by J M Sanford
Then the clock on the wall stopped ticking, and Scarlet stopped and stared at it again, her mouth open and her eyes wide. A moment later, the hands began to turn clockwise, faltering at first but soon picking up to a normal speed. “All right, time to go now,” she urged, shepherding the girls and the black griffin towards the door. “Quickly now, before Mister Morel comes back and finds us all here!” She ran off with Amelia and Bessie following, while Sable ran the other way, silver bells tinkling.
~
Scarlet swore she knew the quickest, safest way out of the palace, although it meant another trip through the dungeons, and out through the waterworks. Amelia thought she'd almost be glad to see the dark abandoned dungeons again, compared to the first leg of their escape, through the palace, with the golems alert now to the presence of the escaped prisoners. But first, there was the matter of the prince's other prisoner.
As might be expected, Bessie resisted Amelia's plan to rescue Rose before they saved themselves. “We don't have time,” Bessie protested. “We have to get as far away as we can before seven o'clock, remember?” She didn't stop walking, keeping up a respectable brisk pace despite her short stature, and Amelia struggled to keep up, soon out of breath.
“But it would be murder to leave her here, knowing what's going to happen!” said Amelia. Stripped of the magic that held it a thousand feet in the air, the countless tons of rock would remember their true nature, and Ilgrevnia would plummet to earth. “Scarlet, can you do anything to get that poor girl to safety?”
As a servant, Scarlet had a good chance of going anywhere within the palace walls undisturbed, so long as she looked busy enough on some errand or other. “I'll do my best,” she promised, looking dubious.
Then Bessie stopped so suddenly that Amelia almost tripped over her. “Shh!” Bessie hissed. “Somebody's about.”
Bessie must have keener ears than Amelia. The three girls crept along the corridor, all of them under cover of Amelia's trusty invisibility spell, and came out onto a balcony circling a marble-clad atrium that had seen better days. The enormous circular skylight had panes missing or cracked, and dead leaves tumbled through at this time of year. Amelia recognised this place: after their audience with Prince Archalthus, she and Bessie had passed through here on the way to their cell. The gentle murmuring of a fountain was interrupted by a group of footsteps ringing on polished stone, and a girl's voice, growing shrill with impatience. “But you said they would give me my crown! I'm sick of waiting to be queen!” The prince, his bride and their cohort, having discovered the cell with the rival Queens empty, had returned to the palace.
“The prisoners can't have gone very far, Mistress. You know the only escape from Ilgrevnia's a drop of a thousand feet.”
“Those prisoners are our guests!” roared a third voice, echoing around the high chamber. Amelia didn't dare peek over the balcony, and didn't need to. She already knew that voice belonged to Prince Archalthus. The entire atrium fell deathly quiet, interrupted only by the continuous low burble of the fountain, and the laboured breath of the furious dragon prince as he fought to rein in his temper. “Thanks to you,” he growled, “our guests have decided to shun our company most rudely and may it be noted,” he added, his voice climbing erratically, louder and wilder, “that you have yet to offer any explanation as to how they entered Ilgrevnia in the first place, Commander!”
Amelia kept far back from the twirling cast-iron railings of the balcony, shrinking against the wall despite her improved grasp of the invisibility spell. That voice had made her shiver even when it had been calm and smooth as honey. Dragon or no dragon, temper or no temper, wanted or not, Archalthus was her destined White King. He was so close, and Amelia still had the crown, hidden all this time from Bessie… The two of them had been destined for rivalry since long before birth, but even after what had happened in the Archmage's workshop, the thought of betraying her now filled Amelia with a shame that sank its teeth in and refused to let go. Bessie had been trying to do the unselfish thing, after all…
“I'll send men to the docks at once, Master. We'll prepare the flamethrowers. Whatever brought them here will have to land to take them back, and there's only so many places those two can hide in the meantime. They'll be… uh. They'll be enjoying your hospitality again soon enough, Master.”
“They won't!” Archalthus shouted. “I need only my beloved and the Crown. One of those two ungrateful ill-mannered creatures knows where the Crown is hidden. Find out which one, and retrieve it by whatever means necessary.”
“Thank you, Master.” The Commander was just visible from Amelia's vantage point, his silver pocket watch open and ready to give orders. “And then?”
“And then I do not wish to see either of them ever again!” This last ominous instruction echoed up through the cold white chamber, making Rose clap her hands and laugh in gleeful excitement. “Find Scarlet, as well,” the prince added. “Rose must be fitted for her wedding gown.”
Further shouts of delight from the bride-to-be drowned out anything useful Amelia might have heard of Commander Breaker's orders to the golems. She heard fleeting snatches of sentences: something about an aerial search with a griffin; the awakening of all dormant golems; Archmage Morel's name; more talk of flamethrowers – was there any way she could think to warn the wyvern to stay clear of Ilgrevnia's borders, should it return? But she heard more than that: Archalthus and Rose were both talking excitedly of the necessary preparations for the imminent wedding: not only Rose's dress, but the Prince's own attire for the big day; the feast to be held in honour of the newlyweds; what jewels would complement the Dragon Queen's crown…
Amelia could only sink against the wall, breathless and weak in her horror. The prince was planning the perfect wedding, to somebody else, and she had ruined it by absconding with the crown!
Somebody tugged on Amelia's sleeve. “We might have to double back,” Bessie whispered, her voice in Amelia's ear quieter than a breeze through spring leaves. In the atrium below, Prince Archalthus and his giddy bride were returning to more opulent surroundings, but Commander Breaker and two impassive blond men in smart dark clothing stood between the escaped prisoners and the stairwell that led down into the labyrinth. Amelia retreated from the balcony and back into the corridor, Bessie close behind her.
“Oh! I've just had a thought!” Scarlet whispered. “Stay here, I'm going to run and fetch something for you!” She was gone, running towards the balcony, before either Amelia or Bessie could ask her what.
“Wait!” Bessie whispered, loud as she dared. Whatever Scarlet had thought of, surely it couldn't be as important as Ilgrevnia's impending destruction. Bessie darted after her, but hesitated to leave the shadows.
Scarlet ran out onto the balcony, headlong into Commander Breaker coming the other way.
“Easy there, Ginger,” he said, steadying her. “You seen two girls anywhere about the palace? One with long blonde braids and a dim look on her face, and the other a raggedy little sparrow bit in a grey pinafore.”
Scarlet, who hadn't seen Bessie before her flight spell wore off, managed to look genuinely baffled. “Sparrow…?”
“She had feathers. You sure you haven't seen her?”
“Oh, I think I'd remember if I'd seen something like that, Mister Breaker.”
“Never mind. You're wanted in Her Ladyship's private rooms: she'll need a wedding dress.”
“Of course, of course,” said Scarlet, still flustered and struggling to hide her despair. “I'll make her the most beautiful dress you've ever seen. Oh! Perhaps you could fetch me some white feathers? For the dress? Don’t you think that would –”
“No time for that, Ginger. I'm busy. Not long 'til the big day now, and then maybe we can all rest a bit easier.”
Scarlet glanced nervously over her shoulder, but behind her, the darkened corridor was empty: she'd bought the fugitives the time they needed in order to disappear.
24: IN A DARK MIRROR
The captured golem
refused to speak. No threat could cow him; no promise could lure him. Before, the strange gentlemen's faces had been bland as milk; now, his was as wrathful as that of an avenging angel. If there was any fear there, either for his own well-being, or that of his twin left alone on the moor, he'd learned not to show it, to cover it with silent wrath. His loyalty was to the instructions carved into his own stone heart, whatever they might be, and Meg and the others had thwarted him, so he stood chained in the cargo hold of the unfolded Sharvesh, waiting for the soonest opportunity to fulfil his duties, his black eyes burning like coals. Percival, who'd come up with the plan to capture a golem in the first place, couldn't stand to be in the cargo hold with him for long, and Meg began to fear that the creature was more dangerous captive than free. Uneasily, they'd left Greyfell to persuade or threaten the golem into some kind of helpfulness, but after an hour or so of one-sided shouting intermixed with worrying quiet periods, the Black Paladin had grudgingly reported a stalemate.
With no further plan of action, Sharvesh stood at rest, leaning gently against a hillside. The sun dipped towards the horizon, and at a break in the rain, Meg climbed down the rope ladder over the side of the skyship, and down into the valley. Harold was keeping watch for any sign of the other golem returning to rescue or avenge his brother. From the vantage point of the crow's nest, Harold would see anybody approaching long before they could make trouble, and with his strong lungs he'd soon get a warning out. Even so, Percival wouldn't let Meg go out alone, and neither would Greyfell. Meg traipsed across the squelchingly wet grass with her two gallant guardians in tow, reminding them how she'd had to rescue the both of them on at least one occasion each, until she came to a large puddle mirroring an orange and lilac sky. She crouched down at the edge of it, clearing her mind.
“Meg, is that really all you can think to do?” said Percival. “Scrying again? You can put your considerable powers to better use than that.”
“Oh? Such as?”
“What we need the most is more manpower.”
Meg didn't dignify this with a response. Her knees hurt, the hem of her dress was soaking up rainwater, and she was beginning to wish she was the kind of woman vain enough to consider a mirror a travelling essential. It would've made scrying a lot easier.
“Or a diversion, perhaps,” suggested Greyfell. “Sharvesh must not fall to the City's defences, for the sake of the girls.”
Meg had almost – almost – forgotten about the flamethrowers along Ilgrevnia's borders. A diversion could easily be the difference between life and death, but she couldn't afford to be stretched too thin. It cost real physical energy to draw magic from the earth, and her resources were not infinite. She was already dreading the backache which she knew would be waiting for her in the morning, thanks to that trick with the mud… “How about you come up with a diversion,” she snapped, and set back to scrying, feeling coarse and unusually unproud of being a witch, what with Percival and Greyfell watching over her shoulder as she worked this unsophisticated magic. Gusts of wind blew wrinkles into the mirror surface of the water, but gradually it darkened, and began to reveal a place not far away… Dark tunnels echoing with drips, high-vaulted rooms hollow with long years of disuse, places that had the brightness of Amelia's presence fresh in their memory, though she'd moved on since. The images shifted as fast as shapes seen in clouds. Then, in a frustratingly brief glimpse, they saw Amelia. Meg regathered her concentration, the picture growing sharper and steadier. The little Black Queen was with Amelia, looking as if they were complicit in some scheme or other.
“Elizabeth!” Greyfell whispered. “Thank God, she's safe.”
Meg raised her eyebrows at that – the girls could be a lot safer than where they were. “Now, any idea just where in Ilgrevnia that is?” she asked.
“It must be the palace,” said Greyfell at once. “I distinctly saw the City's Keystone through the window behind them, and Main Street behind that.”
Meg questioned his powers of observation, which would have to be bordering on the supernatural to take in all that from the image in a muddy puddle, but Greyfell was adamant: the girls were somewhere in Ilgrevnia's grandest palace. Then the rain started up again and the image in the mirror surface of the water dissolved into countless ever-changing circles.
The three of them returned to Sharvesh. Of course, Meg might have another way of learning more about what was going on in the City far above their heads: as soon as they'd restrained the golem, she'd taken away the enchanted silver pocket watch that he used to report back to his Commander. Now she took it from her bag for another look. Some little while ago it had given out a burst of energy, and later she'd heard a muffled voice within, but so far she'd resisted the temptation to open it, instead holding it to her ear and listening closely. She might spy with it… or it might spy on her… She feared it might do that anyway. Safer by far to throw it down a well, or into a lake. And yet Meg always struggled to get rid of a thing when she sensed some usefulness about it.
She stood on the deck, trying to breathe and be calm. Her heart said they must fly up to Ilgrevnia and rescue Amelia at once. It had been making demands along those lines ever since her first inkling that something had gone wrong, but her common sense warned her that they might interfere with Amelia's own plans. She'd hated to see Jonathan treating her daughter like a helpless weak-minded child, and since Springhaven, she'd done everything in her power to ensure that Amelia grew as rapidly as possible into a strong and competent woman. More than that: a witch. Still… it had been one thing for Amelia and Bessie to venture into the Flying City alone – they'd each been equipped with a means of escape – but Amelia's wyvern mount had turned out more feral than previously thought, and Bessie had failed to use her enchanted wings in time to return to her own companions. The time for hiding had passed. Under cover of darkness Sharvesh would ascend, and they would find and rescue the girls. Percival, Greyfell and Harold took turns to watch Ilgrevnia through a spyglass, debating over their strategy for when they reached the City. Harold donned his full armour, and in the soft warm glow of the end of the day, with the wet timbers of the skyship gleaming, he looked less like an apprentice butcher and more like a fine young warrior from one of those big old paintings in the museums that Percival liked so much. Good thing Amelia couldn't see him like that: she'd get that soppy smile on her face and start giggling and acting like she hadn't a brain in her head…
Meg stomped off towards the cabin for a lie down. Best conserve her energy, if there was to be a battle before dawn. Her bones ached just from churning enough mud to mire a single horse, something she was sure she would have done without a second thought twenty years ago. And the attempt to capture a golem had all been for nothing in the end… She bypassed the cabin and went to the cargo hold, where she sat down on a tea chest and considered the prisoner, furious but silent. She ran through the details of his capture again in her mind, picking at a thread that seemed out of place: the golem gentleman had been unarmed and Harold wielding a sword, with strength and courage if not much actual skill. In that situation she might have expected such a being to pragmatically attempt escape if possible and attack again later, or else to surrender to its logical fate. She'd heard golems were beyond emotion, but it rather looked as if this one had developed some personal feelings, against Harold if nothing else. Percival had a theory that one of the two golems was defective and hiding his imperfections from his master for fear of destruction, and Meg was coming to the conclusion that this could well be the one. Any emotion, even of the mildest kind, might be taken as a fatal flaw in a being intended only to serve its master's desires, and have none of its own. Still, the thought that he might be persuaded to side with them had never seemed more ridiculous than now, and she doubted she could extract any useful information at all from him. But, even if she knew in her heart that she'd wring no blood from this stone, she was desperate enough to try.
“You must be missing your brother by now,” she said. She'd never seen one of
the strange gentlemen alone, after all. “No need to be stoic about it. How do you think he'll get on without you? What good are you to anybody without him?” she taunted him. She felt the heat rising in her blood, knew she should hold her tongue but couldn't stop herself. “What good is he without you? I can't imagine what the Prince will do with one useless half of a pair.”
Nothing.
Meg sighed. Greyfell had tried this before, and probably had more experience of these things, so why should she have any more luck? So the thing had feelings. So what? Trying to turn somebody's feelings against them was like trying to nail a boiled egg to the back end of a bull: difficult, messy, cruel and dangerous all at once. She wondered if the golems could know that she had feelings of her own, much stronger and much more dangerous. More golems might well guard Ilgrevnia, but if they stood between her and Amelia, she'd find a way to destroy them, in their hundreds if need be…
A thud shook the timbers above her head, muffled shouts sounded on deck, then a harsh animal cry, and Meg rushed to see what was going on. The low sun dazzled her as she ascended into orange light broken by a stark angular silhouette. Meg's heart raced, but in the next instant she recognised the wyvern. Ungainly on level ground, it lurched towards Harold, who scratched the creature's neck affectionately, beaming with joy. “Good lad – I knew you'd come back.” Then Harold's look turned serious. The wyvern still wore the makeshift harness that Meg had improvised.