‘We do not yet know,’ says Lord Mountfathom. ‘The fact is this – Major Fortflay knows, and he will want to take action. Is that correct, Flann?’
‘Yes,’ says Dorrick. ‘He has already made a speech to the Castle, saying that this intrusion is yet another ruthless act by the Land Grabbers. Says we must act quickly and decisively if we are to put a stop to them and their rebellion.’
‘We know what is next,’ says Lady Mountfathom. ‘He intends now to request more Magical powers from Westminster? From the Politomancer?’
‘Not without a vote,’ says Lord Mountfathom. ‘And not without the consent of the religious Orders on the Aran Islands and Skellig.’
Flann Dorrick tells them, ‘A vote which is to be held this very evening. And to which no member of the Driochta is to be invited or admitted.’
Luke and Lord and Lady Mountfathom look at one another.
‘Let us hope our discussions with the monks will stand us in good stead,’ says Lord Mountfathom.
‘They did seem sincere when they promised to stand up to any more Magical interference from across the water,’ says Lady Mountfathom.
‘Never trust anyone from the church,’ says Killian. Everyone looks at him. ‘That’s what my da used to say – sure they’re only out for themselves!’
Luke asks a question. ‘Has anyone heard from Lady Vane-Tempest?’
‘I received a message from Helena last night,’ says Dorrick. ‘She said she had traced the Cailleach who has been aiding the Land Grabbers – to the tenements in Dublin. Said she was going to make a discreet trip there to investigate. But since then, I have had no word of her. And I cannot reach her through the Gloaming.’
‘Discreet,’ repeats Lady Mountfathom, with a small shake of the head.
‘I know,’ says Dorrick. ‘That woman couldn’t be discreet if she tried!’
‘Flann,’ says Lord Mountfathom, ‘do we know what type of powers are being proposed by Fortflay?’
‘Rumours only,’ says Dorrick. ‘One in particular that I believe is a great worry – that the Politomancer from Whitehall intends to come here personally to oversee his Magic. That he is determined to keep the peace in Ireland using any Spell he deems necessary.’
More silence; much more thought.
Luke watches his parents and wonders what decision they will make. And isn’t surprised when his mother says, ‘We shall travel to Dublin. Flann, please continue to investigate. Find out what you can and we shall meet you at the Castle gates in time for this vote.’
Wordlessly and with only a nod, the face of Flann Dorrick vanishes from the mirror.
‘Go to Dublin?’ says Luke. ‘Is that wise?’
‘Not wise at all,’ says his mother, and already she has turned and is moving towards the door of the library. ‘But it is what we must do.’
‘I wish to go too,’ says Luke.
Lady Mountfathom looks at him.
‘I am sorry, son,’ she says. ‘This is simply too dangerous for –’
‘I am a member of the Driochta,’ says Luke. ‘I can’t just stay here in this House any more – it is no more safe here than anywhere else, that is what we’ve learned. Please – I can be of help.’
‘Well,’ says Killian, feeling he too should offer his services, ‘if he’s gonna go then so should I. I don’t know much about Magic or Spells, but I can turn my hand to most things.’
Lord and Lady Mountfathom look at one another; their resolve softens, relents. And Luke’s mother says, ‘Come along then! Quickly now! And let us hope that we make it to Dublin before the Ash-Dragons do.’
Know this: the Ruling State and the state of Magic never meet neatly.
No politician on this good earth has (good) enough sense to use a Spell.
A truism: those who seek power are those most ill suited to having it.
Magical Misdeeds
Flann Dorrick
LUKE
‘And where will you go, Father?’ asks Luke.
They stop at the bottom of the staircase leading to the second floor. Lord Mountfathom lays a hand on Killian’s shoulder and says, ‘My companion and I shall find Lady Vane-Tempest. Now, Killian, last night when you related to me your life story, you told me that you were brought up in the tenements of Dublin, did you not?’
‘I did and all,’ says Killian.
Luke knows he could say, That’s not what you told me! But doesn’t see what purpose it would serve at this moment, so keeps quiet.
‘Good,’ says Lord Mountfathom. ‘Then you shall be my guide.’
Killian looks more than a little stricken.
‘Or was it not true?’ Luke asks him. ‘Were you not raised in the tenements?’
‘I was!’ shouts Killian. But Luke knows that aggression is no guarantee of sincerity. And Luke watches more but he cannot read this boy. Is he telling the truth now or not? A worse thought: has Killian told these lies so many times he’s come to believe them himself?
‘Decided then,’ says Lord Mountfathom.
‘We shall need to be appropriately attired,’ says Lady Mountfathom, casting an eye over both boys.
‘Quite true,’ says Lord Mountfathom. ‘First things first – clothes.’
‘No,’ says Killian, ‘this is the first thing you should be thinking about: you haven’t a hope of getting into Dublin today.’ The Mountfathoms look at one another, and smile. ‘Dunno what you’re grinning about! You said this vote thing is at six o’clock this evening? You’ll never make it in time. Not a chance in hell!’
KILLIAN
Fools, he thinks. Bunch of fools! No idea what they’re getting themselves into, especially going into the tenements!
Up another flight of stairs and along a corridor with pale blue walls and tapestries showing ships riding high on the deep blue waves. And as they pass, Killian swears he sees the surface of the tapestries roll and ripple … Suddenly they stop before the only dark thing in sight: a wardrobe made of wood of blackest black.
‘Stand aside,’ says Lady Mountfathom. From her belt she takes the sharp pencil-length stick of metal that Killian has heard them call a ‘Needle’ and slips it into the small keyhole on the wardrobe … waits a moment … withdraws it. And the wardrobe doors ease open.
Lord and Lady Mountfathom and Luke step inside.
Killian watches the nearest tapestry: sees a whale breach the surface of the water and vanish with hardly a thread of a ripple. And he has to overcome all kinds of warning in his head – Too weird, all this! Should just leave now. Take your chance and turn around and run while you can! NOW, you fool!
This voice sounds very like his da. But somehow he ignores it – adventure trumps apprehension, does it not?
He steps inside.
Is suddenly inside a wardrobe, yes … but a wardrobe the size of a music hall! Rail after rail of coats, jackets, tailcoats, skirts, suits, dresses; steamer trunks spilling stilettos and boots and bags and scarves; vases stuffed with canes, umbrellas, parasols, all fashioned from ivory, mahogany, horn, paper … Killian walks on and sees crates of belts and braces, and hangers laden with hundreds of ties, and carved boxes containing cufflinks and bracelets and earrings …
He wonders, were these the things the man with the faded hair was thinking of robbing? Cos he would’ve found plenty of value to sell on in here!
‘Over here, young man!’
Killian hears the voice of Lady Mountfathom, sees her large, rough hand waving to him. He passes seamstress dummies wearing strings of pearls and tangles of chain and scalps scattered with hatpins … lets his head fall back to stare – higher and higher climb shelves, hardly reachable, crammed with hundreds of hats on hats on hats: trilby and top and bowler amidst heaps and tangles of false hair … stumbles into Luke and almost swears. Swallows it back and says, ‘Some place this!’
Lady Mountfathom is nearby, on her knees elbow-deep in a casket of Venetian masks. Lets out a sigh and says, ‘My goodness, we really must stop collecting.’
‘I agree,’ says Lord Mountfathom, close by, searching through a box of battered brogues. ‘I know our errands are oftentimes exotic but really’ (holds up a pair of boots, grey-green and with a sickly glisten to them) ‘when will circumstances ever call for thigh-high snakeskin boots?’
‘You never know,’ says his wife, standing up, smiling. ‘No more shilly-shallying now – let’s get ourselves kitted out!’
LUKE
‘Mother – what if this vote does go through?’
‘No sense fretting,’ says his mother, hands busy assessing and dismissing one suit after another. ‘Let us worry about changing ourselves into terribly impressive people!’
Luke asks, ‘Why?’
‘To intimidate,’ says Lady Mountfathom. ‘Show them we won’t be quelled! Clothes can be great armour, Luke. We shall send a message when we enter that Castle – so something in scarlet, I think.’
Luke doesn’t bother with protest. Feels funereal still, so would like to keep on the suit he has. But his mother –
‘Here now! This’ll do.’
Not scarlet but a dark crimson.
‘Quickly now and try it on,’ she says. ‘We don’t have much time. I shall find something to match – we shall look a mightily formidable pair!’
KILLIAN
Somewhere else in the vast wardrobe –
‘Too bloody heavy for me this! I’ll be sweltered!’
Lord Mountfathom says, ‘Not the weight of the thing that matters, as such, but the look of it.’
‘I’ll look like an idiot, is that the idea?’
‘No – you shall look as though you have the whole world on your shoulders, which is precisely what we want.’
So: Killian swamped by an army greatcoat. Sleeves too long, he thinks. And how will I be able to fight if I need to? You can’t throw a punch with so much stupid sleeve flopping around! And no one in the tenements even has a coat warm as this!
He thinks about telling Lord Mountfathom, but the man looks to be enjoying himself too much.
‘Oh, and this too – flat cap for you and one for me. We shall be well disguised, I believe. Very much incognito!’
Sad – this fella thinks this is all some jaunt. Some nice trip to the slums!
‘Ready?’ comes a call from Lady Mountfathom.
‘My dear, we are very much ready!’ Lord Mountfathom calls back.
No, thinks Killian, we’re not one bit ready! This fella doesn’t have a clue what he’s about to step into.
LUKE & KILLIAN
‘You know you look a right prat,’ says Killian. ‘A red suit and tie?’
‘I shall take that as a compliment,’ says Luke.
‘You look like a rotten tomato,’ says Killian.
‘You just look as though you’re rotting,’ says Luke. ‘And you smell like it too.’
‘Now now, boys!’ says Lady Mountfathom. ‘You’re beginning to sound like bickering brothers!’
LUKE
At the dark door, decisions.
‘We should go first,’ says Luke.
‘Agreed,’ says his mother, checking her watch. ‘If this damnable vote is at six then we have only one hour and a half to reach the Castle.’
‘I doubt the discussions will last long,’ says Lord Mountfathom.
‘Where will we enter?’ asks Luke. ‘Not somewhere close – don’t think Major Fortflay or the Gards would like us just turning up on the doorstep.’
‘Right again,’ says his mother. ‘But I know a place. Somewhere your father and I used to frequent. Should be quiet enough.’
She slots her crimson key into the lock. Holds it there. A few seconds, and the signalling sound: a high, squealing note. Key is withdrawn and Luke turns the handle shaped like a beckoning hand – somehow the Gloaming appears to him more forbidding than ever.
‘You going to keep those seashell earrings in for occasion?’ Lord Mountfathom asks his wife.
‘I could not leave them behind,’ says Lady Mountfathom. ‘They are my own special talismans.’
‘Good luck, my dear,’ says Luke’s father, and places a kiss on his wife’s cheek. ‘Be careful. I fear things will be much changed in Dublin.’
‘Likewise to you,’ she says, touching a hand to her husband’s cheek. ‘Safe journey and safe home.’
And Luke and his mother take two small steps into the Gloaming and vanish.
KILLIAN
‘Where the – ?’ (Can’t help it – has to swear.)
‘Ordinarily I would reprimand you for such language,’ says Lord Mountfathom. ‘However, seeing as this is your first time travelling through the Gloaming, I shall let it pass.’
‘Where did they go?’ asks Killian. ‘Why was it so dark in there? How did they – ?’
‘I shall explain a little on the way,’ says Lord Mountfathom, adding his own emerald key to the lock. Moments before another loud note – only this one to Killian sounds sad, mournful – and the key is withdrawn and the door opens to the same brand of blackness.
‘After you,’ says Mountfathom.
Killian waits. Not out of fear – not a bit! – but because he has to script the situation for himself: And so our courageous adventurer stands now on the brink of the unknown … What shall he do? Shall he retreat or shall he advance? And if he steps inside shall he survive?
What he does is take a breath, and with the faintest faint smile –
He steps so bravely onwards into the dark!
LUKE
So many times now, but still hollowness in the stomach and head an unsteady weight – Luke concentrates on the only light, the crimson glow in his mother’s hand. And always the sense of some other presence, same thing he felt at ten years old – something watching, awaiting …
His mother says faintly: Almost there.
Feels her hand take his.
And they arrive at their decided door and crimson light slots into dark – key unlocking a doorway far from Mountfathom as Luke and his mother step through.
His senses are too alert –
Smell: stench of stale alcohol.
Sound: scrape of his own footsoles and thump of his own blood.
Sight? So little to see. A darkness dispelled only in smudges – candles arranged on small circular tables casting globes of grubby light. Partitions of sepia-coloured glass, stools with cracked leather tops and brass studs.
A pub, Luke decides, that looks as though it hasn’t seen a patron for an age.
He swallows and his first question is hoarse: ‘Father and you used to come here?’
‘We did indeed,’ says Lady Mountfathom.
‘Has it gone downhill a bit since your day?’
‘Not at all – has the very same rustic charm as always!’
Summoned by the sound of voices, a small bald man appears behind the bar. He takes them in through a sharp squint, but it’s not long before he shouts, ‘Edith! How are you? God almighty, I haven’t seen you in years! How’re you? Is this the son? Grand-looking lad altogether! Now, what can I get for you? Drinks on the house!’
‘No time for a tipple,’ says Lady Mountfathom, trying a smile. ‘More’s the pity!’ Luke sees her slip two silver coins onto the bar. She asks, ‘How are things in Dublin these days, Ronnie? Any visits from the Gards?’
‘Nah, very quiet,’ says the barman. Some of his enthusiasm leaves him; folds his arms and leans against the bar. ‘Quieter today than ever – it’s that dark outside! Whole of Dublin shut down.’
Luke had taken it for dirt and grime – solitary window showing only a square of unforgiving black.
‘Is that so?’ says Luke’s mother. She leans likewise against the bar, gives Luke a little nod so he goes to investigate. Looks to him like a storm cloud has descended on the street outside, some darkness swirling against the pane to stain it.
‘How long has it been there?’ asks Lady Mountfathom.
‘Couple of hours,’ says Ronnie. ‘Some Spell or something?’
‘Nothing the
Driochta have set.’
‘Are you heading to the Castle?’ The barman starts to pull a pint. ‘Not exactly the day for it! Sure why not stay till this all blows away or blows over?’ Sips a bit of the pint himself with a smack of the lips. ‘I was gonna do a roast. Boil a few spuds and carrots. How about it?’
‘Another time,’ says Lady Mountfathom. ‘May we borrow one of your candles, Ronnie?’
‘Surely,’ says the barman with a small laugh. ‘Doubt it’ll get you far in that mess outside though!’
‘We shall see.’ Luke’s mother lifts a candle from the nearest table and stands it upright on the palm of her hand. Luke is about to suggest another candle, maybe one with a longer-looking lifespan. But his mother twitches her Needle above the flame and teases it into tallness. ‘Should be better than nothing,’ she says. ‘And we shall need a Spell of Enclosing for the journey too, I think?’
Luke nods, and starts to weave the Spell around them as his mother opens the door. The darkness stays outside, doesn’t try to cross the threshold.
‘The Shade,’ says Lady Mountfathom. She calls back, ‘All the best now, Ronnie! Look after yourself.’
And Luke and his mother leave the bar behind: step through another doorway, venture into another type of dark.
KILLIAN
Killian tries to describe the Gloaming to himself – imagines later telling somebody who will listen rapt. It was worse than any dark night, I tell you! And I didn’t know where I might end up. Just this posh fella and a key glowing green, that was all I had to go on … all I could see was –
Some sense of something close makes Killian turn. Makes him stop and his heart shudder: he knows well the feeling of being followed and feels it now, as though he is being stalked.
You are doing very well, he hears Lord Mountfathom say. Keep going – concentrate only on the destination. I need you to lead me.
What? asks Killian, eyes still searching the dark. Why?
We need a safe place to enter the tenements, says Mountfathom. Somewhere deserted maybe. Any ideas?
Killian has only one: Aye, I know a place.
The House of Mountfathom Page 17
