Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles)

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  “Well, you know what postgrad students are like,” said Egg. “Anything to avoid writing their thesis.”

  The table in front of him was piled with hundreds of scrolls, many of which had been untied and flattened out to be read.

  “What are you doing?” said Clio. “You do know that there aren’t any essays due for weeks yet?”

  “It doesn’t pay to leave everything to the last minute,” Egg retorted. “Anyway, this isn’t real work. I’m doing some private research.”

  Clio sat down. “About the Drak situation?”

  “No,” he said, a little embarrassed. “About ghosts, actually. I think my room is haunted.”

  “Ghosts? You’re kidding, right? There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

  Egg almost laughed out loud, but caught a stern look from Mavis just in time to turn it into a quiet snigger. “Clio, this is Mocklore. We have exploding mountains and goddess librarians and flying sheep. Why would you possibly find it difficult to believe in ghosts?”

  “They’re silly,” said Clio. “What kind of ghost?”

  “I don’t really know. I’ve only seen her twice.”

  “Ahhh,” said Clio, nodding her head. “A girl ghost. Now I see why you’re so interested.”

  “It’s not that,” said Egg, then blushed. “I mean, it was weird. I saw her, and then I didn’t see her. I mean, she vanished.”

  Clio pulled a face. “Sure she wasn’t just one of Sean McHagrty’s Ladies of Romance Past?”

  “Pretty sure. She didn’t seem interested in him.”

  She gasped in mock-surprise. “A woman who doesn’t fall at his feet? How could that be?”

  Egg pulled out another scroll. “You’re not helping.”

  “Prove to me that you have a ghost and I’ll help you.” Clio sat quietly for at least three seconds as he started to read through the scroll. “Egg, I’m hungry. I hardly had any lunch. Come to the Seaweed Tower with me for an early dinner. Mistress Brim is making fish surprise.”

  “Don’t you have any other friends?” he complained, still trying to read.

  “Not interesting friends who create malignant dark cities,” she wheedled.

  “Not funny, Clio.”

  “Come on. Fish surprise. Surprising food involving fish. How can you say no?”

  “All right. But I’m borrowing these scrolls and you can help me find out about the ghost after dinner.”

  Clio made a complicated salute. “As a former Junior Sparkling Nun, I swear upon what little honour I have.”

  Egg started stacking the scrolls. “Good enough for me. And that’s another story you have to tell me some time.”

  Mavis only allowed them to borrow four scrolls each, and she wouldn’t let Egg take any of the local history scrolls at all unless he promised to not actually read them. While they were negotiating, Clio looked out of the window at the skybridge. “Wow. Mistress Sharpe is really taking this intimate supper thing seriously.”

  Egg joined her at the window. Kassa, climbing up to the bridge with the assistance of Singespitter the sheep, had dressed with Drak in mind. She was poured into a black leather bodice with silky black skirts, scarlet boots with spiked heels and a selection of bat-shaped silver jewellery. Her dark red hair was mussed and teased out in all directions. Two elegant daggers rested in black leather sheaths at her hips and several more protruded from her scarlet boots. Even the silver clips that kept her madly-arranged hair in place looked as if they might easily be used as stabbing weapons.

  “She looks like a pirate queen,” Clio breathed.

  “A pirate queen out to seduce someone,” Egg said darkly. “Do you think she’ll be all right?”

  Clio elbowed him. “Idiot. She’s Kassa Daggersharp. You should be asking if Lord Sinistre’s going to be all right.”

  Flying above the sky-bridge, Singespitter transformed into a slavering black beastie. This time, as well as bat wings, black fleece and fangs, he grew a wolfy tail and silver claws that went shing when he unsheathed them. He cawed in exultation, flicking his claws in and out.

  Kassa did not visibly change. She nodded as if this was what she had expected and continued along the bridge.

  “That’s funny,” said Egg.

  “Something is funny apart from Kassa’s outfit?” asked Clio.

  “The sheep. It changed before it reached the middle of the bridge.”

  “That’s a nasty thought. You think the dress code is spreading? We could be up to our necks in mock-goths by tomorrow morning.”

  “Maybe it’s not just the dress code that’s spreading.”

  Clio looked at him. “You’re just full of nasty thoughts today.”

  Kassa felt the change. Not her clothes — the draklight evidently approved of her choices, all the way down to her silky satin underwear. Her thoughts were another story. Now she was paying attention, it was obvious that her mind had been affected by stepping across that invisible border. She felt sharper, faster, but darker as well. Less controlled. If someone jumped at her out of the shadows, she was likely to slice out his eyeballs without even thinking.

  How did people live in a city like this?

  Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they were all figments of Egg’s imagination and they only became animated when an outsider was present. But how did that explain Aragon Silversword?

  Kassa’s fingers grasped the hilts of her hip-daggers for a brief moment until she forced herself to slowly let go. The so-called Chamberlain of Drak had better not cross her path tonight. Here in this place of dark thoughts and chaotic impulses, she might end up killing him.

  The doors of the palace of Drak opened as Kassa approached. The sinister butler bowed deeply to her. “Mistress Sharpe, you are welcome. His Lordship will receive you in the Twilight Supper Room.”

  “Sounds intimate,” said Kassa. “Can you mind my demonic sheep?”

  The butler bowed even more deeply than before. “But of course.”

  While Clio lingered to have a lengthy conversation with Mistress Brim about the healthiness of spinach versus seaweed, Egg found an empty table and set his tray down. He had decided against the fish surprise, as there had been enough surprises in his life lately without adding to them deliberately.

  The doors crashed open suddenly. Sean McHagrty burst into the dining hall and looked wildly around. It was mostly empty. There was a major party over at the Split Duck Tavern, where some postgraduate students had returned from Drak and were telling salacious and scandalous stories in return for free drinks.

  When Sean saw Egg, he hurried over and sat at his table. “Have you seen a girl called Meridia?”

  Egg chewed a mouthful of his dinner and swallowed. “I wouldn’t know what a girl called Meridia looks like.”

  “How about a girl called Cerulia?”

  “Ditto.” Egg grinned through another mouthful. “Sisters?”

  “Twin sisters,” Sean groaned. “They’re both trying to kill me.”

  “And you said you had a boring time last night.”

  “Well, you know, compared to a demon party in a mysterious city full of women wearing velvet and black eyeliner…what are you eating?”

  Egg looked down at his dinner, which consisted of a mug of spicy hot chocolate and a paper bag full of brown crunchy objects that tasted good. The warm grease was starting to seep through the bag on to his fingers. “I think it’s deep-fried lobster bits,” he said thoughtfully. “Or possibly something that was once part of a pig.”

  “Cool.” Sean went over to share his winning smile with Mistress Brim.

  Clio brought her tray over, glaring over her shoulder at Sean. “We’re friends with him now?”

  “I have to live with him all year, be nice,” said Egg, crunching loudly.

  “What are you eating?”

  “Crunchy fried things in a bag. What’s that you’re eating? Don’t tell me that’s the fish surprise.”

  Clio poked at her plate, which was covered with an unpleasant green sludgy mess.
“I decided on the seaweed surprise instead.”

  “Why would anyone voluntarily eat seaweed?”

  “It’s a new diet,” she mumbled, sounding embarrassed. “Imani Almondstone told me about it. You eat nothing but seaweed and eggs for two weeks.”

  Egg looked at the plate thoughtfully. “Your hair will turn green,” he predicted. “Also, your eyeballs. This could very well explain those blotches on Lord Ambewine’s neck.”

  Clio sighed and picked up her tray again. “Crunchy fried things in a bag, you say?”

  “Possibly lobster,” Egg said with his mouth full. “Possibly pig.”

  “Right.” She went back to Mistress Brim.

  Sean returned, his tray laden with three bags of crunchy fried things. “Where’s the gorgeous Daggersharp tonight? Out breaking someone else’s thumb?”

  “Intimate supper with Lord Sinistre of Drak,” said Egg, crunching away. “I think she’s either going to seduce him or assassinate him. Thumbs optional.”

  “Nice.”

  Singespitter escaped the butler quite easily, and set off on his mission: to poke around Drak and figure out what was going on. It was fun being a demonic beastie. The fire-breathing was a definite plus, and his new silver claws had proved more than satisfactory — a cupboard full of velvet tablecloths (now a nice collection of velvet ribbons) was evidence of that.

  No more playing, though. Time to get serious. Singespitter set his nose into gear. He wasn’t endowed with everyday sniffing skills, but ever since he had been irrevocably transformed into a flying sheep, he had a knack for tracking the scent of strange magical phenomena.

  The trouble with Drak was that the whole city was drenched in Dark Magic, which to Singespitter’s nose had a deep, cloying and utterly distracting perfume. He strained to sniff out anything that was slightly more (or slightly less) strange or magical than everything else.

  Only two particularly noticeable smells came to nose: the many dangerous animals caged and prowling somewhere underneath the palace itself; and the heady aroma of toasted cheese sandwiches.

  After considerable inner debate, Singespitter followed the cheese.

  Lord Sinistre waited.

  The Twilight Supper Room was high up in the palace, a silvery balcony overlooking the spread of the night-black city of Drak. Pale, glowing moonflowers twisted around the elegant railing. If you sat in absolute stillness, you could hear the petals humming on the softest of frequencies. The tune was too gentle to recognise, but you could certainly dance to it — if it were possible to dance in absolute stillness.

  Lord Sinistre had chosen his clothes very carefully for tonight. It had occurred to him that Mistress Sharpe was the kind of person who would like colours, so he searched his wardrobe for something less dark than usual. He didn’t have anything.

  If he couldn’t be colourful — and apparently he couldn’t — he could at least be dramatic. Lord Sinistre chose the boldest, most dramatic black outfit he possessed. It was a body-clinging suit of black leather, trimmed with silver and worn with fitted knee boots and a studded collar.

  He could not remember ordering it. Why would anyone deliberately choose a costume so outrageous and impractical? The evening was cool, but his skin was already hot and sticky. He considered changing to one of his more usual silk or velvet outfits, but those were almost as bad. None of his clothes were designed for comfort. That was what happened when you hired demons for tailors, he supposed.

  Lord Sinistre was looking forward to spending time with this woman of the strange world Outside. The ladies of Drak were all far too aware of his status as their Lord and Master, which made it hard to have sensible conversations with them. He had a deliciously hopeful feeling that Mistress Sharpe had little respect for authority.

  A curtain of obsidian beads shimmered, and the moonflowers changed their pitch by a fraction of a hum. She had arrived.

  Lord Sinistre moved to greet his guest. “So pleased to see you, Mistress Sharpe,” he said, his voice rolling out the words in a deep, inviting growl. He wasn’t doing it deliberately, it was just something his voice did from time to time.

  Mistress Sharpe looked first at him, taking in the leather outfit, then quickly turned her eyes to the view of the city. “Call me Kassa. Are you having a candle shortage?”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” said Lord Sinistre with a sigh. “I have a hundred candles in my library and there’s still not enough light to read by. Perhaps it’s the quality of our wax.”

  “Lanterns?” she suggested, still gazing down at the pointy dark buildings and long dark streets of Drak.

  “Same problem.” Lord Sinistre indicated the lantern above them. It flickered gently, barely bright enough to create a shadow. “Mostly at night we see by the light of the full moon.”

  Kassa looked up to the full white circle in the sky. “What do you do the other days of the month?”

  “You mean when the moon goes behind a cloud? We all go to bed early, I’m afraid.”

  “No,” said Kassa. “I mean when there isn’t a full moon. Waxing and waning?”

  Lord Sinistre frowned. “I’m not entirely sure what you mean. The moon is always full. Would you like to sit? I have a rather excellent supper planned for us.”

  Kassa sat, her skirts spreading wide and her bodice creaking slightly.

  Lord Sinistre sat, his leather suit creaking more than slightly. He passed his hand along the railings, stroking the moonflowers. Their hum increased by a fraction.

  In answer to that subtle signal, a manservant swept in, placing a covered tray on the table between Kassa and Lord Sinistre. He lifted the silver lid and moved back discreetly, back through the bead curtain.

  “I hope you like violet-drenched oysters and rose-scented wine,” said Lord Sinistre.

  “Can’t live without ’em,” said Kassa Daggersharp.

  “Cool,” said Sean McHagrty. “I’ve never raised a ghost before. Is she pretty?”

  “Very pretty,” said Egg. “But that’s not why I’m doing this.” He and Sean sat cross-legged on the floor of their room, lighting a circle of candles around them. Clio was refusing to participate. She lay on Sean’s bed with her nose in one of the local history scrolls.

  “So,” said Sean. “What do we do now?”

  Egg produced a vial of purple sand and another scroll. “We’re supposed to pour the sand and say the spell. It doesn’t raise ghosts, it sort of attracts the ones that are already here.”

  Clio made a scornful sound. “What do you think Kassa would say if she saw you using magic for no good reason? After all those lectures about how it always goes wrong!”

  “Nothing’s going to go wrong,” Egg said steadily. “This is barely even magic. My mother uses more incantations than this to get bread to rise. It’s not a problem.”

  “Well,” said Clio. “It says in here that four years after Cluft mysteriously reappeared, a first-year student tried to use a simple call-home spell using a remnant from the Glimmer and it exploded in his face, turning him and his entire Philosophy of Magic class into a stampede of frightened hedgehogs.”

  “You’re making that up,” accused Egg.

  “It’s required reading for next week’s tutorial, actually.”

  Egg rolled his eyes and opened the vial of purple sand. He poured it on the carpet, nodding at Sean. Together, they recited, “Spirits of the walls and stones, spirits of the hearth and broom, spirits of the earth and sky, please be welcome in this room.”

  “I wonder how many ghosts are stored up in the walls and stones of Cluft,” Clio said thoughtfully. “A lot of people must have died here over the last hundred years, and you’ve just given all of them an open invitation. Hooray.”

  “Are we going to be able to get that out of the carpet?” asked Sean, looking at the heap of purple sand. “We paid a cleaning bond for this room.”

  Egg stared up at Dahla. She stood with her bare feet on the purple sand, looking confused. “Don’t either of you see her? She’s
right here.”

  “Right where?” asked Sean and Clio in unison.

  The cheesy, toasty smell led Singespitter directly to the kitchens, and to Aragon Silversword.

  The Chamberlain of Drak sat at a large table, about to start on his supper. Singespitter crawled into a corner where other dark, demonic beasties had gathered to drink from bowls with their names on. Some of the creatures sniffed curiously at Singespitter, but they kept their distance as long as he did not go near their bowls. He settled down to eavesdrop comfortably.

  “Thanks, Sherrie,” said Aragon, picking up a piece of cheesy toast and then dropping it because it was hot. He blew on his fingers.

  “You couldn’t feed a spider on the food his Lordship insists on,” said the Head Cook, arranging four violet-drenched oysters on a thin crystal plate with a harebell garnish. She slid the plate into a cupboard and rang a small bell. A dark green demon appeared in the cupboard, seized the plate, gibbered briefly and then vanished.

  Aragon stared at the cheese on toast. “Do you remember when I started working here, by any chance?”

  Sherrie sat at the table opposite him and began to slice peeled prawns into slivers with a wickedly sharp knife. “Bless me, but you’ve always worked here, haven’t you? Like the rest of us.” She shook her head and corrected herself. “No, that’s silly. I remember your first day. You just turned up, all of a sudden like.”

  “How long ago?” he asked. “Do you remember?”

  “Well, it was before the fancy dress gala, wasn’t it. But I don’t think you were here for the vampire cotillion…” She counted on her fingers. “Less than half a year, then. Fancy that. It feels longer.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Aragon bit into the toast and chewed. “Do you remember me saying anything strange when I arrived? About where I came from?”

  Sherrie laughed heartily. “I’ll say. You were rude to Lord Sinistre, I wouldn’t forget that in a hurry. Although I did, didn’t I? Until now.”