“But this one’s blue. T’ other one was pink wif yeller bits.”
“Trees come in all colours around here.”
“Why?”
They had been travelling through the forest for a while. The trees were coloured in various shades of blue, green, red and purple, covered only by a light scattering of snow. The colour scheme was due to the Glimmer, an event in the not-so-recent past which nobody liked to talk about, particularly Kassa.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Kassa.
“We don’t talk to Kassa about multi-coloured trees,” said Daggar, almost cheerfully. “She gets upset.”
Kassa glared at him. “You keep your mouth shut.”
“An’ wassat?” The urchin was gesturing up at other tree.
“Griffin…” she warned, tiring of the game.
“Yuh, but wassat in the tree?”
Kassa looked up. A little silver light was weaving merrily around the branches of a purple she-oak, without any apparent purpose. “Actually, I’m not sure. Probably magic.” Magic was never a surprise in Mocklore, and usually more trouble than it was worth.
“Dead neat,” Griffin said solemnly. “Can we have grub yet?”
They stopped to eat under the tree with the sparkling silver light in it. Daggar kept looking up, as if the little light was twinkling at him personally.
Kassa dozed against the tree for a while, but jumped with a start when the silver light bounced gently against her nose. “Oh!” Daggar and Griffin seemed to have wandered off. She was all alone with a psychopathic light bulb.
She moved quickly, scrambling to her feet. As she turned around, she bumped nose to nose with a buxom blonde in a green dress with a very low-cut bodice. “Wotcha,” said the stranger. Then she peered more closely at Kassa and grinned evilly. “Score! A songwitch!”
Service to one of the Lordlings was the best position a warlock could get. Fredgic hardly had to do any magic these days, except for card tricks to entertain at parties. To become a qualified warlock, you had to train at the Polyhedrotechnical for eight years, completing an Advanced Degree in Highly Improbable Arts. By the time of qualification, the resulting graduate tended to be both extremely well educated and heartily sick of magic. A job as court warlock was ideal, although qualifications (or, indeed, intelligence) was not a major requirement.
The Lordlings actually did a lot more about running the Empire than it was generally believed. Each of them was responsible for a city-state, which generally consisted of one major population centre and most of the boring bits that surrounded it. As Lordlings tended to inherit their posts rather than working to achieve them, the efficiency of the Empire largely depended on how good the Lordlings happened to be at picking staff. Lordling Rorey luckily had a very efficient administrative staff (Dilys and the tea-lady) which meant that he hardly had any work to do at all. Skullcap had very few skirmishes with other city-states, as it was too difficult to get past the mountains in order to attack. All in all, the Lordling’s position (and that of his warlock) was very cushy indeed.
Fredgic’s duties were quite simple. He had to listen when the Lordling talked about new regulations and laws he was imposing (but usually forgot about later), and he was sometimes called upon to play croquet. The rest of his time was his own, which was useful because Fredgic had a very time-consuming hobby. He collected exotic diseases.
“Hmm, yes,” said the Lordling as his court warlock approached. “Freesia. There you are. These mallets are a bit short, don’t you find?”
“That’s because we ran out of flamingos, Lord,” said Fredgic comfortingly. “We’re on the pigeons now.”
“Hmm,” said Lordling Rorey, peering at the reproachful bird in his hand. “See what you mean. Have to do something about stapling some together. Or the rack, perhaps. That might help stretch ’em a bit. This just won’t do.”
“We have a new batch of flamingos due in next week, lord,” Fredgic assured him, and then sneezed.
“Hmm,” said the Lordling. “Poorly, are you?”
“I think it’s Narachidnius Syndrome, Lord,” said Fredgic proudly. “I expect my arms and legs to be dropping off at any minute. It’s very rare, you know. Usually only apple trees infested with black willow-tongued spiders get it.”
“Hmm,” said the Lordling, not paying attention. “Well done, Freda. Now, I’ve got some very important business for you.”
“You have, Lord?” sneezed Fredgic in surprise.
“Hmm, of course I have, by Juniper. It’s those pirates. I won’t have it.”
“You want the pirates exterminated, Lord?”
“Hmm, good gravy, no! They’re doing that themselves, don’t you know? Brought in a shipwreck full of dead ones a while back. Just not good enough.”
“It isn’t?”
“Hmm, of course not. Use your loaf, man. There wasn’t a single gold bullion to be seen. Pirates are supposed to have treasure. There just aren’t enough, wot?”
“Not enough treasure, lord?”
“Hmm, not enough pirates! By Jelliwinks, it’s just not good enough. I want you to get some for me to supervise personally. I’ll soon whip ’em into shape. Have ’em raiding and pillaging and getting together a proper hoard. That’s what piracy’s all about!”
“You want me to find some pirates for you,” said Fredgic carefully. This sounded too much like hard work.
“Hmm, wot?” said the Lordling, his attention now taken up by the pigeon in his hand, and how it could be turned into a working croquet mallet. “Hmm, yes, get on with it, man. Perhaps if I skewered several on a long stick. Hmm, you there! Jester! Fetch me a long stick!”
The pigeon looked distinctly unhappy with the situation.
“I’m not a songwitch,” protested Kassa. “I’m not any kind of witch.”
The buxom blonde pulled a face. “You think I don’t know a witchy when I see one? Next you’ll be telling me your mother was no witchy, and your grandmother, and your great grandmother!” She waggled an accusing finger. “You’re keeping secrets, ladybird.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” insisted Kassa, turning away.
But suddenly the blonde vanished from behind her and appeared in front of her. “Oh, no you don’t, milady.”
“Leave me alone!”
“Now, what kind of guardian sprite would I be if I did that?”
Kassa was taken aback. “But guardian sprites are supposed to guard witches…”
“Funny, that, isn’t it,” grinned the sprite. “Almost as if you were a real witch. See you soon, ladybird!” And she vanished.
It was only then, blinking herself awake, that Kassa realised she had been dreaming. A curious odour wafted past her nose. “What do I smell?” she muttered sleepily.
“Food bein’ cooked,” replied Daggar. “Thought you wouldn’t recognise it.”
“You mean you can cook?”
Daggar laughed in a rapid bark. “Do me a favour, Chief. It’s the anklebiter.”
“Griffin?” Kassa looked towards the fire, and saw her pet urchin solemnly stirring a stew in her little cauldron. “Oh. I knew there was a reason to bring him along.”
After eating, they moved on. In the oak tree, a silver light flickered and suddenly a buxom blonde sprite was sitting on the high branch, watching the travellers depart. “So you think you’re no songwitch?” she muttered smugly to herself. “We’ll see about that, ladybird.”
6
Camelot
Goblins like dark, damp places. Small caves are best, but there are never enough small caves because there are so many goblins. So they all squish together, grumbling, muttering, sharing menacing silences and smelling like dirt.
From their holes in the ground (and the rocks and the trees), goblins watch the world. They can’t see out, but that doesn’t matter, because goblins can see in. Into every room, through every wall, over every mountain. Goblins don’t need windows to watch the world.
At that moment
, they were watching Kassa Daggersharp.
Kassa, concealed modestly behind a large bush, was changing her dress. Crossing rivers valiantly was one thing, but squishing around in wet clothes for the rest of the day was something else entirely. When she emerged, Griffin had a fire going. The urchin had developed a habit of lighting fires every time they stopped for more than five minutes.
With her hair still damp from the river they had fallen in, and with the promise of a cool evening hanging wetly in the air, Kassa was quite pleased to have the little lickering flames burning in the ring of stones.
“Night falls quickly when yer out in the landscape,” noted Daggar gloomily.
“You don’t like nature much, do you?” said Kassa.
“I got nothing against eating salad if it’s put on me plate,” said Daggar in a wounded voice. “Got no problem with trees and stuff outside either,” he added in a muttered voice. “I just don’t see why I have to be outside with them.”
Griffin was cooking again.
“These mushrooms are very good,” said Kassa, tasting from the cauldron. “What did you do to them?”
“Cooked ’em!’ said the urchin proudly.
“See, Kassa,” said Daggar knowingly. “It works with meat, too. You should try it sometime.”
“I can cook,” said Kassa. “I just choose not to. Anyway, I don’t see you lifting a ladle, except to stuff more in your face.”
“True enough,” said Daggar cheerfully, holding his bowl out for seconds. “But then, I’m not a…” The word ‘girl’ froze on his lips.
Kassa’s expression could only be described as dangerous. “Well?”
Daggar clamped his mouth shut and kept it shut for a long time.
The night got darker and colder. The moon rose, and Daggar was very depressed to notice how much it had waned. At this rate, it would be less than two weeks until the next full moon…and retirement.
They were camped by the slope which became the cliff which formed the first of the Skullcap Mountains. “We have to climb them?” said Daggar doubtfully.
“I imagine so,” replied Kassa. “What’s the matter? You wanted to run away from Dreadnought. I thought you would feel safer on the other side of the Skullcaps.”
“I would love to be on the other side of the Skullcaps,” said Daggar in a heartfelt tone. “But I’d rather get there without having to climb anything. Can’t we go by the road?”
“Not if we don’t want to be caught and executed,” snapped Kassa. “Use your head.”
The Skullcaps appeared menacing in the moonlight, which was their job. However, they also looked strangely alive. Dark caves made an intimidating pattern across the face of the closest rock formations. There hadn’t been any caves there when they arrived.
“Lots of perils in the Skullcaps,” said Daggar in a foreboding voice. “Goblins and those flaming sprites. Firebrands. Very nasty. And trolls, probably. You always get trolls in mountains. Blowing things up all over the place, and building trapdoors that lead nowhere but down. Big hairy whatsits with teeth. Predatory birds looking for munchies. And I know for a fact that half the Profithood visit the Skullcaps for their holidays, just to play with the passing bandits. Hermits too, up there. A menace, always muttering things and playing tricks. Willow wisps, those lights that lead you off cliffs. One of them bit me once, and I wasn’t even in a forest, I was in a rose garden. And then there’s the Hidden Army…”
Kassa had to stop him there. “Daggar, everyone knows that the Hidden Army have never existed. They’re a myth. There is no such thing.”
There was a sound almost exactly like a portable cave moving into range. Moments later, a crossbow bolt zizzed past, pinning a lock of Kassa’s hair to a nearby tree.
“Don’t move,” said a ringing voice.
Kassa had already frozen still.
“Hah,” said Daggar, unsurprised.
A woman stepped into the circle of pale firelight. “Footcrusher,” she said crisply.
Since she was into descriptions, Daggar introduced himself helpfully as, “Coward.”
The Footcrusher woman dismissed him with a sniff, and stepped towards Kassa. “You have something in your possession which belongs to me,” she said in an unemotional but menacing voice. “I believe it is in the form of a gargoyle. Give it to me.”
“No,” said Kassa.
It was only then that the shadows moved, and Kassa became aware that she was not just facing one crossbow-wielding person.
There must have been nearly a hundred of them. She could feel their proximity, even if she couldn’t see them all. She dimly remembered a moment from her childhood, when Bigbeard had given her some rare fatherly advice: “Never say you don’t believe in fairies. Dozens of the little sods will turn up all over the place, and then you’ll be sorry.” The same, she imagined, applied to the Hidden Army of Mercenaries.
“May I rephrase my answer?” she requested politely.
Fredgic the warlock did not like trees. It was bad enough that they were such unhealthy creatures that even the smallest sapling had more exotic diseases than he could contract in a lifetime. He wouldn’t object to that quite so much if they didn’t keep going on about it. Being a warlock, Fredgic was exceptionally attuned to magic and exceptionally unattuned to nature. This meant that trees usually left him alone. But these trees, the Glimmered ones that hung around the Skullcaps, had more to do with magic than nature. Not that the two things are not exactly the same when you get right down to it.
In the aftermath of the Glimmer, a hideous magical catastrophe which had nothing to do with any warlock, no matter what anyone said, the trees of the Skullcaps had contracted the most exotic disease of all. Communication. And despite the fact that he was a mere warlock, Fredgic was still a magical human and therefore eligible for the forest to communicate with.
And communicate they did. They hummed. They tootled little songs at him. They shared fungus-in-law jokes. And because a warlock was the closest thing the Skullcap forest had to a tree surgeon, they confided all of their medicinal complaints to him.
Seething with jealousy as every purple alder, pink spiny-tipped hoak or gold-leaved swaxzleberry tree described its unusual dyspeptic bark rash or hacking acorn-grout, Fredgic stomped along a particularly hazardous ridge of the third Skullcap mountain. He didn’t even bother to cough or sneeze, because his petty viruses were nothing to the luxurious unhealthiness of the trees. He had never felt so inadequate.
Of course, Fredgic could have vanished himself to the location of the nearest pirate band, but that would involve doing magic and he saw no reason to resort to such measures unless sorely provoked. He would rather put up with the dizzying heights of the deadly mountains, and the smugness of the trees.
Anyway, to capture a band of pirates he would have to be dastardly clever. Since he wasn’t dastardly clever, he had decided to give himself lots of time to think up a plan.
Then, on the breeze that whistled through his woolly hat, he heard a word. Pirates…
“Pirates?” said Zelora Footcrusher, amused. She looked Daggar up and down sceptically. “Are you sure?”
Kassa bristled. “We are the Daggersharp Pirates.”
“We are?” said Daggar, who had never been introduced to himself as such.
Zelora smiled, showing a mouthful of sharp little teeth. “Not the Daggersharp pirates of Vicious Bigbeard, the most fearsome Pirate King of the seventeen seas?”
“They’re all dead,” said Kassa shortly.
Zelora Footcrusher did not seem peturbed. “So they are,” she said calmly.
Her second-in-command, a hairy young man called Singespitter, nudged her eagerly with his bony elbow. “You don’t think they’re Barechin Tim’s gang of…”
“No, we are not!” said Kassa sharply. “We are a new crew of Daggersharp pirates. New and improved.”
“We don’t have a ship yet,” Daggar added helpfully.
“Minor detail,” snapped Kassa.
“
So you’re pirates?” said Zelora with a smirk. “All both of you.”
“Two and a half,” said Daggar. “We had an urchin, but we seem to have mislaid it.”
Griffin emerged from behind an orange tree, holding a saucepan. “Sorry, Chief, but I didn’t want the mushies to burn.”
“Don’t call me Chief,” said Kassa automatically, feeling that she was fighting a losing battle.
“Who is this?” demanded Zelora scornfully.
The small urchin bowed neatly and doffed an imaginary hat. “Gracious lady, I am Griffin, son of Camelot.”
Kassa frowned. Such lordly gentility was not what she’d come to expect from this particular brand of professional urchin.
“Not Baron Camelot of Eaglesbog, legendary knight of knights?” inquired Singespitter enthusiastically.
“My old dad, a Baron?” said Griffin disbelievingly. “I don’t think so.”
“Was he, then, Camelot the spy?” inquired Zelora in a cool, ringing voice. “We have never met, but he is currently in my employ.”
Griffin grinned widely and lapsed back into urchin-speak. “My dad? Nah. He wuz Camelot the street-hawker.” There was a brief pause, while Griffin replaced the imaginary cap on his head. “I’m Camelot the spy,” he said modestly.
By Fredgic’s calculations, the pirates were now in the cave below. And although he was not dastardly clever, his calculations were usually pretty close to being accurate. He hung suspended immediately above the cave, ready to swing in, capture the pirates with his clockwork net and have it away back to Skullcap where he would be met with praise, gifts and wild applause. He took a deep breath, sneezed twice, and counted slowly to three. “One, two, thr-ungh!”
It should have worked. It was a neat little plan which involved no magic whatsoever. It would have worked, if only the cave hadn’t relocated itself during his count.
As a matter of fact, the cave had only moved about four tree-widths aside, but it was more than enough to squish Fredgic’s plans. The warlock slammed face first into the rock-face and, whimpering uncontrollably, vanished himself back home to recuperate. So much for not using magic.
Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles) Page 6