Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles)

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  The spear-carrier leaned over and whispered hurriedly in the Chief’s ear.

  “Ah,” the Chief said slowly. “I am informed that she isn’t exactly a witch but she does look like one. She also makes terrible gingerbread. You could probably find her house by smell alone—it is just beyond the village, along the breadcrumb path.”

  “Thank you for your assistance,” said Aragon stiffly.

  Daggar tugged on Sparrow’s elbow. “Come on, let’s go.”

  She gave him a wild look but followed him outside the hut, where she began swearing. Various complicated phrases, obscenities and dust-related blasphemies issued forth from her mouth as she stomped up and down in front of the hut.

  Aragon regarded her with mild interest. “Does this happen often?”

  “Only when something big happens,” said Daggar. “Like a temple exploding on her head.”

  “Those bastards!” Sparrow said finally, descending into clarity. “Those grit-sucking, coconut-bashing…”

  “Um,” said Daggar. “Anything wrong? Only we’ve got this witch to visit…”

  “Secret holy language,” she sputtered. “Secret holy language?”

  “What’s wrong with them having a secret holy language?”

  “It’s my language,” Sparrow said furiously. “Those sons of rock-toads are speaking Modern Troll.”

  The gingerbread house belonging to Dame Veedie Crosselet had degenerated into a whole new stage of putrefaction. The lemon-iced ceiling now sagged to such an extent that Dame Veedie could no longer live inside and so she had constructed a small shortbread lean-to beside the rotting pile of old dough. When Aragon approached, she was busy hanging out her washing on a thin line of liquorice, despite the fact that warm sunlight had melted the washing line enough to leave black sticky marks on all the damp clothes. Luckily all of the garments were so dark and mouldy-looking that the liquorice was unlikely to make a significant difference.

  “Good morning,” said Aragon politely.

  Dame Veedie sniffed, wiped her arm across her nose and then wiped her arm on the nearest piece of washing. “What do you want, eh?”

  “Kassa Daggersharp came here a few weeks ago. To complete her witchcraft training. I want to know what happened while she was here.”

  Dame Veedie stared unblinkingly at him. “Can yer cook?” she asked after a moment.

  Aragon didn’t turn a hair. “Almost certainly.”

  Daggar tried to keep up with Sparrow’s furious stomping. “I just don’t see what’s got you so worked up,” he said, trying to be patient. “What does it matter if some old codger on a tropical island speaks Troll?”

  She whirled around to face him, her narrow green eyes blazing. “Trolls do not cross water. So how did these people get access to our native tongue? Not only that, but where do they get off using it as their secret holy language?” She paused, suddenly thoughtful. “Daggar, they have a sacred bauble and a holy language. What are you staring at?”

  Daggar shook his head. His general attraction to angry women was a constant distraction. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

  “They have a secret holy language and a sacred bauble,” she repeated.

  “So?”

  “So?” she said incredulously. “So, what are these things sacred to? Who exactly is their god?”

  Daggar realised that he had his mouth open. He shut it. “That’s a very good question. Shall we find out?”

  “Well, then,” said Aragon as he whipped up an omelette over the outdoor campfire. The eggs came from Dame Veedie’s rather pathetic-looking chocolate chip hen house, and her three miserable hens, who were obviously sick to death of chocolate chip cookie crumbs. “According to the villagers, you are entirely responsible for the death of Kassa Daggersharp.”

  “Oh, yeah?” said Dame Veedie, sniffing noisily. “Thadda be right. They’re all jealous cause I banned them from my bakery, just before it mysteriously burnt to the ground.”

  Aragon flipped the omelette perfectly. “So what is the truth?”

  “Well yer asked for it, yer know,” snorted Dame Veedie. “Bringin’ back that bauble of theirs. It always works out that way when people bring it back.”

  “Bring it back?” Aragon tipped the perfect omelette out on to a plate and handed it over to the Dame. “Does it leave the island often?”

  “Course, it’s traditional,” she said as if it should have been obvious. “Ev’ry dozen years some beggar steals it, right, and when it gets brought back, someone always kicks the bucket. Kind of a sacrifice, see? To punish the villagers for lettin’ it be stolen. Only it doesn’t always work out that way, ’cos the bauble can’t tell the difference between one human an’ another. An’ the people wot brings it back are usually closer to it than the villagers, geddit?”

  “But how does the Sacred Bauble kill?” Aragon demanded. “We couldn’t find any obvious cause of death.”

  “Ah, well, yer wouldn’t,” said Dame Veedie disparagingly. “S’not as if it goes an’ sticks a knife in, izzit? Nah, what happens is, the bauble thingy wotsit goes sort of transcendental and it just zaps the soul off to the Underworld automatically, no mess or fuss. If more people could do that, the world’d be a better place, I reckon.”

  “So the body itself is undamaged,” Aragon said slowly.

  “Course. Now shut up and roast me some onions to go with this eggy thing. Then yer can slaughter a chicken for me tea.”

  The hens exchanged startled looks and started edging backwards, trying to hide behind each other.

  Sparrow and Daggar met Aragon back on the beach. Quickly, he explained what he had learned from the hideously repulsive Dame Veedie Crosselet.

  “So the Sacred Bauble zaps someone’s soul away every twelve years?” repeated Sparrow. “Who would invent such a perverse ritual?”

  Daggar nudged her. “We know the answer to that, remember?”

  “What?” Aragon demanded.

  “Well,” said Daggar. “Sparrow started wondering about what the Sacred Bauble might actually be sacred to, and we had a look at their temple. Blow me if it isn’t draped in beige.”

  Aragon’s face lost what little colour it had. “Beige?”

  “The deity in question’s name is Lady Luck,” interjected Sparrow. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  Somewhere above them, a chime sounded, and an immaculate beige-blonde goddess appeared on the beach in a puff of rose petals. “I thought you’d never ask!” Lady Luck purred.

  Officer Finnley’s life flashed in front of his eyes. Most of it involved spaghetti, washing up and night patrol. Gold lights blazed in front of his face. He realised to his horror that he was travelling in time without the aid of a ship.

  Mistress Opia was the vessel this time. She glowed gold, her eyes wide and startled. “Where are we?” she gasped.

  A city swam up to meet them. Literally swam, as it was half underwater and the townspeople were wading about their everyday business. And then the city changed. Buildings rose and fell. Styles raced through fashion after fashion, and then warped backwards.

  “I dunno,” said Hobbs the gnome, who was hanging on to Mistress Opia’s right leg for dear life. “Where are we?”

  Finnley was gripping the Brewmistress’s left leg, he realised. And they were travelling through time. Hadn’t there been an explosion? He couldn’t remember.

  Mistress Opia cackled with laughter. “Time is at my beck and call!”

  The scenery shifted in and out. Finnley kept seeing snatches of recognisable landscape, only to have his senses swamped by something utterly unfamiliar. He squeezed his eyes shut, and begged for it all to end.

  When he opened his eyes, they were outside time.

  27: Gods, Politics and One of Those Kisses

  Aragon looked the newcomer up and down slowly. “We’ve met before, Lady Luck.”

  Lady Luck tossed back her beautiful head and laughed her crystal-clear laugh. “You don’t have to stand on ceremony with me, mortal man. Y
ou may call me Milady. Simply everyone does.”

  Aragon stared at her with his most unfriendly expression. “We’re here to rescue Kassa Daggersharp,” he said. “Are you going to stop us?”

  “Yes, Milady,” said Amorata, goddess of silk stockings and low-cut bodices, appearing beside her fellow deity. “Are you going to stop them?”

  “Who are all those people?” hissed Sparrow, staring at the crowd who had suddenly materialised behind Lady Luck. Along with the sultry brunette woman in a string bikini, there was an insignificant-looking man with a chain of fish skulls around his neck, a waif-like girl with green hair, a very tall man in a golden ferret mask who kept metamorphosing into various forms of bird life, and many others.

  “More gods,” said Daggar. “Let’s just slip away, shall we? Discretion is the better part of staying alive.”

  Aragon stared at the array of divinities. “Are you all in on this? Some godly conspiracy to eliminate one mortal woman?”

  “You tread dangerously, mortal man,” threatened Lady Luck.

  “Does he?” said Amorata, frowning. “It seems to me that you are the one treading dangerously, Milady.”

  The Slimy One, a god who rarely climbed out of his hole, wagged an annoying finger. “You knew that the conflict between the OtherRealm and the Underworld was affecting the cosmos, and instead of warning us, you used it to exercise a whim!”

  “To kill a mortal with a destiny like Kassa Daggersharp!” said Amorta, throwing up her hands. “What did you think you were doing?”

  “May I speak?” suggested a deceptively mild voice. The crowd of bickering gods parted, and the Dark One stepped through, resplendent in a mint-green suit.

  Lady Luck protested. “While he’s associated with the Underworld, he doesn’t get a vote!”

  “True,” agreed the Dark One. “But I’ve been set free of that particular obligation. Right, Wordern?”

  Wordern the Sky-Warrior looked proud behind his big beard. “My girl’s doing it now,” he informed them all.

  “So things are as they should be,” said the Dark One. “No gods allied with the Underworld.” He glanced at Lady Luck. “Shame the same can’t be said for the OtherRealm.”

  “What?” she gasped.

  “What?” demanded Amorata.

  The Dark One shrugged. “Isn’t it obvious? Who do you think brought the liquid gold into the mortal world in the first place? Faeries don’t have that kind of brainpower, or they would have taken us over aeons ago.”

  The gods all stared at Lady Luck, who smiled desperately and tried to laugh it off. “So what if I did? It’s all part of the game. I’m a goddess, for goodness’ sake!”

  “And Infinitely Replaceable,” boomed Skeylles, the Fishy Judge.

  Lady Luck regarded him suspiciously, trying to work out if he was joking. “You wouldn’t!”

  “It’s been done before,” threatened Raglah the Golden, transforming from a three-legged swan into his usual ferret-faced figure.

  Amorata waved a golden hand dismissively. “When we hear the testimony of that ragtag bunch of pirates, we’ll see about punishment.”

  Lady Luck smiled smugly. “What pirates?”

  The gods all turned around, tripping over each other in their haste, and realised that the mortals they were discussing had all slipped away, taking their golden ghost-ship with them.

  Amorata’s eyes grew flinty as she turned her gaze back on Lady Luck. “Never mind. We’ve plenty here to be going on with.”

  “Look around you,” the Dark One appealed to his fellow gods. “She has set up an unauthorised temple here on the landmass with the most connections to the OtherRealm. She has bribed the local populace by giving them a ‘holy language’ plagiarised from one of the godless races. She even used her own holy icon to perpetrate the death of Kassa Daggersharp. Charge her!”

  Lady Luck looked bewildered. “What is the charge?”

  “You are responsible for the impending destruction of the Underworld,” said the Dark One flatly. “Even now, it teems with an infection of OtherRealmly substance.”

  Fix It,” said Skeylles the Fishy Judge, passing sentence. “Or You Will Be Dealt With.”

  Lady Luck was aghast. “Fix it? After all the trouble I went to?”

  As one, the gods of Mocklore stared coldly at her.

  “And stay away from Kassa Daggersharp,” added Amorata. “Some of us have quite a stake in her future activities.”

  Lady Luck stared at them all in astonishment. “Well!” she huffed. “Why didn’t you say so?”

  The golden Splashdance sidled away from the god-infested beach and around the coast of Chiantrio. “So there’s nothing stopping us from just going back a week or so and stopping the sacred bauble,” said Daggar with some satisfaction.

  “Actually, there is rather a lot preventing us,” said Aragon. “Even if we could stop that bauble—and we couldn’t the first time—it would kill someone else. Quite likely one of us, as we would be closest to it.”

  Daggar had a horrible thought. “And if we got in its way, we wouldn’t be able to avoid ourselves then seeing us now!”

  “I think things are confusing enough as it is,” agreed Aragon.

  “Hang on a minute,” said Daggar, trying to figure it all out. “Kassa only died because her soul was zapped by the bauble. Where did her soul go?”

  “The Underworld, of course,” said Aragon.

  “And where is it now?” put in Sparrow.

  Aragon’s forehead creased. He pulled the silver spiral ring out from his belt pouch and looked at it. “There was a little black jewel attached to this ring. She said it would catch her soul.”

  “So where’s the jewel now?” demanded Daggar.

  Aragon almost smiled. “On the cat.”

  As one, they turned to stare at the little cat, and the tiny black dot on its nose. The cat mewed prettily and opened its wide golden eyes. “Right,” said Daggar slowly. “We go back in time to just after Kassa was zapped, and we put her soul back!”

  Aragon looked flatly at him. “If that is the case, whom will you bury at sea?”

  Daggar’s face fell. “Don’t ask that question. I’m not up to it.” He brightened suddenly. “Hang on, I’ve got it. When Tippett and I went back to collect the body, she was wrapped up in blankets. It could have been anything. I thought he’d done it, out of respect for the dead, you know, and he thought I’d done it.”

  Aragon raised an eyebrow. “Did that really happen?”

  “It did now,” Daggar said happily. “We should have about an hour between the time we left her and the time we came back, in order to resurrect Kassa and wrap something Kassa-shaped up in blankets.”

  “I don’t believe I’m having this conversation,” said Aragon tiredly. “What are we going to do, make her eat the cat?”

  “Cross that bridge when we crash into it,” said Sparrow. “Let’s get going.”

  “I just thought of something,” announced Daggar, poking a finger at the amber crystal which displayed which year it was. “We’ve only travelled in big jumps before. From one year to another. Can we really go back a week or so?”

  Sparrow elbowed him aside, placing her hands on the crystal. “Do not think about it too hard. Back,” she commanded fiercely. “The day Kassa Daggersharp died.”

  As the landscape filled with the flooding multi-coloured lights of time travel, she felt a familiar pressure against her chest. It was different this time. Sparrow had never experienced an attack during time travel. Her muscles tingled wildly, and as she stared at her clenching and unclenching hands she could see the yellowness spreading over her skin.

  Daggar came to her side. “I thought time travel helped the symptoms,” he said anxiously.

  Sparrow raised her horrified eyes to his. “A timebomb waiting to happen,” she rasped. “That’s what the Brewmistress said.”

  “And you believe her?” he demanded. “I thought we’d proved once and for all that Mistress Opia was full
of…”

  Sparrow wasn’t listening. Responding to the wild sensations under her skin, she clambered up on the rail and launched herself into the spiralling lights of the time void.

  “No!” Daggar wrenched the rope from Singespitter the sheep’s collar, shoved one end at Aragon and jumped after Sparrow, holding the other end of the rope.

  Aragon stared at the rope in his hand, and then tied it securely to the railing. He exchanged glances with Singespitter and leaned over the rail to see what was going on. “I suppose this all makes sense to you,” he said conversationally.

  Singespitter, grooming the little cat with his tongue, said nothing. The cat looked properly disgusted.

  As the time essence flooded her body, Sparrow fell slowly through the many layers of stars, sparkles and pretty lights. Her fingers moved slowly, drifting through the void. A warmth ran through her skin, tingling to the ends of her hair. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back, breathing in the liquid air.

  Daggar swam wildly towards her, kicking his way though the swirling colours. The rope he held was elongating, itself twisted and manipulated by the time-stream. Daggar reached out with his free hand and grasped a handful of Sparrow’s hair, pulling her towards him. As he grabbed her hand, he found himself holding the hand of a child, with spiky blonde hair and angry green eyes. She shouted at him, struggling and pummelling, spitting in his face.

  As he bravely took a firm hold around her waist, he found himself holding an old woman with bleached-white hair and the same angry jade-green eyes. This old Sparrow didn’t struggle as the child had, but stared at him in something like shock, her hands curled into his velvet doublet. As he watched, the creases and scars on her face slowly began to ebb away. Her hair shaded from grey to ash-blonde, and then to the bright tawny colour he knew.

  Holding her firmly, Daggar tried to kick back towards the ship, but Sparrow choked in pain and resumed her wild struggling. He squeezed his eyes shut and held on for dear life.