Kassa had made no effort to tame her hair into its usual snood, so it stuck out in mad curls all the way down her back. As she reached the lectern and turned to face the students, it was apparent that a large chunk of hair near her left ear had been sliced away. Her lower lip was swollen. She wore an eyepatch over her left eye.
Mistress Sharpe cleared her throat. “Today, we are going to talk about one of the most recent and significant examples of magic gone wrong in Mocklore. Most of you would have been too young to remember much about the First Glimmer, but I expect you heard plenty of tales from your parents. You should all, however, remember where you were when the Second Glimmer tore through this part of the Empire.”
The students shifted and giggled amongst themselves. They remembered the Glimmer, all right — and that a certain Kassa Daggersharp had been blamed for setting it off, then later credited with saving the Empire from the fierce magical storm.
“Don’t be shy.” Mistress Sharpe’s fingernails drummed against the side of the lectern. “Let’s hear your war stories.”
Hands shot up, a few at a time.
“Gammershot?” said Mistress Sharpe.
A tall, thin boy with a very animated skin condition cleared his throat. “We were in Dreadnought at the time, professor. A wet sparkly thing came through the window and changed my sister into a mermaid.”
“That must have been very inconvenient,” Mistress Sharpe said sympathetically.
“Not really, miss. I got her room when she moved to the Saffron Sea.”
Everyone laughed, and a few more hands went up.
Mistress Sharpe nodded at a redheaded girl near Egg. “Cinderbee?”
“The turnip farm next to ours went up in green flames and glitter, Mistress Sharpe. At least, the fields did. All their crops were burnt up, but they eventually made a profit from the glitter. We thought we’d had our near miss, but the next year our crops came out cabbages where we’d planted winterberries and Chiantrian chive-grass.”
“A familiar story,” agreed Mistress Sharpe. “Whistlestop?”
Nortram Whistlestop, a boy Egg knew quite well from his Introduction to Aristocracy class, kept his hand in the air. It was bright blue from fingertip to wrist, where the ordinary pink skin began. Soft green feathers tufted between his fingers. “Pretty much just this, professor. I opened the shutter for a minute to see if it was all over, and it wasn’t.”
Mistress Sharpe grinned. “Lucky you didn’t put you head outside the window, eh, Nort?”
“That’s what my Ma said, professor. After she stopped screaming.”
“Right,” said Mistress Sharpe. “Everyone knows someone who was affected, even our friends in the more northerly city-states that weren’t directly touched by the Glimmer. Most of the crops in the Middens were spared, but we all remember eating pink apricots for two summers, and the sea still washes up man-eating seaweed every three or four moon-cycles. Mocklore is a bit more dangerous than it used to be. Who can tell me what happened here in Cluft when the Glimmer went through?”
A few hands went up, less certainly than before. “Rains of seafood, miss?” suggested Imelda Appleblack.
“Actually, those have always been a feature of this town,” said Mistress Sharpe. “It’s one of the reasons we can’t get rid of those gourmet tourists who keep turning up in coaches. Anyone else?”
Clio put up her hand. “Townhall, professor. The dragon.”
“Ah, yes,” said Mistress Sharpe. She smiled at the baffled faces before her. “Didn’t any of you think that was a funny name for a dragon? Not to mention that all other dragons in Mocklore are barely knee-high to a human, while ours is eight-foot and then some? That’s right, Wagstaff-Lamont, our school mascot actually was the Cluft town hall before the Glimmer hit this town. Pallaxer?”
A Zibrian boy in the front row lowered his hand. “That section of Mousefoot Street where all those cobbles are missing, miss, that was the Glimmer, wasn’t it?”
“Correct,” said Mistress Sharpe. “Particles of the Glimmer known as glints turned that whole section of street into gingerbread. A large number of postgrads promptly held a gingerbread-eating and ale-drinking party, which dealt with the situation. Also, the orange mulberry bush near the highway used to be the post box, and one of our postgraduate students still metamorphoses into a lemon tree or a pile of silver dust whenever he sneezes.”
Singespitter, who had been sitting quiet and docile on the lectern for some time now, made a discreet throat-clearing cough.
“Oh, yes,” said Kassa. “This is my friend Singespitter. Those of you who make the very brave decision to continue studying the magical arts may eventually have him as a tutor.”
The winged sheep smiled modestly.
“He used to be a member of the Hidden Army,” Kassa continued. “A human, of course, only a year or two older than you lot when it happened. The Glimmer turned him into a green sheep with purple wings. As you saw on his rather spectacular entrance, he still has the purple wings but his fleece is now a rather more respectable white. A god who owed me a favour did that, and it was the only difference he was able to affect.” Kassa’s voice became stern. “Magical change is for keeps, children. All those Glimmer stories have one thing in common. No witch or warlock or even the gods could reverse any of the Glimmer’s effects. Some magic has a little give and take in it, some wears off eventually and some has loopholes so wide you could drive a coach through, but generally speaking, if you don’t want something to last forever, don’t apply magic to it. Even if you think the spell is temporary. As your mothers may have told you once upon a time, you never know when the wind will change and you’ll be stuck like that. If I worked at it, I could probably turn Singespitter into a duck or a penguin or even a human — not necessarily the same human, but a human nonetheless — but I cannot undo what the Glimmer did to him. There are no absolutes. It might wear off, or someone might manage to fix it accidentally. But there are no guarantees that he won’t be a sheep for the rest of his life.”
Professor Sharpe folded her arms and stared expectantly at the students. They stared back at her, solemn. “Magic is irreversible,” she said finally. “Except when it isn’t. You won’t know which it is until it’s too late. Write that down somewhere. Remember it. Lesson learned? Class dismissed.”
“Short and sweet,” Egg muttered to Clio as the students started to empty the hall.
“Maybe her foot hurts,” said Clio, watching Singespitter leap off the lectern and flap madly to gain height before soaring up and out of the hall.
“Maybe,” said Egg. He found it highly unlikely that Kassa would give into something like a little pain.
As the last of the students piled out of the hall, Kassa shuffled some papers together and glanced up at Egg and Clio. “You two look nervous. Something to tell me?”
Clio and Egg shared an uneasy look. “We — er — found out who the Cloak really was,” said Clio.
Kassa smiled. “Ah, yes. That was an exciting surprise. Don’t look so worried, Clio. I didn’t kill your precious uncle. I barely even wounded him.”
“Oh,” said Clio. “Good.”
Kassa made her way up the stairs, limping painfully. Egg fought the instinct to assist her, as she didn’t seem the type to approve of such gallantry. “We have more important things to worry about,” said Kassa as she passed them on her way to the door.
Clio hesitated, her eyes taking in the state of Kassa’s clothes and hair, not to mention the various cuts, bruises and scrapes. “Did Uncle Aragon do that to you?”
Kassa didn’t take offense. “Worrying about what state he might be in? Don’t be. This is from fighting several dozen of Lord Sinistre’s guards on my way out of the palace. Who’d have thought they would have any energy left at all after running up all those stairs? Never mind that now. We’ve got work to do.”
“Did you find out anything new about Drak?” asked Clio.
“Not new,” said Kassa. “But either Lord Sinistre or hi
s city is barking mad, and Drak — or the draklight, at least — is well on its way to swallowing Mocklore whole. Time to do something about that.”
“What sort of something?” asked Egg, fearing the worst.
Kassa grinned at him. “Cheer up, kid. You’re going to save the world.”
Outside, Clio squinted up at the cloudless blue sky. “Doesn’t really look ominous enough, does it?”
“That does,” said Kassa, pointing. “I think I just figured out what happened to the half of my class that didn’t show up.”
Students, many of them clad in the latest Drak-inspired fashions, milled aimlessly around the campus. There was nothing abnormal about this, except that the ‘aimless’ milling was all headed in the same direction. However casual the students seemed, they were all moving towards the library tower.
“If that isn’t suspicious in the second week of semester, I don’t know what is,” said Kassa.
The three of them overtook most of the slowly-moving students on their way to the library. Kassa’s limp didn’t slow her down much. “Gods,” she gasped as they approached the golden skybridge.
A slow but steady stream of students, staff and even the occasional dinner lady were making their way up on to the skybridge, heading for Drak. Their clothes shimmered into black velvet and leather boots almost as soon as their feet touched the bridge.
“It’s getting closer,” said Clio.
Kassa nodded. “They’re feeding it. Every time Drak takes one of our people it gets stronger. And what are you going to do about it?”
For one horrible moment, Egg thought she was talking to him, but then he realised that the door to the library tower had opened and Kassa was staring at Mavis, the librarian-goddess of Cluft.
Mavis, tucking the last of several kittens into her handbag, smiled at Kassa. “Not much, I’m afraid, my dear. It’s up to you now.”
“You’re a god,” said Kassa. “You’re supposed to protect Cluft. You’re supposed to protect Mocklore!”
Mavis tugged at her tortoise-shell glasses, and tidied her hair. “Kassa, didn’t you ever wonder how a mere Emperor was allowed to Decimalise the gods? Didn’t you wonder why we didn’t stop the Glimmers before they happened, instead of making an awkward attempt to clean up the mess afterwards? The gods of Mocklore were never much of anything, but right now the cosmos is particularly fragile and we have less power than we ever did. The gods cannot help you banish Drak.”
“Are you saying mortals have to fix this?” flared Kassa. “That’s crazy. I can’t fight magic with magic, that never works.” Over her shoulder to Egg and Clio, she added, “That was next week’s lecture.”
“I can do nothing,” said Mavis. “Nothing except to ensure my life force does not assist Drak to be stronger, and the only way to do that is to not be here when the library is taken.” She vanished.
“No!” howled Kassa. “This is all wrong!”
Clio tugged at her sleeve. “Kassa, the library’s starting to look awfully Drak-ish. I think we should back up.”
“Quickly,” agreed Egg.
Several girls with velvet hair accessories climbed up on to the skybridge together. The library tower darkened, its bricks glowing black and its roof becoming shiny and sleek, just like the buildings of Drak. Two dozen students, all waiting below the sky-bridge, transformed into velvet-clad Drak people. Several started shoving aggressively at the others, which started a fight of flailing fists.
“The draklight’s on the move!” said Clio in alarm.
“Right,” said Kassa. “It’s up to us.” She turned, grabbing on to both Egg and Clio. “Let’s go.”
They elbowed their way through a steady stream of students and staff members. “Can’t we hold them back somehow?” Egg asked pleadingly.
“How?” shot back Kassa. “We have to stop it at the source. Hang on!” She spied Vice-Chancellor Bertie in the crowd and lunged for him, grabbing his arm. “Can’t lose you, matey;, we might need a leader at some point. You two go ahead to Egg’s room,” she added, swinging Bertie around and dragging him behind her. “I’ll lock this one in a cupboard.”
“What are we going to do?” Egg called after her.
“You’re going to write a happy ending!” Kassa yelled as she vanished into the crowd. “Start thinking up a bloody good one!”
“Come on.” Clio grabbed Egg’s arm and the two of them ran to the square of student residences. “We don’t know how long we have before the whole town gets black-velveted.”
“Is this all my fault?” Egg couldn’t help asking. His feet jarred painfully on the cobbles as they ran.
“I don’t know,” panted Clio. “If you save everyone, maybe it won’t matter. Hey, stop that McHagrty!”
Sean was surrounded by several young women wearing black lipstick. His eyes had a glassy sheen to them. Egg grabbed one of his arms and Clio grabbed the other. “Can I slap him?” she asked.
“Be my guest,” said Egg.
Clio’s hand cracked over Sean’s cheek. He blinked at her. “What did I do now?”
“We’re saving you from a major fashion disaster,” said Clio. “Back to your room!”
“Okay, but right now I just want to walk towards the library,” Sean said amiably.
Clio rolled her eyes. “Like that’s a natural urge. Can I slap him again?”
“Better not,” said Egg. “You enjoy it too much.”
Aragon was still battling the lethargy spell. He had fallen unconscious again in Kassa’s doorway. Now he had made it to the landing outside her room. He stood unsteadily, gazing down at the spiral staircase. Of course Kassa lived in a tower. A ground floor room would be far too easy. He gazed down at the spiralling stairs, wondering how he could possibly make it down to ground level in one piece.
Was he imagining things, or was every step a different shape and colour? Pink and blue and red and gold and green hexagons, squares, rectangles and triangles swirled in front of Aragon’s eyes. He squeezed them shut. There was a banister along one side of the stairwell. Perhaps the best thing would be to simply hang on to that and descend with his eyes closed. A second peek at the stairs with his dazed vision convinced him this was the best idea yet. He clung to the banister, closed his eyes again and took one step, then another.
The urge to sleep continued, but the knowledge that he would probably fall to his death if he did so kept him moving. One step, then another, then another. This was fine. It was working. He could do this.
He was doing really well until his foot reached the step which was a perfect sphere.
“What’s going on?” said Sean McHagrty, once they were back in their room. He seemed mostly sane.
“You were trying to join the crowd that’s feeding the evil city’s power,” Clio informed him.
Sean grinned at her. “And you cared enough to save me? I knew you liked me.”
Clio snorted. “Egg, what are you going to write?”
Egg sat cross-legged on his bedspread, several pieces of parchment laid out before him. “I don’t know,” he said, feeling panicky. “I didn’t draw half the stuff that’s happening now, so I don’t know how to fix it.”
The door crashed open. “Don’t worry,” gasped Kassa, breathing hard. “I’ll dictate.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” said Clio. “It’s Egg’s story.”
“Is the Vice-Chancellor okay?” Egg asked.
“I locked him in the cupboard with his Great Reversing Barrel,” Kassa said. “I only hope he doesn’t fall into the damn thing. Ready to go, Egg?”
Egg unscrewed the lid of one of his inkpots with trembling hands. “I think so. What am I going to draw?”
Kassa sat on Sean’s bed. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” she admitted.
Aragon emerged from the foot of the Mermaid Tower, battered and bruised and shaken but, against the odds, alive. The lethargy spell was still there, but it seemed less important than before. Drak needs us, urged the Chamberlain within his mind.
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Oh, you’re back, are you? I notice you weren’t around while I was doing all the work, or the falling down a flight of stairs.
We must return to Drak. Whatever has happened, we need to be at Lord Sinistre’s side.
Fine, you do that. I have other priorities, like strangling a certain female pirate we both know.
We must return to Drak.
After I find Kassa.
The sunlight was dazzling. Aragon sighed to himself. The worrying thing was not the two conflicting personalities within his skull. The worrying thing was that there was a third persona inside his head who thought that the building over there looked quite familiar. Neither Aragon nor the Chamberlain had stepped outside Drak since its arrival in Mocklore, and yet the mysterious third part of him remembered climbing that wall recently and peering in through that window at…at Kassa?
Oh, gods. The Cloak that Walks in the Night. She was right, I’ve been playing the bloody hero on my nights off. Sorry, friend. Drak and his Lordship can wait. I need to find Kassa right this minute.
Are we still planning on strangling her?
Only if we’re very good.
Egg drew a blank square in the centre of a scraped-clean piece of parchment. “Still waiting.”
“Maybe you could draw Drak losing all its power,” Kassa suggested.
“How do I draw that?”
“You’re the artist.”
“You’re the bad bad magic expert!”
“This isn’t magic,” Kassa said crossly. “Not the kind of magic I know anything about.”
“Reassuring as ever,” said Egg. “Why don’t I just draw Drak on its own, with the wasteland back instead of Mocklore?”
Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles) Page 68
