Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles)

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  30: Unfinished Business

  The nourishing broth which Sparrow produced from various local roots and vegetables perked Officer Finnley up in no time. He lay half-conscious in one of the ship’s hammocks, which had been strung up between two trees on the Chiantrian shore.

  As Finnley took another mouthful of broth, the golden Splashdance reappeared on the beach. Daggar hopped down from the deck and came sauntering along the sand towards the hammock. “We took Kassa on a little jaunt through time, and she grudgingly admits that it might be useful to have access to time travel. She’s still mad about the clothes, though.” He sniffed heartily. “That soup smells good.”

  “For invalids only,” said Sparrow, slapping his hand away as he reached for the bowl. “This tour of yours. Did it include the future?”

  “Briefly.”

  “And did you…”

  Daggar plucked a coin out of his pocket and showed it to her. “Undeniable proof that we changed history and Aragon Silversword will not be Emperor in twenty-three years time.”

  Sparrow took the coin from him and turned it over, looking at the Imperial head. “Oh,” she said.

  “Oh,” Daggar agreed.

  “Still,” she said, handing it back. “It should be a better option, yes?”

  Daggar put the coin back in a pocket. “Only time will tell. Are you coming?”

  Sparrow blinked. “Coming where?”

  “Aragon’s been trying to convince Kassa that to make things right we have to go forward to where we were when you and I picked him up.”

  “No more time travel,” she groaned.

  “Either way, we’re setting sail.” Daggar glanced at Officer Finnley, who was snoring peacefully in the hammock. “Shall we bring him or leave him?”

  “Which would you prefer?”

  “Ah, bring him along. I’m sure he’ll come in handy.”

  Together, they untied the rope hammock and began lugging Finnley towards the ship. “A Blackguard and a troll,” said Sparrow disparagingly. “You really do pick your travelling companions.”

  “Between you and me,” said Daggar, “I’m quite fond of trolls.”

  Sparrow grinned. “Between you and me…”

  “Yes?” he said eagerly, leaning forward to catch whatever she might say.

  “I cannot stand profit-scoundrels.”

  “Oh,” he said, sounding disappointed.

  As they crossed a patch of particularly bright moonlight, Sparrow stopped in her tracks. “Daggar, the hammock!”

  “What about it?’

  “It is rope.”

  “Well, of course it’s rope…”

  She waggled a handful in his face. “It is white rope.”

  They dumped Finnley and his hammock in the sand and tore towards the ship, where Kassa and Aragon were still arguing.

  “I tell you, what does a week or two matter?” Kassa flung at him.

  “Of course it doesn’t matter to you, you haven’t lived them!” insisted Aragon. “But we are overlapping ourselves. Do you have any idea how complicated that could make things?”

  “Not if you go to different places,” she snapped.

  “That is completely irrational. We’re nearly two weeks behind in time.”

  “You might be. Given the choice, I’d rather be two weeks younger than older. What is it, Daggar?”

  Daggar stamped his boot on the deck and grinned cheerfully. “See for yourself. The liquid gold has worn off. Either that or Lady Luck finally got around to tidying up this particular loose end.”

  Kassa’s eyes went saucer-shaped as she realised what he was telling her. She turned her head this way and that, taking it all in. “My ship!” She cuddled the nearest mast lovingly, relishing its translucent silver quality. “My beautiful ship!” Her eyes glazed over in delirious joy. “Gods, my clothes!” She scrambled down below decks in desperate search of a change of garb.

  “Well,” said Aragon sarcastically. “I suppose she won the argument, then. We get to repeat the next fortnight.”

  “No more time travel,” said Daggar, grinning all over his unshaven face.

  “No more time travel,” agreed Sparrow, her own smile stretching from ear to ear.

  For once, they were perfectly in agreement.

  Aragon gave them both a disgusted look. “I don’t understand you people. Do you have no conception of the opportunity we have lost here?”

  “Just think,” said Daggar slyly. “With power like that at your fingertips, you could have made yourself Emperor or something.”

  Sparrow stepped on his foot.

  The Silver Splashdance set sail toward the easterly coast of Mocklore. Dressed in a purple leather bodice, swishing black skirts and half a ton of glittering silver, Kassa was at the wheel. Aragon was lost in his own thoughts. Daggar dealt out a hand of Kraken’s Curse to Sparrow, Singespitter and the grey-furred kitten, explaining the rules as he laid out the cards. All was right with the world, and Officer Finnley looked worried.

  Finally, Kassa whirled around and pointed a finger at him. “All right, who are you? I know I know you.”

  Embarrassed, he straightened his Blackguard uniform and shuffled forward. “Officer Finnley McHagrty, Dreadnought Blackguard,” he mumbled.

  Kassa snapped her fingers. “I used to babysit you! How’s your ma?”

  Finnley drew out his standard-issue cutlass and tested the point mournfully. “Just the same. I was sorry to hear about Bigbeard dying and that, um. Condolences.”

  Kassa moved towards the pile of assorted swords and other weapons that Aragon had dumped on the deck. “Yes, well he’s quite settled in the Underworld. Plenty of rum, you know.” She selected a rapier and flexed her hand thoughtfully. “Shall we get started?”

  “Is it too much to ask what you two are doing?” put in Aragon, as Kassa and Finnley began to circle each other, swords drawn.

  “He’s a McHagrty,” she said, as if it were obvious.

  “She’s a Daggersharp,” agreed Finnley.

  “There’s a feud.”

  And the swords clashed together.

  The duel was swift, and brief. Finnley may have passed with full marks at Blackguard school, but he was no match for a determined pirate wench in a purple bodice. She danced her rapier at a distance for a while until she got bored, then slammed him bodily against the mast and flipped him over the side of the ship.

  Daggar applauded.

  “I’ll lower a rope!” Kassa called.

  Finnley, who knew a good chance when he saw it, was already making strong swimming strokes towards the coastline. “I’ll be right!” he called over his shoulder, splashing madly.

  “Oi!” Kassa yelled after him. “I won! That means you owe me a year of service or your weight in sailcloth, right?”

  Finnley just kept on determinedly swimming, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the Silver Splashdance.

  Kassa turned to face her crew, hands firmly planted on hips. “Well?” she demanded. “Isn’t anyone going to fetch him for me?”

  Her crew all suddenly found excuses to avoid eye contact with her.

  Kassa glared at them all. “Is this what you call loyalty?”

  There was a splash. Singespitter the sheep, paddling like mad, was in the water and heading towards the escaping Blackguard. As the crew all watched in amazement, the sheep overtook Officer Finnley and seized his collar between its jaws. Then, very slowly, it began tugging the Blackguard back to the ship.

  Closing her mouth with a snap, Kassa turned to stare at Daggar. He grinned back at her, giving her his best and most winsome expression. “All right,” she sighed. “The sheep can stay.”

  While everyone watched the rescue attempt, no one saw the little grey kitten move towards the stern. Slowly, it clambered up on the rail and dropped into the sea. It bobbed in the water for a few moments, and then vanished.

  Morning came and went. Most of the crew were asleep, or nearly so. Singespitter watched over Officer F
innley in the hold, in case he made a break for it again. Kassa was still alert, steering the ship over and through the most dangerous rocky areas, just for entertainment’s sake. Nothing could actually damage the Silver Splashdance, and it was fun to startle fishermen.

  As she tired of playing eye-spy with herself and started counting trees, Kassa saw a sudden flash of light. A huge plume of black smoke rose upwards, dark against the bright blue sky.

  Kassa nudged Daggar, the nearest sleeping crew member, with her boot. “Take a look at that.”

  He mumbled awake. “What whaaa danger?”

  “No danger,” Kassa assured him. “Just look at that smoke.”

  Daggar raised himself up slightly and stared into the distance. “Oh, that.” He nudged Sparrow, who had been asleep on his shoulder. “Hey, troll woman. Up and at ’em.”

  She awoke instantly, her narrow green eyes focusing on him. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he assured her. “Look out there. The temple just exploded.”

  Sparrow lifted her head up and looked inland. Her face creased into a faint smile. “So it did. There we go again.”

  “Is there a story behind that?” asked Kassa curiously.

  Daggar grinned, and yawned. “Save it for a rainy day. I’m starving. What’s for breakfast?”

  “Lunch,” corrected Sparrow.

  As they spread out the unappetising dregs of their supplies (liquid gold, it now appeared, had the side effect of making food soggy), a sudden thought occurred to Kassa. “What did you people do with Tippett?”

  “Tippett who?” asked Daggar with his mouth full.

  Aragon, now pretending never actually being asleep, prodded distastefully at a pile of what may or may not have been dried apple. “Last I saw, he was performing a certain epic poem in front of a tavern audience.”

  Kassa looked supremely flattered. “That epic he was writing about me?”

  “I suppose so,” drawled Aragon.

  “When?” she demanded. “When is he performing it?”

  Aragon thought about it. “Tonight, actually. In a tavern, halfway between here and Zibria.”

  “Right.” Kassa stood up and headed for the helm. “This I want to see.”

  Daggar almost choked on his lunch. “Are you serious? We can’t go inland—we’ll cross paths with ourselves.”

  “How else do you suggest we get Tippett back?” Kassa turned the ship expertly towards the shore.

  “Why bother?” insisted Daggar. “All he ever did was sit around and compose poetry about you.”

  “I like that in a man,” she snapped. “Besides, I have a strong sense of responsibility for my crew.”

  “Since when?” challenged Aragon.

  Kassa whirled around to face him. “Don’t you start!”

  “No, really Kassa,” he said mildly. “At what point do we become responsible for ourselves? If you’re going to make a habit of dying and leaving us in the lurch, surely you should encourage us to be more independent.”

  “Aragon, I can’t help it if you took my death personally!” They stared at each other in silence. Thick, meaningful silence.

  “Um, Kassa-girl,” said Daggar apologetically. “We’re heading towards a certain recently-exploded temple.”

  She turned back to the helm, impatient. “So?”

  “That’s where I am!” he said frantically.

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  Daggar moaned. “Kassa, I can cope with another Sparrow and even a second Singespitter, but please don’t make me meet myself.”

  She sent the ship careering in a more northerly direction across country. “How’s that?”

  “Fine,” said Aragon, appearing at her elbow. “But slow the ship down to a crawl, otherwise you will overtake me.”

  Kassa smacked the side of the ship with her fist. “I hate time travel! It’s so bloody constricting.”

  It was dark. Having parked the ship behind the stables, Kassa and Aragon crept on foot towards the tavern. Kassa peeped through the window, waving as she saw Tippett, but Aragon grabbed her hand and pulled her out of sight. “You can’t go in there yet,” he cautioned.

  “Why not?” she protested.

  “Because my past self is currently up on a balcony listening to your pet jester make his recital. Wait a few minutes.”

  “And then I can go in and get him?”

  Aragon shrugged. “Let him finish first. It’s a big moment in his little career.”

  Kassa looked at him in surprise. “Thoughtfulness, Aragon? Surely not.”

  “You never know,” he replied, steering her away from the window.

  “But I can’t hear him,” she complained, looking back at the jester poet who was busily declaiming his opus to a tavern full of yobs.

  “There are some things a person shouldn’t hear,” said Aragon. “You’ll just get conceited.”

  “Hmm.” Kassa was barely able to make out his face in the shadows outside the tavern. “Aragon?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got your arm around my waist.”

  “So I have.”

  Kassa smiled. “Planning to do anything about that?”

  “You know, it’s entirely possible?”

  A voice cut into the cozy darkness. “Well, well. Aragon Silversword. I do hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  Aragon broke away from Kassa, staring at the newcomer. “Bounty.”

  “Bounty,” mimicked the hobgoblin bounty-hunter, striking a pose in the darkened doorway. “I have a nasty little suspicion that there are two of you in this tavern. Please say it isn’t so. The concept of two Aragon Silverswords running around in the world is too much for any lass to cope with.”

  “It’s temporary,” he assured her. “A…side effect of time travel.”

  “Oh,” she said, eyes dancing. “So if I bump into the other you in the next couple of days…”

  “Weeks,” he corrected. “Be gentle with me.”

  “As ever.” Bounty’s eye fell on Kassa, who was working hard to look neutral and in no way curious. “Well, now. This must be the legendary Kassa Daggersharp.” She ran an appraising glance over the other woman, and then turned to Aragon. “The reports of her demise…”

  “Greatly exaggerated,” he agreed.

  “I’ll leave you to it then.” Bounty tilted her face up expectantly to Aragon, and he kissed her on both cheeks. “Until I hear anything to the contrary, I’ll assume you’re in good hands.” She smirked at them both, and sauntered away down the road, her hips swaying neatly back and forth.

  Kassa frowned thoughtfully. “Who was that?”

  “An old acquaintance,” Aragon replied, watching Bounty disappear into the shadows.

  “Should I be jealous?”

  “Do you want to be?”

  Kassa turned towards the tavern window. “He’s finished. They’re applauding, at least. Hate to think I’d come all this way to see him concussed by a flying tomato.” She pushed open the heavy tavern door and yelled into its smoky atmosphere. “Tippett! Get your bony butt out here on the double!”

  The little jester-poet pushed his spectacles up his nose and stared in her direction. “Kassa, is that you?”

  She tapped her boot meaningfully. “Are you coming or what?”

  Not one to be told twice, Tippett grabbed his piles of parchment and scurried out towards her. “Gosh,” he said.

  The three of them walked together to the stables and found the ship there, its mast casting a silvery shadow in the darkness. “Jump aboard and start introducing yourself to our new crew members,” said Kassa.

  “Right,” said Tippett, heading obediently for the ship.

  Aragon caught Kassa’s sleeve as she attempted to follow Tippett. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “No,” she said. “I didn’t, did I?” She removed his hand from her sleeve, but held onto it, her fingers lacing into his. “Come on. We’ve got a horizon to sail into.”

  S
keylles the Fishy Judge, Lord of the Underwater, sat in his bath. He hummed loudly to himself as he scrubbed his back with a conch shell.

  The lobster-shaped butler appeared in the entrance to the bone-tiled hall. His nose was firmly in the air, and his left claw held a small, bedraggled half-grown grey ball of fur. “Yours, I believe, milord,” he said snootily.

  “Ah,” said Skeylles, pleased. He held out a hand, and the butler dropped the kitten into it as if he was pleased to divest himself of the creature. Skeylles tickled the kitten under the chin. “Everything Sorted Out?” he boomed.

  The little cat stared back, a flicker of intelligence in its little eyes.

  “Good,” said Skeylles, settling back into his bath. “All Is As It Should Be.” He dropped the little grey furball down with the other cats, who were busily swarming around the legs of his bath. “More Or Less,” he added.

  The horizon was still some way off. The silvery ghost-ship glided soundlessly over meadows and moors. Its crew were having a whale of a time, partying the night away. Tippett had found a harmonica somewhere and was noisily setting his Kassa Daggersharp epic to a jaunty tune. Daggar sang noisily along, while Sparrow taught him how to cheat at arm wrestling. Singespitter and Officer Finnley were sharing a bottle of rum they had found in the hold.

  Aragon came up behind Kassa as she stood at the helm. “You’ve extended the crew rather successfully,” he told her, not sounding as if he altogether approved.

  “By another two, I should think,” she added, pointing ahead.

  Aragon followed her gaze and saw a fellow in a pastel pink suit hovering by the edge of a forest with a pile of luggage and a bright orange sprite. They were hopefully waggling their thumbs, a long-established gesture for hitch-hikers. “Kassa…” he said warningly.

  “Oh, don’t fuss,” she smiled, pulling the ghost-ship to a slow stop. “They’ll liven things up.”

  “You want things livened up?”

  The hitch-hiking god and orange ex-guardian sprite were welcomed aboard with a raucous cheer and two mugs of bubbled wine. They joined the party.

  Kassa shivered in the night air, and Aragon put his cloak around her. “I’m not sharing a cabin with them,” he said.