“I was goin’ to pay, mistress, honest. But I ain’t got no money.”
“You good for nothing, Stinky Willy, the last thing you need is more drink, ‘specially this stuff, it’s bloody strong,” she said, swiping it out of his hand. “And this was me favourite, I got it when I was in foreign parts - you can’t get as big a bockle as this in the Buckerlins, not for love nor money.”
For his part, Badger padded over to the pathetic excuse for a human being and growled at him from upwind.
“I’m truly sorry, mistress. Please don’t turn me into nothin’ unnatural,” Willy whined.
Gramma poked her stick into his flabby midriff. “I ain’t decided what I’m gonna do with you yet, cock. You could really do with bein’ turned into a human but I ain’t sure I’m up to that big a task.”
She pointed at the bush Willy had crawled out of and spoke a word of magic.
With a squeaky creaking, the branches spread across Willy Clitheroe and compressed around his large frame - Badger would have sworn they shuddered as they touched him. Willy cried out as he was pinned to the ground with only his head free.
“Please, I’m beggin’ you! Get this off me, please.”
Gramma’s face tightened, and she bent down until she was as close to his face as she could bear. “Maybe I’ll do that, Willy Clitheroe, and maybe I won’t. P’raps I’ll ask this bush to close up a little more and see how you like that. All depends on how helpful you are.”
“I’ll do anythin’, I promise. Anythin’,” he said.
Gramma nodded. “Well, you can start by tellin’ me who sent you because, as sure as eggs is eggs, breakin’ into my cottage and smashin’ my clock weren’t your idea.”
Stinky Willy, his head lying in the thin grass of the wood floor, sobbed. “I can’t tell you, mistress. If I do, he’ll kill me.”
“And if you don’t, I’ll kill you. Now make your choice. You speak to me, or I’ll talk to that bush.”
Brianna was a hard taskmaster, driving Bill along at what seemed to be twice the pace of the previous day. If she had any theories about who was following them, she wasn’t prepared to share her thoughts with him. They’d been marching for four hours when she finally relented to his pleading for a rest, so they sat together between the trees by the side of the road.
If he’d been paying attention to his surroundings rather than the pain in his feet and the general injustice of his situation, Bill would probably have appreciated the countryside they were walking through. Well-tended fields lay to left and right and the road was lined with hedges and the occasional autumnal copse such as the one they were hiding in now. His nose crinkled with the sharp, fertile aroma of muck spreading. Brianna had spent several minutes looking along the road in both directions and listening carefully for any sign of other traffic before she was satisfied they were safe.
“How did you get me into your room last night? I was a bit the worse for wear, after all,” Bill said, finally having the courage to ask the question that had been bubbling in his head all morning.
Brianna was gazing out at the road. “What? Oh, it wasn’t so hard. You were pissed but just about capable of putting one leg in front of another, as long as you were holding onto me.”
Moving pictures stamped themselves on Bill’s imagination and his initial excitement at learning that he’d touched her was extinguished instantly by an image of a shambling, shameful drunkard, barely able to climb the stairs.
“I’m sorry,” he said, causing her to abandon her surveillance and look at him.
“It wasn’t entirely your fault, you weren’t to know the beer in The Hanged Man is not only disgusting but also very strong,” she said, with a hint of a smile, “and don’t worry, you didn’t disgrace yourself. I’ve seen, and experienced, much worse. You were quite the gentleman.”
A little bit of Bill was disappointed to hear this but, in the main, he was relieved. His reflection was interrupted by a yell, as a shape appeared from the road and headed for Brianna.
Caught by surprise, Brianna tried to dodge but she was too slow, a glancing blow caught her chin, and she went down. The man spun round and faced Bill. He was average in every way, the very definition of nondescript, but he held a short sword and was twirling it expertly in Bill’s direction.
Pulling his knife from his belt, Bill held it in what he hoped was a threatening pose, but the man advanced on him, ignoring Brianna as she tried to get to her feet. With surprising speed, he leapt at Bill, his sword scraping along Bill’s arm as the boy’s reflexes propelled him sideways. The man grunted, swinging his sword around in a wide arc as he passed.
Bill ducked and thrust his elbow back, catching the bandit in the ribs. The man fell back, and Brianna lunged at him.
But their attacker was fast and Brianna still sluggish. He cuffed her away then, standing over her, raised his sword.
“No!” Bill screamed, dropping his knife and leaping at the bandit who, in an instant, flung the sword from right to left hand so it was pointing at Bill’s chest. The boy instinctively put his hands out in front of himself then, overwhelmed by a surge of white heat, was flung backwards.
He heard a gasp and raised his head as the charred torso of the bandit collapsed to the ground, its arms falling across Brianna’s horrified form.
Chapter 7
Velicity De Veer lay with practised ease on a cloud. In her right hand, she held a bow, in her left an arrow poised to be notched as she gazed into the heavens. Mist covered her modesty, although not her long, shapely, naked legs. She held the pose, looking like a serene goddess.
“Bollocks, the cotton wool’s slipped again,” said a gruff voice. There were approaching footsteps and Velicity could feel the cloud-stuff around her chest being adjusted, causing a slight draught. Ever the professional, she continued to hold her pose and didn’t look down. Frankly, it was better that way.
There was the scratching of pencil on paper culminating in the tell-tale scribble-scribble of details being added and, no doubt, embellished.
“Right, got it," said the voice of Jock Vegetariano, dwarf artist, “that’ll do for today, darlin’. Nice work. See you tomorrow.”
She listened as a canvas was removed from an easel, the footsteps receded, and the door closed.
With as much dignity as possible, Velicity swung her legs from the cotton-wool covered sofa, letting the fake mist spill onto the floor. Checking that the door was properly shut, she stood up, gave her numb fundament a quick rub and hobbled over to her clothes which were piled on a nearby chair. Pulling her dress over her head, she wheezed as her right thigh cramped and she staggered back to the sofa to massage it. Oh, what a glamorous life, she thought, as she pulled on woollen tights and stood up gingerly to slip on her boots.
The Velicity De Veer that left Vegetariano's studio bore little resemblance to the cloud goddess (or, indeed, any of the multitude of mythical beings she’d impersonated that day) and that was how she liked it. Her luxurious hair was tucked into the furry hat on her head, and she walked with the collar of her knee-length coat pulled up around her ears. Celebrity wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, and the particular reason for her notoriety did her credibility in other areas of her life no favours at all.
It had been a long day and the evening was swiftly closing in as Velicity strode through the town towards her apartment on the top floor of The Warren. Wet autumn leaves littered the streets of Montesham, and the county capital looked bleak under a darkening grey sky. The lamplighters were out, carrying their torches and ladders, and Velicity exchanged an anonymous “hello” with one or two as she passed them. Ten minutes later, she reached the entrance to The Warren and pushed open the large oak door.
It was warm and bright inside, the lobby lit by industrial candles in embrasures lining the wall. Behind a polished wooden desk sat Big Pete the security guard, as ever present as the grime, smog and corruption of the city. As soon as he saw her, Pete snapped to attention, his hand smacking the side of his h
ead in salute.
“Evenin’ Miss De Veer. Have you had an henjoyable day, may I ask?”
Velicity unveiled a smile. “A busy day, thank you, Sergeant. How have you been, and how’s Mrs Spleen?”
The big man’s face creased as he beamed in pleasure. “Well, thank you very much for asking, ma’am. Mrs Spleen is very well, although the lumbago still troubles her somethin’ rotten. She always asks me to pass on my regards if I should see you.”
A lie, Velicity knew, but well meant. “That’s kind of her, please present my compliments. I’ve heard a warm massage is good for back ache.”
Pete Spleen’s face went pale as his eyes glazed over. “Oh, er, thank you, ma’am, I’ll be sure to pass that along.”
Reaching the door to the staircase, Velicity turned to see the old boy staring at where she’d just been, his mind elsewhere. Judging by the expression on his white, rigid face, the elsewhere in question was pretty horrific. She’d only suggested a massage, she thought, chuckling.
“Stand down Sergeant!” she said and saw, as the door closed behind her, Spleen snapping out of it and settling back into his chair, wiping his face.
Velicity began climbing the stairs. Some days she regarded having to scale four flights as a welcome opportunity for exercise but, tonight, all she wanted was to collapse in front of the fire and read a book. Her mind wandered as she plodded upwards. Good old Spleen. In common with many old soldiers, he’d served with her father in the various wars that had afflicted their country over the past few decades. Baron Francis De Veer had a greater proportion of the city’s veterans because he actually took care to make sure that as many of his men survived as possible. There was heartfelt loyalty to him from soldiers of all ranks, and that persisted to this day in the guise of men like Spleen and their families, grateful as they were to have a husband, father and son to return from war. Sadly, what made him popular with the common soldier also made him a threat to the established order and his disgrace had been as swift and complete as it was trumped up. She had fallen with him and had been forced to find other avenues to make a living, Jock Vegetariano being one.
Just to complicate matters, Velicity had inherited a gift from her late mother that came with huge responsibility. And it was with her mind on this that Velicity suddenly experienced a feeling of foreboding she couldn’t explain. She quickened her pace on the stairs and was wheezing when she reached the top step and headed for the door to her flat. It was open.
Velicity spoke a word of command, and her outer clothes flew from her frame. She pulled an extending stick out of her boots and snapped it into shape before striding through the threshold, every inch the vengeful Valkyrie.
“If you’re still here, show yourself!” she shrieked.
There was no sound and Velicity knew the burglar was long gone. Deflating herself, she headed straight for her bedroom and the wall of mirrors. She saw herself reflected in the dozens of mirrors in her collection, dozens of shocked and frightened young women staring back at her gazing at the gap - the one blind mirror, its glass scattered on the wooden floor.
As a mirror, it had been useless, too old, too copper in colour. As an object it had been priceless, hiding in plain sight as had the other three. And now it had been rendered powerless by someone who must have known exactly which one to destroy, which could only mean that someone wanted to let chaos back into the kingdom.
They had walked in silence now for hours and darkness was falling. Bill kept looking at his hands, wondering whether they might “go off” again at any moment and ensuring they weren’t pointing at either himself or Brianna. He could only imagine he’d been cursed somehow by Vokes. Perhaps there had been some kind of magic spell cast on the scuttle - the letter had spoken of a sickness curse on the finder if he didn’t hand the scroll to Bill but maybe there had been more to it than that.
He remembered the sense of heat suddenly swelling in his torso, pouring down his arms and out through his hands and shivered. There had been no warning, either for him or anyone else. One moment he’d been vainly resisting an armed bandit and then he was standing over the man’s barbequed remains listening to Brianna screaming.
She’d reacted with understandable shock to the incineration of their attacker. Once she’d recovered a little, she’d insisted that she was mainly angry that they’d lost the chance to question their attacker, but he’d seen the look of terror on her face when he’d stood over her. This helplessness didn’t last long, however, as she’d obviously decided that the chances of Bill’s ineptitude being the cunning disguise of an evil fire-mage intent on her destruction were, on balance, remote. She’d apparently concluded that he was, indeed, just an idiot with exploding hands, so she kept her distance but hadn’t, yet, run off.
For the past couple of hours, she’d been striding ahead. He’d tried to focus on his surroundings to take his mind off what had happened, but his attention had repeatedly wandered from the gathering gloom to her lonely figure. Her long leather coat swayed as she walked, her nose sweeping left and right as she checked the fields on either side for danger. She was an impressive young woman. Scary but impressive.
Bill decided it was time to break the silence. “Brianna, can we talk?”
She carried on striding down the road, a few paces ahead of him, as if she hadn’t heard him speak.
“Come on, we’re nearly at Uxminster,” he said, reading the 2-mile marker like a pro. “Brianna, this is ridiculous!”
She stopped, her shoulders slumped, and she turned around. “You killed a man without even knowing how you did it? That’s ridiculous.”
“How do you think I feel? I daren’t even point at anything in case it happens again.”
He sighed. “Look, I’ve been thinking. It happened when I was really terrified so it could be that it’s triggered that way. So, just keep me safe and I’ll try my best not to go off. How about that?”
Their eyes met, and she finally accepted his innocence.
“Well, I suppose you did tell me you were in combustibles,” she smirked. “Perhaps I should have taken that as fair warning. Come on, I want to get to the Bishop & Actress before it gets too dark, I’m told it’s a lively place.”
Bill watched her stride away into the darkening gloom and wondered just how experienced a woman of the world she really was. He rather suspected he was about to find out.
Chapter 8
Chortley had left the rather battered Sebastian de Grey in the barn and had loosened his bonds so he’d be able, eventually, to make his way to civilisation and to return to his ancestral homeland. Without any money and having had his natural charms somewhat lessened by Chortley’s ministrations, it would take him some considerable time to acquire a horse, so Chortley had bought some breathing space while he looked for his mother.
If you’d have asked him, Chortley would have confessed that he didn’t know why he felt this overwhelming urge to seek her out. Well, actually, if you’d asked him, he’d have probably given you a good kicking. But it was true, so he’d visited the last man to see his mother, de Grey’s father, Haldegard.
All Chortley knew was that he needed to find her, and quickly. She lived, he was convinced of that, but he suddenly felt as though there was a hole in his life that could only be filled by seeing her and understanding. Understanding what? Why she left him as a baby? But he’d barely given that any thought over the years and, even now, he couldn’t find it within him to care. No, it wasn’t that. Revenge? That would make more sense, but his heart wasn’t in that either.
As it turned out, Lord Haldegard De Grey had been somewhat useful, in the end. There had been a lot of bluster and plenty of questions regarding the whereabouts of his precious son, but Chortley had put those to rest with a few well-aimed threats before redirecting the conversation to the subject of his mother. It turned out that there wasn’t much for De Grey to reveal, except the rumour that she’d last been seen riding a horse at speed across the downs, but this had been two years after
she’d originally disappeared. It was, however, all there was to go on and so Chortley had arrived in the village of Winklesdon Major late on a blowy evening.
It was fair to say that the landlord of the only pub in Winklesdon (Major or Minor) was initially less than welcoming. In fact, he’d claimed that they were full, right up to the point at which Chortley informed the man of who his father was and flourished the family seal. Miraculously, space could be found, although it was some time before the landlord considered the accommodation fit for the son of his liege-lord. Even then, to Chortley’s mind, it was barely more than a hovel. There was a discarded skewer in front of the fire grate which belonged to the room’s previous occupants. If Chortley had possessed a heart he might have been concerned about what had become of them, but he simply assumed that they’d, in turn, booted out the people occupying the next best room and so on down the social pecking order. Somewhere in this building, there was either a small room containing two sets of guests squeezed together or the lowest of the low was even now being ejected into the cold night. And so the hierarchy was maintained.
After a barely acceptable supper of bread, hard cheese, and what was probably their best wine, Chortley decided to do the company downstairs the honour of hosting his noble presence. He downed the last of the wine in his goblet, winced a little, and headed for the door.
For a local hostelry on a cold night, it was remarkably quiet in the Count’s Head. At least it was from the moment Chortley entered the room. Everyone in Chortley’s direct line of vision appeared to be rooted to the spot although he got the impression of figures sliding into the shadows to either side.
Chortley had barely sat down when the landlord approached. A big man, clearly used to being the master of his little domain, the Publican repeatedly bowed while taking the order.
“Do you have any decent ales?” asked Chortley.
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