“Perhaps,” Aragon replied, his eyes holding hers. “But not today.”
“No,” said Bounty ruefully, shaking her head. “Not today.” She advanced towards him, pulling a wickedly sharp dagger from her belt…
17: Tomorrow’s Yore
Only the Emperor and his Court could travel through the Great Winter. His famous chariot, moulded from the remains of Mocklore’s once-population of flying carpets, seated about sixty nobles. If they each brought suitable quantities of luggage and herald-serfs, which they usually did, there was barely room to house more than twenty-five.
The powerful city-states had long ago fallen apart due to war, famine, pestilence and some suspiciously specific natural disasters. Since the city of Dreadnought had vanished beneath the Astronomical Avalanche of the previous year, the Emperor’s Court survived by travelling from manor to manor like parasites. When all the food, drink, fuel and minstrels had been consumed, the Court moved on. If the hospitality of their hosts was in any way lacking, they left several executions in their wake.
It said a great deal about the reign of this Emperor that the previous reign—that of Talle, the Lady Emperor—was secretly thought of as a Golden Age.
The Emperor was surrounded by fops, ministers, herald-serfs and glamorous noblewomen wearing peacock feathers and sequins, but he was entirely alone. He lived only to survive, and if possible to inflict misery on others. He now eased an arm out from under his heavy velvet mantle and tapped the nearest herald-serf on the head. “Where next?” he asked in the deliberately bored voice he had cultivated for years.
“Um,” said the herald serf, consulting the brochure in his big book of files. “The Green Manor, close to the site of what used to be Zibria before it sank and exploded. The current Lord is one Tangent Cooper, age twenty. He inherited the title from his uncle, who was presented with the right to own a manor for, um…” He looked as embarrassed as a herald-serf could actually get. “For services to the previous Emperor.”
The Emperor raised an eyebrow. “The Lady did leave the Empire in rather a mess, didn’t she? Still, I don’t suppose I can blame her for the weather.” He laughed. It was a singularly unpleasant sound.
Everybody knew who was to blame for the weather.
* * *
Daggar grinned uneasily at his group gathered on the kitchen steps of the big, slightly snowbound house. A shabby profit-scoundrel, a grim blonde mercenary, a gangling young Blackguard and a suspiciously sweet old lady. Daggar figured they would be lucky if they didn’t get the washing water thrown over them. He tapped hopefully on the kitchen window. “Look hungry and penitent, everyone,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
There was a long pause, then someone came to the kitchen door. As it cracked open, a young woman dwarfed by an enormous apron stared out at her visitors.
Daggar risked his most respectable smile. “Um, any chance of giving some weary travellers shelter from a snowstorm?” he asked.
The girl tilted her head, frowning speculatively. “Can you cook?”
Before any of them had a chance to respond, she hustled them into the big warm kitchen and introduced herself as Lady Reony, mistress of the manor. “We don’t have any servants left, you see. We lost half of them to the factories, and the others all ran away when they heard the Emperor was coming.”
“What’s so scary about the Emperor?” said Daggar, frowning. “She’s not exactly hard to please.”
Lady Reony laughed out loud, a strangled sound. “She? Where have you been for the last ten years?”
Sparrow nudged Daggar sharply in the ribs, to remind him how far into the future they had travelled. He coughed. “Oh. So, being visited by the Emperor is a bad thing.”
“It is when there’s just two people to run the whole manor, with snow building up against the walls, no food and hardly any firewood.”
“Can’t you put him off, then?”
Lady Reony stared at him as if she were mad. “No one can avoid offering hospitality to the Emperor, whether noble or peasant—that would be high treason!”
“This Emperor sounds like a real hoot,” muttered Daggar.
A deal was struck. The young Lord and Lady of the Manor were only too glad to take in the snowbound travellers, as long as they sang for their supper. Officer Finnley was promptly volunteered as head butler and bottle-washer, Mistress Opia was put in charge of the kitchen, Daggar was to play sergeant-at-arms and Lady Reony would take Sparrow up to her own chamber to prepare for her particular role.
“We were expecting to be clapped in irons as soon as the Court arrived,” Reony confessed as she flung open her wardrobe doors. “Greyest winter or no greyest winter, the Emperor has had manors confiscated for less than not being able to provide a six-course banquet at a moment’s notice. We simply can’t manage without any staff at all.”
“This Emperor of yours sounds like quite a charmer,” said Sparrow. She regarded the wardrobe full of shiny dresses with some trepidation. “What exactly does a chatelaine do?”
“Runs the household, greets the guests and ensures that the Lady of the Manor looks like she does it all herself,” said Reony with a grin. “Or, in your case, greeting the guests and keeping them vaguely entertained while the rest of us run around like headless chickens.”
Sparrow pulled a face. “Why could I not be the sergeant-at-arms?”
“With all due respect to your friend Daggar,” said Reony slyly, “I don’t think he could get away with wearing this.” She slid an extraordinary gown out from her wardrobe, holding it up for Sparrow’s inspection.
Sparrow stared at it. “I cannot wear that!” she protested. “You are supposed to be the Lady of the Manor.”
“Oh, I can’t wear this one,” Reony assured her. “I haven’t the figure for it. Go on, try it on.”
Sparrow stared at the shimmering garment. “How?” she said finally.
* * *
“You’re not going to put anything nasty in the Imperial Soup, are you?” Daggar peered suspiciously at Mistress Opia. If it had been up to him, he certainly would not have put the Brewmistress in charge of the kitchen. “No turning the Court into lead?”
Mistress Opia just sniffed. “You object to roast duck?”
Daggar’s stomach growled. “No objections,” he said hastily. “Where did you get the duck from?”
Mistress Opia gave him a deadly look. “Never ask an alchemist where she gets her ingredients.”
Lord Tangent stuck his head into the kitchen, his curly hair hanging in a wild mop over his eyes. “Everything going all right? Good of you chaps to help out. That butler fellow of yours just spotted the air-carriage, so they shouldn’t be long now.”
A large thudding sound echoed from outside. “Action stations!” cried Lord Tangent, sounding alarmed. “Quick, into the hall.”
Daggar picked up the ceremonial sword he had been issued with and hurried into the entrance hall, taking up position next to Finnley who had traded his Blackguard uniform for something in royal blue velvet, with shiny buttons. He was holding a silver tray because apparently that was what butlers did.
“Right,” said Lord Tangent. “I’d better pop upstairs so that Ree and I can make our grand entrance later. Good luck everyone.” He ran up the stairs two at a time, but stopped short when he saw who was coming down.
Daggar saw what had caught Tangent’s eye, and his mouth fell open.
Sparrow descended, clad in a shimmering gown of gold silk. The astounding golden bodice clung to her as if by magic, sweeping into a fall of shimmering fabric. Her tawny hair was piled in an extraordinary mass and pearls glistened from her throat and earlobes. She was scowling.
“Bloody hell,” said Daggar.
Lord Tangent’s reaction was a little more genteel. He stepped slowly up to the landing and took the lady’s hand. “Our new chatelaine, I presume?” He brought her hand to his lips. “Charmed, absolutely charmed.”
A loud banging sounded on the front door. Lord
Tangent bowed swiftly to Sparrow, released her hand and vanished up the spiral staircase.
Sparrow, one hand gripping the banister with white knuckles, began to descend to the entrance hall below. “Open the door, Blackguard,” she said between her teeth as she reached the newly-brushed hall carpet.
“You look,” Daggar told her, “I mean, you really look—”
“I know,” she said calmly. “Shut your mouth before your brains fall out. Officer, the door!”
Officer Finnley moved to pull the front door wide open. A herald in black and white livery marched in, shaking snow off his boots. He proceeded to tootle a short and triumphant melody on his long ceremonial trumpet. “His Imperial Majesty graces the Green Manor, to receive the hospitality of Lord Tangent Cooper!” he announced.
A parade of fops, noble ministers and women wearing peacock feathers crowded into the entrance hall. Daggar found himself shoved into a corner where he couldn’t see anything but the backs of various cloaks. He heard Sparrow speak in a calm, rehearsed voice. “If your Imperial Majesty will follow me, I will show you to your rooms of residence so that you may refresh yourself and dress for dinner.”
“I am adequately dressed and refreshed,” came a harsh voice which Daggar could only presume belonged to the Emperor. “Lead us to your feasting hall.”
Surprisingly obedient, Sparrow turned and led the way to the ballroom which Daggar had spent the afternoon hauling trestle tables into. The Court followed, rustling and muttering to themselves and scattering stray sequins wherever they walked. Behind them, four or five herald-serfs were bent double with huge quantities of travel chests, spare peacocks and the occasional lady-in-waiting strapped to their backs.
Daggar peeled himself off the hat stand, straightened out his ceremonial sword and stared after the departing crowd, frowning. “I know that voice,” he muttered. “Don’t I?” A moment later, he said, “Lord Tangent Cooper?”
* * *
Sparrow led the Emperor to the damask-draped high table and took his cloak from him, tossing it to a nearby herald. “Please make yourself comfortable,” she said smoothly. “Drinks will be served immediately.”
“Just as well,” replied the Emperor.
Fires roared in the ballroom for the first time in years, burning up the wood that young Lord Tangent had spent so much time gathering. If they were sparing with the fuel, they might have enough to last a day or three, provided the Emperor allowed them to be sparing with the fuel.
As Finnley brought the hot mulled wine into the hall, Sparrow took the opportunity to examine Mocklore’s future Emperor. He was in his late fifties, too thin for a man of that age, grey-haired with a face carved out of granite. He reminded Sparrow of an old troll she had known in her childhood, who always sat in the same shady corner of the same rocky plain, staring at the passers-by with a, sullen expression as if he blamed them all for his unhappy state.
The Emperor sipped from the steaming goblet and frowned, as if the taste was familiar to him.
“Our cook learned her recipes from the Brewers of Dreadnought, long ago,” Sparrow said helpfully, and the Emperor appeared to nod, not really listening to her. He was lost in thoughts of his own.
Sparrow continued to stare, fascinated by this man. Was it the position that made his manner so cold—the pressures of running a dying Empire? Or was it something else?
Finnley finished making the rounds of the nobles and returned his tray to the kitchen. Daggar appeared at the double doors, looking quite respectable in his trim military uniform.
Sparrow nodded approvingly at him, and then realised that he was staring with a kind of wild-eyed horror. Not at her, not at the glamorous low-cut dress which had so unnerved him earlier. He was staring at the Emperor.
Daggar whispered something to the herald-serf who was hovering by the door and disappeared again.
“Our hosts, Lord Tangent and Lady Reony,” announced the herald.
Sparrow was busily seething at Daggar’s behaviour. He was supposed to escort the Lord and Lady to the Emperor, not run off when there was a job to do. She stepped back to allow Tangent and Reony to approach the Emperor with their aristocratic flatteries, then she withdrew to find out what Daggar was playing at.
He was pacing up and down the hall, muttering to himself and looking nervous. “What the crag are you up to?” Sparrow demanded. “We promised we would do this properly. Would you prefer to be freezing to death out in that blizzard?”
“I can’t go in there,” Daggar said hollowly. “The Emperor! It can’t be, I can’t believe it. It’s too sick to be true.”
Sparrow sniffed. “You do not believe all those stories Reony told us?”
“The executions, the confiscating of manors and castles, the neglect of his populace?” said Daggar quietly. “Oh, I believe it. I’ve met him before, you see. His name is—or was, Aragon Silversword.”
Sparrow hesitated. “Your crewmate? The one who—”
“The one Kassa was going to turn into a hero,” Daggar said bitterly. “Only trouble is, she left the job half-done. She went and died on us. Look at him, Sparrow. He used to just be a selfish bastard. Now he’s a monster.”
“So what do you want us to do about it?”
“If we had the ship, I’d have a simple answer. We could go back and change it. Stop this from happening.”
“Is that what Kassa would do?” asked Sparrow sarcastically.
Daggar gave her a lopsided grin. “Yeah. And she’d make a right mess of it, and blow things up, and get everything topsy-turvy. But when she was in charge, everything always turned out fine. Even when things got blown up, and turned temporarily into pink dolphins. Nobody died. Nobody got executed for being late with the Emperor’s dinner.”
“So you want to change history?” said Sparrow.
“Future history,” he corrected. “Will you help me?”
“It sounds like a case of chronological sabotage.”
“Think you’re up to it?”
“If you are.” Sparrow stuck out her hand to seal the deal.
Daggar shook her hand firmly and then turned it over, giving her knuckles a quick kiss. Almost chivalrous.
Sparrow’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t say anything.
The chief herald-serf burst out through the double doors. “His Imperial Majesty, Imperator Aragon I, wants his dinner,” he said importantly.
Daggar released Sparrow’s hand. “Do you hear that? The Emperor wants his dinner.”
“Butler Finnley,” Sparrow called to the kitchen. “The Emperor wants his dinner!”
They both stood well back, as Officer Finnley and Mistress Opia paraded into the ballroom, carrying steaming trays and tureens which smelled almost, but not entirely unlike sulphur.
18: Blackmailing the Boatman
The knife cut deeply into the coarse rope, freeing Aragon’s hands. He shook them loose, rubbing pins and needles out of his numbed fingers. “Thank you.”
“Go on then,” said Bounty Fenetre, slipping the knife back into her belt. “Before I change my mind. I’d like to meet her, you know.”
Aragon looked at her, slightly startled. “Who?”
“The girl you’re not in love with,” Bounty said with a smirk. “I’d like to shake the hand of the woman who can make Aragon Silversword jump through hoops.”
“My motives are purely selfish,” Aragon told her.
“And personal,” Bounty agreed. “I have no doubt of that. I’ll see you again, Aragon.”
He shaded his eyes against the sun, staring down into the valley. And there it was—not quite where it had been before, but there nevertheless—a shadowy, gnarled glimpse of a long dead forest. He glanced back at Bounty, and she was taken aback by the warmth in his smile. “No offense, but I hope not,” grinned Aragon Silversword.
As he bounded off in the direction of the skeletal forest which only he could see, Bounty Fenetre shook her head slowly. “I’d like to see the woman who can make you smile like that,
” she murmured to herself. “Then again, maybe I have.”
* * *
The forest of the dead clutched around Aragon like a shroud. Spindly branches plucked at his sleeves and a cloying smell arose mustily from the carpet of rotting leaves under his feet. “A golden twig,” he muttered to himself, remembering the instructions of Tmesis. “Possibly silver, but almost certainly gold.”
“Gold, you say?” teased a voice.
Aragon stiffened. “Lady Luck.”
“The one and only.” The goddess appeared beside him, dissolving out of thin air. “You don’t really think you’re going to succeed, do you?”
“Any reason why I shouldn’t?” Ignoring her, he continued to walk. “You took advantage of a glitch in the cosmos to cause Kassa’s death, apparently on a whim. I plan to rectify that.”
“Well, aren’t we the little upholder of justice,” Lady Luck said sarcastically. “Why do you want to rescue her, even if it was possible? She used you, over and over again. She forced you into virtual servitude by means of trickery, and you hated her for it.”
Aragon stopped. “I don’t hate her.”
“Then what do you feel?” sneered the goddess. “Love? You mortals are all the same. Petty, petty, petty. You’re only obsessed with her because you can’t have her. Even if you achieve the impossible and bring her back to the mortal world, you’ll lose interest. And she certainly will, even assuming that she was interested in the first place. What’s the point?”
A squawking sound filled the air above Aragon’s head, and he looked up. A rain of feathers fell around him as a moth-eaten raven engaged a dove in what appeared to be a brutal fist-fight. Behind the squabbling birds, a twig was glowing. It wasn’t exactly gold, not by any stretch of the imagination. It was certainly yellowish, but almost the colour of bronze. A bronzey yellowish twig. It would have to do.
“If your quest is righteous,” said Aragon to himself, repeating the passage Tmesis had read him from one of her ancient scrolls, the one with the coffee stain in the centre. “It will come easily from the bough.” He shoved away the squabbling birds, reached up and took hold of the bronze twig, giving it a swift tug which had no effect whatsoever. He pulled harder, and still it stuck fast to its branch. He pressed his other hand hard against the trunk and yanked the bronze twig down, his muscles straining with the effort.
The Mocklore Omnibus (Mocklore Chronicles #1 & #2) Page 44
