"I think that's enough of your stories, cock," she said.
Willy was too inebriated to notice the gleam in the old woman's eye. "Oh, I was just comin' to the best bit!"
And then the bit of his brain dedicated to self-preservation hauled itself out of bed and gave his hypothalamus a good kicking. He almost fell off his bar stool in his haste to get away.
Silence fell as all eyes turned to Gramma.
"I were enjoying that story," said an old codger.
Gramma looked up at him. "Well, I don't know any stories I'd want to tell the likes of you."
"Do you know any songs?"
"Hundreds," Gramma responded. This was not entirely true - Gramma knew the first couple of lines of almost every song she'd ever heard, but there was only one she knew from start to finish, not that she entirely understood the words.
"Go on then."
The old woman stood, with her hands behind her back, as the hubbub quietened down. Fortunately, she'd had a couple of pints of stocky by this point, so she had just the courage to begin, in a wavering voice, before finding her confidence as the words flowed.
"What's that groaning in the parlour?
Why's that Willy on the floor?
Oh it's only Mary Anne with his cangle in her 'and
She blew it out and Willy cried for more."
There was a fascinated, disbelieving, silence as Gramma sidled back to her bench.
"Well," said the voice of Jessie Hemlock, "that certainly did the trick, no-one's goin' to remember that for years to come are they? The little old lady with the potty mouth. Proper inconspicuous you are."
"Don't be so sarky. Pa taught me that story, he used to love me singing it, it brought a twinkle to 'is eye."
“I don’t doubt it,” Mother Hemlock said as Willy Clitheroe slumped onto the bench next to Gramma. Jessie held her breath reflexively but there was no need as the former stench doctor smelt no worse than any of the other beer soaked, nicotine stained denizens of the pub.
“Anyway, what are you doin’ ‘ere?” Gramma said, leaning in close and squinting conspiratorially.
Mother Hemlock glanced around the room, paying particular attention to the occupants of the tables to either side, but none seemed to be listening and, after all, the noise level in the pub had recovered to pre-bawdy song levels. “We’re on the run. It seems there’s a witch hunt goin’ on.”
Gramma nodded. “There were a weird lickle oik round my place with two big gorillas. I weren’t worried about them, they ‘ad less wits than our Badger ‘ere…”
Badger gave the old girl a withering look from beneath the table which had about as much impact as a fart in a garlic shop.
“... but the thin one with the sour face, ‘e were trouble and no mistake. I said to our Badger, I said, ‘Badger, we’re gettin’ out of ‘ere, because ‘e is trouble.’ Ain’t that what I said, lad?”
Badger ignored her and was rewarded with a pat on the head.
“There, there,” she said. “Goin’ deaf in ‘is old age.”
Badger raised his eyebrows in exasperation. This was an outrageous case of the pot calling the kettle a receptacle. But he was used to it so, as most members of his species, he played dumb and let a little gas escape by pure accident.
“Yes, that’s sounds like the same man who showed up at the farm - fits Brianna’s description to a tee. Steward by the name of Fletcher, she said.”
“That were ‘im,” Gramma said, nodding, “I said to ‘im, I said ‘e should go back to fletchin’.”
Mother Hemlock smiled. “Yes, well I suppose he thinks he’s come up in the world. His grandad might have earned his living fletchin’ whereas he, as steward, spends all his time fletchin’ and carryin’”
The old woman’s face was as blank as a blankety.
“D’you get it?” Mother Hemlock persevered against years of accumulated evidence. “Fletchin’ and carryin’? He’s a steward: sort of like a posh waiter?”
Badger groaned inwardly. Gramma’s jokes tended to be of the blunt variety - they hit you like a swung mallet. But, in fairness, that made them, if unsophisticated, at least clear and, in their own way, amusing. Mother Hemlock, on the other hand, had just lost the battle of wits by trying to explain herself.
“Oh, I see,” Gramma said, after much contemplation. “I thought a steward were a kind of cook. Stew, you see.”
The two old women stared at each other, causing the molecules in the air to get out of the way so fast that a vacuum formed between them sucking all the floating tobacco smoke into a vortex. It looked as though they were burning the space between the two of them
“Seems to me,” Flem Hemlock said, metaphorically stepping between the two women like the referee of a bare-knuckle fight in an abattoir, “that we needs to decide what we’re to do next.”
The air continued to sizzle when Flem pulled his masterstroke.
“What do you think Willy?”
“‘Old your ‘orses!”
The prospect of their future course of action being decided by Flem Hemlock and Willy Clitheroe was enough to snap the witches out of their battle of wits30. Mother Hemlock wagged her finger under her husband’s nose. “If there’s decisions to be made, it’ll be us what is qualified who’ll do it.”
“That’s right, our Jessie,” Gramma said, joining in the finger wagging. “When there’s fagglin’ to be done, we’re goin’ to be doin’ it, not the likes of yon.”
Which just goes to show that, however great the disagreement between two witches, birds of a gender flock together.
Chapter 14
CHORTLEY WAS TRYING VERY HARD to keep his temper. It was late enough that even in high summer it was dark in the forest as he sat beside the glowing embers of the camp fire. The bedraggled camp of Robbing Hood surrounded him and he cast his glance across to the tent where he could just see the bound legs of Sebaceous De Grey. It depressed him that he wasn’t right now either torturing the little bastard or, at the very least, relishing the prospect. De Grey should have been the one having the existential crisis, (that being whether he existed by the time the sun rose or not) but here was Chortley, his head in his hands, wondering what had become of the real him. He could barely bring himself to believe it, but there was a danger that he might be turning into a good man. He shivered and spat into the fire, watching as the embers hissed and flared before dying down again.
“Can I sit down?”
Chortley squinted up into the darkness and, recognising Brianna’s nose reflecting the amber glow of the fire, he grunted assent.
“Thanks for rescuing me,” she said, squatting down on a log beside him and holding out her hands to warm them.
“I didn’t know it was you,” Chortley said. “I was just as likely to rob you as rescue you.”
Brianna chuckled. “Bollocks! Don’t you know you’re a folk hero now? The legendary Robbing Hood.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Chortley spat. “I use that name to hide my identity and for no other reason. What do you think my sister would do if she found me here, so close to her?”
“Yeah, right. You’re not Robbing Hood and that’s not Little Thun over there,” she pointed at the huge figure asleep on the other side of the camp fire (there was no tent big enough for him). “And that’s not Friar McGuff, or Enoch-a-Dale!”
Gazing into the embers, Chortley fumed in silence. He imagined chains wrapping around him and pulling tighter - bonds of expectation and obligation as he unwillingly adopted a guise and role that had seemed so very convenient at the time. By becoming Robbing Hood, he’d gained an immediate following and support in the countryside, and he’d also quite enjoyed the beating up of wandering nobles on their way to grovel at the feet of his sister. The irony that he had much more in common with his victims than his own men wasn’t lost on him. And now he found that, like that last half bottle of port sitting on the sideboard on a Friday night, the pleasure of indulging himself was balanced in equal measure by the knowledge
of later consequences. His brother’s girlfriend was right - whether he liked it or not, Chortley was a hero.
“Look, it’s not all bad, you know, doing the right thing,” Brianna said, with the air of a friend comforting a man whose wife has gone off with the undertaker, but left a voucher for a cut-price casket under her goodbye note.
Chortley grunted. “It’s that bloody witch.”
“That’s no way to talk about my mother!” Brianna said, smiling.
“Not her, Velicity.”
Brianna put her hand on his meaty shoulder. “I know. She’s had that effect on a lot of men, but you seem to have got it bad.”
“Pathetic, isn’t it?” Chortley muttered, staring down into the mug of mead congealing in the obligatory, and totally impractical, cow’s horn he was using as a container.
Without quite understanding why, Brianna felt a tightening in her stomach as she comforted Bill’s half-brother. “No, it’s not pathetic at all to love someone enough that you’re prepared to change for them.”
Chortley turned to her. “The problem is, I’m not sure I particularly like this version of me.”
“Well I certainly do,” Brianna said. “Compared to the sadistic maniac who trapped us in the governor’s quarters at Crapplecreek, you’re an absolute pleasure to be around. And I’m sure Velicity thinks the same.”
“I doubt it. And anyway, you’re a fine one to talk.”
Brianna’s eyes narrowed and she took her hand from his shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Only that you didn’t change for my brother, did you? You’re still the same sarcastic adventure seeker you were when you met him.”
She thought for a moment. “You’re right. Maybe if someone loves you, they shouldn’t expect you to change. But then, I’m not sure Bill ever thought I would, or wanted me to. Perhaps I just imagined I knew what he wanted and didn’t like what I was thinking.”
Silence settled on the two of them as they sat and watched the throbbing of the embers, listening to the ticking of the fire.
“I don’t reckon Velicity would like the real Chortley Fitzmichael very much,” Chortley said.
Brianna, who’d been lost in her own thoughts, wiped the moisture from her eyes. “That depends on who the real Chortley Fitzmichael is. And I’m not sure even you know that.”
“Well, I don’t feel much like my real self while masquerading as Robbing Hood, that’s for sure.”
“So why are you here?”
Chortley shrugged. “Because someone has to oppose my sister. If she’s allowed to rule unchallenged, it’ll be the end of the Fitzmichaels and a lot of people, many of them more-or-less innocent, will die along with us. The problem is, I don’t know what to do beyond making myself a pain in her arse. I need time to come up with a plan, or reinforcements.”
An idea surfaced in Brianna’s mind like a cork bobbing in the sea. “How about if I buy you that time?”
“How?”
“Well, Robbing Hood wears a disguise doesn’t he?”
Chortley nodded. “The clue’s in the name.”
“So, why don’t I become Robbing Hood while you fetch your reinforcements?”
“Where from exactly?” Chortley asked, puzzled.
Brianna leant in and whispered. “I know where you can find a one-man army who’d be only too pleased to help you overcome your sister and rule in her place.”
Chortley’s eyebrows almost joined in the middle as he frowned in concentration. And then he had it. “Bill? You want me to go and rescue him?”
“Yes,” Brianna smiled. “And while you’re at it, you can tell him he’s late for his wedding.”
“No chance. My place is here - haven’t you heard about the witch hunts? I need to get Velicity out of danger. Oh, and your mother and the crazy old woman too, I suppose. And anyway, why me? Why don’t you go?” All of this tumbled out of Chortley’s mouth as his mind fled from the prospect of travelling through the portals and his heart leapt. He felt alive, truly alive, for the first time since the battle in the labyrinth.
Brianna put her hand on his arm. “It’s alright. Mother knows of the hunt and is going for Gramma. I’ll warn Velicity. I’m sure the robbing business can run itself while we’re away. There are bigger issues here than just whether your girlfriend or my fiancé are safe - they can help us oppose your sister and if no-one stands up to her…”
“...we’ll all be crushed by her,” Chortley finished. “But how will I get to wherever Bill’s gone? I don’t know where there’s a portal.”
“True, but I guess there must be one within walking distance of the farm. They can’t have carried him too many miles without being seen.”
Chortley shrugged. “That might be true, but it’s still a huge stretch of the countryside to cover. And I can’t help thinking that if there was a portal nearby, we’d know about it - the two we’ve seen so far have been pretty unmissable.”
“Yes, you’re right, but they must have gone somewhere. We know the creatures that abducted Bill came from the Beyond, so it stands to reason they want to take him back there for some reason. Maybe there are other portals that are smaller or that come and go. I dunno, perhaps it’s all to do with the cycles of the seasons or the phases of the moon. Folk say queer things happen when the moon is full.”
Chortley sat for a moment, rubbing the stubble on his chin like a particularly reflective gorilla. “I know who my father would have asked about this, the head of the Guild of Alchemists. My father would consult the Astrological Forecast before making any important decisions and if anyone would know whether portals open when the stars are in alignment it would be him.”
“Do you know his name, or where to find him?”
“I remember more than one. The first was kicked out for some reason, and he was replaced with a weaselly sort of a man years ago. Father wasn’t pleased, for all his faults he preferred straight talkers and the old guild chief was certainly that. To be honest, I can’t remember either of their names, but I know where the guild headquarters is and I reckon I can sneak in there and have a little chat with him.”
Brianna shook her head. “Are you mad? Your sister’s so paranoid, Montesham will be locked down. She’ll be expecting you to do something and if you’re found there, it’ll be a short journey to a pointed stake for you. Let me go. I can be in and out in a day and I’ll meet you back here. No-one knows me in Montesham so I’ll be safe - I’ll find Velicity too, if I can, and you can have a romantic reunion before you go off and be the hero.”
Chortley recognised an argument that was not so much lost as never in doubt. He nodded.
Chapter 15
BILL CREPT ALONG THE OUTSIDE of the palisade, using the pale blue light of this world’s moon to pick out the quietest path. This was a bloody stupid plan, but it had been the only one he could come up with. It was so idiotic that Sebaceous had been the only volunteer when he’d asked for backup. He ought to have taken that for a sign - the draconi could be described using many adjectives, but cowardly was not one of them.
The plan had risen to the top of Bill’s mind like a rotten Russell’s Sprout in a bowl of cabbage soup, and, on reflection, stank just as much. He’d spotted what looked like a gap in the curtain of logs surrounding the camp of the machines and had resolved to see if he could squeeze through it and spy on the inhabitants. He knew he’d not be able to approach during the daytime as there was no cover for a couple of hundred yards in any direction, so, deep into a night during which his half-brother and fiancé sat around a campfire, here he was, sneaking into the settlement of a band of killer robots. To quote Brianna, he was, indeed, a bloody idiot.
Brianna. His stomach sank as he thought of her. What would she have made of his disappearance on the morning of their wedding? It would look pretty damning, and matters were made worse because he had been having second thoughts, so it’s not as if he hadn’t considered bunking off. Though not, in truth, for very long. He didn’t relish the prospect of bei
ng pursued by an armed Miss Havisham.
On the other hand, if it took getting married to avoid being disembowelled, this was hardly the best or most romantic reason for going through with it. Perhaps he was better off here, in the Beyond, where she couldn’t get to him.
What a shit I am, thought Bill. He felt a blackness descend on him, wrapping around him like a heavy blanket covering his shame.
“Mister Bill,” hissed a voice from his pocket.
Bill opened his eyes and turned his head until he could focus on the light seeping through the palisade. “Sorry.”
“You miss your mate. I am sorry for taking you away from her. I will take you back, I promise”
Looking down, Bill could barely make out the lizard. He felt a lump of guilt in his throat and a tear dropped to the ground. “Thanks,” he said, “but first we have a mad killer robot problem to sort out.”
He’d reached the gap in the fence and, wiping his face dry, he peered inside the settlement. Burning lamps hung from posts placed where streets had formed between the large, square huts that dominated the interior. Nothing moved except the gently oscillating cones of light as the lamps swayed in the warm summer breeze. Bill put his shoulder to the gap and squeezed through, looking up and down the palisade as he emerged inside the ring of logs.
So far, he’d seen no sign of any sentries, but he suspected the settlement wouldn’t be left unwatched - the robots knew they were in unfriendly territory, they’d made it that way in the first place. He scampered across the gap between the inside of the palisade and the first hut, then scanned for any movement. There was none.
In the limited light cast by the nearest lamp, Bill could see that the huts were built of bricks. They felt rough to the touch, but seemed arranged with machine-like regularity and he had the feeling the settlement would stand up to all but the most determined assault, especially in a world with no artillery. He knew from his spying earlier in the day that the roofs were made of tiles and everything about the place suggested its occupants were here to stay.
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