The Terror of the Southlands

by Caroline Carlson

  I shall come to see you in Queensport as soon as I’m able. Please do not ask your dressmaker to measure me for anything at all; she always sticks me full of pins, and my seafaring clothes are perfectly serviceable. I have never attempted to climb ship’s rigging in a ball gown, but I feel sure that such an attempt would put both the gown and my neck in an unnecessary amount of peril.

  You know perfectly well that Father wants nothing to do with me. If he wants me to visit him in the Royal Dungeons, it is surely only to scold me for putting him there in the first place. I am sorry he is lonely, and I am glad that you are visiting him, but I doubt that even your dressmaker could sew up the rift between us. And don’t you dare ask me to apologize, Mother. Pirates don’t apologize—especially not to villains.

  I hope your masquerade ball is a smashing success.

  Arr! and love from

  Hilary

  * * *

  CHAPTER THREE

  “YOU MUST PROMISE to write,” Miss Greyson said as she rowed the dinghy up to the weatherworn Otterpool docks, “and please give my best to Miss Pimm. I do hope you all won’t put yourselves in too much danger.”

  Hilary loved Miss Greyson dearly, but it was occasionally quite difficult to sail the High Seas with one’s former governess. “Danger,” she said, “is what being a pirate is all about. But we’ll write as often as we can. Are you sure you’ll be all right on the Pigeon?”

  Miss Greyson gave a brisk nod and set down her oars. “I shall be more than capable of keeping the treasure out of unscrupulous hands, but I believe I’ll write to ask a few of Jasper’s former crewmates for assistance with the ship’s work until Jasper returns. I’d hate for the bookshop to be neglected.”

  When Hilary, Charlie, and the gargoyle had all said their good-byes to Miss Greyson, they climbed out of the dinghy and walked down the small dirt road to the center of the village, where a fine black coach drawn by four chestnut horses stood waiting for them. Most carriages in the kingdom were adorned with large family crests, or with a row of stars indicating a carriage for hire, but this one was painted with a golden figure eight—the mark of the Enchantress. When the driver caught sight of the pirates, he tipped his hat and stepped down from his box. “Is one of you Jasper Fletcher, then?” he asked.

  “I’m Pirate Hilary Westfield.” Hilary tipped her own hat to the driver, who was looking rather confused at the sight of her braid. “I’m afraid Jasper Fletcher isn’t available at the moment, so my mates and I will be visiting Miss Pimm in his place.”

  “I’ve been told to bring a pirate back to Pemberton with me,” the driver said, “so as long as I’ve got my pirate, I’m not much bothered about which one it is. I’d advise you to get yourselves settled comfortably, for it’s four days’ journey to Miss Pimm’s.” Then he helped them into the coach, and the chestnut horses led them east out of Otterpool, away from the sea.

  The road to Pemberton was poor, and they had to stop often to give the horses water and rest. Charlie didn’t enjoy traveling more than a few miles from the sea, and he fiddled with the buttons on his pirate coat as the coach rolled through the gray and green Southlands Hills. “It’s a bit like looking at the world inside out,” he said. “There’s supposed to be land on the horizon and sea under your boots, not the other way around.”

  To distract them all from the dry ground that bumped beneath the carriage wheels, Hilary read aloud from the books Miss Greyson had let the gargoyle borrow for the journey—stories of quick-witted heroes, treacherous villains, and (Charlie groaned) true love. Apart from the occasional moments when a story ended sadly and Hilary had to console the gargoyle, the trip passed without incident, and as the sun set behind them on the third day, the driver turned the coach toward the south, where he knew of a fine place to spend the night.

  They had just turned onto the Pemberton road when the air around them filled with the shrill squeal of metal and the sound of galloping hoofbeats. The coach began to tremble as the noise grew louder, and the driver cursed. Then, quite without warning, the four chestnut horses reared up and dragged the coach off the road, sending them bumping and swaying into a ditch. Hilary put a hand on her cutlass, Charlie bumped his head on the top of the coach, and the gargoyle pressed his snout against the window. “Look!” he cried as they shuddered to a rather tilted halt. “Here come some scallywags!”

  Hilary wrapped the gargoyle in her arms and watched as a carriage charged past them in a flurry of dust. It was painted all in black and drawn by a fleet of jet-black horses. Dark curtains masked its windows, and the coachman’s hat sat so low on his head that Hilary wondered how he could see anything at all. The ground shook beneath them as the black horses passed. Within moments, the mysterious carriage disappeared over the crest of the hill, and the road was empty once more.

  Hilary had only just recovered her breath when Miss Pimm’s driver pulled the carriage door open. “There’s no serious damage done,” he said, dabbing at his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket, “though the horses are pretty well spooked. Are you pirates all right?”

  “Some of us are a bit shaken,” Hilary admitted. She looked down at the gargoyle, who was still quivering slightly in her arms. “Whoever do you think was driving that carriage? I couldn’t make out any markings on the doors.”

  “A coach without markings?” Charlie rubbed the top of his head and winced. “That’s awfully strange, isn’t it?”

  “Strange indeed,” the driver said, “but hardly stranger than driving two pirates and a gargoyle to finishing school.”

  When the horses were calmed at last, the driver guided the carriage out of the ditch and down the road to an inn owned by a gentleman who turned out to be a retired pirate. He had abandoned the seafaring life for a large, shingled hilltop house with nautical prints on the walls, where he plied Hilary and Charlie with homemade biscuits and showed them to their cots in the snug attic. If the day was fine, the pirate gentleman claimed, you could catch a glimpse of the sea through the uppermost window. A warm biscuit before bed and a hopeful glance toward the sea were enough to dismiss all thoughts of the mysterious carriage from Hilary’s mind, and she woke the next morning feeling bolder and more daring than ever.

  AS THE CARRIAGE rumbled southward, the dirt road widened, and cobblestones began to sprout from its edges. Just before lunchtime on the fourth day, the stone spires of Pemberton rose into view, and bells rang out on the breeze as the clock in the market square chimed the hour.

  “When we get to Miss Pimm’s,” said the gargoyle, “will there be fanfare? Will there be crowds? Will they announce us as the fearsome pirates who’ve come to save the kingdom?” He hopped up and down on the carriage seat. “Oh, I can’t wait!”

  “I can,” said Charlie. He was fiddling with his buttons again. “That place is absolutely crawling with High Society girls.”

  Hilary rolled her eyes. “Charlie Dove, your father was the Scourge of the Northlands. If you have any intention of filling his boots, you’ll simply have to face your fears. The High Society girls won’t eat you—or at least I’m fairly sure they won’t.”

  The carriage turned down the shady avenue toward Miss Pimm’s Finishing School for Delicate Ladies, and the driver slowed the horses. “I’m afraid I’ll have to let you out here,” he said. “I’d take you to the front gate, but there’s a whole knot of people standing about in the lane.”

  The gargoyle’s ears perked up. “I knew there would be crowds!” he cried.

  But the people gathered in the lane didn’t seem to be there to greet the pirates, and there wasn’t the slightest bit of fanfare when Hilary stepped out of the carriage. Outside Miss Pimm’s front gate stood a cluster of gentlemen in red jackets and gray trousers. Some of the gentlemen were using exquisitely small brushes to dust the gate with chalky powder, while others bent down to examine the front path through round glass lenses. Several of the gentlemen seemed to be arguing with one another, and all of them looked quite solemn indeed. A long row of carria
ges painted with the queen’s emblem lined the lane behind them. Every so often, another carriage would pull up and another red-and-gray gentleman would emerge from it, looking just as grave as his fellows.

  The gargoyle poked his head out of Hilary’s bag and squinted at the red-and-gray gentlemen. “Are these the adoring masses?” he asked, looking up at Hilary. “I thought there would be trumpets.”

  “These,” said Hilary, “are the queen’s inspectors—nearly all of them, from the looks of it.” She tilted her pirate hat at a jaunty angle, smoothed the wrinkles from her good coat, patted her cutlass, and marched down the lane toward Miss Pimm’s. “Come along, Pirate Dove,” she called over her shoulder to Charlie. “Something very odd is happening, and I intend to find out what it is.”

  As Hilary approached, the inspectors with brushes stopped dusting, and the inspectors with magnifying glasses stopped examining. They all turned to stare at her, just as Captain Blacktooth’s crew had done on the Renegade. Hilary stared right back and kept marching, though she felt a bit as though she were marching directly off a plank. The gargoyle had apparently decided that the masses were not so adoring after all, for he ducked back into Hilary’s bag, leaving only his pirate hat visible over the clasp.

  At the tall, spiked front gate, Hilary stopped. The gate usually stood open, but today it was shut, and a particularly stern-looking inspector stood in front of it. “Please step aside, sir,” Hilary said as loudly as she could manage. “I am Pirate Hilary Westfield, Terror of the Southlands. I’ve come for an urgent meeting with Miss Pimm.”

  The stern inspector’s brow wrinkled, and he studied Hilary through his magnifying glass. “Pirates, eh?” he said at last. “I thought as much. So you’re the ones responsible, are you? It’s awfully bold of you to return to the scene of the crime. But then I suppose you pirates are known for your boldness.”

  Hilary drew herself up as though Miss Greyson had poked her in the ribs. “You’re right to think that I’m bold, Inspector,” she said, “but I don’t know anything about any sort of crime, and I certainly haven’t committed one.”

  “Ah!” said the inspector, looking quite pleased with himself. “That’s precisely what a criminal would say, isn’t it?”

  “Listen here,” said Charlie. “We’re pirates, not criminals, and we’ve got to see Miss Pimm at once. If you won’t be good enough to tell us what’s going on here, perhaps she will.”

  “My lad,” said the inspector, “if Miss Pimm could explain what has happened, I wouldn’t need to be here at all, and I could return to my newspaper and my fine woolen slippers. But alas, I can’t.” The inspector leaned forward. “And if you don’t provide some proof that you aren’t rogues and rapscallions, I’ll have to take you both to the Dungeons for questioning.”

  Hilary dug in her bag and pulled out Miss Pimm’s letter. “This should be proof enough,” she said. “Miss Pimm sent this letter to our captain, Jasper Fletcher, requesting his presence especially. But Mr. Fletcher is traveling at the moment, so we’ve come in his place.”

  The inspector held Miss Pimm’s letter very close to his nose. He squinted at it through his magnifying glass. He ran a gloved finger along its border. Finally, he shook his head and thrust the paper back into Hilary’s hand. “It looks genuine enough, I suppose,” he said, “though what Miss Pimm would want with all you pirate folk, I can’t imagine. But no matter—you can’t come in, and that’s that.”

  “Whyever not?” said Hilary. She was beginning to grow rather tired of this inspector. “I’m sure Miss Pimm won’t be pleased to hear that you’ve inconvenienced her companions.”

  “She’ll hear no such—” The inspector broke off as a door slammed behind him. “Good gracious, is it that pesky schoolgirl again? Didn’t I tell you to stay inside?”

  “Oh, thank goodness,” Hilary murmured as Claire Dupree scurried down the path in a whirl of petticoats. Claire had stayed on at Miss Pimm’s after Hilary had left to become a pirate, but a year of finishing school had done very little to calm her exuberance, and she waved at them wildly.

  “Hilary!” she cried as she opened the gate. “I hoped you’d come! And Charlie, hello, it’s ever so wonderful to see you again.” She pushed past the inspector to wrap Hilary in a fierce hug, and then, ignoring the look of terror on Charlie’s face, she hugged him as well. “But there’s no time for pleasantries. Quick, both of you, come inside before that horrid inspector bores you half to death.” She tugged them through the gate and latched it behind her before the inspector could do more than fumble his magnifying glass in alarm. “Now that you’ve arrived, I’m sure you’ll know what to do. Those inspectors have been here for hours already, but they haven’t discovered a thing and I’m quite sure they never will. Inspectors are so useless, don’t you think? Always sniffing about and dusting—but I simply can’t see how dusting will improve the matter at all!”

  “Just a moment,” said Hilary. “You’d better tell us exactly what’s happened. We’ve come to see Miss Pimm, but she didn’t warn us that the place would be swarming with queen’s inspectors.”

  Claire blinked. “You haven’t heard? Oh, how foolish of me; I should have told you right away, but I thought—well, it’s absolutely tragic. You see,” said Claire, taking an enormous breath, “Miss Pimm has vanished!”

  * * *

  From

  The Augusta Scuttlebutt

  WHERE HIGH SOCIETY TURNS FOR SCANDAL

  Magic users, take note! The Scuttlebutt has discovered this morning that the Enchantress of the Northlands, Miss Eugenia Pimm, has gone missing from her home in Pemberton, where she oversees Miss Pimm’s Finishing School for Delicate Ladies. The captain of the queen’s inspectors, a Mr. Hastings, confirms that the Enchantress’s whereabouts are unknown but will not tell our reporters whether she has vanished of her own accord. The inspector claims it is possible that the Enchantress has merely taken a well-deserved vacation, but we at the Scuttlebutt fervently hope that the case proves to be far more scandalous. Could the Enchantress have been kidnapped, captured, pursued, or purloined? Will nefarious scoundrels use her absence as an opportunity to wreak magical havoc across Augusta? Without an Enchantress to watch over us, will the kingdom erupt in an explosion of battles, thefts, and ill-conceived enchantments—or will everyone remember to mind their manners? (We suspect that the first possibility is far more likely than the second.)

  We shall report more details as we manage to pry them from the remarkably tight fists of Inspector Hastings.

  * * *

  WE ASKED, YOU ANSWERED:

  What has happened to the Enchantress of the Northlands?

  “She’s always vanishing, isn’t she? The last time she disappeared, she didn’t return for nearly two hundred years, and we simply can’t afford to wait that long for her to return again. It’s quite rude to go off on one’s own for hundreds of years at a time without even leaving a note.”—L. DEVEREAUX, NORDHOLM

  “I read in the Gazette that Miss Pimm longed to return to the Northlands. Perhaps she’s given up on her search for the new Enchantress and gone home at last.”—N. FEATHERING, QUEENSPORT

  “The Enchantress must have a lot of enemies, mustn’t she? She’s very strict about magic, and no one seems to care much for her rhymes. Do you think someone got fed up with her and did her in? Oh dear, that would be dreadful.”—P. SCATTERGOOD, OTTERPOOL

  “I have no idea where Eugenia Pimm has gone, but I think it’s disgraceful of her to abandon her students—not to mention her kingdom! What are we to do without an Enchantress? Why, people will run absolutely wild with magic! I hope Miss Pimm will return at once, but if she does not, I trust the queen will hurry to fill the vacant position Miss Pimm has left behind.”—G. TILBURY, NORDHOLM

  “Perhaps she turned herself invisible with all that magic she’s got. I should very much like to be invisible. When Mr. Fletcher arrives with my magic piece, I’ll try it at once.”—O. CHERESKY, LITTLE SHEARWATER

  * * *

>   an extract From

  The Gargoyle: History of a Hero

  BY THE GARGOYLE

  AS TOLD TO H. WESTFIELD

  I was born in a lovely little quarry in the Southlands Hills, but I was nothing more than a chunk of granite until I met the Enchantress. Eugenia Pimm selected me herself and carved me into the handsome gargoyle you admire so much today. (It’s true that Miss Pimm and I don’t look quite as elegant as we did back then, but if you’d been around for two hundred years, dear reader, you wouldn’t be looking so great either.) She made my heart from a powerful lump of magic, and when I was finished, she enchanted me to move and talk just as humans do. After I introduced myself, Miss Pimm explained that she had created me to protect her friends in Westfield House from villainy. “You are full of strong magic,” she told me, “but I have placed an enchantment on your heart to ensure that your magic may only be used for protection.”

  I was proud to have such an important job to do, but I wasn’t very happy about being stuck on the wall of Westfield House. Being a gargoyle isn’t easy at the best of times, and it became even more difficult when Miss Pimm ran away from her life as an Enchantress and took most of the kingdom’s magic with her. I had no idea what had happened to her—no one ever remembers to tell the gargoyle what’s going on—so I sat above my doorway and gave protection to anyone who bothered to ask for it. If you’re not a magical creature, dear reader, you probably don’t understand how unpleasant this is. Your heart feels funny, like it might explode without any warning, and your whole body starts to shake. Even worse, you’re forced to protect rude, selfish people who don’t seem to notice that your arms are crumbling to bits. It was a huge relief when my trusty assistant, Hilary, came along to dust the cobwebs from my snout, although I wish she’d shown up at least half a century earlier.