Having successfully scoured the porridge stains from the last of the broadswords and stacked them neatly on the drying rack, she was removing her rubber gloves when a man fell out of the sky and crashed into her ornamental fountain, just outside the kitchen window.
Pomegranate hurried out, pulling the gloves off with her pearly white teeth as she did so. Halfway out the door, she had to trot back and unpin her lengthy braids from the ceiling.
He was handsome enough, she supposed, finally reaching the man. Hardly the tall dark stranger she had been promised in her sister Hvelga’s fortune cards, but she wasn’t going to turn her nose up at him. Even unconscious, he had a face of character. His dark blond hair was tied out of his face with a thread of leather. There was an age gap between them, but nothing insurmountable. Pomegranate regarded him critically. He was smeared from head to toe in the pulp of her least favourite fruit, the one she had been inadvertently named after.
The stranger groaned, and opened his eyes. “Thought you’d be…older,” he groaned, one hand automatically twitching towards his fruit-stained sword.
“That’s what everybody says,” replied Pomegranate.
After his bath, in which he managed to get most of the pomegranate seeds out of his hair, Aragon Silversword descended back to the kitchen, where Wordern the Sky-warrior’s eldest daughter was stamping cookies out with a star-shaped cutter. “Better now?” she asked without looking up.
He regarded her curiously. “Were you expecting me?”
Pomegranate clapped her hands together, dusting off the excess flour. “I was expecting someone. But not you.” She sighed. “If you must know, I’m due to be kidnapped and carried off to marry some god.”
“Oh,” said Aragon. “Today?”
Pomegranate wiped a wisp of hair behind one ear, leaving a streaky mark of flour in her soft brown braids. “Sometime today, yes. You’ll probably be here to witness it if you hang around much longer. Did you want something?”
“I was sent here to ask directions. I need to find the Priestess of Forgotten Gods.”
“And hemi-goddesses,” agreed Pomegranate cheerfully. “Nothing simpler.” She crossed to the kitchen door. “See those mountains? Up behind the ornamental lake and the almost-ornamental albatross.”
Aragon looked. At first he saw nothing but clouds, then somehow when he looked at them from a certain angle he could see finely-sculpted mountains. And the albatross.
“Tmesis lives up there,” said Pomegranate. “It’s a bit of a hike, I’m afraid.”
“I’d better get started.” Aragon hesitated, glancing back at the flour-streaked hemi-goddess. “Would you like me to wait? I could help you fight off your abductor…” Offering to rescue a damsel without being coerced? This was very unlike him. The sooner he removed Kassa’s influence, the better.
“It’s destiny,” said Pomegranate sensibly. “No use trying to avoid it.”
Aragon Silversword looked back at the cloud mountains in the distance. “Oh, I fully intend to,” he said darkly. “Good luck.”
“Good luck,” echoed Pomegranate thoughtfully. “I think you’ll need it more than me.” And then she went back inside to finish stamping out her cookies.
Gant Peebles was a profit-scoundrel out of his depth. More precisely, out of his city. The only scoundrels who worked outside Dreadnought for any length of time were those who weren’t much good—the fact that Gant Peebles was in Zibria, the city-state furthest from Dreadnought, should go some way to explaining his precise levels of ineptitude.
He had stolen the Eye of Obsidian. He hadn’t meant to. It had been a straightforward mugging, with no dialogue and no complications. Only when he had scuttled away to examine his pouch of loot had he unfolded the linen bag and stared into the depths of the blackest pearl ever to claw its way out of the Cellar Sea. This rock was legendary.
It was worthless to him. No fence who would stoop to dealing with Gant Peebles would be able to perform the kind of lightning-gymnastic deal necessary to smuggle the pearl out of Mocklore. And no one who knew him would believe it was real.
He gulped miserably. The only thing to do was to throw the wretched thing away. If he was caught with it on his person…
“Well, well.” It was a sultry voice, a voice worthy of the goddess Amorata herself. As it happened, it also belonged to a brunette. Bounty Fenetre the hobgoblin bounty-hunter stood with one hip slung against the brickwork of the alley. “Hello, hello,” she drawled winsomely. “What do we have here? Twenty-two minutes from crime to capture—that’s a record even I can be proud of.”
The Eye of Obsidian slipped from Gant Peebles’ shaking fingers and Bounty leaped forward in a flash of slinky chain-mail, catching up the precious rock before it hit the cobbles. She dangled the dark pearl from its thin chain and grinned at the terrified profit-scoundrel. “I could do all sorts of things to you,” she said conversationally. “Things that would make your ears curl and your hair fall out. But I don’t think you’re worth it.”
Quick as a wink, she pulled out a leather collar and snapped it around Gant Peebles’ neck. She tugged impatiently on the leash, forcing him to put one foot in front of the other. “Come on. Let’s get you arrested, shall we?”
After delivering Gant Peebles to the holding cells and collecting her fat reward from the client who had been desperate to have the dark pearl retrieved, Bounty Fenetre dropped into the local offices of the Zibrian secret police. “Anything for me today, Xandra?” she asked cheerfully as she slid her legs over the window ledge.
“I thought you were freelance,” said the Commandant, a dark-skinned woman in a little spangled dress. “And we do have a door, you know.”
“But your windows are so much cozier,” teased Bounty. “Come on, give me a job. Something too complicated for your girls to handle. I haven’t done anything interesting for at least fifteen minutes.”
Xandra shrugged and pretended to consult her files. “An outlaw with an astounding Imperial price on his head has been seen moving around the city. We’d prefer that he was removed as quickly as possible—and that the Lady Emperor heard he was captured somewhere far from here. We do have a low profile to maintain, after all.” She raised a quirky eyebrow. “I don’t want my agents involved, but if you capture him within Zibrian walls, we expect twenty percent of the Imperial bounty.”
“Done,” said Bounty, moistening her lips. “What’s his name?”
“Aragon Silversword,” said Commandant Xandra. “No known aliases. Think you can handle it?”
Bounty Fenetre widened her obnoxiously wonderful eyes. “Ohhh, I thought you’d never ask.” She ran her fingers over her chainmail lovingly. “I’ve been putting this one off for far too long.”
11: Kpow
“Get that ship,” ordered the Sultan of Zibria, his voice dripping with avarice. “Kill them and get me that ship!”
Something in Daggar’s brain kicked into gear. “Get on board!” he shouted to Sparrow, pulling her towards the golden galleon which filled most of the sterile white room, its ghostly qualities allowing it to exist in the same space as the copious white benches and bubbling beakers, which were acting as obstacles for the golden-liveried guards.
“That thing?” said Sparrow sceptically.
“Just do it!” he shrieked, physically hurling Singespitter on to the deck and scrambling up after him. Shrugging, Sparrow followed suit.
“Stop them!” shouted the Sultan, just to make things difficult. “A pension to the man who stops them! I want them in the dungeon with the Brewmistress in five minutes or you all go without your supper!” The liveried guards were still scrambling awkwardly over benches and stools and test-tubes.
“Follow them!” shrieked the concubine who had come scrambling up the secret stairs with Officer Finnley in tow. She gave the young Blackguard a mighty shove towards the glowing ship as she ran, jumped and clung.
“Up!” commanded Daggar, his feet firmly on the deck and his hand on the wheel. The golden gho
st-ship slowly rose towards the ceiling. Officer Finnley, trying to copy the concubine’s actions, smacked hard into the seemingly translucent side of the ship, and slumped unconscious to the ground.
“The ship responds to voice signals?” demanded Sparrow.
“It always has,” replied Daggar, still panicky.
“Good,” she grated. “So does the liquid gold.” Overwhelmed by a sudden wave of dizziness, Sparrow clung to the mast. “Back,” she ordered the ship, forcing her will upon the liquid gold that had merged with it. It was a random command. She didn’t really care where it went, as long as it was away from here.
And the golden ghost-ship went KPOW.
Many years previously, a shambling cart of strolling players sputtered its way along the track, pouring out the occasional burst of uncoordinated music. The dancing girls all clustered at the back of the cart, hanging their wet hair out to dry while a brightly-clad jester scampered along behind, picking up every hairpin and stray ribbon that they dropped.
Muzzlefud the playwright was chewing his quill and trying to squeeze some inspiration out of his exhausted brain. “I suppose,” he said in a dull, hopeless voice. “We couldn’t do something about pirates, could we?”
Bessemund Baker, an earthy girl with big hair, star-quality and too much facepaint, snorted loudly. “You mean like the Black Rogue, the Pirate Queen or the Great Sword-Swallowing Caper? We’ve done them all. There’s nothing new and original to say about pirates.”
“You’re right,” said Muzzlefud dismally. “All pirate stories are the same.”
From somewhere, a booming voice proclaimed, “Stand and Deliver!”
The mummers’ cart came to a clattering stop, mainly because the track ahead was lined with pirates. They were a fearsome, evil-looking lot, all black beards, eyepatches and pointy teeth. The leader of the pack was the nastiest of the lot, a huge bloke with a bristling big beard, startling yellow eyes and a ripped leather costume. He brandished his sword like he knew what to do with it. “What ho!” he roared threateningly. “Any of you chaps know anything about birthin’ babies?”
Muzzlefud revolved his eyes frantically towards Bessemund, who stared at the pirates as if she didn’t know quite what to make of them.
A powerful female hand pushed the bigbearded pirate aside, revealing a small woman with straggly dyed-black hair, a fierce expression and an alarming bulge under her dress. “You bastard, Bigbeard,” she snarled. “You promised me a midwife months ago, but no, you just had to leave everything to the last minute!” She stared flatly at the travellers. “I’m not settling for second best. Let’s just kill them and take their cart.”
“Righty ho,” said Vicious Bigbeard Daggersharp. “You heard her, lads! Let’s scupper the land-sucking guttersnipes!”
The pirate band cheered raggedly and advanced.
“Brilliant,” said Muzzlefud the playwright with a glint in his eye. “Pirates adventuring on roads. Highway…robbery! Why didn’t I think of that before? Where’s my quill?”
“Not now, Muzzlefud,” said Bessemund thickly, snatching up a handy rolling pin and preparing for battle.
The Palace laboratory was far behind them now, or possibly ahead of them. Impossible lights and spiralling colours exploded around them in brilliant patterns of gold. Behind them, strands of alien amber light bled into the cosmos, warping it slightly.
Sparrow sat pressed against the side of the ship, her hair blowing wildly with the wind that came from everywhere and nowhere. Her hand was tightly curled around Singespitter’s leather collar.
“Are you all right now?” Daggar asked.
She looked up at him with her pale eyes. “I do not feel right without my armour. The air itches.”
“I mean, are you going to stop turning yellow and falling over now?” Daggar said with exaggerated patience.
“Oh, that.” Sparrow’s eyes went flinty. “For now.” She pulled herself to her feet and gazed over his shoulder. “We have company.”
“Right.” Daggar turned and looked at the concubine who had scrambled uninvited on to their deck. “So who are you?”
She lifted a slender shoulder and unconsciously shimmied some of her sequins. “I’m Tione. Concubine and member of the secret police.” She shrugged her other shoulder. A little more shimmying happened.
Daggar, very conscious of Sparrow beside him, did his best not to look remotely impressed. “You have secret police in Zibria? I’ve never heard that.”
Tione rolled her heavily-kohled eyes. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.” Daggar looked at her with big, baffled brown eyes, and she blew out a breath of impatience. “We’re secret, all right?”
“You are an enforcer of the law,” said Sparrow flatly. “What do you want with us?”
The concubine gave a tiny smile. “Adventure and excitement?” she suggested.
“Suits me,” said Daggar, openly admiring her sequins.
Sparrow gave him a killer look. “Since when?”
“Look, I don’t really know,” the concubine admitted. “But when I heard the Sultan had thrown you to the Minestaurus, I just had to go after you. And when I saw the ship go all gold, I just had to jump aboard. I couldn’t help myself.” She smiled brightly. “Maybe it’s destiny.”
“Maybe,” growled Sparrow.
The golden ship shimmered suddenly, and the swirling lights bled into a perfectly ordinary spring landscape: the sky was sunny with the vague promise of rain, hail, blizzards and possible flying herrings. At the sight of all the fresh green grass, Singespitter baaed and attempted to climb over the side.
“Look at this,” said Daggar, staring at the ship’s wheel. A large amber crystal sat in its centre as if it had never been anywhere else. It glistened menacingly.
Sparrow leaned over his shoulder. “It was not there before?”
“Course it wasn’t,” said Daggar. “It would have clashed with the silver decor. Have we really gone back in time?”
Sparrow scowled, tapping one finger against the amber crystal. “This must be the way the liquid gold was supposed to be used—fixed to some kind of travelling vehicle. A cart would have done, or a flying carpet.” She swore at herself, angrily. “Dusthead! I swallowed the gritting poison!”
“Is it out of your system now?” asked Daggar anxiously.
Sparrow shook her head. “I do not think it will be that easy.”
“You can’t spend the rest of your life yoyoing around in time,” protested Daggar. “You’ll get dizzy. Speaking of which, when do you think we are?”
Sparrow peered at the murky amber crystal, which suddenly cleared. She looked at the undulating image within its golden depths. “The Year of the Sculpted Concubine,” she announced finally.
Daggar stared at the image in the crystal and his grin widened slightly. “Will you look at that?” he said slowly. “Sequins and all. Blimey,” he added, after counting to himself for a moment. “I’m eight years old.”
“Tall for your age,” commented Sparrow. “And shaving already.” She eyed his stubble. “I imagine.”
He fingered his chin sheepishly. “Are you suggesting I need a shave?”
“The Year of the Sculpted Concubine was more than twenty years ago!” squealed Tione. “Have we really travelled in time? This is priceless!”
Sparrow glared at her. “Behave yourself or you will be walking home.”
“Oi,” said Daggar, elbowing her. “I’m the Captain of this ship!”
“You are?” challenged Sparrow.
“Well,” he said weakly. “I’m related to her. Look, let’s hop overboard and have a quick gander around the Year of the Sculpted Concubine. Then we’ll see about getting home.”
Sparrow nodded her assent. “I wonder if they sell armour anywhere around here.” Her black linen shift and leggings were perfectly decent, but they wouldn’t hold up well against a volley of arrows. She liked to be prepared for such possibilities.
The golden ship was hovering
beside a grassy hillock which was covered in buttercups and gently buzzing bumblebees. The clouds were a long way off, birds were muttering to themselves in high tweety voices and the sounds of a battle were coming from the other side of the hill. Sparrow promptly started in that direction, single-minded in her quest for armour.
Daggar couldn’t help noticing the trail of yellow flowers which followed in her wake. He had been seeing those a lot lately. “You look very familiar,” he suggested as he turned to lift Tione down to the grass.
“That’s original,” the concubine sniffed loudly.
Daggar watched her trot up the hill after Sparrow, sequins glittering in the sun. “I’m sure I know her from somewhere,” he mused, dragging Singespitter down and clapping his hands at the ship, turning it into a gold ship-shaped bauble which he stuck in his pocket. At least that still worked. “I suppose we’d better get after them before they do some damage,” he muttered, taking hold of Singespitter’s leash and yanking the sheep along with him.
On the crest of the hill, Sparrow stared down at a battle. The strolling players were defending themselves surprisingly well against the attack. Most of their prop swords were made of real metal because it didn’t go all bendy when wet like cardboard did.
Sparrow noticed that one woman was standing aside from the fighting, offering nothing apart from the occasional sarcastic remark. Sparrow wandered down to her. “What is happening here?”
The pirate woman turned on her, gesturing angrily at the bulge under her dress. “A bloody farce, that’s what!” She glared fiercely at Sparrow. “I don’t suppose you know how to deliver babies?”
“Not noticeably,” said Sparrow. “I could give you something to bite down on, if you think it would help.” She stuck out a hand. “Sparrow. Mercenary.”
The pirate woman grimaced and grasped Sparrow’s hand with her own, shaking it briefly. A spiral ring of steel and silver glittered on her hand. “Black Nell. Pirate.” A sudden look of panic came over her face, and she almost doubled up in pain. “Ohh… Bigbeard!” she screamed.
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