by Lian Tanner
‘I almost killed her too,’ said Sooli. ‘It is as well I did not. There is power in her, like my great-grandmother, but much more. I think she is very old.’
Pummel blinked. ‘How old? Ten? Twenty?’
In an odd voice, Sooli said, ‘I think she has lived through five hundred winters or more. I think she must be the old Bayam, who went into the Strong-hold to lay the curse.’ She shook her head as if she could hardly believe her own words. ‘That Bayam disappeared when the curse went wrong, and no one knew what had happened to her. They thought she must have died. But perhaps she did not …’
Everyone stared at the chicken in awe – or rather, everyone except Duckling’s grandpa, who looked as if he was trying to calculate just how much a five-hundred-year-old bird might be worth.
Otte said hopefully, ‘If she is the one who put the curse on the Strong-hold, can she take it off again?’
Now that, thought the chicken, is a very good question.
Could she remove the curse? Could she reverse what she had done so many centuries ago?
And if she could, what would it mean for her own people, the Saaf, who had been treated so cruelly for so long? Would it make things better for them? Or worse?
The truth was, she didn’t know. Nor did she know what would happen if she went back to the Strong-hold. Would she still remember who she was? Or would her own curse take hold of her again, and strip her mind of everything except thoughts of earwigs, worms and mice?
She could predict none of it. But one thing she was sure of – her ancient enemy was not finished. And the only things that stood between him and the soul of the land were the magics of the Bayam: the Weaving of Paths, the Wind’s Blessing and the raashk.
By right and by birth, those powers belonged to Sooli. But where there is great peril, one child is far more vulnerable than three. One stick can be broken, when three together will hold.
With a sigh, the chicken flapped up onto Sooli’s shoulder again, leaned her head against the girl’s cheek and closed her eyes.
‘It would be a fine thing to remove the curse,’ said Duckling’s grandpa, with a gleam in his eye. ‘But if we go to the Strong-hold, the Harshman will be able to follow us without difficulty. We would be safer in the Spavey Isles, where I have made my home for so many years. Will this remarkable wind carry us across the ocean, Granddaughter?’
Duckling knew that her grandpa had never been anywhere near the Spavey Isles; he just wanted to get as far away from the Harshman as possible. He wanted to take Duckling, Otte and Pummel with him, to make him rich. Now that he knew about the chicken and Sooli, he’d want to take them as well.
But that didn’t suit Duckling at all.
It didn’t suit Arms-mistress Krieg either. She leaned forward with her sword on her lap and said, ‘This business of the Harshman started in the Strong-hold. I believe it must be ended there.’
‘I beg to differ—’ began Grandpa.
‘Be quiet. I will listen to no more of your scheming.’ Krieg wrapped her fingers around the hilt of her sword. ‘You sold the Young Margrave to the slavers, to get your freedom. When we touch land, I will kill you.’
Grandpa’s eyes widened with dismay. ‘You think that of me, Arms-mistress? No wonder you have been glaring at me so ferociously. Why, I would glare at me too. No, I would do more than glare, I would push myself from this astonishing conveyance and dash myself against the rocks below. I would drown myself in the nearest puddle. I would—’
‘We get the idea, Grandpa,’ said Duckling.
‘I am pleased to hear it,’ said Lord Rump. ‘And if I now defend myself, will you listen? Or have you already judged me?’
Otte spoke up. ‘I have not judged you. They brought you out of the mine in chains, and it was only after they told you they would kill me if you caused trouble that they removed those chains.’
‘That might’ve been a trick,’ said Duckling. ‘But I don’t want you to kill him, Krieg. I know he can’t be trusted, but he’s my grandpa.’
And despite everything, she loved him.
Grandpa made a little bow in her direction, as if he was sitting on a fine settee instead of being blown across the sky on a tarpaulin. ‘So, are we headed for the Spavey Isles? We must not take any risks with young Otte’s life, especially now he is – ahem – Margrave of Neuhalt.’
The muscles in Krieg’s jaw tightened. Duckling waited for Otte to protest, as he had done once before, that he had no intention of being Margrave.
Instead, the boy blinked several times and said, ‘I have always thought that Brun was far better suited to the Faithful Throne than me. But there are things in Neuhalt that must be changed, and I am not sure that he would understand their urgency.’
‘The salt mines,’ said Sooli. ‘The slaves.’
Otte nodded. ‘I will change them, if I can. But I cannot do it from the Spavey Isles.’
‘You mean you will be Margrave?’ demanded Krieg. ‘Truly?’
‘If you will help me, Arms-mistress.’
‘It will not be easy,’ said Krieg. ‘The grafs and grafines—’
‘They think they know me,’ said Otte. ‘But they are wrong.’
‘That’s two people for the Strong-hold,’ said Duckling. ‘Three, including me. What about you, Pummel?’
‘I want to go home to the farm,’ said Pummel. ‘But Arms-mistress Krieg is right. If we’re going to stop the Harshman for good, we have to find out who raised him from the dead. And that person is somewhere in the Strong-hold.’
Duckling nodded. ‘That’s four of us. Sooli?’
The other girl hesitated. Duckling said, ‘You’ve every right not to come with us. Every reason, too. But I don’t think we can beat the Harshman without you.’
She bit her lip, feeling sick about saying this next bit, but knowing she must. ‘If it makes any difference, Pummel and I will give you the raashk and the Wind’s Blessing when we land. Is that soon enough? Better not do it in midair, in case something goes wrong.’
When he heard those words, Lord Rump’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. ‘You are giving away your witchery, Granddaughter? No, I will not allow—’
‘This is nothing to do with you, Grandpa,’ said Duckling. ‘Sooli, are there special words we have to say, or anything like that? Because if there are, I don’t know them.’
Sooli nodded slowly, and glanced at the chicken, who was perched on her shoulder. ‘There are words. I did not know them either, but now I do.’ She paused, and the chicken nipped her ear. ‘Ow!’ said Sooli. ‘All right, I will tell them.’
She grimaced at Duckling. ‘The chicken says—I mean, the old Bayam says that one child is more vulnerable than three. One stick can be broken, where three will hold.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Pummel.
‘It means that if the Harshman captures one of us, the other two will have the power to help,’ said Sooli. ‘It means that the raashk and the Wind’s Blessing are mine, but you and Duckling must take care of them for now.’
‘But the vow,’ said Duckling. ‘We musn’t break it.’
‘The vow was to save Otte,’ said Sooli. ‘While the Harshman is alive he is not yet saved. We will not be breaking the vow.’
With a satisfied squawk, the chicken hopped down onto her lap. Sooli added under her breath, ‘But I am not a stick.’
‘Then it’s settled,’ said Duckling. ‘We’re going to the Strong-hold.’
Her grandpa sighed. ‘I would much rather return to the Spavey Isles. But the dear lad—’ he nodded at Otte ‘— will need my advice if he is to rule wisely. So I too will come to the Strong-hold.’
His voice rose, as if he was addressing an audience of hundreds. ‘And when the Harshman comes after us, we will destroy him once and for all, just as I destroyed the mountain trolls of East Begonia.’
‘Destrooooy,’ murmured the cat in a pleased voice.
‘We will stand together,’ continued Grandpa, ‘and fight for righteousn
ess and glory! We will—’
Pummel leaned towards Duckling and whispered, ‘He didn’t really destroy the mountain trolls of East Begonia, did he?’
‘I don’t think there’s any such thing as mountain trolls,’ replied Duckling.
‘But it makes a good story,’ said Pummel.
Duckling grinned at him. What lay in front of them was far worse than mountain trolls. The thought of facing the Harshman again took her breath away.
But it had to be done. To save Otte, to save Neuhalt, and to save the magic of Saaf.
At least I don’t have to do it alone, she thought. For the first time in my life I’ve got a friend who trusts me. Maybe more than one.
And that was the warmest thought of all.
Shortly after breakfast, First Councillor Triggs received a very disturbing semaphore message from one of his men at the salt mines. The message was garbled, and some of it was downright impossible, but he could understand the important bits.
Half an hour later he stood in front of an Extraordinary Meeting of the Privy Council. His hair was ruffled, he had only one silver ring on each finger instead of two, and the enormous ruby pin in his cravat was upside down.
‘Someone has broken out of the Strong-hold,’ he croaked.
At first, they didn’t believe him.
‘Nonsense, man,’ said Third Councillor Bagon. ‘No one has got out of the Strong-hold in five hundred years. The Saffies keep sabotaging the walls and the gate and everything else, and it holds as firmly as it ever did.’
‘Luckily for us,’ chuckled Second Councillor Whet, smoothing her fur collar. ‘Imagine if the new Margrave discovered what we were doing in his name. Imagine if he found out where the money goes.’
But when Triggs said it again, they began to take notice. Whet slipped off her emerald earrings and put them in her pocket. Bagon hid his diamond cufflinks under the council table, as if the new Margrave might walk in at any moment and demand to see the account books.
‘But who has broken out?’ asked Fourth Councillor Dred. She had only managed to bribe her way onto the Council a month ago, and was not yet as wealthy as the other three. ‘And how? And when?’
‘I do not know how, but it was a couple of weeks ago,’ replied Triggs. ‘Which means the late Margravine kept this information from us in a most dishonest fashion, and the new Margrave has followed her lead. As for who, I believe it was Lord Rump and the two brats, Duckling and Pummel.’
Whet breathed a sigh of relief. ‘That is not so bad. You have given us a fright, Triggs, for no reason—’
‘Plus Arms-mistress Krieg and her son Otte,’ said Triggs.
Whet’s sigh of relief turned into a choking sound. ‘Krieg? Krieg has escaped?’
‘But she will discover the truth,’ whispered Bagon. ‘She will learn that we have been lying all along – that we are not trying to stop the sabotage. That we do not want the Strong-hold to be opened.’ His voice rose. ‘She will discover how wealthy we are; that we have used the city’s money to enrich ourselves and our families. We could be imprisoned. We could be hanged!’
Fourth Councillor Dred pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘It has been a pleasure working with you, dear friends. Unfortunately I have discovered that I cannot afford the time to—’
‘Sit down!’ snarled Triggs, who was beginning to get his wits back. ‘You have not heard the rest of the story. The escapees did not get far. They were captured by the Honourable Traders and taken to the salt mines—’
Bagon’s face reddened. ‘If they were taken to the mines, why did you not tell us immediately? They will be dead soon, if they are not already. You are playing games with—’
‘From whence they escaped a few hours ago,’ said Triggs. ‘Along with every other slave in the mine.’
There was immediate uproar in the Council room. ‘Hunt them down!’ bellowed Bagon. ‘Hunt down all the slaves, but especially Krieg and her friends.’
‘Shoot them!’ shouted Whet.
‘Hunt them down and shoot them!’ cried Dred, who had learned that the best way to get along was to echo everything her fellow councillors said.
‘Too late.’ Triggs spoke so coldly that the others fell silent. ‘If I understand the message correctly, Krieg and her friends may well be on their way back to the Strong-hold.’
For one long, awful moment, the room fell silent. This was their worst nightmare. Arms-mistress Krieg, a woman who could not be bribed, persuaded or threatened into silence, had been a slave in the salt mines, which meant she now knew all manner of things that she was not supposed to know.
Bagon made a low whimpering sound. ‘The late Margravine was not aware of the slavery, and neither is the new Margrave. Perhaps he will not listen to Krieg’s reports? Perhaps he will not believe her?’
‘Of course he will believe her,’ snapped Whet. ‘And so will his regent. We must stop Krieg reaching them.’
Dred nodded enthusiastically. ‘Hunt them down and kill them,’ she repeated, in case they hadn’t heard her the first time.
‘My thoughts exactly,’ said Councillor Triggs. ‘Do not worry, my friends, we have come through a lot together, and we will come through this.’
He smiled viciously. ‘Arms-mistress Krieg, however, will not come through it. And neither will Lord Rump and the three children.’
From a distance, the curse looked like a seething black cloud. Bits of it spread right across the city of Berren, but it was thickest over the massive castle known as the Strong-hold.
Duckling shivered when she saw it. ‘That’s where we’re going,’ she whispered to the Grandfather Wind. ‘Right into the middle of that cloud.’
The Grandfather Wind growled, and the tarpaulin that had carried Duckling and her friends so smoothly across the sky since early yesterday morning lurched sideways.
Pummel grabbed hold of Otte. Duckling wrapped her arms around the cat. Sooli seized the chicken.
Duckling’s grandpa, who called himself Lord Rump, clutched his walking cane with one hand and the tarpaulin with the other, and cried, ‘I trust we are not going to tumble to our deaths, my sweet? I have grown used to this delightful mode of transport. I’d hate it to end badly.’
The only one who didn’t move was Arms-mistress Krieg. She sat with her sword across her lap and her eyes fixed on Otte, ready to snatch the boy up in an instant if he seemed in danger of falling.
But to everyone’s relief, the Grandfather Wind settled again, although it seemed to Duckling that the tarpaulin had slowed a little, as if the wind was reluctant to take them where they wanted to go.
No, not wanted. Duckling definitely didn’t want to return to the Strong-hold, with all its plots and perils. But that was where they must go, and as quickly as possible.
‘Why did the wind toss us about like that?’ asked Arms-mistress Krieg, when they had all calmed down and let go of each other.
Duckling pointed to the black cloud, now directly ahead of them. ‘There. It’s the curse. Can’t you see it?’
Pummel nodded and his honest face turned pale. Sooli chewed her lip. The chicken bobbed nervously, as if there were a dozen things she wanted to say.
‘Naaasty,’ murmured the cat.
But Krieg, Lord Rump and Otte shook their heads.
‘I can see nothing but the city,’ said Otte. ‘Where is the curse? What does it look like?’ His four pet mice, who rode on his shoulder with their noses to the wind, chittered to him, and he tried to stand up, craning his neck for a better view.
Immediately, Lord Rump and Arms-mistress Krieg seized hold of him. The arms-mistress said, ‘Young Ser, you must not put yourself at risk.’
‘Especially not now,’ cried Lord Rump, hanging onto Otte’s wooden leg as if he would never let go. ‘Why, you are the most important person in Neuhalt, though no one but us knows it yet. Your death would be a tragedy.’
Otte sighed, and let them pull him back down again. ‘But what does it look like?’
‘Can y
ou see the Strong-hold?’ asked Pummel.
Otte nodded, and the bag of potion jars he carried around his neck clinked and rattled. His mice clung to his collar, protesting.
‘The curse hangs over it like a thunderstorm,’ said Pummel. ‘Except a thunderstorm can be beautiful, and the curse is ugly.’ He glanced apologetically at the chicken. ‘I’m sorry, but it is.’
The chicken, who only ever spoke to Duckling in dreams, said nothing. But both she and Sooli looked as though they would rather be anywhere else in the world.
‘Ugly or not,’ said Lord Rump, rubbing his hands together, ‘it seems we must land soon and prepare ourselves. We have all managed to get a little sleep, but we need clean clothes, a good feed and a bath before we approach the Strong-hold. Then we will scout out the situation and—’
‘We haven’t got time for all that, Grandpa,’ said Duckling.
Lord Rump raised an eyebrow. ‘There is always time for preparation, my sweet. I seem to remember it was one of the very first lessons I taught you. We do not dash willy-nilly into the heart of a problem. We creep up on it and inspect it from all sides before we do anything.’
‘We haven’t got time,’ Duckling said again. ‘The Harshman’ll be coming after us as quick as he can. We have to get into the Strong-hold and find out who raised him from the dead, and how we can send him back to his grave before he—’
Her grandpa interrupted her. ‘Can the Harshman fly from the south of Neuhalt to the north? Can he summon the wind to carry him, as my oh-so-clever granddaughter has done? No? Then he must walk all the way from the salt mines to Berren, and that is a goodly distance. We have all the time in the world.’
‘Time for food, yes,’ said Sooli, in the slight accent that suggested Neuhaltese was not her mother tongue. ‘But clothes—’
Lord Rump held up a hand to silence her. ‘Clothes are just as important as food, young lady. After all, who would take us seriously if we entered the Strong-hold looking like this?’
It was hard to win an argument with Grandpa. He knew too many tricks for coming out on top, most of them sneaky and quite a few of them illegal.
