by Heide Goody
Merken pulled a tired face. “Every morning, my wife has the serving girl cook me three eggs, a thick slab of gammon and maybe a slice of blood sausage. I don’t have to ask her. She just does it. In my study, she will gather my letters and papers and sort them and ensure they are carefully stored on the correct shelf. If my shirt or trews are so stiff with sweat and muck they could walk out by themselves if they chose, she has them cleaned and returned overnight, as if it was the work of fairies.”
“She sounds delightful.”
“Mmm. Doesn’t she?” Merken stepped closer. “I can’t stand her.”
“Oh?
“I think I would go so far as to say I hate her.”
“I see,” said Pagnell, who clearly didn’t.
“I like clocks. I like clockwork things. I went to the court of the Mad Empress Kalladia – an entirely unjust epithet I should point out. In this world of pretend kings and child rulers, she is the closest thing to greatness I’ve seen. I went to her court to see the clockwork city she had commissioned and installed in the palace ballroom. It is truly beautiful. I love clockwork things. They are honest.”
Merken could see the wizard Pagnell frowning, determinedly trying to work out where Merken was going with this line of conversation. Merken enjoyed the look on Pagnell’s face. He liked to keep the young confused; it gave him a mental head start.
“People – like clocks, like clockwork – are predictable things. But they are dishonest and like to pretend to themselves they are otherwise. A clever man can read people, understand what makes them tick – ha! – and predict their every action.”
“And your wife can predict your wants and needs?”
“She presumes to!” said Merken with a sudden passion. “She presumes to know what I want for my breakfast, what needs doing in my study. She thinks she knows what I want as well as I do! Better even! She thinks she can read me! Unacceptable! I rather think if it wasn’t for her presumptuous ways, I’d never have come on this fool mission.”
“You don’t like eggs and ham and blood sausage, huh?”
“I love them!” said Merken furiously. “That’s what makes it worse!” The soldier coughed and calmed himself. His fingers drifted to the comforting presence of the velvet bag at his belt.
Pagnell sniffed and considered his manacles. “I would say it’s been delightful talking to you and I’ve really got things to be getting on with,” he said, “but that would be a lie.”
“You think you’re clever, Sparkles,” said Merken.
“I don’t think I’m clever,” said Pagnell with just a fraction of emphasis on the word think.
“I loathe people who say what they think I want to hear or do what they think I want them to do. It implies they possess a certain mental superiority, and I despise people who think they’re cleverer than me. It’s damned insulting. You understand?”
“I think so.”
“Good, because in a minute, we are going to go through that door and you are going to inform General Handzame you can follow Abington’s notes sufficiently to lead us through Foesen’s tomb. And then you will do just that. And if at any point in time, you think you can betray us, trick us or abandon us, remember I am cleverer than you.”
“Understood,” nodded Pagnell.
“And remember also that in the Hierophant’s cells of justice, locked up and all alone, is a little girl.”
For the first time in all their conversations, there was a truly honest turn in the wizard’s expression, a dropping of his charming façade and a glimpse of real human doubt underneath. The real Newport Pagnell: just a man. “Now, wait—” he began to say.
“Her name is Spirry,” said Merken. “She’s safe, for now.”
“If you dare hurt her—”
“I dare. I really do.” Merken wrung his hands. “I don’t want to hurt her, naturally. I’m a man, not a monster, and I have enough terrible deeds on my soul. But if we do not make it back with the Quill of Truth then … well, I’m sure you get my drift.”
The colour had gone from Pagnell’s face. He was almost as pale as his little girl.
“Very good,” said Merken and gestured to the door. “Let’s go in. And pray you do not lead us astray, eh?”
7
Merken rattled his chains in the dark hole of the cell the grimlocks had thrown them in and said, not for the first time, “See where you’ve led us, you damned conjurer! Did you actually want to kill us?”
“A small miscommunication. Clive did lead us out of the labyrinth, just not to the exit we wanted,” replied Pagnell. “I did say.”
“He did say,” agreed Cope.
“I wasn’t asking you,” said Merken. “Can’t you magic us out of here?”
“Iron bonds,” said the useless wizard, which was damnably bad luck given that the grimlocks, being too backward to work metal properly, had only what metal they could scavenge. And what they had apparently scavenged in abundance was chains.
“You can pick them, Pipsqueak,” said Merken.
“They took my lock picks,” said the rat-faced thief girl. “And my beard. And my nectarine stone.”
Merken held back a sigh. Beards?! Nectarine stones!? Being in the company of wizards had destroyed what little wits she’d had. The grimlocks, pressed in on all sides of them, had ransacked their packs and belongings and robbed them of nearly everything. Weapons, tools, lamps, books and – Merken swallowed hard! – the velvet pouch containing the priceless Greginax timepiece. All gone into slimy grimlock hands before the five of them were bundled off into a cold pit of a cell: little more than a hollowed-out recess in a dank corner of the grimlock lair.
“Improvise,” Merken suggested to Lorrika. “If we don’t free ourselves, none of us are getting out of here alive.”
“I’m confident we’ll think of something,” said Bez, in a tone more desperate than optimistic.
“It would be damnably easier to think if someone could please stop that infernal singing!”
Outside the cell, a choir of tone-deaf grimlocks sang, and had been singing for the last half hour.
Yan tan tanera tether
Tethera yan a bumfit sether!
Hovad pimperik
Tanot yanarik
Yanatik tanada pether!
“I think it’s quite catchy,” said Lorrika and then exclaimed “Ah!” as she pulled free part of her boot buckle and experimentally wiggled it inside the lock on her chains.
“What have that lot got to sing about anyway?” said Merken.
“Probably best not to enquire,” said Pagnell.
“I am enquiring,” said Merken coldly.
“He is,” agreed Cope.
“They’re delighted to have captured us,” said Bez. “And are describing what they plan to do with us.”
“Which is?”
“Well, there’s a lot of slap and cracks and various yo ho, me lads,” said Pagnell. “It’s quite a jolly song.”
“And lots of welcome to grimlock town type stuff,” said Bez.
“And then references to squishing and crushing and the making of jam.”
“Jam?” said Merken.
“Yes,” said Pagnell.
“From our lungs,” said Bez.
“Our spleens too.”
“And our wobbly kidneys in their goo.”
“Did they mention kidneys?” said Pagnell.
“Fairly certain they did,” said Bez. “That bit about hovata cova a few verses back.”
“That means finely chopped vegetables,” argued the wizard.
“No, no. That’s hovata cova. Hovata cova means kidneys.”
“I don’t know who taught you grimlock, but that’s completely the wrong way round. If you’re going to mistake hovata cova for hovata cova then you’re just going to look a right fool.”
“Hovata cova?” scoffed the shifty bard. “No one mentioned hovata cova. We’re talking about the distinction between hovata cova and hovata cova. Hovata cova doesn’t even come into
the conversation.”
Merken, who was used to being surrounded by idiots, although not normally in such enforced close proximity, considered today might well be the day he truly lost his temper. Since he was likely to lose his life as well, it seemed to be a last opportunity. He bit down on a scream and said, “Could you please both stop saying hovata cova!”
The wizard and the bard looked at each other and then at him.
“Who said hovata cova?” said Bez.
“A fine and delicious wine?” said Pagnell. “Not me.”
“I’m going to go mad,” Merken muttered to the ceiling.
“The language of the grimlocks is notionally simple but devilish to master,” explained Pagnell under the misapprehension Merken was remotely interested.
“It only has nineteen syllable sounds,” said Bez. “Which means much of the meaning comes from tone, and from rising and falling inflections.”
“And the use of the phlegmatic gutterals.”
“Indeed. So the difference between hovata cova and hovata cova is in the extra phlegm on the second syllable. A sort of huuurgh sound, yes?”
“I think it’s more of a hurrrgh,” suggested Pagnell.
“Not a huurrgh?”
“Nearly. But definitely hurrrgh.”
“Huurrgh?”
“Hurrrgh.”
“Huuurgh.”
“Hurrrgh.”
“Hurrrgh?” said Cope.
“Oh, that’s very good,” said Pagnell.
“Huurrgh,” said Bez.
“Hruuugh?” said Lorrika.
“No. Hurrrgh.”
“Huurrgh.”
“Hurrrgh.”
“Hruugh.”
“Hurrrgh.”
“Huurgh.”
Merken wasn’t certain whether he was going to drown in spittle, throttle them all to death with their own chains, or even succumb to the madness and join in. He never got to find out because, at that moment, the cell was opened and a band of grimlocks, armed with clamshell knives, came in to cart them off to certain death. He was almost relieved.
“Tanita yaner figg?” demanded the lead grimlock.
“They want to know which of us is the leader,” said Pagnell.
Merken stood. “That would be me.”
“Tethada setherik yan.”
“You are to be presented to the queen.”
“Queen?”
“Apparently.”
The grimlocks came forward and uncoupled Merken’s chains from the others’.
“I will need a translator,” said the soldier.
“Tan?”
“That one,” said Merken, pointing at Bez. “Bring him.”
“Picked for my superior linguistic skills,” said Bez.
“No. Because I want to keep you where I can see you, bard. Lorrika, sort out the wizard’s chains while we’re gone.”
Horribly clammy hands grabbed Merken’s elbows and steered him and Bez out of the cell.
8
The grimlock queen’s throne room was a cavern. It was not particularly wide, and a shallow, sluggish stream wound through much of its width, but it was deep and it was tall. The grey walls came up at an angle and met, high above them, around a ragged circle of dusky yellow light.
“The gods smile on us,” said Bez as they were marched forward.
“What?” said Merken.
“That’s daylight up there.”
“It is,” said Merken. “Evening. We’ve been down here nearly a day. Two more days and the Hierophant’s army will be back and the damned jig’ll be up.”
“Reckon we could get out up there,” said Bez.
Merken tried to gauge distance and size. “The opening’s too narrow.”
“For a big guy like you, maybe. If you’d known about this way in, you wouldn’t have needed all that rigmarole pretending to take the city.”
“Pretend? We took the city, bard.”
“You know what I mean.”
Grimlocks lined the cavern, standing in ragged rows, peering down from high ledges, clinging to walls with their sticky mitts. Merken was automatically assessing their strength. There were near to a hundred of them visible in this room alone. The most prominent and well-armed had feathers threaded through the skin of their scalps. The grimlocks’ weapons were primitive and followed the general theme of sharp-thing tied to stick-thing. Flints, bones, shells, even sharpened coins and repurposed pots and pans were used in their construction.
Merken had seen grimlocks use manmade weapons but not often, and rarely for the purpose intended. They were the kind of creature to use swords as ploughshares and attempt to use ploughshares as swords. Or, more likely, fail to comprehend the function of either and attempt to use both swords and ploughshares as cutlery.
Oh, look, thought Merken, and there’s a grimlock with a swinging morningstar-flail-hybrid composed mostly of forks and spoons. Cutlery as weaponry.
The grimlocks’ weapons were, in short, tat; but there were genuine treasures among the junk. One grimlock was wearing a jewel-encrusted plate as chest armour. Another was using a spiky crown as a fire stand to cook on and – what was that? – a polished statue of the goddess Buqit as a toasting fork. It was ingenious. Moronically ingenious, but nonetheless… Whether the grimlocks had brought these treasures with them or had raided Foesen’s tomb was unclear. It would be ironic to discover the grimlocks had found the Quill of Truth and were now using it as … as…
“Why have they stuck feathers in their heads?”
“They want to fly?” shrugged Bez. “I understand their language. I don’t pretend to understand them.”
A large fire pit dominated the centre of the cavern. Its red flames burned low and weak, fuelled by piles of rags and rubbish which gave off a foetid reek as they smouldered. Merken was forced to paddle through the cavern stream as he was prodded round the pit toward the throne.
The grimlocks’ undifferentiated booty, the scrap, the garbage and the valuable were piled highest beneath the queen’s throne: a lopsided raft of a chair made from bleached sticks and reeds bound with twine. On top of it sat an enormous grimlock with a bloated head into which a whole coxcomb of feathers had been inserted. It was remarkably similar to the horsehair crest General Handzame wore and, frankly, no more or less ridiculous.
Beside the throne stood the yellow-bellied grimlock, Clive, now dressed in a poncho-cum-robe of knitted string.
“Yanaik bumfer letha!” declared Clive grandly.
“Ah,” said Bez. “Clive here – who it would appear is a shaman or vizier or what have you – invites us to kneel before the almighty Queen Susan of the Clodhopper tribe.”
“Invites?” said Merken.
Bez waggled a hand. “Commands.”
Merken regarded the hideous thing on the ramshackle throne. “Susan?”
“Dikata hovera,” said Clive.
“Queen Susan,” said Bez.
“I’m not kneeling for some damned dirty frog,” spat Merken. “And you can tell her as much.”
“Um. Really?”
“Yes.”
Bez grimaced. “Er. A peth figger tana—”
Queen Susan silenced him with a wave of a flipper-like hand and spoke with a throaty rattle. “Yanera bumfa yan.”
Clive nodded eagerly. “Yanad pimper hov.”
“Queen Susan,” Bez translated, “would like to thank us for the gifts we have brought.”
Merken felt his gorge rising, perceiving full well what this meant. “Gifts!”
Clive bowed and waved a hand theatrically over the pile of backpacks, weapons and other items they had confiscated. Merken saw his velvet pouch resting on the top.
“That’s mine,” he said. “Give it back.”
“Figgot?” said Clive.
Queen Susan ripped a bunch of papers from the top of a pack and leafed through them. She held a sketch of a girl and Merken recognised it as Bez’s drawing of Pagnell’s girl, whatsername. Susan gave a coy and altogether repu
gnant smile. “Ik pimpota?”
“They’re mine, your Majesty,” said Bez. “I’m an artist and News broadcaster.”
“Broadcaster?” sneered Merken.
“Indeed!” Bez made a sweeping gesture as though scattering seeds. “Broadcaster. But for News.”
Queen Susan simpered. “Lethad taner?”
“No, not a bard as such, your Majesty. I’m much more into serious reportage. I dabble with oils too, if you’ll allow me to demonstrate.”
“Lethad tanit?”
“Again, not a bard, your Majesty. The distinction is—”
“You’re a damn bard,” said Merken. “Quit complaining and get my pouch back.”
“Lethad teth pimp,” said the grimlock queen.
“Yanada yaner tethotik,” added Clive.
“I’m sure you do need a new bard but, as I said, I’m not the— Oh!” Bez followed the direction of Clive’s pointed claw. A bell-shaped cage hung from an outcropping of rock. Perhaps pilfered from a menagerie somewhere, it might originally have contained a pet songbird or similar, but its current occupant was a rotting corpse which was decidedly human and evidently lacking a number of limbs.
“Teth ik yanada.”
“Your last bard?” said Bez, his voice trembling. “Yes. Ah. I notice he appears to be lacking one arm and, yes, both of his legs. Is there a…?”
“Tanot dik a tan,” explained Clive.
“He knew hundreds of songs, yes.”
“Yan yanad lether.”
“Had a voice like a trickling brook. How poetic.”
“Pethera dika a.”
“And could recount the entire true history of the grimlock nation. Yes, but that doesn’t explain the missing appendages.”
“Bumfad diker seth.”
“I see,” wheezed Bez, his face bloodless and horrified.
“What is it?” said Merken.
Bez gave a hoarse squeak before finding his voice. “He says: a bard that good, you don’t eat him all at once.”
Merken, despite the grimness of the situation, barked with laughter. Bez threw him a hateful look.