Mocklore Box Set (Mocklore Chronicles)

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  “If anyone wants me to gain my witchy qualifications, they can damn well make an appointment,” flared Kassa. “I don’t like surprises.”

  A web of spiderlight unfolded behind her, scooping Kassa up into its depths. Its razor-sharp edges clawed at her dress, shredding its skirt to ribbons. Struggling, she swept her knife around in a wide arc. The web fell in several limp pieces to the tangled forest floor.

  A tear opened in the thick mist that encircled the woodland scene. A faery maiden clothed in sunshine and wild mistletoe made her appearance. “Welcome to reality, mortal kind,” she drawled seductively, fluttering her eyelashes and wings simultaneously. “How may I elaborate upon your waking desires…” She paused, her eyes widening in horror. “Beard of the moon-mother, what is that?”

  Kassa held up the knife. “Stainless steel. A surefire antidote to faery dust.”

  “Get that away from here,” screeched the faery maiden, flapping her sunshine wings frantically. “Get out, you horrible, horrible mortals!” She burst into tears.

  “Speaking of which,” hissed Pomegranate. “How was it we were going to escape?”

  “I was thinking of calling for help,” replied Kassa.

  She removed the gold torc from around her throat and fingered the tiny black stone that the Dark One had placed on it. “Hello? Can anyone hear me?”

  “What are you doing?” interrupted Pomegranate.

  “Shh. Attention, all imps. This is Kassa Daggersharp. Grave emergency. Contact the Dark…oh.”

  Pomegranate gasped. A tall, dark and rather beaky-nosed man in a bright pastel suit had materialised in front of Kassa and regarded her sternly. He held out a hand, and she let him take the golden torc. “It’s not supposed to be used like that,” he snapped.

  “Sorry,” said Kassa with an apologetic smile.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” he demanded. “You were supposed to come right back, not footle around in the moonlight dimension. Such frivolities are off limits to ex-mortals, and that means you.”

  “We got lost,” said Kassa. “Can you take us back to the Underworld? I think my favourite knife is upsetting the OtherRealmers.”

  The Dark One looked suspiciously at the sobbing faery maiden. “I suppose I’d better. Unless it’s something witchy, of course. I don’t pretend to understand Dame Veekie’s motives, and if she wanted you here…”

  “By the way,” said Kassa hastily. “Meet your new consort.”

  It was the Dark One, Pomegranate realised. Not what she had expected at all. She scooped her long braids over one shoulder and refused to curtsey.

  “She’s a child!” declared the Dark One.

  “Possibly,” said Kassa, “but she’s the next best thing to a goddess. She’s also very good at administration.”

  The Dark One brightened. He handed Kassa back the gold torc, and she put it around her throat again. At his command, the fair country vanished from around them, and the greyness of the Underworld swam into view.

  After they had gone, the spiderlight web stopped feigning unconsciousness and scuttled away into the tangled faery wood.

  Back in the familiar corridors of the Underworld, the Dark One spoke anxiously to Pomegranate. “Do you really like administration?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?” replied Pomegranate. “Where is the throne room? From what I’ve heard, I had better start repairing the damage to this dog’s breakfast of an Underworld right away. Your whole system is tied up in knots. For a start,” she added, gesturing at Kassa. “I suppose you do realise that she isn’t supposed to be here…”

  The Dark One hustled Pomegranate towards the throne room, and their voices trailed away. Kassa felt very tired. She sank down in a corner of the corridor, resting her chin on her hands and staring into empty air. So that was it. Her last chance to touch base with the real world was over almost as soon as it had started. She nudged the opposite wall glumly with her foot. Now she knew why so many people devoted so much energy to postponing death. All in all, it was quite an anti-climax.

  An imp scuttled by, and Kassa’s hand whipped out, catching it by the tails of its tuxedo. It gaped at her in horror. “Goths don’t have red hair!”

  “I’m not a goth, I just raided their wardrobe,” Kassa growled. “Where do you imps go for fun around here? What is there to do? And don’t fob me off. I am in serious need of entertainment.”

  “Well,” stuttered the imp wildly, trying to break free from her iron grip. “There’s always the tavern.”

  Kassa’s eyes snapped to attention. She released the imp and stood up, wiping a thin layer of yellowish dust from her half-shredded slinky black dress. “There’s a tavern in this godsforsaken place, and nobody thought to tell me?”

  15: The Year of the Greyest Winter

  The mixed camp of mummers and pirates was in a state of high confusion when Daggar and Sparrow returned. Vicious Bigbeard kept swinging the new baby around in the air and forgetting where he left her, while Black Nell reclined on a couch made of second-best stage curtains and shouted abuse at him, or anyone else who came into her line of sight.

  Around them, the mummers and the pirates had taken the birth of a healthy-lunged new baby pirate to be a good excuse for a party, and pooled their various supplies of food, drink, musical instruments and amusing balloons.

  “Are we here for a reason?” asked Sparrow, surveying the chaotic scene.

  “I never miss a good party,” replied Daggar with a lopsided grin. “After all, they are celebrating the birth of my second favourite cousin.” He extended his hand theatrically. “Shall we dance?”

  Sparrow ignored the proffered hand and sat down on the grassy slope, crossing her arms stiffly in her new armour. “I will wait until you are finished,” she said in a crisp voice.

  Singespitter sat at her feet, looking up at Daggar with a highly superior expression on his sheepy face.

  Daggar gave in. “All right, where shall we go next, then? We have the universe of time and space at our fingertips. Shall we visit the Hanging Gardens of Baboulsja or the Lost Library of Philanthropia? How about a quick jaunt around the Siege of Catatonian Teatime?”

  Sparrow gazed up at him, her face immobile. “If you do not object, I would like to do something about purging the poisonous liquid gold from my body.”

  “Oh,” said Daggar, slightly deflated. “Well, we can do that. Who was it you said you stole it from?”

  “The Brewmistress of Dreadnought.”

  “Right.” Daggar looked slightly greenish. “I’d forgotten that. Where do you think she is now?”

  Sparrow shrugged. “In the Sultan’s dungeon, according to the Sultan.”

  “Right, then. If anyone can find a cure for you, it’s got to be the one who created the liquid gold, right? She can help.”

  Sparrow eyed him darkly. “Faulty logic, Daggar. She is far more likely to do something hideous to me with a sharpened set of knitting needles.”

  “Do you have any better ideas?” he challenged, pulling the miniature ship out of his pocket. “Let’s get going back to the present.”

  “And the matter of the knitting needles?”

  Daggar gave her two thumbs up and an encouraging grin. “You’re wearing armour. What have you got to worry about?”

  Mistress Opia had never seen the inside of a dungeon before, unless you counted that time she had been called in to analyse the chemical properties of a new kind of sulphurous moss growing in the confinement cells under the Imperial Palace in Dreadnought. This was altogether different.

  For a start, she was chained to the wall by wooden cuffs, with her large expanse of knitting placed tantalisingly just out of reach.

  Hobbs the gnome and Officer Finnley were chained to the wall on either side of her, but she paid them little attention. During the long hours of her incarceration, she had devised seven hundred and thirty-two different diabolical escape plans, all of which depended on equipment she didn’t have, skillful cell-mates she didn’t have, and an
unreasonable hope that her friendly neighbourly prison guards were more stupid than your average piece of cheese.

  Every now and then, the Sultan of Zibria would cackle nastily down the speaking tube which ran from his inner sanctum down to the main dungeon. He had ordered its installation for precisely this purpose, and considered it to be money well spent. He also had a lever attached to his throne which would send a fresh torrent of water over Mistress Opia every half hour or so, preventing her from using her alchemical skills to escape.

  The door to the cell was flung open. Sparrow, an imposing figure in her new (but old-fashioned) armour, gazed expressionlessly at the three of them. “First of all,” she said in her strange, alien accent, “I wish you to give me your word you will not attempt to kill me.”

  “That’s asking a lot,” said Mistress Opia sharply. “Just pass me my knitting needles, there’s a good girl.”

  Daggar, towing his sheep behind him, squeezed past Sparrow and grabbed the knitting, which he stuffed into one of his many belt pouches along with the two wickedly sharp needles. “None of that, madam. We’re here to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

  “If you wish to converse in a civilised fashion,” said Mistress Opia in her sternest voice, “I suggest you unchain me at once, young man. Chop chop.”

  Daggar made quick work of the cuffs, and Mistress Opia was set free. She stepped forward, and Sparrow was suddenly face to face with her.

  “You,” said Mistress Opia, almost unpleasantly.

  “Me,” said Sparrow the mercenary, in more chilling tones.

  They eyeballed each other, like two lionesses after the same piece of meat. Mistress Opia’s eyes swivelled towards the door, and Sparrow drew her sword, shoving the Brewmistress up against the wall. “Oh, no,” she rasped. “We will have a little talk first.” She glared at Mistress Opia. “Do you not think a death canary was a little over the top?”

  “Obviously not,” replied Mistress Opia. She looked Sparrow up and down, slowly. “How did you escape?”

  Sparrow grinned thinly and pulled one of her time-freezing capsules out of a pouch with her spare hand.

  “Ingenious,” Mistress Opia noted. “It won’t work again. Their immune system is extraordinarily adaptable.”

  “Are you saying that those yellow fire-breathing guttersnipe bastard birds are still going to come after us?” demanded Daggar in a strangled voice.

  Mistress Opia seemed amused. “More than one now? Oh dear me, you have been busy.”

  “Well,” said Sparrow, shoving a little harder with the flat of her sword against Mistress Opia’s throat. “You had better cancel their programming, had you not? I want to be sure they will not be waiting around the next corner for me.”

  “Dear me, I can’t do that,” said Mistress Opia, not quite sounding apologetic. “Until their specific mission has been fulfilled, they cannot be halted.”

  “I am so glad we have a time ship,” said Daggar fervently.

  “You really have quite the knack for avoiding imminent death, my dear,” Mistress Opia continued, loudly. “I see the liquid gold within your system has done no significant damage yet—still, it’s only a matter of Time.”

  “If you want to get out of this cell, you had better start thinking up ways to cure me,” Sparrow growled.

  “A cure for swallowing liquid gold?” Opia laughed, shaking her head. “You are a time explosion waiting to happen. Travelling through a correctly-generated chronometric field may cure your withdrawal cravings, but every time you step out of time, you risk meltdown. Can you imagine the damage your body could do to causality if it exploded during the critical moment of time-jump?” She made a tsking sound. “I think you had better chain me to the wall again, because I cannot help you in the least.”

  “She lies,” Sparrow snapped. “We will take her with us. Daggar, call up the ship.”

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Daggar asked dubiously.

  Sparrow didn’t dignify that with an answer, but fastened her hand firmly around Mistress Opia’s wrist. “You know more than you say,” she snarled. “Or you would not look so satisfied with yourself.”

  “Ouch!” shouted Daggar, who had stubbed his thumb on the rapidly-expanding ghost-ship. “What about her henchmen?”

  Hobbs the gnome and Officer Finnley, both still chained to the wall, exchanged quick glances. “I quit,” said Hobbs.

  “I want to go home,” said Officer Finnley.

  “Bring them both,” snapped Sparrow. She dragged Mistress Opia on to the translucent deck of the golden galleon. “Which way, forwards or backwards?”

  Daggar, halfway between releasing Officer Finnley from his chains, looked at Sparrow in horror. “You can’t risk time-travel. Didn’t you hear what she just said?”

  “I’m prepared to risk it if you are,” said Sparrow evenly.

  “Well, maybe I’m not!” he yelled back.

  Finnley scrambled on board the translucent gold ship, helping the sheep up after him. Daggar started work on Hobbs’ cuffs.

  “I have just one thing to say,” declared Sparrow hotly. “Canaries, Daggar. They are in this time zone. So let us be somewhere else.”

  As soon as he was released, Hobbs the gnome started running at a surprising speed, screeching out of the prison cell and away up the corridor. Not really caring, Daggar pulled himself up to the deck of the Splashdance. “Backwards or forwards?” he asked resignedly.

  Sparrow shrugged. “We have already tried going backwards. Let us get ahead of ourselves for once.”

  “Forwards,” agreed Daggar, not too happy about it.

  And the golden ghost-ship went… Kwoop.

  Hobbs ran like a scared wildebeest, ducking and dashing every which way. Crashing into the knees of a golden-robed somebody, he came to a halt. Slowly, fearfully, he stared upwards.

  “Hello, little Brewer’s lackey,” said the Sultan of Zibria. “I have a job for you.”

  It was the greyest winter Mocklore had ever seen. Grimy snow packed up in drifts around what was left of the cities, sealing everyone in. Even the urchins, previously the most well-fed demographic in the Empire, were looking remarkably thin and pasty.

  The Lord of the Green Manor, a swag of firewood hefted on his back, staggered through the snow to his front door. He tripped over the hall carpet and fell headlong, spilling the splintering logs in every direction.

  A young woman exploded out of the kitchen, her long silk dress swamped in an oversized apron. “Oh, Tangent, you idiot! I just swept that carpet!”

  The young Lord picked himself up. “I don’t see you tromping about out there in all weathers.”

  “Well, I don’t see you coming anywhere near the kitchen, except to feed your face,” she snapped. “Don’t you understand anything? The Emperor is coming, expecting hospitality. Would you rather I asked the Court to cook their own damn puddings when they come?”

  “It’s not just us, Ree,” he said darkly, closing the door before the high winds could blow more snow on to the carpet. “All the manors are struggling this winter. They can’t expect us to pretend this isn’t happening.”

  “Oh no?” said his sister. “This is the Emperor, Tangent. One mistake even resembling an insult, and we’re to the headman’s axe, nobility or not. He’s already confiscated four manors, two castles and a fortified village on his so-called grand tour. We’re next.”

  “Where the hell are we?” Daggar choked, wiping a faceful of snow away with his sleeve.

  Sparrow peered at the amber crystal set into the ship’s wheel. “It shows a picture of—snow.”

  “Brilliant,” he grumbled. “I could have worked that out all by myself.”

  “It does not matter what pictogram it shows,” she flung back at him. “If this is the future, the name of the year will mean nothing to us.” She stared hard at Mistress Opia. “Where exactly have you brought us?”

  “Into the future of course,” said Mistress Opia. “Twenty-three years, to be
exact. You really must trust me.”

  “I would sooner trust a troll-hunter,” Sparrow growled.

  “I’ll bite,” said Daggar finally. “Why twenty-three years?”

  “In order to successfully purge the liquid gold which the young woman ingested in such a foolhardy way, it is necessary to make a triangular chronometric oscillation,” said Mistress Opia, as if that explained everything.

  Sparrow blinked. “What did you say?”

  Mistres Opia sighed. “You will need similar objects from two reference points at equal distances from your point of origin.”

  “So,” said Sparrow slowly, wiping a handful of melted snow from her hair. “I have coins from the Year of the Sculpted Concubine, and from our own present. If I could get another from this time period, you could perform the purging ceremony?”

  “Something like that,” agreed Mistress Opia pleasantly. “Of course, if you would rather sail somewhere balmier, I wouldn’t mind in the least.”

  “I would,” said Sparrow harshly. “Daggar, let us go for a walk.”

  “But it’s freezing,” he complained.

  “Tough. Bring the Blackguard too.” Sparrow gave Officer Finnley a brief grimace which almost resembled a smile. “You can arrest the Brewmistress if she causes any trouble.”

  Finnley smiled very weakly in response, wishing that he had followed Hobbs’ example and run like hell.

  They all climbed off the boat and turned away to walk through the snow.

  “Aren’t you going to close up the ship?” Sparrow asked Daggar.

  “Oh, sure.” He clapped his hands in the requisite manner and then spun around, horrified. “I don’t believe I just did that!”

  “Did what?” Sparrow stared at him, and then into the bleak patch of dim snowiness around them. “Daggar, where’s the ship?”

  “Well,” he said steadily. “It’s about two inches long, and it’s out in that.” He gestured at the patch of grey snowiness. It was hard to see anything, let along a two-inch long piece of gold jewellery. It had vanished under the constant blanket of snow. “We have to find it.” A horrible thought crossed his mind. “Singespitter’s still in there! He’ll go spare.”