“I see,” said Ginger Hurdleswitch thoughtfully. “So you found the thug character type easier to portray than the gruff, heart-of-gold copper.”
“Well,” said Nigellius cheerfully. “A change is as good as a holiday.”
The door of Drinkies crashed open, and a small blackguard with curly hair and a dramatic scarf rushed up to them excitedly. “Look at this, boys!” He thrust a piece of parchment at them.
In honoure of ye Royale visit by our neighbours, the King and Quene of Anglorachnis, there shall be helde an Imperiale Garden Party at the Palace. Alle loyale servants of the Lady Emperore are invitede to take parte in the Imperiale Playe Conteste for ye entertainmente of our Royale guests.
“A play contest,” said Ginger slowly.
“We couldn’t, could we?’ said Nigellius. “Tarquin, do you still have that script you were working on?”
“It’s not very good,” said Tarquin Suburbus shyly.
“That depends,” said Nigellius. “Are there guards in it?”
“No.”
“I like it.”
Playing the same kind of character lost its appeal after a while. Being a Blackguard might be steadier work than a Zibrian soap-opera, but a mummer’s got to do what a mummer’s got to do.
It was hours later when Aragon Silversword regained consciousness. Daggar was off somewhere, playing with the treasure. Kassa sat on a gnarled silver mushroom, pretending not to watch Aragon. “You’re awake, then,” she commented.
He touched a hand to his head, and regretted it. “Yes.”
“Feel better, now? More yourself?”
“That depends. Was I always in this much pain?”
“You tell me.” Kassa stood up and shook the creases out of her skirts. “Can I show you something?”
“If you wish.” He got to his feet with the minimum of movement.
“It’s through here,” she said quietly, leading the way through a maze of piles of silver booty. Finally, she stopped.
Aragon looked around a heap of assorted silver gauntlets. After a moment, he saw the skeleton.
She was sitting demurely on a silver-embroidered armchair, her bones bleached white. Due to the laws of drama, the skull still had a full head of long, raven-black hair. A faded black leather eye patch was strung across the face, obscuring one eye-socket.
Kassa reached out and removed the piece of leather thoughtfully. “There was nothing wrong with her eye. There never is, for pirates. It is a tradition lost in the mists of time, which just means habit. No pirate ever thought of not wearing an eyepatch. It’s like a witch’s broomstick.”
“I didn’t think witches really rode on broomsticks,” Aragon said absently.
“They don’t, but it’s the same sort of thing, do you see?”
“No.”
“It’s a symbol, Silversword. It means, here I am, look at me, this is who I am.”
“You don’t wear one.”
“No, I don’t, do I?” She blew dust off the old leather eyepatch and slipped it on, covering her left eye. “Perhaps I should.”
“Who was she?” he asked, not able to take his gaze from the grinning skeleton in an old black dress which had probably once been tight and bustily revealing around the bodice.
“The captain of the Splashdance,” said Kassa Daggersharp. “My mother.”
Aragon paused, because the situation required it. A thought crossed his mind. “But didn’t your father—”
“Of course,” said Kassa. “It was very romantic.”
“He sank her ship?”
“Well, she was trying to sink his,” said Kassa reasonably. “Fair’s fair. That’s the way pirate relationships work. Scupper or be scuppered.” She frowned. “I was sent to school not long after that. Bigbeard didn’t really know what to do with a teenage daughter, pirate or not.”
Aragon sat down on a handy silver elephant. “I have something to tell you,” he said quietly.
“If you like.”
“I am an agent of the Lady Emperor.”
Kassa moved away from him instantly, her uncovered golden eye flashing and her fingers automatically reaching for all handy weapons. The reflexes were still there, even if the weapons weren’t. “What?”
“I am her champion, in fact. More or less.”
The initial shock over, Kassa shook her head slowly. “I don’t believe I didn’t work it out long ago.”
“I half thought you had,” said Aragon mildly.
“Maybe I did,” said Kassa. “Maybe I knew all along who this employer of yours had to be. I just didn’t want to admit it. You’ve moved up in the world if you’re being given the chance to betray Emperors again.” She gazed evenly at him. “You were intending to betray her too, weren’t you?”
“That was the plan,” said Aragon Silversword. “I was supposed to insinuate myself into your trust until you found the silver, then kill you and take the silver to the Lady Emperor. Of course I did not intend to carry out that plan.”
“Oh, you didn’t?”
“I intended to kill you and take the silver for myself.”
“I see.”
“But how can I betray you now?”
Kassa froze. She stared at a point on the wall beyond him for a moment, and then she looked straight into his clear, grey eyes. “You’re still bespelled, aren’t you.” It wasn’t a question.
“Bespelled?” He seemed amused by the idea. “Enchanted, yes. Enchanted by your rosebud lips, your fiery grace, your one beautiful golden eye.” He sank forward on one knee and took her hand, touching it to his lips. “Be mine.”
“In what context?” asked Kassa dubiously.
He glanced up in surprise. “Marry me.”
Kassa’s response started out as a startled shriek, but somehow ended up as a hoarse, strangled whisper. “What?”
“Think about it,” he urged. “Promise me you will think about it.”
“Oh, I will,” she promised. “I’ll probably wake up screaming about it. Daggar, if you don’t get here right now, I am going to cut off your inheritance and anything else I spot along the way!”
This was where the mummers went. It was a little café under an old theatre at the edge of the Skids. Coffee was cheap, and you could get a doughnut for a penny. It wouldn’t be a very good doughnut, but it would always be exactly the same as the last one. Sometimes it was even the same one.
“Right,” said Slasher Bearslapper. “That’s the last time I play bloody Queen Mabcurse. I’m a laughing stock, I am.”
“Dey throw you flowers at the end,” said Grubby Thiefstrangler. “Dey never throws me flowers.”
“That’s cos you always play third thug from the left,” said Brigadier Turpen. “And even that’s not in your acting range.”
“I always hit who I is told to,” said Grubby defensively.
“Yeah,” said Slasher. “No one wants to play the hero any more, cos you usually damage him by the second act. No one even wants to play understudy to the hero any more. Old Grimmm says he’s gonna have to stop writing plays with heroes in ‘em!”
Jack-the-Lad, the director’s gofer, hovered uncertainly by their table. “Um,” he said.
“Get us a doughnut, Jack,” said Brigadier, and then wondered why. He didn’t like doughnuts. Well, he had never met one yet that he liked enough to actually eat. Still, he reassured himself, a doughnut for a penny was a bargain.
“Um,” said Jack-the-Lad.
“Spit it out, lad,” said Slasher. “Not review time yet, is it?”
“Um, no,” said Jack. “It’s this notice. It was stuck on the theatre door.”
“Well?” said Brigadier impatiently.
Jack read the message word by careful word, his eyes screwed up in concentration. “Um, Urgent Exclamation-mark For The Attention Of All Mummers Of Dreadnought Stop You Are Formally Requested To Allow Yourselves To Be Temporarily Drafted Into The Blackguards For The Duration Of The Anglorachnis Royal Visit Stop.”
There was
a long pause which was remarkably thoughtful considering the people involved.
“Still got your truncheons, lads?” asked Brigadier in a very quiet voice.
“Yar,” said Slasher.
“Yup,” said Grubby.
“Call the others together, mates,” said Brigadier cheerfully. “I reckon it’s time we did our civic duty.”
Daggar emerged. He was whistling, although it was hard to see where there was a gap for the sound to come out. His silver helm was now swathed in two chunky veils of silver chain mail, topped off by a large crown-like object which glittered dangerously. He looked decidedly shorter and wider.
Kassa kept him between herself and Aragon. “I’ve made a decision,” she said with surprising calm. She had been thinking about it ever since she had found her mother’s skeleton, and particularly since she had put the eye-patch on. “I’m not taking any of the silver.”
There was a small sound from Daggar that sounded like somebody swallowing frantically and realising how hard it is to swallow frantically while wearing three silver torcs and several chain-mail coifs.
“You see, I know my father regretted killing my mother,” she went on. “Otherwise this silver would have been spent, not buried. I want it to stay that way.”
“But he wanted you to have it!” protested Daggar wildly.
“No,” said Kassa, “He didn’t. He thought I might need it, and I don’t think I do.” She sighed. “Look, entertainers have to travel light, witches don’t need money and pirates hoard their treasure in safe places. You have to admit that this is a pretty safe place. The silver will always be here if I need it.”
“Balderdash,” said the voice of a large, big-bearded shadow suddenly hovering over the silver cave.
“Shh,” said another voice. A slender, ghostly arm hovered comfortingly in the direction of the big-bearded spirit.
“But she’s getting it all wrong,” he complained loudly.
“It doesn’t matter,” said the soft voice. “She’s our daughter, and you know she’ll make up her own mind. Now come back to bed…”
“Oh, stop looking so crestfallen, Daggar,” said Kassa, putting him out of his misery. “You can take some. As much as you can carry, if that’s what you want.”
The small, sobbing heap of silver on the floor perked up slightly. His head lifted a little.
“And in case you think that’s not a generous enough offer, I did notice a large silver wheelbarrow over there,” she added with a smile.
Daggar shuffled off, grinning frantically under the layers of metal.
“You too,” Kassa added to Aragon, her eyes expressionless. “If that’s what you want.”
“I don’t want anything from you, my lady,” Aragon assured her. “Only your kind regard.”
“I’ll hold you to that, later. Daggar, take your time! We’re not leaving until I get Aragon cured!”
“But I don’t want to be cured,” said Aragon in a bemused voice. “I love you, and I will love you forever.”
“If only it were true,” said Kassa, and she almost laughed at herself. Almost.
15
Ruthless Economies
Everything was starting to fall into place. Lady Talle practiced her reclining skills, her whole body relaxing languorously against the soft, velvety purple-feathered cushions which had been provided for this very purpose. Reclining, she believed, was a very important skill for an Emperor to excel at. She yawned and stretched and examined her fingernails. “Do we have real Blackguards for the Captain?”
“Arranged,” said her PR urchin.
“Real actors for the Chief Mummer?”
“Check.”
She pressed her luscious lips together. “What else did I have to do?”
“Improve the economy, provide a new ship for the navy and arrange for a Royal visit from Anglorachnis,” said Griffin promptly.
“You make it sound so easy,” she sighed. “Let’s start with the Royal Visit. Have the Imperial invitations been sent?”
“By carrier vulture, my Lady Emperor.” At her surprised glance, he added hastily, “They’re very reliable. And, as an added bonus, they tend only to eat other people’s messengers, usually of the human variety.”
“And speaking of messengers…”
“Reed Cooper is on his way to meet the Royal party as your ambassador. He will escort them here by the scenic route. That means the road,” he added helpfully.
There were many streets in Mocklore but only one road, a grandly sweeping highway which led from Dreadnought to the spindly bridge which connected them to the mainland. Of course, the road did not go straight to its destination. It had been designed with tourists in mind, and so it avoided most of the distasteful areas of the Empire, while getting worryingly close to some of the really interesting scenery.
“And have the shopkeepers been issued with instructions for making the Royal Visit souvenirs?”
“Yes, my Lady Emperor. And everyone who isn’t a shopkeeper has been ordered to buy souvenirs on pain of horrible execution.”
She smiled the satisfied smile of a panther, but without the dripping blood. “Good. That should please the merchants. Now, where will I find a ship to give the Navy as their first installment?”
Kassa passed a hand across Aragon’s face, and murmured the crooning words of a lullaby. His eyelids gently closed and he drifted asleep. “Well,” she said aloud. “At least I can do that much.”
She concentrated. It had been so long since she had allowed any remotely witchy thoughts into her mind, and now she was desperately relying on them. Aragon’s aura was easy to see—it was a dazed pink colour, glowing with enchantment. Kassa concentrated on banishing the pink, pushing it away in favour of the blue and grey colours which had previously been dominant in his aura.
Not that she had ever closely examined his aura. Of course not. She had just happened to notice.
The pink haze remained, with the persistence of melted fairy-floss. Kassa lost her temper. She was determined to get this spell removed before anyone found out about it. The only foolproof way to do that would be to kill him. Unfortunately, even though Kassa was trying her hardest to be a true pirate, she had witch’s blood in her veins as well. And her grandmother had once solemnly told her that witches never kill. They just break things.
She would have to summon assistance. Swallowing her pride, she called out, “Summer! Summer Songstrel!” Nothing happened, for about ten seconds.
“He’s a cutie, isn’t he?”
Kassa whirled around. The buxom blonde sprite was perched comfortably on a pile of silver egg cups. Kassa made a face at her. “You can keep him if you like.”
“Don’t tempt me, ladybird.” Summer hopped down from the pile and rolled up her sleeves. “Shall we get to work?”
Kassa pointed at the slumbering Aragon. “I need that spell taken off him.”
Summer closed her eyes, probing the nature of the enchantment. She raised an eyebrow. “Are you certain?”
“Completely and utterly certain. I want that enchantment away, gone, finished, forgotten.”
“I suppose you don’t remember basic spell casting?”
“I never learned,” Kassa admitted guiltily. “I don’t know how to do all this magic stuff.”
“You did all right at getting your sword back,” grumbled the sprite. “And setting yourself on fire to escape the icesprites, and zapping the goblins…”
“Yes, but I don’t know how I did it!” insisted Kassa impatiently. “I certainly don’t know my limits. If I try anything on a human being, I might explode his head or something. I nearly killed Maitzi Orackle with that sword trick, remember. Can’t you just…” She made a few vague gestures of the type that people who know nothing about the subject tend to assume to be mystical.
“I’m too easy on you,” Summer grumbled. “You should get yourself properly trained.” But she plucked a silvery-blonde hair from her head and rubbed it between her fingers, creating a fine powder.
She clapped her hands and the powder rose in a puff of smoke, thinning out and swishing neatly into a nearby silver cauldron. “Just throw this in his face when you’re ready.”
“Will it work?”
“You doubt me? Of course it will work. You might regret taking that enchantment off, though. It could come in handy.”
“Never,” said Kassa emphatically.
Summer pursed her lips for a moment, thinking. “You’re right. It’s more fun when they fall in love with you naturally.” Before Kassa could think up a suitably sarcastic response, the buxom sprite vanished in a puff of nothing in particular.
Kassa glared at the cauldron of silvery-white powder. Now she had a cure, her confidence was returning along with certain pirate-like thoughts to counter the witchy ones. She wasn’t sure where the idea had come from, but she had a sudden urge to make the most of Aragon’s curse. “Daggar!”
A silver blob broke free of the jungle of silver, swaying slightly. “Yur?”
“I need something. A ring. It should have been on my mother’s skeleton. Silver and steel with a black seal on it, a spiral within a spiral.”
Daggar looked guilty, even under the layers of silver armour.
Kassa held out a firm hand and Daggar dropped the ring into it. Kassa then nudged Aragon Silversword with her foot. “You. Wake up.”
Aragon awoke and rolled to his knees in one smooth movement, clasping one of Kassa’s hands to his lips. “My lady?”
Kassa showed him the ring. “Do you know what this is, Aragon Silversword? It is my mark. The mark of a witchblood pirate. If you give me your true-spoken word of allegiance, you shall bear this mark as a pledge to serve me until you die, or until I die, or until the world ends. Choose.”
Aragon Silversword promptly ripped open his shirt and placed a hand over his heart. “Brand me here, my lady, for it will be the only pain I feel in loving you.”
Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles) Page 15