Denizens and Dragons

by Kevin Partner

It had been over five years since he'd resigned his post as Chancellor of the Guild of Alchemists. He'd spent the first 20 years of his professional life working his way up an organisation that had been founded with the aim of expanding the sum of human knowledge but which had, over recent decades, concluded that knowledge was power and, crucially, money, and saw fit to ration it to its own commercial advantage.

  So, he'd moved back from Varma determined to have absolutely no part in public affairs. But people simply wouldn't leave him alone. Once it became known in the tiny village he'd made his home that there was a local alchemist, he'd been forced to endure an endless succession of pleas for help, along with equally regular accusations of heresy from the local priests.

  Fortunately, it was well known that his little cottage on the outskirts of the village contained enough explosives to quickly accelerate the process by which the Brotherhood would discover whether their beliefs about the afterlife and the day of judgement were accurate. This fact was well known, because Ignis made sure of it. He also fostered a particularly useful rumour that his house was booby-trapped, making him one of the few people in the countryside who actually could safely sleep with the door open at night.

  And so he’d spent the last fifteen years watching, waiting and curing the embarrassing illnesses that seemed to plague the little village. He'd been sorely tempted to get involved when he'd heard of the theft of the magical vessels containing the powers of the four elementals, and even more tempted when he had learned that the staff of Minus had come to light. But he knew Jessie Hemlock wouldn't welcome any contact he might make, still less her husband. Even though it had been so very long ago, before he'd become involved with the alchemists, it was still a time of pain for him – it was because of her that he'd gone to Varma in the first place.

  But recent events had forced his hand. If Aggrapella was given free rein then the reports of atrocities he'd been receiving daily would turn into outright genocide. It had been a puzzle though. The Fitzmichaels were an evil brood, to be sure, but they were also ruthlessly efficient, rather than being merely efficiently ruthless. The last thing a Fitzmichael would do is slash and burn its own sources of wealth. The feudal system only worked, after all, if you had enough peasants to go around. These days, “going serfing” had become almost a pastime for the cruel young nobles at Aggrapella’s court. And now he knew what was at the root of it.

  And therefore he’d felt compelled to send a message to Jessie Cobb. No, that wasn’t her name - Mother Hemlock was her identity now and he needed to be very careful never to forget that. She’d always had power, even before she'd inherited her mother’s magical gift, and she was bringing others with her, according to his spy.

  Shep the Lep was probably not the most reliable source of information, but he did, at least, take his profession seriously. Ignis’s mind flitted off down a blind alley that led to a dingy pub on the night he’d first met the leper and engaged him in his service. He’d been impressed that Shep had refused the fourth pint offered to him, stating that he knew his limit and that, while he regarded alcohol as “pretty ‘armless”, he had no intention of drinking too much and ending up legless.

  Shep had remained with the merry men until their encounter with Jessie Hemlock, and he’d then melted away to report to Ignis. He’d left with regret, he said. His time in the forest had been among the happiest of his life. Indeed, he felt as though he’d left a little piece of himself there. A finger, probably.

  Returning to the present, Ignis straightened himself in his chair, then stood up with a grunt and headed over to the pantry where, in a cupboard at floor level, he kept his supply of bottled beers. He pulled one out at random, flipped the metal bottle top and poured the ale into his tankard. Ah yes, Goblin Nuts; the perfect brew for a night’s brooding. Fruity, rich and very hard to find, this was a beer to savour. He dropped into his chair again, took a mouthful, and swallowed as the ale’s high alcohol content warmed his body. He was just draining the last of the Goblin Nuts when he heard a once familiar tap at the door.

  #

  Bill Strike stood beside the wooden platform desperately battling against the darkness that threatened to overwhelm his soul. He looked down at the body of Stingzlikeabee as it lay on the bier. Her people had made her look beautiful in death: a white powder had been applied to her entire body, covering the cuts and bruises that had marred her reptilian beauty. She’d been dressed in a colourful robe that looked as though it were made of silk, though Bill dared not touch it to find out if it was as smooth as it appeared.

  He ought to have been glad he was still alive. The elfs had been furious when he’d arrived and their anger had turned to a wailing collective grief that transformed quickly into recrimination. Someone was to blame and he was the closest, easiest, target. Had it not been for Sebaceous’ intervention, he had no doubt they’d have killed him. As he stood there, ceremonial spear in hand, watching elf after elf shuffle tearfully by, he reflected on how he’d misjudged the relationship between the draconi and those he’d believed to be their masters.

  No, it wasn’t like that at all. The draconi were more in the fashion of mercenaries than servants. They co-operated with the elfs when it suited them, which was most of the time, and submitted to elfish captains because they recognised that their larger reptilian cousins were more cunning and, in many ways, cleverer than they. Draconi tended to act as a unit whereas elfs were more solitary creatures; elf reliant and quick witted.

  But Sebaceous’ intervention when Bill’s life had appeared to hang in the balance had been less the begging of a servant for the mercy of his master, and more the implied threat born of an underlying power. Ultimately, when their grief had passed a little, the elfs themselves had seen that Bill had done a noble and good thing by returning Stingzlikeabee back to her people to be given the proper rituals, and now he had a position of honour as guard of her bier. Sebaceous explained that they were lucky that this particular race of elfs was of a relatively even-tempered kind, some of their other tribes would have decapitated first and asked questions later.40

  Above all else, though, Bill had Brianna on his mind. He’d wanted desperately to return as soon as he’d realised she was in danger, but Sebaceous had refused to lead him back through the portal until they’d returned Stingzlikeabee. Naturally, he hadn’t brought the machine family along with him - they’d been left under the cover of a nearby copse.

  The last of the mourners filed past the body as dusk fell. The pyre had been built in a clearing, a sacred grove of the elfs, and now the only people left were Bill, the trio of chief priests41 and Sebaceous, who was sitting on Bill’s shoulder. The middle priest42 took a stick and thrust it into the holy brazier, then strode elf-importantly to the pyre and touched the burning brand to the base in several places before throwing it into the growing flames.

  The heat forced Bill to step back. He wiped a tear as it ran down his face and felt a tiny hand on his ear as Sebaceous steadied himself, his tiny body wracked with sobs.

  Bill felt a gentle tug on his tunic. “Fireman Bill.”

  He looked down to see the senior priest looking mournfully up at him. “Please come with me, we have much to discuss.”

  Chapter 24

  IGNIS OPENED THE DOOR AND there, framed in the portal, stood Jessie. Jessie Hemlock. Not Cobb. Hemlock. He mustn’t forget that.

  “Greetings Mistress Hemlock.”

  “That’s Mrs Hemlock to you,” Flem said, his fury hanging over the proceedings like a red fog.

  Ignis nodded. “Of course. The title is merely honorific.”

  Flem Hemlock waved a stubby finger. “No it ain’t. She’s my missus and don’t you forget it.”

  “I meant mistress was honor…”

  “I know what you meant,” Mother Hemlock said. She held his gaze for a moment and barged her way in.

  “Well, I never imagined you’d live in a place like this. You was generally a creature of comfort,” she said, having found her way into the small
sitting room where she was running a critical finger along the mantelpiece.

  “It suits my purpose,” Ignis said before waving the others through. “Please, come in. I must confess there’s rather more of you than I expected. I’ll fetch some chairs from the parlour.”

  Mother Hemlock had taken possession of Ignis’ chair in front of the fire and Flem stood, glowering, behind her with his hands on the back of the chair. “You’ve met my Flem,” she said and Ignis noticed how her husband straightened his posture ever so slightly, “and our daughter Brianna.”

  Ignis turned to the young woman with blonde hair standing slightly apart from the others.

  “Yes, she looks very much like her mothe…”

  “And that’s Gramma Tickle, she’s a ….”

  “A wood witch,” Ignis interrupted. He could play these games just as well as her. “I’ve heard much about you.”

  Gramma gave a gummy smile. “Oh, you don’t want to believe everything you ‘ear. Any chance of a brew, cock? And a jam sarnie would go down very nice.”

  “And that’s Willy Clitheroe, Gramma’s fancy man,” Mother Hemlock continued.

  “He ain’t my fancy man!” Gramma protested, but her protestations were interrupted by the sound of heavy boots in the hallway.

  A fresh breeze seemed to lighten the dingy little cottage and Ignis turned to see two people walking into his sitting room. In fact, he only saw one of them. “Wow!” he said. In fairness to him, most men meeting Velicity for the first time needed a moment’s adjustment so their civilised brain could catch up with, and overpower, their inner monkey. Ignis was treated to the full effect of her in one concentrated rush and that, along with having a stomach full of Goblin Balls, is probably enough to explain his momentary loss of control.

  “And that,” Mother Hemlock snapped, “is Velicity De Vere. The man you probably haven’t even noticed yet is her lover.”

  The rather portly man pushed past and nodded. “My name is Chortley Fitzmichael.”

  “Marvellous,” said Ignis Bel.

  #

  You’d have needed more than a knife to slice through the atmosphere in Ignis Bel’s sitting room that evening. His guests sat in uncomfortable silence as their host bustled to and from the parlour, bringing drinks and other refreshments (Ignis was a fruit cake connoisseur). Only Gramma seemed her usual self, at least once her tea had arrived.

  “Oh, that’s a lovely brew,” she said, “you can’t beat northern tea, though I’m not sure where it’s grown, cos I’ve never seen a tea field in my neck of the woods.”

  “They don’t grow it up north, Gramma,” Brianna said, yet again finding her mouth strolling down the path to nowhere while her brain was entirely elsewhere, “they buy it in from down south and blend it.”

  Gramma shook her head. “What? My tea comes from down south? No wonder it needs northern brains to mix it right. Nobody wants soft tea.”

  “This one is mainly from Shi ‘shk ‘ebab, though there’s also some Foolish tea in there,” Ignis added, grateful for the opportunity to say something on a non-controversial topic.

  “Your tea comes from foreign parts?” Gramma said, effortlessly turning the topic controversial after all. “I thought it tasted odd.”

  “And how do you find the wine, your lordship?” Ignis said, turning to Chortley and abandoning any attempt to smooth over the cracks.

  Chortley looked up, his eyes reflecting Ignis’ hostility. “Very nice, thank you. And please call me Chortley.”

  “I think we should all remember who we are, Lord Fitzmichael,” Ignis responded, “and my dealings with your family have led to my deep loathing for the Fiztmichaels and all their hangers on.”

  Velicity went to speak, but Chortley put his hand up. “You are right, Master Bel, my family has much to answer for, but, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not exactly a full member anymore. I can assure you, I hate them as much as you do.”

  “And I can assure you that you don’t,” Ignis snarled. “Oh, you may be the best of a bad lot, but I’ve lost too much. I’ve lost people I loved and seen other families torn apart at the whim of the Fitzmichaels and the best that could be said for you is that you turned a blind eye. Though, if I’m not very much mistaken, I suspect you took a full part in the terror they wrought.”

  “Ignis!” Mother Hemlock said, finally breaking her silence. She got up and stood between the two men, her finger wagging between them. “We don’t have time for old grievances. These matters are bigger than any of us. If they wasn’t I surely wouldn’t be here, I can think of a thousand places I’d rather be right now.”

  Ignis threw himself down onto the chair he’d brought from the kitchen. He couldn’t sit in his own chair because she was in it. This had been a bad idea from the beginning but, even in the midst of his fury and embarrassment, he knew that not calling her here would have been a worse one.

  “That’s better,” Mother Hemlock said, “now, why have you brought us here?”

  Ignis sighed, keeping his eyes fixed on Jessie. “Because I think our country has been taken over and, unless we act quickly, there will be genocide.”

  “I could ‘ave told you that, cock, it’s that sister of our Chortley’s, Umbrella or sommat,” Gramma contributed from her chair beside Jessie’s.

  “I don’t mean her,” Ignis said, “I don’t think she’s in control. I’ve never heard of this level of violence, not even from a Fitzmichael. The usual form is to kill any relatives that might have a claim,” at this Ignis waved a hand in Chortley’s direction, “and hangers-on that might not be considered entirely trustworthy. But wholesale imprisonment and slaughter, that’s not normal form at all. It’s as if someone was intent on breaking the power of Fitzmichael County.”

  Chortley stirred in his chair but didn’t speak.

  “What’s up cock?” Gramma said with her usual subtlety. “Rat got your tongue?”

  “I wasn’t sure whether I should speak,” Chortley responded.

  Ignis looked at his most unwelcome guest. “Speak if you have something useful to contribute.”

  Chortley shrugged. “Well, my sister is a malicious bitch but, as you say, the level of her brutality has surprised even me. I knew I’d be the first on her list for the chop, all in the name of securing the succession, and I could, perhaps, understand why she’s gone after the witches. But I’ve heard of loyal soldiers being rounded up, farmers being driven off productive land and local leaders finding they’ve been replaced by strangers with swords overnight. You’re right, there’s something rotten at the heart of this county.”

  “Yes, and she’s a Fitzmichael,” Ignis said.

  “I know, and that makes her my problem. I was heading into Montesham to deal with her when this lot appeared and persuaded me to come and see you. I’m beginning to wonder if it was worth the effort.”

  Ignis held Chortley’s gaze for a moment before getting up, going across to the mantelpiece and fishing out a piece of parchment from behind a white marble clock. “Some people say that forewarned is forearmed,” he said, “though, personally, I’d prefer my armour to be of the iron variety. But information is vital and I have an odd message here that you might be able to decipher and which might prove advantageous.”

  Returning to his chair, Ignis sat theatrically, holding the parchment to the firelight and squinting. After a few moments, he got up again, went back to the mantelpiece and retrieved a pair of spectacles that gave his face the appearance of a rather surprised bushbaby. “This comes from one of my contacts, a merchant who visited the court of your sister only last week and barely got away with his head still attached to his shoulders. He says that the countess is behaving like a mad woman…”

  “No change there, then,” Chortley grunted.

  Ignis took off his glasses to look at Chortley. “I don’t think you understand,” he said, “my contact is used to the behaviour of tyrannical rulers. He travels widely, through realms of all sorts although in almost all cases the place is
governed by a single person, usually a man. Cruelty and oppression are the standard tools of the ruling classes, as you know well enough, but your sister’s behaviour goes beyond this into true madness.”

  Chortley thought back to the trial of Smithson almost a year ago. Aggrapella had, in the end, accepted her father’s lesson on the balance between ruling by fear while not destroying the very assets that kept them in power. Perhaps she was simply a good actor, but it seemed to him that she had seen the point. His father had certainly seemed pleased and he was a wily bastard. “So is that all your contact has to say? That she’s acting like a nutter?”

  “No, that’s not everything,” Ignis snapped, “and you would do well to appreciate the risk this man has taken in bringing us this information.”

  Chortley was just rising when he felt a hand on his arm. He looked down to see Velicity’s expression. “Let us hear what Master Bel has to report.”

  “Yes, get to the point, Ignis,” Mother Hemlock said with an apparent disinterest that was almost convincing.

  Ignis grunted and brought the manuscript up to his nose again. “My contact doesn’t believe that the countess is completely in control of her actions,” he said, before pausing to draw out the silence. “He understands that, some weeks ago, she appointed a new aide who has since become chancellor of the county. His arrival coincides with the worsening of the atrocities but he remains in the shadows and few have seen him. The rumours, however, say he is a wizard, a hunchbacked wizard who is more than half a goblin. And he carries a magic staff.”

  There was a moment as the assembled listeners processed this news before, as one, Mother Hemlock, Velicity and Brianna said: “Bently.”

  Chapter 25

  BILL FOLLOWED THE CARDINELF INTO the caves that burrowed into the hill beneath Stingzlikeabee’s smouldering pyre. He’d asked where they were going more than once, but the elf’s command of common speech was either too poor for him to answer or Bill was being ignored. The deep darkness between the torches and the oppressive feeling of being beneath thousands of tons of rock were playing on Bill’s nerves, but he was even more spooked by the fact that he could feel Sebaceous quivering in his top pocket. So far, the draconi, and especially their chief, had shown themselves to be fearless, but Bill couldn’t even get the little creature to poke its head out.