Foyce was at the point of refusing to do anything of the sort when she saw Edna’s cold blue eye watching her. Grumbling, she sat herself in front of the loom.
“So I should hope,” Edna said sharply. “And we’ll have no more of that kind of behavior, thank you. Val, shall I take a turn at the web of power?”
The Youngest was frowning at the fine silvery fabric in front of her. “I can’t quite make it out,” she said. “Sometimes I think it’s perfectly smooth, and sometimes there seems to be a kind of roughness, although I don’t think it’s anything to worry about.”
Edna bent to inspect the web, and Elsie came to stand beside her. “Hmm. I see what you mean.” The Ancient One ran a gnarled finger over the quivering material on the loom. “I’d say whatever’s causing this is a long way off. It’s certainly not in the Five Kingdoms. It could be as far away as the Outer Mountains.”
“The dragons?” Val suggested. “Could they be up to something? Or the giants?”
Elsie snorted. “The giants? They haven’t moved a step for at least a hundred years. Much more likely to be some kind of Dark Magic.”
Edna was looking thoughtful. “Possibly. Still, there’s no discoloration. None at all. So whatever it is can’t be dangerous, or at least it won’t be endangering the Five Kingdoms.” She sighed and sat down in the large armchair beside the loom. “We’ll just keep an eye on it. Elsie dear, perhaps you’d like to help Foyce?”
Foyce, who had unraveled no more than three lines of the scarlet cloth, hastily covered the remaining butter stains with her handkerchief and began to weave as fast as she could go. Elsie gave the handkerchief a suspicious glare, but before she could make any comment, there was a loud squeaking and a bat zigzagged in through the window.
“Ciao! Greetings! And a very good evening to all and sundry. Anyone seen my nephew?”
“Hello, Marlon.” Elsie smiled as the bat landed neatly on the curtain rail. “Alf was here a few minutes ago. Do you need him urgently?”
Marlon scratched his ear. “Nah. Just wondering.” He peered around the room. “Where’s the kid?”
“Gracie?” The Ancient One looked up. “She’s saying good-bye to Marcus. Or else she’s in WATER WINGS.”
Marlon shook his head. “Checked. Nobody there.”
Edna’s one eyebrow rose. “Really? And she wasn’t outside?”
Marlon shook his head again. “Nada. Nothing. No path either, come to think of it.”
“Well, that makes sense,” Edna told him. “It’s taken Prince Marcus back to Gorebreath.”
“Maybe the kid went too,” Marlon suggested.
The Ancient One frowned. “Marcus needed to speak to his parents. And Gracie would never do such a thing without telling us first. Did you see Gubble?”
Marlon shook his head, and the Ancient One hauled herself out of her chair. She was beginning to have a niggling feeling that all was not well, but her voice was calm as she remarked, “He’s probably in his cupboard. I suggest we ask him where Gracie is.”
But Gubble’s cupboard was empty.
Far away, on the other side of the Five Kingdoms, Marcus blinked. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. “Hang on a moment! This isn’t Gorebreath! It’s — at least I think it is — Albion’s place! Hey, Path! Here! Come back!” But the path was gone.
“Ug,” said a voice close beside him. “Ug.”
“Marcus,” asked a second voice, “where are we?”
Marley Bagsmith had a headache. A bad headache. And worse than the headache was the sickening feeling of having made a mistake — the kind of mistake that has terrible consequences. As he crawled into bed, he came to the worrisome conclusion that he had, while under the influence of strong ale, made a promise of some kind. Exactly what or to whom, he couldn’t remember; all he knew for certain was that it was a promise that should never have been made. He groaned, rubbed his aching eyes, and did his best to review the events of the afternoon and evening.
After his meeting with Prince Albion, Marley had set off for Gorebreath with every intention of mingling with the crowd and noting down the celebratory activities, but the knowledge that he had gold and silver in his pocket had proved too much for him. He had twitched and fidgeted all through Prince Arioso’s speech, and the distraction caused by Marcus’s speedy exit had offered an opportunity he was unable to resist. He had slipped out of the council chamber and left the palace as fast as his legs could carry him, and within minutes was heading in the direction of the Howling Arms. A couple of hours later, a generous distribution of cash had made him remarkably popular with the Howling customers, who were, without exception, lacking in any kind of respectability. Most of them were also lacking funds, so Marley speedily acquired a number of excellent friends who were more than willing to raise their glasses and toast him just as long as he footed the bill. By the end of the afternoon, they were singing cheery songs of eternal brotherhood with a werewolf who had sneaked in through the back door — a door that led to the wilderness on the other side of the border fence.
The inn had been built, if such a ramshackle building could ever be described as having been built, on top of the boundary; a thick white line drawn on the floor of the main drinking area showed where the civilized Five Kingdoms gave way to the unknown and uncivilized lands beyond. It was, however, much more than a mere chalk mark. Deep witches, full-blooded zombies, and werewolves, all forbidden by law to leave the wilderness, kept themselves well away from it. Any attempt to cross to the other side resulted in a sharp stinging sensation followed by an acute and agonizing pain in the head. The stinging sensation was due to the ancient enchantments that protected the Five Kingdoms from evil; the pain in the head was provided by the landlord. Any illegal crossing of the line would result in the loss of his license and the immediate closure of the Howling Arms, so a large and heavy club was permanently on display by the bar. It was no secret that Gruntle Marrowgrease took much pleasure in using the club, and he and the law were treated with a grudging respect.
“We’ll alwaysh be friendsh together!” Marley sang. He waved his tankard under the werewolf’s nose. “Whether we’re sh . . . sh . . . shcary or . . . hairy! Hairy, hairy, ever so sh . . . sh . . . shcary!”
The werewolf let out a low growl, and Marley blinked at it. “Washa matter, my furry friend? Have another drink! The drinksh are all on me!”
The landlord, a very large man with such extensive whiskers that it was obvious to all but the seriously befuddled that he himself was of werewolf ancestry, lifted Marley by the elbows and deposited him in a corner. “Now, now,” he admonished, “you be careful with your language, Mr. Bagsmith!” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the werewolf. “You don’t want to be upsetting the likes of that. Holds their grudges, they do. You sit yourself down here nice and quiet, and wait until he’s gone. He’ll be off before long. Full moon tonight, so he’ll need to go about his business.”
The landlord was right. Hardly ten minutes had passed before the werewolf left as silently as he had come, but Marley did not notice. He was otherwise engaged. What he assumed to be his shadow had developed a curious tendency to swirl around his feet, then creep up and slither rather too tightly around his neck. He flailed and swore at it until Gruntle saw what he was doing and raised a threatening fist.
“Oi!” he growled. “That’s one of my best customers! Leave him alone!”
Marley’s jaw dropped as he stared blankly at the landlord. “Eh?”
Gruntle pointed at the shadow, which had detached itself and was tiptoeing across the filthy rush-strewn floor toward the bar. “That there’s Fiddleduster Squint’s shadow, and nobody here goes messing with it. Ain’t that right, Mr. Shadow?”
The shadow was now sitting on a bar stool, but it turned and nodded. “Beer,” it whispered. “Beer!”
Marley Bagsmith shut his eyes tightly, then opened them again. The shadow was still there, holding a full tankard of Howling Arms’ Ale. There was a second tankard on the bar besid
e it. For a moment, Marley wondered if he was expected to join the shadow for a convivial drink, but before he could move, the back door swung open and the tallest, thinnest man he had ever seen came striding in, settled himself beside the shadow, and downed the ale in one long swallow. Marley clapped in admiration, and the tall man swung around to inspect him.
“Who do we have here, Marrowgrease?”
The landlord shrugged. “Marley Bagsmith, Mr. Squint. Got a pocketful of money for once, and he’s here to spend it. Been singing merry ditties, he has, but I popped him in the corner as he was in danger of upsetting a customer. Taken a drink too many, I’d say. Best left to cool off a bit.”
“Drink too many? Whatsh that?” Marley, red in the face with indignation, stomped out of his corner. “Never upshet anyone, I didn’t. Was having a jolly little shing-shong with my friends when that man”— he waved an inaccurate finger in the vague direction of the landlord —“took me away. Not nice. Not hosh . . . hosh . . . hospitabubble. No. And . . .” A sense of injustice combined with too much alcohol pushed Marley into indiscretion. “And I’m not nobody no more. Not . . . not at all. I’m a . . .” He tapped his nose twice and winked heavily. “A shpy! I mean, spy! Prince Albion’s very own spy, I am, so don’t YOU go mesh . . . mesh . . . messing with ME!” He smiled the triumphant smile of a man who knows he has had the last word and thunked his empty tankard on the bar to emphasize his point.
“Really?” Fiddleduster’s eyes were so dark they looked like hollows in his skull-like face. “A spy? You? What a very surprising and rather distressing thought. How standards must have slipped in Cockenzie Rood.”
“But I am!” Marley’s bravado was beginning to ebb away under the cold gaze of the emaciated figure in front of him, but he was determined to prove his new status. “Prince Albion told me all sorts of things, secret-like. He said the celebration is going to be different this year, ’cause he’s in charge. There’s going to be a parade, see. And a talent competition. With prizes. And I’m going to tell him what they did in Gorebreath so we’re going to be better than them. Cockenzie Rood forever and all that. So you see, I AM a spy!”
There was a faint flicker in Fiddleduster Squint’s eyes, but no reaction other than the slightest raise of an eyebrow.
Gruntle Marrowgrease leaned over the bar top. “Doubt he’d have had the cash if he wasn’t up to something, Mr. Squint, sir.”
Marley Bagsmith shivered. An uncomfortable sensation was seeping into his consciousness. It was a moment before he recognized it as fear: a deep chilling fear that made his stomach churn and his mouth go dry. He swallowed and did his best to retain a little dignity. “See? Our jolly landlord’s a fellow with a bit of sense. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and join my friends.” He jingled the remaining coins in his pocket. “Time for another round.” And he scuttled away to where Weasel Canker and his associates were lifting their glasses and toasting petty theft, larceny, and good strong beer.
“So we have a royal spy in our midst.” Fiddleduster cracked his bony knuckles. “How too, too interesting. And there’s to be a talent competition in Cockenzie Rood, with prizes. What kind of prizes, one wonders? But forget the prizes. Just to win would mean recognition — recognition for me and my kind. Gruntle!”
“Yes, sir?” Gruntle stood up straight.
“Allow this Bagsmith all the ale he can drink. And a little more besides, if you would be so kind. I have had an idea.” The hollow eyes were alight with a dark enthusiasm. “The Kingdom of Cockenzie Rood is looking for talent, he says. Well, I have talent. I am talented to my fingers’ ends. Is that not true, my dear Gruntle?”
A range of expressions flitted across the landlord’s face. Beginning with unadulterated horror, it switched to amazement, followed by incredulity, and ended with a synthetic rictus grin. “Absolutely, Mr. Squint, sir. Talented. Yes. Yes, indeed.”
Fiddleduster Squint glanced across to where Marley was lolling over a table, staring into the bottom of his glass. “A full measure for Mr. Bagsmith, if you please.”
“Of course, milord. Erm . . . is that FREE ale?”
“You told me he had coins in his pocket. Allow him to spend them. And, Gruntle?” Fiddleduster raised an imperious hand. “Give him full measures. None of your watery pints for my very dear friend.”
Gruntle Marrowgrease was too much in awe of the cadaverous figure in front of him to raise any objection to this slur on the quality of his ale. Had it been any other customer, he would have spat in their glass before pulling the next pint, but he was uncomfortably aware that the shadow was watching his every move. “Of course, sir,” he agreed, and Marley was served without protest.
“Mr. Squint says as you can drink as much as you like,” Gruntle told him. “Lucky, you are. Looks like he’s taken a liking to you.” He leaned over Marley’s shoulder and lowered his voice. “A word in your ear. He may have a notion to play his fiddle. Best if you pretend to like it.”
Marley was more than happy to agree, but for the moment the tall figure seemed intent on his beer. From time to time, he looked around as if he were checking on the company; when the back door opened with a rush of chilly air, Fiddleduster jumped to his feet. “My dear cousins! Come in, come in! Allow me to present the very honorable Marley Bagsmith, spy to the royal family of Cockenzie Rood!”
The alcohol had dulled Marley’s brain, but he was still aware that his position was not one he wished to be advertised to all and sundry. He opened his mouth to protest, but at that moment Fiddleduster’s friends came limping, hobbling, and swaying into the room. With them came a strong smell of damp earth, rotting mushrooms, and mold, and the temperature dropped by several degrees. Marley gulped and took a long swig of sustaining beer. The suspicion that Fiddleduster Squint was of zombie ancestry, if not of full blood, had already occurred to him, but there was no doubt at all about the new arrivals. Their clothes hung in tatters about them, and their eyes bulged in their fleshless skulls. It was also noticeable that they, like Fiddleduster, kept well clear of the white line delineating the border of the Five Kingdoms.
“Mucus, Mildew, and Corruption,” Fiddleduster announced. “And now my beloved relatives are here, I shall take up my bow. The time has come to delight the ears of all who listen, to soothe the inner soul, to turn the Howling Arms into a sanctuary of sweet music.” With a grandiloquent flourish, he pulled a small fiddle out from under his long black coat. “Let me not keep Mr. Bagsmith waiting any longer! I shall begin with ‘Lament for a Dead Hedgehog.’”
An ear-splitting screech began, a sound that Marley could only equate with knives being scraped across a plate or fingernails on a blackboard. He shut his eyes, but it made no difference. His mind was jumbled and jangled by the noise, but gradually this jangling was replaced by a terrifying numbness where every thought took an immense effort to follow through from beginning to end. He opened his eyes and made a desperate attempt to rise from his seat, but a swift tap from Fiddleduster’s bow put him back in his place.
“Surely you aren’t thinking of leaving us so soon, Mr. Bagsmith,” Fiddleduster murmured, and the implied menace in his voice made Marley shake his head. A moment later he found himself holding yet another full tankard. By the time he had drained it to the dregs, his brain was empty, apart from a vague idea that all was not well with the world.
The beer continued to flow; the music grew louder and louder. One by one, Marley’s drinking companions made their excuses until only the zombies were left, staring at Marley as he sat slumped in his chair, eyes glazed. Fiddleduster Squint, never ceasing to play, watched him with a constant and calculating gaze. It was only when he judged the moment was exactly right that he stepped to Marley Bagsmith’s side, the final despairing notes of “The Hammering of the Slug” still lingering in the air.
“A fine rendition,” he remarked, “as I’m sure you’ll agree, Mr. Bagsmith?”
Marley waved a feeble arm.
“Would you not say, Mr. Bagsmith, that my music
would make an excellent addition to any talent competition?”
The zombies clapped their bloodless hands, and Marley beamed a meaningless smile.
“Oh, yesh,” he agreed. “Show . . . show . . . kick, kick . . . show . . .”
“What a very perceptive and intelligent man you are, Mr. Bagsmith,” Fiddleduster purred. “So you’ll accept my application? No entry forms needed, no documentation required? And safe passage across the border included, of course. You can easily secure me an invitation, I have no doubt. A written invitation, so there can be no confusion with those foolish border guards.” An expression of extreme malevolence flitted across his bony face. “Such prejudice. Such animosity! ‘Zombies! Zombies? But we can’t POSSIBLY allow those nasty zombies in our dear sweet, smug little kingdoms.’” His voice lost its mocking tone, and he turned back to his companion. “Oh, how too, too wonderful to have a friend in such high places as your good self!” He seized Marley’s hand and pressed it in gratitude. “You agree? One has your promise?”
Marley, lost in a swirling mist of alcoholic well‑being, was brought back to earth with a bump. It felt as if his hand was being grasped by a bunch of icy twigs, and he looked down in shocked surprise. “Agree? Yush. Yuss . . . anything you shay . . . OUCH!”
His hand was released, and Fiddleduster swung around to his shadow. “Shadow? A little task for you, dear fellow. Keep our good friend Mr. Bagsmith close company. Remind him, should he need it, of his promise.” He waved his fiddle bow in farewell. “Pray excuse me, Mr. Bagsmith. I must head for the wilderness. The moon will be high, and I have work to do. Late travelers await my music. I must stir their hearts and send them dancing down the road rejoicing.” And with one last wave, Fiddleduster Squint followed his hideous cousins out of the back door and was gone.
Gruntle Marrowgrease leaned over the bar. “Time for you to be off, Bagsmith. You’ve spent your money, and if you ask me — which you ain’t, but I’ll give you my opinion for free all the same — you’ve bought a whole lot more than you bargained for.”
The Music of Zombies Page 3
