Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles)

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  By the time she reached the firm paving stones of Drak, the cloaked figure was nowhere in sight. Kassa stood for a moment, breathing hard. She had come too far to just wander back and get on with her evening.

  If the Cloak was a true hero of the city, the bringer of order and maker of justice as Egg claimed, a little injustice might just bring him out of the stonework.

  Time to do some damage.

  Clio ran to the chest of drawers, thumbing her way frantically through the inky parchments and papyri.

  “It’s not there,” Egg told her. “My note tablet is in my book bag over there.”

  Clio turned on him. “You’re carrying it around with you? Are you still writing the story?”

  Egg bit his lip. “I couldn’t help myself after the ball. Seeing Drak for real. I didn’t draw anything else, I just made a few notes. And maybe Kassa’s right — an unfinished story is more dangerous than a finished one.”

  “And maybe Kassa really needed to know who was under that cloak,” Clio hurled back. “Tell me, Egg!”

  He took a deep breath. “I think you already know who it is. You wouldn’t be so pissed off, otherwise.”

  The park was beautiful, just like everything else in this city. The shadowy statues and fountains were exquisitely sculpted and shaped. Glowing moonflowers illuminated the delicate paths. The whole gorgeous display was lightly dappled with silvery light from the full moon.

  A perfect, blood-coloured marble rendition of a bird of paradise shattered against the whispering fountain. A dark marble peacock soon joined it, spraying stone chips into the water.

  Kassa Daggersharp was on the rampage.

  A pretty young couple, interrupted from their romantic walk, stared in horror at the woman who was smashing fine art in front of their eyes. She ran at them, her golden eyes flashing. “Hand over your valuables!”

  “A vandal and a thief,” gasped the young man. He wore velvet, not surprisingly, and his face was outlined with more white powder and black mascara than that of his girlfriend.

  “Absolutely,” said Kassa. “If you don’t mind, I’m on a tight schedule.” She grasped a string of buttery black pearls from around the young lady’s neck and tugged.

  The string broke. Black pearls flew madly into the air and rained down around them. The young lady fainted and her male companion caught her expertly, glaring at Kassa. A hand smacked down on Kassa’s shoulder, spinning her around.

  “I am the Cloak, Bringer of Order to Chaos, Maker of Justice for All,” thundered the cloaked figure. Even staring directly under the grey hood and into his face, Kassa could see nothing but a haze of grey. “You will cease your criminal activities immediately.”

  The couple both burst into tears and ran away, their heels clattering against the fine black paving stones of the path.

  Kassa grinned. “I was hoping I would run into you.”

  “You will turn aside from your anti-social behaviour,” boomed the hero.

  A sudden thought flashed through Kassa’s mind. If he’s the hero, am I the villain? “Make me,” she snarled and threw herself at him.

  It was a long time since Kassa had been in a fight, not counting the thumb-wrestling with young McHagrty, or the time Master Fitzdeath tried to steal her tutorial room, and she was forced to teach him the error of his ways with a scalding coffee pot and a wooden ruler.

  This was different. It was a fight without weapons — a rolling, punching, ducking affair, only a few rungs up from a scuffle. The draklight flooded Kassa’s mind, overpowering her. Only by a great force of effort did she manage to not draw any of her silver-hilted knives.

  It was unfair, really, because the Cloak did have one weapon, even if it wasn’t of the stabbing, slicing, swiping variety. He had his cloak, and the cloak had a life of its own. It was warm and soft to the touch, but also weirdly amorphous. When Kassa hit at it, it made a sucking sound, apparently softening the blow. Every time she touched the cloak, it made her feel less controlled than ever. Drak was taking over her mind.

  She couldn’t pin him to the ground because his cloak would slide him away from her grip, and he was equally unable to gain the upper hand over her. The fight could go on all night at this rate, and Kassa was tiring.

  The nearby fountain was ringed with nasty silver spikes. Kassa heaved against the Cloak’s body, trying to catch him off-balance.

  Not that I’m trying to impale him, her horrified inner mind insisted, struggling up through the crowding Drak-induced thoughts of darkness and chaotic violence. I just want to…hook that cloak of his on something sharp. That’s a good idea. Something sharp.

  Kassa shoved the Cloak one last time and the sucking grey fabric of the Cloak’s cloak caught itself nicely on the silver spikes. Kassa brought her legs up in a sideways scissor kick. The cloak held fast and the man within rolled free.

  Kassa threw herself on him, holding his head still so she could see whom she had been fighting. She stared at him, and he stared back at her with cool grey eyes.

  “I don’t get it!” Sean McHagrty yelled as the three of them tore madly across the skybridge that led to Drak. Well, Clio was tearing madly. The two boys were just trying to catch up. “What’s the problem with this Chamberlain being the Cloak?”

  “No problem,” Egg yelled back. “But we found out at the ball that the Chamberlain is Clio’s uncle!”

  “Right!” said Sean, breathing hard. “What’s the problem with Clio’s uncle?”

  “He’s Aragon Silversword,” Clio screamed behind her, as she slid down the far end of the golden bridge. Her neat tunic and skirt had become a purple velvet ballgown, and her hair swept itself up into a spiral of ringlets and hairpins. “Don’t they have any casual clothes in this city?” she shrieked, stumbling on gold stiletto sandals.

  Once again, the city had given Egg warlock’s robes. He tossed the pointed hat and dangling charm-necklaces over the side of the bridge. “Silversword and Kassa have a history,” he started to explain, but Sean — now wearing a midnight-blue evening suit with satin cape — waved him to silence. “No, I get it from there. I know who Aragon Silversword is. I’m still not entirely sure why we’re running. How much of an emergency could this be?”

  “She’s a woman scorned,” Clio said. “You should know more than anyone how dangerous that is.”

  “This isn’t a tragic romance, Clio, it’s real life,” said Egg.

  Clio scowled at him. “Not tragic yet, you mean. We could have stopped this if you had the guts to tell her.”

  “You don’t think she would have run after him anyway?” Egg snapped back. “I didn’t want to be there when she found out!”

  “What’s the worst that could happen?” said Sean.

  “I suppose the shock could kill her,” Egg mumbled.

  “To hell with that,” growled Clio. She picked one of the dark streets and started running again. “I’m more worried that she’ll kill him!”

  They were both panting from the fight, and their bodies were dangerously close. Aragon pushed himself up on his elbows, looking at Kassa. “What took you so long?” he said breathlessly.

  She stabbed him.

  It wasn’t Egg’s idea for them to split up, but he wasn’t game to challenge Clio in her current mood.

  He walked through a slate-lined street, gazing up at the high walls of the black buildings of Drak. He paused to look at a cathedral that he remembered scribbling in a margin when he was bored. His drawings had become a solid city that you could walk around in.

  And get lost in.

  Egg wasn’t rushing. None of them had any idea where Kassa or the Cloak might have gone, and he didn’t expect to run into them tonight. Drak was a fair-sized city, and no matter what thoughts Clio had of rushing to the rescue, the chances were that it was already too late.

  It was weird to think of the Cloak and the others as being flesh and blood. Egg’s favourite storyline had always been that of the Chamberlain, who became a mysterious hero in his spare time. Whenev
er there was a lull in his palace duties, he would throw on his magical cloak and run out into the night streets of Drak, a shining beacon of hope to the downtrodden citizens. He was Egg’s first hero, a character he had been working on since he was twelve years old.

  But he was also Clio’s uncle, and Kassa’s ex-lover. Aragon Silversword was the former Champion of the Empire who had betrayed Emperor Timregis and thrown Mocklore into chaos, before reinventing himself as a pirate and then, a year or two later, mysteriously disappearing. It explained a lot, really. It all fit with what Egg had designed for the Chamberlain — he was supposed to have a mysterious, complicated past.

  The Chamberlain didn’t belong to Egg anymore. None of them did. It was no longer his story. He wasn’t the one deciding on what happened next. He had no control over any of it. But who were fictional characters and who were real people? How could you tell the difference?

  A shadow flickered above Egg’s head. He craned his neck upwards. Was there someone standing there, up on the spiralling towers of the cathedral? There, between the ears of one of the larger obsidian gargoyles. A man — no, he was gone again.

  Of course. Egg groaned. So obvious. It had to be Invisiblo the Mystery Man, who could turn invisible due to a near-fatal wound he had received from the claw of an invisible eagle. Egg stood in the shadows, staring fixedly at the patch of nothing above the gargoyle. A moment later, Invisiblo’s body turned visible. He was a slender, slightly muscled man in a blue eye mask, his whole body covered in a tight suit of blue and white checks.

  A blur of purple and white flew out of the sky, striking Invisiblo and knocking him off the gargoyle. He skidded across the sloped roof of the cathedral, landing awkwardly between two more shiny black gargoyles. “You!” he yelled.

  Egg watched in amazement. This was Dream Girl, who had received her powers of flight and supernatural senses from the exotic tribe who made her one of their own after they rescued her from a shipwreck as a baby. She wore a white domino mask, white catsuit and glossy purple wig. “I can’t believe you did that!” she screamed at Invisiblo.

  “What?” he said. “What did I do?”

  “We were supposed to be fighting crime together,” said Dream Girl. “But no, you take on every bad guy yourself. Every time I had one of them cornered, you jumped in and knocked him unconscious.”

  “That’s what we do,” said Invisiblo. “We fight the bad guys, leave them unconscious. It’s our job.”

  “Ours, not yours,” she said, shaking her bouncy purple wig. “Is it because I’m a girl? You think I’m so weak I can’t handle a little action?”

  “I’m sorry if you think I hogged all the glory, but you need to get over yourself.”

  “Me? If you can’t trust me to do my fair share of the fighting, this Heroes of Justice thing isn’t going to work.”

  “I thought it was a stupid idea anyway,” said Invisiblo. “But you were all, ‘Oh yes, Mr Cloak. We’ll team up, Mr Cloak. Whatever you say, Mr Cloak.’ You make me sick.”

  “You make me sicker!” She raised her hand to slap him, but Invisiblo caught it.

  “For the record,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t think you’re weak. I think you’re beautiful.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. They leaned forward to kiss, but their masks bumped together. They laughed awkwardly, and removed their masks so that they could kiss properly. Which they did. At length.

  Egg was still staring up at them from the street below. He couldn’t believe it. Every word, every movement of that scene was his own. He had written that dialogue, word for word, and lettered it in precise inky letters. It sounded really stupid when you heard it out loud.

  The kiss ended. “Let’s go and find some bad guys,” breathed Invisiblo. “I’ll stand back and watch while you beat them up.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Dream Girl. She gripped him around the waist, flying them both down to ground level. They pulled on their masks and ran off down the black cobbled street, hand in hand.

  Egg watched them go in absolute horror. Before they replaced their masks, he had seen their faces clearly in the moonlight.

  Invisiblo was Sean McHagrty, and Dream Girl was Clio.

  Aragon awoke. He drifted up from oblivion, hovered for a moment around the thought that he should be dead, and finally crashed into the undeniable reality that he was not in his own bed.

  He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. Ordinary enough. Not black, though. The walls were not black, either. It was a cheery room with sunlight streaming in through the windows. How long was it since he had been this close to sunlight?

  The Chamberlain has never seen sunlight.

  But I’m the Chamberlain, aren’t I?

  No, I’m Aragon Silversword.

  Can’t I be both?

  Apparently so.

  The quilt on the bed was patchwork, a merry combination of colours and fabrics. He had never seen it before, but it seemed familiar somehow. One rough patch of green lace was particularly striking — hadn’t he seen that fabric before? Not in a quilt, though. A long green skirt worn over black boots…

  Aragon sat up and looked around the room. It was messy. Dozens of scrolls and papers were heaped over a desk, garments were strewn over all the furniture, and some half-finished sewing projects were pinned to the walls. Several large wooden chests were stacked in one corner, and Aragon didn’t have to look inside them to know that one contained the collected memorabilia of a pirate family, another was stuffed full of silver jewellery, and the third held a significant quantity of sexy lingerie.

  Once his eyes adjusted to the sunlight that filled the room, he spotted the large white sheep sitting in a deck chair on the balcony. The sheep wore a straw hat and sipped from a beer mug.

  “Ah,” said Aragon Silversword. This was Kassa’s room. If Kassa was living in one of a hundred identical caves, he would be able to tell which one was hers. For a start, it would be the one with the sheep on the balcony.

  The thought of Kassa made Aragon frown. Why was she living in a room, and not the cabin on her ship? Why was he lying in her bed and not her hammock? More to the point, how the hell had he gotten here? He tried to think back.

  I was in the palace, then I was in the park.

  How did I get to the park?

  Doesn’t matter, move on.

  Kassa was there, and…she stabbed us.

  What do you mean us, man? Pull yourself together. You are one person.

  Which one person are we, Aragon Silversword or the Chamberlain?

  Damned if I know.

  Aragon pushed back the covers. He appeared to be shirtless, another hint that Kassa was nearby. The skin of his stomach was smooth, without any recent scars or wounds, but he had been stabbed. Hadn’t he?

  You mean we, right?

  Look, I warned you about that…

  “You’re lucky,” said a clear voice. It was not a matter of recognising her. That voice was directly plugged into Aragon’s veins. His pulse began to race.

  “Lucky,” he said. “Care to explain that?”

  A door slammed shut and Kassa walked into his field of vision. “Lucky that I’ve been brushing up on healing spells,” she said, her voice even chillier than his own. “The anti-stabbing one is a particular favourite.”

  “Well now,” said Aragon. “I can see how that might be useful.”

  He just looked at her for a while, trying to figure out what was different. Her hair was just as wild, the same dark blood colour. She wore emerald green skirts over white petticoats, a firm bodice over a floaty chemise, a dozen silver bangles on each arm and a black eyepatch as a hair accessory. Kassa’s idea of work clothes — the costume of a pirate queen. There was nothing new here.

  Nothing but the look in her eyes, and the way she held herself. She’s grown up, he found himself thinking. She’s honed that frivolous streak of hers into something dangerous. And I wasn’t around to see her do it.

  “So,” said Kassa, still unfri
endly. “You’re a Chamberlain now. That’s different.”

  It was coming back to him, how Aragon thought and talked. Being with Kassa made it easier to shrug on the old persona. The secret was to balance out the coldness with the arrogance… “Being second-in-command is my role in life, apparently. A Chamberlain of Drak isn’t much unlike a Champion of an Empire, or a lieutenant to a pirate captain. Not so much sword work, of course. And the hours are better.”

  “Does Lord Sinistre know that you betrayed your last three employers?” asked Kassa.

  “Why don’t you ask him? The two of you are remarkably intimate, on such short acquaintance. Romantic suppers on the moonflower balcony? You’ve changed your style.”

  Kassa grinned suddenly. “You’ve certainly changed yours, Silversword. The Cloak who Walks in the Night, Bringer of Order and Maker of Justice? It’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all semester. Since when did you play the hero?”

  What’s she talking about?

  Don’t look at me!

  Aragon tried to disguise his confusion, but apparently he had lost that knack along with his memory and sanity.

  “You don’t know,” Kassa said in amazement. “You really don’t know.” She snatched up a billowy garment from the nearest chair. A grey cloak with a peculiar sheen to it.

  “I’ve heard of the Cloak, of course,” said Aragon, trying to sound calm. “One of those costumed freaks who turned up at the ball and killed those damned demons that slipped through security.”

  “And I suppose you were in the kitchens when the Cloak and his friends made their dramatic appearance,” Kassa said sarcastically.

  Aragon straightened the pillows behind him. It was difficult to maintain dignity while sitting up in someone else’s bed. He would have got out by now, but he wasn’t sure where his trousers were. Difficult to maintain dignity without trousers. “As a matter of fact, I was.”

  “It’s a good alibi,” she said. “Lord Sinistre knows you’re always off doing the hundred or so little tasks that he needs you to get done. Easy enough to slip out of the city and perform a few good deeds before bedtime.”