Prince Marcus
second in line to the throne of Gorebreath
Gracie Gillypot
a Trueheart
Gubble
a domesticated troll
Marlon
a bat
Alf
Marlon’s nephew
Auntie Vera
Marlon’s auntie
Prince Albion
Prince of Cockenzie Rood
Prince Arioso
Marcus’s twin brother, first in line to the throne of Gorebreath
Hortense
Albion’s cousin, Dowager Duchess of Cockenzie Rood
Queen Bluebell
Queen of Wadingburn
King Frank
King of Gorebreath
Queen Mildred
Queen of Gorebreath
Queen Kesta
Queen of Dreghorn
Princess Nina-Rose
Princess of Dreghorn
Fiddleduster Squint
a zombie
Shadow
a shadow
Gruntle Marrowgrease
landlord of the Howling Arms
Marley Bagsmith
royal spy appointed by Prince Albion
THE GIANTS
Greatover
Meggymould
Trunkly
THE ANCIENT CRONES
Edna
the Ancient One
Elsie
the Oldest
Val
the Youngest
Foyce
Gracie’s stepsister and apprentice crone
Prince Marcus was asleep. From the other side of the council chamber, his father glared at him; Marcus remained oblivious. His twin, Prince Arioso, older by ten minutes and heir to the throne of Gorebreath, was making his first official speech. Marcus’s eyelids had drooped after the first twenty minutes, and by the end of an hour, he had given up all attempts to stay awake. Fortunately, Arioso was blissfully unaware of his brother’s sleeping form draped over a couple of chairs.
“And I do think,” Arry went on, “that we in Gorebreath are particularly blessed that our subjects are, without a doubt, the most hardworking, loyal, and respectable in all of the Five Kingdoms.”
The variously assorted guests nodded their appreciation and looked pleased with themselves. Marley Bagsmith, who came from Cockenzie Rood and had sneaked in without an invitation, looked sour.
Arioso beamed at his audience. “You can always be relied upon to be loyal, and I know you are respectable and hardworking under all circumstances, and I am truly honored to be your prince. Today, as you well know, is Gorebreath Day, the day when we come together to celebrate our wonderful kingdom and our respectable, hardworking, and loyal subjects, and I am truly honored and ever so delighted to have this opportunity to thank those of you who are here in person for all your hard work and loyalty and respectability, and to end by saying —”
Arioso’s final words were lost. Marcus, dreaming of adventures far outside the borders of the Five Kingdoms, twitched, yelped, and fell off his chair. The guests stared, openmouthed. Arry was shocked into silence. As King Frank rose from his throne, his face purple with anger, Marcus scrambled to his feet. He took one look at his father, muttered an indistinct apology, and made a dash for the door, slamming it behind him. A small bat who had been dozing on top of a statue in the corridor woke with a start as Marcus hurtled past.
“Yikes!” he remarked. “What happened there? Pants on fire?” And he flew after the hurrying prince.
Back in the council chamber, King Frank took a deep breath and held up his hand to quell the speculative murmurs and whispers. “Ladies and gentlemen, please forgive my younger son. He . . . he has . . . he has not been well. Flu. Erm. Yes. Flu. So please excuse him. But in the meantime, I’m sure you’ll wish to join me in thanking Prince Arioso and agree with me that he will be a worthy king of Gorebreath one day.”
“Which we hope won’t be for a long, long time, Father.” Arry had recovered, and the palace guests applauded enthusiastically, hoping that this meant the speeches were finally over and they could head for the royal dining room. Gorebreath Day was traditionally celebrated with excessive quantities of food and drink, and the palace cook had a splendid reputation.
“Indeed. Thank you, dear boy. Thank you so much.” King Frank clapped Arioso on the back. “I have to say that I join you in that hope. But before we end today’s celebrations, I would like to say a few words myself.”
The guests sank back in their seats. Slumped in the back row, Farmer Netherwood elbowed his daughter. “Where’s that Bagsmith fella gone? Skipped, by the look of things. Must have slithered like an eel to get out without me noticing. Right here beside me, he was.”
“Hush, Dad.” Susie Netherwood took royal occasions seriously. “Never you mind what them furriners get up to. Be quiet now, and listen to His Majesty.”
Farmer Netherwood did as he was told with a reluctant grunt. King Frank had produced a sizable handful of notes from his pocket and had already launched into a detailed account of the recent scumball match between Gorebreath and Niven’s Knowe. As he described each and every move with comments, criticisms, and an excessive waving of his arms, even Prince Arioso’s smile began to fade. Queen Mildred sighed. She was worried about Marcus, but there was no chance of finding out what he was up to until his father had finished talking. She sighed again and wished she had asked for an extra cushion.
Outside the palace, Marcus was heading for the stables at a run.
Marley Bagsmith was not a pleasant man. He was small and wizened, and as cunning as a weasel. He had a quick brain but, up until the morning of Gorebreath Day, had never found a position that he felt suited his personality . . . a position that paid well, required little action, and allowed him to spend a good deal of time in an extremely dubious inn called the Howling Arms. Now, however, he believed he had found the perfect occupation. Marley Bagsmith had, as of that very morning, been appointed Royal Spy.
His previous position as third washer of dishes in the Royal Palace of Cockenzie Rood had proved less than satisfactory. The work was hard, the hours long, and the pay minimal. After three days Marley had decided that enough was enough and had walked away from the kitchens with a spring in his step. He did not, however, walk away from the palace. He had been working in the kitchens long enough to notice the splendid fruit and vegetables that were always available, and he had a plan. Swinging around the corner of the huge stone walls, he headed for the royal vegetable gardens; even though it was early, there was already a young gardener carrying a basket and picking handfuls of fresh peas. Marley grinned and fingered the heavy iron ladle he had awarded himself as a going-away present.
Five minutes later it was Marley, now swathed in the official apron of the Cockenzie Rood Royal Gardeners’ Association, who was picking peas. And carrots. And onions. And cauliflowers. And cabbages. He took no notice of the faint groans issuing from a nearby shed and continued to fill the basket while calculating how much he could get for the contents from the local street market. As the total rose, Marley’s whistle grew cheerier, and, when the basket could take no more, he set off at a brisk trot for the back gate. On the way he passed a kitchen maid with an armful of flowers, but she gave no sign of recognizing him.
“You’re a smart guy,” Marley told himself. “Look as if you know what you’re doing, and no one’ll challenge you!” He glanced back as the girl hurried away, then turned — to find himself walking straight into the substantial form of Prince Albion. Vegetables tumbled in all directions as the prince doubled over, clutching his stomach.
“Urf,” he said. “Urf.”
Marley’s mind had never worked so fast. He leaped into the air with
a loud yell, hurling the basket into the distance. “Look out, Your Highness! There may be more of them!”
“What, what, what, what?” Prince Albion went pale. “What? What is it? Where? What’s happening?”
Marley Bagsmith stared over the prince’s shoulder with an expression of extreme ferocity. “Whoever you are,” he shouted, “I’m here to protect our noble prince! Do your worst — you’ll have to deal with me!” Shaking his fist for additional effect, he squinted sideways to make sure Albion was watching.
“Did . . . did someone just try to attack me?” The prince’s voice was trembling.
Marley squared his shoulders. “Indeed, they did, Your Highness. Good thing I was here. My goodness me, yes. Why, those carrots could have done you a lot of damage if I hadn’t thrown myself in the way.”
“Carrots? Oh, dearie, dearie me. Look at them all! And cabbages too! How . . . how terrible to be attacked by a cabbage!” Albion peered around nervously. “Do you think they’ll try again?”
“No, Your Highness.” Marley squinted into the distance. “I’d say I scared them off good and proper.”
The prince sat down suddenly in the middle of the path. Pulling out his handkerchief, he began to wipe his face. “Who can it have been? Oh, my goodness. What a shock! You saved me, you know. I should give you a reward. I’m sure I should.”
Marley Bagsmith’s smile stretched from ear to ear, giving him the look of a lean and hungry wolf.
The prince hastily put away his handkerchief and struggled to his feet. “Actually, now that I come to think about it, maybe I should ask Pa. Or Cousin Hortense. She gets ever so cross if I give rewards without asking.”
Marley’s smile dimmed. King Dowby spent his days in the royal stables or riding over the hills and had no interest in anything that did not have four legs, a mane, and a tail, but Hortense, the dowager duchess, was not a woman who could be easily fooled. “No, no, Your Highness.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t dream of taking a reward for doing my duty. But a job, perhaps . . . that would be a great kindness.” He gave the prince a sly wink. “And you’d not need to ask your cousin about that, would you?”
Albion looked blank. “Aren’t you a gardener?”
“A gardener? What . . . oh, no.” Marley dropped the gardener’s apron onto the path and pushed it away with his foot. An idea floated into his devious and self-serving mind, and he clasped his hands to his chest in a sudden, dramatic gesture. “I was wearing that as a disguise, Your Highness. A disguise, so nobody would suspect I was here to guard my prince from danger.”
The heir to the throne of Cockenzie Rood was not clever. Adding five and eleven was a major challenge, and multiplication sums gave him a rash. All the same, he was beginning to suspect that all was not exactly as it had first appeared. He frowned. “But if you’re not a gardener, why were you in my garden?”
Marley put his finger to his nose and winked again. “Heard a rumor, Your Highness. When I was in Gorebreath . . .” For a moment his imagination failed him, and he hesitated. He had, however, unwittingly struck a chord.
Prince Albion’s eyes narrowed. “Gorebreath? Gorebreath, did you say? Now, that doesn’t surprise me. There’s always been trouble there. I blame Marcus, you know. Arioso’s a splendid chap, simply splendid, but Marcus never has behaved himself properly, and it gives people ideas. Never a good thing. My dear old grandpa used to say that ideas were worse than gunpowder for causing trouble.”
“Exactly, Your Highness.” Marley nodded enthusiastically. “Just so. That’s why I thought I’d have a look around.”
“So were you spying? Are you a spy?” Albion’s watery blue eyes shone.
“Hush — if you’ll excuse me saying so, Your Highness.” Marley’s voice was a confidential whisper. “Let’s keep that word as our little secret.”
The prince blinked. “A spy. Oh, my goodness. How just too terribly thrilling! Did Cousin Hortense ask you here? Did she want you to look after me?”
Marley tapped his nose for the second time. “Not the duchess, Your Highness. It was”— he paused to cough modestly —“my own idea. I’m of the opinion, if you’ll excuse a poor man but one of your most loyal subjects, that we need to be very careful these days. Whispers, rumors . . . one kingdom setting itself against another. Gorebreath, Niven’s Knowe, Dreghorn, Wadingburn . . . all of them are sure to be jealous of Cockenzie Rood, and who can blame them, says I? So I thought to myself, what does our noble Prince Albion need to keep him safe? A spy. So, seeing as today is Gorebreath Day, and the inhabitants of Gorebreath are likely to be overexcited and up to all sorts of things, I came to this here vegetable garden this morning — and what did I find? Trouble. Bad trouble.” Marley shook his head mournfully. “But if I was acting out of turn, Your Highness, you just say the word, and I’ll make myself scarce.”
“A spy. My very own spy.” The prince considered the suggestion. “Hmm . . . I like it! It’s a super idea! So you’ll be watching out for me . . . just me? Not Pa? Or Cousin Hortense?”
Marley bowed. “Just you, Your Highness.”
“Super!” Albion gave a bounce of excitement. “Super-duper! Can you start at once?”
Marley bowed again, and Albion beamed at him. “What can you do first? I know! You can go to Gorebreath and see what they’re saying. See if they talk about me! They have speeches on Gorebreath Day, you know. Lots of speeches! Oh, and you can see what else they are up to. We’ve got Cockenzie Rood Day next Thursday, and Cousin Hortense’ll be away in Wadingburn. She’s ever so cross about it because it means Pa’s officially in charge, and he never remembers to do anything she tells him. She’s written everything down, and I’m to check that it gets done properly.” A shifty expression floated across the prince’s large pasty face. “Don’t tell, but I’m thinking of changing things. Just a teensy little bit, so everyone knows how special I am, and how I can make decisions all by my very own self. Pa won’t mind. He’ll never know, actually. He’ll be off on a horse somewhere.” Albion waved a pudgy hand to dismiss his father. “I’ve got some super-duper ideas. Trumpets, marching, singing, talent competition — that sort of thing. Been looking in the history books, you know, and they did things differently in the old days. Much more fun! Songs in honor of the prince, and dances in honor of the prince, and competitions for the prince to judge, and all sorts of things! But you can see what goes on at Gorebreath and tell me all about it. Come here tomorrow morning, here in the gardens. Super-duper! Oh! I nearly forgot. What’s your name?”
Given his new status as a spy, Marley decided the truth would be best avoided. “Bill Barley, Your Highness. And honored to work for such a noble as you. Erm . . . might I ask what the financial situation might be?”
His new employer thrust a hand into his pockets and brought out a collection of loose change. Seeing gold among the silver, Marley’s eyes gleamed. “That’ll do nicely for the time being,” he said as casually as he could. “Expenses extra, of course, but Your Highness will be expecting that.”
Prince Albion nodded. “Expenses extra. Of course. Super. Now, run along, Bill Barley — WHAT’S THAT?”
The prince had heard a moan. A loud moan, followed by another, and then another.
Marley cursed under his breath. Would the under-gardener point him out as his attacker? Darting to the shed, he pulled the door open and the boy staggered out.
“Hit me over the head, they did! Hit me over the head!”
Prince Albion gave a shrill scream. “Help! Call the guard! We’ve been invaded! Help! Help!” And he set off toward the palace as fast as his portly legs would carry him.
The under-gardener propped himself against the shed wall but gave no sign of recognizing Marley. “Did you see them, sir, did you see them? Loads of them, there was, all armed to the teeth!”
Marley heaved a sigh of relief. “Terrible times we live in,” he agreed. “Terrible. You’d best get down to the kitchen and get that bump seen to. I’ve got a job to do. Private business for H
is Highness. Ta-ta for now!” And jangling the coins in his pocket, he slid through a gap in the hedge and set off for Gorebreath.
Far away from the Five Kingdoms, in the House of the Ancient Crones, Gracie Gillypot was untangling a tangled skein of scarlet wool. Behind her two looms were steadily clicking and clacking; on one lay a half-finished length of scarlet cloth, on the other the web of power shone with a smooth silver gleam.
“No trouble showing on the web,” said the Oldest, as she threw the shuttle steadily to and fro. “Just like silk.”
“Be quiet, Elsie.” The Youngest frowned. “Don’t tempt fate. The last thing I want to do just now is worry about the Five Kingdoms. If the web is looking nice and peaceful, be grateful for small mercies, is what I say. We’ve got another five cloaks to make before Cockenzie Rood Day, and I don’t see how we’re going to get them done.”
“Don’t go expecting me to do any overtime,” said a grumpy voice from a shadowed corner of the room. “I’m worn out already. And Gracie’s late getting our tea. Again.”
Gracie put down the wool and stood up. “Sorry, Foyce. I’ll go and put the kettle on.”
“Humph.” Foyce settled herself back in her armchair and closed her eyes. “Lazy little worm.”
Elsie tut-tutted disapprovingly. “Now, now, Foyce. That’s no way to speak about your sister.”
“Stepsister,” Foyce growled. “My dad made the biggest mistake of his life when he married her mom. She had the sense to lie down and die, but the nasty little worm came along as part of the deal, and we were stuck with her. No relation of mine would ever be such a mimsy-wimsy namby-pamby —”
“That’s enough.” The Youngest was sitting up very straight, her eyes flashing. “Gracie’s a Trueheart, and what’s more she’s our much-loved adopted niece, so we’ll have no more of your sour remarks, Miss Foyce Undershaft. You’re here for a reason, in case you’ve forgotten — you’re here to put your wicked ways behind you and learn how to be good. That’s what Elsie and I had to do, and if we managed it, then you can too!”
The Music of Zombies Page 1
