Blackfoot

by W. R. Gingell

  And one more step, Blackfoot’s voice murmured. Mind the gap.

  “It’s the Two Monarchies, actually,” Annabel said coldly, and slid her foot back for one more step. Belatedly, she squeaked: “What gap?” but by then her foot had stepped onto nothing, and she was falling: coldly, slowly, inevitably.

  In the coldness of the fall, Annabel heard Mordion swearing, and the corridor that she was somehow falling through seemed to shudder around her. Then her back hit something cool that gave a little under her but held, and there was a sensation of furry warmth beneath her neck while something squeaked in a distinctly undignified manner.

  “What?” panted Annabel, staring up at the curved darkness above her. “Where’s Mordion? Where are we?”

  Nan–

  “What happened? Have we disappeared too? Where’s Peter?”

  Nan–

  Annabel wailed: “Why did you tell me to step backwards? Now look where we are!”

  Nan, do you think you could lift your head a little? I’m finding it a trifle difficult to breathe.

  “Oh,” said Annabel, and sat up. The furry warmth that had been beneath her shoulder and neck scrabbled in the darkness, a shadow against shadow, and sat down next to her with a series of mental groans and mutters. “Was that you squeaking?”

  Blackfoot, in a decidedly stiff manner, said: It seems that when a significant weight falls on a per– cat unexpectedly, they tend to be startled. They also, Nan, tend to gasp.

  “That wasn’t a gasp,” said Annabel. “It was a squeak.”

  Nan– oh, never mind. Can you stand?

  “Oh, yes,” Annabel said. “I didn’t hurt myself: Peter’s string spell must still be working. Anyway, it’s pretty springy here. Blackfoot, where is here?”

  Why ask me? Blackfoot demanded, still stiff.

  “You’re the one who told me to step backward!” Annabel said indignantly. “I didn’t do this!”

  The wall disappeared: I thought it was a good opportunity to get away while we could.

  Annabel looked around at the velvety darkness dubiously. “So it was the castle that did it? Then we have disappeared, too! Maybe Peter’s in here?”

  I very much doubt it, said Blackfoot. Nan, must you scrabble about? That was my tail!

  “Oh, sorry.” Annabel climbed to her feet rather more carefully, and felt Blackfoot twining around her ankles. “Wait, if you’re going to do that, don’t blame me if I step on you.”

  There was a sigh at the back of her mind. You’ll have to pick me up, then.

  “Why?” demanded Annabel, but she picked him up anyway. “You’ve got legs!”

  It’s too dark. I don’t want you to step on me again. Nan, do you suppose we can at last return to the kitchen? I may not have to eat quite as often as you, but I’m really very hungry.

  “How should I know?” Annabel peered around her in the darkness again, and found it just as murky. She took a few steps forward with Blackfoot in her arms, feeling her way carefully. She felt that she’d fallen down often enough in the castle. “For all I know, this tunnel goes to– oh! That’s– that’s the kitchen! How did we get back here?”

  Goodness knows, said Blackfoot, springing from Annabel’s arms as she stepped from darkness into the kitchen. Annabel thought that he sounded smug, having got his own way without having to make any effort toward it, and made a face at him.

  How fortunate. Mind your skirt, Nan: the tunnel is closing up again.

  Annabel hastily twitched her skirts out of the way and watched the hole in the wall as it vanished. One moment there was a soft blackness to the wall, the next there was only regularly spaced, smoothly quarried stone block. “Wait,” she said. “Wasn’t it the same as the spell in that room? The one that took us to the stables?”

  Good grief, no! said Blackfoot. Not that I expect you to realise the difference, Nan, but the tunnelling spell that led us to the stables was merely a clumsy copy of this one. It was nothing like as established, nor was it as elegantly winding.

  “All right, all right, there’s no need to rub it in!” grumbled Annabel. “I can’t help not being able to see magic. What do you mean, anyway, elegantly winding? Winding around what?”

  The black squishy centre, of course. There were huge branches of it all around us as we walked through the tunnelling spell: it wound around them all.

  Annabel shivered. “Ugh! I’m glad I didn’t know! And that reminds me: you told me no one could get into the castle now! Why didn’t you know Mordion was here?”

  I did, agreed Blackfoot. And I’ve certainly no idea how Mordion got in. How utterly revolting. I’m afraid that things are becoming more complicated, Nan.

  “That settles it,” Annabel said. “It was Mordion that took Peter.”

  Let’s not rush to conclusions.

  “It’s not rushing. Mordion is in the castle and you said he couldn’t get in, and you said–”

  Thank you, Nan, I remember what I said.

  “Well, you were wrong.”

  Yes, Nan. Believe it or not, you were quite clear the first time. Blackfoot sat where he was for silent moments, his tail twitching, and said at last: Nothing is going as I anticipated: I have no idea what to expect any longer.

  Rather quietly, Annabel said: “Oh.” She wasn’t used to Blackfoot being so unsure of himself. “Well, it’s not your fault, after all.”

  Blackfoot sighed. Perhaps not directly, but I’m beginning to regret bringing us into the castle. I thought—I was certain—that you would be safe here.

  Annabel shrugged. “I’m safe enough at the moment: it’s Peter who isn’t safe.”

  Peter will take care of himself. Blackfoot licked a paw and wiped it over his whiskers reflectively. If it comes to that, right now it’s the thing I’m most certain of: that Peter is perfectly safe.

  “Yes, but you’ve been wrong about a lot of things,” said Annabel. Blackfoot hissed at her, but she ignored it. Now that the shock of Mordion’s sudden presence had come and gone, she discovered that she was once again quite hungry. The cold-boxes were conveniently close, so Annabel found herself a fat little bottle of preserves that was already open, and rummaged around until she found the remains of yesterday’s fresh bread.

  Blackfoot seemed to stare at her in horror. Don’t eat that, Nan! You don’t know how long it’s been in there!

  “Prob’ly a couple hundred years,” Annabel said. “If it’s from the past like you said. But you’ve been–”

  Yes, yes, I’ve been wrong about a lot lately. Nan, it’s a dreadful habit in a little girl to be pointing out every time people make mistakes.

  “You want sausages?” Annabel asked through a mouthful of bread and preserves, a little more thickly than before. “Pork or chicken?”

  There was a dignified silence before Blackfoot said: Chicken, thank you.

  They ate in peace until the bread and sausages were gone. Then, sitting on one of the preparation tables with a pork pie in one hand, Annabel said thoughtfully: “Do you know, I don’t think Mordion could get out of that room.”

  An interesting theory, said Blackfoot, licking his chops. What makes you suppose so?

  Annabel had to think about that for a longer time. At last, she said reluctantly: “Don’t know. But he did that same thing.”

  Nan, it may interest you to know that I can’t, in fact, read your mind.

  “That thing he did the first time,” Annabel said slowly. “Where he tried to frighten me into staying in Grenna’s garden because he wasn’t strong enough to keep me there himself.”

  Well now, said Blackfoot, and he sounded startled. That’s something to think about. I wonder– I really wonder, Nan, exactly what it was Mordion used to establish value with the castle.

  Annabel scowled at her pie. “And I want to know how he took Peter. You said–”

  I warn you, Nan: if you’re about to tell me how I was wrong again, I’ll bite you.

  “It’s not that. You said Mordion gets magic by taking it from
other people– does that mean he doesn’t have any of his own? When it runs out, I mean, how does he get more? Because even if he took a lot of magic from someone else, won’t it run out soon if he’s going around doing big magic like stealing people and bits of the castle?”

  Mordion has magic of his own, Blackfoot said. If he didn’t, he’d attract all the magic he could desire. Because, Nan–?

  “What?” Annabel blinked at him, then said glibly: “Oh! Because a complete lack of magic creates a vacuum.”

  Exactly so. Of course, it wouldn’t do him any good, since he wouldn’t have the ability to use what he gathered, and Mordion is very good at putting to use the magic that he gathers. So, to answer your questions, Nan–

  “Oh, good.”

  To answer your questions, Nan, repeated Blackfoot repressively, Mordion does have magic, albeit very little, and what he gathers does run out, in time. If he had kidnapped Peter—if, Nan—his resources would have diminished significantly.

  “So he should be weaker now,” Annabel said darkly. “Now that he’s taken Peter, I mean. We should hit back while he’s weaker.”

  Blackfoot sighed.

  “What?”

  Nan– oh, where to start?

  “If you’re going to be superior, I won’t give you any more sausages,” warned Annabel.

  I suspect you’re overestimating my love for sausages, said Blackfoot. Not to mention underestimating my love of being superior.

  “Pft,” said Annabel. “I saw you eating the old sausages Grenna threw away that time.”

  I was particularly hungry.

  “And I saw you catching pieces of sausage Peter threw at you last week.”

  The point is, interrupted Blackfoot, that we have no reason to suppose Mordion took Peter. And if he didn’t, your confidence that Mordion is in a weakened state could prove to be a costly mistake.

  Annabel, for once sure of her own reasoning, shook her head. “Yes, but you don’t understand. You said Mordion must have established value. All right, suppose he established value with something that can move corridors and walls? It was after Peter established value with his seeing spell that I started seeing that Caliphan in the windows. What if the castle reacts to the value spells? Like little hiccoughs of magic.”

  There was a ghostly laugh at the back of Annabel’s mind. Nan! said Blackfoot. Well, I never!

  “All right, all right,” grumbled Annabel. “There’s no need to laugh at me. It was a stupid thing to say.”

  On the contrary: I’ve never heard you reason so deductively before! I was merely taken by surprise.

  Taken aback, Annabel said: “Well! Then we’ll go looking for Mordion tomorrow.”

  That’s not even remotely what I was suggesting.

  “Yes, but–”

  In light of the fact that Mordion seems to be able to wander the castle at will–

  “We’re not sure of that–”

  –seems, I said, Nan: seems to be able to wander the castle at will, and that we have no way of knowing how strong he is, what in the Two Monarchies makes you think it’s a good idea to deliberately look for him?

  “Well, what else are we going to do?” Annabel said reasonably. “Wait until he finds us? He’ll probably have found someone else to drain of magic by then.”

  Now you take my advice to start thinking for yourself and ask questions, muttered Blackfoot. Oh well: better late than never, I suppose. Tomorrow, then. But if he kills us both, don’t come crying to me about it.

  8

  “Hey!” said Annabel indignantly. “Two of the apricot pies have gone!”

  She had been looking forward to those pies ever since she woke to the now-familiar sight of the Caliphan stranger rushing about in the coloured glass of the throne room. Annabel had watched him, thinking of pie, then guiltily of Peter, then of pie again. The yearning had only grown stronger as Annabel performed her rudimentary morning ablutions under the pump, and by the time she reached the kitchen she could almost taste them. Great was her indignation, therefore, to find that there were two less than there had been the day before.

  Annabel looked wrathfully into the pillaged cold-box. “Who’s creeping around the castle now?”

  Nan, this is no time to be taking stock of pies. There are more important things that demand our consideration, not the least of which is your rash determination to seek out Mordion.

  “Pies are important!” Annabel insisted. “And I know there are two missing because there were five stacks of four in the top shelf of this cool-box yesterday, and now there are only two in this pile. Who’s been getting into our kitchen?”

  Leaving aside the obviously insurmountable importance of the missing pies, perhaps we could consider that the more important question is who else has gotten into the castle through the wardings, remarked Blackfoot. If you’re right–

  “I am.”

  If you’re right—Nan, don’t throw that at me—then there’s the distinct possibility—I said don’t throw that at me—that yet another person has made it through the castle wardings. If that fails to move you, only think of how many pies you stand to lose now that there’s another dangerously strong player in this game.

  “What game?” demanded Annabel. “Peter has gone, and Mordion is popping up in corridors where he shouldn’t be, and you’re calling it a game?”

  Why are you trying to pick a quarrel with me, Nan?

  Annabel sank into herself sulkily, staring at him with her best cow face. “I’m not trying to pick a quarrel. You’re sarcastic and horrible and flippant.”

  I’m always sarcastic and horrible and flippant. What’s the particular objection today? And it’s no use doing that face at me, Nan: if I’d not learned your tricks by now I wouldn’t be able to hold my head up again.

  “Don’t know,” Annabel said, hunching her shoulders. “Anyway, I don’t think it’s Mordion that took them.”

  Why? Because of your theory that he can’t move through doors?

  “No,” said Annabel. “I don’t think he’d want to dirty his clothes or his hands. I think he’d have picked something less messy to eat.”

  There was a breath of laughter from Blackfoot. That’s a good point. Then who else is there? Your Caliphan?

  Annabel considered this suspiciously. Between Mordion and the Caliphan, she could far more readily see the Caliphan sneaking pies out of the cold-box and guiltily scoffing them while Annabel and Blackfoot slept.

  “Where is he, anyway?” she asked. “The Caliphan, I mean? Or maybe I mean when. When Peter did the spell before, it showed Mordion, now. Does that mean that the Caliphan is in the now, too? Or is the castle showing bits from the past? I thought it was showing bits of the past—you know, before the castle vanished, or went wrong, or whatever happened—but now I’m not so sure.”

  She was remembering the flash she’d seen of the Caliphan that morning: she’d been drawing near the windows at the far end of the throne room to get some light that wasn’t coloured by the rainbow glass. It took a while for the feeling of being watched to sink in, but when Annabel became aware of it she only assumed that Blackfoot had woken, and kept working on her drawing. She was trying to draw the Caliphan again, and although she’d managed to get his gangly limbs down on the paper, his eyes still wouldn’t come out right. Annabel left them for last and smudged shadows to make the adam’s apple on the Caliphan’s knobbly throat instead. She slid a look across at Blackfoot as she wiped her pencil-smudged hand carelessly on her skirts, expecting to see him watching her, but he was still curled in a circle by the dais where she’d woken earlier.

  Instinctively, she looked up at the window beside her. The Caliphan was there, closer than she’d ever seen him before, his head bent as if he was looking at her drawing. Perhaps he sensed the movement of her head: he looked up, too, and for the barest moment, their eyes met. He looked away at once, wandering away from the window, but his gaze was just a little too studiously unaware of her presence. Annabel spent the rest of the mo
rning certain that just as she’d seen him, he had seen her.

  How could he be here and now? Blackfoot’s voice was sceptical. We would have seen him in the flesh before now.

  “Oh,” said Annabel reluctantly. “I suppose we would have. But what if– well, what if he’s in the now, but in a bit of the castle that hasn’t come back yet?”

  The bits of the castle that haven’t come back yet are still in the past, Blackfoot said dampeningly. That’s why they’re not here, now.

  Annabel looked at him accusingly. “Then what about the squishy black stuff? You can’t tell me that’s from the past. It’s right here, now.”

  There was a slight fuzziness in the part of Annabel’s mind that spoke Blackfoot’s words, as if he were deliberating upon which words to say– or simply choosing which particularly sarcastic barb was best to use. At last, she heard him say: That…well, that’s not really here or there. It’s more of a– well, actually, I have no idea what it is. He sounded distinctly annoyed. I’ve been working on the assumption that the castle was coming back from the past.

  “Ugh!” said Annabel, disgusted. “You and Peter are just the same! So certain of yourselves!”

  With good reason, I must say, Nan, objected Blackfoot. I’ve not been so badly wrong for some time. I’m still not convinced I am wrong. The castle disappeared shortly before the Civet invasion, and slightly after the staff and royal household escaped, in anticipation of the invasion. There was a lot of magic flying around everywhere: here, the Frozen Battlefield– the whole country was thick with it. Somewhere in the middle of the melee the Battlefield shifted, people were encased in magical amber, and they lost the castle. It came back, but by then the King and Queen were dead and all the heirs were either dead or gone, anyway. The Council never tried to make use of it—I assume they knew better than to interfere with it—and over the last three hundred years it simply crumbled apart.