The Mocklore Omnibus (Mocklore Chronicles #1 & #2)

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  “Right,” said Officer Finnley, getting to his feet. “I arrest…” He looked around the room. The only one of them all who looked remotely criminal was Sparrow, and that was because she had grabbed one of the ceremonial swords from over the fireplace as soon as she recognised his uniform. “Oh, hello again,” he said apologetically. “We came to arrest you.”

  The concubine allowed the Minestaurus to help her to her feet. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” She adjusted her sequins.

  “How do you do?” said the Minestaurus eagerly, diverting Finnley’s attention. “I’ve always wanted to meet a Blackguard. Is it just like in the ballads? And a concubine too,” he added, turning to greet Finnley’s new companion. “Such a pleasant surprise, so many nice visitors.”

  At a creaking sound, Finnley’s head jerked around. The bookshelves concealing the secret passage had just swung back into place. The tawny-blonde mercenary, her scruffy companion and their sheep were all nowhere to be seen.

  “They’ve gone!” he said, outraged.

  “And I hadn’t even offered them any jam fancies,” said the Minestaurus sadly.

  * * *

  Daggar and Sparrow ran up the secret staircase two or three steps at a time. For some reason, Singespitter the sheep had no problem keeping up with them. “You regained your senses in record time,” Sparrow observed acidly.

  “Those sequins do it every time,” said Daggar. “What now?”

  “Now we find the liquid gold and steal it back,” she said, and glared at him. “You are not hiding behind anything yet.”

  “I know,” he said with half a grin. “For once, I’ve got an escape route up my sleeve. Only just thought of it, but it’s a doozy.”

  “Fine,” she said, and slammed shoulder-first into the door at the top of the stairs, bursting it off its hinges.

  “It wasn’t necessarily locked,” Daggar said darkly, picking splinters out of his beard and figuring it was time to shave. When the omnipresent stubble turned into beard, he knew he was letting himself go. On the other hand, he might look rather dashing in a beard. He would have to find a mirror to examine the effect.

  The room they had crashed into just happened to be the Sultan’s laboratory. Everything was white, except for the many multi-coloured liquids which bubbled in various glass structures.

  “That was easy enough,” said Sparrow, not even breathing hard. Her keen eyes sought out one vial among many. It stood out among the rest, its contents glowing goldly. Light from the overhead lamps hit it squarely, sending amber refractions out in every direction. “Almost too easy,” she added.

  The laboratory had eight doors circling its sterile white walls, and they all opened at the same time. Guards in golden livery poured into the room, filling it up line by line. The high-pitched giggle of the Sultan rose above the sound of marching feet. He stepped into the laboratory. “Do you like my playroom? And what about my ambush? It took a lot of reasoning out, so I hope you appreciate it.”

  Sparrow turned her mouth slightly towards Daggar’s ear. “I hope this escape route of yours is still in play.”

  Daggar scrabbled under his jerkin for the ship-shaped charm he wore around his neck on a silver chain. In his clumsy haste, the clasp broke and the chain was flipped into the air, taking the tiny ship with it. It didn’t travel very far. Only as far as the vial which Sparrow was holding gingerly between finger and thumb. Surprised by the sudden impact, her fingers twitched involuntarily. The vial dropped, shattering glass on the sterile white tiles and splashing the viscous liquid gold everywhere.

  Golden light filled the laboratory. In the midst of the broken glass and essence of time, the broken piece of silver jewellery began to expand. Sparrow and Daggar both jumped backwards as the ghost-ship swelled into existence.

  The Sultan stared, open-mouthed. His horror at the loss of his favourite bargaining tool was suddenly replaced with greed as he realised what was happening.

  The Silver Splashdance was silver no longer. The giant ghost-ship pulsated with amber light, glowing golden against a bright white landscape of broken glass and liveried guards.

  “Liquid gold,” said Sparrow hoarsely.

  Daggar gazed at the golden ship, his eyes wide with the realisation of what he had done. The first words out of his mouth bypassed his brain entirely. “Kassa’s going to kill me!”

  10: Fishcakes and Philosophy

  The various fortune-tellers of Entrail Row had offered Aragon Silversword very little as far as arcane knowledge went. He sat now on a park bench in Watchtower Square, staring at the pigeons and half-heartedly chewing on a fish cake. It was time to give up this mindless obsession. Time to get on with his life. If Lady Luck wanted Kassa dead, what could he do about it? Entering a butt-kicking contest with a god (or goddess) was one of his top ten list of things never to do to himself.

  It was well past time he figured out some useful way to spend his life. And if the witchmark meant he couldn’t forget Kassa, then he would have to live with it. Or not, as the case might be. He shoved the spiral ring deep into his belt pouch.

  The bench creaked as someone else perched on the other end. Aragon glanced up disinterestedly and saw an old man with a bushy white beard and a furled umbrella. He went back to his fish cake.

  A clear, bell-like voice interrupted Aragon’s inner thoughts. “Young man, as Hypocritices once said, ‘There are no tragedies but those we create for ourselves.’ I think there’s a message in that for all of us.” The old man smiled, creasing his beard.

  Aragon stared at the stranger with unfriendly eyes. “Is that your professional opinion?”

  “It certainly is,” said the old man, sticking out a cheerful hand. “Psittacus the philosopher, at your service. ‘There is no art so wise as mine,’ as the Bard was wont to say.”

  “Which bard?”

  “Oh, any you choose to name, dear boy.”

  “I see,” said Aragon darkly. “And you’re here to solve all my problems, are you?”

  “Certainly not,” said the philosopher, horrified at the suggestion. “I don’t have all year. Besides, I can see what your main problem is straight away. It’s written all over your face.”

  “Tell me,” said Aragon Silversword icily.

  Psittacus the philosopher shared a conspiratorial smile, making himself comfortable on the rickety bench. “Well, it seems to me that you fell in love with a milkmaid at a very young age and soon after discovered that she was married to someone else, so you ran away to sea and returned only to discover that your entire village, milkmaid included, had been wiped out by the Green Plague.” He waggled his eyebrows and bared his surprisingly even teeth in a delighted grin. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “No,” said Aragon.

  The grin faded slightly. “Oh,” said Psittacus the philosopher, only slightly discouraged. After a moment of what appeared to be studious thought, he brightened. “Try this one, then. You were involved in a torrid love triangle with a Chiantrian exotic dancer and a Sparkling Nun, and…”

  Aragon held up a hand to ward off the rest of the half-baked theory. “No.”

  “Oh.” Psittacus looked dejected. “No vampire squirrels involved in the scenario, by any chance?”

  “Not a single one.”

  “Oh.”

  Aragon leaned back into the park bench. “Do you really want to know?”

  Psittacus leaned forward eagerly, his elbows balanced precariously on his knees. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  Aragon wondered if it would sound quite as stupid if he told someone else. He tried, and it did. “I was forced into the service of a Pirate Queen with minimal magic powers who put a witchmark on me to seal my so-called loyalty. She then got herself killed, leaving me marked for life. This magically-enforced loyalty has ensured that I can not only not put her out of my mind, but I have also developed an unhealthy obsession with the afterlife, and with getting my revenge on the goddess responsible for this whole mess.”

  He too
k a bite of his fish cake, which was cold.

  “Oh, is that all?” said Psittacus the philosopher, slapping his thigh. “As Leodicranz the Unready once said, ‘A problem shared is a problem doubled twice, divided by two and multiplied into submission.’ Good thing you came to me when you did, we’ll get you sorted out in no time at all!”

  “Of course you will,” said Aragon. He did not hold his breath.

  Psittacus jumped to his feet, and to Aragon’s immense disgust, led them straight to Entrail Row. “I’ve just come from here,” Aragon protested. “They couldn’t tell me anything.”

  Psittacus tapped his nose knowingly. “Ah, but you might not have known the right questions to ask,” he suggested. “Leave this to me.” And he barged right into one of the canvas-fronted scrying boutiques, snatched up a pack of fortune cards and started shuffling them quickly. “Self-serve, is it?” he asked the outraged gypsy behind the counter. “Won’t be half a minute.”

  The gypsy stormed out, probably going to find six of her closest and largest friends to evict this interloper.

  “Right,” said Psittacus. “This young lady of yours. What’s her date of birth?”

  “I don’t know,” said Aragon.

  Psittacus waggled his bushy eyebrows. “Approximate age?”

  “Older than twenty,” Aragon hazarded.

  “Is that the best you can do?”

  “Younger than thirty?”

  “Remember her name, by any chance?”

  Aragon Silversword gritted his teeth. “Kassa Daggersharp.”

  “Oh, her. Her fate’s been written in the constellations for at least half an eternity.” Psittacus gazed blankly at the fortune cards in his hand. “Hang on a mo. Dead, you say?”

  “Dead,” said Aragon evenly.

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “We buried her at sea.” Aragon’s voice was beyond frosty. Ice dripped from it.

  “Well,” grumbled Psittacus. He tossed the fortune cards into a corner. “Come on. These aren’t going to do us much good, they haven’t caught up to the cosmos yet. Someone’s been buggering around with the space-time continuum. Your girl’s just a symptom, I’d say. No one can die before their destiny’s up, no matter how hard they try. We’ll have to follow the problem to the source.”

  “Lady Luck,” rasped Aragon Silversword.

  “Oh?” replied Psittacus the philosopher. “Can’t say I’m surprised.” He looked slightly sick. “Planning to go toe to toe with Milady, are you? Brave lad.”

  “Actually, I had just decided to give it up as a bad job,” admitted Aragon.

  Psittacus looked outraged. “And let her win? Let her destroy the cosmos? Can’t have that!” He frowned. “Even so, better let you know what you’re up against. You’ll have to be invisible.”

  “One of my life’s ambitions,” said Aragon dryly. Three minutes later, he couldn’t help waving a hand in front of his face. As predicted, he couldn’t see it.

  “Of course you can’t see it,” said Psittacus irritably. “You’re invisible. I did explain this.”

  “But if I’m invisible, how can I see anything at all? Surely I should be blind…”

  Psittacus slapped a hand over Aragon’s mouth. “You know that, and I know that,” he hissed quietly, “But the cosmos hasn’t caught up with us yet, so let’s not give her any ideas, eh?”

  “You haven’t explained why we’re invisible. Is there a reason for it, or are you just practising?”

  “We, my boy, are about to trespass in the most exclusive club in Zibria—the Progressive Atheist’s Committee.”

  Aragon hesitated. “We may be invisible, but are we lightning proof?”

  Psittacus chuckled. “This way.”

  Unaware of the two invisible observers who had crept in at the back of the hall, the Progressive Atheist’s Committee was brought to order.

  “Now then,” said the Chair, “Could you read the minutes from last meeting, Brother Garfunkl?”

  A skinny, redheaded young man coughed and frantically swallowed his adam’s apple. “At 2:51 of the clock, the meeting was brought to order and minutes were read. At 2:55 of the clock, Brother Francine denounced the almighty fiction of the concept that divine beings exist within our rational universe. At 2:56 of the clock, a large tidal wave unexpectedly emerged from the community privy and swallowed Brother Francine whole. At 3:01 of the clock, the meeting was closed due to an outbreak of irrational prayers and similar religious observances by Brothers Caramel and Ortman.”

  The Chair stared blackly at the two brothers in question, who stared apologetically at their boots.

  The meeting was interrupted by a pale young woman who trudged in from a side door and cautiously took a chair. “Sorry I’m late, everybody,” she said in a quiet voice. “I wasn’t feeling very well.”

  The Chair turned his fierce expression on to the young woman, eyeing her waistline. “You are not with child, are you, Sister Maughan?”

  “Well,” she blushed suddenly, “I suppose I could be.” She burst into tears. “Oh, I’m sorry, Chair, but he appeared in a shower of gold, and he had such a commanding presence and…” She subsided into mutinous sniffles.

  “Does anyone else have anything to confess?” asked the Chair dangerously.

  A small brother put his hand up. “Well, actually…”

  “Yes, Brother Belfry?”

  “I, well you see, I sort of maybe had a visitation last night,” Brother Belfry muttered in an embarrassed tone.

  “A visitation?” repeated the Chair ominously.

  “Just a little one,” said Brother Belfry in a squeak. “But you see, well have you heard the glorious word of Number Seven?”

  “OUT!” roared the Chair.

  Brother Belfry ran for it, clutching the hand of Sister Maughan who had decided to make a break at the same time.

  The Chair folded his arms and regarded his three remaining committee members. “Does anyone else have anything to report?”

  Feeling an invisible hand plucking at his invisible sleeve, Aragon quietly made his way out of the Zibrian community hall. In the sunlight, he watched his feet gradually became visible again, as did the rest of him. Psittacus the philosopher was also visible now, although his left hand and half of his beard remained missing for quite some time.

  “Why did we leave halfway through?” asked Aragon curiously.

  “Between you, me and the hedgehog, they’re going to be struck by a divine fireball in about ten minutes,” said Psittacus cheerfully. “The gods can cope with individual atheists, but they take it personally when they start forming committees. Anyway, you’d heard enough, hadn’t you?”

  “The lesson being that mortals should not pit themselves against the gods, I suppose,” said Aragon dryly.

  “Something like that,” agreed Psittacus. “Still willing to go through with all this?”

  Aragon was silent for a moment. “She wasn’t supposed to die, was she?”

  “No,” said Psittacus the philosopher. “She wasn’t. It’s obviously a symbol that the cosmos is seriously ailing. Still, that’s hardly your concern.” He raised a bushy white eyebrow in a comical fashion. “Or is it?”

  * * *

  In one of the more tastefully decorated godly dimensions, Destiny wrinkled her nose. “When do the fireworks start?”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Lady Luck haughtily.

  “Well, you threatened to do all sorts of nasty things to Aragon Silversword, and it hasn’t happened.”

  “Give it time,” replied Lady Luck. “True mortal manipulation requires skill and subtlety—neither of which you possess, incidentally—and it takes time to unfurl every level of the plot in a truly dramatic fashion.”

  “I reckon you’ve lost your touch,” said Destiny slyly.

  “Stuff and nonsense!” But a worried expression hovered behind Lady Luck’s superior smile. “Just because I can’t actually locate him at this exact moment does not imply any kind of failure on my p
art. It is a momentary setback, nothing more.”

  * * *

  “The thing about Lady Luck,” confided Psittacus. “None of the gods like her much, but they’re all scared stiff of her. When it comes to manipulation, she’s the best there is. And you haven’t a hope of doing what you have to do without assistance.” He seemed to be deep in thought for a few moments. “It’ll have to be Tmesis.”

  “Who?”

  “She’s the priestess of the lost gods, the mislaid divinities.” Aragon still didn’t seem to understand, so Psittacus spelled it out for him. “The ex-gods of Mocklore. From before the decimalisation. She’ll help you reach the Underworld. None of the gods will risk it, but she doesn’t have much to lose.”

  “Fine,” said Aragon. “By the way, which one are you?”

  Psittacus looked at him, a hint of a desperate smile taking over his heavily-bearded face. “Sorry, my boy? Didn’t quite catch that.”

  “I think you know exactly what I mean,” said Aragon in a hard voice. “Which—god—are—you?”

  Psittacus sighed, and for a moment his face fell away to reveal another, younger but infinitely seedier face with blotchy eyes and lopsided stubble.

  “Binx,” said Aragon thoughtfully. “Patron god of Dreadnought…”

  “Don’t tell everybody,” begged the Empire’s most disreputable deity, quickly restoring his ‘Psittacus’ face. “If Milady finds out my involvement here, she’ll make my eternity a living hell. Don’t look at me like that, you don’t have to live on the same plane of existence as her!”

  “True,” said Aragon acidly, “What I would like is to be on the same plane of existence as Kassa Daggersharp. Is that going to be possible?”

  Psittacus tugged at his beard. “Not sure, old boy. Probably not. I mean, destiny is one thing, but once a mortal’s dead that’s supposed to be it. No going back. Mind you, if it’s the cosmos at fault, and Lady Luck just took advantage of it, then there should be some way to unravel her handiwork. Loopholes are surprisingly common, if you know where to look. Anyway, if your priority is to find the dead lass, you’ll have to travel to the Underworld. Gods aren’t allowed there, except the Dark One, so only Tmesis the Forgotten Priestess can show you the way.”