by Conrad Mason
No doubt about it: the King’s army was gathering. Already they had a force that might stand a chance against the League, and it was getting bigger by the hour.
All the same, Hal felt uneasy. What if Joseph and Tabs didn’t bring back the King’s daughter? They must have reached Fayt by now. And they must have spoken to Newt. But still, there were no ships on the horizon, and no sign of the mermaid princess. Would the merfolk give up and go home? He seriously doubted it.
‘Moping again, Hal?’ said Frank, with a wink.
‘I’m observing the merfolk, if you must know.’
‘That right? Well, there’s just one thing I don’t get,’ said Paddy, laying down a card. ‘If this king of theirs is so magical, how come he doesn’t rescue his own daughter? I heard he can even bring the dead back to life, just like the Witch Lords did in the Dark Age. So why can’t he do a bit of hocus-pocus and save her himself?’
Frank snorted. ‘Bring the dead back to life? That’s walrus dung.’
Hal leaned forward. Finally, something interesting to talk about. ‘Merfolk magic is certainly impressive. But to raise the dead … That would require an expert of the highest degree. I doubt even Master Gurney at the Azurmouth Academy could achieve such a—’
‘Merfolk are different though, aren’t they?’ Paddy cut in. ‘Ma told us that when we were youngsters. They’re born magical. Get it from the sea, not from studying at fancy schools.’
‘Yes, obviously,’ snapped Hal, before Paddy could prattle on any further. ‘The magic of the merfolk was one of my principal subjects at Azurmouth. They are natural magicians, but their power is drawn from the ocean. On dry land their “hocus-pocus”, as you call it, simply doesn’t work. That’s why shark-pit owners can keep them locked up so easily once they’ve managed to fish them out of the sea. It’s rather fascinating, in fact. When I was studying at—’
‘Oi, you lot!’
Hal turned at the shout, annoyed that he’d been interrupted. Phineus Clagg was stumbling towards them over the rocks, from the other side of the island. The smuggler had run out of firewater an hour ago and had been a little twitchy ever since.
‘Well, thank Thalin for that,’ said Frank. ‘I could feel one of Hal’s magic lessons coming on. What’s up, Captain Cuttlefish? Found a secret fountain of grog?’
The smuggler came panting to a halt, bent over and wheezing, his lank hair hanging in front of his sweaty red face and his lazy left eye even less under control than usual.
‘Come and see for yerselves,’ he gasped.
The troll twins rose and followed him, clambering away over the rocks. Hal brought up the rear, lingering to take one last look at the merfolk before he followed.
On the first day Frank and Paddy had led an expedition all over the island, trying to find water or food – and there was nothing. Just rocks, a few patches of windswept grass and some stunted trees. No wonder the merfolk had chosen it. Here the watchmen were entirely dependent on their captors. But now Phineus Clagg, of all people, had found something …
The smuggler came to a halt on a high rock and pointed downwards. There was a small pebble beach below, and in the sea beyond it, more merfolk had appeared, milling around among the waves. There were at least as many as on the other side of the island – maybe more. That was nothing though.
In the shallows, the waves lapped at a pile of boulders, each one as big as a crouching ogre. Except the boulders were perched one on top of the other, six or seven impossibly balanced, casting a long, strange shadow across the water. And on top of the boulders …
‘The King,’ whispered Frank.
There was no doubt about it. The merman was perched on the highest rock, staring out to sea. In his right hand he held a bonestaff, the shaft twisted and gleaming with pearls set into the bone. The evening breeze stirred his long white hair and beard. His tail flicked, once. He wore no crown, but that didn’t make him seem any less like a king.
If only Master Gurney was here to see this …
‘Blimey,’ said Paddy.
In silence they made their way down across the rocks, pausing when they arrived at the beach. The column of boulders was just a short swim away, and the waters around it were empty of merfolk, who were keeping a respectful distance from their ruler.
‘What do we say to him?’ hissed Frank.
‘Let’s ask him if he brought any blackwine with him,’ suggested Clagg. ‘A king ought to have some decent liquor handy.’
‘Mermaids don’t drink, walrus-brain,’ said Paddy.
Clagg groaned. ‘Don’t drink? Where’s the sense in that?’
Hal stepped forward. ‘I’ll talk to him. See if I can persuade him to let us go. I’m not sure I trust any of you not to insult him.’
‘Fair enough,’ sniffed Frank. ‘Just don’t start talking to him about magic, all right? Don’t want him falling asleep on us.’
Hal ignored that and headed across the beach. He felt in his pocket, and his fingers closed around the wooden spoon. He tried to calm his breathing. Did he dare use it? It was incredibly powerful, but then, so was the King.
He took off his shoes, rolled up his breeches and stepped out into the surf, wincing as the cold water swallowed his feet.
‘Human,’ came a shout from nearby. It was a fair-haired merman, his bare chest covered in tattoos, bobbing in the shallows. His brow was furrowed with suspicion. ‘Why do you come here?’
‘I wish to speak with the King.’
The merman said nothing. Hal was about to speak again when the water began to tug at his ankles, lightly at first, then suddenly with irresistible force. He fought for balance but it was no good. He fell, water flooding through his clothes, so cold that he was numb at once. He opened his mouth to cry out and got a mouthful of salt water that made him choke. And then he was being dragged across the sea bed, as if by invisible hands, out into the ocean, his back and head bumping against the bottom. His whole body tingled. Magic, some part of his brain told him.
He was jerked upwards in a crash of spray, sodden and dripping in the chill evening air, to hover above the waves. He coughed, spluttered and rubbed the salt from his eyes.
When he opened them and cleared the water from his spectacles, he saw that he was floating in mid-air in front of the King. The merman stared at him with his lip curled, as though Hal was a weevil in a ship’s biscuit.
Up close the King seemed even more impressive. He was muscled and strong, despite his age, and under his busy white eyebrows his eyes were a vivid green.
‘You wish to speak with me, four-eyed man,’ he said. His voice rumbled like distant thunder, and his accent was only slight.
‘Yes, I, er … Indeed,’ said Hal. It wasn’t quite the commanding response he’d hoped for, but then, it was hard to be commanding when you were soaking wet and dangling six feet above the sea. ‘I was hoping you might consider letting us … well … go.’
A smile twitched at the corner of the King’s mouth. ‘I see,’ he said.
Something tugged at Hal’s pocket, and before he could react, the wooden spoon flew out and hovered between them, rotating slowly in mid-air. His heart raced.
‘And this wand,’ said the King. ‘You brought this to persuade me, I take it.’
‘I … Not exactly …’
The wand darted like a fairy, back into Hal’s pocket.
‘Just as well. My powers are at their strongest, magician.’
‘You’ve been speaking with the ocean,’ said Hal, before he could stop himself. It was a merfolk expression that Master Gurney had taught him. Every year, each merman and mermaid had to dive down deep, alone, and commune with the sea. It was the closest thing they had to a religion. It took days, sometimes months, but when they returned to the surface their magic was replenished and strong.
Something clicked in Hal’s mind.
‘That’s why you’ve only just come to— I mean …’
He faltered. A cloud had passed across the King’s face.
Hal nodded. The King’s eyes made him want to be as far away as possible. ‘I understand. Our friends will bring her back soon.’
‘Let us hope so. For your sake.’
Hal opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly there was nothing holding him up any more. He plummeted, hit the waves with a smack, and was dragged away through the water. An instant later he was washed up on the beach like some broken bit of flotsam, coughing and gasping for breath.
The troll twins raced towards him as he sat up. He turned from them to stare at the King, sitting silent on his rock, his strange throne of boulders silhouetted against the evening sky.
It was clear the interview was over. But those last words stayed with him. Let us hope so. For your sake.
‘Hal?’ called Paddy. ‘Are you all right? What happened?’
Hal staggered to his feet, trying not to think too hard about what the old merman had said.
Chapter Sixteen
PALLIONE KEPT SINGING, her voice delicate and brittle. Joseph glanced at Tabitha, hoping she might have some idea what to do, but she looked as uncertain as he felt. They couldn’t get to the mermaid now. Not with every crook in Port Fayt in the way.
On stage the figures were assembling into two groups. Those on the left wore black armour, their shields painted with skulls and bones. Their helmets hid their faces, but from their size and shape Joseph guessed they were all trolls and goblins. Opposite them were men in silver armour, each of their shields painted white and emblazoned with a golden sword.
Joseph was starting to feel sick.
‘Corin’s army was only small,’ declared the Boy King. He was still swaggering back and forth along the table, his enormous plume bouncing with each stride. ‘But he was the boldest, bravest, strongest hero in all the Old World.’
One of the men in silver stepped forward, taking off his helmet and brandishing a sword that had been daubed with gold paint.
‘I am Corin,’ he said unconvincingly.
‘Zargath had a great horde of evil creatures, but he was the evillest of them all,’ announced the Boy King. He was all but rubbing his hands together with glee. ‘Where are you, Zargath?’
A man stepped out of the group of trolls and goblins, wearing a long black robe and a false beard.
‘I am Zargath,’ he declared. He didn’t sound like a wicked wizard. In fact, he was trembling. Joseph looked back at the figure of Corin and saw that he was trembling too. He began to examine the warriors – the humans in silver and the trolls and goblins in black. All of them were trembling. What’s going on here?
‘Behold,’ squealed the Boy King, more excited than ever. ‘The two armies face each other.’
There was a hand on Joseph’s arm – Tabitha. She caught his eye and nodded towards something at the side of the cavern. Joseph followed her gaze and saw men in the Boy King’s livery – blue velvet adorned with golden crowns. They all held muskets and crossbows, raised and levelled at the stage. At the performers.
‘And now!’ The Boy King was practically screeching. ‘Here! Today! In this very hall! They will fight … for our entertainment!’
Thunderous applause from the diners. Pallione’s song came to an abrupt end and she turned to glare at the Boy King, the hatred clear in her eyes. Joseph saw that there was a musket levelled at her too.
‘What … ?’ said Tabitha. ‘What’s happening?’
‘LET BATTLE COMMENCE!’
Silence. The armies watched each other, but neither made a move. Pallione’s tail flicked and she turned her face away from the stage.
‘Please,’ said a lone voice. It was one of the humans in silver armour. ‘Please don’t make us—’
‘FIGHT!’ shrieked the Boy King. ‘FIIIIIGHT!’
There was a whirr and a hiss, and something thunked into the stage behind the trolls. Joseph looked up to see one of the crossbowmen reloading.
A weedy yell came from amongst the black-armoured group, and a goblin rushed forward, wielding a hand-axe. Others joined him, and then both armies were charging, and there was a clatter of metal as they met. The battle had begun.
‘Something’s wrong,’ said Tabitha. Her face was contorted with horror. ‘I don’t think … I mean, is this … ?’
‘It’s not a show,’ said Joseph. His voice came out strained and high. ‘It’s real.’
At the front of the stage, a goblin had got himself trapped between two humans. A sword swung at him, chopped heavily into his shield. If that had been his arm … thought Joseph, and shuddered. In shock, the goblin dropped the shield and his mace. He looked around for an escape route but there was only one. He leaped off the stage, racing towards the nearest guests.
Three separate musket shots rang out, and the goblin danced and fell, his helmet rolling away under the table. One of the guests picked it up, admiring it and showing it to his neighbour. The goblin lay silent and still. Blood pooled around the table leg.
Gradually, Joseph became aware of Tabitha speaking to him again.
‘We have to do something,’ she was hissing. ‘We have to stop this.’
There were several bodies now, half hidden among the melee. Some were propped up by the press of battle, others trampled underfoot. A human howled. It was a strange, gurgling sound that seemed scarcely human at all. Blood spattered the nearest diners, and they let out yelps of delighted surprise.
Think, Joseph! They had no weapons. Nothing. ‘I don’t know what to …’
He faltered to a halt. Because suddenly he did know. He knew exactly what to do. He took a deep breath and walked towards the Boy King. The one person who could stop the bloodshed.
‘Where are you going?’ Tabitha asked, but he knew that if he stopped to explain, she’d talk him out of it, or he’d lose his nerve.
The terror of the Marlinspike Quarter was perched on the edge of his seat, eyes as big as cannonballs, a stupid smile painted all over his face as he drank in the fighting and the killing. His golden costume glittered in the candlelight.
He always wears those stupid clothes, Slik had said. And he throws a fit if anyone touches them …
‘You,’ the boy yelled at a human, cornered by trolls swinging battle-axes. ‘You’re not trying. You’re supposed to be a hero, not a coward! You trolls, kill him! Teach him a lesson!’
The axes came down. The Boy King laughed, snatched a bunch of grapes and stuffed them into his mouth.
‘Your majesty,’ said Joseph, lifting up his decanter. ‘More blackwine?’
The boy turned, scowling at him. Then he grinned and offered up his crystal goblet.
Joseph began to pour the drink, and the Boy King watched greedily as his goblet was filled with wine. Joseph’s right hand shifted to the back of the decanter, raising it higher.
Now or never.
He let go. The decanter slipped forward through his grasp, hit the edge of the table and smashed. Glass scattered over plates, food and cutlery. Blackwine gushed everywhere.
The Boy King leaped to his feet as if he’d been stung by a hornet. Black liquid oozed through his golden jacket and breeches.
‘Stop!’ he screamed. ‘Stop the battle!’
Chapter Seventeen
SILENCE FELL.
Only the guests nearest the Boy King had seen Joseph drop the decanter. But it must have been obvious what had happened, because suddenly a nearby chair scraped, and someone had grabbed Joseph by the neck and was forcing him to the ground. He choked, flailing at his attacker, but someone else got hold of his arm and pinned it down. A pistol jabbed into his stomach, making him gasp. Someone sat on his legs. The man holding his
throat had a knife out now, the edge pushing into Joseph’s cheek, the point blurring as it hovered close to his eyes.
‘Sorry,’ he burbled. ‘Sorry.’ As if that would make any difference. His heart was beating wildly. What in all the Ebony Ocean had he been thinking? He’d wanted to stop the fight, yes. But get himself killed in the process? He’d been a complete bilge-brain. He screwed his eyes shut, wondering which bit of him would be first to feel the terrible pain that was surely coming. Would it be a blow from a fist? A boot? A blade?
But instead the Boy King’s voice rang out, loud and clear: ‘Don’t touch him! Let me through.’
Some of the pressure eased up on Joseph’s arm and legs. The blade moved away from his cheek. Cautiously he opened one eye.
The Boy King crouched over him, a peculiar expression on his face. The stain of blackwine had spread now, covering most of his jacket, as though he was bleeding.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Joseph. ‘I didn’t mean to—’
‘Shut your trap,’ said the boy, ‘you filthy, wretched, snivelling mongrel.’
There was a chorus of sniggers from the men who’d been holding Joseph down. It was curiosity on the boy’s face, Joseph realized. Mixed with a healthy dose of fury and disgust.
‘I’ve never seen a mongrel before. Take off your hood.’
Joseph did so.
‘You look funny,’ said the boy. ‘What’s wrong with your skin? It’s blotchy.’ He poked Joseph’s cheek, then flicked his pointed ear.
‘My, er, father was a goblin,’ said Joseph. ‘And my mother was a human.’
The Boy King frowned, thinking. At last his tiny eyes lit up, and a cruel smile spread across his lips.
‘What can you do?’ he asked.
‘I … um …’
‘Come on,’ said the boy, and he flicked Joseph’s other ear, harder this time. ‘Even a mongrel must be able to do something.’ He pinched the point of the ear and dragged Joseph to his feet, pulling him around the tables. Joseph stumbled along, trying not to trip and fall. Jeers and laughter followed him.
‘Clear the stage,’ bellowed the Boy King, and the armies clattered away, trooping off into the tunnel they had come from. Joseph was tugged up the wooden steps, wincing at the pain in his ear – and then the boy let go and put one arm around him instead. They were in the centre of the stage, looking out over the diners.
