Stargazy Pie

by Victoria Goddard

  Mr. Benson let out a shriek as he landed on the floor, curling up around himself. I winced in strong sympathetic reaction. The wizard did not appear hurt, though she was very angry. She jumped to her feet with balletic grace and glared at me.

  The venom in her expression held me fixed. I caught my breath.

  There was an odd feeling to the air, thunderstormy and airless. My throat was closing, my nose filling again with mucus. I wasn’t sneezing but unable to look around, to speak, to think clearly.

  I raised my hand to my mouth automatically, trying to cover my nose and mouth with the glove I was still clenching. The ring knocked against my teeth and the constriction eased enough for me to gasp several breaths. Magic.

  Her eyes narrowed. One hand lifted to the emerald pendant, gripping the stone with white fingers. I stared at her hands, fighting again for breath. Her fingernails were dirty. The ring seemed to be buzzing weirdly. Perhaps that was my head. I felt dizzy with lack of air. The port wine and dust from the passage-way and the fine powder Violet had dumped on my head were combining to choke me. My hand felt heavy. I wanted to drop it down, drop myself down, lie down at her feet next to Mr. Benson.

  Her lips turned up into a smile with nothing of merriment or courtesy in it. My head drooped away from her intense eyes, pale as Miss Shipston’s and even less sane. Her fingernails were really remarkably dirty. Her nails were painted a glossy lacquer, pale silver like a fish scale. Against her sallow skin they looked like the herring scales from the stargazy pie. The emerald seemed almost to be glowing between her fingers.

  Miss Carlin down in the kitchen had fingernails like that, I thought. She wasn’t wearing green and purple, wasn’t dressed as a lady, but she had been—

  “That’s it,” the woman before me said, her voice soft and caressing. “Step closer, darling.”

  I tried to shake my head, tried to step back. Mr. Benson was at my feet. I couldn’t step onto him. Stepped forward to get away from his legs.

  “One more,” she murmured, hand massaging the stone. “You’d do that for me, wouldn’t you?”

  With great effort I raised my eyes from her hand to her face, trying to muster the air to repudiate her, reject her, but as soon as I lifted my head I was caught again in her sharp pale glittering intensity. The air felt close and thick around me, ears echoing thunderously and field of vision narrowed onto her face. I held the ring pressed against my lip, the metal throbbing with my blood. I was so dizzy. Her eyes were so much like Miss Shipston’s—her hands like the undercook Miss Carlin’s—her fingernails like fish scales—

  “My darling,” she said, her melodious voice cutting through my racing heartbeat like fish underwater. I gasped silently, shallowly. The air was so thick. “Give me your hand. That’s it. That’s it.”

  She spoke as if I were a child, I thought with faint indignation, but not coherently enough to prevent myself from dropping my hand from my mouth.

  As I slowly extended it she smiled deeply at me, reached out with her fish-scale fingers to caress my hand, draw off the soiled glove. I perforce stepped closer, until I could smell the intense lilac-and-sweet-pea perfume she wore, a smell that seemed to go straight to some place behind my eyes. I tried to tug my hand away from hers, but she merely drew me closer.

  And then, as seductively as Lark had ever made love to me, she kissed me deeply—and pulled off the ring.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I’m not sure I can say I sneezed so much as I exploded.

  All the pent-up reaction to all the magic in the Talgarths’ house, the enchantments the wizard had been trying to wrap me in, the wireweed and the illusions and the lights and the talcum powder and the dust and the port wine and the sweet peas and the lilac—

  I don’t think I shall ever forget her expression.

  She didn’t resist when I grabbed the ring from her hand and shoved it back on my finger. She didn’t protest when I grabbed the emerald pendant from around her neck, breaking the chain and no doubt bruising her neck. She was still shuddering, one hand touching the moisture on her face with little revolted motions, when I bent down to retrieve the largest piece of decanter from the floor.

  Mr. Benson was out cold, under what spell or distress I didn’t know. I pulled off his decorative sash and used it to bind the wizard’s hands, and then, remembering a few comments in my early History of Magic classes, gagged her with my decorative cuff of Orchpoint lace, which ripped off handily with the assistance of the jagged shard. She finally opened her eyes when I pulled the knot tight, glaring at me. I hastily picked up the shard again, and she swallowed hard.

  I hesitated then, prisoner in one hand and makeshift knife in the other, stuffed up but no longer sneezing, awkwardly half-aroused despite myself and half-disgusted by everything. I turned the wizard around, shoving her towards the door into the dining chamber. It was designed to open when prodded with a foot (further evidence of the Talgarths’ cost-cutting measures, as in a proper Astandalan house the doors would have opened by magic), but I had to really kick it to get it open.

  The reason for this was evident as soon as I did get it open, for one of the chairs was thrown across the door. I kicked this out of the way, propelled my prisoner inside, and stopped in the doorway in astonishment.

  The great sturgeon lay dismembered in the middle of the table. It looked so thoroughly dismembered, in fact, I wondered for an incredulous moment whether someone had sat in it. When I saw the backside of Dame Talgarth’s dress, with the saffron sauce streaking her from floor to waist, I didn’t know what to think.

  Dame Talgarth was in the process of throwing herself at Dominus Alvestone, fists raised and punching wildly. Mr. Dart was trying to pull her off, hampered by only being able to use one of his arms. One of the maids and two of the footmen were having hysterics in the corner. All three of them were in dishevelled states of undress, with food and wine stains liberally evident. The other footmen did not seem in evidence.

  I looked around. Miss Figheldean was bent over a puddle of pale lavender in the corner I took to be Miss Woodhill. Mrs. Figheldean was nowhere in sight, nor was the Honourable Rag, nor Mrs. Etaris nor Violet nor the rest of the servers. Nor any cultists.

  There was Domina Ringley, the only one to notice our arrival. She stood on the table, one foot on the sturgeon’s head and her hands full of the clover-like wireweed blossoms. The room was full of thick scent and heavy magic, and I sneezed. The wizard shook horribly in my grasp.

  Domina Ringley lifted the flowers in her hand like an offering to the gods. She took a deep breath, preparing to say something, staring fearsomely at us. I held my breath in astonishment. The wizard shook again, and I realized that she wasn’t shuddering with horror but with laughter.

  I did the only thing I could think of, and hurled the decanter at Domina Ringley. She ducked away from it, slipped in the sturgeon, and landed breathless full length on the table. One remaining epergne went sailing off onto the marble floor with a tinny ringing sound.

  “Silver plate,” Mr. Dart said, turning his head at the sound. “Oh—hallo—Domina Ringley’s down—”

  I’d had to release one hand from the wizard to throw the decanter, and now she twisted fully out of my grasp and ran towards the table. I let out an exclamation and set out after her, but Mr. Dart was faster, and clubbed her with his stone arm. I slipped on something, gasped, and skidded against the wall. I tipped through another doorway and landed hard several steps down, on top of someone who said, “Ooof,” with great feeling.

  “Mrs. Etaris?” I said hesitantly, catching my breath.

  “You keep arriving so unexpectedly, Mr. Greenwing,” said she, setting me upright with sturdy movements.

  “What just happened?”

  “I could ask you that, except I can smell the perfume on you and I heard the sneezing, so I suspect a partial ensorcellment.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Violet and I entered the dining chamber to find that Domina Ringley was beginning
the sacrifice to the Dark Kings under cover of her fake illusions.”

  “What—Domina Ringley—fake illusions?”

  “Do keep up, Mr. Greenwing. Of course Domina Ringley is involved with the cult. You were the one to say so.”

  “Really?” I said, as she set off at a good pace down the hallway. “Uh—where are we going?”

  “The drawbridge, of course.”

  “Oh, of course.” I stumbled on a shallow stair. “Could you explain a bit more about what’s happening, please?”

  She made a turn without hesitation, as sure-footed as when going through Ragnor Bella’s back alleys. Her next words pushed my curiosity about that out of mind.

  “Very well, then. Your friend Violet is clearly acting as an Indrilline agent, though I must admit I don’t believe all of her tale on that front. You gave me the clue, Mr. Greenwing, when you said you thought Domina Ringley was growing wireweed under pretence of growing out new species of vetch for Justice Talgarth’s sweet pea breeding programme. Watch your step here.”

  I rebounded off the wall and followed her more circumspectly, rubbing my nose. The passageway was dim and narrow, but not dusty; I found I could breathe much better. “I’m afraid I’m not following you.”

  “This part is straight-forward,” she said critically, looking both ways before opening a door onto a brightly lit passageway, scurrying across what I realized belatedly was the main public hall of the Talgarths’ house, and into another dark passage on the other side. “Essentially, I was thinking over what I’d heard from Magistra Bellamy about the stone, your Miss Redshank’s reaction when I gave it to her, and her reaction again when I told her it was not the source of magic, and—Mr. Greenwing, are you all right?”

  “No, I feel dizzy,” I said. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Etaris. I find the air here hard to breathe.”

  “Of course you do,” she said in a much more sympathetic voice. “I should have remembered. We’re nearly there, at any rate.”

  “Why the drawbridge?”

  “Shh!” We stopped before a closed door so she could press her ear to it and listen. I watched her in puzzlement before something I’d studied in Architecture finally made it through the fog in my brain, and I pushed the small square of wood covering a peephole open.

  Mrs. Etaris smiled gratefully and peered through it.

  “There’s Master Roald,” she whispered. “Hush now.”

  I wasn’t saying anything, so I tried to breathe more quietly. I found another peephole and stooped to look through it. The Honourable Rag was sitting on the floor on top of my periwig, brushing himself down, but just as I focussed on him he turned, paused, and then smiled in greeting.

  “Miss Redshank, I believe. I see why you rejected my invitation. A most fetching outfit.”

  Violet stopped before him. “Master Roald.”

  “You received my message, then.”

  “You need to be more careful; it was nearly lost.”

  “Nearly is only a problem when it’s on the other side.”

  Violet tilted her head to look at him with that cool consideration, the look of the Tarvenmoor duellist—or an Indrilline agent. (The Standard, I thought, inadequately and unhappily. Why did I fall for women like this?)

  The Honourable Rag smiled, leaning back on his hands. The golden ring glinted as he moved. “I’ve paid my year’s dues, I hope you see that.”

  “You are a fool if you think it stops here,” she replied.

  “Is that how you were caught? Being foolish? Or is that only what happened when you met Jemis Greenwing?”

  There was a pause, and then Violet walked forward two steps and slapped him across the face. He blinked at her, smirk finally gone, eyes dangerous.

  Violet spoke with a low and vicious intensity. “Your business is mine because your folly has made it so. My business remains my own. Be the big man in your little backwater, and never let it be known what you did in the back rooms of Orio, and hope to the Emperor that you learn no more of blackmail than you have tasted this summer.”

  His voice was shaky, but I did have to admire the fact that he did continue on: “And Mr. Greenwing?”

  “Perhaps you might try learning from him what honour means,” she said. “Go to: tell everyone you’ve rescued them from the cult. They’ll believe you, I’m sure.”

  And off she strode, leaving the Honourable Rag sitting there on the floor staring after her, until he finally shook his head and stood up, and smiled, and said to the air, “Now there is a woman,” and stalked off the other direction, riffling his curls with one hand as he went.

  ***

  We hastened across the hallway, me retrieving my periwig as we passed it, with jumbled thoughts and sentiments, and in due course arrived at a small square room with a window and a large windlass in it. Mrs. Etaris nodded in satisfaction. “I was quite certain they wouldn’t be leaving this to contemporary magic,” she said. “Mr. Greenwing, will you look out the window and tell me what you see?”

  The window was rather too high for her to see out of. I stretched up to my full height, such as it is, and peered out into the night.

  “It’s nearly dawn,” I said in surprise.

  “Yes, it’s been quite the night. Do you see anyone?”

  I frowned at the moat, calm and quiet in the soft grey light coming from the left. The Talgarths’ front door faced southward, of course. This orientation had originally led across a lawn to the river, but had necessitated the drawbridge after they diverted the Ladybeck for their moat.

  “I don’t see Miss Shipston anywhere.”

  “No?”

  “The lady wizard upstairs had eyes like hers,” I said with a shiver, “all pale and mad.”

  “Did they indeed? The road, Mr. Greenwing.”

  I looked up into the mists on the other side of the river. “There are riders coming—banners—” My mind flashed to the game of Poacher, and my thoughts about how the Green Dragon wouldn’t be witness to—“Mrs. Etaris, it can’t be one of the southern barons revolting, surely not? Those look like—I can’t see the standards—”

  “I’d forgotten you’d been on the edge of all that unrest across the border in West Erlingale,” Mrs. Etaris said. “No, it’s not a war party. It’s Justice Talgarth come home and, if I do not mistake myself, an ambassador of the Lady sent for Miss Shipston. Wind down the windlass, Mr. Greenwing, if you would.”

  “Why would—”

  “Your Miss Redshank is not the only one able to communicate outside the barony,” she said demurely.

  The riders, half a dozen or so of them, halted on the other side of the moat. One rider, corpulent and empurpled, waved them back. Justice Talgarth in his official cape, indicating the distance the drawbridge came down. One of the banners caught the wind: a white unicorn on blue and green spun out, catching the first rays of the sun.

  I sighed with relief at the sight of the Lady’s flag and set my hand to the windlass. The handle turned easily, the drawbridge coming down smoothly. The horses stamped a bit, and one neighed, but the riders were good and kept control. Once it was down Mrs. Etaris nodded decisively.

  “Do we go to meet them?” I asked uncertainly, looking around the little room to see another door, this one undoubtedly leading to the antechamber to the hall where the butler might stand awaiting his master’s return.

  “What are they doing?”

  I looked through the window again. Justice Talgarth was speaking to the other riders, all of whom dismounted. They left one of their number to watch the horses and the rest followed the Justice across the drawbridge. They were about halfway across when the main house door boomed open with a satisfying crash. They stopped.

  The Honourable Master Roald strode out, the gagged and bound wizard in tow.

  Mrs. Etaris opened the door to the antechamber between the windlass room and the front entry, found a wooden chair, and placed it where she could stand and look out the window with me. I discovered the window opened, and slid the pane across
.

  “Justice Talgarth,” said the Honourable Rag, in a clear and carrying voice. The morning breeze tossed his blond curls back so they caught the sunlight. In his scarlet and gold he looked like a prince. Two of the Lady’s people were women; one eyed him most favourably. (The other, who was dressed in a Scholar’s long black robes, hood lined with Fallowven blue, was focused on the wizard.)

  “Master Roald,” replied the Justice. “Dare I ask what has occurred? I had an urgent post from the Chief Constable saying that my wife was under threat from a renegade wizard and that a mermaid was involved!”

  I glanced at Mrs. Etaris, who grinned at me. Her scarf had slipped down again, so I could see her delight. “You didn’t …”

  “Shh,” she whispered, “our voices will carry.”

  I frowned and turned back to the party on the bridge. The Honourable Rag had gathered himself up for a spot of oratory.

  “Justice Talgarth, I feel I am greatly to blame. I encouraged Dame Talgarth to have one final dinner party of the summer, and under the blandishments of Domina Ringley encouraged her moreover to make it a traditional late Astandalan style one, such as she loves but does not often mount in these lesser days.”

  “I am relieved,” I murmured. Mrs. Etaris suppressed a giggle.

  “I did not realize what temptation the occasion would prove to the false nurse attending Domina Ringley—”

  “My sister-in-law has been ill with a lingering chest complaint for several years,” Justice Talgarth said to the chief legate, a short man in silvered mail overlaid with a rich surcoat bearing the Lady’s crest. He had short curly black hair and beard and a strong nose, perhaps hailing from the south of the Western Sea.

  “I see,” said the legate, exchanging a glance with the woman not wearing Scholar’s robes. She nodded thoughtfully.

  “That may be so,” said the Honourable Rag, “but she was abusing that position of trust, and your wife’s hospitality, to rendezvous with another renegade wizard, this one pretending to be a Scholar of Inghail here researching in the barony libraries, but instead inciting some of the local rabble to a trumped-up cult of the old gods.”