Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles)

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  When Doc had finished, there was a large pile of groaning warriors at the feet of the new Baron of Axgaard. Doc bowed smoothly, his bronze body gleaming. Everyone who wasn’t unconscious burst into applause.

  It seemed as good a cue as any. I stepped forward. “On the occasion of the coronation of Svenhilda, fourth Jarl and first Baron of Axgaard, Lord Rynehart of Skullcap presents this mighty clockwork warrior to stand by your side and protect you from all dangers. He speaks three languages,” I added. “His name is Doc.”

  Svenhilda’s eyes lit up. She stood, clasping the hands of the highly-polished Doc. “You are welcome to our court, Doc of Skullcap. Come, take your place at the side of my throne. I am greatly pleased by my gift.”

  Doc gave her one of those smouldering looks he had been practicing on me, Theta and Lirabel. The Baron of Axgaard blushed.

  The other ambassadors made their various presentations, but mine was totally the best. Tybalt represented Zibria, giving Svenhilda a gold box full of exquisite jewellery. She gave him a generous smile, but it wasn’t quite so dazzling as it had been before Doc came into her life. She kept darting little glances at the clockwork man, as if already smitten.

  Tybalt stood beside me as the next stage of the ceremony continued, a long boring bit involving chanting and the promising of pledges.

  “Are you interested in Svenhilda?” I asked him in a low voice.

  Tybalt looked at me as if I were mad. “What?”

  “Like if she asked you to marry her, would you go yippee?”

  “She’s a child,” he said in horror. “Baron or not, she’s not even twenty.”

  “She’s older than Lirabel,” I said with a smirk.

  “I’m not interested in Lirabel either,” he muttered.

  “You must have been at some stage.”

  “Okay, yes. I was briefly interested in Lirabel, right up the point where I had a conversation with her. But Svenhilda? I’ve known her since she was four years old, that’s disgusting.”

  “What about Theta?” I pressed.

  He frowned, didn’t say anything.

  “Tybalt, this is important. Are you interested in Theta?”

  “I’m in love with her,” he growled. “Are you finished?”

  “Does she know?” I persisted. “Does she know she’s the only one you’re interested in?”

  “I’ve told her enough times. What is all this?”

  “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just trying to get a handle on my sister’s scary little brain.”

  The ceremony drew to a close. A few dead animals were tossed around in the name of appeasing the gods and then the dancing started—“modern” dancing with non-Axgaard music. Anyone who complained received a chilling smile from Doc, and decided not to push the point.

  Svenhilda took to the dance floor in Doc’s arms, dancing cheek to cheek. So he was the perfect gift after all. How had Lord Rynehart known exactly what Svenhilda needed? Why would Lord Rynehart give Svenhilda something great, anyway? He didn’t approve of her, I had noticed that vibe even before I knew the new Jarl was a girl. And old Jarl Erik would be spinning in his grave if he knew his daughter had succeeded him…

  I tugged at Tybalt’s sleeve. He looked at me warily. “You don’t want to dance, do you?”

  “Pfeh, you wish. You should be up to date with the Who’s Who of Mocklore royal families. Who would be Jarl if Svenhilda died?”

  “She has an elder sister,” he said slowly. “But Bjornhilde ran off to join the Sparkling Nuns a few years ago. Then there’s their brother, of course.”

  “There’s another brother? I thought she’d run out of brothers. You know, beer poisoning, axe-thowing accidents, fatal tavern-singing incidents.”

  “There’s still Friefried, the eldest. He caused a scandal years ago when he ran off with one of Jarl Erik’s wenches. Still, the old Jarl would have forgiven him if he knew he was the only male heir left.”

  In the middle of the square, Svenhilda’s dance with Doc was becoming more romantic. She reeled him in with those powerful upper arms of hers, inviting him to kiss her.

  I switched to Sadonna, startling Tybalt. I became a vague and velvet-clad shadow of my former self, but with the handy ability to sniff out magic—and there it was, smeared over darling Doc’s mouth. Smeared on by my evil twin sister, I had no doubt, remembering her handiwork with the handkerchief. I started running, switching as I did to Herna the Huntress, my tough warrior babe (providing there are no nettles in the vicinity).

  Svenhilda and Doc arched towards each other in slow motion, coming in for the long romantic smooch. I reached then a fraction of a second before they made contact, and Herna’s meaty fist slammed powerfully into the side of Doc’s face. He fell. Several tough Axgaard warriors applauded.

  I switched back to DV and dropped to my knees, screaming with pain. “Owwww!”

  “What are you doing?” bellowed Svenhilda.

  “Get an apothecary,” I gasped.

  She peered at my battered hand. “It doesn’t look that bad.”

  “For him, you…Jarl. Baron. Whatever.” I pointed at Doc, who was sitting up with a polite and attentive expression on his slightly dented face. Herna packs quite a wallop when she gets up some momentum. “He was about to put a spell on you!”

  Svenhilda simpered girlishly. “I think he already has!”

  Tybalt came over while we were waiting for someone to bring us an apothecary. “That looks nasty,” he said, eyeing my swollen hand.

  “Remind me to invest in an axe,” I grunted.

  The apothecary came, grumbling about being made to work during a public holiday. He did a cursory examination of Doc’s lips, and made a few notes. “Fairly basic sleeping spell,” he said, cleaning it off with a cotton swab provided by his girl assistant. “The hundred years contract with a four hour delay. The spell would have been irreversible from the moment of the kiss.”

  “Someone wanted me to sleep for a hundred years?” Svenhilda said in surprise. “Why?”

  “Why don’t we ask the one responsible?” I suggested, grabbing the apothecary’s assistant by the hair (using my unbruised hand, of course) and pushing her down to the cobbles.

  She screeched, turning into Theta Void before our eyes. “Ow, Dee!”

  “When are you going to learn that I know all your faces? Come on, Thetes. Explain the grand plan to the nice Baron.”

  Theta scowled. “It was your father,” she told Svenhilda.

  “Surprising, but not entirely unexpected,” I noted. “Go on.”

  “He and Lord Rynehart made a pact when they realised they were both losing heirs at an alarming rate. They made each other promise to do whatever they could to ensure that a daughter would not succeed either of them. They both had some kind of phobia about women in power.”

  “Oh well,” Svenhilda sighed. “I can’t declare war against Uncle Rynehart if he was fulfilling my father’s wishes.” She stretched. “I’m hungry. Does anyone fancy some things on sticks?” She wandered away, but came back after a moment. “Was Doc in on this?”

  “I knew nothing about this attempt to attack your Ladyship,” Doc said in an offended voice. “I am programmed to protect, to flirt, to speak three languages and to fall in love. That is all.”

  “Besides,” I added. “He doesn’t believe in magic.”

  “That’s all right, then,” said Svenhilda, extending a hand to pull Doc to his feet. “Come on, babe. You can hold my plate for me.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” he said politely.

  “Looks like you’re free to go,” I told Theta, giving her hair another good pull before I released her.

  She stood up quickly, feeling her scalp. “You’re so bloody law-abiding, Dee. I don’t know which side of the family you get that from.”

  Tybalt was staring at Theta, looking hurt. “Am I part of this?” he asked her. “You and me, was that part of your scam?”

  Theta shrugged. “Svenhilda was too interested in you, and that
was a risk. We needed you out of the picture to give our clockwork boy the best chance of getting that kiss. I thought Lirabel would do the trick, but when that didn’t work I put her out of the way and did the job myself.”

  Tybalt looked disgusted and wounded at the same time. “The job?”

  “I was paid,” said my darling sister. “That’s usually my motive.” She slid off through the crowd, her hips swinging, and neither of us did anything to stop her.

  Tybalt looked shattered. I knew that expression—I’ve seen my sister at work before, when she wants someone to fall in love with her. They always end up with that face and I’m left to pick up the pieces.

  “I could switch to a more sympathetic persona,” I suggested. “I’m sure I’ve got one somewhere, a nice girl who can be kind and comforting about how you had the bad luck and bad taste to fall for my evil twin sister.”

  “I wouldn’t bother if I were you,” said Tybalt.

  “No, you’re right. Let’s find a drink.”

  Delta Void and the Stray God

  I’ve mentioned these mountains before. They’re pink and yellow, bronze and scarlet, gold and silver, blue and orange, purple-spotted, very rarely green or brown. They are bright with snow, dark with shadows, often cold and deeply threatening. There is so much magic in these mountains, being near them makes your teeth hurt and your hair stand on end.

  My name is Delta Void and I hate mountains. More importantly, they hate me.

  “Bounty,” I said to my companion after we had spent several hours hiking through multi-coloured peaks. “What exactly are we looking for?”

  “Something valuable,” she assured me brightly.

  I grunted, and turned my collar up to keep out the drizzle. It drizzles a lot in the Skullcaps, even in summer. It was summer now, two days before the Solstice. You could tell by the grey clouds, the aforementioned drizzle and the sticky sap oozing from the colourful tree-trunks. In winter, the sap freezes solid. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

  Bounty Fenetre could talk an army into swapping their bronze swords for ones made out of liquorice. I’ve known her since we were toddlers, and I have no immunity against her. She’s the kind of girl who dresses in chainmail lingerie—no, really—and avoids assassination by widening her eyes and saying, “Who, me?” If she weren’t my best friend in the world, I’d have to kill her.

  “Sssh!” She grabbed me suddenly, pulling us both into a copse of spiky red bushes. Something purple and slimy hung from the branches—I couldn’t tell if it was part of the bushes, or something trying to eat the bushes.

  Several heroes walked by us, making loud crunching noises with their boots. I could tell they were heroes because they were all dressed in lion-skins, swinging clubs and chatting about the latest damsels in distress they had rescued (probably from each other).

  It seemed to be Open Season in the Skullcaps this week. After the heroes had gone, Bounty pressed a finger to her lips for a second time. Two bounty hunters passed by, only a little quieter than the heroes. They wore chainmail tunics—sensible chainmail, not the midriff-baring concoction that Bounty draped over herself in lieu of clothes. One of the bounty hunters jumped at the sound of a squirrel sneezing.

  “Don’t be so twitchy,” the other one grunted. “Anyone’d think this is the first scalp you ever hunted.”

  “We’ve never tried to capture a god before,” the first one said nervously.

  “The reward’s high enough, isn’t it? You won’t be complaining when the Emperor hands over that gold talent…”

  They moved on, out of range. I found my hand reaching out almost automatically for Bounty’s throat.

  “I meant to explain about the gold,” she squealed, jumping back out of range. “Obviously you get half!”

  “Not the reward,” I growled. “The target. You didn’t tell me we were being stupid enough to try and hunt down a deity. Which one is it?”

  “You wouldn’t know him.”

  “There are only ten!” I exploded. “It’s not hard to remember all their names.”

  The mad Emperor currently in charge of the Mocklore Empire had arranged for the gods to be decimalised a few years earlier, reducing our vast pantheon to only ten very over-worked gods.

  “It’s not one of the legit ones,” Bounty said, wiping tangled hair out of her face in order to appear earnest. If she batted her eyelashes, I was going to have to punch her. “The Emperor found out recently that one of the original gods escaped the Decimalisation and has been hiding out in the Skullcaps. They sent out a proclamation two days ago, declaring that whoever captures Aolpho the Apostate and brings him to the palace will be rewarded with a whole gold talent. That’s why these amateurs are roaming around the mountains.”

  “And we’re part of the mob,” I said flatly.

  “But we have inside information,” she insisted, sounding pleased with herself. “Plenty of handy details that weren’t on the proclamation. I know exactly where he was last sighted, what his strengths and weaknesses are, everything.” She waved something that looked suspiciously like a map sketched in lipstick on the back of a table napkin.

  “And where are you getting this inside information?”

  She had the grace to look embarrassed. “You know how I was telling you about my new boyfriend?

  I tried to remember. Bounty’s love affairs blend together in my mind, but she had been rabbiting on about this one quite recently. “Intense grey eyes, really good in bed?” Just her type.

  ‘That’s the one. He’s the Imperial Champion…”

  “And talks in his sleep, apparently.” I rolled my eyes at her. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Have faith,” she said loftily.

  –§–§–§–§–§–

  A few hours of miserable trudging later, we found a sheltered clearing near a babbling brook and prepared to camp for the night. Sleeping on the ground is something I’ve learned to cope with, since my travels rarely bring me anywhere close to a handy tavern. My essential props are a waterproof bedroll, a griffin-hair blanket (scratchy as hell, but light and warm at the same time, a rare combination) and a clockwork warming-flask that my uncle invented—a constant supply of hot water is not something to be sniffed at.

  Bounty had brought one thing.

  “A pillow?” I said in amazement as she squeezed it out of her travel pack and slapped it into shape.

  “Of course,” said Bounty. “Can’t sleep without one.”

  “What about blankets, spare underwear, food supplies?”

  “A pillow takes up a lot of room. I didn’t have space for anything else. Didn’t you bring food?”

  I growled again, sorting through my supplies. “I have oatcakes and hot water.”

  “Sounds nutritious.”

  “You can’t lie on the bare ground. It’ll be damp.”

  “Then I’ll get damp, DV. At least my head will be comfy. How do you cope without a pillow? Don’t you wake up all grumpy?”

  “People assume it’s my personality.”

  She laughed. “That explains a lot. Now tell me you have chocolate powder in that supply bag of yours.”

  Well, yeah. What self-respecting woman with an unlimited supply of hot water would travel without chocolate powder? “Don’t go all slumber party on me,” I warned as I filled my flask from the nearby brook and gave it a shake to start the heating process. “We have a job to do.”

  Bounty stuck her tongue out at me, and rummaged in her little travel pack. “I lied,” she said. “I did bring one thing that isn’t a pillow.” She pulled out a small paper bag and shook it triumphantly. “Marshmallows!”

  You have to admire a girl who goes camping without a change of clothing, but remembers the marshmallows. Everyone should have a Bounty Fenetre in their lives.

  –§–§–§–§–§–

  I woke up grumpy. Well, I would, wouldn’t I? I didn’t have a fluffy down-filled pillow like Miss Chainmail Knickers. My neck was all
cricked out of shape by lying flat on my sensible waterproof bedroll. The ground wasn’t damp, incidentally. There hadn’t been any drizzle or dew all night, which is unheard of in the Skullcaps. Bounty woke up with her head nestled comfortably on a bone-dry pillow. I woke up grumpy.

  It wasn’t just my neck. There was the dream, too. I could barely remember it as I awoke to the smell of Bounty doing something horrible to my frying pan, but it had disturbed me all night. I could still hear that trilling giggle, the laugh of a powerful and utterly insane creature with ice-white hair. It chilled me to the bone.

  As did what Bounty was doing to my frying pan. She was surrounded by billowing black smoke. I stared at her, then at the messy charcoal that was stuck to the inside of the pan. “That had better not be my bacon!”

  Bounty smiled guiltily. “Actually, that was your bacon.” She pointed to a sad little pile of crispy black lumps near the brook. “You didn’t say you had bacon. You said you had oatcakes.”

  “I didn’t want you to wake up first and try to cook.” I stretched my neck from side to side in the hope that the numbness would subside. It did, and the soreness set in. “Silly me, I’ll trust you in future.”

  Bounty scraped the new blackened mess from the frying pan on to the grass with the other blackened mess. “This was the oatcakes. I thought it might add some flavour if I fried them.”

  “Object achieved,” I said dryly. “Marshmallows for breakfast, then?”

  “I ate the last of them while I was cooking,” said Bounty. “I needed the energy. You know, you really are grumpy in the mornings. You should get a pillow.”

  Along with a new frying pan. I started packing up my gear. “We’d better get moving. Quench the pan in the brook, will you? And dry it on the grass so I can pack it with my other stuff.”

  “Absolutely,” said Bounty. She weighed the frying pan in one hand. “This is very heavy. You carry this with you all the time?”

  “I like a hot breakfast.” The irony was lost on her. I let it go. No point in instigating a catfight. I tried to bring the conversation back around to the matter of our entirely impossible quest. “Gods tend to be powerful, even unofficial ones. Assuming we can find this Aolpho the Ipostate, how are we going to catch him?”