by J M Sanford
~
“I still say we should tell her the truth,” Amelia whispered. “I’m sure she wouldn’t want to be a dragoness any more than you do.”
Bessie huffed. “If it were anyone else, I’d agree, but trying to talk sense into that girl is like… like…”
“Like trying to thread a rope through the eye of an embroidery needle?” Amelia offered. Bessie was under Amelia’s mantle of invisibility, so Amelia didn’t see the disparaging look Bessie gave her, but she could envision it clearly enough. She sighed. “I know.” The Red Queen wouldn’t believe a warning from her rivals. But as soon as they turned the next corner, the door to Rose’s chambers would be in sight, mere yards away. Amelia had begged permission to pay the bride-to-be a visit, waiting half the morning before she and Bessie could enact their plan (“nine is the earliest hour for a morning social call,” Bessie had recited, a line from her etiquette lessons) and now there was no good reason for any further delay…
Just as a distant clock chimed the hour, Bessie jumped. A mechanical spider, not quite as big as her fist, but quite large enough, had just scuttled over her foot, and Amelia yelped at the sight of the horrible thing.
“Be quiet,” Bessie hissed, “I heard a door open.”
Amelia froze guiltily, despite the fact that she had permission to be in this part of the palace. Round the corner, she could hear voices, but couldn’t help being more concerned with the two mechanical spiders who had joined the first, the eyes set into their backs roving madly. The first was running in circles where Bessie’s foot had just been, trying to figure out what it had bumbled over before, and where the mystery obstacle could have disappeared to. The invisibility spell had them foxed, but they suspected mischief nonetheless. “Oh sweet mercy, I hate spiders!” Amelia whimpered as the things scuttled about in confusion.
“Shush! They’re not even real spiders!” But they certainly looked like spiders, and moved like spiders, and what was the difference then?
Trying her best to ignore them, Amelia peered around the corner: Commander Breaker stood speaking at the door to Rose’s chambers.
Bessie, ignoring her own instruction to be quiet, stamped viciously on one of the spiders, grinding it into the ice with her boot-heel. It didn’t get up again, only jerked its little legs feebly. The others circled around their fallen comrade, giving Bessie the opportunity to crush one more of them, before the third escaped the invisible attacker.
Amelia looked round the corner again: Rose’s door slammed shut as Commander Breaker went away.
Bessie growled quietly. “Do you think he knows?” she whispered. “It is the last day before the wedding, so the prince’s men might be expecting us to try something.”
“And they’d be right, wouldn’t they?” Amelia whispered back, not wanting to be caught speaking to her invisible accomplice. “Are you sure we should do this?”
“Don’t wimp out now, Amelia! Where’s the gung-ho attitude that got us into this mess in the first place?”
Drawing a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, Amelia went up and knocked on Rose’s door.
“Come in!” Rose shouted. The door was unlocked, and Rose stood in the middle of her sitting room, a knife in her hand. Amelia recoiled in surprise, but Rose didn’t even notice, staring in consternation at the silver blade. “Come in, I said, and shut the door behind you. You’re letting in the most terrible draft.”
Amelia obeyed, her own attention fixed on the knife.
Rose held it between thumb and forefinger, looking at it with distaste, and the light caught the fine engraving on the blade, the colourful flowers inlaid in the ivory handle. It was small and light and wickedly sharp, made for a lady. “What on earth does he expect me to do with this?” she demanded.
“Um. Defend yourself from attackers?”
Rose scoffed at this suggestion. “What do you think we have guards for?” she said, apparently unaware that her door had been left unguarded. “Unless you plan to attack me.” She stormed off into her bedroom, slamming the knife in a drawer full of jewellery, then came back dusting off her hands as if the knife had been some dirty unpleasant thing. “Now: what have you come here for?”
~
The red dragon stalked up and down the length of his private study, a dreadful scowl knotting his brow, his lips rippling back from rows of ferocious teeth. His Commander had lied to him! His Mage whispered secrets to the enemy! His brother had broken his enchanted chains and then come strutting back through the front gates, all false reconciliation and snide looks! Archalthus’ fury fuelled dragon’s fire within him, but still he could barely hold himself together, let alone spit flame. He feared that everything was getting away from him… except for the wedding, of course, which was coming down on him like an avalanche. After a thousand long years of striving towards this day, he scarcely had time to breathe, now. What if – unthinkable horror! – he’d been mistaken in selecting his beautiful Rose? Was she beautiful enough? Enough to make the masses swoon at the sight of her, to sigh her name with wonder? Miss Castle certainly hadn’t stood in awe of the soon-to-be Red Queen, that night. Miss Hartwood’s manner had left a great deal to be desired, as well. Unattractively petulant, and entirely too keen to have somebody – anybody – whipped. Such flaws ought to be stripped away from a would-be Queen, but there was no more time. Would she even make the transformation to dragoness as well as he’d hoped? There was no way to be absolutely certain, after all. Archalthus snarled and smashed an antique chair to splinters at the thought of spending eternity shackled to a less-than-beautiful wife. But… once they were wed, the King’s Crown would have the power to break his curse and make him a true dragon again. No more skulking on the sidelines for him, no more anonymity: with the legitimacy of the Crown, he would be free to raise an army and retake the Dragon Lands. Every creature alive would know his name. Yes! Restored to his former magnificence and power, he would raise an army (trolls were said to be thick-skulled but unswervingly loyal); put the Mage Council in their place; teach that meddlesome witch a lesson… He collapsed into his weak human form.
As he lay there recovering, a knock at the door startled him. He could do no more than tackle one problem at a time. “Enter!” he shouted, standing up and brushing himself off. “Enter, damn you!” He picked up a vase and hurled it at the door as it began to open, but Commander Breaker’s timing was near supernatural: had he arrived a minute earlier, the expression of princely anger would have been far more severe.
Nonetheless, the Commander was still slinking about like a dog expecting to be kicked, his attention so much on his master that he didn’t even notice the straw he was treading all across the study floor. “You summoned me, Master?”
Archalthus clenched his fists, suppressing his anger at the mess. The anticipated punishment would come soon enough. “Are the stone horses repaired?” he asked instead, since the Commander had so obviously come from the stables. “And the griffins ready for the fight?” Along with the iron dragon, they would need every fighter they could muster for the next battle against Regeltheus, who would most likely make his move on the morning of the wedding. Archalthus clenched his fists tighter, gritting his teeth. Regeltheus always ruined everything…
The Commander had been taking his time thinking about his answer, all the while watching his master’s expression. “There are eight stone horses in the stables, good as new. And one more that’ll only walk backwards, but we could use it still.”
“Useful in retreat?” suggested Archalthus, with a smile that was far from jovial. “And the griffins?”
“The black and the red are in good health. The white won’t be flying for a good month yet, even with the mage’s potions.”
“What I meant is are they loyal? Have they learned to behave? Has the red griffin been taking human form?”
“Her Ladyship needs a female servant, Master,” the Commander pointed out.
It was a delicate subject and one that Archalthus as a bachelor recoiled fro
m. Decency demanded that a lady have a female servant for dressing and certain other female duties. Archalthus was far from certain what those other duties entailed, and shrank from the thought of asking. For many years there had been nobody besides the red griffin to take on the role of lady’s maid. “Very well. Assign the red griffin as a personal guard to Miss Hartwood, and instruct her that when she’s not engaged in the duties of a handmaid, she’s to consider herself a proper griffin and a soldier in my army.” My pitifully small army, proven to be no match for a dragon in his prime… Putting the matter aside for the time being, Archalthus took up a small wooden box from his desk. Retrieved from the Archmage’s rooms, it was the size of a tinderbox, unassuming in plain unvarnished wood, but its plainness hid a near-priceless secret. Archalthus slid back the lid to reveal a brass spider lying inside the padding of worn blue cloth. She was an absolute miracle of miniature clockwork, small enough to fit on a thumbnail, nothing like her drones. Flat-bodied, discreet, with her own special purpose.
“I require information on any plans the White Prince may have spoken of here,” said Archalthus. “And after your recent disgraceful conduct… well. Consider this your moment for redemption, Commander.”
“Yes, Master.” Keen as he was to be useful, he still hesitated when he recognised the spider. He took the box.
Admittedly the process looked an unpleasant one. First Commander Breaker pulled down his lower eyelid, and raised the flat-bodied brass spider to his face. He had the chance for one last resentful glance at Archalthus before the spider scuttled beneath his eyelid, working its way behind his eye.
Archalthus turned away, watching out of the window. There were other ways of extracting the information, but they meant that each spider’s account of events would have to go through the slippery Archmage Morel, and why risk that when there was a servant at hand, willing to use this method?
Archalthus glanced over his shoulder, tapping his foot impatiently as the Commander collapsed onto the ground, one hand over his eye. He would heal, and if he didn’t heal, then he could be mended. “Well? What do you see? Have we caught my brother plotting?”
Commander Breaker shook his head. “It’s gone all blurry,” he mumbled. “The spiders keep running around like headless chickens and they’re not remembering right.”
“My brother?”
“Not him. Scarlet always said the magic’s bad here.”
Archalthus studied the sky with its rippling planes of magic and nodded sagely. He’d question Morel later, and see how many of the answers matched up. “The iron dragon,” said Archalthus. “Check progress on my iron dragon.” If the Archmage intended to sabotage his master’s plans, then deliberately delaying the completion of the new weapon would be the simplest method.
“Getting there, Master. Slowly but surely. Red.”
“As it should be.”
The queen spider continued to unburden herself of the memories of her drones.
“Now there’s something,” said the Commander. “Miss Lamb and Miss Castle, last night, plotting to steal the crown from your bride to be, Master. I can’t find Miss Castle now. Miss Lamb is with Her Ladyship as we speak.”
Archalthus scowled. “Miss Lamb? Does she mean to steal the Crown, too?” And to think he’d been considering offering that girl a position as lady’s maid to the new Queen.
“No fear, Master: I’ve already taken the crown from Her Ladyship for safekeeping.”
“Good. Do get up off the floor. And be sure to find an extra safe place for the crown until the wedding. Wherever it’s hidden now is not good enough, do you understand?”
“Yes, Master. But what about Miss Lamb and Miss Castle?” he asked, as the spider crawled out from beneath his eyelid and dropped into his waiting hand. Its brass back shone with blood, and he wiped it off with a handkerchief before replacing the tiny creature in its wooden box. “Can’t let them get away with plotting against you and your bride like that. They could have spoiled the big day.”
“Yes. I should have them killed.” Archalthus paused, thinking. “After the ceremony, though, Commander.”
“Why not now?”
What an utterly scandalous thought! “My bride to be and I have already invited them to attend.” Miss Hartwood, in a fit of girlish enthusiasm, had invited literally everyone in the world to the wedding, only deigning to even mention it to her fiancé after all the invitations were out and impossible to retrieve. The two of them had quarrelled over the matter, and Archalthus felt a decidedly unromantic stirring of anger in his chest at the thought even now… but killing any of the wedding guests on the eve of the wedding would be the apex of bad manners. “No. You may take the necessary actions after the wedding.”
The Commander, recovering from the unpleasantness with the spider, bowed. “Thank you, Master. I won’t disappoint you there.”
“Hmm. Is Miss Lamb alone with my bride? Is she safe?” He’d thought the two women might become friends, if the loser could overcome her shame and submit to the victor.
“It was Miss Castle who went after Her Ladyship with a kitchen knife, Master. Miss Lamb’s the soppy blonde girl, and she’s just trying to get in Her Ladyship’s good books for after the wedding… not that it’ll do her any good. I can send a couple of men over just in case.” Commander Breaker wiped the thin trickle of blood that was running from his eye. “Will that be all, Master? The spiders saw someone snooping around the courtyard where the iron dragon’s being built, and I want to see what he’s up to for myself.”
Archalthus nodded. “Good, good. One more thing: the first lie you tell me after the wedding, I will kill you on the spot. Your life will depend on your scrupulous honesty. Do I make myself clear?”
“Very clear, Master.”
“Now, this business in the courtyard: see to it.”
Alone again, Archalthus returned inevitably to his earlier thoughts. Foolish women and disobedient underlings be damned, soon he would be restored to his full power by the Crown of the Dragon King. Even his brother would bow before him, then.
29: BAD SPRITE
Smoke and noise filled the courtyard as the fire sprite rocketed furiously around the walls, screaming as he went. Showers of bright coloured sparks flew wherever he touched, red and purple and gold, and Harold had no choice but to hold back out of the way, the unlocked cage still in his hands. Like kicking down an anthill, it was strangely thrilling to see how quickly the quiet efficient working of the stone gentlemen turned to chaos with the simple introduction of a fire sprite. Stupid had knocked one of them down before they even knew he was there, and Archmage Morel looked like he’d almost had a heart attack at the sight of the door flying open in a burst of orange flame. Then the old Archmage had caught his breath sufficiently to cry out “catch that thing!” and suddenly all the gentlemen were running about like foxes in a henhouse, chasing the fire sprite as if they could catch him in their bare hands. The fire sprite, burning so hot that the air shimmered like rippling water around him, hurled himself against the red enamelled flank of the great iron dragon with a sound like a big fat man striking a gong, and ricocheted off again. Fire caught in the stacks of wood for the kiln, thick white smoke pouring out from it, and a coughing fit took the Archmage. At this, Harold jumped to work stamping out purple flames as they began to eat their way through a carelessly piled thing of canvas, throwing a bucket of water over what remained. He didn’t want to risk killing the poor old fellow. Overhead, the smoke coalesced into the figure of an enormous dragon rearing high, but as it plunged down amongst the golems it tore itself to shreds and wisps against the planes of weird magic. Stupid, surprised by this, nonetheless picked himself up and bowled over the nearest of the golems, shooting past him and into another of the booby-trapped doors.
‘BOOM!’ shouted a disembodied voice as the orange spellpaper spelled out the same word in letters of smoke three feet high, and ‘BANG!’ went another one almost simultaneously, the letters going up overhead. Harold cringed, wishing Be
ssie had warned him they would do that. He stole under cover of smoke towards the inert iron dragon – Bessie had only told him to create enough of a distraction to keep the prince’s men away from Rose’s rooms, but he’d had the idea of stealing some small-yet-essential part of the dragon golem. When it came to it, though, the dragon was so close to completion that there were no small parts that would easily come off, and more to the point, Harold hadn’t a clue which parts were essential. He gave up on that plan, just as a shadowy figure emerged from the smoke to lay one strong hand on his shoulder.
“Master Butcher, you are a guest here,” said the golem in his flat voice, with just a hint of reproach. “Please remove yourself to safety.”
“I’m all right,” said Harold. “I’ll sort it.” His usually piercing whistle was almost inaudible over the squeal of the fire sprite. “Stupid!” he shouted, “Back in the cage!” For one horrible moment, he thought Stupid would leave him standing there like a lemon, holding the cage aloft, but the fire sprite had exhausted himself with his antics. Gathering into a small red ball of flame, he floated overhead and came to rest inside the cage. Harold slammed the cage door and locked it, heaving a sigh of genuine relief.
‘BANG!’ shouted another of the orange spellpapers, making Harold jump as the door there came right off its hinges. Two golems picked themselves up, unharmed, as Commander Breaker charged in. “What’s all this?” he demanded, seeing first the terrible mess and then the culprit standing red-handed with fire sprite. “What have you done?”
Harold tried to duck away, but not before Breaker could grab him by the shirtfront.
“He got out of his cage,” said Harold, defiantly looking the Commander in the eye, and brandishing the caged fire sprite as blindingly crimson sparks flew out and scattered around their feet. “He’s a proper hobgoblin if you keep him cooped up too long. ‘Sides, it’s not as bad as it looks,” said Harold, and sadly this was true – the iron dragon’s side bore no evidence of Stupid’s flaming impact. “Like the White Prince wasn’t as dead as you thought, I reckon.”
