by Deva Fagan
Blackthorn stood as if carved of stone.
I was flabbergasted, but when Barnaby turned to me, I jumped up to join him. “You said you were waiting for Esmeralda’s heir,” I told Blackthorn. “Well, here I am, and I’m going to finish what she started.”
Blackthorn sagged. “You are indeed Esmeralda’s heir, witchling,” he said. “And, Barnaby, you may be a thief, but you are a truer hero than many who bear that title. A truer hero than I.” He straightened his shoulders. “Go on, then. Follow your plan, dangerously stupid though it may be. I will not stop you.”
“Stupidly dangerous,” corrected Barnaby, winking at me. “It would be dangerously stupid only if we didn’t know what we were in for.”
“Do you?” Blackthorn wondered. “Do you understand that, in doing this, you will set yourself against the queen of the Uplands? You will cut off much of her power, yes. But you are unlikely to kill her. She will seek vengeance, sooner or later.”
“Let her try,” said Barnaby.
“If she does, we’ll be ready for her,” I said. “But that’s getting ahead of ourselves. First I need to find jackalope fangs and armadillo whiskers and two dozen other ridiculously rare components. And it’ll take at least a day to prepare the chalice. And then we need to get all the way back through the Mistveil and up to Orlanna.”
“My stores can provide what materials you need,” said Blackthorn. “And I will ensure you reach the Uplands safely. But my assistance must end there. I cannot leave my bayou without surrendering to the full ravages of time. I’m afraid you would gain little help from a pile of damp dust and a leather mask.”
Masks, I repeated to myself, thoughtfully. “Barnaby, the Festival of Masks is coming up. You remember what the mummers said? They were going upriver, to perform in Orlanna. Maybe they would take us with them.”
Barnaby nodded. “And the festival would be a perfect time to make a go at this. Lots of hubbub. First, though, I want a good square meal. Preferably something with fewer than six legs.”
Chapter 12
Two days later, we stood on the banks of the Sangue again, watching the evening steamboats chugging away upriver toward Orlanna. The Mirable Chalice lay bound in Barnaby’s spare shirt at the bottom of his pack, fully ensorcelled and ready to be turned against its former mistress. It would be his part to get the goblet into the queen’s hands, under the guise of heroically returning the lost treasure. Then I would enact the final bit of the enchantment to let loose the spell to cut off Serafine’s powers.
I muttered the invocation, stopping just before the last word. I was desperately afraid I would forget it. My fingers twitched, practicing the precise motions Blackthorn had taught me. The only sliver of my mind free from these concerns busied itself with images of what might happen if I failed. What if I lost control? I might hurt Barnaby, or, worse, allow Serafine to prance off merrily with all her powers restored.
“I don’t see the mummers’ boat,” Barnaby said, squinting against the last of the sunlight. “But there’s another dock around that bend. They might still be there. Come on.”
I was glad Barnaby could remain so focused on our present situation. The enormity of what we were going to attempt dragged against my every step.
“Well, there’s the boat,” I said as we approached the second dock. “But I don’t see the mummers anywhere.” There wasn’t a soul to be seen. The Brilliante was moored at the far end. The cabin windows were dark, and no smoke rose from its chimneys.
“Maybe they’re out there,” I suggested. Across the wide river was a large paddler. Every one of its four decks glittered with lamplight; the tinny melody of a calliope echoed from its broad windows.
“Shh!” Barnaby tugged me behind a clump of palmettos. He pointed along the shoreline to the farthest warehouse. A lone figure leaned against the door. “Looks like a guard,” he whispered.
“Oh!” I stifled my gasp. “Do you think he’s got the mummers?”
“Let’s find out.”
Barnaby led the way. We ducked down at the rear of the building.
“I suspected you of complicity with the Bagby boy, Milo Gullet,” said a muffled voice from inside. “And now you’ve proved it. Did you really expect you could sneak off without me noticing, after I gave you strict instructions to remain in port?” I glanced at Barnaby. Rencevin. “That was an unwise move for a man with your reputation.”
The words of the second speaker carried more clearly, like the tolling of a bell. “I value my reputation quite highly, sir. My troupe has an appointment to perform for the queen herself. You don’t keep a lady like that waiting, now, do you?”
“I will keep the sun itself waiting if I must, but I will have the truth,” snapped the thief-taker. The front door banged. “Let’s go,” growled Rencevin. “I’ve a report of a raft matching the one Bagby stole spotted downriver.”
Barnaby and I backed into the shadows, barely breathing until the tramp of booted feet dulled into silence. Voices murmured inside the makeshift prison. It sounded like the entire Gullet family.
“We’ve got to get them out,” said Barnaby. “Come on.”
I watched the dusky lane nervously as Barnaby approached the door. He gave it a light tap. “Hey in there, don’t worry. We’re going to get you out.”
“Hello, there!” called the resonant voice. “Listen up, Gullets. It’s just as I promised. A hero has come to save us!”
“But the door’s locked,” said a childish voice. One of the boys, I guessed.
“I don’t know any lock-opening charms,” I whispered. “I suppose I could check the grimoire…”
“No, I’ll do it. Just…don’t let them know. Say it was you.”
I nodded. As Barnaby knelt beside the door, picks in hand, I began intoning the bean-digestion charm to cover his clicking and tapping.
“Aha!” Barnaby scrambled back from the door. “You can come out,” he said more loudly. “It’s safe. But we’d better get moving if we want to stay that way.”
Milo came tumbling out, followed by two younger boys and the girl who had played Queen Serafine. The older woman who had been the bog-witch followed more gracefully.
“To the Brilliante!” said Milo, leading the way. The pack of us ran down the dock as quietly as we could.
On his long skinny legs, Milo outdistanced the rest of us, leaping the gap onto the deck of the Brilliante and disappearing at once below. A distant rumble thrummed up through the hull as I jumped aboard. Puffs of smoke rose from the chimneys. Slowly, the great paddles spun into motion. The brown-haired woman unhitched the moorings and tossed them ashore. Barnaby and I leapt across the widening gap.
“Excellent! Wondrous!” said Milo Gullet, thudding back up onto the deck. He beamed. “To think we’ve been rescued by Barnaby the Brave, the Curse-Killer, the Defender of Nagog.” He turned to me. “And this must be his loyal companion, Prunella, potent and lovely as a lily of the bog.”
I nearly choked. “No toadings,” Barnaby whispered in my ear. Then he stepped forward to clasp the man’s proffered hand. “Thank you, sir. We’re in your debt. If it hadn’t been for you and your family, that blasted thief-taker would have nabbed us for sure. I’m just sorry you got mixed up in all this trouble. Let’s hope Rencevin doesn’t notice the jailbreak for a good long while. He’ll be after us soon enough.”
“Bah. We mummers are born to trouble. Trouble makes for the best stories, of course. And, speaking of stories, we must hear yours. But first: the pleasantries. Milo Gullet at your service.” The man swept a low bow. “Offering masks and mummery, music and mayhem, with the Gullet Waterborne Players. And, of course, swift getaways from pesky troubles. Our Brilliante here is as fast as she is bright.”
Milo corralled the children into a ragged line before him. “This is Lisette.” He tapped the head of the tall girl. She smiled shyly, ducking her head so that her two long brown braids slung forward to shield her face.
“Florian,” continued Milo, patting the older of
the boys, who nodded at me, eyes wide.
“And this little terror is Timothy.” Milo clamped a hand on the shoulder of the smaller boy, who was engaged in stuffing an entire stick of licorice into his mouth.
“And last but not least, the queen of the Brilliante, and of my heart, the fair Miranda.” Milo drew the older woman forward. She nodded to us, smiling. I searched her face for uncertainty or fear, but found only frank curiosity.
All at once the boys began speaking. “Say, is it true you rode a phantom stallion bareback, Barnaby?” asked Florian as Timothy garbled something about pondswaggles that I couldn’t make out around the licorice. The girl remained silent.
“Come on, Liss,” said Florian. “You couldn’t shut up about Barnaby the Brave, handsomest, cleverest, most wonderfulest boy in the Uplands. Where’s your tongue now?”
“Don’t crowd our guests with chatter,” said Miranda. “Let’s all get inside for a nice cup of hot-leaf and some ginger cake. We would be happy to have you join us, Barnaby, Prunella.”
The inside of the boat was as vibrant as the exterior. We settled in a small room cluttered with bright costumes and glittering masks. Painted screens covered the walls, so that in one direction we looked out across snowcapped peaks and in the other we appeared to have wandered into an elaborate rose-garden with a view of a distant marble folly. Milo and Lisette unfolded a long table in the center of the room.
Miranda swept in and out of the room through the swinging half-door. Before long, a fresh pot of hot-leaf sat steaming on the table, surrounded by seven battered, mismatched mugs and a platter of dark ginger cake.
“Please, sit,” said Miranda, offering me a stool. The rest of them took seats on two benches. I noted that Lisette made a point of offering Barnaby the only armchair. I sank onto my stool as if it were a treacherous bit of mire. Was I really sitting down for a cup of tea and some cake with a family of Uplanders? At their invitation?
My wariness must have shown on my face. “Oh,” said Miranda, looking at me, “don’t you care for ginger cake?”
“No, it’s just…You folks really don’t care that I’m a bog-witch from the Bottomlands?”
“Oh, piffle,” said Milo. “We’re mummers. We know very well that the face on the surface doesn’t tell what lies beneath.”
“But I am a bog-witch,” I said.
“Well, and does that mean we shouldn’t offer you a nice bit of cake?” said Miranda. “I expect even Esmeralda herself might take a slice if she were still walking this earth.” She deposited a large piece before me.
“And besides, we’ve been gathering tales of your valorous quest for the past month, for our next show. People need stories of hope in dark times like these. And it does sound smashing, doesn’t it?” Milo flung out his arms, deepening his voice theatrically. “Barnaby the Brave, savior of the Uplands! Prunella the Good Witch, lov—”
“Stop right there!” I interjected. “‘Potent’ is fine, but if I hear any more twaddle about lovely lilies, I’ll throw myself into the depthless bog.”
“There goes your plan for a crown of lilies, Liss,” said Florian, elbowing his sister.
Milo raised his hands. “Perhaps we’re getting ahead of ourselves. First we need to hear the true tale.” He looked at us expectantly. “Have you recovered the Mirable Chalice? Is this blight upon the Uplands finally at an end?”
“The true tale,” repeated Barnaby, glancing at me. I nodded, hoping mightily that our decision to trust the mummers wasn’t going to sink us in the mire.
He told them the truth. Almost all of it.
Barnaby told them about our travels, the battle to save Nagog, the journey through the Mistveil Bayou, his time as a toad, and the revelations of Blackthorn. He did not tell them he’d stolen the chalice in the first place. As he brushed over awkward bits, Barnaby looked at me, his eyes sharp and pleading. I shrugged, but kept his secret.
When he had finished, we sat still and silent for a long moment.
Then Miranda took the teapot firmly in hand and poured out fresh cups for all of us. Milo sat back with a gusty breath, nearly toppling backward. The children stared with wide eyes.
“Well. It’s not a proper tale unless it has some unexpected twists, I grant you that.” He nodded to Miranda.
“It’ll have to happen at the Festival of Masks,” she said, tapping her fingers against the table. “If they’re to have any hope of getting away afterward.”
“What?” I said. “Do you mean you’ll help us? You believe our story?”
“When you’ve heard as many tales as I have,” said Milo, “you begin to be able to tell which ones are true. And we know more tales than just the Epic of Serafine.” He grinned. “So, yes, we’ll help you.”
“You might get into a lot of trouble,” said Barnaby. “You’d be working against the queen.”
“We’ve no love for the queen,” said Miranda sharply. “She had Milo locked away after we performed the Epic of Esmeralda a few years back. The despotic shrew didn’t care for it, and after hearing your tale I can understand why. But to take a man away from his family, his children, for a full year!”
“I’m out now, and that’s what matters,” said Milo, squeezing Miranda’s hand. “But someday we must put on a private showing of the epic. I think you’d appreciate it especially, Miss Prunella.”
“I suppose that explains what’s happened to the masks,” said Florian, thoughtfully.
“They’re enchanted, aren’t they?” I asked.
Milo nodded. “Forty-seven masks, handed down in the Gullet family for ten generations. They’ve carried the Waterborne Players through famine and feast, upriver and down, to the palace of Orlanna and as far south as the Palm Islands, or so my great-grandmam claimed.
“Forty-seven faces: knights, dragons, wizards, witches, beggars, and bards. When you put one on, you weren’t just wearing a mask. You breathed fire and spread your vast wings. Now I’m lucky if I get a gasp when I set off the flash powder.”
Miranda nodded. “They just…sputtered out. They’re still lovely things, but they’re nothing more than leather and papier-mâché and glitter now. The jack didn’t make it through the last show. We’ve only Esmeralda and the queen and Blackthorn left.” She sighed.
“Will they work again?” asked Florian. “Once you stop what the queen’s doing?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I hope so. Things will change, that’s for certain.”
“Change is good,” said Milo, downing the last of his hot-leaf. “Now, we need a plan. You have to get up close to Serafine without a lot of fuss. And it just so happens we’re performing for her court during the Festival of Masks, or we will be if we can get there before that scoundrel Rencevin can raise the alarm. How would you two feel about becoming mummers for a night?”
Chapter 13
I looked at the mask dubiously, hefting it in my hands. The great green nose poked up from the tangle of black-and-gray braids. The eye sockets seemed to leer at me.
“Do you think Esmeralda really looked like this?” I asked.
Milo looked up from the piles of costuming he had scattered across half the cabin. “I doubt she was green. But my grandmam always told me the masks have personalities to match the originals. Esmeralda’s mask is a tricksy, stubborn thing with a mind of its own.”
“Just right for Prunella, then,” said Barnaby from the far side of the room as he buckled on his breastplate.
I took a deep breath and slipped the bog-witch mask on. It settled against my face as close as a glove. I plucked a looking glass from the table and held it up.
It was not me. But it was. My heart banged painfully against my chest. I could only stare at the reflection. Me. A bog-witch. With a proper nose and warts that looked so real I had to poke at them to remind myself it was a seeming spell. If only Grandmother could see me. If only it weren’t just a mask.
After staring at my boggy splendor for several moments, I found my tongue. “Well, they certainly wo
n’t be able to tell who I am.”
Milo had begun rooting through a large basket that appeared to contain nothing but painted plaster fruit. When he had reached the bottom, he absently juggled two pears and a lemon in one hand as he looked around the cabin. “A mask has magic,” he said, crossing to investigate a large brass-bound chest. “Put it on and you can do all sorts of things you might not otherwise. Waltz into an audience with the queen carrying a basketful of magical doodads, for example. Take it off again and you can slip away into the crowd, no one the wiser. Ah, here it is!” Milo tossed the fruit aside and seized a handful of white-and-red fabric.
“Especially if they’re all looking at me,” said Barnaby. “And who wouldn’t be?” He had finished buckling on the armor and now stood before a full-length mirror on the far side of the room, turning back and forth.
“That’s the spirit. Here, lad, try this.” Milo held out a white velvet cape, lined in scarlet. “You certainly look the part. Right, then. I’d better go help Miranda with dinner. We’ll need fortification for tonight.” With that he swept away through the swinging doors, toward the smell of frying ham, which had begun to waft through the cabin.
Barnaby lifted his chin, sweeping back the cape the better to show off his gilt breastplate and shining sword. I could almost believe they were real metal, rather than painted wood and plaster.
“Shame I have to cover my face up,” Barnaby said, grinning at me in the mirror.
“You’ll be glad to be wearing a mask later,” I said, pulling off my own. “Especially if Rencevin is there.” I fiddled with the yarn hair. We had docked in Orlanna that morning. The Festival of Masks was to begin at sundown, in just a few hours. The thief-taker must have discovered the escape by now, but with any luck he was still on the river. Nevertheless, I worried.
“You ready for this?” Barnaby asked.
“I’ve been practicing. I know my lines.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
