“I don’t know who the demons are,” Kassa replied. She fixed her gaze on Vice-Chancellor Bertie, at the far side of the room. “Go now.”
Clio took Egg’s hand, and the two of them strolled towards the door. Uncomfortably, Egg slung an arm across her shoulders. Clio sighed. “At least look as if you mean it.”
“I do mean it,” Egg shot back. “I mean—” They were outside before he could finish the sentence. The air hit them, cool and refreshing.
“Let’s get to the bridge,” said Clio. “I want my dress back.”
“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” grumbled Vice-Chancellor Bertie as Kassa hustled him and his Great Reversing Barrel across the bridge.
“Plenty of time for that next time we visit,” said Kassa. “We don’t want to outstay our welcome, do we? And we have classes tomorrow, Vice-Chancellor. I haven’t even written my new Philosophy of Magic lecture yet.”
“Oh?” he asked with mild interest. “What’s it on?”
“Why magic is a bad bad thing, of course.”
The Vice-Chancellor chuckled. “I should have known.”
Singespitter was fast asleep on the bridge as they passed, the front half of him in Cluft (white, fleecy and calm) and the back half of him in Drak (dark, scaled with claws, twitchy).
Kassa nudged him awake with a well-laced boot. “If the wind changes, you’ll stay that way.” She crossed the centre of the bridge and breathed out as the corset vanished and the shot-black lines of silk melted away from her loosened dress. Her hair relaxed, and her cleavage thankfully retreated back where it belonged.
Vice-Chancellor Bertie changed too, although again he hardly seemed to notice the difference between tweed and velvet.
Kassa half-slid down the far side of the skybridge, landing beside a rain barrel that caught the drips from the library tower roof. In one quick movement, she ducked her head into the freezing cold water, submerging her hair and face. She came out sputtering and shivering, her mind mercifully clear.
“What are you doing?” said Vice-Chancellor Bertie as he manhandled his Great Reversing Barrel down from the bridge.
Kassa gasped as she tossed back her wet hair. She could feel her nose turning blue. “Couldn’t you sense it?” she demanded.
“You mean the outpourings of dark mystical energy contained within that black and demon-possessed city?” said Vice-Chancellor Bertie with a cheerful tone in his voice. “Oh, my yes. Very interesting. Do you think there might be a paper in it?”
“I think there might be a whole bloody thesis,” said Kassa.
“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Sean McHagrty. It was so late that it was early, though Sean, in his striped pajamas, had shown no sign of being asleep when they arrived back.
“No, really,” said Egg, sitting on his own bed. “It all happened.”
Sean shook his head. “Minced albatross sausages poached in love-in-the-mist mayonnaise? Have you any idea how tricky that would be to prepare? For a start, catching an albatross is no one’s idea of fun…”
Clio leafed through Egg’s parchments and papyri. She lifted out one of the sketches and stared at it. Slowly, she sank to the floor and crossed her legs under her, still staring at the picture. It was the portrait of the Chamberlain.
“I told you,” Egg said apologetically. “I never could get his face right.”
“It’s good enough,” she said grimly. “I never saw this one before, but it’s definitely him. Where has he been all this time? He can’t have been in Drak, it’s only existed since this morning. Grandmother was so worried when she heard he had disappeared. At least when he was in prison we knew where he was.”
“Kassa’s worried too,” said Egg.
“I suppose she misses him,” said Clio with a romantic sigh.
“Utterly,” said Egg, teasing her a little. “She’ll never admit it.”
“Speaking of missing things,” said Sean. “What the Underworld are you two talking about?”
“Who invited you anyway?” complained Clio.
“This is my room! If you two had a more interesting night than me, it’s your duty to entertain me with it.”
Clio narrowed her eyes at him. “Which do you think would hurt more, if I hit you with the chair, or with the chest of drawers?”
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” called Egg.
Kassa pushed the door open. “Hi, all. Have I interrupted an orgy? I hear that’s what students get up to these days.”
Sean brightened at the sight of a gorgeous older woman in an evening gown. “Only every other day,” he said in a flirty tone.
Clio looked at him in disgust and flopped back down on the floor.
Kassa smiled at Sean, sizing him up. “Well,” she said with a gleam in her golden eyes. “Sean McHagrty. Back as a first-year student for your…third year, is it? We’ve never actually met.”
“Hi, good-looking,” he drawled.
Clio and Egg exchanged looks. “Does that really work on women?” Egg asked.
“Only the desperately lonely and the slightly deranged,” said Clio. “Sean, meet our good friend Kassa.”
The change in Sean’s face was comical. He backed away, tripping over his bed and crashing flat on the floor. “Holy shit, you’re Kassa Daggersharp!”
Egg was confused. “What’s his problem?”
Clio laughed. “You should read more epic ballads, Egg. The Daggersharps and the McHagrtys have a feud going back generations. Every time two of them meet, they have to fight a duel!”
Kassa smiled at the cowering Sean. “I don’t have my sword. Should I come back another time?”
“I heard about you from my brother Finnley,” he choked. “You nearly drowned him, then you nearly cooked him, then you turned him into a frog!”
Kassa frowned. “It was a very small frog. I don’t know what all the fuss was about. Anyway, he got back to being human eventually. How’s he doing these days?”
“He joined the Wandering Monks of Darkness,” said Sean, sounding stunned. “He was with them for a year, meditating and eating nuts and seeds, then he had to leave because the lifestyle was too hectic. He says he’s allergic to excitement. Now he lives on a remote mountain with no one for company but a herd of homing pigeons and whenever anyone mentions your name to him he twitches.”
“Excellent,” said Kassa. “Sounds like he’s calmed down a bit since the last time I saw him. What do you want to do about this duel?”
“Scimitars at dawn?” said Clio eagerly.
Kassa shook her head. “Too messy. Plus I don’t think a member of faculty is technically allowed to disembowel a student from a different department.” She glanced at Sean. “You are majoring in Profit, right?”
Sean whimpered a little.
“Yup,” said Kassa. “So much for that plan. It’ll have to be thumb wrestling. Give me a minute and I’ll be with you, Sean.” She lowered herself to the floor next to Clio and paged through the pictures. “Who were those Heroes of Justice, Egg? In the words of Lord Sinistre, they were odd.”
“Oh.” Egg leaned over from the bed and pulled out a papyrus from the very bottom of the pile. “Here we go. The Cloak, Dream Girl and Invisiblo the Mystery Man. They’re the main characters. The city itself isn’t all that important to the stories, it’s just the place where the heroes live. And the city needs heroes because it’s so dark and dangerous.”
“Interesting,” Kassa mused. “Judging from tonight, those three didn’t seem to be well known to the people of Drak. Lord Sinistre didn’t recognise them.”
“That’s because he hasn’t met them yet,” said Egg. “I haven’t written that story, I was saving it for the big finale. The three heroes band together against the evil tyrant and remove him from the throne.”
“Hmm,” said Kassa. “What’s so tyrannical about Lord Sinistre? Apart from his dress sense, obviously. What has he done wrong?”
“I don’t know,” said Egg. “Nothing much, I suppos
e. He’s just the tyrant. You know — he wears a lot of black.”
Kassa shook her head. “You need to work on your plotting, kid.” She yawned and put the sketch down. “It’s late. I have an early lecture. Assuming you don’t know why your fictional city turned up…”
“No idea,” said Egg.
“Well, then. We’ll have to see what evidence I can turn up tomorrow.”
“What’s happening tomorrow?” Clio asked.
Kassa stretched lazily. “I’m having an intimate supper for two with the dread tyrant of Drak.”
“What about the Chamberlain?” Clio burst out. “I mean — my uncle Aragon.”
Kassa’s expression closed over. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said coldly. She glanced at Sean and an evil grin took over her face. “Now, before I go. Thumbs!”
Kassa and Clio returned to their own rooms a little while later. Egg then had to put up with half an hour of complaining from Sean McHagrty about his injured thumb. The thumb wasn’t broken, but Sean maintained that it was severely sprained and would never be quite the same again.
Mercifully, Sean fell asleep before dawn, leaving Egg awake and staring at the ceiling. He wondered if anyone else had made it back from the ball. They should all be fine, it wasn’t as if Drak was especially dangerous… He groaned and rolled over in bed. Of course it was dangerous. He had designed it that way. There was no point in telling stories about superheroes if they lived in cozy suburbia. Drak was a nasty, dark, evil deathtrap and half of the faculty and postgrad students of Cluft were probably still dancing the night away in the middle of it.
Finally, Egg fell asleep.
When he woke up, it was because of a soft little sound. He yawned and wiped his eyes, sitting up in bed.
Dahla the ghost curled up by the window, weeping. Her cloud of coppery hair was particularly fine and translucent. Egg had all but forgotten about her. “Is something wrong?” he whispered, not wanting to wake up Sean. If he heard the word ‘thumb’ again, he really would have to kill someone.
Dahla lifted her tear-stained face. “I’ve lost something,” she said, and her voice was a gentle billow of smoke. “I don’t know where it is.”
Egg climbed out of bed and went to her. “Don’t cry. We can find it. What does it look like?”
“I don’t know,” she wailed. “It was here. I think it was here. I can’t see it any more.”
Egg had a thought. “You don’t come from the dark city, do you? The new one, across the way? Do you come from Drak?”
Dahla just stared at him, unhappy and confused. “I’ve lost something,” she whispered.
Egg couldn’t help himself. He reached out to touch her cheek. Her skin was warm, firm to touch. “I thought you were a ghost,” he said in surprise. “You’re real.”
Dahla smiled sadly at him, and suddenly his hand was pressing against the cold plaster of the wall. She was gone.
Egg was caught by a yawn that almost took the top of his head off. These late nights were getting the better of him. “Why can’t ghosts visit during the day?” he grumbled, staggering back towards his bed.
This time, he slept without waking for five solid hours before Clio banged on the door to wake him up for the lecture.
Mistress Sharpe stood at the lectern, staring out at the lecture hall full of Philosophy of Magic students. “We have already covered the general dangers of magic. Today we will be examining some practical and historical evidence. I’m assuming you’ve all read the Peacock and Lacrobius which were set for this week?”
There was a shocked hush as half the students avoided eye contact with each other and the other half frantically flipped through their notebooks, looking for any evidence of instructions.
Kassa rolled her eyes. “Course guides, people. They are there for a reason. Try and catch up by tomorrow, when tutorials begin. You should have already written down your name for a tutorial time — don’t panic, the lists are still on the wall outside the staff room, with the words Philosophy of Magic written above them in large neon letters.” She glared at them all, her golden eyes flashing. “Note for the future: tutorials are not lectures. I will not be sitting there telling you what to think. You are expected to think for yourselves, and to discuss the issues in the hope that some ideas will still be geographically located near your brains when the exams come around. The best way to be prepared for tutorials is to read the required texts which are listed in your course guide. That’s the blue scroll with the large red lettering which you probably all forgot to bring with you today.”
She took a deep breath, and began her lecture. “Twenty-four years ago, the Polyhedrotechnical College was rather smaller than it is today. Cluft had half as many taverns, smaller lecture halls and a population of less than a hundred residents, including students, faculty and dinner ladies. However, the people of the Mocklore Empire were still rather distressed when the entire town unexpectedly vanished.”
There was a slight buzz amongst the students. Most of them had probably heard the story as children, but being in Cluft now gave it a new relevance.
Mistress Sharpe continued. “There were many theories as to why such an event occurred, but most of the people who had any skill at analysing such theories had vanished along with the rest of Cluft. It was suspicious, however, that the Vanishing of Cluft occurred simultaneously with another major event. The Emperor of the time, generally referred to as Mad Old Timregis, had hired a large group of warlocks to expand the Skullcap Mountains, adding to the instability of that particular region, and entirely swallowing up the mountain-based barony of Eaglesbog.”
A student three rows back raised his hand. “Why did he do that, miss?”
“Beethunter, I did say he was mad,” said Mistress Sharpe impatiently. “Also, if you read romantic ballads, you’ll discover a story suggesting that the Emperor’s wife ran off with Baron Eaglesbog. Those of you who like soppy love stories with happy endings will prefer the Muzzlefud song, in which the Empress and the Baron were honeymooning in Chiantrio when Eaglesbog was destroyed, and lived out their life happily under assumed names, as opposed to the more modern Tippett version, in which the tortured ghosts of the lovers are still trapped under the weight of the mountains, along with all the other souls which were condemned to a nasty death because of their illicit love affair.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with that boy; he used to write such nice poems about pirates and kittens. Still, the depressing stuff sells better, apparently. Where was I?”
The students leaned forward eagerly.
“Anyway,” said Mistress Sharpe. “The generally accepted theory is that the huge, destructively magical act of getting rid of Eaglesbog sent shockwaves through the land. Cows turned inside out, milk went sour, crop circles turned into crop triangles and Cluft vanished without trace, never to be seen again.”
There was silence. Someone coughed.
Mistress Sharpe smiled brightly. “Until it mysteriously reappeared ten years later, with everyone intact and none the worse for their experience. The point of this story — and this is something you will see echoed over and over in your tutorial readings — is that large, destructive magical activities always have dire, life-changing repercussions. Yes, Yarrowstalk?”
The girl in the front row lowered her hand. “What about small, insignificant magical activities, miss?”
“They have dire, life-changing repercussions too,” said Mistress Sharpe. “We just don’t get to them until after the mid-semester break. Yes, Almondstone?”
A girl sitting just in front of Egg and Clio lowered her hand. “The mysterious vanishing and reappearance of Cluft, miss. I was wondering if it had any relevance to the recent mysterious appearance of Drak?”
The students buzzed far louder than before.
Mistress Sharpe tried not to smile. Almondstone, as well as all the girls sitting near her, were very self-consciously wearing velvet tops, lots of eyeliner and black wisps of lace in their hair. The
dress code of Drak had started a trend among the students. This at least was better than last year, when Kassa had walked into her second week of Philosophy of Magic lectures to discover that every female student was wearing a wench bodice, wide red skirts and big black boots. She had been forced to borrow tweed frocks from Penelopa Profit-scoundrel until the whole thing died down — not an experience she ever cared to repeat.
The students were hanging out for an answer to Almondstone’s question — obviously, rumours had flown around campus since the Drak ball the previous night.
Mistress Sharpe cleared her throat. “Shame on you, Almondstone. If you start assuming that what your lecturers tell you has any relevance to real life, you won’t get very far.” She grinned widely. “Many serious treatises have been written on the ramifications of large acts of destructive magic, particularly in the last few years. I hope you’re taking notes on this, since it relates to a particularly evil essay question I’ll be setting you shortly.”
The students groaned, sensing the fun bit was over, and most of them opened their notebooks.
“Right,” said Mistress Sharpe. “Who knows how to spell ‘potentialities of pre-apocalyptic catastrophication’? Should I write it on the blackboard?”
6
The Summoning of Ghosts
After Philosophy of Magic, Clio had to run to a Duelling seminar, and then to a Home Economics lecture. Staggering away from the last with her brain decidedly over-stuffed, she went looking for Egg. There was no sign of him in his room or in any of the dining halls, taverns or tutorial rooms.
“What are you doing here?” she exploded when she finally found him in — of all places — the library.
“Sssh,” hissed Mavis, who sat in a far corner, reading a long scroll of romantic ballads. She peered suspiciously over her tortoiseshell spectacles at Clio and Egg, then went back to her reading.
“At least she made it back all right,” Clio added in a slightly shushed voice. “I hear that none of the Profit lecturers returned from the ball until this morning, and several postgraduate students are still over there!”
Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles) Page 62
