Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman

by Charlotte E. English

  ‘Your Majesty,’ said Isabel with a smile, and made him the best bow she could from atop her pony.

  ‘Good morning, Grunewald,’ said Sophy drily as she reined in her mount before him.

  Grunewald stared at them both in horror. ‘Just what do you think you are doing in Mirramay?’ he demanded. ‘It isn’t safe for a party of ladies! I would think that Aubranael would die of shock if he knew!’

  ‘How kind of you to feel concerned for our welfare!’ said Isabel warmly. ‘But I assure you, we have come very well-attended.’

  ‘He is not serious!’ said Sophy. ‘Now, are you, Grunewald? What a mother-hen speech! You would not care if the worst imaginable fate were to befall the both of us.’

  Grunewald grinned lazily. ‘Miss Ellerby credits me with far too much attention, as always. But you, my dear Miss Landon, credit me with far too little. The truth lies somewhere in between, I assure you.’ He rose from his oversized throne and solicitously helped both ladies down from their mounts. Isabel thought that he pressed her hand as he did so, and her cheeks coloured a little. ‘But my question stands, you know. What are you doing in these parts? And without Aubranael!’

  ‘I may very well direct the same enquiry at you,’ retorted Sophy.

  Grunewald’s smile widened. ‘Much as I appreciate Aubranael’s company, I often travel without him.’

  Sophy made an exasperated noise. ‘You understand very well what I mean!’

  Grunewald adopted a tragic air, looking around among his gathered followers for support. ‘You see with what a lack of respect I am treated by the ladies of England! It is very shocking.’

  Isabel thought that there was a dangerous look in his eye as he said this, however light-hearted his tone might have been. She suppressed an urge to caution her friend. Sophy had known Grunewald longer than she had; she knew how far she could presume upon his good nature.

  ‘There are a number of things I could possibly be doing here,’ Grunewald said in a more serious tone, though a glint of mischief sparkled in his eye. ‘I might be here to investigate the lamentably ongoing absence of our glorious monarchs — with, I need hardly add, the most selfless of motives! I might simply be passing through, with my aides-de-camp.’ He gestured carelessly at the ragtag band of darkling fae that surrounded his throne, his mouth twisting with self-mockery. ‘Or I might be planning to move in. After all, no one has been using Mirramay in quite some years now.’

  ‘Using it for what?’ Sophy retorted. ‘I can hardly imagine that Aubranael would approve of any such plan!’

  Something between amusement and anger flickered across Grunewald’s eyes. ‘I note that you assume the worst, and with no conceivable reason to do so,’ he retorted. ‘Have I ever given cause to imagine I might be harbouring dreams of conquest?’ With this said, he sprawled once more upon his glittering throne and cast his long legs over one arm.

  Sophy considered the vision of Grunewald, the Goblin King, lounging lazily upon a gaudy and stupendously oversized throne and smiled. It was one of her special smiles, full of a mixture of mischief and amusement, and not unleavened with affection. ‘I leave that to your own conscience to answer,’ she said lightly.

  To Isabel’s surprise — and relief — Grunewald laughed at that. ‘I would tell you that I care nothing for your Aubranael’s good opinion, my dear Miss Landon, but to do so would be to wound you — perhaps past recovery. And I am far too much a gentleman.’ He made an odd seated bow in Sophy’s direction, somehow imbuing the gesture with a sinuous grace in spite of its awkwardness.

  ‘You are not too much the gentleman to lie,’ Sophy said with a laugh. ‘You would prefer not to care for Aubranael’s opinion, of that I have no doubt. Nonetheless, you do. He is your moral guide, of a sorts; now, is he not? Your own internal guide is a little broken, and you have made liberal use of his in the past.’

  Grunewald grimaced. ‘What a detestable idea.’ Isabel noted with interest that he did not deny it. ‘Now we return to the topic of your most unexpected appearance in these parts. My good Miss Landon, do not toy with my curiosity any further, I beg of you. I am positively expiring with the need to know how you come to be wandering in Fair Mirramay, and in such company.’ His eyes flicked over Sir Guntifer, who drew himself up to his full, impressive height and eyed the Goblin King with distrust.

  ‘It is Isabel’s errand,’ Sophy replied. Isabel hoped that her friend might go on to explain the rest, but she did not. She looked instead at Isabel herself, and informed her by way of an encouraging smile that she expected her to explain her own motive.

  Isabel sighed inwardly. She had always felt a peculiar reticence in addressing Grunewald, for his station combined with his odd manners confused her. There was also the question of what he was, behind the Glamour that shrouded his form. Was he human indeed? Was he Aylir? Was he a goblin himself?

  Furthermore, she had more than once suspected him of flirting with her. Given the circumstances, she could only view this as most impertinent, and rather uncomfortable.

  And now she must contend with the additional obstacle of an audience; composed, too, of such an odd assortment of creatures! And so universally questionable in character! But speak she must. She thrust away the part of her mind that continued to marvel, disbelieving, at the situations she was lately finding herself in, and proceeded to relate her errand to the Goblin King. She spoke quietly, as ever, but it appeared that Grunewald’s presence proved sufficient to quell the more mischievous impulses of his followers; no one interrupted her, or spoke over her. Grunewald himself paid her the courtesy of close attention, only the faintest hint of amusement lurking in his bright green eyes.

  When she had finished, he shifted uncomfortably upon his throne — throwing himself into a still more indecorous posture in the process — and sighed. ‘The Ferryman, eh?’ he said moodily. ‘I see how it is.’ He glanced sharply at Isabel as he spoke, though as she could not fathom the direction of his thoughts nor the intended meaning of this remark, she failed to decipher his expression. ‘I would tell you that he is no fit company for a pair of gentle English ladies, but if I did I would have to disqualify my own self from your fair company, and that would never do.’ He smiled, just at Isabel, and to her annoyance she felt herself blush. This was exactly the worst of him! If only he would stop smiling at her in quite that way, she would be able to feel much more comfortable in his presence.

  ‘Stop flirting, Grunewald,’ Sophy said without ceremony. ‘Poor Isabel does not know how to receive your attentions.’

  Grunewald laughed, a disconcertingly wicked sound. ‘But that is why it is so enjoyable. Such a pretty blush! It is a refreshing change.’

  Sophy waved this away with an impatient gesture. ‘The Chronicler!’ she prompted. ‘Have you seen anyone of that sort around Mirramay? I hardly dare hope that you might have, as it seems to be very much abandoned.’

  ‘Oh, it is,’ Grunewald agreed. ‘Or was, until we arrived.’ He accompanied this reflection with a wicked grin. ‘However, there were some oddities about the Chronicler’s Tower, if my memory does not betray me. If any part of the city has survived the decay of the rest, it might be the Chronicler’s Library. It was protected, you know.’

  Hope flickered to life in Isabel’s heart. ‘Indeed!’ she cried. ‘That is encouraging news. But if it is protected, I suppose it will not be easy to get inside?’

  ‘Very good, Miss Ellerby,’ said Grunewald, in the teasing tone he apparently reserved for her. ‘It will not be easy at all.’ The Goblin King smiled comfortably at Sir Guntifer. ‘What of it, Tree-giant? Do you possess the means to pass the Chronicler’s tests?’

  ‘My purpose is to serve as guide and protector,’ replied Sir Guntifer stiffly.

  ‘In other words, no! I congratulate you all. A more ill-advised plan I have scarcely heard of, and to arrive ill-equipped for the challenges of the adventure as well! It is positively reckless! I had not thought it possible.’ His delighted smile proclaimed that he spoke the
truth, and Isabel frowned. Why should he applaud recklessness? To behave without due thought and caution could only be considered foolish, and she blushed with mortification to realise how correct he was in accusing them of it. The venture had been foolish indeed! But the fault was hers, in having acted impulsively to begin with. Was it allowable if she had done so out of a desire to help another?

  Grunewald’s laughter interrupted these reflections. ‘I see I have disconcerted Miss Ellerby yet again, for how she blushes! But rest assured, my dear: a little recklessness is perfectly necessary, once in a great while. How are you to have any adventures, otherwise?’

  ‘I did not seek to have adventures, sir, I assure you!’ said Isabel with great indignation.

  ‘I can well believe it. I might hazard a guess that your life has been a dull one, thus far? Excepting, of course, the temporary excitement of Miss Landon’s adventure of last year.’

  Isabel opened her mouth to protest against this characterisation of her life, but she was obliged to close it again without speaking. When she called to mind the pattern of her days, she remembered peace and tranquillity, which were by no means bad; common sense and responsibility, which were admirable traits; but she could not help remembering a great deal of dullness as well.

  ‘You are too wise to deny it, I see,’ said Grunewald. His mocking tone had gone; in its place was something that sounded almost sympathetic. ‘These hide-bound Englishfolk! With your customs and your courtesies, your age-old habits and your etiquette! So stifling to the spirit! It amuses me greatly to play in your world from time to time, but only for the pleasure of turning all of your absurd customs upside-down. To watch the blossoming of a spirit, once it throws off the shackles of duty, expectation, and sound good sense! It is a liberating process. Miss Landon has discovered that for herself, to some degree, for here she stands: a proper young lady of England no more, but a citizen of Aylfenhame! A tradeswoman, a crafts-mistress, and (I would wager) happier by far than she would ever have been if she had married some dullard out of England.’ He looked hard at Sophy as she said this, but his gaze soon returned to Isabel. ‘How I wish you could be persuaded to attempt the same, Miss Ellerby! I see a dull future in store for you, and it pains me. To waste such a flower upon such a future would be the greatest of misfortunes.’

  Neither Isabel nor Sophy had any reply to make to this wholly unexpected speech. Isabel could only stare at the Goblin King, lips parted upon a response which refused to form in her brain.

  ‘I see I have been too precipitate,’ Grunewald said with a wave of his hand. ‘I will postpone the part where I invite you to join me in Mirramay and reign over the Goblin Kingdom as my Queen, and proceed post-haste to other matters.’ His mocking tone was back, and the twinkle in his eyes more pronounced than ever. Isabel did not think that he made such a shocking offer with any intention of being taken seriously, but with Grunewald, one never knew.

  ‘Such a wondrous adventure cannot be permitted to end in failure,’ Grunewald continued gaily, and jumped up from his throne. ‘I would see Miss Ellerby retained in Aylfenhame for as long as possible, and therefore, I take it upon myself to assist you.’ He gave a sweeping, flamboyant bow, evidently expecting applause.

  ‘Of course you will,’ Sophy said instead. ‘How could you be expected to resist the opportunity to further any kind of mischief?’

  Grunewald laughed. ‘I do believe Miss Landon is beginning to understand my character, and that is a lowering reflection. To become consistent and even, stars help me, predictable!’ He gave a theatrical shudder. ‘Palchis!’ he called abruptly. ‘Ertof! Yangveld! Instantly, I beg you.’

  Three of the surrounding fae separated themselves from the crowd and presented themselves at Grunewald’s feet. One was a trow, very like the ones that had accosted them upon the road: dark-skinned and small, with overlarge hat and shoes and an oddly-shaped horn carried in one hand. The second was a goblin, slightly taller than the trow and draped in silken garments. His skin was pale for a goblin, only faintly tinted with green.

  The third — Yangveld? — was an ogre, and seemingly female. She was a foot shorter than Sir Guntifer, but still of an imposing size. She was fabulously coiffed and wore an entrancingly beautiful gown made from a rippling, watery green silk.

  ‘Why, Yangveld!’ Sophy cried delightedly. ‘It has been some months, I think, since last I saw you at Silverling! I do hope you are still happy with your gowns?’

  Yangveld grinned toothily, and nodded her great head, making her midnight-black locks bounce. ‘Aye, ma’am, that I am,’ she said in a deepish voice. ‘Tis tricky keepin’ the hems out o’ the mud sometimes, but ‘tis worth it for all o’ that.’

  ‘You have taken very good care of this one,’ Sophy said, casting an approving eye over the pristine silk.

  Yangveld smiled happily. ‘I had Jenny Greenshoes put a Keep-Away charm on it,’ she confided.

  ‘A Keep-Away charm?’ repeated Sophy.

  ‘Aye! Keeps dirt away, an’ other things.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Sophy. ‘Jenny Greenshoes, who is she?’

  ‘She’s the witch o’ these parts. Handy with ‘er charms.’

  Sophy cast a speculative look at Isabel. ‘A witch! Goodness. How wonderful it would be if I could have such a charm cast upon every gown I make! My customers would be very happy, I think.’

  Tafferty, who had apparently slept through most of the past hour’s events, stirred and said sleepily from the back of Isabel’s pony: ‘Oh, yes. Happen I might ha’ forgot t’ mention that t’ thee. Charms an’ the like! Little, useful bits an’ pieces upon the whole; nothin’ much worthy o’ note. But mayhap thou wouldst find such trivial nonsense more t’ thy taste than Cursin’.’ She said this last with disgust, eyeing Isabel with strong disapproval. Upon completing her speech, she laid her tail over her eyes and spoke no more.

  ‘I would very much like to learn it!’ Isabel surprised herself by saying. ‘Indeed, it would be of far greater use to me, and to my friends, than Curses.’

  Grunewald fell to laughing at this, which offended and mortified Isabel in equal measure. ‘You have yet to fully understand your new charge, I think,’ said he to the catterdandy, who sniffed and refused to open her eyes.

  ‘I do not see what is wrong with preferring to do good than to cause harm,’ said Isabel, in the firmest tone she could muster in the face of Grunewald’s mirth.

  He smiled upon her in a generally kind fashion. ‘Nothing at all, to be sure,’ he replied. ‘It is your companion who amuses me, not your own attitude. The catterdandy has never met your like before; of that I am certain.’

  Isabel did not know what to say. Upon a moment’s reflection, she said with at least the appearance of perfect composure: ‘The Chronicler’s Tower?’

  Grunewald grinned at her. Isabel was mildly disconcerted to note that his teeth seemed a little sharper than she remembered. ‘To the Palace!’ he said.

  There followed a flurry of activity as mounts were reclaimed and the party organised behind Grunewald. Isabel, feeling safe once more atop her pretty mare, took the opportunity to admire more of the remarkable city as she followed in the Goblin King’s train. The Palace of Mirramay was easy to identify: Isabel rounded the corner of a narrow, twisting street paved with cobbles and there it was, a honey-coloured magnificence rising high above the elegant pale buildings of the rest of the city. It bore twin spires and corner towers; impossibly large, arched windows in which perfectly clear panes of glass twinkled in the morning sun; and graceful statues set into niches in the walls, depicting beauteous Ayliri and fae in striking poses. As she grew closer, Isabel saw that the Palace was more a complex of buildings than a single structure, all enclosed within high walls. The towering golden gates were open, and the party rode unimpeded into a deserted courtyard.

  Isabel would have been content to linger here for a little while. On either side stretched twin pools of clear, calm waters, blue-green and roseate-lavender respectively; their surfa
ces were abloom with perfect white water flowers. The distance from the gates to the doors of the palace itself was marked by two rows of Elder trees, gold of bark and snow-white of leaf, and decked in flowers of heavenly aroma. Isabel marvelled at it all, but she had little opportunity to enjoy it, for Grunewald set a smart pace up to the great doors, where he reined in the curious green-skinned horse he was riding.

  ‘There is the Chronicler’s Tower,’ he said, pointing to the southeasterly spire rising far above their heads. Isabel frowned, shading her eyes against the sun. It was difficult to be certain, for the tower was a long way above, but she thought that the windows were wide open. Did that suggest continued habitation, or the opposite?

  Grunewald spun abruptly and strode away in the direction of the palace doors. Isabel and Sophy hurried to keep pace with him, though they could not quite keep up. As such, they were some steps back when Grunewald stopped abruptly in the doorway.

  ‘What is it?’ Sophy cried as they drew level with him.

  He made no answer. Instead he drew himself up, seeming to gain three inches in moments as he drew in a great breath. Then he let forth a vast, bellowing cry which echoed off the walls of the palace. There were words contained therein, but in no language Isabel could understand. The words twisted and coiled oddly, simultaneously hissing and booming in the mouth of the Goblin King.

  Isabel clapped her hands over her ears, hating the dark sounds. When Grunewald stepped forward and disappeared into the palace, she followed, but reluctantly. What manner of occurrence had prompted such a cry? She stepped over the threshold, and saw at once.

  Darkling fae swarmed the grand hall of the palace. They had probably covered the floor, moments before, but it was as though the King’s cry had physically blown them backwards, for they now clustered in a great, cringing horde at the rear of the hall. Trows and goblins they were, for the most part, with imps and hobs mingled in, and numerous others to which Isabel could put no name.