Mr Drake and My Lady Silver

by Charlotte E. English

  Bix fell upon the cakes like a woman starved, and all but disappeared in a hail of flying morsels of sweet, sticky crumbs. Many more went into her mouth than onto the table or the floor, but still she contrived to create an astonishing mess as she gobbled and gnawed her way through cake after cake after cake.

  Phineas, nursing a fluttering feeling of anxiety somewhere in his belly, had no appetite for cake at all. He kept an eye on Bix and he watched the clock, but most of all he watched the chest.

  ‘Please,’ he said involuntarily, when a few minutes uneventfully passed. ‘Please be an appreciator of cake, Wodebean.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘You were safer there, you know,’ said Wodebean, his voice as dry and dusty as the wind in the height of summer.

  Ilsevel glared. ‘In Winter’s Hollow? Absurd!’

  ‘It is in no way absurd. Or were you hoping to spend another few years as a frog?’

  ‘You knew about that?’ Ilsevel felt rage boiling up in her, and for a moment could scarcely breathe for fury.

  ‘Yes, but—’ Wodebean held up a hand. ‘It was not I who cursed you with that shape.’

  ‘Then who was it?’

  Wodebean hesitated, watching her carefully. ‘That is a more complicated question than you know.’

  Ilsevel took a deep, short breath, and swallowed her ire. ‘This is no time for prevarication, Wodebean. It is time for the truth. You have cheated me, and you will answer to me for that!’

  His head tilted, a mere slight inclination. ‘Oh? How have I done so?’

  ‘My sister. Anthelaena! Your reigning queen! You made not the smallest effort to cure the disease which ravaged her, though you promised me you would help!’

  ‘That is true,’ said Wodebean calmly. ‘Indeed I did not.’

  Ilsevel gasped. ‘Oh! So you do not deny it!’

  Wodebean gave a slight, wry smile, the expression barely perceptible beneath the shadow of his hood. He said nothing.

  ‘She was ill,’ said Ilsevel venomously, and advanced slowly upon Wodebean, every part of her alive with the need to tear him to pieces. ‘You promised to find the means to heal her, and you did nothing! You will pay for it now, Wodebean. She is trapped in the form of an animal, and without the proper assistance she will remain so forever. You will help me find the means to restore her.’

  Wodebean merely watched her approach, unmoved. ‘Consider,’ he said softly. ‘Your sister was not ill, My Lady Silver.’

  ‘Oh, cursed with some foul disease, some wasting enchantment — I know it was no natural thing, no mere happenstance. It could not have been.’

  ‘In fact, she was poisoned.’

  Ilsevel stopped, momentarily taken aback. ‘Poisoned? How can you know that?’

  Wodebean gave a great sigh, and pushed back the hood of his deep red mantle. His face was lean and bony, all sharp angles, his olive skin stretched tightly over prominent cheekbones. He had deep-sunk eyes whose colour was almost as much red as brown, and smudged beneath with shadow. Gold hoops glinting with rubies adorned his narrow nose and the tip of one ear. He had more hair than was usual for a hobgoblin, a dark thatch of it curling over the collar of his cloak. He returned Ilsevel’s gaze calmly, and said: ‘Because I am the one who poisoned her.’

  Ilsevel, conscious of a depth of rage she had never known before, knew not how to answer him. She could only stare, bereft of words, as a hot fury boiled up so fast she thought, distantly, that she might explode with it.

  But the hobgoblin read the look in her eyes easily enough, and held up a hand. ‘Hear me,’ he said. ‘Consider. What were the conditions at the time?’

  He did not expect her to speak, did he? She could only spit her fury like a cat, and she would not so demean herself; not before an audience, even if they did not seem disposed to pay the smallest attention to what was passing before them.

  Wodebean smiled, very faintly. ‘You never did learn the identity of your enemy, did you? No, before you ask, I do not know it either. Your sister Tyllanthine is not the only Glamourist of remarkable ability in Aylfenhame, is she? A different name, a different face, for every one of his enemies and supporters alike. That was the Kostigern. How, then, do you defeat such a foe?

  ‘You do not. You cannot overpower an enemy you cannot find, cannot see, cannot put a name to. You can only trick him, out manoeuvre him, foil his schemes by playing his own games against him — and winning. That is what I did, My Lady Silver. I made of myself a willing servant of the Kostigern’s at the Court-at-Mirramay — or so I made him believe. Think, then. What would have happened, had I been able to do as you asked, and cured your sister?’

  Ilsevel felt numb. ‘She… she would have recovered. The royal city would never have fallen.’

  ‘She would have recovered. The Kostigern would have destroyed me for my failure, my disobedience, and sent another after Her Majesty in my place. And another, and another, until she was dead, and then every last one of you would have shared her fate thereafter.’ Wodebean gazed at Ilsevel with cold, flat eyes and never blinked. ‘I poisoned Her Majesty, My Lady Gold, because if I had not, someone else would have done it for me. I chose a poison which was deadly to an Aylir and without a cure — thus fulfilling my obligations to the enemy. But I chose a venom that was harmless to animals. I poisoned her, and I engineered her transformation into the form she currently wears. And thus, she still lives.’ He smiled slightly. ‘As do you, and your sister Tyllanthine, and the princess Lihyaen. How do you think any of this was contrived?’

  ‘Lihyaen?’ Ilsevel repeated, blinking stupidly. Her fury was gone, sliced neatly to pieces by Wodebean’s coolly logical words; all she was left with was confusion. ‘But she— she was killed, or thought killed—’

  ‘Thought dead,’ Wodebean agreed. ‘Like her mother. Tyllanthine and I arranged between us for her removal from the royal city. She was as much in the way as Anthelaena, you see, and had we not taken upon ourselves the task of her murder, that, too, would have been given to another — and carried out to the letter.’

  ‘The stock,’ Ilsevel whispered. ‘It could only have been your work.’

  Wodebean had the effrontery to appear pleased by this praise. ‘Thank you, My Lady,’ he murmured. ‘It was one of my best, I admit.’

  ‘Tylla said— she said— she colluded with you? With the Kostigern?’

  Words failed, leaving Ilsevel with nothing but bewildered silence.

  ‘She played the same dangerous game as I, though with the kind of complexity I could never have accomplished. How many parts she played at Court! The queen’s disaffected and disloyal sister; the princess Lihyaen’s eminently corruptible nurse; oh, she found myriad ways of seeming to aid him, while at the same time foiling every one of his plots that she could. She is an admirable woman.’ His brow darkened, and he added: ‘She has paid dearly for it. More so than I.’

  Ilsevel was recovering from her shock, and the tumult of emotions that had succeeded it, and now her thoughts were turning and turning, slotting pieces together. ‘Edironal?’ she whispered. ‘And… and me?’

  ‘There I have no information for you. The king’s disappearance was no work of mine, nor of Tyllanthine’s; we do not know what became of him. And I had nothing to do with your transformation, either.’

  A figure in a white cloak; that was all Ilsevel had seen. It could not have been Wodebean indeed; she had not suspected it of him. That white-shrouded figure had been far too tall, and besides, the hobgoblin before her did not possess the necessary arts to work such magic. But had it been Tyllanthine? Oh, Tylla! They had spoken of Wodebean so recently, and not a word of this had she spoken to Ilsevel. But did that mean Wodebean lied? No. How like Tylla it was, to keep information to herself unless it was forced from her — however important it may be.

  Another, treacherous little hope flared up in spite of her anger: the hope that Wodebean spoke the truth. Oh, Wodebean! So long a trusted member of the royal court; never a courtier, but a colleague. Ne
ver a friend, but an associate. His departure from the royal city, his descent into thievery and trickery and contraband — these tales Ilsevel had heard told, since her return to her rightful shape, and they had puzzled almost as much as they had hurt her. But had it all been a ploy? Was he not, after all, the traitor he had seemed to be?

  And Tyllanthine…

  ‘I could wish,’ she said, in a surprisingly measured voice, ‘that you and Tylla were not so cursed secretive, my good sir! If all that you say is true, why could not one of you have told us — at least about Lihyaen? The pain you caused! Anthela’s face—’ She broke off, unable to put words to the memories she held. Anthelaena’s face, when Lihyaen had died. Fury rose again; even if he had acted in good faith, he had much to answer for, and she dearly wished to make him pay for every agony he had inflicted upon others.

  Wodebean had looked upon the queen’s suffering, too. As had Tyllanthine. And neither of them had said a word to alleviate her pain. Appalled at the ruthless resolve that could render any such course of action possible, Ilsevel felt a fresh desire to rend the hobgoblin apart with her bare hands.

  Wodebean still had not moved. He might have been a statue, save for the way that his black eyes glittered as he looked at her. Even his lips barely moved when he spoke. ‘Tyllanthine and I made vassals of ourselves,’ he said quietly. ‘We could not merely pretend to support so wily and ruthless an enemy as the Kostigern; he had ways of knowing, you see. We had to do everything he asked of us. That meant that your reactions had to be sincere — yours, and Anthelaena’s — or the masquerade would shortly have been discovered, and all our hopes of success depended upon our duplicity never being exposed. And further, consider. If you had been captured, rather than killed: what might you have revealed about us, if you had known the whole truth?’

  Ilsevel gritted her teeth around the torrent of abuse she longed to hurl at him. She could not fault his logic, curse him again and again, but did it truly justify his behaviour? Did it exonerate Tyllanthine?

  Could any of it even be relied upon as the truth? It was a clever story, one she would dearly love to accept in its entirety, for then she would never again have to doubt her sister’s loyalty, nor hold Wodebean in contempt. But that alone made it suspect. He was cunning enough to spin just the right tale to pacify her, to calm all the worries of her anxious heart, knowing how desperately she would want it to be true.

  ‘What, then, became of the Kostigern?’ she said, when she had regained control of herself. ‘If you and Tyllanthine were so clever, did you succeed? His disappearance: was that, too, your work?’

  ‘No,’ said Wodebean, and the syllable contained a world of regret. ‘It was not our doing. He simply… disappeared. We thought it some new ploy of his, a scheme he had not seen fit to impart to us — and we worried, that he had found us out. But weeks and months passed, and he did not come back. I have never discovered what became of him.’

  Ilsevel considered this in taut silence. ‘I do not trust you,’ she said flatly.

  Wodebean inclined his head. ‘Nor should you.’

  She blinked at that. ‘What, then, is all this tale for, if not to win back my trust?’

  ‘It is an explanation. You were owed one.’

  She advanced upon him at last, unsure whether she would prefer to claw out his eyes with her fingernails or catch him in an embrace. Secretive, duplicitous and ruthless he may have been — but if his account were the truth, he had also saved the lives of her sister and niece. ‘And why now?’ she said, recalling her attention with some difficulty. ‘If it was so important to tell me none of these things before, why now?’

  ‘The Kostigern is no longer among us, and the threat to your family is no longer immediate. But, My Lady, there are whispers that he shall be found. His followers of old are waking again; attempts have been made, and more will follow. If he is brought back to an empty Mirramay, who is to prevent him from attempting a claim upon the sovereignty at once? And what if he should succeed? Princess Lihyaen is liberated, and you have been restored to your natural form. It is time to bring back Her Majesty, My Lady Gold.’

  Ilsevel stared hard at Wodebean, scrutinising his odd, bony face as though it might somehow reveal to her the sincerity of his clever words. ‘You have so many answers,’ she said. ‘But never the ones that matter the most. What became of the Kostigern? Or His Majesty the King? Why is Tyllanthine burdened with the Korrigan’s curse — is that your doing, too?’

  ‘I do not know the answers to any of those questions save the last,’ said Wodebean. ‘My Lady Tyllanthine’s curse is not my doing. She will not admit to me the truth, but I fear that curse is the Kostigern’s work. It was laid upon her shortly before the traitor’s disappearance.’ His mouth twisted. ‘When I said that she paid dearly for the games she played, it is that to which I referred. I fear she displeased him.’

  ‘My poor sister.’

  ‘It will be dealt with.’

  ‘And you?’ she said, watching him closely. ‘Where have you been all this time, Wodebean?’

  ‘In Torpor.’ He smiled briefly. ‘After the fall of Mirramay, those of the court who survived were not lenient towards those who had aided the enemy. In their haste to escape punishment, those known to have been among the Kostigern’s supporters eagerly betrayed the rest, and my name was mentioned by several.’

  ‘Why should they have been lenient?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Wodebean shrugged, the first real movement she had witnessed from him.

  ‘Without you and Tyllanthine, Mirramay might never have fallen.’

  Wodebean smiled faintly. ‘Without Tyllanthine and me, Aylfenhame might have had a different ruler these past few decades. You cannot know how many schemes we destroyed.’

  Ilsevel could only sigh, for who could argue with him? There were too many might-have-beens, too many possibilities, and none of them could now be weighed and deemed superior to the rest. She abandoned the topic, forcibly returning her mind to what was important now, to the reason she had so long sought for Wodebean: Anthelaena. ‘You will help me restore My Lady Gold,’ she said in a voice of steel.

  ‘I will. I have made preparations, though there is more yet to be done. When all is prepared, I shall approach Tyllanthine — and you.’

  An enquiry as to the nature of these preparations hovered upon Ilsevel’s lips, but before she could utter the words there came a commotion among the goblins. Curiously intent upon their work, they had ignored Ilsevel’s conversation with Wodebean entirely, and continued sewing furiously away. But now the little cross-legged goblin that fed clothes into the chest had hopped down off his shelf and was dashing towards Wodebean, waving something in his hand. ‘Master!’ he cried.

  ‘That reminds me,’ murmured Ilsevel as the goblin approached. ‘The Hollows? What are they for?’

  ‘They are some of the preparations I mentioned,’ replied he briefly. ‘I set them in motion long ago.’ He turned his attention to the goblin, who deposited a sticky and rather mauled-looking cake into his hands. ‘Passed through from Comestibles,’ he panted. ‘Came through the Summers chest.’

  Wodebean examined the ruined cake with more interest than its sorry appearance seemed to warrant, and then looked keenly at the messenger. ‘Was this the only one?’

  ‘No, Master! There are more.’

  Wodebean nodded once, and set off in the direction of a tall archway that led into another large, well-lit hallway, Ilsevel trailing along at his heels. The second room echoed the first, except that there was a mixture of different people here — goblins, Ayliri, brownies and even a troll — and they were making food, not clothes. Ilsevel smelled such a medley of aromas that she could discern no particular scents, though around her she saw everything from salmagundy to syllabubs being made; stewed ragout of meat, jugged hare, an array of pies, and even a floating pond pudding. Wodebean passed straight through without pausing, nimbly weaving his way through the many trestle-tables set up to support the labours of the cooks.<
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  An antechamber lay behind, a bright room full of windows looking out over a wide meadow. It was spring out there, somehow, and it occurred to Ilsevel for the first time to wonder where she was.

  Four vast chests were lined up along the centre of the room. One was stout pine wound about with holly and evergreen and mistletoe; one was gnarled rowan decked in bright berries; the third was white oak wreathed in flowers; and the fourth was some honey-coloured wood Ilsevel did not recognise, which appeared to be sprouting a flourishing carpet of flowers. It was to this last chest that Wodebean stepped, and threw open the lid.

  Inside lay three more cakes, these in rather better shape than their unfortunate sibling. Wodebean looked at them in silence.

  ‘Curious,’ he said after a while, and tapped one long finger against his chin. He snapped his fingers, and a goblin in a red hat and jerkin appeared almost immediately at his elbow. ‘Did Lantring of Summer’s Hollow not depart some time ago?’ he said crisply.

  The goblin had brought a ledger with him, so large a book that he had trouble carrying it. He dumped it onto the floor, where it landed with a terrific thud, and bent to leaf furiously through it. ‘Aye, Master!’ he declared after a few moments, and pointed a thin finger at a scrawled entry on a particular page.

  ‘Then how is it that his signature dish is coming through the chest? Is it a time discrepancy again?’

  The goblin shook his head, emphatic. ‘No, Master! All four chests have been checked and serviced recently, sir, and they are functional!’

  Wodebean picked up one of the cakes and took a bite. He chewed thoughtfully, and to Ilsevel’s surprise his face briefly lit up. Had she ever seen him smile before? ‘Perhaps the records were in error,’ he mused, and to her surprise he got directly into the chest — taking care not to stamp on the remaining cakes — and promptly vanished.

  She made a belated attempt to catch hold of his cloak as he went, but her fingers found nothing but air.

  Glowering down at the overly enthusiastic goblin, she said acidly: ‘Wretched fellow, your master.’