Marshling whistled. “That Queen Bluebell said he was Gracie Gillypot’s troll. And the queen’s in the palace. Maybe Gracie is, too. Come on, Gubble.” And he set off once more, arm in arm with Gubble. Marlon sighed with relief and zoomed after them.
“Wow!” Bobby sounded admiring. “That boy knows what he wants, doesn’t he?”
Saturday nodded agreement. “He wants to see the king and the prince, like. I told him they was all swelled up . . . Oh, Bobby! Whatever shall we do?”
Bobby was still staring after Marshling. “I think we should go, too,” he decided. “I’ve never seen a troll that close before. If it’s a good one, do you think it might get rid of that horrible Mercy Grinder?”
“Oh!” Saturday clasped her hands together. “Oh! That would be wonderful! Come on!”
Even at first glance, Queen Bluebell could see things were not as they should be: the floors were unscrubbed, and a bucket was lying on its side in a pool of dirty water. With a loud “Hmph!” she headed toward the dining room. Striding through the doors, she was astonished to see her old friend King Horace up to his whiskers in chocolate mousse, while Prince Tertius was sitting under the table eating spaghetti Bolognese with a teaspoon. Both the king and the prince were enormously swollen; when they saw the queen, they grunted a welcome but went on eating.
Marcus, crouched low outside the window, looked around at Gracie and saw she was as alarmed as he was. Alf began to shake, and Great-Uncle Alvin twitched.
“Really!” Queen Bluebell the Twenty-eighth of Wadingburn drew herself up to her full height. “Whatever is going on here? And what’s that?” Her eye had fallen on Carrion, who was observing her with an unwinking eye from the back of a chair. “Shoo! Shoo, you horrid thing!”
“The bird’s all right.” The king was talking with his mouth full. “Belongs to our cook. Mercy Grinder. Fabulous woman. Fabulous! Couldn’t do without her.”
“Quite right.” Tertius’s sleepy voice floated up from under the table. “She’s a wonder. Don’t know where she came from, but she’s a wonder, ain’t she, Daddy-o? And all she wants is for us to write our names on a piece of paper so she can keep them safe forever and ever. She’s a . . . a . . . haughtygraph hunter. Hunts haughtygraphs. Told us she’s got hundreds and thousands of . . . of haughtygraphs. Just waiting for ours . . . ours and Feddy’s. Darling Feddy. She’ll be down for her brekkie soon. And when we’ve signed, we’re going to have cherry tart and raspberry custard and ice cream and —”
“What piece of paper?” There was a steely note in Bluebell’s voice, and Carrion slid from his perch. With a couple of wing beats, he was out of the dining room, and seconds later he was in the kitchen.
Old Malignancy looked up, his huge shapeless body quivering with suppressed excitement. “The princess? Is she there?”
“Nope.” Carrion shook his head. “But another royal’s arrived. Better get some tea and cookies up there, pronto. She ain’t the chocolate-mousse type, and she’s asking awkward questions.”
Snatching the parchment off the table, Old Malignancy smoothed it with long, trembling fingers. “Fate is on my side, Carrion. It seems we can do without the troublesome princess. The third signatory has been delivered! Once the document is signed, I can step out as my own true self, and the laws of the Five Kingdoms will fall away.” He gave a self-satisfied chuckle. “And the power of the web will be broken forever, broken because of my incomparable skills and superlative cunning —”
“You ain’t there yet,” Carrion said sharply. “And if you don’t get that old bag sorted out pretty soon, I’d say she was the type to call out the army.”
Old Malignancy gave him a cold look but went to the cupboard and took out a plate of sugar buns — just as the twins came tumbling in, grinning from ear to ear.
“She’s gone, Granpappy! She’s gone! Saturday Mousewater — we’ve got rid of her forever and ever and EVER!”
“Be silent.” The words were quiet, but the twins lost their smiles and stood still as statues in the doorway. Their great-grandfather ignored them as he took the boiling kettle from the fire and arranged a teapot and cups on a tray. “Take this upstairs,” he ordered, handing Conducta the plate of buns. “Make sure these are eaten. All of them, do you hear? Or you will be sorry. Very sorry, indeed.” His eyes glittered. “Carrion, go with them.” He opened his arms in a grandiloquent gesture. “Return and tell me when the time has come to claim my kingdom.”
Globula picked up the tray; moments later she and her sister appeared in the dining room. “We’ve brought tea and buns,” Conducta announced as Globula thumped the teapot down on the table.
Queen Bluebell raised her lorgnette and peered through it, pursing her lips. “That is no way to serve tea! And do you not wear uniforms? Where are your aprons?”
Globula folded her arms and scowled, but Conducta, more cunning, handed the queen a sugar bun on a plate.
Bluebell took it but went on with her questioning. “Where do you come from? Where did you work before?” As she waited for the answer, she took a large bite. At once her eyes began to roll alarmingly, and she lurched into a chair.
Her horrified expression made Globula double up with laughter. “Yah! Old bag!” she jeered.
“Shh!” Conducta pulled at her arm. “She’s got to eat more.”
But she was too late. King Horace reached across the table, helped himself to the remaining buns, and demolished them in three mouthfuls.
“Oops!” Conducta and Globula looked at each other and nodded in unspoken agreement. Sliding past Queen Bluebell, they sank down behind a large sofa at the far end of the dining room. “We can watch what happens from here,” Globula whispered. “And guess what? I’ve got a treat for us!” She patted her pocket and licked her lips.
Carrion, who had observed everything, decided the moment had come to report to Old Malignancy — but he did not have to go far. The billowing figure was already outside the open door. So certain was he of success that he was ready and waiting, a pen and the parchment in his hand. He surged through the doorway; just one glance reassured him that there would be no opposition. King Horace was drooping over his bowl, and Tertius was dozing under the table.
Queen Bluebell hiccuped, then peered blearily around. “Who did that? Rudeness! Such rudeness!”
“Your Majesties,” Old Malignancy said in a voice like an oiled knife, “may I trouble you for your autographs? A kindness for a poor cook, a kindness much appreciated.”
King Horace nodded. Queen Bluebell smiled a lopsided and foolish smile. “Of course,” she said. “Of course.”
Prince Tertius held up his hand. “Whatever you say, Mercy Grinder. Whatever you say. ’S long as we get our yummy, scrummy raspberry custard.”
Carrion gave a raucous squawk of laughter. “Custard! Ark! Five Kingdoms signed away for a bowl of custard!”
On the other side of the window, Marcus gave a stifled gasp and jumped to his feet. Gracie, holding the egg very close, did the same. Together they tiptoed away as fast as they could go, the bats flying above them.
“I’ve got to stop them from signing that paper!” Marcus’s voice was shaking. “The Five Kingdoms are in terrible danger — and I’m going to go in there. I don’t care what that horrible thing does to me; she’s got to be stopped. And you absolutely mustn’t let her get her hands on that egg. Run away, Gracie. Take Hinny, and get away from here. Go to the crones.”
Gracie took a deep breath. “Marcus . . . do you trust me?”
Marcus was surprised by the question. “Of course I do. Why?”
“Well . . .” Gracie hesitated, then said, “I think we should go in there together. There . . . there’s something I must say to that creature. I have to.”
“What?” Marcus stared at her, his mind whirling. “What can you possibly say that’s going to stop this? Gracie, we haven’t got time to argue. I’ve got to go now, or I’ll be too late —”
Gracie put her hand on his. “Please, Marcus. Just
trust me.”
Marcus went on staring at her. He was a prince of the Five Kingdoms; it was his right to defend them. Every bone in his body was aching to fight, to take action . . . but it was Gracie who was standing in front of him. Gracie, who was looking at him with her clear blue eyes and asking him to trust her. “OK,” he said, and swallowed hard. “OK. Say what you have to. But we have to get there before they sign anything, so come on! RUN!”
And they ran.
King Horace, Prince Tertius, and Queen Bluebell did not hear Carrion. They watched with glazed expressions as Old Malignancy, already smiling a triumphant smile, billowed his way across the floor. As he heaved his enormous body toward King Horace, the door leading to the royal apartments burst open, and a shrill voice exclaimed, “Terty! How dare you give me an empty box of chocolates! I thought you were sorry for being such a greedy horrible pig — and you weren’t! You’re mean, and I hate —” Fedora stopped as she took in the scene in front of her. “You’re eating AGAIN? And why’s Mercy Grinder here? What’s going on?”
Old Malignancy turned, and the force of his cold stare made her catch her breath and stagger against the wall. “Leave us!” he hissed. “Little fool. Leave us!”
“Oh! I say!” Tertius, despite the numbing gray fog that filled his head, gave a muffled cry of protest. “That’s my darling Feddy you’re talking to!”
“Dearest Terty! You’re so brave! Save me!” Fedora flew across the room and hurled herself under the table and into her beloved’s arms.
Old Malignancy rolled forward, his grossly swollen body now half filling the room. “Sign,” he ordered, and he handed King Horace the parchment and pen. “Sign!”
King Horace obediently took the pen and parchment and signed his name.
“Just a minute!” Gracie was standing in the doorway, Marcus close behind her.
Old Malignancy swayed around with an echoing roar of anger, but when he saw Gracie, he was suddenly silent. “A Trueheart,” he hissed. “If I’m not much mistaken, it’s a Trueheart. Well, Trueheart, you are fortunate. Very fortunate. You will see me restore the Five Kingdoms to their rightful state . . . a state of Evil. Enjoy, Trueheart. Enjoy!” He turned back to the table and pushed the parchment in front of Queen Bluebell. “Sign!”
As Queen Bluebell the Twenty-eighth of Wadingburn drowsily lifted her hand and did as she was told, Gracie took an urgent step nearer. She was finding it difficult to breathe, and her heart was racing in her chest; her mouth was dry with fear, but she forced herself to speak. “Wait! I’ve something to offer you. Leave the Five Kingdoms, and I’ll give you this.” She opened her cloak and held up the dragon’s egg, desperately hoping her shaking hands would not let it slip. “A dragon’s egg in return for the Five Kingdoms. What do you say?”
“Gracie!” Marcus was aghast. “Gracie! Stop it! You can’t!” He reached for the egg, but Gracie moved away from him.
Old Malignancy studied the prince and grunted with satisfaction as he saw that the horror on Marcus’s face was real and unfeigned. A fierce anticipatory fire blazed in his eyes, and he held out his hand. “Give me the egg.”
“Not until you tear up that document.” Gracie did not move.
There was a long silence, and then Fedora spoke from under the table. “You should do as she says, ’cause I’m never going to let my darling Terty-pops sign your horrid paper. So there!”
Old Malignancy said nothing, but the look he gave Fedora made her squeal and hide her face in Tertius’s chest.
“Tear up the document,” Gracie repeated.
Old Malignancy picked up the parchment and tore it in half, then again and again, and scattered the pieces on the floor.
“The egg is yours,” Gracie told him, and with a little sigh, she placed it in Old Malignancy’s outstretched hands.
At once he began to laugh — a hideous, mirthless sound that made icy shivers run up and down Marcus’s spine. “A Trueheart? You are no Trueheart. You are only a fool! Do you not know that now that I have the egg in my hands, I have more power than you can ever oppose? I need no document now. The Five Kingdoms are mine to take — mine, mine, MINE!” And Old Malignancy raised his massive arm.
Marcus leaped forward with a yell, but Gracie stayed very still, and the blow, when it reached her, fell lightly on her shoulder.
And it was Old Malignancy who shrieked, shrieked so loudly that the chandeliers shattered into a thousand tiny fragments of glass, and the whole room glittered as if spread with fallen stars. “Tricked!” he screeched, and dropped the egg as he made another lunge forward, only to be held back by the folds of his own flesh as his monstrous body deflated and sank toward the floor. “Tricked!” A puzzled expression crossed his doughy face as he glowered at Gracie. “But a Trueheart cannot lie. . . .”
“It wasn’t a lie,” Gracie said sadly. “It is a dragon’s egg. Truly. But it’s dead. That egg will never, ever hatch.”
Old Malignancy closed his eyes and began to breathe in short panting gasps. The hanging flesh and the sagging bags of skin quivered and shook, then began to shiver and shrink, and as Marcus and Gracie stared, it became horribly obvious that he was returning to his original shape.
All of a sudden, his eyes snapped open. “Don’t think you’re done with me yet,” he hissed. “Face me out, Trueheart! Face me out! Evil against truth and goodness . . . who will win?” And he looked deep into Gracie’s eyes.
Gracie looked straight back. She could feel the strength of his gaze; whirling dark thoughts spun into her mind, thoughts of unkindnesses, slights, cruelties . . . but she kept them at bay as best she could.
Old Malignancy took a step forward, and Alf twittered anxiously from a curtain rail. “You can do it, Miss Gracie,” he squeaked. “You can do it!”
Gracie heard him, but Old Malignancy increased the force of his stare, and she had no choice but to concentrate on him and him alone. Shadows floated around her, memories of her unhappy childhood, memories of a lonely cold cellar, of shouting, of harsh beatings . . .
“Don’t give in, Trueheart!” But Great-Uncle Alvin had a tremor in his voice — and Old Malignancy heard it.
“See her falter,” he whispered. “See her fail. . . .”
“But she won’t!” Marcus stepped forward and stood firm at Gracie’s side. “She’s a Trueheart through and through. She’ll never fail.”
Gracie took a long deep breath. “That’s right!” she said. “Never!” And she opened her eyes wide and gave Old Malignancy one of her most beaming smiles.
He blinked, the tension between them broke, and with an agonized cry of defeat, the figure sank into a sodden, shapeless mass. “Carrion!” he called, but there was no strength in his voice. “Carrion!”
The crow flapped down, clicked his beak as he inspected his master, then shook his head. “No honor among the wicked,” he said cheerfully. “Had yer chance and lost it.” And he retreated to his chair and began to preen his feathers.
“My little cankerettes! Where are you?”
The twins came out from behind the sofa, their faces smeared with chocolate.
“Help me! Help your dear old granpappy, my little dears,” Old Malignancy begged. “Do what you do best, little cankerettes. . . . Whistle and spit for me. Whistle and spit. . . .”
Conducta and Globula stood and gazed at their great-grandfather, their faces completely unmoved. Then they looked at each other.
“Those chocolates you made,” Conducta said accusingly. “They were disgusting!”
“Revolting!” Globula agreed. “Just like ashes!”
Old Malignancy began to tremble with the faint echo of a terrible anger. “Mousewater,” he whispered. “There is Mousewater in you yet . . . and I cast you from me!”
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Globula folded her arms. “We cast you out! We’re going home to Mother.”
“That’s right!” Conducta stamped her foot. “Maybe it’s not so bad being a Mousewater. Well, at least a bit of a Mousewater. At least we�
�ll never end up like YOU!” She leaned forward and stuck out her tongue. “Do you know what you are, old Granpappy Canker? You’re a failure — and we don’t like failures.” The twins linked arms, and with a toss of their heads, they marched out of the dining room, slamming the door behind them so hard that the walls shook.
Old Malignancy moaned and dragged his sagging body across the floor. With one last heave, he hauled himself up, crashed through the window, and slithered into the sunshine. There was a low keening wail that flowed on and on and on; at long last, it grew faint and faded into silence.
Alf, still on his curtain rail, gave a startled squeak. “Worms! Miss Gracie — that thing’s turned into worms!”
Alf was right. The gargantuan white body had vanished; the white clothes were strewn empty over the grass, and wriggling out from underneath were long white worms that twisted and squirmed before vanishing deep into the earth.
Back in the dining room, there was a remarkable change in the atmosphere. King Horace yawned and rubbed his eyes. Queen Bluebell hiccuped, apolo-gized, and sat up straight with the air of someone who has fallen asleep without meaning to and who is likely to challenge any accusation that her eyes ever closed. Fedora and Tertius stayed under the table; Tertius was kissing Fedora’s nose, and she was giggling happily.
“Wheeee!” Alf zigzagged down to land on Gracie’s shoulder. “You did it, Miss Gracie! You did it!”
“That’s right. Well done.” Marcus sounded strained. “Well done, Gracie.” He paused, then said stiffly, “You could have told me the egg was addled.”
Gracie sighed. “No, I couldn’t. Dear Marcus — don’t you see? If I had, you would never have tried to stop me, and that . . . that thing wouldn’t have believed me. And then it would have won.”
Marcus grunted. “I could have pretended to try and stop you. I’m not entirely useless, you know.”
He was rewarded with a smile. “You’re anything but useless! If you hadn’t come to stand beside me, I’d never ever have been able to keep going. And you did it even though you were cross with me, and that made it all the better.” Her cheeks were very pink as she went on, “And do you know what? That was the action of a real Trueheart.”
The Flight of Dragons Page 13