met, I had not yet met you, if you see what I mean.” She shook her head. “Try to forget I said that. Why did you not claim Zibria?”

  “Because the people prefer to have a Sultan without horns and hooves,” replied her mild-mannered friend. “I’m not eligible.”

  “It is that moustache-twirling torture-fanatic who is not eligible,” Sparrow snapped. “Surely you must have realised he is illegitimate? He is not a monster, physically, therefore he can not be your father’s son.”

  “Well, of course I know that,” sighed Magnus. “Everyone knows that, there are ballads written about it, but what do you expect me to do? I don’t want to be Sultan, and Marmaduc does seem to enjoy it.”

  Sparrow looked up at him, frowning. “You do not want to be Sultan?”

  “Of course not,” said Magnus patiently. “I have a thesis to write.” He smiled absently, patted her on the head and wandered off. “Don’t go falling out of any more high windows,” he called behind him. “It really isn’t safe.”

  Sparrow watched him go, shaking her head. Daggar came barrelling around the path into the plaza, his eyes wild, with Singespitter following close on his heels. “Are you okay?” he demanded.

  “Fine,” Sparrow said dismissively. “It is just the world spinning.” She stamped on the ground, just to check it was still there.

  “It’s mayhem up there,” Daggar panted. “Mistress Opia and the Sultan are throwing things at each other, and Officer Finnley and the gnome are hiding under a table.”