Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles)

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  The secretary was noticeably absent today, probably off getting her fingernails waxed or her armpits decorated with glue-on sequins. I knocked on the door of Claddius’s inner sanctum and strolled right in.

  “DV,” he said in a friendly voice that made me instantly suspicious. “Nice to see you, my dear. Good trip?”

  “You mean your feathered spies haven’t already notified you how many times I was seasick on the way home, and how many sea monsters attacked the ship between Northport and Skullcap? You must be losing your touch.”

  He’s a fine figure of a man, my agent—assuming you like your men soft around the middle and fraying at the edges. He wears a toga like they didn’t go out of fashion two hundred years ago, and some moronic female must once have told him that he looks good in profile, because he constantly tilts his head back and forth when he talks to you, as if inviting you to comment on the aristocratic length of his nose.

  Oh, yes, and he has a voice like cream. The kind the cat got.

  “Problems, DV? You sound moody. Over-emotional, I expect, home sweet home and all that. I know just what will take your mind off it…”

  “Four jobs in a row not enough for you, Claddius? I didn’t even get to stay for the Middens wedding, after all that work I did finding the bride, then you sent me a homing pigeon about the Dreadnought silk theft before I’d even finished the Zibrian murder mystery. I’m home now and I deserve a damn good holiday!”

  Claddius did his best not to go pink at the mention of the dread word, ‘holiday’. He tried to look understanding—at least, I think that’s what he was trying to do. Either that, or he was suppressing a hiccup. “DV. Honey. Sweetpea. I know you’ve been rushed off your feet, but it’s a madhouse around here. Fenella quit to get married, Guido got headhunted by the Rat Runners, and no one’s even heard from Vander since he went up against that two-headed goblin colony on the East Coast. There just aren’t as many reliable mercenaries around as there used to be.”

  I stood up quickly. “Okay, that’s enough. I can cope with being hassled to do more work and I can cope with being spied on by freaky talking birds, but now you’re mentioning the m-word, you know, the illegal one? That worries me, Claddius, it really worries me.”

  Mercenaries have been illegal since Emperor Timregis figured out they were the reason that the Fifty-Seven Years War lasted so long. There hasn’t been a war in Mocklore since he made the decree, generally regarded as the only sensible decision he has made in his fifty-four year reign. I am not a mercenary. I do random jobs for pay. It’s totally different.

  Claddius put his hands up defensively. “Honeycake. Relax, please. Slip of the tongue, nothing more. There just aren’t so many odd job agents available right now, and you’re the best. I can’t trust anyone else with my sensitive cases.”

  I smiled one of my nastier smiles. “Sounds like I have something to bargain with.”

  His shoulders sagged a little. “What’s it going to take?”

  I was enjoying my brief illusion of power. “I want full payment for the last four jobs—in actual money, not hairdressing coupons or baby rabbits. I owe my landlady some serious rent. I also want a substantial bonus for accepting new jobs while still in the field.”

  Claddius opened his mouth as if to argue, then shut it. “Anything else?”

  “Yep. I want a day off.”

  I was expecting him to go green, but he took it quite well. “Just the one?” Damn. I should have tried to squeeze a week out of him. “So you’ll be in bright and early tomorrow for your next assignment?”

  Ooh, nice try. “Uh-uh. Today is travelling time. Tomorrow is my day off. I’ll be in bright and early the day after for my next assignment.”

  Claddius sighed. “Fine. See you then.”

  I waited. He raised his eyebrows, tilting that damned profile at me again. “Something else, DV?

  “My money, Claddius.”

  –§–§–§–§–§–

  I emerged from his office with a spring in my step and a rattling purse. Squeezing actual coinage out of Claddius was an achievement in itself, but I’d also scored a whole day off of my very own. I’d forgotten what it was like to have time to myself.

  Next, I went to visit my dealer. Gallicon hangs out in the Docks District (also the Market District, Pawn Shop District and Seedy Bar You Wouldn’t Take Your Grandmother To District). He owns a bar the size of a broom closet, with a shiny marble counter opening on to the street. There’s never any produce in sight, only Gallicon’s elbows propped on the clean counter as he watches the world go by.

  “DV,” he croaked in a gravelly voice as I approached. “What’s your pleasure?”

  “The good stuff, of course. What’s special today?”

  He grinned at me with his disturbing mouth. Every second tooth was missing. “I wouldn’t trust just anyone with this, DV, but you’re a good girl. I think I can let you loose on it.” He vanished behind his bar. I heard a few gloppy noises. Gallicon emerged in a rush, hauling something large, white and flabby on to the pristine marble counter. It flopped winsomely on the hard surface, tentacles splayed.

  “Squid!” Gallicon yelled proudly, as if identifying the gender of a firstborn baby.

  “I can see that.” I leaned forward and sniffed. “Is it going to taste like it smells?”

  Gallicon tapped his nose knowingly. “Maybe if you cook it hard and fast, kiddo. But if you work it slowly, the flavours will be beyond all previous experience.” He kissed his fingers extravagantly.

  “If it’s so good, why aren’t you busy stewing it up for your wife and sixteen children?”

  “I got another twelve just like it out the back,” he confessed.

  I tossed him a heavy coin. “Wrap it. Throw in two dozen oysters.” I paused. “The oysters are good today, aren’t they?” I had been craving oysters since Dreadnought.

  Gallicon kissed his fingers again. “Fat as pigs and fresh as newborn little daisies.”

  “Make it three dozen.”

  Ten minutes later and I was home, opening up the windows of my cozy attic room and letting the chopped squid simmer in spices on the top of my stove. Most people in upper floor apartments aren’t allowed any kind of cooking apparatus because of the whole setting-the-city-ablaze possibility, but my stove involves no naked flames. My mad Uncle Imago built it entirely out of clockwork. At least, I think it’s made of clockwork. I definitely hear whirring when I start it up.

  I rinsed and swallowed several oysters before getting to work on the sauce. I had bought a bag full of Chiantrian fruits from a market stall on my way home and now busied myself pulping oranges, pale reds and yellowish greens before hacking my way into a coconut and draining the milk into a bowl. Whipped together with a slug of lionade (a sweet white liquor brewed in the back streets of Zibria), it made a satisfying sizzle when I poured it into the squid pot. The most amazing smell filled my attic, wafting out the open windows on the cool spring breeze.

  A moment or two later, someone wafted in through my windows, a bottle of wine tucked under each arm. He somersaulted neatly and placed the bottles with reverent care on my sideboard. “Hello, ducks. Long time, no fish.”

  Stamp lives on the floor below me, and is usually the first to smell dinner happening. Windows are his favoured method of transport since a) he’s a cat burglar and b) he and his roommate Chas (who has an equally dodgy profession) boarded up the doors of their apartment long ago so you can’t tell it’s there unless you count the windows from the outside.

  Stamp has a theory that if you don’t look like a cat burglar, people don’t think you are one even if you climb in their bedroom window and pinch all their valuables. I’m pretty sure that’s also the reason that he cultivates an accent that’s far too posh to be real. Today he was wearing a striped silk suit, a bright green cravat, and an actual goddamned boater hat. “It’s terrible,” he complained. “You’ve been gone for the entire scallop season. I expected at least one decent curry out of you this year.” I
tossed him an oyster in a half shell and he slurped at it with relish. “Fine, I forgive you. What smells good?”

  “Squid. What are we drinking tonight?”

  “No idea, pet, but the bottles were heavily guarded when I stole them from Lord Rynehart’s cellar, so they must be good.” He peered at the dusty bottles. “Could be Gazpartan red.”

  “Fancy. Set the table?”

  While Stamp located my tablecloth collection and complained about the moth-holes, I turned the heat down and covered the squid, letting it bubble away satisfactorily.

  Kaitlin arrived next, through the conventional door with a giant bowl balanced in her arms. “Hi Delta! Heard you on the stairs, so I chucked a salad together. Hope I made enough.”

  “Because we could never have enough lettuce,” sighed Stamp. His tone changed instantly when he spied the pristine tablecloth folded over Kait’s shoulder. “Civilisation, at last! DV, you and your threadbare rag collection are an embarrassment to us all.” He shook the cloth over my squeaky but serviceable dining table.

  “You’re rather precious for someone who has no idea of the price of milk,” I complained.

  Kait put her salad on the counter and came to give me a hug. “I hope that old bastard paid you what you’re worth. Three and a half months away!”

  “Never fear,” I grinned at her. “I talked him into giving me actual money.” I nodded towards the large leather pouch near the door.

  “Really, truly? No dairy cows or counterfeit diamonds or baby rabbits?” My housemates have never let me forget the baby rabbits. “Astounding. Shall I take it with me when I go?”

  “You’d better, or I’ll end up spending it on fripperies like vegetables.” Kait is our landlady and my banker, which is a surprisingly sensible arrangement as long as you trust both your landlady and your banker.

  Stamp fussed with the cutlery. “I’m going to steal you some better forks,” he said sternly. Another minute and he would be whinging that I didn’t own linen napkins. (I did, but I kept them in my first aid kit when travelling, so useful for mopping up blood and gore!)

  A screech came from the door as Aimee made her entrance. She dumped a plate of cakes in the middle of the table and bounded towards me, sweeping me up in an enthusiastic hug. She smelled of strawberry perfume. “DV, it’s been ages! Where have you been?”

  “Everywhere,” I said, laughing at her exuberance. “Mostly the Middens, not my favourite place to spend winter.”

  “Umm,” she said, inhaling deeply. “Squid? I could smell it from all the way downstairs. Luckily the goddess has received lots of dessert-style offerings lately.”

  Aimee is a priestess of Mocklore’s one remaining lust-goddess, Amorata. She had the bedroom of her first-floor apartment consecrated as a temple a few years ago.

  “Are we allowed to eat cakes that were offered to the goddess?” Kait asked. “Won’t Amorata complain?”

  Aimee shrugged. “As long as I save her anything with macadamia nuts in it, no problem. She’s sick of cream cake and rose jelly; there’s been a glut lately. She prefers buttered toast and a pickled onion whenever I summon her.”

  “DV, you glorious peasant,” yelled Stamp from the table. “When are you going to put all of us out of our misery and invest in some double damask table napkins?”

  Seriously, double damask napkins, so absorbent for minor flesh wounds.

  We were sitting down to eat when a long loaf of bread sailed through one of the open windows, followed by a gorgeous young man with soulful blue eyes and a killer smile. Only Stamp moved fast enough to catch the bread. He’s lived with Chas a long time.

  “Chuck it on the table,” I said.

  “Straight on the tablecloth?” said Stamp.

  Chas shook his head disapprovingly at me. “DV, that’s cruel. How many tablecloths do you have to kill right in front of him before you learn the error of your ways.”

  Diplomacy and sarcasm are such similar skills, I’m never sure which one he’s using at any given time.

  Stamp glared at me until I fetched a basket for the bread. Chas joined us at the table and we relaxed into the last and best bit of my coming home routine, chatting aimlessly while stuffing ourselves with seafood and drinking our way through Stamp’ mystery wine collection.

  “So,” said Kait as we made coffee to go with Amorata’s cream cakes. “What’s next for Delta Void?”

  “More work. I’m irreplaceable, according to Claddius.”

  “There are worse things to be,” said Chas. “I wouldn’t mind being irreplaceable. In my industry, there’s always cute young things coming up behind you with a knife to stick in your back.”

  “You should try DV’s job,” Aimee said slyly. “It’s a little more respectable than yours.”

  “My job isn’t illegal, last I looked,” he shot at her.

  “It’s not illegal to be an odd-job agent either,” I said quickly.

  Chas smirked at me in a way that would have been unforgiveable if he wasn’t so damn cute. “That’s what you’re calling it these days? Here was I thinking your job title began with M?”

  “Don’t start that again,” complained Stamp. “Semantics gives me a headache. We don’t care what DV does for a living. We’d still like her if she was an evil overlord, or a lawyer…”

  “Or an assassin,” said Aimee.

  “Fair enough,” Chas laughed. “Go wash up, Stamp. You know the rules. If you insult Delta’s crockery, you have to clean it.”

  “Worth it!”

  While Stamp stacked plates, I moved with some satisfaction to the couch. It was nice to sit on furniture that wasn’t nailed to a pirate ship. Cushions were a great invention.

  “You look done in,” said Aimee, leaning over the arm of the couch and rubbing my shoulders sympathetically. “When do you go back to work, tomorrow?”

  “I bargained myself a day off. Not sure what to do with it, but I hope it will involve me, my bed and very little else.”

  “You can’t spend your one day off in bed,” said Aimee, working into my shoulders more emphatically. “It’s the Big Market Day tomorrow. Come shopping with me. Kait, do her feet.”

  “I wouldn’t do this for just anybody,” teased Kait, pulling off my boots.

  I sighed. With this kind of treatment I might agree to anything, even shopping with Aimee. “Have I mentioned how much I love you people?”

  “Even me?” called Stamp from the kitchen counter.

  “You’re doing my washing up, what do you think?” I called to him.

  Chas settled into the armchair opposite me. “I’m too full to do anything but gaze adoringly at you.”

  I closed my eyes. “I’ll settle for that.”

  Aimee rapped me sharply on the shoulder blade. “Stop changing the subject. Shopping.”

  “Shopping for what?” I protested. “I don’t need anything.”

  Chas made a valiant attempt to save me. “If you’re short of something to do tomorrow, you could come along with me. I’ve got tickets to a matinee at the Gilded Showpony.”

  I looked at him in alarm. “The theatre? I don’t have the kind of clothes you wear to the theatre.”

  “Hence the shopping!” Aimee squealed in triumph.

  –§–§–§–§–§–

  There was no getting out of it. I rolled out of bed the next morning to find Aimee in my kitchen, fixing us an energy-filled breakfast. “We need to plan our morning,” she said.

  Still in my pyjamas, I yawned at her. “Didn’t we already plan it?”

  “Of course not. You need a proper schedule if you have less than four hours to shop for something specific.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I figured I’d just wear Oleandra, she’s dressy enough for a matinee.”

  Aimee looked at me in horror. “You can’t wear Oleandra.”

  “Vampyra, then. All that black velvet, she’ll be fine as long as I make sure she’s fed before the show.”

  “DV, this is crazy. Chas asked yo
u to the theatre, not one of your fake personalities!”

  “They’re not fake,” I said. “They’re as real as I am.”

  “That’s not the point. What’s so wrong about dressing up?”

  “DV doesn’t suit dress up clothes,” I said plaintively.

  She leaned over and smacked with in the head.

  “Ow!”

  “That’s for talking about yourself in the third person. Don’t let it happen again. You have to watch yourself, DV. You rely on your other selves way too much and it wouldn’t hurt to remind yourself of what it’s like to be a real person. A real person, I might add, who has been invited to the theatre by a cute boy and is going to frock up for the occasion if it kills her.”

  “It’s just Chas,” I grumbled.

  She eyed me severely. “Are you trying to tell me that Chas is not a cute boy?”

  She had me there. Truth is, we were all half-in love with Chas. It was probably the beautiful smile that did it, plus the bright blue eyes, plus the fact that he’s brooding, mysterious, and an utter sweetheart.

  Romance, of course, is out of the question because a) relationships with people you share a house with are always a bad idea and b) Chas is an assassin. One of the best hired killers in his field. It sounds glamorous and dangerous if you don’t think about it too much, but there’s no getting away from it. Chas is cute, but he kills people for a living.

  –§–§–§–§–§–

  I thought about what Aimee had said as we elbowed our way through the market stalls. There are markets aplenty in Skullcap any day of the week, but Big Market Day—the first day after full moon—is when the streets fill with so many trestle tables and fried-fish vendors that no one is safe. We had to shove an entire second-hand spice stall out of the way before we could even get out of our front door.