Modern Magick 5

by Charlotte E. English

  How’s that for priorities.

  ‘And he will,’ said Alban, and opened the door.

  I did not feel prepared, but we were going in. I had time only for a deep breath before I followed the Baron’s broad back into a room far too big to deserve the name “parlour”. You could have held a feast for thirty people in there. The topaz part was fair enough, though, for pale blue jewels sparkled everywhere: among the floral frieze that ran around the walls, highlighting the patterns embedded in the elaborate plaster ceiling, and glittering from an array of antiques upon the mantelpiece. The walls were painted an exquisite pale jade, matching the silk-and-velvet furniture upholstered in a slightly darker hue.

  Amidst all this splendour sat Their Majesties.

  Queen Ysurra was a large woman, with the stout figure of a person of sedentary pursuits. Where Baron Alban’s skin had a faint bluish cast, hers tended more towards the pale green, as though she, too, had been made to match the room. No court regalia at home; she wore loose silk trousers and a flowing shirt, though the semi-casual effect was somewhat belied by the golden coronet sparkling in her white hair.

  King Naldran was a golden creature, his frame still muscular, though his hair was as white as his wife’s. He was wearing a dressing gown. An elegant silk confection, to be sure, with ornate braiding and a sumptuous wine-red colour, but it was nonetheless a dressing gown. Oddly, this informality reassured me. We were there for a chat, not an inquisition.

  Baron Alban bowed, a little perfunctorily. So did Jay, less so. I gave them my best Milady curtsey.

  ‘Ma’am,’ said Alban. ‘Sir. Cordelia Vesper, and Jay Patel.’

  If you’ve never been scrutinised by royalty, let me tell you: it is a disconcerting experience. Their Majesties said nothing for rather too long, surveying the pair of us as though they could read our every thought if they only looked hard enough at our faces. For all I knew, perhaps they could.

  I tried to think innocent thoughts.

  Having considered our attire, Jay’s height and my lack thereof, and whatever else they gleaned about us from the staring party, they finally deigned to speak.

  ‘Welcome,’ said the queen. ‘Thank you for accepting our invitation.’

  It had been too official, and perhaps too peremptory, to figure fairly as a mere invitation; it had barely stopped short of a royal summons, perhaps only because we were not technically obliged to obey any such order. But it was a comfortable fiction.

  ‘It is our honour,’ I replied, recognising a cue for obsequiousness when I saw one.

  Queen Ysurra smiled faintly.

  ‘We wished to extend our personal thanks for your services to our people,’ said King Naldran, entirely formal in demeanour despite the dressing-gown. Perhaps he had forgotten he was wearing it.

  ‘That was our pleasure,’ said Jay, really getting the hang of the royal interview thing.

  ‘We have need of such bright, active people,’ said Ysurra, putting me on my guard. Plebeians flattered the monarchy, not the other way around. Not unless they really, really wanted us for something. And why would they? Mandridore must have been full of clever, efficient folk, perfectly suited for all kinds of shenanigans and chicanery.

  The queen glided smoothly on. ‘We were most interested to hear of your recent travels abroad, and attendant discoveries. Five Britains at least! What a marvel. And such a Britain, the fifth. It opens up such prospects.’

  Aha. They wanted something from Melmidoc’s precious, magick-drenched kingdom. Not altogether a surprise. ‘It was one of our more entertaining adventures,’ I allowed.

  ‘Do you have plans to return?’

  What a question. ‘Plans, no,’ I admitted. ‘It is not so easy to travel back and forth between Britains. But hopes… oh, absolutely.’

  Queen Ysurra smiled. ‘Then perhaps you will be interested in our proposition.’

  All right, time to get serious. ‘We would be delighted to hear it.’

  ‘We would like to send a delegation into this Fifth Britain,’ said the queen. ‘It ought, by preference, to consist primarily of those who are best informed, and suitably equipped, to manage both the journey and the assignment with ease.’

  I assumed an expression of polite interest.

  Queen Ysurra paused, and I thought I detected a hint of uncertainty. She looked at her husband.

  King Naldran cleared his throat. ‘Few have set foot in this other Britain. Still fewer have ventured into lost Farringale, and know what fate befell it long ago. Is it chance, that there are three in this room who have done both?’

  Jay said, his voice a little strained: ‘You want us to go back to Farringale.’

  The king sat forward. ‘Can you imagine what it was like, to lose a place like Farringale? Not the Court. Grandeur may be rebuilt, new palaces raised; all that was lost there was bricks and stones and memories. But the history is irreplaceable. The knowledge. The books. All that was there seen and done, all that was discovered and recorded — all lost. And forever. If magick is fading from these shores, the loss of Farringale hastened its demise.

  ‘But now you bring us hope. If there is another, stronger Britain, where magick and its practitioners have lived openly down the years, and enjoyed the freedom to practice and research as they wished, then we must expect they are far more knowledgeable than we. Perhaps they can help us.’

  ‘Just what exactly are you hoping for help with?’ I asked, that foreboding feeling flickering to life again.

  ‘We want,’ said Queen Ysurra, ‘to bring back Farringale.’

  3

  ‘Your Farringale?’ I squeaked. ‘The eaten-by-ortherex one?’

  Her lips twitched. ‘The very one.’

  Right. I needed a moment.

  See, visiting Farringale was an eye-opening experience. We went there looking for a cure to a disease that was decimating the surviving Troll Enclaves at the time. We found another disease, or more rightly an infestation of all-devouring parasites known as the ortherex. They had, in effect, eaten the population of Farringale alive.

  The buildings were still there; the city still stood. But it was an empty shell — one swarmed over by trillions of the repulsive things.

  I reminded myself that we were not being asked to revive Farringale ourselves, only to find the means to do so.

  ‘So,’ I said, having exchanged a look with Jay. ‘You are hoping that someone on the Fifth Britain knows how to get rid of these ortherex beasties.’

  ‘That is our hope,’ said Naldran. ‘Our good Alban has already consented to undertake the search. Will you oblige us by joining him?’

  ‘Forgive me,’ I said, ‘but surely you have people enough for such a task. Why employ us?’

  ‘Because,’ said the king, and paused. ‘Because you seem to have a way with these things.’

  I could sort of see his point. It was actually Jay who ended up finding the Fifth first, because he had somehow secured the affections of a perambulatory haunted house. And off she had taken him. I’d found him later, by a separate route. We’d learned a lot about the Britains, and subsequently made it home again — avoiding the memory-wiping enchantment that most of our colleagues (and enemies, among Ancestria Magicka) had been subjected to.

  We did have a way of landing on our feet.

  What’s more, Melmidoc Redclover might even consent to talk to us, and he was the man — sorry, the spriggan — who seemed to know everything.

  I looked at Jay again, who stared back, clearly trying to convey something with his eyes.

  I had no idea what it was.

  ‘May we have a moment to confer?’ I said.

  Queen Ysurra inclined her head, exquisitely gracious. ‘Please.’

  It seemed rude to just walk out, so Jay and I withdrew to a corner.

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes? Just yes? No ifs, buts, doubts or worries?’

  ‘I have some of all of the above, but so what?’ />
  I blinked at him. ‘Are you really Jay?’

  ‘Every inch of me.’

  I stared.

  ‘Okay, okay. I know we are probably not supposed to go anywhere near the Fifth again. I know that the Ministry would be unhappy with us if they found out. I know there are risks, and rules. But I want to go back. I always wanted to go back.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Okay then.’

  So that was that. We returned to Their Majesties, and the irritatingly smirking Baron (yes, fine, Alban, I know our answer was entirely predictable), and gave them to understand that we would be eighty shades of delighted to accept their proposal.

  Queen Ysurra actually smiled, a real one. ‘How wonderful. If it is agreeable to you, you shall leave in the morning.’

  Jay held up a hand. ‘Moment. How are we to get there?’

  ‘Is your previous means of travel unavailable?’

  ‘I am not sure. Millie isn’t strong, and she needed a couple of days to recover after the last time.’

  ‘It is our hope that she can be persuaded to convey the three of you back to the Fifth. If this does not prove to be the case, then an alternative shall be found for you.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Alban has been given a purse of gold for any and all expenses you will naturally incur on this journey,’ said the queen. ‘I shall further add that we shall be happy to shield you from any… unhappy consequences.’

  ‘As we have already done, on your behalf,’ put in the king, referring of course to their having hauled the Ministry’s dogs off our backs only a day or two before.

  Nice. A reminder that we were already somewhat in their debt — as if we weren’t eager enough to go as it was. ‘Thanks,’ I said, unable to resist the temptation to be a trifle tart.

  The Baron tried to smother a laugh, and choked.

  ‘In the meantime,’ said the queen, shooting an indecipherable look at her co-monarch, ‘the freedom of the Court is yours. In an hour’s time we shall appear in state, as is our custom, and the Court will dine. You are welcome to attend.’

  The Baron gave me a discreet thumbs-up: say yes.

  ‘We’d love to,’ I said, needing no prompting whatsoever. An evening of splendour and feasting, at the High Court of the Trolls? They would have the best cooks in the world. A girl would be mad to refuse.

  ‘Then we adjourn,’ said the queen, and rose, creaking slightly, from her throne-like chair. ‘It is unlikely we will have leisure to confer any further this evening, but any questions that arise may be put to my secretary. He has been instructed to hold himself at your disposal.’

  ‘Thank you,’ we said, and set about the business of suitably polite withdrawal.

  But the king stopped us. ‘One more thing. Perhaps it need not be said, but this is an assignment of the utmost secrecy. We would beg you to keep the matter entirely to yourselves.’

  I couldn’t even tell Val? How unfair! But one could only promise, which we duly did. He is, after all, the king.

  After that we were permitted to exit. We gathered in a knot in the hall, Jay and I buzzing with excitement, the Baron all cool composure as usual.

  ‘I,’ I said in sudden, horrified realisation, ‘have nothing to wear to a state banquet.’

  ‘I have… something?’ said Jay. ‘I think?’

  ‘You think?’ echoed the Baron. ‘If you are not sure, then it most certainly will not do. I shall have to come to your joint rescue.’

  I beamed at him. Jay might have scowled. ‘The best dress ever?’ I said, breathless with hope.

  ‘The best, Ves.’

  ‘I might love you a bit.’

  His lovely green eyes twinkled down at me. ‘Let’s hope so.’

  And so it was that we were introduced to one of the odder quirks of the Court of Mandridore.

  One hour later: what was I wearing? It was not the swishy, silky designer dress of my dreams. Let’s get that out in the open right away.

  Instead of an airy dress of fairy-light gossamer, covered in stars and smelling of roses, I was wearing about half my own bodyweight in fabric. Pale gold silk tissue, to be exact. I had a gown with a long bodice and low waist; enormous, glossy sleeves; a skirt so voluminous, I could’ve made a pair of sails from the fabric; and delicate lace all around the wide, rather low-cut neckline. My hair was arranged in a thousand ringlets and I had pearls at my throat. I looked like Suzanna Huygens in the Netscher portrait, only rather golder.

  Jay had a spectacular cobalt-blue waistcoat covered with embroidery; an even more spectacular coat of pale velvet; knee-breeches and stockings, heeled shoes, and a frothy cravat. Mercifully he had been spared the wig.

  See, the loss of Farringale seems to have sunk deeply into the consciousness of the trolls, at least at the new (relatively speaking) Royal Court. And in honour of what was lost, it is customary for everyone to dress like it’s still about 1657. I didn’t dare ask if they did this all the time.

  Accustomed as we are to the freedoms of modern dress, it’s no easy matter to step into the fashions of centuries ago. I felt like a ship in full sail, and approximately as unwieldy. But my desire to punch the Baron somewhere painful soon faded, for once I had got used to the sheer volume of my attire (and the weight of it — oof), I began to enjoy it. There is an unabashed frivolity about long-ago Court dress that’s rather lacking from modern life. Just look at eighteenth-century hair, if you want an example. In what other era could you have hair three feet high, draped in lace and pearls and crowned with an entire (albeit miniature) sailing ship?

  By the time Baron Alban joined us in the hall of the king and queen’s mansion, I’d begun to feel quite the princess. He, of course, looked positively princely in crimson velvet, and he’d gone all in on the ribbons.

  ‘You both look perfect,’ he informed us.

  Jay favoured him with a measured, deeply unimpressed look.

  I favoured him with a curtsey. A skirt like that just begs to be gracefully swished as one sinks elegantly into courtly obeisance. (Was I enjoying this a bit too much?)

  Alban grinned at me. ‘You’re a natural. Come on, or we’ll be late.’

  Outside the mansion, there was no sign of Alban’s car. Instead, a pair of coaches had drawn up. They had been plucked straight from a fairy tale, I’d swear it: pale, pretty contraptions, ornately decorated, with sparkling windows and blue velvet inside. Naturally, there were no horses. These were the magickal kind of conveyance.

  ‘No pumpkin coach?’ I said to the Baron as he led us to the second of the two. He did not open the door for us himself, as there was a liveried footman to do that. Actually, there were four.

  ‘I tried, but there was a run on them at the last minute and I had to make do with these.’

  I shook my head sadly as I got into the coach (utterly gracelessly. I’m not used to being four feet wide from the hip down, and about twice my usual body weight). ‘Everyone expects the pumpkin coach treatment these days.’

  ‘I blame Disney. Watch your skirt.’ I duly whisked my silken skirts aside as a po-faced footman carefully closed the door on me. Jay joined me on the squishy velvet seat, not nearly so encumbered by his finery as I was by mine. I reflected, not for the first time, on the utter unfairness of historical fashions.

  The Baron sat opposite us. ‘Now we wait for Their Majesties,’ he said, glancing out of the window.

  ‘We’re to arrive with them?’

  ‘No. We’re to arrive a respectful distance behind them.’

  This was better, but not by much. Nor did it make much sense. How were we important enough for such a sign of high favour? They couldn’t be that anxious to please us. If we failed at our appointed task, they had a whole Court full of people who’d fall all over themselves to perform any task Their Majesties might set. Surely some of them had the tools to succeed.

  I set this puzzle aside for a little later, for once Their Gracious Majesties had been loaded into their own conveyance and trundled off, our
coach began to roll, and I devoted my thoughts to mental preparation for the event that lay ahead.

  Uppermost among my reflections: Don’t trip on your skirts when you go in, Ves. Just don’t.

  4

  I didn’t, though Jay tried his level best to do so. We went in together, about two and a half minutes after the king and queen had joined their adoring subjects. Apparently Jay wasn’t used to my being four feet wide at the ankles, either, for his foot became tangled in reams of silk and we almost toppled over together.

  ‘Oops,’ he said, which about covered it.

  I waited while he disentangled himself from my dress. ‘I’m a public hazard in this thing.’

  ‘I can’t think how there weren’t more fatal accidents at the Old Court.’

  Let me back up a moment. Their Majesties’ private mansion, however fine, had nothing on the real heart of Mandridore: the royal palace. A mere seven or eight minutes in the coach was sufficient to convey us to this spectacular building, and as we waited behind the king and queen’s coach I had ample time to get an eyeful of it.

  Think Buckingham Palace. Then mentally increase it to about three times the size — not just in width or surface area but in height, too. Unsurprisingly, considering our costumes, the palace was resplendent in the architectural styles of the late sixteen hundreds: square, imposing, symmetrical, and ornate, with arches and pilasters and a splendid cupola.

  But there were differences between the palace and the generality of seventeenth-century country house style, chief among them being the minor fact that the entire thing was built out of starstone.

  Every last bloody inch of it.

  Under the soft light of a rising moon, it positively wallowed in that lovely twilight-blue radiance and I felt sick with something like longing.

  Unsure why. Living in a humongous, shiny-blue palace would have its moments, no doubt about that, but it would also get old. Footmen everywhere. Always having to dress for dinner; no slouching about in my old comfies with my hair in a mess. That horrible, echoing sense of loneliness that comes from rattling around in far too much space.