Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles)

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  “Still not lying,” said Mistress Black, her voice slow and surprised.

  “Our Valeria knows things about body language that would make a contortionist sweat,” said Mistress Red grudgingly. “If she says you speak the truth, we must believe you.” She glanced at the others. “If we are dealing with an imposter rather than the true Faerie Quene, this changes everything.”

  “It changes nothing,” said Mistress Black. Hard not to peg her as the brains of this operation. “Whomever this imposter is, she is powerful and dangerous. The only thing that has changed is that our enemy has no name.”

  I opened my mouth to ask for an explanation, but thought better of it. My eyes are bigger than my stomach when it comes to dangerous missions. They look so tempting and exciting on the outside, and yet I always emerge from them with bruises, broken limbs and/or major psychological damage. I would be so impressed with myself if I could get out of this room without volunteering.

  The Senior Mistresses were scary. I really didn’t want to meet anyone who could scare them.

  They talked to each other now, ignoring me.

  “She will be an ideal member of the team,” said Mistress Red.

  “By her own admission she knows nothing of any use,” said Mistress Blonde.

  “Someone with experience of the fey may still be of value,” argued Mistress Black.

  “Hobgoblins are notoriously unreliable!”

  “So are humans, Tiffaine, that’s hardly persuasive.”

  How nice. Now they were arguing as to whether or not I was going to volunteer. Apparently, I didn’t get a vote.

  Somewhere beyond the tea cosies and elephantine sideboards, doors slammed open and closed. We heard the muffled sounds of someone striding confidently into the room, tripping over a small floral sofa and crashing into a series of ornamental chamberpots. Damn!” said a male voice.

  The whole thing made me feel quite nostalgic for ten minutes ago.

  Our intruder’s noisy antics at least put an end to the squabbling of the Senior Mistresses. They sat up with straight backs and arched eyebrows, pure courtesanity dripping from their elaborately costumed bodies. I took the opportunity to sidle away from centre stage, folding myself behind a display of crocheted undergarments.

  Various shufflings, trippings and swearings later, our man emerged from the chintz and mahogany maze to stand before the three Senior Mistresses. He was in disguise. Don’t ask me how I know that, but he wore gold and white festival clothes with frivolous beading and ribbons at the neck and sleeves, and they were obviously not the kind of clothes he naturally chose to wear.

  That, and the black dye he had used on his hair was that awful stuff that takes months to wash out properly, and looks like you have dipped your head in a bucket of tar.

  “How interesting,” said Mistress Red, her tone so scathing that even I felt bruised. “To what do we owe this honour, Sir Silversword?”

  He looked annoyed. “The disguise isn’t working, then.”

  “Hardly, my dear.”

  “If you want to travel the country covertly,” broke in Demi, “perhaps you should try to be less of a romantic figure. Half our first year students have pin-ups of you on their walls.”

  He didn’t even glance in her direction. His attention was firmly fixed on the terrible three. “Fine, you know who I am. You know, then, whom I represent.”

  “Naturally,” said Mistress Black, with a predator’s smile. “How may we contribute towards the greater glory of the Empire, Sir Silversword?

  I was missing something, as I didn’t have the faintest idea who this bloke was, but I was impressed. He was being blasted by higher courtesan skills from all sides, and didn’t even flinch.

  “Let’s not waste time,” he said. “The Emperor wants you know that he knows about the Sultan.”

  Innocence radiated from the Senior Mistresses, so bright that I had to resist the urge to shade my eyes. “The Sultan?” said Mistress Blonde in a baby doll voice.

  “The one you had assassinated five days ago,” Silversword said in a dry voice. “I’m sure you remember.” He surveyed the three of them with such withering scorn that I couldn’t help wondering if he had courtesan training himself. “You’re trying to break the tithe.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Tithe?” asked Mistress Red. I swear, she batted her eyelashes.

  “The tithe, Mistress Malisand. The tithe that Zibria has been obliged to pay to the Faerie Quene since she came to your aid during the 57 Years War. It was fruit and flowers at first, but around the time that the Faerie Quene was rumoured to have been imprisoned in an alternate dimension, the tithe became more demanding. Human sacrifice. A group of seven youths and maidens to be sent into the OtherRealm every seven years, into the waiting arms of the Faerie Quene. Is any of this sounding familiar?”

  All three Senior Mistresses batted their eyelashes simultaneously. I winced at the crack of dried cosmetic paint and synthetic hair.

  Silversword continued. There was something deliciously relentless about him. I had already forgiven him for ignoring my presence in the room. “That first year, the Senior Mistresses of the Courtesan Academy advised the Sultan to resist paying the tithe. According to imperial records, Zibria promptly suffered a magical plague, earthquakes and flood. Hundreds were killed. The Sultan was so incensed that he declared that the tithe would be paid by the Academy for perpetuity, and no further attempt would be made to break the tithe during his lifetime. True?”

  Again, the crack of colliding eyelashes, batting in perfect unison. I glanced over at Demi, but none of this surprised her.

  “Convenient for you,” said Silversword. “The Sultan dropping dead exactly five days before the tithe is due to be paid? His son and heir cannot make any official proclamations until seven days after his father’s death and you think you can do whatever you want until then.” He lowered his voice dangerously. “I know about the assassin, ladies. I know what you hired him to do, and the method he used. I also know that you have contracted him for a further job, along with a hero, a priest and a shoe-mistress.”

  Crack, went the eyelashes.

  For the first time, Silversword looked directly at me, but he let his eyes sweep over me only briefly before he turned his gaze to Demi. “These would be members five and six of your team, I suppose? A talented courtesan, low enough in the ranks to be disposable…” double ouch! “…and a half hobgoblin as your fey expert. I presume she has already informed you that whomever is behind this tithe is not, and never has been the Faerie Quene?”

  I opened my mouth to protest that I hadn’t volunteered for anything, but why fight the inevitable? I was always going to volunteer. Ill-advised Adventure was practically my middle name.

  “Last time the tithe was challenged, Zibria was almost destroyed by this unknown enemy,” said Silversword with an air of finality. “Emperor Timregis will not countenance such a risk again. You will not attempt to break the tithe.”

  There was a long pause. “And the Emperor worked this all out himself?” said Mistress Black.

  “He is a far more intelligent ruler than most people give him credit for,” said Silversword without hesitation.

  “He is a fool and a lunatic, with no interests beyond which shade of purple satin he shall commission for his next wardrobe,” said Mistress Red. “He has never shown any interest in the welfare of Zibria.”

  “You are the imperial champion, man,” Mistress Blonde broke in. Oh, so that’s who he was. Explained a lot, really. “How can you and your precious Emperor countenance such blatant otherworldly tyranny? Would you make a stand if fourteen youths were demanded every even years? Fifty? A hundred? Would you draw the line if it was your city’s young people who were at risk, or is it only our students that are disposable?”

  “If you resist and fail, you doom your whole city, perhaps the entire Empire,” Silversword said between gritted teeth.

  “Well, then,” said Mistress Blonde, her eyelashes working into overdr
ive. “You had better join our team so as to make sure that they do not fail.”

  There was a flat silence in the centre of the room, as Sir Silversword realised the nature of the trap he had walked into.

  I leaned forward and tapped him helpfully on the shoulder. “Don’t look now, mate, but I think you just volunteered.”

  –§–§–§–§–§–

  Even then, I could have gotten out of it. I could have held up my track record as a ditzy bint who wanders into dangerous situations and somehow manages to make them so much worse. I could have emphasised my frivolous nature, my short attention span, my inability to follow simple instructions.

  When it comes down to it, I could have said no. I could have shrugged my shoulders, waltzed right out of the Courtesan’s Academy and devoted the rest of the day to something worthwhile, like a massage and pedicure.

  But I didn’t. Not for any heroic reasons, or because I felt an obligation on behalf of all fey folk. To be honest, if you asked me to isolate the specific moment when I decided I was going on this stupid little mission, I’d have to say that it was about three seconds after I realised that the yummy Sir Silversword was coming along for the ride.

  Sad, but true.

  –§–§–§–§–§–

  So there were seven of us standing on the city canal bank at midnight, waiting for the otherworldly vessel that would whisk us away to our doom. We were the strangest bunch of sacrificial victims you ever did see. To keep up the deception that we were students from the Courtesan Academy we wore their official uniforms—gymslips, fishnet stockings and pigtails for the girls, open-necked shirts and short breeches for the boys—all in leather and silky, slippery satin.

  Chas, the assassin, was doing this for the money. What other motive would an assassin have?

  “Surely there are easier ways to make a living out of killing?” I said skeptically when I heard his reason for joining the mission.

  He flashed a gorgeous smile at me. “If I cared about easy, I wouldn’t be an assassin.”

  Fair point. Chas was just about the cutest cold-blooded killer I’d ever met in my life. If I hadn’t already been half-smitten by the fascinating Sir Silversword, I would have been flirting my bits off.

  “This is Eliander,” Chas added, introducing me to a sandy-haired and freckle-faced hero. I could tell he was a hero, because he had entirely missed the point of our disguise. His satin and leather courtesan uniform was mix-and-matched with the traditional Zibrian costume of the hero profession—a lion skin, sandals and a stout club. He had a slightly less traditional sword strapped to his back as well, in case of emergencies. He looked about as dangerous as a chicken sandwich.

  “My brother was taken in the last tithe,” Eliander said before I could ask, and I caught a vengeful gleam in his boyish face.

  “What about you, Bounty?” asked Chas.

  I preened and took my time about answering, well aware that Silversword was nearby and listening. “I want to be a courtesan when I grow up.”

  I saw Demi’s mouth twitch. If she wasn’t so well trained, I’m certain she would have burst out laughing at that point.

  “Really?” said Chas. He was puzzled, like that didn’t fit in with the image he had constructed of me. This was someone who prided himself on reading people.

  “Not entirely,” I confessed. “I really want to join the Secret Police of Zibria, and I heard they have a courtesan-only policy. Not that the SPZ exists, of course,” I added for Demi’s sake. “Anyway, some training in poise and charm couldn’t hurt. I have a few rough edges to rub off.” I waited for someone to valiantly disagree that I needed such training.

  “I would have thought your kind had little need for the mortal arts of false blandishment,” broke in a bitter voice. “Can you not use your evil goblin magics to manipulate honest men?”

  This had to be the priest of Raglah, patron god of Zibria. It must be hard dedicating yourself to religion when the only god you had left to worship was a womanising reprobate of a deity who never turned up to ceremonies on time. The priest was a grim drip of a man, uncomfortable in the silly leather and satin uniform we all wore. He had strung various godly sigils around his neck, and glared at us all as if it was our fault the cosmos hated him.

  “You’d be surprised how many evil magics I don’t have,” I assured him.

  The priest spat in my direction, and turned his back.

  “Don’t mind Fredo,” Chas said cheerfully. “I think he only joined the team in the hope of wiping every fey creature off the face of the earth.”

  How reassuring.

  “Can’t blame him, really,” muttered Eliander.

  Chas elbowed him and looked meaningfully at me, the half-hobgoblin completely selfless volunteer.

  “No offence,” the freckle-faced hero added hastily.

  None taken, I’m sure.

  Demi had de-mermaided herself for the occasion, golden in the lamplight as she waited, poised and calm, to be taken hostage with the rest of us. Her hair, cosmetics and manicure were all perfect. Her uniform was professionally tailored so as to highlight her body’s every contour.

  I had a desperate urge to rumple her hair, or possibly throw a pie in her face.

  The third woman in this merry band was Georginne. She was small and meek-looking, with a soft whisper of a voice and a heart-shaped face. She was the only one who came with luggage: a carpet bag full of shoe-making tools and a giant sack stuffed with footwear. Dancing slippers for the most part, though I spotted a boot or two when I had a peek inside earlier. Silversword had called her a shoe-mistress. Apart from cobblers, I didn’t have the faintest idea what he meant.

  Still, you have to respect a woman who comes on a perilous adventure bringing every shoe she owns.

  Just as we were starting to think our evil unknown enemy had forgotten us, a black gondola swished out of the shadows and drew alongside us in the shallow canal waters. Mistress Red, who had come to wave us off along with the other Senior Mistresses, gave a self-important and utterly false speech about the honour of sacrificing ourselves in the name of the tithe. I’m surprised she didn’t wink loudly at us after every other line. (Just kidding really, darlings, don’t forget the seek, locate and vanquish plan we discussed earlier!)

  There was no one but the seven of us on the gondola as we clambered aboard, unless there were invisible gondoliers steering the thing. Now that was a creepy thought. As soon as we were settled, the gondola shoved itself off and swished back the way it had come.

  “Unnatural,” sneered Fredo the priest.

  I could have argued that magic was the most natural force of all, but I didn’t. Even I know how to keep my mouth shut sometimes.

  “What can we expect?” Demi asked me as soon as we were all settled on the cushioned benches in the boat.

  I blinked at her. “I know I’m here as the resident fey expert, but I’ve never volunteered as a human sacrifice before. I haven’t the faintest idea what’s coming next.”

  The gondola sped up. We swooshed through the water, faster than was strictly safe. Even at midnight, there should be cargo boats and transporters on the canals. Crashing into a merchant or two would put a swift end to our little adventure.

  But of course, we were no longer anywhere near the Zibrian canal network. Spindly vines and trees loomed at the water’s edge as we swept past, and they did not look like they belonged to the world we knew.

  The stars were gone. I swear, they had been there a minute ago.

  “This isn’t the OtherRealm,” I said aloud. “That’s not where we’re going.” I could contribute that much, at least.

  Silversword moved towards me so fast I felt dizzy. “What do you know, Bounty?” Somehow, though he was the last of us to join the team, he assumed he was in charge and we were letting him assume it.

  It was cold. There was frost on the overhanging branches that whipped past our speedy gondola. I hate being cold. I was almost grateful for the protection of the leather gy
mslip, compared to my usual chainmail ensemble. “It’s not the OtherRealm,” I repeated. “We’re going in the wrong direction, but that doesn’t make sense because the OtherRealm isn’t in any particular direction, it’s just Other. This is Other too, but not in the same way.”

  His grey eyes were locked on mine, as if he found me fascinating. I found it hard to breathe. “Is that all you can tell us?”

  “It’s more than anyone else can tell you,” I said irritably. I couldn’t stop shivering. “How are we going to fight this?”

  Alarmed, he put his finger to his mouth, glancing around—for what? The invisible gondoliers?

  Demi’s cool courtesan exterior was visibly cracking. “If it’s the Faerie Quene…”

  “It isn’t,” I said firmly. “The Faerie Quene didn’t fake being banished. She’s not within sniffing distance of the mortal realm or the OtherRealm.”

  “But you already said we’re not heading for the OtherRealm,” said Silversword. “How do you know we’re not going to wherever she was banished to? It might be her after all.”

  I stared at him. There was frost on his eyelashes.

  The other side of the Icewall? By gondola? “No,” I whispered. “Not that.”

  My whole body heaved suddenly, and it was only when I crashed back against the little wooden seat that I realised I wasn’t the only one. The whole gondola had been shaken by something.

  Silversword looked shaken. “What was that?”

  The other three boys drew their weapons and looked around like they expected us to be attacked. I couldn’t blame them. I expected us to be attacked. I couldn’t see how Eliander’s club, Chas’s long knives and Fredo’s sacrificial truncheon with extra gutting blade were going to be of any use, as we didn’t have an enemy we could see.

  Georginne the shoe-mistress busily sewed silk ribbons on to a pale pink dancing slipper. She didn’t seem to feel that anything was wrong. I wanted to live in her world.