Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles)

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  The Cloak and Dream Girl leaned over him. Egg had no doubt that it was the Cloak and Dream Girl, not just Aragon Silversword and Clio in the costumes. He could not see Aragon’s face — something about the cloak made the face difficult to see — but Clio’s expression under the white domino mask was unfamiliar. This was not the Clio he knew.

  Egg sat up. The first thing that he noticed was that his bed, formerly covered with ink-spattered grey blankets, was now draped in midnight blue satin and black lace, with (he shuddered to notice) elegant throw cushions. The bed itself was polished blackwood with golden bed knobs instead of the old splintery, creaky, standard-issue bed frame. He had a sudden urge to lie on it and go back to sleep. “Why did we worry about Drak invading us?” he asked, then looked down at himself and remembered.

  He was a warlock. This time, it was a robe of dark blue velvet, punctuated with embroidered silver stars. There were no necklaces or sigils around his neck, but the belt he wore had several icons of occult significance upon it. The robe even felt magical — it shivered with possibilities. Egg had a nasty suspicion that Drak wanted him to display magical ability; he was determined that he never would.

  The Cloak leaned over, still unpleasantly faceless and still yet able to convey the fact that he was staring directly into Egg’s eyes. “Are you one of the tyrant’s lackeys?”

  “No,” said Egg, thinking quickly, “I’m one of your lackeys. Um, I mean I work for you. I’m your warlock. I perform magic to help you in your vital quest to bring about the downfall of the dread tyrant and his Reign of Darkness.” He jumped as Invisiblo, who was and was not Sean McHagrty, became suddenly visible.

  “I do not remember a warlock,” said Invisiblo.

  “Neither do I,” said the Cloak. “But I appear to have many holes in my memory. Nothing is as clear as once it seemed. You, warlock. How do you help us in our quest?”

  “Um,” said Egg. “I have a collection of magic bats which spy on Lord Sinistre’s every movement.”

  “Spies?” said Dream Girl. “Spying is neither honourable nor heroic.”

  “Did I say spy?” said Egg. “I mean — they are sentinels. My magic bats. They keep an eye on the city and tell me when crimes are being committed or when the evil tyrant is being particularly tyrannical.”

  “And what is the dread tyrant doing now?” the Cloak asked.

  “Well,” said Egg. “I can’t tell you right at this minute, but last time my magic bats got in touch with me they told me he was sitting down to supper, eating peach soufflé and…being very rude to the servant who brought him his food?” It was an educated guess.

  “That sounds like the tyrant,” said the Cloak with satisfaction. “It is long past time that we brought an end to his Reign of Darkness.”

  “Yes,” said Egg, getting to his feet slowly and carefully. “That’s a very good idea. I should go and communicate with my magic bats and ask them when would be a good time for you to do that. You know, catch him by surprise. Next time he’s eating peach soufflé, perhaps.”

  “Excellent,” said the Cloak. “Go swiftly, warlock, and gather information from your magical friends. We shall await your word before we begin our battle against the dread tyrant.”

  “And bring an end to his Reign of Darkness,” added Dream Girl, in case they had all forgotten.

  “Right,” said Egg, edging closer to the door. “Good plan. Back in ten minutes.” He opened the door, stepped through, pulled it carefully shut it behind him, then pelted down the corridor as if a horde of evil magical bats were chasing him.

  His only thought was to find Kassa. Kassa was sane. She would know exactly what to do.

  Kassa was lost. Once again she had underestimated how big the palace of Drak was, how many identical corridors it contained, and how much velvet there was everywhere. She was getting quite sick of the sight of the stuff.

  Somehow she found herself in the ballroom. This was a surprise, because Kassa was on the fourth floor of the palace at the time. She stepped through a door and fell several feet before landing on the spiral staircase that ran around the six walls of the ballroom. “Ouch!” she exclaimed, staring up at the very inconveniently-placed door. It swung shut, the edge around the door vanishing into the intricate wall-mouldings.

  Kassa suspected that she now knew how Lord Sinistre had cut short his entrance on the night of the ball.

  She surveyed the damage. The extremely high heels of her red leather boots had not snapped off, but she had managed to rip another long gash in the red lace dress. At this rate she would be wearing nothing but silk underwear and loose threads by the end of the day.

  A quick burst of music alerted Kassa, and she looked down into the ballroom below. Lord Sinistre, wearing a suit of black leather and silk, played a sombre tune on a silver flute, whirling around the ballroom in a slow dance of triumph.

  “Are we celebrating?” she called down to him as she descended the stairs.

  Lord Sinistre smiled as he saw her. “Mistress Sharpe. Of course we’re celebrating. My city has swallowed up your city and is now expanding at a steady rate. I have no idea how it happened so quickly, but I’m rather pleased about it.”

  “It was me,” said Kassa, continuing down the winding staircase. “My young cousin Egg has been drawing pictures of Drak, making up stories about it. I think his pictures have been feeding and shaping this city of yours. I ordered him to draw another picture and as soon as he set ink to parchment, darkness fell over Cluft.”

  Sinistre gazed at her with a mixture of delight and apprehension. “Are you saying you have switched sides, Kassa my love? You wish to marry me after all?”

  “Didn’t I just say that?” she asked sweetly. “Why a flute, Sinistre? It’s not very menacing. Wouldn’t some sort of stringed instrument be more appropriately villainous?”

  “I tried,” he said. “Far too much effort to learn. I don’t exactly have much practice time, what with my busy schedule.”

  “Of course,” agreed Kassa. “Long lie in, breakfast, morning tea, important decisions, costume change, lunch, costume change. The day must be packed. And how much harder to do all that without your precious Chamberlain to poach your eggs and wipe your fevered brow and tell you which important decisions you should be making.”

  “Yes,” said Lord Sinistre with a frown. “I do wonder where he’s got to. My routine was quite out of kilter this morning.”

  “Never mind, darling.” Kassa crossed the floor, her boots making a satisfying ringing sound as they struck the polished surface. “You don’t need any silly old Chamberlain. You have me to help you now.”

  Sinistre smiled, his eyes seeming to glow with darkness. “You are joining me, then, my Dark Lady?”

  “I never left,” purred Kassa, meeting him in the middle of the ballroom. “Shall we dance?”

  They waltzed perfectly for a few moments, despite the lack of music. “I’m so glad you have come around to my way of thinking,” said Lord Sinistre. “With you at my side, Drak will be everywhere.”

  “What a charming thought,” said Kassa, managing to sound as if she meant it. “Will I rule at your side?”

  “Of course,” said Lord Sinistre. “My city is your city. When shall we have the wedding?”

  “As soon as possible,” said Kassa. “Can I wear velvet?”

  “I wouldn’t want it any other way,” he assured her.

  She gazed at him as they danced. He was awfully good looking, but had misplaced his brain somewhere. Perhaps it was in his other leather suit. Either that, or Egg had never got around to developing the poor man’s character beyond a basic ‘dark villain’ prototype.

  Something else struck Kassa about Lord Sinistre’s appearance. Every time she saw him, he wore a different dark crown. The little obsidian tiara he had sported at the Ball was quite different to the towering construction he wore when he captured her in the vortex room. Today he wore a wide, spiky coronet with dark red gems glittering on the points. It complemented her own out
fit nicely, but that wasn’t important. What Kassa had noticed was that, as with the other crowns, this one had a bright white pearl set into it at a slightly odd angle. It didn’t match the rest of the outfit, just as it had not matched any of his other outfits. It seemed to be tacked on without thought, an un-Draklike glitch in the otherwise dark and brooding decor. Fascinated, Kassa reached up to touch it.

  Lord Sinistre ducked out of the way, releasing his hold on her waist. “Don’t do that, my dear.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a secret, darling.” He took hold of her again, whisking her around the room in a dance more sultry and quick-paced than their previous waltz.

  Kassa pretended to misunderstand. “But if we’re to rule together, Sinny, we can’t have secrets. You have to tell me everything.”

  “Of course,” he promised. “After the wedding, my love. What colour roses would you like?”

  “Black. Are you sure you don’t want to explain it all to me now, sweetie-pie?”

  “Perfectly sure, honeybunch. How many bridesmaids would you like?”

  “Six. But what about the swirly vortex, cuddlepot?”

  “What about the vortex, snugglepie?”

  “You said it was forbidden. Is it only forbidden to the common folk, or to you and me as well?”

  “Only you and I may gaze upon the vortex and admire its presence, dewdrop. But even we are forbidden from going through.”

  “Oh.” Kassa sighed contentedly, resting her forehead on his shoulder as they continued to dance. “Could we admire it now, sugarkins? Together? It’s such an impressive sight.”

  “What a marvellous idea, my little love muppet. We’ll trot up there as soon as we finish this dance.”

  “But, dumpling, there isn’t any music. How will we know when the dance is finished?”

  Lord Sinistre stopped dancing. “That’s a very good point.”

  “I thought so.”

  “Shall we head up to the vortex room now?”

  “What a good idea. Oh, and Sinny?”

  “Yes, Kassy?”

  “If you call me your little love muppet again, I’ll set fire to you.”

  “Whatever you say, my pearl.”

  The vortex room was much as Kassa remembered it — which is to say that nothing about the room was particularly memorable except for the swirly vortex of darkness. “Where does it go?” she asked, forgetting to pretend indifference.

  “I don’t know, jewel of my desire,” said Lord Sinistre.

  Kassa remembered her innocent act. “But Sinny, shouldn’t we know? It might be dangerous. We can’t rule this city properly if there’s a big wobbly vortex that could go anywhere. We should send a servant through, to discover what’s on the other side.”

  “No, no, kitty cat,” said Sinistre, sounding quite worried. “It’s quite impossible. My father always told me that if anyone ever stepped through the vortex, the world would come to an end.”

  Kassa looked at him curiously. “Your father? Did he rule Drak before you?”

  “Yes,” said Sinistre, and then frowned. “At least, I think so. Of course, he must have done. He wouldn’t have known about the vortex if he wasn’t the Lord of Drak.”

  Kassa sensed Sinistre’s reality starting to unravel. “What was he like, your father?” she asked.

  Sinistre looked confused. “I don’t — I don’t remember,” he said. “I know that he told me about the vortex, but I can’t — I can’t picture him in my head.”

  Kassa spoke quickly, while he was still muddled. “Your world or my world, Lord Sinistre?”

  “What?”

  She moved around to face him, a move which placed her between Sinistre and the swirly vortex. “We come from different worlds, cutiekins. The world that Mocklore belongs to, and the world that Drak belongs to. Which one was going to come to an end if someone stepped through the vortex?”

  Lord Sinistre hesitated for a moment, then said, “I suppose it must have been mine.”

  “Good enough for me.” With a flourish, Kassa stepped backwards into the swirly vortex, squeezing her eyes closed for the journey. Everything went cold. A moment later, something tickled her leg.

  “Well,” remarked Lord Sinistre. “That was an anti-climax.”

  Kassa opened her eyes. She was still in the vortex room, still in the vortex. Its colourful darkness swirled around her legs, weaving in and out of the red lace dress. The vortex shimmered and shivered around her skin. She had gone exactly nowhere. The vortex, it seemed, was merely a swirly vortex of darkness that didn’t do much of anything. “Crap,” Kassa muttered.

  Lord Sinistre smiled, and extended a gallant hand to Kassa. “If you don’t mind, I think this little playacting routine of ours is over. It’s time I took you to my dungeon and chained you to a wall. We’ll both enjoy that.”

  “You diabolical creep,” said Kassa. “I’m fed up with you and this city and the leather and the velvet — and trust me, I never thought I would get fed up with velvet — and I don’t know what the Underworld is going on but I want you to stop it right now!”

  “So professorial,” he said delightedly. “I half expect you to smack me with a ruler at any moment; it’s rather delicious.”

  Kassa was used to threats that begged to be magicked or slashed with a sword or kicked into little tiny pieces. She could deal with chaos and wild magic. It was this orderly, insidious kind of invasion she couldn’t cope with. Drak had slid sideways into Cluft and just…taken over. It was dishonest and strange and she couldn’t fight it.

  All this, plus Aragon Silversword was back in her life.

  Anger and frustration and stress reached its maximum peak, and Kassa screamed.

  It was not just any scream. Kassa was a songwitch. Magic was in her blood and in her voice. When she sang, people knew about it. When she screamed, people ducked for cover. Shattering glass was nothing to Kassa in mid-scream. Shattered pottery or even concrete was reasonably common. Added to this was the pressure of Drak, the dark, morbid, angry, violent thoughts that had been building up inside Kassa’s skull whenever she stepped within the influence of the draklight. Since Cluft had been swallowed whole, Kassa had been struggling to hold herself together and now she could not rein it in any longer.

  Her scream was piercing and painful and seemingly endless. The grim paintings fell off the wall. Tiles popped off the empty fireplace and smashed on the glossy hearth. The blood-red furniture crumbled to dust.

  Lord Sinistre fainted.

  The vortex liked it. It drank Kassa’s anger and frustration in greedy gulps. Just what we want, it told her.

  Kassa attempted to break off the scream, but it had come too far for that. She fell hard and fast into the depths of the swirly vortex. Darkness spun, lights flashed. Gravity seized Kassa by the waist and did peculiar things to her senses. She sank like a stone, flew like a bird, crashed like a waterfall. The vortex swallowed her, sucking every dark emotion and morbid thought out of her soul.

  When Kassa woke up, everything had changed.

  11

  Harmony

  Kassa felt an overwhelming sensation of peace. There was no other word for it. Her whole body was infused with peace and love and light and a true belief that the world was utterly wonderful. Everything was going to turn out fine. Everything always did. Everything was perfect in a perfectly perfect kind of way.

  Something was terribly wrong.

  Kassa opened her eyes. She was lying on a bed. The linen of the bed was impossibly white. She had gone through a white lace phase in her teens, and knew from experience that no amount of washing could create that brilliant, blinding hue. “I’m dead,” she said immediately. Where but the afterlife could you get whiter than white whites?

  The only problem with that theory was that Kassa had been dead before, and she did not remember white as being the signature colour of the Underworld. Mostly, it was dark caves and imps and goth girls. Besides, Kassa knew where she was going when she died. She was headi
ng straight to the section of caves that her parents, troublemakers even in death, had set up as an independent city state after staging a revolution against the higher powers in charge of the Underworld.

  The likelihood, therefore, was that she was not dead. Kassa swung her legs over the side of the bed and then stared down at herself.

  White. She was wearing an outfit she would have killed for at the age of nine, but which she now felt vaguely embarrassed about. There are very few people in the universe who can carry off a full blown white lace ballgown and Kassa was pretty sure she wasn’t one of them.

  The little white leather boots were cute, though.

  There were important questions to be asked. Where the hell am I? would be a good start. How am I going to get back? was another fairly important one.

  “I think I’ll settle for huh?” she said finally.

  The room was white. Not in a painted walls kind of way, but in a shimmering, mother-of-pearl tiles, marble columns kind of way. The bed stood on a shiny white floor in a perfectly round, perfectly white little room. Kassa was about to start wondering if she had gone snow blind when she noticed a high window, through which she could see a tiny bit of blue sky. She stood up on tiptoe to peek out of the window.

  Outside, everything was lush and green. Butterflies danced in a lovely meadowsweet garden. A little water feature was splashing cheerfully. Paradise, only prettier.

  “You’re awake!”

  Kassa skidded on the heels of her cute white boots and grabbed the window ledge to prevent herself from entirely falling over. She stared at the newcomer who had popped his head through the little arched doorway.

  It was Lord Sinistre. At least, it would be Lord Sinistre if Lord Sinistre was blond, blue-eyed and had a tendency for wearing floppy white shirts. “What kind of game are we playing here?” she asked.

  “I do like games,” beamed the intruder, then sighed. “No, that’s wrong. Games are frivolous attempts to divert our attention from the true nature of our society.”