Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles)

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  Daggar plucked the letter out of her grasp and ran over it again. “What’s this stuff about Braided Bones?”

  “You must remember him. He was one of Bigbeard’s crew. The tall one who scared you half to death.”

  “Means nothing,” Daggar mumbled. “The letter says he can explain. So where do we find him, then?”

  Kassa was leaning against the wall with her eyes closed. “This letter was set aside in case my father died suddenly. Obviously he has. The chances are very likely that the Dread Redhead went with him.”

  Daggar’s face froze. “You don’t mean…”

  “It’s a fair assumption that Braided Bones went down with the ship too. It’s not likely I’ll ever find that silver.”

  Daggar dropped to his knees in anguish. “Just kill me, Kassa!”

  “Why is this so important to you?”

  He smiled guiltily. “I’m in a little financial difficulty.”

  Kassa was instantly suspicious. “You want my silver.”

  “Course not,” he protested. “I wouldn’t do that to you. I just want some of yer silver.”

  “It doesn’t matter either way. There is no silver to share out.”

  “Ey, don’t say that. Don’t even think it. I’m sure we can find it, somehow. Maybe we need a crew.”

  “What?” Kassa didn’t sound pleased. “When did we become we? I haven’t invited you yet, Daggar. You’re cute but useless.”

  “I happen to be good at what I do,” said Daggar in an injured tone of voice.

  “If you were any good, you wouldn’t live in a rathole like this.”

  “I like ratholes.”

  “Rats live in ratholes.”

  “Yer in a nasty mood.”

  “I’ve just realised that you’re my only living relative. Do you have any idea how depressing that is?”

  Daggar picked up the gargoyle, turning it over in his hands. “Maybe this has some clue.”

  “I doubt it. My father wasn’t the most subtle of men. He’s not the kind of pirate who leaves complex trails of evidence for people to follow. I’m surprised he bothered to send me a message at all. The gargoyle is probably just something he picked up somewhere.”

  “So why did he tell you not to drop it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he was worried I might stub my toe.”

  Daggar turned the statue over in his hands. “Could be important. Maybe it’s valuable.”

  “Maybe it’s magic and will turn into a djinni if you rub it,” Kassa suggested, peering down the neck of her rum bottle.

  “Hey, that would be worth a lot,” said Daggar eagerly. “Maybe I should rub it.”

  “Rub it, don’t rub it, it’s all the same to me,” said Kassa. “Does this rathole have a bed? I think I want to lie down.”

  Daggar solemnly rubbed the gargoyle, but nothing happened.

  “Maybe it doesn’t like being rubbed,” suggested Kassa. “If some strange man came up and started rubbing up against me, I wouldn’t suddenly get the urge to turn into anything.”

  Daggar put the statue down in disgust. “Why d’you suggest it, then?”

  “Too much rum, and a perverse sense of humour.”

  He pulled her to her feet. “Let’s get you to bed.”

  She leaned against him. “I am going to start feeling very sick, very soon.”

  “Do you want some water?”

  She thought about it. “Yes.”

  Daggar leaned her against the wall and then rummaged in his cupboards. Miraculously, he came up with a water skin within the first few minutes of his search.

  Kassa sipped and made a face. “That’s horrible.”

  “I got it from a well in a good district,” Daggar protested.

  “Why is it unsalted?”

  He looked at her in horror. “That’s disgusting!”

  “You drink salt-whisky, don’t you?”

  “Salt-whisky is an expression, Kassa. It means…cheap, bloody-awful whisky. Drinking seawater is just perverse.”

  She shrugged and handed the waterskin back. “Put some salt in it.”

  Daggar grudgingly added a few pinches of sea-salt to the water and then gave it back to Kassa. She drank greedily.

  “That’s really a horrible habit,” he told her.

  Kassa wiped her mouth. “Once a pirate, always a pirate.”

  “Remind me to find another family.”

  The next day dawned bright and clear. After a long lie-in and a late lunch, Kassa went forth into the marketplace, disgustingly cheerful. “Today we are going to start finding ourselves a crew,” she announced brightly.

  “Do we have to?”

  “I’m going to need more than you, me and a garden gnome. Gargoyle. Whatever.”

  “Then can we go looking for the silver?”

  “Can you please forget about the silver? This all has to be done in the correct order, and the silver is currently right at the bottom of the list.”

  “How can you be so cruel?”

  “Talent,” she replied crisply.

  Kassa’s search for a gang of loyal pirates was unsuccessful, mainly because she kept stopping at haberdashery stalls.

  “Half a goose,” said the merchant when she asked the price of a spool of gold thread.

  “For this?” said Kassa in disbelief. “It’s not worth a soup bone.”

  “That’s real gold, that,” said the merchant firmly.

  “If it’s real gold, why is the paint coming off on my fingers?”

  “That’s your problem,” said the merchant, flatly refusing to haggle. “Half a goose.”

  “Have you heard the latest news, then?” said Daggar in his final attempt to catch Kassa’s attention. “The new Emperor’s a woman.”

  “There’s always a gimmick,” Kassa said dismissively.

  “Oh, you heard about it?”

  “Good luck to her, I say. What do you think of this blue?”

  “It’s blue, Kassa. There’s not much more you can say about it. What about this crew, then?”

  In the face of the coloured threads and the embroidery needles, Kassa seemed to have lost interest in the mission. “What do you expect me to do, buy mercenaries?”

  “You can’t really get away with stealing them, you know. They protest.”

  “A crew can’t be bought. Don’t you know anything? You have to acquire them gradually. They’ll turn up, one at a time. When we least expect it.”

  Daggar was about to reply in the most sarcastic of tones, but he was interrupted by a lithe, dark blond man who leaped over the haberdashery stall, crashed headlong into Kassa and kept running into the crowd, scattering silk threads in his wake. A moment later, four Blackguards followed him, leaving a path of destruction behind them.

  Kassa had a starstruck expression on her face. “Daggar, did you see who that was?”

  “No idea,” Daggar said disinterestedly. “You know I don’t pay attention to the popular minstrels.”

  “That was no minstrel. It was Aragon Silversword.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.” Her eyes were shining. “He’s a legend, Daggar. I used to have a poster of him on my wall. So did all the girls.”

  “Must have been the influence of that posh finishin’ school Bigbeard sent you to,” Daggar grumbled. “I thought he was in prison.”

  “I would say that we just witnessed his escape, wouldn’t you?”

  “Why am I getting a nasty feeling that you want him in yer crew?”

  “Come on,” ordered Kassa, and hitching up her skirts, she began to run.

  Against his better judgement, Daggar followed. “He’s a traitor,” he huffed as he tried to keep pace. “How can you trust our silver with a known traitor?”

  “We don’t have any silver.”

  “I’m not givin’ up hope!”

  Kassa halted suddenly, and Daggar took the opportunity to start breathing again. He was particularly disturbed by the distant sheen in Kassa’s golden
eyes. “Aragon Silversword betrayed an Emperor,” she muttered softly to herself. “He will not betray a Daggersharp.”

  “Clean yer shoes, miss?” A small professional urchin had been hovering close to them for a while, his cleaning rag clutched hopefully at the ready.

  “No thanks,” said Kassa, scanning the marketplace for the fleeing prisoner. Spotting a Blackguard uniform, she started running again.

  Daggar hurried after her. “Yer not serious. Aragon Silversword?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “Thinking’s a dangerous habit.”

  “I know you’ve always thought so.”

  “Beware, songwitch!”

  Kassa stopped so suddenly that Daggar crashed into her back. She turned, slowly. A haggard soothsayer stood motionless, daubed with white symbols and wrapped in ragged cloth, one cracked finger pointing unwaveringly in Kassa’s direction.

  “What did you call me?” whispered Kassa hoarsely.

  “Songwitch!” snapped the old holy woman. “And so you are. Tonight the moon is full.”

  Kassa waited. “And?” she prompted finally.

  The soothsayer sniffed. “Just beware, that’s all.” She spun on one heel, stamping back into the throng of people.

  “Bad news,” Daggar muttered in Kassa’s ear. “Thirty years, and I’ve never once caught the attention of a soothsayer. Guess what—I’m still alive.”

  “It’s all religious claptrap,” said Kassa, but the customary note of assurance was lacking in her voice.

  The Hidden Army didn’t officially exist, which was why they had survived for so long. Mercenaries were illegal in the Mocklore Empire—warriors were expected to die for honour and duty rather than large amounts of ready cash. After all, money was an incentive not to die in the first place. The tribute-paying Lordlings of the city-states denied all knowledge of the Hidden Army of Mercenaries, especially when they were employing them. Many a besieged Lordling had suddenly produced a hundred extra ‘reinforcements’ overnight, all wearing local livery and looking suspiciously like they had been there the whole time.

  The fact that no one seriously believed in the Hidden Army made it that much easier to hide.

  Zelora Footcrusher been in the Hidden Army for twelve years, and already she was the deputy leader’s assistant for K Division. She was expected to reach the rank of deputy leader any minute, but no one talked about that. Ambitious mercenaries were traditionally stepped on from a great height.

  It was Zelora’s afternoon off.

  She managed to swim down to the third level of caverns before the pressure on the back of her throat told her she was running out of air. She relaxed and swam up to the surface, gasping deeply as she emerged. The full moon made vague patterns on the water, glittering like silver against the blue backdrop of the afternoon.

  Some day she would find out the secret of the caverns.

  But not now. There were two sieges scheduled for tomorrow, and she had much to prepare. Besides, there was also a personal matter she had to attend to. Zelora swam with easy strokes towards the shore.

  When Kassa reached the alley, a full scale brawl was going on. Aragon Silversword was fending off four Blackguards with what looked like a jewelled knitting needle. The Blackguards all had curved swords (a fashion started by the last Emperor) and blankly menacing expressions.

  Daggar hung back, hoping that Kassa would be content to watch the melée from afar. He kept hoping, right up to the moment when Kassa picked up a wooden garbage trough and hurled it into the alley. It struck Aragon Silversword in the face, knocking him to the ground.

  The Blackguards looked in surprise at the wild-eyed woman who had just done their job for them.

  Kassa raised her hands menacingly at them. “I am the Dread Redhead Songwitch of Bloody Creek! Leave this place, or I shall cast a thousand curses of blood and gore upon you!”

  Daggar looked away, pretending not to know her.

  The Blackguards did not seem to know what to do next. Their orders had been to leave Aragon Silversword in a battered but unbroken state. This being done, they left the area in an orderly fashion. Kassa smiled in satisfaction.

  Daggar inspected Aragon Silversword. “I think he’s dead,” he announced.

  It was getting dark when Kassa and Daggar got back to the Skids with Aragon Silversword’s body. “For the last time, he is not dead!”

  “Oh, just resting, is he?”

  “All right, he’s unconscious. I accept that he is unconscious.”

  “Because you threw a garbage trough at him.”

  “I’m willing to acknowledge my mistakes.”

  “I just hope this isn’t going to be the regular initiation for crew-members. I haven’t received my near-fatal beating yet.”

  “Stop exaggerating.”

  They carried the body over the threshold of Daggar’s hovel. “Ey,” said Daggar, dropping Aragon’s feet. “When we left this morning, was there a naked pirate on my kitchen table?”

  “What?”

  “A naked pirate on my kitchen table. I think he’s dead too.” Daggar had a nervous habit of seeing corpses everywhere when he felt his own life was endangered. In other words, when he was around Kassa.

  Kassa dropped Aragon’s limp shoulders and moved over to look at the body on the small kitchen table. It was a huge naked pirate, arms and legs everywhere, long black hair dragging on the floor. “I’ve got news for you, Daggar,” she said grimly. “This corpse is snoring.”

  Kassa leaned over and seized the ear of the sleeping man. He awoke with a jerk, rolling off the table with a crash of rotted floorboards.

  “Braided Bones,” she snapped. “You can start by telling me how you managed to break into a profit-scoundrel’s home. Then you can explain why my father is dead.”

  3

  The Art of Traitors

  “Polite, Kassa,” noted the large pirate in a placid voice. “Got that from Bigbeard.”

  Kassa’s hands were on her hips, which only highlighted how much shorter she was than this oversized pirate. “Bigbeard is dead.”

  “Right.” He rose, picking bits of floorboard off his skin. “Got to talk. Where’s the sword?”

  Distracted, Kassa’s hands moved off her hips. “What do you mean?”

  “Long pointy thing. Rubies.”

  “Dad’s prime sword? Why should I have it?”

  Braided Bones looked steadily at her for a moment. “Problem. Anything to drink?”

  As he swallowed the last of Kassa’s rum, the large naked pirate’s eyes flicked towards the body on the floor. “Corpse?” he questioned.

  “Kassa did it,” said Daggar automatically. “Where’s that gargoyle-shaped paperweight, then?” While Kassa had been buying embroidery threads, Daggar had lined up a buyer for the gargoyle, describing it as an ancient Zibrian artefact recently stolen from the Imperial Skirmish Museum. Wars in Mocklore were usually too small to be of any note, but most of the city-states were in a near constant state of skirmish.

  Braided Bones laughed hollowly. “Haven’t figured it out yet?” He paused, frowning at Daggar. “Aren’t you…”

  “Moll’s useless sprog,” Daggar confirmed, handing over a moth-eaten grey blanket. After all, Braided Bones was naked.

  The huge black-haired pirate looked at the blanket and then tossed it over one shoulder. “Remember Bigbeard coming up with good insults about you. See if I can remember them later.”

  “What about the gargoyle, Bones?” Kassa reminded him.

  “First things first,” said the oversized pirate. “Bigbeard betrayed. Redhead’s gone, crew too.”

  “Traitors,” hissed Kassa. “I hate traitors.”

  Braided Bones took another swig. “That bastard Cooper.”

  “Reed?” spluttered Kassa. “How could he? He was just a cabin boy. An apprentice.” She stared at Braided Bones, her golden eyes narrowing. “He was just an apprentice, wasn’t he?”

  “Apprentices inherit,” said Braided Bon
es. “Reckon he got tired waiting.”

  “All right,” said Kassa, sitting down on Daggar’s only decent chair. “Tell me everything. I’ve been gone since Bigbeard sent me off to that bloody finishing school. What have I missed?”

  “Cooper been Bigbeard’s right hand for two years,” said Braided Bones.

  “I thought you were his right hand.”

  Braided Bones had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “Not lately. Cursed.”

  “You’re cursed?” said Daggar warily, keeping his distance.

  Braided Bones ignored him. “Someone gave our position to Red Admirals. Caught by surprise. Then curse kicked in.”

  “What curse?” asked Kassa evenly.

  The large pirate shrugged. “Turned into a gargoyle. Only human at full moon, see. Was fighting battle, then sun rose. Next I know, next full moon. Me on back of courier cart, heading to Dreadnought the long way round. Heard Redhead sunk, all hands lost. Except one, hitched lift with Red Admirals.”

  “Reed Cooper,” said Kassa grimly. “Remind me to kick his head in next time we meet.”

  “Won’t need reminding,” said Braided Bones. “Now we talk about sword.”

  There was a muffled thump from somewhere. “Expecting company?” Kassa asked their host.

  “It could be the Lord Mayor come for afternoon tea,” said Daggar. “But we don’t have a Lord Mayor. Or a teapot, come to that. Shall I answer it, then?”

  “It’s your door.”

  Daggar slouched towards the door.

  “Not door,” said Braided Bones. “Corpse.”

  Daggar peered down at the body of Aragon Silversword. A leg twitched, involuntarily thumping against the wall. “I think he’s still dead,” he reported.

  A hand lashed out, grabbing Daggar’s throat and holding fast. Aragon Silversword’s eyes opened as he tightened his grip. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Where am I? Who hit me? Please answer with speed and precision, I am not a patient man.”

  “Kak!” replied Daggar.

  Aragon released him, and Daggar scrabbled back out of range. Aragon seemed to have no intention of moving off the floor. He looked intently at Daggar for a moment, and then his gaze flicked towards Kassa. “You threw something.”