Ink Black Magic

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  Bigbeard grinned. “Takes all kinds to make the world go around, love.” He gave Kassa a smacking kiss on the cheek.

  Nell flung the pendant away. The tiny ship grew as it flipped over and over, becoming a huge, silver ghostly galleon. All of the onlookers who had never before witnessed this transformation gazed in wonder. Even Clio lifted her head from Aragon’s chest and smiled to see the famous Splashdance. “What do you think, old man?” Nell called to Bigbeard in a joyful voice. “One more trip for old times’ sake?”

  “Thought you’d never ask, witch,” he said cheerfully.

  Bigbeard and Black Nell ran towards the ghost-ship and climbed on board.

  Kassa lifted her voice slightly. “You are going straight back to the Underworld, aren’t you?”

  “Of course!” Nell yelled back. “Well — maybe via the Seventeen Seas.”

  “At least seven of them!” Bigbeard yelled.

  As the crew of two waved madly, the Splashdance sailed away across the landscape of Mocklore, heading for the sea.

  There was a pause. “Right,” said Kassa. “Anyone fancy a cup of tea? I don’t think I could manage coffee now, my nerves are all jangly.”

  Egg took her aside for a moment, speaking in a low voice. “Dahla said she was sent to restore the natural order between the living and the dead. Who do you think sent her?”

  Kassa gave him an absolutely filthy look. “Egfried Friefriedsson, you are not supposed to ask questions like that during a girl’s tea break!”

  Two heralds in black velvet tunics came scrambling across the golden skybridge, skidding down the slope of it and landing awkwardly on the cobblestones. “My lord!” one said, spotting Lord Sinistre. “My lord, you must come back to Drak immediately.”

  Aragon slowly released Clio, patting her on the shoulder.

  Lord Sinistre stood up, smoothing out his leather suit. “What is it, heralds?”

  “Those Heroes of Justice, my lord,” sputtered the second herald. “Those strange bright figures who turned up at the ball? They are destroying the palace.”

  “They have strange powers,” said the first herald. “And they’re huge! Three glowing giants. Even the demons can’t fight them.”

  Sinistre headed for the bridge. He hesitated for a moment, looking back at Aragon. “Chamberlain?”

  Aragon looked at Kassa.

  “Go,” she said tiredly. “Of course you have to go.”

  Do I? Aragon asked silently. His inner Chamberlain continued to remain silent. Just checking. “I suppose the job is still mine until I find a replacement,” he said aloud, and headed after Lord Sinistre. The two of them scrambled up on to the golden skybridge and followed the two heralds back to Drak.

  Kassa closed her eyes for a brief moment, breathing deeply. Just as Egg was about to ask if she was all right, her eyes snapped open again. “Right. Sean, Singespitter, run to the Axgaard encampment. Ask Svenhilda if she can spare some axe-wielding warriors or failing that, some axes. Iron ones, not wood. No matter what she does or doesn’t contribute, bring Vice-Chancellor Bertie here now, along with his Great Reversing Barrel in whatever state of disrepair it’s currently in plus all the bits. Understand me? Any leftover planks or nails, even a splinter, make sure everything comes along. Got it?”

  Singespitter nodded briskly. Sean, looking less sure, followed suit.

  “Now,” Kassa suggested. The two of them ran off towards the Axgaard encampment. “Clio, follow Aragon,” Kassa continued. “Tell him what I said about folklore. Remember what I said about folklore?”

  “Best way to fight magic,” Clio said breathlessly. “Cold iron, salt circles, garlands of garlic, saucers of milk. My grandmother’s tricks.”

  “Good girl. Go. Egg!”

  Egg moved to Kassa’s side. “I’m here.”

  “Where’s Quillsmith?”

  The question took him by surprise. “What?”

  “Come on, Egg, don’t mess about. The Light Lords have rebuilt themselves, probably out of storm debris. I know for a fact that Ladybird is on the far side of the square of student residence, trying to find a last bit or ice or rock to make a second foot out of. I can feel her presence with every fibre of my being. Since Quillsmith has always been the most reasonable, or at least the most talkative of that tribe, I’m hoping to get something useful out of him. Where is he?”

  It had not occurred to Egg, but now he found that he knew the answer. “He’s in one of the rivers.”

  “Which one?”

  “Um, the other side of the Road. Near the staff room temple.”

  “Right. Follow Clio now. Listen to what she says about folklore. Make sure everyone else does too, if you can.”

  “Okay,” he said, heading for the skybridge.

  “And, Egg? Keep your hands in your pockets.”

  Egg turned back, surprised at her sharp tone. “What?”

  “Don’t act innocent with me. And don’t tell me that you are more powerful than I think you are, or that you have better control of it than I think you have. Magic is last resort, not first response. If you get the urge, stick your hands in your pockets and keep them there until the urge goes away. Understand?”

  “Yes, Kassa,” he said.

  “Good. I trust you, Egg. Allow me to keep doing so.”

  ***

  Kassa watched as the boy climbed up on to the skybridge and headed towards Drak. She wished that she really did trust him. After several deep breaths, she started jogging in the direction of the staff temple.

  The crowd was in her way, students for the most part. One of them now raised a hand uncertainly. “Mistress Sharpe?”

  “Yes, Clifford?”

  “Do you want us to do anything?”

  “That depends,” she said. “Do you want to fight in defence of Drak?”

  “Um, not really,” said Clifford. Many other students nodded in general agreement.

  “Better get back to your rooms, then. Straighten up, maybe do some readings. First essays for Philosophy of Magic are due in the week after next.” She pushed her way through the crowd until she had a clear field, then started running.

  “She wasn’t serious, was she?” Brittany Yarrowstalk said after a moment. “About the essays.”

  Clifford bit his lip. “Want to take the chance that she wasn’t?”

  ***

  The palace of Drak was in chaos. People ran around in a panic, forgetting to glide elegantly or pout seductively for dramatic effect. Without the draklight to guide them, the people of Drak were just like everyone else, scared and graceless.

  “Three glowing giants?” Lord Sinistre said faintly.

  “Yes, my lord,” said the butler, who looked less dark and menacing than ever before. This was partly due to the fact that he had thrown his cowl back, revealing a surprisingly young and chubby-cheeked face, but also because without the draklight, his voice had lost a great deal of its sonorous timbre. “Two of them have besieged themselves in the observatory and a third is rampaging around the sixth floor corridors, smashing his way through walls. Two of your demon priestesses have been killed. The rest are busy summoning extra demons to help in the fight, but without the draklight all they can produce are some small, powerless creatures that squeak and run away at the first sign of danger.”

  Lord Sinistre looked to his Chamberlain. “Can we evacuate the servants and wall these giants up in the Palace?”

  “A noble suggestion, my lord,” said Aragon. “It might take a while to evacuate all three thousand, however. The enemy would almost certainly guess that something was up before we got everyone out. Besides, how are we supposed to seal them in here? If they are powerful giants, I don’t imagine they pay much attention to doors.”

  Lord Sinistre stared at him. “I have three thousand servants?”

  “Amazing, isn’t it.”

  Clio finally caught up with them, gasping. “Uncle Aragon, you run super fast.”

  “What are you doing here?” Aragon demanded.

&n
bsp; “Kassa sent me. I have to tell you about the folklore.”

  “Slow down,” said Aragon. “You’re not making sense.”

  “Yes I am, you just don’t know it yet. The most effective way to combat magic is folklore. Like Grandmother always does when there’s a magical disaster. Salt and cold iron and saucers of milk. If the Light Lords have made new bodies for themselves out of the scrappy leftover bits of Harmony that came down in the elemental storm, they must be almost pure magic.”

  “Salt and cold iron,” muttered Aragon, as Egg joined them. “We can do that. To the kitchens!”

  “To the kitchens!” Lord Sinistre echoed cheerfully.

  “Don’t worry, my lord,” sighed Aragon. “I’ll show you where they are.”

  ***

  Kassa skidded to a halt as she passed the bright white temple which served the professors of Cluft as a staff room. She barely stopped herself from plunging into the river on the far side of the temple, but grabbed on to a nearby tree just in time. “You might as well show yourself,” she said aloud. “I know you’re here.”

  The water rippled. A white, frothy cloud floated to the surface, forming a face. Quillsmith, glowing white and larger than life, emerged from the river. “Hello, Kassa.”

  “It must have been very amusing,” she said. “Fooling me into thinking you were the nice one, the reasonable one. Why did they put you in prison? It can’t have been for an attack of conscience, I stopped believing that one a while ago.”

  “I told them the truth,” he said calmly. “It sounded like madness to them, so they thought they had better put me out of the way for my own — and everybody else’s — safety.”

  “You mean the truth about Harmony being as fictional a creation as Drak?”

  “You’ve been speaking to Amorata,” said Quillsmith. “My muse. Yes, that truth. If I had to live with the knowledge, why shouldn’t they? But they didn’t believe me. Ladybird was the loudest in her protestations, so they stripped the leadership from me and gave it to her. They’ve been regretting it ever since, of course. The woman is far more unstable than I ever was.”

  “So what are you doing now?” Kassa demanded. “Your fellow Light Lords are tearing up Drak for no apparent reason.”

  “Oh, there’s a reason,” Quillsmith assured her. “They are looking for the pathway between Drak and Harmony. You found it.”

  “I’m pretty sure I broke it.”

  “It doesn’t even matter. It’s a lost cause, if they would only admit it to themselves. Harmony is gone, destroyed. It’s too late to save our world.”

  “How do you know it’s not too late?” Kassa demanded. “Don’t you owe it to your people to try and restore the magic of Harmony?”

  “People,” Quillsmith snarled. “What people? They never existed. Faded mirror-images of people in this world, that’s all. It’s not my fault,” he added.

  Kassa thought of Ortsino and Strella, of the earnest belief they had in their cause. She felt sick. “How can you not care?”

  “They were fictional characters,” Quillsmith grated. “I’m a fictional character. Nothing that happens to any of us is remotely important.”

  “It doesn’t mean you can’t lead a normal life,” Kassa said lamely.

  “How? Where? Our city is gone, Kassa. Do we take over Drak? I invented that damned city. It is mine by right. What about Mocklore, are we welcome here? Can your community use an extra five ruling Lords?”

  Kassa hesitated. She could think of nothing to say.

  “Drak, then,” Quillsmith agreed, stepping out of the river and on to land. “Don’t worry, we’ll let most of them live. We need servants and subjects to help us settle into our new life. We may have to kill a few to make our point, but they’ll accept their new rulers easily enough.”

  “What about Lord Sinistre?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  Quillsmith whipped around, his eyes blazing. “He is a fictional character created by a fictional character, a copy of a copy. Do you really think he has more right to live than I?”

  “I’ll stop you,” she warned. Don’t tell him he’s mad, I think he already knows that.

  “Of course you will. You think you’re a hero. Stopping people like me is the sort of thing that heroes do. But be warned, Kassa Daggersharp. Every hero has a final story, the tale of how they failed to save the thing they wished most to protect. The story where the hero falls. This may very well be yours.”

  He vanished in a sharp burst of light.

  Kassa swore and started running back the way she had come. If only she had boots with less frivolous heels.

  Chapter 19 — Fighting with Folklore

  When Kassa reached the library tower, the crowd had dispersed. Sean and Singespitter had just arrived with Vice-Chancellor Bertie between them. He protested loudly at their lack of manners, clutching his newly-patched Great Reversing Barrel firmly in his arms.

  “That’s something,” said Kassa as she skidded to a halt near them.

  “Look here, Kassa,” said Vice-Chancellor Bertie. “Do you actually know what you are doing?”

  “As much as you ever do.”

  “Oh, dear. We really are in trouble, then.” Bertie removed his tweed jacket and carefully started rolling his shirt sleeves. “All right, I’m ready.”

  Kassa smiled at him, then took the Great Reversing Barrel and turned it upside down, shaking hard. A few splinters and stray nails rolled out, then something else. Kassa picked up the something else and put it carefully in one of her belt pouches.

  “Baron Svenhilda said she can’t send anyone,” said Singespitter. He and Sean both wielded large Axgaard axes with iron blades. “Her warriors are superstitious, and the appearance of the late Jarl Erik sent them into some kind of religious frenzy. Apparently each of them have to perform a cleansing ritual which involves drinking three mugs of beer, belching their own name, running up and down a mountain twelve times and then killing four mythical fang-beasts. She reckons it will take at least two hours.”

  “We can’t wait,” said Kassa. “I’ll just have to trust the legendary Axgaardian ability to sniff out where the fight is going down. Are you with me?”

  “Silly question,” said Singespitter.

  Sean nodded, shouldering his axe bravely. “I’m ready.”

  “Grr,” agreed an enthusiastic Vice-Chancellor Bertie, picking up his Barrel again.

  “It’s the four of us, then,” said Kassa.

  “Five,” said a crisp voice. Incendia Noir, Professor of Magic, walked towards them. Her narrow figure was clad in an elegant black dress with glowing silver sigils stitched around the hem. She carried a wand of carved birchwood, radiating power.

  “Hmm,” said Kassa, who had little patience for wands. “Magic won’t be much use in this fight.”

  “Indeed,” said Professor Noir, producing two nasty-looking iron horseshoes which hung from her belt on a string. “As you can see, I am prepared for many eventualities.”

  “Fine,” said Kassa. “Let’s go.”

  “Excuse me,” said an aristocratic voice. There was the sound of two throats being meaningfully cleared. Lord Ambewine of Teatime and Prince Quenby of the Middens emerged, each wearing their official staff cloaks with the badge of the Polyhedrotechnical College (a quarterly shield displaying a full tankard, a half-full tankard, a quill and a falling fish) entwined with their own coats of arms. Lord Ambewine’s was three teacups rampant with a border of sugar lumps, and Prince Quenby’s was a large turnip on a multi-coloured field.

  “We’d like to help,” said Prince Quenby, his pudgy arms wrapped around a giant sack of salt. “It wouldn’t hurt to have the newest Mocklore city-state owe a few favours to the rest of us, now would it?”

  “Exactly,” said Lord Ambewine. He held a large iron poker in one hand, and a spiked mace in the other. “Shall we go?”

  “I think we’d better,” said Kassa. “Eight it is.”

  Another throat was cleared. “Would you believe
nine?”

  “Oh, this is ridiculous,” said Kassa, whirling around and gazing upwards to face the newcomer. “What can you possibly get out of helping us?”

  Ladybird stood before her, larger than life, bright-white and glowing. The top of Kassa’s head only came up to her waist. “You’re going after Quillsmith, sweetpea.”

  “I’m going after all the Light Lords,” said Kassa. “Including you.”

  “You’re not the type to attack,” said Ladybird scornfully. “You fight in defence of yourself and others, and I am not attacking you. There’s nothing to defend against. You found that Quillsmith isn’t the darling boy you thought he was. The loss of Harmony hit him harder than the rest of us, and I’m afraid he’s just a wee bit broken, and dangerous. Since I’m the person he hates most right now, it’s in my interest to help you take him down.”

  “Are you any better than him?” asked Kassa.

  “I care whether I live or die,” said Ladybird. “He lost even that when he saw what had happened to our world.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “Silly girl. How were you planning on stopping me?”

  Kassa eyed her other self warily. Ladybird hummed with pure magic. If Kassa cut her head off, she would probably not even stop talking. So how am I going to stop Quillsmith? “Move out, people,” Kassa said sharply, too tired to argue any longer. “We have a city to save.”

  ***

  Lord Dreamer smashed the last window in the observatory at the top of the palace of Drak. She withdrew her white, glowing fingers from the glass. “We have to find a way home,” she sobbed. “I hate this place, all the bright colours and strange people.”

  Lord Invisiblus pulled her into his arms. “We will find our way back, I promise you.”

  “Why couldn’t we have been happy where we were? It’s this stupid city’s fault.” She pushed petulantly at the wall of the observatory with her massive, glowing arms and the entire wall crumpled outwards, falling back and away. With the wall gone, Dreamer and Invisiblus could see the dark, gleaming city of Drak stretched out beneath them. “I don’t even know who I am,” said Dreamer. “Am I Lord Dreamer the Light Lord, or am I Dream Girl, Hero of Justice? Everything’s all foggy and strange. I don’t remember.”