Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles)

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  And, oh yes — thanks to the corset, her cleavage had reached epic proportions.

  “Interesting,” said Vice-Chancellor Bertie, peering at her. “Shall we get on?” He marched past with his Great Reversing Barrel hoisted high in the air. As he passed the crucial point, his grey beard turned black, debonair and pointy. His usual tweedy suit became something swishy in brown velvet and gold satin. Bertie shrugged, and kept going.

  Singespitter circled back towards them, his bat wings flapping. As he passed over Kassa, he transformed back into the usual white woolly Singespitter with purple wings. He baaed happily and flew back, transforming into the black beastie, who made an excited roaring sound and breathed a small amount of pink flame. At least someone was enjoying himself.

  “It’s not permanent, then,” Kassa said. “Come on, you lot.”

  The staff and students all stepped across the bridge, each of them transforming into a darker and slightly more glamorous version of themselves as they went. Professor Incendia Noir, Kassa couldn’t help noticing, remained exactly as she always was. “That look is so you, dear,” she commented as she passed Kassa. “The larger woman is always best to expose her more obvious assets.”

  Professor Gootch refused to go. “There’s no way you’ll catch me turning into some kind of demonic gigolo,” he choked. “I’d rather have baked beans and toast back at the College, thank you very much!”

  “I agree with Professor Gootch,” said Professor Profit-scoundrel. “Really, this is all quite undignified.”

  Master Fitzdeath laughed at her. “Terrible, just terrible. A senior professor in Profit passing up a chance to be the first to set up trading deals with a brand new society, just because she’s worried about how she looks.”

  Penelopa glared at him, then marched across the bridge. The tweed ballgown was replaced with…well, technically it was still tweed, only there was a lot less of it. In true storytelling tradition, her spectacles had vanished and her hair tumbled around her shoulders.

  Fitzdeath winked at her. “You’ve got legs.”

  “What has that got to do with anything?” snapped Penelopa. She marched across the bridge in her tweed stiletto heels and promptly crashed into the railings, almost toppling over the side. “Damn. Where are my glasses?”

  “That’s Dark Magic for you,” said Mavis the goddess. “All aesthetics and no practicality.” Her clothes flickered between a silver sparkly mini-dress and something in floor-length black velvet, but eventually reverted to the original oversized pink ballgown. Mavis gazed at the looming dark city. “That was easy. They can’t have a god on their side.”

  “Is that good?” Kassa couldn’t help asking.

  “Hard to say,” said Mavis. “You may not have noticed, but gods aren’t what they used to be.”

  The rest of the staff and students had already gone ahead. Professor Gootch stomped back towards Cluft, muttering to himself. Singespitter flew above them in tighter and tighter circles, happily transforming back and forth from a white sheep to a dark beastie. Clio and Egg were the only ones left.

  “I’m not sure about this,” said Clio. She looked down at her pale blue velvet gown. “I like this frock.”

  “I’m guessing the only way into this party is to follow their dress code,” said Kassa. “You don’t have to come.” She looked hard at Egg. “You do.”

  Clio bit her lip and stepped over the invisible line. Her gown exploded outwards, the skirt widening even as the neckline plunged and the waist sucked in with a gasp. Clio looked at Kassa with a pained expression on her face. “I think I’m suddenly wearing silk underwear.”

  “Join the club,” said Kassa. “Come on Egg, be brave.”

  “Just as long as I don’t end up with silk underwear,” he muttered, and stepped across to Clio.

  “Interesting choice,” said Kassa, eyeing his new costume.

  Egg was clad in a full set of warlock’s robes, black velvet with embroidered silver sigils. As he leaned over to stare at his new boots — also black and covered in occult designs — a tall warlock’s hat fell off his head and rolled down the far side of the bridge. “Not bloody likely,” he said angrily, wrenching the robes and medallions over his head. Luckily, his original shirt, waistcoat and trousers were still underneath.

  Clio grinned. “Can we go to the ball now?”

  The Chamberlain of Drak was a wreck. While Lord Sinistre had spent the day deciding what to wear to his precious ball, the rest of the palace had worked around the clock to make it happen.

  The peacocks wouldn’t be fully roasted for another hour and the desserts were yet to be assembled, but the trays of nibbly things were ready to go, the salads had been whipped into a frenzy and the fruit punch was bubbling away merrily.

  The Chamberlain sank into a kitchen chair and patted the shoulder of one of the assistant cooks, who was in floods of tears. “Mushroom caps,” she kept saying in a weepy, stunned voice. “Thousands and thousands of mushroom caps.”

  Two more assistant cooks had been locked in the dungeons after a violent dispute about miniature pastry cases.

  Sherrie the head cook iced sugar peonies with a fixed grimace on her face. No one dared say a word to her.

  “You’ve all done very well,” said the Chamberlain. “Lord Sinistre will certainly want me to pass on his thanks for your marvellous efforts.”

  One of the assistant cooks blew a raspberry, and two more started crying.

  “I’ll leave you to it, then,” said the Chamberlain, making his exit.

  They would be arriving soon, the beautiful people of Drak, as well as the visitors from the strange green land. They would come, they would dance, they would flirt, they would stand around saying nothing to each other, and not one of them would notice that the thumbnail-sized honey cakes were glazed with real gold leaf, or that the tiny sausages on sticks were made from minced albatross poached in a delicate love-in-the-mist mayonnaise.

  What in the world was he doing? Why did he care so much about double damask napkins and the correct length of toothpicks? Why were his staff working so hard for such little reward? Why did he appear to have no name beyond his job description?

  The Chamberlain stood in the doorway to the ballroom and saw that the chandelier was crooked. One more thing to worry about. “Buttons,” he called to a passing footman, “fetch the forty-foot ladder, will you?”

  The golden skybridge swept into Drak, leading the delegation from Cluft directly to the door of the palace. It was a tall, glossy, black, looming building entirely similar to every other black spiked building in this city that towered around them, crosshatching the streets with shadows.

  “At least we’re dressed for the occasion,” whispered Kassa, tugging at her bodice.

  Kassa couldn’t help wondering if the costumes were not the only thing changed by Drak’s odd magic. Half of the party were acting aggressively, and the others were making flirty eyes at each other. Kassa had never seen so many tense shoulders and arched eyebrows in one place before, including the annual Staff Ball.

  Vice-Chancellor Bertie, despite his new pointy black beard, seemed the least affected. “Do you think anyone’s going to let us in?” he bellowed in what he probably thought was a tactfully low voice.

  Professor Noir shivered, her eyes darting back and forth as she surveyed the dark shadows around them. “Do you hear that?”

  They could all hear it. Music. Several long, slow drumbeats pulsed up through the obsidian paving stones, pounding an irregular heartbeat into the soles of their feet.

  Egg held hands with Clio, squeezing her fingers tightly between his own.

  The doors swung open.

  “Marvellous,” said Lord Sinistre, rubbing his hands together. “Our guests are early.”

  One of the serving maids squeaked and fainted, her midnight blue satin skirts fanning out as she fell. Two footmen in elegant suits took hold of the girl’s feet, dragging her unconscious body under the piano where she would be hidden from sight until sh
e was able to return to work. The Chamberlain nodded his approval. “Perhaps you would like to greet them in the receiving hall, my Lord, to give us a little time to finish in here?”

  The footmen moved like an army of clockwork ants, sweeping trays of food on to tables, straightening decorations, and pouring identical measures of ruby wine into minuscule sipping glasses. They couldn’t possibly go any faster.

  “Nonsense,” said Lord Sinistre, preening. “How can I make my grand entrance in the ballroom if I come scuttling to meet them like some over-anxious butler? Be sensible, man.”

  The Chamberlain sighed and turned on his heel, barking orders as he crossed the ballroom. “You! Clear that away. You! Straighten that up. You! Stop crying!”

  Lord Sinistre, oblivious to the frantic work around him, wandered towards the staircase that spiralled around the grand ballroom. Hmm. A grand entrance.

  The doors peeled back, revealing a high ceilinged foyer. A dozen or so thin and elegant staircases sprouted off a huge and grandiose Great Staircase. The walls and floor of the foyer were lined with silver-and-jet mosaic tiles. Ambient dancing shadows were projected against the walls by a hundred concealed lanterns. In the centre of the architectural marvel was a single dark figure, robed and cowled, shimmering with more sinister physical presence than a thousand warlocks rolled into one.

  “Follow me,” he said in a sonorous, musical voice so deep that the tiles rattled on the walls. He led the way past the various spiral staircases to a huge set of dark doors engraved with a frieze of bats, gargoyles and other strange and demonic creatures.

  “Clio, this is awful,” whispered Egg. “We have to get out of this place.”

  “Don’t you like it? You made it.”

  “I drew it,” Egg said hoarsely. “I don’t know who made it.”

  As the sinister butler and the delegation from Cluft approached the doors, they swung open just wide enough to let someone through, a maid with waist-length black hair. She whispered something urgently at the butler, then slid back through the doors, closing them firmly behind her.

  “I apologise,” boomed the voice of the butler, in a calm and unruffled tone. “I meant to say, follow me this way.” He turned on his heel, walked to the foot of one of the lesser spiral staircases and started up the steps. The steps were like slabs of black sugar candy, and they went up so high that you could not tell where the steps ended and the distant ceiling began.

  The faculty and students of Cluft followed the dark figure of the butler up the spiral staircase. Kassa looked down at her high-heeled black boots and sighed. “This is going to be painful.”

  Egg and Clio, still hovering at the back of the group, were the last to go up the stairs. “What about the butler?” Clio said. “Did you design the butler?”

  “Yes,” Egg said mournfully.

  “Why is his voice so deep like that?”

  “I used an extra-thick lettering style. I wanted to give him a bit of presence.”

  “Creepy.”

  The butler was intent on giving them a tour of the palace. They climbed sky-high spiral staircases, promenaded along velvet-draped corridors, tiptoed through a glasshouse of carnivorous plants, got lost in a museum of dark crystalline sculptures and gasped in awe at an indoor hanging garden of sparkling silver stars.

  The overall theme of the palace décor was black and silver with hints of blood red and the occasional splash of midnight blue. There were never enough lanterns or candles, unless they were needed to cast long and fearsome shadows.

  “This place certainly works at being dark,” said Kassa.

  Egg, aware of how often he relied on extra-inky shadows to make his drawings look more dramatic, said nothing.

  Finally, the butler led them all back down to the ground floor of the palace and into a huge, gleaming, hexagonal ballroom. A thousand candles glimmered in the chandeliers and candelabras around the ballroom, casting flattering light across the trays of delicate food arranged on long, chiffon-draped tables.

  The staff and students of Cluft stumbled across the floor. Somehow, their new costumes no longer seemed ridiculous. It seemed unbelievably right to be clad in velvet and silks and elaborate corsetry.

  “Where is everyone?” wondered Kassa.

  Apart from themselves and the tables of food, the ballroom was empty. Not a footman or a courtier or a host in sight.

  Egg tugged at Clio’s sleeve, pointing up to the tip-most top of the room. A silvery spiral staircase ran around the walls. At the highest point of the stair, a silver door was just visible. “He’ll come from there,” said Egg. “That’s where he’ll make his grand entrance.” He had drawn this room fifteen times before getting it exactly right, and used three bottles of high-grade ink on the final version.

  “Who?” whispered Clio. It was impossible to talk in anything but a whisper among all this grandeur and silence.

  “Lord Sinistre,” said Egg. This was the test. This was where he found out if this really was the city he had created with parchment and ink. He had invented Lord Sinistre a week ago, finally choosing which of three prototype characters would rule the city of Drak. And as for Drak itself — hadn’t he only made that name up last night? It seemed such a long time ago.

  Did the people of Drak know they had only just come into existence? Did they have any idea?

  Music filled the room, a thunderous moan of drums, flutes and fiddle strings. A large circle in the centre of the ballroom rose, to reveal an ornate bandstand packed with moody minstrels. Their eyes glowed red as they played. After a final set of dramatic chords, the minstrels abandoned their instruments and stared upwards. Naturally, this encouraged the audience to do the same.

  A dark figure stepped through the doorway at the top of the staircase, his cape swirling in a cloud of crimson. “Greetings,” he said. “I am Lord Sinistre. Welcome to Drak.”

  His feet made no sound as he began to descend. His guests looked slowly around the ballroom, eyeing the length of the staircase that wrapped at least six times around the six wide walls.

  “It’s going to take him months to walk all the way down here,” said Clio in disbelief.

  The Lord of Drak continued at a regular, unhurried pace, his eyes on his audience.

  Kassa rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t expect us to stare adoringly up at him the whole time, does he? I’ll get a crick in my neck.”

  The large doors on the floor level of the ballroom — one against each wall — all opened at once to admit more party guests. Peacock feathers, sparkling tiaras, gleaming rubies and antique gold possum fur were the most prominent fashion accessories for the lords and ladies of Drak. Black eyeliner was also very popular. Most of them had long black hair, flashing violet eyes and plunging necklines, even the men.

  The minstrels took their instruments up again. This time, the music was smooth and energetic, the kind that made you dance whether you wanted to or not.

  One by one, the staff and students of the Polyhedrotechnical College of Cluft were swept into the dance by gorgeous strangers. Even Vice-Chancellor Bertie put down his Great Reversing Barrel for a chance to pair up with a pale-skinned countess in a black lace crinoline.

  “I never would have guessed that Bertie knew how to tango,” said Kassa. She grabbed an arm each of Clio and Egg. “Come on, kids. Let’s check out the buffet.”

  “Is it safe?” Clio asked. “Should we eat the food here?”

  “You’re thinking of faeries,” said Kassa, striding towards the nearest food table. “I don’t know what’s going on in this city, but if it was the fey folk we’d be seeing far more in the way of glitterdust and grass stains.” She lifted a small sausage, balanced neatly on a fine gold toothpick. “They’ve gone to a lot of trouble to impress us. Do you have any idea how hard it is to make a sausage out of minced albatross? Not to mention poaching it in love-in-the-mist mayonnaise. They could have substituted chicken and parsley and no one would have known any better.” She ate the sausage and tucked the gold toothpic
k into her bosom. “Ooh, do I see honey cakes?”

  “It’s not necessarily to impress us,” said Egg awkwardly. “It’s just — Lord Sinistre only has the best of the best, whether they’re catering for him or for three hundred people. It’s the way things work around here.”

  “He’s only just started his second circuit,” said Clio, glancing up at the descending Lord Sinistre. “Why doesn’t he slide down the banisters?”

  “Style,” said Kassa, licking honey from her fingers. “It’s all about style. Tell us more, Egg. What else do I need to know about old Sinistre?”

  “He walks slowly,” said Egg. “Really, really slowly.”

  “I’d gathered that,” said Kassa. “What else?”

  “Um,” Egg racked his brains. “That’s it. I hadn’t worked out any history or personality stuff yet, just — well, the outward appearance.”

  “Style, poise and velvet.” Kassa lifted a silver chalice to her lips and sipped a liqueur so silky that it stroked her throat on the way down. “How challenging.”

  “I was hoping you would think so,” purred Lord Sinistre.

  Kassa spun around. Lord Sinistre stood right behind her, his dark eyes boring into hers. She waved a hand in the direction of the staircase. “Didn’t you have about four laps to go?”

  “Dramatic entrances are such a bore,” he said with a slow smile.

  Something inside Kassa uncurled. She pasted a bright false smile on her face. “Enjoying the party?”

  “I am now,” said the Lord of Drak, his eyes moving slowly over her. “Would you like to dance?”

  It had to be an enchantment, Kassa decided. A dark enchantment. A dark, insidious enchantment. This wasn’t the kind of man she usually found attractive. Okay, that wasn’t entirely true. She cast her mind back over her list of ex-boyfriends, trying to find one that didn’t have a bit of ‘bad boy’ in him. Nope.