Lord Sinistre sighed, examining his black silk sleeves. He had a sneaking suspicion that one sleeve was a touch shorter than the other. It had been bothering him all morning. “What about the wasteland, Chamberlain?”
“It’s gone, my lord.”
Lord Sinistre’s eyes bulged. Had he still been eating breakfast, he would have spat a quail egg clear across the room to make a nasty stain on the tapestry depicting his most famous ancestor, whose name temporarily escaped him. “Gone?”
“Yes, my lord.” The Chamberlain consulted his meticulously handwritten notes. “The area formerly known as ‘the wasteland’ appears to have been replaced with a green and verdant land with multicoloured mountains and pleasant weather. The nearest population centre is a university town which displays some unusually chaotic architecture.” He frowned. “Multicoloured mountains. That sounds … familiar.”
“Never mind familiar,” Lord Sinistre snapped. He strode across the great hall, his velvet cloak swirling around him in a blur of shadows. “I must see this for myself. Lead me to a window, Chamberlain!”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And open all the curtains while you’re at it. I don’t know why it always has to be so dark around here!”
***
The first thing Egg saw was the skybridge, a glittering golden arch which began somewhere near the sprawling library tower of Cluft and curved gracefully northwards, over the canals and sports field, its far end dipping down into … well, the new city.
The city was the second thing Egg saw. It was a large, menacing edifice with high glossy walls, looming towers, slitted windows and dark gloomy shadows. It was very black indeed. The bits which weren’t black were either dark grey, light grey or very dark blue, and those shifts of colour merely served to accentuate the overall blackness of the city as a whole.
It hadn’t been there the night before.
“How did you do it?” said Clio.
“Do what?” said Sean McHagrty.
“I didn’t do anything, said Egg. “I really didn’t.”
“It looks just like the picture,” said Clio. “Your picture.”
“I drew that city this morning,” he lied. “Before you woke up.”
“Don’t give me that. You were just as surprised as I was to see the city just now. What’s going on, Egg?”
He considered the possibilities. “There’s one way to find out. Let’s go down and see what’s happening.”
“The view’s way better from up here,” said Sean, but the other two took no notice.
***
The library tower was one of the outermost buildings of Cluft. It was originally built in the very centre of town, beside the Great Mocklore Road and most of the taverns, but since a certain catastrophic magical event known as the Second Glimmer, the library would relocate every semester. This had not made much of a difference to campus life, except that the number of students who discovered the library for the first time while on their way to a tavern had decreased, while the number of students who ended up in a tavern on their way to the library had mysteriously increased.
There had never been so many students gathered outside the library tower in all of Cluft’s history, even during the week that it had actually transformed into a tavern.
The beginning of the golden skybridge did not touch the ground but hovered five feet in the air.
Those students who attempted to get up to the bridge were being repulsed by a determined Mistress Sharpe who had had stationed herself at the foot of the library tower. She was armed with a stout, bristly broom and had no qualms about smacking anyone who tried to get near herself or the skybridge.
“What is it?” asked Brittany Yarrowstalk, and a few other students took up the cry. “What is it, what is it?”
As Egg and Clio reached the crowd, the door of the library tower opened and Mavis stepped out. A hush fell over the assembled students.
Mavis was a small, unremarkable woman. She wore neat, sensible clothes. She carried a hot water bottle and a handbag full of pink knitting. The heads of two playful kittens poked out from amongst the wool. There were always kittens in the library tower. No one ever questioned this, or why the kittens never grew to be adult cats. The only explanation was that Mavis liked kittens, so there were kittens. Mavis also liked scones and cocoa, so there was a good supply of these in the library tower as well.
Mavis was once the patron goddess of Tidiness Amongst Craftswomen, but the Decimalisation — a process by which an earlier Emperor had reduced Mocklore’s vast pantheon of deities to just ten very overworked gods — had given her various extra duties including responsibility for all of Cluft.
The crowd parted as Mavis moved towards the skybridge that led to the new city. Mistress Sharpe nodded to the goddess and lowered her broom. “So what are we dealing with?”
Mavis put down her handbag and hot water bottle with great care, then stepped on to empty air. “Looks like a city to me,” she said as her feet landed on the golden bridge.
There were mutterings amongst the students, who had hoped for something a little more profound. Mistress Sharpe craned her neck, looking up at the goddess of Cluft. “What caused it? What brought the city here?”
“Smells rather like Dark Magic,” said the goddess.
Mistress Sharpe gave the nearest students a last swat with her broom, then stood on it and floated up to Mavis’s level. “I’ve never heard of Dark Magic,” she said. “Magic is just magic.”
“You see?” Egg said to Clio. “She does use magic! She uses it all the time. How can she tell us never to use it and then go flying around the place on a broom?”
“Shut up, I’m trying to listen,” whispered Clio.
Everyone was trying to listen.
“Everything has two sides, a Dark and a Light,” said Mavis. Being a goddess, her words floated easily down to the students below. “Trouble comes when the two are separated. The magic of Mocklore has been free of such a division before now.”
“So this Dark Magic, it’s bad?” said Mistress Sharpe.
“That would be a fair assumption,” said Mavis.
“But that means that our magic, natural Mocklore magic, the kind that runs rampant through the cosmos, explodes in people’s faces on a regular basis and turns small furry animals into clockwork typewriters for no apparent reason, that’s the good kind of magic?”
Mavis nodded. “Scary, isn’t it?”
Chapter 3 — Just How Dark should a Dark City Be?
Lord Sinistre gazed through his spy-glass. “It seems like a very peculiar place out there. Are trees supposed to be that colour?”
“I’m not sure, my lord,” said the Chamberlain. “I don’t believe anyone in this city has ever seen a tree before.” But I have, haven’t I? He kept that alarming suspicion to himself.
“Hmm, good point.” Lord Sinistre twiddled a knob on the base of the spyglass. “They all seem very young, the natives of this strange country. There’s a redheaded woman bossing them around and hitting them with her broomstick. Should we do that when we meet them? It might be a gesture of respect.”
“I think not, my lord,” said the Chamberlain. “What sort of meeting did you have in mind?”
“A ball, I should think,” said Lord Sinistre. “Decadent nibbly things on sticks, elegant music, fabulous dancing. We’ll invite everyone who’s Anyone in that odd little town, and find out who we have to kill to rule this world that we’ve landed in.” He hesitated. “Do you think I should have laughed maniacally there? I’m never sure if it’s a bit too much. Maybe I should just smile and twirl my cape.”
The Chamberlain was too distracted to listen. He had to consider the logistics of organising a ball: catering, costumes, re-tiling the ballroom ceiling, cleaning and polishing the chandeliers, not to mention all the windows… “I believe we could whip a grand ball together in time for the weekend,” he offered, knowing it would half kill him and his staff to get all the work done by then.
L
ord Sinistre did laugh maniacally this time. “Don’t be ridiculous, man. That’s five days away, we could be at war with them by then. The ball will be tonight. Why have you gone all green?”
“Something I ate, no doubt, my lord.”
“Ah.” Lord Sinistre nodded. “I knew that peach souffle would get someone in the end.”
“Perhaps you could send the invitations out yourself, my lord? While I see to the trifling matter of throwing together a grand ball in less than twelve hours?”
“Very well,” Lord Sinistre grumbled. “I always have to do everything around here.”
“Yes, my lord,” agreed the Chamberlain, bowing low as he left the room. “Your servants are constantly astounded at how well you cope with the workload.”
“Sarcasm, Chamberlain?” Lord Sinistre said sharply. “That’s not like you.”
Isn’t it? the Chamberlain thought. He was on the brink of remembering something very important, but there was no time for that kind of self-indulgence now. “I apologise, my lord. If I may be excused? There are quite literally one hundred and one things that I must see to immediately.”
Lord Sinistre dismissed him with a wave.
The Chamberlain set off along the corridor. The kitchen staff had only just recovered from the surprise birthday party Lord Sinistre had thrown himself a month ago, and now there was this.
He paused by the rack of cloaks and boots by the door to the kitchens, listening to the happy chatter from within. It was so tempting to just to throw on his cloak and vanish into the night. It was daytime, of course, but that didn’t make it any less tempting. The question before had always been Where do I go? but now there was a lush land of promise outside the dark city walls.
How long had he worked here anyway? The Chamberlain couldn’t remember. Neither could he remember what he had done before he worked here. Perhaps he had always been a part of Drak, making sure the city and the palace and Lord Sinistre all kept running smoothly. Although … what was it he had thought about earlier? Something about trees?
The Chamberlain sighed. Even as his hand brushed against the fabric of his cloak, he pulled away. Later. He would go out later to breathe the air of the city he loved and hated. Right now, he had news to break to his staff.
The Chamberlain took a deep breath, and entered the kitchens.
***
The faculty staff room for the Polyhedrotechnical College had once been a temple dedicated to Bungo the love god, before he fell victim to the Decimalisation. Amorata, the only surviving goddess of all things lustful, originally claimed the temple for herself, but Mavis besieged her with cups of tea, unsightly knitted garments and kittens until the love goddess fled for her sanity.
The professors of the various Departments had then staked their own claim on the gorgeous marble building, painting over some of the more sordid murals and removing the overly-erotic crockery. They kept the swimming pool, though. And the sauna.
It was an hour after lunch. The professors who were not teaching at this time gathered to relax, drink tea and celebrate the fact that it would be at least four weeks before any of them were required to mark essays. Unfortunately, Vice-Chancellor Bertie had invented something new and wanted them all admire it.
“I call it the Great Reversing Barrel,” he said proudly, smacking the object with a satisfying thud.
“Looks like a perfectly ordinary barrel to me,” sniffed Professor Gootch, who taught Assassination and Edged Weapons.
“That’s what you think!” said Vice-Chancellor Bertie. “But if I just take this sandwich and drop it into the Great Reversing Barrel…”
“That was my sandwich,” said Professor Penelopa Profit-scoundrel. “Really, Vice-Chancellor. It’s bad enough that my second year Haggling lectures are scheduled over the lunch hour every day, do you have to rob me of my lunch altogether?”
Lord Ambewine, who presided over the Department of Aristocracy, looked suspiciously at the Great Reversing Barrel. “Is it supposed to be making that noise?”
A squealing sound came from within the Great Reversing Barrel. “Aha!” said Vice-Chancellor Bertie. “You see? A moment ago it was a perfectly ordinary ham sandwich…”
“Roast honeyed ham,” sulked Professor Profit-scoundrel. “I had to beg Mistress Pott to save it for me.”
“And now, having been Greatly Reversed, we have—” After a suitably dramatic pause, Bertie tipped the barrel over. Something pink rushed out of it, squealing madly.
“A pig!” said Incendia Noir, Professor of Highly Improbable Arts. She lifted her feet out of range, placing them on the coffee table. A moment later, she had to lower them again, because Prince Quenby (History of Aristocracy, Cactus Arranging and Ambitious Empire Building) jumped up on the coffee table and started screaming at a slightly higher pitch than the pig.
“A pig covered in honey,” said Lord Ambewine as the pig brushed stickily past his satin academic gown. “Just what we needed.”
“A pig covered in honey with a sheaf of wheat in its mouth!” Vice-Chancellor Bertie said proudly. “You see? Great Reversation.”
“There could certainly be a market for a method which produces a whole pig from a single ham sandwich,” said Professor Profit-scoundrel, her indignation forgotten. She dropped her second ham sandwich into the Great Reversing Barrel. A revolting stench filled the staff room.
“Ah,” said Vice-Chancellor Bertie. “There’s the trouble, you see. We can’t always predict how something will be Greatly Reversed. It’s a bit random.” He tipped the Great Reversing Barrel over again. A lump of something green, putrid and festering rolled out. “Here we have a perfectly fresh ham sandwich which has been Greatly Reversed into, er, something less than perfectly fresh.”
Professor Profit-scoundrel backed away from the Great Reversing Barrel and was promptly sick into the nearest pot plant.
The pig caused a great deal of chaos. After smearing honey and dried wheat everywhere, it ended up in the swimming pool. So did Lord Ambewine, Prince Quenby and several third-year students who had come in to ask about tutorial times.
Some time later, as everyone calmed down and dried themselves off, Mistress Sharpe entered the staff room.
“Ah, there you are!” Vice-Chancellor Bertie called out cheerfully. “Given up sentry duty over that silly warlock’s flying bridge, have you?”
“I made the postgraduate students do it,” said Kassa. “They’ll take any excuse to avoid working on their thesis. What’s going on here?” Her eye fell on the sheep in the corner, who was comforting the traumatised pig. “Singespitter, what are you doing here? You’re not staff.”
“Actually, Master Singespitter will be handling the third-year Magic Studies tutorials for me,” said Professor Noir, her cool gaze chilling Kassa by several degrees. She was the only member of the faculty who had been present for the entire pig incident and had no evidence of honey, wheat or pool water on her clothes. She was that sort of person.
“Magic Studies,” Kassa repeated, glaring at Singespitter. He knew how she felt about practical magic being taught to students. “All handled very responsibly, I’m sure.” She turned to Vice-Chancellor Bertie. “Communication has arrived from the mysterious dark city in the form of a party invitation. Interested?”
“Not interested in warlocks,” Bertie said. “Show offy show offs.” He paused, thinking about it. “On the other hand, could be just the job to demonstrate my Great Reversing Barrel. They’ll be green with envy when they see it!”
“Mmm,” said Kassa. “Thing is, Vice-Chancellor, I’m not sure that the city has anything to do with warlocks.” She handed over a stiff piece of black card embossed with silver borders and squiggly writing. “This was delivered by a large demonic gargoyle that breathed fire at several first-year students, ate three tiles from the library roof and frightened the school mascot into a coma.”
“Not Gerald the mouse?” said Bertie, examining the card with some interest.
“No,” said Kassa patiently. “Not
Gerald. The other school mascot.”
“Townhall?” said Vice-Chancellor Bertie. “How could a gargoyle frighten an eight foot long dragon?”
“The gargoyle was nine foot,” said Kassa. “In all directions. I really think you’d better read the invitation.”
***
Egg was hustled along by Clio. At her insistence, his arms were full of parchments and papyrus: all his maps, inky drawings, character notes and storylines. “I don’t know what you think this is going to achieve,” he said. “I don’t know anything.”
“You created that city, Egg, and now it’s right here on our doorstep. Don’t you think you should take some responsibility? The Vice-Chancellor needs all the information we can give him.”
“You just want an excuse not to go to your Basic Poisons seminar,” he said. “You got all hysterical last time because Doctor Wampweed demonstrated sulphur and you had to wash your hair six times to get the smell out.”
“That’s just not true. I’m deeply committed to all my classes, regardless of strange eggy smells. Don’t you see what an emergency this is, Egg?”
“It’s a city. What harm can it do?” He dreaded confessing the truth to the Vice-Chancellor. “What do I say to him?”
“You don’t say anything. I’ll explain it all. You just stand there and nod. Here we are.”
They were outside a gleaming white temple. Egg looked at it doubtfully. “Are you sure this is the staff room?”
“Yes!” Clio said crossly. She peered in through the marble columns. “He’s there all right. Off you go.”
Egg stared at her in horror. “You said you were going to explain it to him!”
Clio nodded sympathetically. “I lied. I’ll wait out here in the sun.”
Grumbling to himself, Egg stomped into the temple. He narrowly missed a collision with Mistress Sharpe as she stomped out, muttering to herself. “Watch it, Friefriedsson,” she barked, and continued on her way.
Ink Black Magic Page 4
