“Kassa?” he said aloud, looking into the little cat’s dark golden eyes. Kassa’s eyes.
The kitten mewed, and looked hungry.
“Kassa,” said Aragon in a resigned voice. He put her spiral ring in a pouch and tucked the kitten into his belt. “Let’s go, shall we?”
25: Lady Luck
Time slowed. The descent, which should have been stomach-droppingly fast, stretched out in a seemingly endless ribbon of time.
Sparrow gazed at the spaces between her fingers, and past them to the wide blue sky. Frame by frame, she drifted towards the ground below. Falling. The Labyrinth plaza was below, wasn’t it? She couldn’t remember whether it was cobbled or concreted, but she assumed it was one or the other. Too much to hope for an ornamental lake.
She didn’t have time to look down and see what awaited her, surely. Then again, she had all the time in the world.
The sheer side of the mountain rolled past. Sparrow arched her back and ran her eyes back up the wall of the Palace, counting the lines of windows, alternately arched, round and square panes of glass. Which was the window she had fallen from? She no longer remembered. But there—up there was the broken pane of glass, so far above her. Someone was leaning out. Was it Daggar?
So gradually that it took her a while to realise it, time sped up to a normal rate. Sparrow rolled as she dropped, and hit something warm and furry. She blinked. Not dead after all. That was all right, then. Her time-related illness was good for something.
She stared up into the face of her rescuer. “Magnus!” she cried, throwing her arms around the Minestaurus, surprising them both by hugging him hard. “You caught me!”
“Well if you go diving out of high windows, you must expect someone to catch you,” replied Magnus in a perplexed voice. “It’s a law of nature, surely.”
It was Daggar’s head sticking out of that window, yelling something. Sparrow waved once, to let him know she was all right, and the head ducked back in.
Magnus the Minestaurus set her down carefully, rubbing his chest where her armour had scraped him. “Glad to be of service,” he said politely.
Sparrow gave him a sidelong look. “Magnus, why did you not tell us you were a prince? The first-born prince?”
“I assumed you knew,” he said in surprise. “After all, we met quite a few years ago when I was still publicly acknowledged in that role.”
“Yes,” said Sparrow. “But last time when we met, I had not yet met you, if you see what I mean.” She shook her head. “Try to forget I said that. Why did you not claim Zibria?”
“Because the people prefer to have a Sultan without horns and hooves,” replied her mild-mannered friend. “I’m not eligible.”
“It is that moustache-twirling torture-fanatic who is not eligible,” Sparrow snapped. “Surely you must have realised he is illegitimate? He is not a monster, physically, therefore he can not be your father’s son.”
“Well, of course I know that,” sighed Magnus. “Everyone knows that, there are ballads written about it, but what do you expect me to do? I don’t want to be Sultan, and Marmaduc does seem to enjoy it.”
Sparrow looked up at him, frowning. “You do not want to be Sultan?”
“Of course not,” said Magnus patiently. “I have a thesis to write.” He smiled absently, patted her on the head and wandered off. “Don’t go falling out of any more high windows,” he called behind him. “It really isn’t safe.”
Sparrow watched him go, shaking her head. Daggar came barrelling around the path into the plaza, his eyes wild, with Singespitter following close on his heels. “Are you okay?” he demanded.
“Fine,” Sparrow said dismissively. “It is just the world spinning.” She stamped on the ground, just to check it was still there.
“It’s mayhem up there,” Daggar panted. “Mistress Opia and the Sultan are throwing things at each other, and Officer Finnley and the gnome are hiding under a table.”
“I think perhaps we should be somewhere else,” said Sparrow. “Do you have the ship?”
Daggar patted a pocket reassuringly. “I’m sure there’s something we’re forgetting, though.”
Sparrow snapped her fingers. “That lowdown, dustsucking Emperor bastard.”
“Um,” said Daggar. “Strictly speaking, Silversword isn’t an Emperor yet, so please don’t call him that if we see him. It will only give him ideas.”
“We must stop him becoming Emperor, yes?” said Sparrow.
“Too right,” said Daggar fervently. “From what he said about his motivations, our best chance is to rescue Kassa and get those two together.”
Sparrow raised an eyebrow. “This Kassa is dead, in the Underworld?”
“Apparently so.”
She leaned down and plucked up a handful of dandelions from under her feet, shaking them furiously. “The Underworld which I have destroyed, according to the Sultan.”
“Never said it was going to be easy.”
“We should begin by finding this Silversword person.”
“Yes,” agreed Daggar.
“And I shall beat him to within an inch of his life.”
“Only if you’ve been good.”
* * *
Aragon Silversword reached an apple orchard at the top of the hill, looking down at the pillars and avenues of Zibria. Now there was a city he was heartily sick of the sight of. He would just call in to get some supplies and then—what? Where would he go next?
Perhaps he could head towards the land-bridge, and leave Mocklore altogether. Aragon was tired of madcap adventures. Perhaps outside the Empire he might have a chance to regain some dignity.
He reached up to pick an apple from the tree which towered above him.
“Are you sure about that?” asked a golden voice.
Aragon looked up. In the branches of the tree sat Lady Luck, combing her beige-blonde hair with an air of complete abandon. “I’ve had just about enough of you, too,” he snarled.
“That attitude isn’t going to get you anywhere!” she replied haughtily.
Aragon picked the half-grown kitten out from the larger of his belt pouches, and brandished it at her. “Do you see what you’ve done?”
“You rescued her from the Underworld!” said Lady Luck in surprise. “And turned her into a cat, how ingenious.”
“It isn’t her,” he snapped. “The cat is just…carrying her.”
“I’m sure that makes all the difference.”
“Why are you doing all this?” he demanded. “Why kill Kassa off in the first place?”
Lady Luck shrugged lazily. “To prove a point, of course.”
“What point?”
“I don’t remember. Was it so very important?”
Aragon turned his back on her and started walking. “I don’t care anymore. I’m not interested.”
Lady Luck appeared in front of him, sticking out her lower lip. “Aren’t you? How dull. I won’t bother with you, then.”
“Thanks,” he said, continuing to walk.
She didn’t follow this time. “Do you really want to know?” she called to his receding back.
Aragon whirled around. “I have had enough witch, sprite and god games to last me a lifetime,” he growled. “If you wish to tell me, then tell me.”
Lady Luck made an elegant shrug. “Because I could. The OtherRealm is challenging the Underworld, and they have both provided such delicious chaos and confusion that the cosmos didn’t notice one teeny goddess sneaking an undestined death through.” She laughed out loud. “We are more tangled in rules and regulations than you mortals. Why should I resist the decadent urge to do something naughty, if I knew I could get away with it?”
He stared at her. “You are totally immoral.”
“I’m a goddess,” Lady Luck said. “We’re not like you. Why should we even care about you? We have our own games to play.” She patted her beige-blonde hair into place, and vanished.
Aragon stuffed the kitten back into his pouch and headed for
Zibria. He found a tavern, ordered lunch and sat at a table, not eating the food which had been put in front of him. For some reason, the staple ingredient in Zibrian cooking was the olive, which he had never found particularly appealing at the best of times. His platter was heaped with olive-stuffed bread, various vegetables of the dried and pickled variety, black olives, green olives, some puffy green-and-black rissoles and a single tentacle of some poor unsuspecting sea creature. He could only assume that it had been fried in olive oil.
The kitten was curled up at his feet, lapping from a saucer of goat’s milk.
Aragon contemplated the future. It didn’t look any more cheerful than it had an hour earlier, so he took a bite of fried tentacle. It tasted like salty rubber, but was strangely compelling. He took another bite and chewed, slowly.
Something white thudded into the window beside him. Very slowly, Aragon turned his head to look at it. It was a sheep. A very agitated sheep, waggling its face at his through the glass. Aragon turned back to his plate, selected a piece of pickled pepper, chewed and swallowed. Then he looked back up. The sheep was gone.
“Oh, so now I’m going mad,” he said conversationally to himself. “Thank you, Kassa Daggersharp.”
A moment later, the door to the tavern was flung open and Daggar Profit-scoundrel marched in, accompanied by his sheep and a dangerous woman in a black shift and leggings, the type usually worn under armour. “See!” Daggar announced to the room in general. “I told you that trainee soothsayer in the Mystic District knew what she was talking about.”
“Oh,” said Aragon Silversword. “It’s you. I think I would have preferred insanity.” He ate a piece of dried fish. At least, he assumed it was dried fish. The alternative was too unpleasant to contemplate.
Daggar joined him at the table, grinning all over his unshaven face. “Have you been to the Underworld yet?”
Aragon regarded him suspiciously. “How did you know about that?”
“I have my sources.” Daggar’s grin widened until it almost fell off his face. “Who would have picked you for being such a soft touch? Did you find her?”
“More or less,” said Aragon icily. He bit down on a piece of pickled lettuce and spat it out hurriedly. “What do you want?”
“Well,” said Daggar. “As far as I can make out, we can rescue Kassa!”
Aragon gave him a long, flat look. “Kassa is gone.”
“Ah, but we have a timeship,” said Daggar, tapping his nose confidently.
Aragon stood up, pushing his plate to one side. “Try not to be quite so stupid.” He picked up his cat.
“No, really,” Daggar said with great enthusiasm. “An honest to gods time-travelling ship! We can go anywhere. We can go back and stop Kassa being killed. Or something.”
Aragon tossed a few coins on to his plate and picked up his cloak. “Goodbye, Daggar.”
Daggar turned frantically to Sparrow. “He doesn’t believe us.”
“If you remember,” said Sparrow coldly. “He did not believe us last time. His not believing us created that future. We have to show him the truth.”
Aragon turned around and stared her in the eyes. “I don’t know who you are, but you are correct. I prefer not to make a fool of myself when people are spouting fairy tales.” He headed for the door, tucking the cat back into his belt.
Daggar stared glumly at the remains of Aragon’s dinner. “So what do we do?”
Sparrow reached Aragon before he got to the door, and tapped him smartly on the shoulder.
He turned irritably. “What now?”
“I have wanted to do this for the next twenty-three years,” said Sparrow, the troll-raised mercenary. And she laid him out with a single punch.
* * *
Aragon woke to the strong smell of salt and seagulls. He lifted his head and looked around with bleary eyes. “What’s going on?”
“We kidnapped you,” said Daggar cheerfully.
Aragon looked at the deckchair in which he had been dumped, trying to figure out why it was yellow. Then he saw the rest of the ship. “What have you done to the place?” he managed to say, staring at the glowing goldness of it all. “Kassa’s going to kill you.”
“With any luck, she will have the opportunity,” Daggar told him. “If you suspend your disbelief for about a minute, I’ll tell you how.”
Aragon stood up carefully, testing his jaw. “That was quite a blow. Who’s the girl?”
Sparrow, who was busily combing burrs out of Singespitter’s wool, looked up with her narrow jade-green eyes.
Daggar stuck up a hand hastily. “Give him the benefit of the doubt just this once. He doesn’t know you’re secretly an evil, flesh-eating troll.” He smiled weakly at Aragon. “Don’t patronise her. It’s not worth the pain.”
Aragon regarded Sparrow thoughtfully and then turned his attention to more important questions. “Where are we going?”
“Where it all started,” said Daggar. “Chiantrio. We still don’t know exactly how and why Kassa died. If we’re going to change the past, it’s best to equip ourselves with all the information we can.”
“A vaguely sensible plan,” said Aragon. “Where’s my kitten?”
* * *
Mistress Opia and the Sultan duelled ferociously, throwing objects and magic gold dust at each other. “For the last time,” he gasped between breaths, avoiding a particularly devastating blast from the Brewmistress which set one of his favourite tapestries on fire. “Will you come and work for me?”
“Never!” she screamed.
“What have you got left?” he demanded. “The last evidence of your precious liquid gold is gone. You’re never going to be the most famous Brewmistress. Why not win fame as the Brewer who gilded Zibria from head to foot?”
“I did that for a Sultan once!” she shrieked. “His heir let it fall to ruin. And I can always get more liquid gold!”
“Oh, really?” said the Sultan sceptically. “You think you can deal twice with the moonlight dimension?”
“I know I can!” She rolled across the floor, narrowly avoiding the large sideboard Officer Finnley and Hobbs the gnome were hiding under. Triumphantly, she snatched up a handful of the dandelion trail Sparrow had left behind her. “I promise you anything!” she screamed into the flowers. “Whatever your price, I will pay it! Only give me more liquid gold!”
A split second later, the Sultan stared at her and began to laugh. “You can’t say they don’t keep their promises!”
Mistress Opia glowed gold. The substance slid under her skin, behind her eyes, coursing through her veins. She stared at her own outstretched hands in horror.
It was then that the two death-canaries, following the tangled trail of dandelions and the scent of human mingled with liquid gold, flew in through the open doors. Mistress Opia leaped back out of their way, and crashed into the sideboard containing the cowering Blackguard and the gnome. The death-canaries, true to their orders, crashed into her.
The resulting explosion took out most of the West Wing. The Sultan himself only survived because he had the foresight to throw himself behind the most solid tapestry in the room. Of the various other guests, uninvited and otherwise, who had been in the room before the explosion, no trace was ever found.
26: The Other Dame Crosselet
Busily throwing up over the rail, Daggar raised his sea-green face briefly to shout, “Land ho!”
Aragon came up from below, hurling an armful of glittering swords, knives and blunt instruments on to the deck in disgust. “Just look at this mess! This time-travelling essence of yours turned all our weapons, clothes and food supplies into gold, a singularly useless substance. What am I going to do for a sword?”
Daggar sat down on the deck with a thump. “Why do you need a new sword? What happened to the one you bought from the ice-sprites?”
Scowling, Aragon brought out the two pieces of his transparent silver-steel rapier. “A three-headed Pomeranian bit it in half.”
Daggar fell about
laughing.
Sparrow frowned. “Did you say not something about ‘land ho’?”
“Yep, we should be halfway up the beach by now,” replied Daggar, still chuckling. “Where did you find a three-headed Pomeranian?” he asked Aragon.
Sparrow looked over the side of the ship and commanded it to ‘stop’ just in time to prevent them from colliding with a palm tree. “Why exactly are we here?”
“This is where we find out exactly how the Sacred Bauble managed to kill Kassa without leaving a mark on her,” said Aragon. “And if you’re right about this time travel thing—”
“We showed you,” Daggar insisted. “Twice, didn’t we, Sparrow?”
“Admittedly the Cellar Sea looks much the same no matter what year you travel to,” conceded Sparrow. “You will have to take our word for it that the gold swirly lights meant something.”
“You’ve certainly changed the ship,” Aragon agreed. “I’ll just assume that you can’t both be completely insane, shall I?”
“You half-believe us,” said Sparrow. “And we got you here. It is a start.”
“Not enough has been changed yet,” warned Daggar. “I’m not going to relax until we’ve got Kassa back. She’ll keep him on the straight and narrow.”
Aragon looked from one to the other, suspicious. “Am I missing something?”
Sparrow gave him a long, hard look. “Let us say that if we do not rescue this redhead of yours, the future is going to be rather unpleasant.”
“But on the bright side, you will get to inflict your miserable personality on as many people as possible,” added Daggar. Sparrow kicked him sharply in the leg. “Oof.”
Aragon’s stony gaze flicked from one to the other and then he turned, vaulting over the side of the ship to the beach below.
“Be quiet, pebble-brain,” snarled Sparrow to Daggar. “We do not want to make the future any worse than last time around.”
“Fancy me being involved in an act of inter-dimensional sabotage!” chuckled Daggar. “Kassa would have been so proud.”
“If we get this right, she can still be proud,” said Sparrow. “Just what is so special about this Captain of yours, anyway?”
The Mocklore Omnibus (Mocklore Chronicles #1 & #2) Page 50
