by Lian Tanner
You’ll never believe what’s happened, Ma. Things got off to a rocky start, but I’m all right now, as you can see from the enclosed twenty-five miseries.
He took a moment to roll those same miseries between his fingers. Today had been so full of outlandish events that he was still half-dizzy from it all. He had fallen to the depths, and climbed back to the heights. And now Lord Rump had given him an advance on his first pay packet, so he could send some money home.
I have fallen in with good people, and they might’ve found me a job. Tomorrow I’m going to the Strong-hold to see the Margravine! If it works out, you can write to me there. I’ll send more money as soon as I can.
I have to go now. Lord Rump said I should write tonight because I might be too busy later. He said he’d post this for me if I got it done in time.
Your loving son,
Pummel
Half an hour later, Duckling stood in the doorway of Lord Rump’s study, watching him untie the string around a small parcel.
‘Is that the letter he wrote to his ma?’ she asked.
‘Mm-hm.’
She watched for a bit longer. ‘What’re you doing with it?’
Grandpa winked, but said nothing. With the letter flat on his blotter, he slipped a jeweller’s glass over his eye and set to work.
Duckling felt a twinge of conscience over the boy asleep in her bed. But not for long. Grandpa despised consciences. He said they were for fools. He said that family (which meant him and Duckling) was the only thing that mattered, and that everyone else could be cheated, stolen from or betrayed without a second thought.
Pummel’s a goner, Duckling told herself. But it’s not too late to save Grandpa.
And right there and then she decided that, as soon as the boy had gone off to be the Young Margrave’s companion, she’d drag Lord Rump away from Neuhalt, just as she had dragged him out of Spoke.
Deep inside the Strong-hold, in that same small, hidden room, the same woman took another trio of pins from her pocket. They were pitted with rust, as if they had been buried for many years, but the woman did not hesitate. She was committed now, and must go ahead with each part of the noble Mystery, or else suffer the consequences.
This time there were no words to be said. Just the drops of blood from her finger, and a careful rhythm tapped out on the edge of the table.
When it was done, the woman slid the pins into a fold of her sleeve, and left the room.
The hawk in the rafters flexed its claws impatiently. In the crypt, the bones began to form themselves into the shape of a man …
DO YOU CONSORT WITH SPIES OR ASSASSINS?
Pummel had seen the Strong-hold from a distance, and thought he knew what to expect. But when he stepped from the hired street-rig at nine-thirty the following morning, with Duckling and Lord Rump beside him, he almost fell to his knees in awe.
The Strong-hold rose like a cliff above him, with a stone wall around the outside. There were turrets and battlements, and the tiny figures of guards so high up that Pummel had to crane his neck and squint into the sunlight. Even then all he could see were specks of colour, and the occasional glint of a spear blade.
A gust of wind hit him. It was stronger here than in the rest of the city, and it blustered and grumbled around that massive wall as if it was trying to find a way inside.
Pummel clutched at his jacket. Duckling grabbed hold of her skirts. But Lord Rump didn’t seem to notice. As the wind snapped past them, he tapped his cane on the cobblestones and murmured, ‘So this is the famous Strong-hold. Not bad, not bad. It is almost as big as my cousin’s summer house in the Spavies.’
Pummel gaped at him – almost as big! – then quickly shut his mouth so his new friends wouldn’t think he was stupid.
I’m going to see the Margravine, he reminded himself. I’m going to see the Faithful Throne.
He still didn’t quite believe it. But when Lord Rump said, ‘Are we ready?’ he managed to reply, ‘I – I think so.’
Duckling smiled. ‘Yes, Grandpa.’
‘Then let us brave the Strong-hold!’ said Lord Rump.
The huge wooden gates were open, and a line of horse-drawn carts was waiting to enter, carrying firewood, sheep, sacks of wheat, cages full of ducks and chickens, bags of potatoes and apples, baskets of eels and crates of hops.
Lord Rump inspected the carts with great interest. ‘You see, children, how there are no street-rigs among them, no gas-fuelled carriages? Such things simply do not work within the Strong-hold. Engines stop as they pass through the gate. Watergas trickles away unburnt. Within those mighty walls, all our modern conveniences are useless.’
‘But it’s not witchery,’ Pummel said quickly. ‘It’s sabotage.’
‘Of course it is, lad,’ said Lord Rump, in soothing tones. ‘Of course it is.’
One of the gate guards had broken away and was marching across the cobblestones to meet them. He wore a long grey coat, like the men of the Home Defence, but his brass helmet had only a single spike.
‘Business?’ he snapped. His coat blew out behind him in the wind.
‘Lord Rump, Ambassador of the Spavey Isles, to see Her Grace the Margravine. With two companions.’
The guard scowled and held out a white-gloved hand. ‘Document of Permission from the Privy Council?’
Lord Rump handed over a letter, along with something else that Pummel couldn’t quite see.
The guard coughed, slipped his hand into his pocket, then inspected the letter. He turned it over and studied its back; he raised it to the light. The wind tried to whisk it away, but the guard kept a tight hold.
When he was satisfied, he gave the letter back to Lord Rump and snapped, ‘Identity cards.’
Pummel’s identity card had been stolen along with the haversack and Ma’s coins. But Lord Rump had managed to get a new one for him overnight, with all the stamps and signatures, and the official seal on the bottom.
‘Are you carrying weapons?’ demanded the guard. ‘Poisons? Knives? Garottes?’
‘Definitely not,’ said Lord Rump.
‘Do you consort with Saffy saboteurs or assassins?’
Lord Rump looked revolted by the idea. ‘We would not dream of it!’
Without another word, the guard spun on his heel and began to march towards the open gate. The three visitors hurried after him, with their hair blowing in all directions.
It was then that Pummel saw the cat. It must have been hiding under a cart, because one moment there was nothing, and the next there was a grey streak darting through the gateway into the Strong-hold.
No one else seemed to have noticed. The guard stopped just outside the gateway and bellowed, ‘Lord Rump of the Spavey Isles to see Her Grace the Margravine. Plus two.’
A hand beckoned them forward.
Lord Rump brushed invisible specks of dust from his waistcoat, and straightened his cravat. Duckling checked her fingernails.
It was only a cat, thought Pummel. Cats probably go in and out all the time. Just like the carters.
He checked his own fingernails and brushed his hair out of his eyes. The hand beckoned them again.
Lord Rump cleared his throat. ‘Stay close, children.’
He and Duckling have been so good to me, thought Pummel. I won’t let them down. I won’t let Ma down either. If I get this job I’m going to be the best companion possible.
And with that, he took a deep breath, raised his chin and followed Lord Rump and Duckling into the Stronghold.
THE STRONG-HOLD
Grandpa had offered to leave Duckling back at the house, but she’d refused. ‘I’m not letting you out of my sight until we’re safely away from Neuhalt,’ she’d whispered.
‘You worry too much, my dear,’ Grandpa had chuckled.
No, I don’t worry nearly enough, thought Duckling, as the three of them entered the Strong-hold.
The wind died immediately. So did the roar of the city. Duckling’s skin prickled, and her instinct told her to
turn around and run back the other way. But Grandpa was here and she wouldn’t go without him. So she kept walking.
The man who’d beckoned them looked as if he’d stepped out of a history book. He wore a boiled-leather jerkin, homespun stockings that sagged at the knees, and a sword. He inspected them wordlessly, then led them through a stone tunnel to an enormous, bustling yard.
‘Third bailey,’ he said. ‘Come.’ And he set out across the yard with Grandpa, Duckling and Pummel hurrying after him.
The third bailey was as busy as Tooth and Claw – though no one in Berren’s favourite marketplace would dream of dressing in such old-fashioned clothes. As the cart drivers unloaded their goods, dozens of men in tunics and stockings grabbed hold of barrels and rolled them away. Women in ankle skirts, aprons and headdresses carried sacks on their shoulders. A snot-nosed boy drove a dozen geese across Duckling’s path; there were chickens everywhere.
Grandpa inspected it all with keen eyes. ‘This, my dears, is exactly how the people of Neuhalt lived five hundred years ago. While the rest of the country has moved on, the Strong-hold has not.’ A thought struck him. ‘I wonder if my beloved papa’s watch—’
He flicked open the gold timepiece he’d stolen from a rich merchant, and nodded. ‘Yes, it stopped ticking as we passed through the gate. And it will not start again until we leave.’
‘Sabotage,’ whispered Pummel.
Duckling didn’t care about sabotage. She was too busy working out where everything was, in case she and Grandpa had to come back this way in a hurry.
Blacksmith over there, she thought, as chickens scattered out of their path. And stables – at least, it smells like stables.
‘Second bailey,’ grunted their guide, leading them through a gateway into a slightly smaller yard filled with laundry tubs, clotheslines and the smell of roasting meat.
From the outside, the Strong-hold had looked like a single massive tower. Now Duckling could see that it was five separate towers. Each of them was huge, and their shadows fell heavily across the visitors.
‘First bailey,’ said the guide. He pointed to the different towers, naming them one by one. ‘Bear Tower. Hawk Tower. Wolf Tower. Lynx Tower. And that is the Keep.’
The Keep loomed over everything, as if trying to prove its importance. Stone gargoyles glared down from its corners. Stone steps led up to a massive wooden door.
At the top of the steps, their guide handed them over to a different man.
Duckling tugged at Lord Rump’s waistcoat. ‘We don’t have to go any further,’ she whispered. ‘We could leave Pummel here and turn back.’
Grandpa shook his head in mock dismay. ‘Where is your spirit of adventure?’ he murmured. Then he raised his voice and cried, ‘Onward, my good Ser! Take us to Her Grace!’
Their new guide led them into the stony heart of the Strong-hold, where there were no windows, and the rooms were lit by rushlights and candles.
Men and women ran hither and thither carrying trays, chamber-pots and armfuls of linen. Every wall was as thick as Duckling was tall. Every door looked as if it would lock behind them and keep them there forever.
‘Isn’t it wonderful!’ whispered Pummel.
‘It certainly is,’ Duckling replied, smiling.
At last they were led up a staircase to another set of doors. Here the light came from candles on iron spikes. The two men who stood guard wore helmets and gauntlets, and had little metal plates sewn to their tunics.
‘Lord Rump of the Spavey Isles to see Her Grace,’ said their guide. ‘And two.’
One of the door guards raised the visor of his helmet and inspected Grandpa. ‘Weapons?’
‘Definitely not,’ Grandpa replied, thumping his cane on the floor.
The man and his companion grabbed hold of the doors and hauled them open. ‘Lord Rump of the Spavey Isles to see Her Grace the Margravine,’ bellowed the guard. ‘And two.’
Grandpa took a step forward and sighed with delight. ‘The Great Chamber!’
Duckling’s first impression was of a den full of wild animals. She saw teeth and blazing eyes; she saw claws raised to attack, and lumbering figures.
Bears! she thought. She was about to grab hold of Grandpa’s sleeve and drag him away when the candlelight wavered. Someone roared with laughter—
And Duckling realised that the bears were dead, their eyes were made of glass and their moth-eaten bodies were placed around the edges of the chamber like sentinels. The rest were just men and women in fur cloaks and old-fashioned leggings.
Her frantic heart slowed a little, and she followed Grandpa and Pummel into the Great Chamber.
It was lit by hundreds of candles and two massive fireplaces. The ceiling was blackened from centuries of smoke, and so were the stuffed bears. A crowd of people surged back and forth across the rush-covered floor, with lean dogs prowling and growling between their legs.
Along the walls of the chamber was a line of shields and axes. Above them, the stuffed heads of idle-cats, slommerkins and quignogs snarled down at Duckling. And above the stuffed heads hung row after row of ancient flags, most of them torn and bloodstained.
‘Behold the glories of the past,’ murmured Grandpa.
And the fleas of the past, thought Duckling, squashing something that was biting her arm. And the nastiness too, I reckon. The sooner we’re out of here, the better.
The surging of the crowd had opened up a corridor down the middle of the Chamber. The dogs were called to heel. Hundreds of faces turned towards the newcomers.
‘Grafs, grafines, landgrafs, landgrafines, et cetera,’ murmured Grandpa. ‘And every one of them a trained warrior. Keep your backs straight, children. If you catch someone’s eye, bow your head politely.’
Then he set off down the corridor of people towards a black-draped platform with a black throne at the top of it.
Duckling bowed to everyone she saw. Both men and women carried swords, and most of them had scars on their faces and arms. They smelled as if they hadn’t washed for several years.
If we run back the way we came, thought Duckling, it’ll take us at least ten minutes. That’s if no one tries to stop us.
In front of her, Lord Rump paused, bowing to an old man who was missing his right eye. ‘Long life to the Margravine,’ growled the old man. ‘Victory to the Bear.’
‘Well said, Ser!’ cried Grandpa. ‘My thoughts exactly!’
But when Duckling and Pummel caught up with him, he whispered out of the corner of his mouth, ‘The bear was the symbol of old Halt-Bern, and these good people cling to it still. But then, I suppose they must have something to occupy their thoughts. That man has never been outside the Strong-hold. He was born here and he will die here, just like his ancestors. It is the same for every single one of them, from the Margravine right down to the most humble servant. They are stuck inside these walls forever.’
He straightened his waistcoat. ‘Prepare yourselves, children, to approach the Faithful Throne. Your smile could be a little more convincing, Duckling. And you, Pummel, should close your mouth. Gaping like a fish is not polite. No, you will not get stuck forever – remember the carts we saw? And the Privy Councillors who go in and out twice a week? That’s better. Heads high, both of you. We are about to meet the Margravine of Neuhalt.’
THE MARGRAVINE
The Margravine of Neuhalt looked as if she was carved from ironwood. Her fair hair was plaited tightly against her head. A string of bears’ claws hung around her neck, and a scar twisted across her chin.
An unsheathed sword rested on the arm of her throne.
Beside the Margravine on a low stool sat another woman, with a long pale face. Her scar cut across the corner of her mouth, which made her look as if she was smiling. But she wasn’t.
Half a dozen soldiers stood in a semicircle around them.
Grandpa made an ambassadorial bow, clicking his heels loudly. Duckling curtseyed. Pummel made the plain-country-boy bow Grandpa had taught him that morning.
‘Welcome to the Strong-hold,’ snarled the Margravine. ‘And the Faithful Throne.’
‘Your Grace does us great honour.’ This time, Grandpa bowed so low that his corset, worn specially for the occasion, creaked like a ship in a gale. ‘The fame of the Faithful Throne has spread across the oceans to the Spavey Isles and beyond. I never dared hope I would see it for myself.’
The woman on the low stool said something that Duckling didn’t catch. The Margravine growled an introduction. ‘My cousin, the Grafine von Eisen.’
‘Delighted,’ said Grandpa.
The Grafine ignored him.
Duckling glanced at the walls. Maybe if we ran forwards – no one would expect that. We could go round the throne and out that door at the end.
‘This is the boy?’ demanded the Margravine.
‘Yes, Your Grace,’ said Grandpa. ‘His name is Pummel and he is the very best I could find. There is not a more loyal, more honest citizen in the entire country of Neuhalt. He would make a fine companion for the Heir.’
Pummel went scarlet. The Margravine glared at him, as if he’d pushed his way into her presence without permission, and she was half-inclined to send him straight to the chopping block.
In the body of the chamber, the grafs and grafines bent over their dogs, or took a sudden interest in the bloodstained flags. But their eyes flicked towards Pummel, and their feet and voices stilled, as if they didn’t want to miss anything.
The Margravine studied Pummel for what felt like five minutes or more. Then she studied Lord Rump and Duckling for another five minutes. No one moved or spoke. At the far end of the chamber, a dog whimpered and was quickly hushed.
Pummel was pale now, instead of scarlet. Grandpa was growing nervous, though only Duckling would have seen it. Her own heart had started to race again.
Maybe if Grandpa runs forward and I run back, she thought.
At last the Margravine said, ‘So. Pummel. You are honest and loyal?’
