Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles)

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  “That will make things worse,” said Kassa. “That’s what the draklight is trying to create. Maybe you should draw Mocklore overwhelming Drak with its nice, colourful everyday chaos.”

  “Again, difficult thing to draw! I could write it in a speech bubble.”

  Standing by the window, Clio watched the view outside. The mad, colourful architecture of Cluft was slowly but steadily transforming into the black, uncomfortably elegant architecture of Drak. “Whatever you do, it had better be fast.”

  Sean joined her at the window. “Scared?”

  “Not enough to let you hold my hand.”

  “Just checking.”

  Egg was getting panicky. “Whatever we do, it’s going to involve Drak, right?”

  “Right,” said Kassa. “Start with Drak and then we’ll figure out what to do next.”

  “Won’t drawing Drak just feed it more power?” Clio asked as Egg dipped his pen into the inkwell and, in quick strokes, sketched the outline of the city of Drak.

  Darkness fell.

  The building shook as the room was engulfed in shadows. Egg was thrown back against the headboard of his bed. He sprawled on to the floor in a crumpled heap. Clio and Sean both tumbled to the floor. “The room,” sputtered Sean, staring around. “What the hell happened to our room?”

  The battered, colourless wallpaper and carpet had been replaced by shiny black tiles. The curtains were red velvet, and both beds were draped in black lace and dark blue satin instead of the usual combination of elderly pillows and boy blankets. Kassa rose slowly to her feet, looking around. “I wonder what my room looks like,” she said thoughtfully. “What are you staring at, McHagrty?”

  “Sorry,” said Sean, still staring. “You’re a little hard to miss, miss.”

  Kassa now wore a garnet-red lace frock which hugged all her curves far more closely than was strictly necessary. The neckline was plungingly indecent, the matching red boots were thigh-high and her fingernails were perfectly-manicured, glossy black with a red jewel set into each. The Cloak’s cloak was still tucked into her belt, although her belt was now a delicate gold hip-chain with no useful pouches or weapons hanging from it. “If I find out you designed this outfit, Egg, I’m going to eat out your heart with a fish fork,” she snarled.

  Sean turned his attention to Clio. “Look at you.”

  Like Kassa, Clio’s outfit was form-fitting, although it was decidedly un-Draklike — a white catsuit with matching short boots and a long, curly purple wig.

  “You look familiar,” said Sean, frowning.

  Clio stood up. “I look like Dream Girl,” she said. “And you look like her partner in crime.”

  Sean stared down at his own indecently tight blue and white checked suit. “No wonder the guy likes to go invisible,” he said. “Who would wear this by choice?”

  Kassa made her way over to the fallen Egg, who had not moved. “Everything’s unstable. I don’t know if Cluft can stand up structurally to this kind of change.” She struggled to kneel down in the clingy dress, but rolled Egg over. He wore one of those warlock costumes the draklight liked to impose upon him — a dark blue robe decorated with silver stars, but without a pointy hat or necklaces. The draklight was adapting. Kassa examined him, frowning. “He’s breathing, but unconscious. It doesn’t look like he hit his head. Why isn’t he awake?”

  “I can’t see daylight,” said Clio at the window. “Night, all over Cluft. I think the whole town got — what do I say, drakked? Draklighted?”

  “Draklit,” said Sean.

  “They’ve won,” said Kassa. “The draklight has momentum behind it now. Nothing can stop it.”

  “So that’s it?” Clio demanded. “We just have to get used to wearing these stupid clothes all the time? I can’t breathe in this catsuit.”

  “It’s more than just clothes, you stupid girl!” Kassa yelled. “Drak is a state of mind. It is morbid and angry and unpleasant. The longer we stay here, the faster we will lose ourselves. The draklight will swallow up our identities until we’re all puppets in the hands of Lord Sinistre.”

  “The tyrant,” Clio agreed calmly. “It is past time we put an end to his evil reign.”

  Kassa looked at her strangely. “Can’t argue with you there. Are you feeling all right?”

  “Together we can put a stop to Lord Sinistre’s machinations and evil plans,” said Sean, holding his hand out to Clio. “Are you with me?”

  She gave him a loving look. “Always.”

  Kassa got to her feet and heard a ripping sound from the tight red lace dress as she did so. “What the glory gods are you two talking about?”

  Clio backed away from Sean. “I don’t know. What was I saying?”

  Sean gave her a funny look. “I don’t know.”

  “Dream Girl,” Clio whispered. “We’re turning into Egg’s heroes.”

  “Maybe that’s a good thing,” said Sean, not entirely convinced. “We need some heroes around here, and you and I aren’t much use otherwise.”

  “You just think you have a better chance with Dream Girl than you do with me,” Clio spat.

  “If she’s anything like you I wouldn’t touch her with a punting pole,” said Sean.

  “Tomcat!”

  “Ice queen!”

  “Shut up, both of you!” said Kassa. “If you don’t keep calm and controlled, the draklight will take you over!”

  “Why don’t you shut up!” Clio yelled back. “You said you could fix this and you made it ten times worse! Egg is hurt because he listened to you, and now we’re all turning into evil puppet people from Velvetland. What do you know about anything?”

  The building shook again, knocking all three of them to the shiny black floor. The door opened. Aragon Silversword stood in the doorway for a moment before sinking to his knees, gripping the doorframe tightly. “Would anyone mind telling me what is going on around here?”

  Cluft was not a whirlwind of chaos. If anything, it was a whirlwind of order. The square of student residence had been transformed into an elegant plaza centred around a dark basalt statue of Lord Sinistre at his most dramatic, a flowing cape forming a splashing water feature. Students in dark evening-wear lounged now on intricate gilded love seats, or challenged each other to duels beneath the three clocks which were now set upon identical shiny black pillars.

  Various pets (which students and staff were definitely not allowed to keep in their rooms) had been transformed into flying, fire-breathing beasties which circled and spun in the air. It was a beautiful, clear night of stars, the full moon glowing above. It was barely an hour past noon.

  At Egg and Sean’s window, Kassa stared out at the changes that had been wrought on Cluft. It was the only way she could think of delaying the inevitable conversation with Aragon Silversword.

  She was in no immediate danger, as Aragon was far more interested in the young woman who had shyly introduced herself as his niece, pulling off her purple wig in the hope he would recognise her.

  “Clio?” he said in astonishment, staggering to his feet. “Aren’t you supposed to be about twelve?”

  “I was nine last time you came to visit,” said Clio sternly. “I’m seventeen now.”

  “Where does the time go?” said Aragon. A sudden yawn almost sent him back to his knees, and he finally addressed Kassa directly. “Will you take this blasted spell off me, Daggersharp?”

  Kassa pushed away from the window and went to him. She placed her palm in the centre of Aragon’s chest. Motes of light sprang from his skin and clothes, gathering into a tiny ball of light which she crumpled in her hand and attempted to pop into a pocket. The ridiculous red dress had no pockets, so she trapped the spell in Egg’s sock drawer instead.

  Clio watched with amazement. “If Egg was awake he’d complain that you told us no spell can be reversed,” she pointed out.

  “Depends on the spell,” said Kassa. Her eyes met Aragon’s for a moment and held, before he deliberately turned back to Clio.

  “How�
��s Mother?”

  “Annoyed at you,” said the girl with a grin. “You should visit her.”

  “Yes, I suppose I should. I will as soon as we’re between catastrophes.” Aragon glanced around. “What is the current catastrophe, by the way? I’m out of touch.”

  “Your city has just invaded our city,” said Kassa Daggersharp. “Consider yourself a prisoner of war.”

  10

  The Room with the Big Swirly Vortex

  “So,” said Aragon Silversword. Kassa now had his full attention. “What happened to your eye?”

  “Your Lord and Master’s palace guards.”

  “I see,” he said, trying not to smirk. “I must congratulate them; they’ve never faced anything scarier than a runaway gargoyle before. Why haven’t you healed yourself?”

  “I’m fine,” Kassa snapped.

  His hand moved quickly, poking the bruised skin around the leather eyepatch.

  “Ow!”

  “Sounds painful to me.”

  “If you go around poking me in the eye, what do you expect?”

  Aragon held out a hand.

  “All my pouches vanished when the draklight took over,” Kassa tried.

  Aragon raised an eyebrow, his hand still outstretched.

  Grumbling, Kassa rummaged in her hair, extracting a large clip that she handed over. “You know I hate using this stuff on myself.”

  “I also know that you have no qualms about using it on other people.” Aragon snapped the clip open to reveal a compartment filled with a sparkling green powder. “Ah, quick-fix trollgrit. Nothing like the old favourites.” He plucked the eyepatch away from Kassa’s face, winced at the ugly bruising that had swollen the eye shut, then flung a pinch of the powder straight into her pupil.

  Kassa slapped her hand to it. “Gah!” she exclaimed in a pained voice. “Ow-ww!”

  Aragon took the opportunity to flick a second pinch of the powder at the ankle that Kassa had obviously been trying to keep her weight off. She screamed, falling to the floor. “Bastard.” Her newly-healed foot lashed out and hooked him by the ankle, crashing him to the floor opposite her.

  “Uncalled for,” said Aragon.

  “You can’t just strut back in here and play the solicitous boyfriend,” Kassa snarled. “We’re not even on the same side.”

  “So you said when you declared war on me two minutes ago. I don’t believe a word of it. In case you haven’t noticed, Kassa Daggersharp, I am always on your side.”

  They glared at each other.

  “Do you think we should give them some privacy?” Sean asked Clio, who waved him to silence. She had been reading ballads about these two for years, and it was fascinating to see them in action.

  “Explain the current situation in words of two syllables or less,” Aragon said between gritted teeth.

  Kassa counted the syllables out on her fingers. “Drak is eat-ing Mock-lore a-live.”

  Aragon hesitated. “Are actual teeth involved?”

  “The draklight,” she huffed. “You know, the dark magic that flows out of that damn city of yours, making everyone think violent thoughts and flirt with each other? The stuff that your pet demons feed on, most likely. It is spreading through Mocklore like a bushfire in the Skullcaps, turning our cities into Drak wannabes and our meadows into deserts of silver sand.”

  Aragon considered her words. “And is this my fault?”

  “I don’t know, probably! I plan to blame you until a better-dressed villain comes along.”

  “And my seventeen-year-old niece is wearing a white leather catsuit because…”

  Kassa rolled her eyes. “Because for some reason, Drak wants Clio and Sean and you to run around pretending to be heroes.” She untucked the pale grey cloak from her belt and practically threw it at him. “And what Drak wants, Drak gets! You’d better get used to the idea, hero boy.”

  Is this true? Aragon asked himself silently. Is the draklight responsible for this part-time heroic mission of ours? Is Drak invading Mocklore?

  How would I know? the Chamberlain responded. No one tells me anything. How am I expected to administrate a whole new city on top of my duties in Drak, let alone an entire Empire? The paperwork will be crippling.

  Forget I asked.

  “Perhaps we could stop blaming me long enough to work out a solution?” Aragon suggested aloud to Kassa.

  “Do what you like,” she said, getting to her feet and heading for the door. “I’m going to find my sheep.”

  The door slammed behind Kassa Daggersharp, leaving a temporarily silent room.

  “So,” said Aragon Silversword after a moment. “What year is it?”

  Singespitter had spent the last several hours in the room he shared with Kassa, studying the scroll that he had found in a hidden compartment in Lord Sinistre’s private library. He was so fascinated by the contents of the scroll that he had only looked up when the draklight fell over Cluft, and he unexpectedly turned back into a demonic beast. It was true that he was getting used to such transformations by now, but this particular one startled him, causing him to set fire to Kassa’s bedspread, and many other things in her room.

  He was now learning the hard way about the inherent problems of being a fire-breathing beastie who needed to carry a valuable scroll in his mouth, but so far had only scorched the scroll around the edges.

  Flying over the dark and evil new version of Cluft, Singespitter spotted Kassa from the air, marching across the square of student residence in a positively indecent red lace dress. Singespitter swooped down and spat the scroll out at her feet, tapping it with a hoof.

  “It’s that vortex,” she said, by way of greeting. “I knew as soon as I saw it that I’d end up going through the bloody thing. Now’s as good a time as any.”

  Singespitter shook his head madly and breathed a short burst of green flame, with a puff of purple smoke for emphasis.

  “I don’t know why I think that,” said Kassa. “Lord Sinistre said it was forbidden, though. It smells suspicious, and it’s the only thing I can think of to do next.”

  Singespitter picked up the scroll with his mouth again and spat it out a second time. It bounced off Kassa’s boot.

  “No, I’m not going to marry Lord Sinistre,” she snapped. “He’s a manipulative little worm in tight trousers. And no, before you say anything, that is not my type!”

  Singespitter rolled his eyes. Communication with humans was difficult at the best of times. His most satisfactory results had always been with Kassa, who had an innate talent for listening hard enough to hear what wasn’t being said — providing, of course, that she was paying attention.

  Kassa leaned down and kissed Singespitter on the top of his head. “You probably shouldn’t come with me. Aragon and the others are up in Egg’s room. Go help them.” She started heading towards Drak. Singespitter sputtered and coughed up what looked like a small ball of lava, which promptly set fire to the scroll again. By the time he had put the flames out and caught up with Kassa, she was halfway across the skybridge.

  The green banks of meadow grass were now flat grey stone, dusted with silver sand. The rivers around Cluft ran with thick grey sludge instead of babbling water. The nearby trees had been transformed into shiny basalt statues of trees. “That can’t be a good sign,” said Kassa.

  Singespitter landed on the bridge in front of her. He spat out the scroll, unrolled it and then jumped up and down on it, growling loudly in the hope of gaining her attention.

  “What has that got to do with anything?” Kassa said in surprise. For a moment, Singespitter was under the delusion that she had actually noticed the scroll, until she went on to say, “No, I’m not getting back together with Aragon. He’s an insane cloak-wearing toadie of darkness and he left me, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  Singespitter briefly considered setting Kassa’s boots on fire, but she would probably take that as another personal plea for her to patch things up with Aragon bloody Silversword. He settled for a humphing soun
d and a look of total disgust.

  Kassa patted him on the head. “I know you’re just trying to delay me because you’re worried, but I’ll be fine. Fighting big swirly magical disasters is my job. It’s a strange job and I don’t remember applying for it, but I usually turn out to be pretty good at it. Okay?”

  Singespitter tiredly tapped his hoof on the scroll one last time.

  Kassa smiled at him. “I know, sweetie. I love you too.” She headed off towards the city of Drak, leaving Singespitter behind.

  Idiot, he thought furiously after her.

  Still, she had given him an idea. Aragon might be willing to listen, or even that Egg boy. Singespitter rerolled the scroll, picked it up in his mouth again and flew towards Cluft.

  Aragon examined the Cloak’s cloak. “You say these Heroes of Justice have been possessing our bodies?”

  “That’s what we think,” said Clio. “We have gaps in our memories from when they took us over.”

  “You’d think I would be used to that sort of thing by now,” Aragon said dryly. “But you’re wearing the costumes now and you’re yourselves, aren’t you?”

  “It comes and goes,” said Sean McHagrty.

  Aragon swirled the cloak experimentally around his shoulders.

  I wouldn’t do that if I were you, warned the Chamberlain, but it was too late.

  Egg woke up. The first words he heard were, “His clothes are strange. Is he an agent of the evil tyrant whose Reign of Darkness must be brought to an end?”

  “It’s only a draft,” he muttered before opening his eyes. “I haven’t polished all the dialogue yet.”

  “He looks like a villain,” said Clio.

  Egg opened his eyes. “What are you talking about?” As the situation swam into focus, he gulped. He had always refused to let his characters gulp obviously when facing something shocking or disturbing. It was one of those gestures that happened in fiction, not real life. Now he knew better. He felt, in fact, as if he had just swallowed half a brick.