I left them chatting cosily together, or so I hoped. Knowing Val, it would soon turn into an interrogation.
My next plan was to hustle back up to Milady’s tower to relay Mauf’s findings — and to see if the guide she had mentioned was here yet. I wanted to be on the road already, for little good ever comes of delaying something important. The sooner we talked to the spriggans of Dappledok, the better.
But I was distracted — twice.
I was halfway up the main stairs when I heard Miranda’s voice calling me. I turned back. She had just come through the great doors leading into the east wing and was hastening towards me, her blonde hair half out of its ponytail as usual and a besmeared white coat over her jumper and jeans. A little dog trotted at her heels, and in spite of everything it still took me a moment to recognise my pup.
‘What do you think?’ said Mir, a bit breathlessly, as she came up to me.
I gazed at the pup. Instead of gold, her fur was now chocolate brown dappled liberally with purple, and there was no trace of the little horn that had adorned her forehead. She now had two horns instead, slightly thicker ones, nestled behind each of her pointed ears. Her nose had shrunk, and turned to an unobtrusive black colour.
In other words, she was a gorhound.
‘Wow,’ I said intelligently. ‘That’s amazing.’
Miranda nodded. ‘They’re good, aren’t they?’ she said, presumably referring to whichever of our illusionists had worked on the pup.
‘Amazing,’ I said again. So amazing, in fact, that for a brief, wild moment I wondered whether some switcheroo hadn’t been performed, and the tiny Goldnose wasn’t now languishing in some hidden nook in the east wing while I was fobbed off with a different creature altogether.
I squashed those ideas very quickly. What reason did I have to distrust Mir? None whatsoever. The illusionists really were that good, that was all.
When the gorhound puppy trotted up to me and rubbed herself all over my leg, my doubts vanished altogether. ‘Hi, pup,’ I said, and bent to pat her.
‘Pup?’ said Miranda. ‘Doesn’t she have a name?’
I know I have been referring to her as my pup for a while now, but I knew full well that she was no such thing. She was under my care for a little while, that was all, and if she had taken an obvious shine to me, well — what did that matter? No one was going to leave so rare, so valuable and so, er, illegal a beast with me for very long.
So I had not had the presumption to name her. It seemed wiser, somehow. If I did not name her, maybe I could refrain from getting too attached to her.
Hah.
‘Pup works just fine,’ I said, declining to explain all of this to Miranda.
I think she understood anyway, though, for she gave me a smile of unexpected sympathy and said, ‘Perhaps it does, at that.’
It occurred to me that Miranda had probably been in the same situation over and over again. How many beasts had she bred and raised herself, or rescued and tenderly restored to health, only to have to relinquish them into someone else’s possession? Or back into the wild? She would grow used to it, I supposed — to a degree. Her attachment to animals of all kinds was legendary at Home, after all.
Miranda gave me a salute and dashed off again, leaving the pup trailing around at my heels. We barely managed to climb four stairs between us that time before I heard the double doors of the front hall swing ponderously open, admitting a blaze of sunshine from outside. I say heard because they open with a groaning noise indicative of rusted hinges. They don’t have rusted hinges, of course; the House is far too well-maintained to permit of that. But no amount of persuasion, oil-based or otherwise, can convince the doors to stop announcing each new visitor with some unpromising noise or another. I’ve long since concluded that House does it on purpose. If any building could be supposed to have a sense of humour, it would be ours.
Anyway, when the doors groan like that — or squeal, or cackle, choke — it means someone of note has arrived, so I stopped and went back down the stairs yet again.
I might have been planning to go forward to meet whoever it was, but I swiftly revised all ideas of that kind and stayed firmly put. One judges it prudent, you know, with some visitors.
This one was most definitely of that kind. He was so tall, he had to stoop a long way to fit through the enormous doors, and he did not appear to find that an amusing process at all. He made it into the hall with some effort and stood, his short white hair brushing the high ceiling, looking down upon us puny humans with eyes the size of dinner plates.
All right, maybe not dinner plates. Afternoon tea plates, though, for certain. You could easily eat scones off those bright blue eyeballs.
He wore a long robe of blue cloth embroidered in gold, a white coat over the top, and (more puzzlingly, considering the weather) a pair of blue gloves. In other words, he made not the smallest effort to look like he belonged in any part of the modern world — but then, why should he? He was the size of about six humans put together.
‘Giant,’ I said faintly.
‘So I see,’ said Jay from behind me, startling me, for I had not noticed his approach. ‘Do we often get giants stopping by?’
I had to think for a minute before I could remember the last time. At least five years ago. ‘Nope,’ I said succinctly.
‘Right, then.’
The giant gave a long, windy sigh and said in lugubrious tones, ‘Why must the doors always be so small?’
I pondered that. House is perfectly capable of adjusting proportions at need — be it of windows, chairs, or, indeed, doors. That it had not chosen to do so — and, further, that it had chosen to announce the arrival of this giant with so peculiarly unattractive a groaning noise — suggested to me that House did not altogether approve of our visitor.
Interesting.
Jay and I were not the only Society employs standing, frozen with surprise, in the hall. The giant surveyed the lot of us one by one, and when nobody spoke, he said: ‘I am here to see Milady.’
There was no conceivable way he was going to fit in Milady’s tower.
‘Er,’ said Jay in an undertone. ‘That’s going to be interesting.’
But of course, Milady had anticipated this. ‘Welcome, Lord Garrogin,’ she suddenly said from somewhere disconcertingly close to my head. ‘We have been looking forward to your arrival.’
This, too, was unusual, and I could only answer Jay’s questioning stare with a shrug. Yes, it was also a long time since Milady had been known to manifest (sort of) anywhere other than her tower. Yes, that probably meant nothing good either.
What can you do.
‘Wonder if he’s our guide or the Truthseeker?’ whispered Jay.
‘The latter,’ I said instantly, and hoped I was right. Spriggans are not very tall. I collected that our guide was meant to be someone the spriggan courts might feel more comfortable associating with than a couple of humans, and I couldn’t imagine their welcoming the arrival of so vast a being as Lord Garrogin in any such spirit.
I was swiftly proved right, for Milady’s voice crisply announced: ‘Consultations will shortly begin. Cordelia Vesper and Jay Patel to the Audience Chamber, please.’
That’s Milady for you. For one thing, “Convention Chamber” is far too modern a term for her. She prefers “Audience Chamber,” as though those summoned were to be presented to some manner of monarch. For another, “consultations” sounds so much nicer than “inquisition”, doesn’t it?
‘Why are we first?’ whispered Jay to me as we dutifully headed for the Chamber of Gorgeousness.
‘Probably because we’re supposed to be on our way to Sprigganland already.’
‘If our guide’s here.’
‘He or she probably is, or they’re imminently expected. Milady doesn’t waste time.’
‘As evidenced by the prompt appearance of Lord Garrogin, Giant, from Parts Unknown.’
‘Precisely.’
Lord Garrogin was nowhere in evidence when
we arrived at the Audience/Convention Chamber. Milady had probably taken him off for an initial briefing, and was overseeing the pouring of hot chocolate down his gargantuan throat at that very moment. The enormous Inquisition Room (as I would now have to think of it) was echoingly empty, though I was heartened to see that refreshments had been provided: the long, crystalline table running down the centre of the marble-floored hall was absolutely smothered in the refined sorts of dishes that come with polished silver covers. I knew they had tasty things inside them because the air was filled with an enticing medley of aromas.
This circumstance puzzled more than pleased Jay, however. ‘That seems… excessive,’ he said, nodding his chin at the laden table.
‘This is Milady, remember.’
‘And?’
I pulled out a velvet-cushioned chair at the bottom of the table and sat on it. ‘Well,’ I said, stretching. ‘There are probably two reasons for it. For one, Milady’s really very kind-hearted. I suppose she cannot predict how long each interview will take, and she would hate for us to get hungry while we suffer Lord Garrogin’s interrogation.’
Jay sat down next to me. ‘Hence enough food for about two hundred people. I suppose the dishes keep everything warm?’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘All right. And what’s the other reason?’
‘Milady is almost as devious as she is kind. Well-fed people are comfortable people, and food puts almost everyone at their ease. The comfier you are, the less guarded you are, and that is probably going to make his lordship’s job a bit easier.’
‘Remind me never to underestimate Milady.’
‘Everyone underestimates Milady.’
Jay chewed his lip. ‘But doesn’t interrogation make for uneasy people anyway?’
‘Depends how good Lord Garrogin is.’
The heavy thud of approaching footsteps announced the arrival of our interrogator, and I wondered whether we ought to stand up. I decided not to.
Jay didn’t. And if he was going to politely get to his feet then that sort of meant I had to, as well. I stifled a sigh as I hauled my bones out of the chair again, and watched Lord Garrogin’s ponderous approach with, despite my sanguine words, a faint flicker of apprehension. He did make an imposing appearance, no doubt about that. And hadn’t I just said that Milady was devious? She had told Jay and me that we were not under suspicion, but that, too, might have been a ploy to put us at our ease.
I wondered distantly when I had become so fretful, and banished those thoughts. Time to focus.
‘My lord,’ I said as Garrogin reached us.
He nodded to us both, and made his slow way to the head of the table. The chair there was no larger than the ones Jay and I had been sitting in, but that did not last. As the giant approached, the chair twitched and swelled to four times its former size, and it wasn’t finished at that. Formerly a sleek, armless dining chair of some silver-coloured wood, it thickened and stretched until its silvery frame bore more of a throne-like appearance, complete with tall arm rests. Its blueish cushions became a rich purple just shy of royal in tone, and it even developed some kind of diamond jewel at the top of its arched back.
House had been Spoken To, I guessed. His Lordship was evidently to be pampered, and Milady had insisted. If there was a touch of the satirical about the excesses of that throne, who was I to judge?
Lord Garrogin — was he in fact some kind of minor princeling, out in giant territory? He could be, I supposed, and that would explain the throne — Lord Garrogin sat down, and the majestic chair bore his weight without a whimper. He sat for a moment looking thoughtfully at us.
Jay and I stared back.
6
‘Please have a seat,’ the giant finally said. ‘Covers, please.’
This last made no sense to me whatsoever, but before I could ask for an explanation, two of the silver dishes shivered and spat their covers into the air, where they promptly vanished. The two dishes hastened to set themselves before us, and I noted with approval (but not much surprise) that mine contained three items: a piece of carrot cake, a custard slice, and a cup of chocolate. Three of my very favourite things.
I peeked at Jay’s: it had a fat samosa, a plate of chips, and a cup of tea… no, the contents of the little cup were far too dark for tea.
‘Since when are you a coffee drinker?’ I whispered to him.
He shot me a vaguely guilty look. ‘I like tea as well,’ he said defensively.
‘Traitor.’
He flicked a chip at me.
We had ended up seated within easy talking distance of Lord Garrogin, but not so close that I could see what his dishes were. I was disappointed. Food is a bit of an interest of mine — big surprise, right? — and I was curious about what kinds of things giants might like to eat.
‘Cordelia Vesper,’ said Garrogin. ‘And Jay Patel. I understand you work together?’
‘As of a few weeks ago,’ I confirmed, picking up the shiny silver fork that came with my plate and tucking into the cake. ‘He’s our new Waymaster, and I am training him to join the Acquisitions Division.’
‘Tell me about Acquisitions,’ said Garrogin. He had a deep, soothing voice, and I genuinely did feel calmed by it. The flutter of nerves in my belly dissipated.
‘Well, we are the — the public arm of the Society, I suppose,’ I said. ‘We track down and retrieve artefacts, treasures, trinkets and curiosities, books, beasts, talismans — anything really — that might be under threat, and make sure they get where they need to go. Sometimes that’s here, sometimes elsewhere.’
‘We fix problems, too,’ Jay said. ‘It’s not just retrieval. On my first assignment with Ves, we went after a pair of stolen alikats and discovered a disease infesting half the dormant Troll Enclaves in the country. Took a bit to resolve that one.’
‘And how did you resolve it?’ said Garrogin, in the same even tone.
‘In the end, we had to go all the way to Farringale,’ said Jay, dipping a chip in ketchup.
That prompted a small reaction from our giant interrogator. ‘You entered Farringale? What did you do there?’
So we told him that story, and that got us onto the tale of Bill the Book. By the time we had finished telling him about all of that, my cakes and chocolate were gone, and Jay had wiped his plate clean of chips, ketchup and samosas alike.
Garrogin hadn’t touched his dishes at all.
‘You have had a lively time of it,’ he observed.
‘It’s never a dull job,’ I agreed. ‘Though to be fair, it’s not usually quite that exciting.’
Lord Garrogin nodded thoughtfully, and at last — at last — he selected some small morsel of something from his plate and consumed it with ponderous slowness. ‘What drew you to the Society?’ he asked, looking at Jay.
The question came a bit out of the blue, so I could not blame Jay for looking a trifle startled. But he answered quickly. ‘It’s legendary, for one thing. Everyone here is really committed to the preservation of our magickal heritage, and… well, without Milady and her recruits, we’d have lost a lot of irreplaceable things by now. That’s more important to me than anything. And then my parents both worked here, before I was born. They always had great stories to tell. I never really wanted anything else.’
That interested me, for I’d never heard that Jay’s mother and father had been employees here. But Garrogin did not seem disposed to follow up that line of enquiry. Instead he said, with probably deceptive blandness, ‘Not even for a much higher salary?’
‘The Society pays as much as I need,’ said Jay.
Garrogin nodded, and turned his sharp blue gaze upon me. ‘And why do you stay, Cordelia?’
‘It’s Ves,’ I said. ‘Cordelia makes me feel like a porcelain doll. I stay for all the reasons Jay just said. There is nothing more important I could do with my time and my skills, is there? And I love the variety, the challenge… no two days are ever the same. I once regretted not being assigned to the Library, but mu
ch as I love books and research, I’d probably be getting bored by now.’
Lord Garrogin’s eyes narrowed the merest fraction, and my stomach tightened. What had I said to prompt that reaction? But the expression faded, and he actually smiled at us both. Not much, but there was a definite curving of his lips. ‘Thank you,’ he said, in a tone of dismissal. ‘It has been an enlightening conversation.’
He did not appear in any way displeased, so I tried not to conclude that this comment boded ill, and got up from my chair. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you,’ I said politely.
He inclined his head to us both. ‘We will meet again.’
Would we? That definitely sounded ominous.
Jay and I exchanged identical looks of mild concern, and beat a hasty retreat.
The “consultations” went on all day, but there was no news to be had as to how they were progressing. Jay and I wandered listlessly about the common room for a while, and when neither word nor orders arrived, we decided to arrange our own entertainment.
Extra equipment required: one Valerie, one Mauf, one Library of Dreams.
Objective: find out more about the Dappledok Dell, the spriggan courts, and anything else that seemed pertinent.
We arrived at Val’s enormous desk to find her getting very cosy with Mauf.
She had the book laid before her on a thick cushion, unopened. Mauf’s cover was glinting with light again; I was rapidly learning that this was a sign of interest with him, perhaps even excitement. Val had a notepad beside her and a pen in one hand, and she was furiously writing notes, one finger tapping frenetically upon Mauf’s gorgeous leather cover.
She looked up when Jay and I walked in. ‘This is amazing,’ she said. ‘The library has nothing about any of this. Nothing.’
‘The Dappledok beasts?’ I asked, pulling up a chair. Sitting on the audience side of Valerie’s desk always feels odd. Val’s chair is handsome, and elevated on a slight pedestal besides, so she’s very much looking down on anybody seated on the other side. Valerie herself can be a touch imposing, too — not that she isn’t friendly, of course. But she’s a tall, majestic sort of woman with perfect posture and incredibly well-groomed hair, and while she’s always been a staunch friend to me, some part of her manner can sometimes feel a bit… brisk, shall we say? It feels a bit like taking a meeting with the approachable but mildly awe-inspiring CEO of some vast, important company.
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