More importantly for the present, there was no sign of Rasgha, or of anybody else either. She permitted herself a moment’s smug satisfaction on that score, for she had not been at all certain that her venture would succeed. Then she went to tend to Lady Thayer.
‘My lady?’ she said, and set about waking the woman by such arts as she had available. Her ladyship proved reluctant to rouse, but at length she opened her eyes and gazed, confused, at Bessie.
‘Are we dead?’ she said.
‘Nowhere near.’
Lady Thayer digested that for a moment. ‘Are we about to become so?’
Bessie looked around at the deserted corridor. ‘I would say not, milady, for the present.’
Her ladyship nodded thoughtfully, glanced once at the ruin of her dress, and sighed. ‘Then I think, all things considered, that you had better address me as Cassandra.’
Bess’s brows went up. ‘I beg yer pardon?’
‘Unorthodox, I know. But you appear to have preserved me from an unpleasant fate, and it is not every day that one owes one’s life to a… to another person.’
‘I ain’t saved you yet,’ Bessie cautioned. ‘I have no notion where we have ended up, and Rasgha’s still about somewhere.’
‘Very well. We shall not yet congratulate ourselves.’ She rose shakily to her feet and stood, swaying slightly, one hand pressed to her head. ‘Still, I believe you must have been remarkably quick-thinking and magnificent.’
‘Perhaps a little,’ said Bessie modestly.
Lady Cass visibly pulled herself together, taking a few deep breaths and squaring her shoulders. ‘Excellent. We must first determine where we are, I suppose.’ She glanced again at her ruined gown, her nostrils flaring in disgust. Then, with three quick movements, she tore a large section of her skirt away and threw it aside. All of the evidence of her earlier distress sailed away with it, and she smiled her satisfaction. ‘Much better.’ In spite of the tumble she had taken, her distress under it and the ruin of her gown, her dignity was unimpaired; she was every inch the aristocrat.
Bessie nodded once. ‘This way or that way?’ she asked, pointing to each of the two directions they could choose to move in.
Cassandra glanced down the corridor ahead of her, and then behind. ‘I cannot possibly choose between two equally uninspiring options.’
‘Then we will take this one.’ Bessie picked a direction at random and began to walk. Cassandra followed.
A very few minutes served to convince her that she had not brought them anywhere useful. Featureless corridors gave way to more corridors the same, and she was forced to conclude that she had not contrived to carry them out of the Darkways at all. ‘I have stranded us in the Goblin passages,’ she admitted ruefully.
‘No matter,’ said Cassandra, brisk and unperturbed. ‘It is worlds better than finding ourselves locked in any trap laid for me by that woman.’
‘True, but it cannot be long before she finds us in here. We must get out, and fast.’
‘I dare say. How did we get in?’
‘Why… I dunnot rightly know. I decided to stop followin’ the fetch, and swung us away.’ Bessie looked around, frowning. ‘Somehow.’
‘If it is a matter of mere decision, I am sure we have enough of that between us.’
Lady Cassandra probably had decision enough to turn the stars about, if she chose. Bessie felt a pang of envy, its source mixed and not wholly clear. She quickly smothered it. She may not have been born with the right to command, but she would certainly choose to command her own fate, as far as that was possible.
Decision. Well.
‘You had better lead, I think,’ Cassandra instructed. ‘Your familiarity with these parts is, I perceive, greater than mine.’
Wandering about alone had rarely troubled Bessie before; she was used to having no one else upon whom to rely. But she had never before been given charge of someone else’s safety, and she felt the pressure keenly; perhaps the more so because the woman in question was of so elevated a rank. She felt poorly equipped for the duty, and had to smother a stab of fear as well as her envy. But that was nonsense. If she could manage herself without disastrous consequences – and she had, to date – then she could guide Lady Cassandra as well.
Now that she came to consider the matter, Cassandra could well be largely correct about the Darkways. These corridors were probably not physical passageways at all, or not in the sense that Bessie was used to. If she expected them to go on forever, they probably would. But if she preferred for them to end, then perhaps they…
…would. She turned a corner, and immediately perceived a doorway ahead of them. It appeared to be a little bit open, for light gleamed around its edges, illuminating it invitingly in the near darkness of the corridor.
Bessie’s instinctive triumph quickly faded in favour of suspicion. Had that been too easy? Could she really have conjured an exit merely out of the desire to find one? If she had, where did the door lead?
‘I had better see where it goes,’ she said to Lady Cassandra.
Cassandra nodded once, and occupied herself with the inspection of her curious glass pipe – concerned, perhaps, that it had not weathered their impromptu journey well. Bessie felt a little hurt at this willingness to permit her to risk herself without support, and without the smallest protest. But Lady Thayer was an aristocrat. She was probably used to people risking life and limb on her behalf, and small wonder if she was more concerned about the fate of her pipe than with the fate of a mere servant.
Nonsense, Bessie lectured herself sternly, and pushed such unworthy reflections away. She approached the door at once, unwilling to show any hesitation. The door opened as soon as she set her fingers to it, and, heart pounding, she peeked inside.
The room beyond was a comfortable parlour, with furniture of mismatched proportions and riotously colourful upholstery. The walls were hung with tapestries, the floor covered in homey rugs. Shutters covered the windows, each one painted in a different rainbow colour.
To her relief, Bessie recognised the interior of the Motley. At first, this seemed to her too great a coincidence, but a little reflection reassured her. Where else in Gadrahst would Bessie choose to go, but the one place she had felt truly safe and at home? She had fetched up in Maggin’s own parlour, she judged, for she had seen something of the room before.
The room was empty.
Bessie turned back to Cassandra, and was startled to see her poised with her pipe set to her lips. An odd time to be desiring music, she could not help thinking. ‘Tis a place of safety,’ she said. ‘We can go in.’
When she turned back to the door, Maggin herself had appeared on the other side of it. She had observed the door and now stood blocking it, wielding a broomstick in one hand and a heavy metal bucket in the other. When she saw Bessie, her grim expression transformed into a smile, and she stepped back. ‘Why, if it ain’t Miss Bessie! What are ye doing walking the Darkways, lass? Is our Gent wi’ ye?’
‘Not at present, Maggin,’ said Bessie, and stepped into the parlour. Cassandra followed, and received a curious stare from the landlady. ‘We wasn’t exactly expectin’ to be in them passageways tonight.’
‘Something amiss, is it?’ said Maggin.
‘Aye. Turns out our Gent has a sister, and she has some big ideas.’
It did not appear to Bessie that Maggin was much surprised by this news, and that fact intrigued her – and alarmed her as well, for how could a simple landlady be informed on such a point when Grunewald himself had not known? Thus far, everyone she had met who had known of Rasgha’s existence and identity had been her allies and supporters. But she could not believe such a thing of Maggin.
She had not time to consider the question now. She began to relate the tale of Rasgha and Grunewald and everything that had happened in the past few days, but she had not proceeded very far with this narrative before she was interrupted by a tumult erupting behind her.
‘Honestly, Bessie,’ came Rasgha’s voic
e. ‘You are supposed to close your routes behind you when you are finished with them. I am not surprised that my disgraceful brother should have failed to nurture your obvious talent, but I could have taught you.’
Bessie whirled in horror. Rasgha had come through the door into Maggin’s quiet parlour, and with her came Torin – and Drig, who quelled any fledgling alarms about his loyalty by running at once to Bessie’s side. ‘I tried to close it up for you,’ he said to Bessie in an undertone. ‘Failed.’
‘Clung to my coat, the little wretch,’ said Rasgha pleasantly, though the gimlet eye she fixed upon Drig was by no means friendly.
Then she looked at Cassandra. ‘Lady Thayer! Excellent. Shall we proceed?’
Chapter Fourteen
From atop his magnificent steed, Grunewald enjoyed a clear view of the proceedings. This did not help him greatly, however, for though he could guess where his sister would turn her attention, he had lost sight of her in the tumult. And now his vantage point proved his undoing, for he could not spur Tatterfoal through the throng to Lady Thayer’s side, and to dismount would only bring him into the midst of the battle. He could never reach her in time.
When Lady Thayer tumbled sideways and vanished, he was watching. And he saw his Bess disappear along with her, black hair flying like a flag in the sudden, fierce wind of their departure.
If he had felt angry before, there was no word to describe the fury that now overwhelmed him. ‘That is quite enough,’ he said aloud. He gathered the force of his rage, took in a great breath and roared his displeasure. It emerged as a vast, echoing cry which sundered the skies and shook the ground beneath. It brought the combatants to an abrupt halt, and they stared as one at the terrible vision of the Goblin King in all his anger.
Grunewald himself felt curiously calm in the midst of it, though it was the kind of icy, controlled calm that made mockery of the word. He jumped off Tatterfoal’s back, his mind already reaching for the Darkways which had been closed to him.
He could not sense them immediately, any more than he had done so before. But that he would not accept. He had regained control of his steed, and his home; the Darkways would follow. He caught up his rage and fashioned it into a spear; with this, he rended the fabric of the night until he glimpsed the shadows that lay behind. There.
He reached out, implacable in his determination, and caught up a tendril of that shadow in a crushing grip. It squirmed away from him, intent upon its orders from another; but he bore down, relentless. He was the Goblin King, and no other; his Kingdom would obey him!
All at once, the resistance vanished and he tumbled gracelessly into the Darkways. He paused in the pitch darkness, panting for breath. This point gained, what next? He did not know where Rasgha had taken Bess.
He closed his eyes and sought, not for any one of the many familiar pathways that he knew, but for Bessie herself. He concentrated upon the shape of her, and the tumbling mass of her hair that refused to remain neatly bound. He conjured up her scent, and the sardonic light in her eye when she looked at him. He thought of her smile, when he succeeded in making her laugh. Even those dreadful vowels of hers lived brightly in his mind; he imagined her voice in his thoughts. You’re bein’ awfully slow, my Gent. The party will be over before we see any sign o’ you.
A flicker lit up in the darkness of his mind: a warmth and a light that could only be Bess. She was far away, deep in Gadrahst. He wished he had any means of guessing where in the Goblin lands his sister might seek to take her captives, but he had not knowledge enough of her habits. He could only drift after the light that was Bess, urging himself to greater speed as his lock upon her strengthened. In time, he sailed fluidly through the shadowed passages, gaining upon her as the seconds passed.
Still, the journey was intolerably slow. He knew it was taking time, more time than he wanted. Perhaps more time than Bessie had. Fear and rage warred within him, and he channelled both forces into more energy and more speed. He soared through the Darkways at a hitherto unthinkable pace, and as he flew there was room in his mind for but one thought: Hold on, Bessie.
Bessie held on to Cassandra, for Rasgha had wasted little time with chatter. She had withdrawn a most unpromising-looking knife from some hidden sheath and advanced upon Lady Thayer, weapon raised and ready. The blade was no kitchen knife, nor any clumsy working tool. Rasgha’s knife was barely six inches long, the blade thin and rounded and gleaming a dull silver. Bessie could have little doubt as to its intended purpose.
Blood magic must require blood, and Cassandra’s was the blood Rasgha had gone to such trouble to discover. How much of it was necessary in order to satisfy Rasgha’s purpose was unclear. As was the question of whether Cassandra was likely to survive the experience.
If Bessie could help it, Rasgha would get none at all; not only for Cassandra’s sake, but because her goal must be prevented at all costs. If she needed but a thimbleful in order to track down the Kostigern, that was well for Cassandra, but it could spell disaster for Aylfenhame. But how could she, Cassandra and Drig contrive to repel Rasgha and Torin? Torin alone must be more powerful than the two humans and Drig combined; he wore power and menace like a mantle. As for Rasgha… despite her earlier friendliness, Bessie doubted not that she possessed ruthlessness and cruelty in equal measures.
Bessie clung closely to Cassandra, unwilling to permit herself to be separated from her unlikely new friend. She tried to put her ladyship behind herself, but Cassandra would not permit it. They stood side by side, Drig poised a little way before them, and faced down their attackers. Bessie wished desperately that she had contrived to acquire a weapon of her own at some point during the evening; she was unarmed, and helpless in the face of that wicked blade.
Rasgha smiled at her. ‘Dearest Bessie,’ she said softly. ‘You will not force me to harm you. I am sure you will not. In spite of your tiresome loyalty to my detestable brother, I admit I should be sorry to cause you any distress.’
Bessie merely stared at her, cold and unmoved. These protestations of concern could do Rasgha no good; there may be sincerity somewhere at their core, but they were hollow. Rasgha would not hesitate to hurt Bessie, if she considered it necessary. And Bessie would not step aside. That left her at the mercy of Rasgha’s ruthlessness and that awful knife, and she swallowed. How much would it hurt, to be stabbed by such an object?
But Bessie had forgotten Maggin. ‘Now, Rassie,’ said the goblin woman. She strode to the fore and planted herself in front of Bess and Cassandra, her hands upon her hips. ‘What a troublesome scrap of a thing ye were, when I had the care of ye! But I never thought ye could come to such trouble. Threatening my customers wi’ violence, and in the Motley as well! I can hardly believe it o’ ye.’
Rasgha blinked at her in confusion. ‘Maggin? But what are you… the Motley! Am I here again?’ She looked around herself as though she had no notion of where she had ended up. ‘How came that about, I wonder?’
‘Yon miss brought herself here, an’ the lady,’ said Maggin. ‘Probably ‘twas the only place in Gadrahst she thought o’ aiming for.’ Maggin winked at Bessie.
Rasgha focused upon Bessie for an instant. ‘How curious a coincidence,’ she said softly.
‘Never mind that,’ said Maggin briskly. ‘I did not waste years o’ care on ye, raising ye in secret and wi’ no knowledge of his Majesty, only to see ye turn to such nonsense!’
Rasgha sighed, and pinched the bridge of her nose as though she was suffering a headache. ‘The Kostigern used to say that to care was to weaken yourself,’ she said conversationally. ‘The only way to succeed is to rid oneself of all ties and all loves. I suppose he was right.’ She looked at the stout little goblin woman, sturdy and belligerent, kindly and outraged. ‘Maggin, leave be. I want only a little blood from this good lady! I shan’t hurt her very much.’
‘Aye, and what will ye do wi’ that?’ demanded Maggin. ‘Nothing good, I fear!’
Rasgha appeared to be suffering some indecision. Whatever he
r resolve had been regarding Bessie, she suffered true doubts indeed about crossing Maggin – about revealing the true extent of her villainy before, perhaps, one of the few who had ever sincerely cared for her. For a moment, Bess hoped that it might be enough to turn her around.
But Torin had influence, too. He barked something at Rasgha in a language Bessie could not understand. His utterance was brief, but in the wake of it, all doubt vanished from Rasgha’s face and she tightened her grip upon the blade. Bessie’s heart sank, for those well-timed words had swept away all hope of deterring Rasgha.
Grunewald’s sister pushed Maggin aside. Bessie had but an instant to observe her motion and guess at her intentions, and scarcely time enough to impose herself in the way of it. But she succeeded. Rasgha leapt forward; the knife flashed; Bessie jumped, almost too late. But no – she had been in time. She felt a stinging pain in her shoulder, and felt the warmth of flowing blood.
She gritted her teeth against the pain, and steadied herself. Well and good – she had deflected one attack, but another must soon follow. What more could she do?
Drig leapt in front of her an instant later, a dark knife glittering in each hand. He radiated a dark, cold anger, and Bessie doubted not that he would rend Rasgha in two should she attempt to inflict any more harm. But as skilled as he might be with those blades, he was scarcely one third of Rasgha’s height – and she had Torin besides. He could not protect Bessie or Lady Thayer, much as she loved him for trying. She had to do something to protect herself.
Before she could gather her thoughts, she heard three notes played upon a piping flute. The brief tune rose into the air and swelled, filling the room with a commanding presence Bessie could put no name to. More notes followed, forming a rippling, mesmerising melody, and Bessie’s mind blanked; she could not remember what she had been so intent upon, only moments before.
Bessie Bell and the Goblin King Page 24
