by Sam Hooker
Not a word, Volgha thought. Just say you’re alone, you halfwit little—
“How did you know?”
Volgha made a mental note to give Krespo nightmares for a month, then stepped from the closet. Krespo and Tickler were in Merciless Undergarments, two rooms over. Tickler was short and lean, dressed all in black, and wearing a grinning mask with an absurdly long nose.
“I’m here,” she said. “And what does the queen’s Tickler think he’s doing in my sister’s wardrobe?” Intimidation was a convenient blunt instrument when the complete truth is not on one’s side. Time to smash her way out.
“Following you,” said Tickler, his hands on his hips. “The better question is how do you two know each other, and why are you looking for the queen’s pearls?”
“She said she’d loan them to me,” said Volgha.
“Pull the other one,” said Tickler. “She’d have had Chamberlain send a servant to fetch them, not leave it to her sister and a nobleman’s tailor.”
“I’m a witch, you know.”
“I hope you’re a better witch than a liar.”
“Do you really want to find out?”
“Volgha, Tickler, please!” Krespo wasn’t actually bold enough to step between them, and had in fact been backing away during their exchange. He’d shouted all the way from Holiday Footwear, the next room over. They stopped and turned to look at him, and he walked back over as quickly as he could.
“Mister Tickler,” he said, “we really need to get our hands on those pearls, and I’m not keen on getting into the family rivalry behind it. Surely, there must be something we can do to earn your, er, discretion on this?”
Tickler’s gaze turned away from Krespo after a moment and landed on Volgha. The mask was smiling, but the head to which it was strapped was melting sheepishly into the shoulders beneath.
“There is, actually,” said Tickler. “I’m in a bit of a bind, and you could probably get me out of it.”
“What sort of a bind?” asked Volgha.
Tickler fidgeted, proof positive to Volgha that everyone was hiding something. He stared at the floor, shuffled one foot around, and mumbled something.
“Sorry,” Krespo cocked his head to the side, “what was that?”
Tickler exhaled loudly. “I need to get rid of a body.”
I don’t think this is the fellow from the livery, said Osgrey.
Krespo’s eyes went wide, and he started backing away again.
“You what?” Volgha exclaimed. “Who did you kill?”
“No one! I mean, he had a name, but I don’t know what it was. And I didn’t kill him!”
“Start talking,” said Volgha, her arms folded.
“He was Tickler until a couple of evenings ago,” said Tickler. “He was an old man. I was supposed to train under him for a while, and then take over so he could retire. But he died the first time I was going to observe him in secret, and I had to start right away!”
“That’s bad luck,” said Volgha. “Where is the old man now?”
Tickler’s head tilted from side to side a few times, and he made a little groaning sound.
“Oh, out with it,” said Volgha. “We’re running out of time here, we can’t afford to be bashful!”
“Fine,” said Tickler. “There are some old tunnels in the walls. He’s in the one very near the ticklarium.”
“There are tunnels in the walls?”
“No one knows about them,” said Tickler. “Only me.”
“I didn’t know about them,” said Volgha. “I explored the castle endlessly when I was a child, I’m surprised I never found them.”
I knew about them, said Osgrey. It was my job to—
“Not now!” snapped Volgha.
“I thought you were running out of time,” said Tickler, hands on his hips.
“Fine,” said Volgha. “You help us find those pearls, and we’ll sort out your old man.”
“Deal.”
“I don’t suppose you might know where to look?”
Tickler brought a gloved finger up to tap his mask’s dimpled chin. “She wore them several evenings ago. With a green brocaded ball gown and a tiara full of rubies.”
“That’ll be Forest-Toned Binge Drinking,” said Krespo, “or possibly Leisure Arguments.”
He was right on the second count. There they were, in a drawer under the ruby tiara. A string of a dozen pearls.
“Great work!” Volgha stuffed them into the folds of her dress. “Now let’s get out of here before we’re found out.”
“Shouldn’t we tidy up?” Krespo waved his arm, indicating the massive mess they’d left in their wake.
“No time,” said Volgha. “Anyway, she’ll just think she did it herself. She’s a tornado in here. How did you get in here, Tickler?”
“Secret passage,” he answered. “Behind the coats in Outlandish Snobbery.”
“We should go out past the guards,” said Krespo. “They’ll think something’s going on if we don’t.”
“Meet me by the portrait of Saint Perplexia in the servants’ stairwell in an hour,” said Tickler. “We can handle the body then.”
“A deal’s a deal,” said Volgha.
They parted ways, and Krespo started fidgeting once they made it past the guards.
“What’s wrong?” asked Volgha.
“It’s Santa,” he replied. “Do you think he’s been with the queen this whole time?”
“Oh,” said Volgha, her blood curdling at the thought. “Probably.”
“Any idea where they are?”
“We’d better find out,” said Volgha. “My sister tends to be … incorrigible.”
12
Volgha took the squeals coming from down the hall as a bad sign. They were definitely her sister’s, and she never squealed like that for wholesome or savory reasons.
She hadn’t thought that any harm would come to Santa in the performance of this favor. Severe inconvenience, yes. Agonizing conversation, gratuitous binge drinking, even some ferocious heavy petting—she’d been intentionally vague in describing her sister’s temperament, but there would be no way she could have foreseen them ending up in the Hall of Armaments.
It was a bloody history of the realm. Most of the weapons in there were antiques, though under no circumstances did that mean that they weren’t dangerous. On the contrary, the steel in that hall was still capable of wreaking the sort of carnage that it had done over the centuries, thereby securing their family’s position as indisputable rulers in perpetuity.
If that weren’t bad enough, the White Queen was fascinated by it. All of it. Every scrap of steel, every bloody mural. Volgha remembered that since they were children, nothing else about history interested her a bit. Only her family’s legacy of carnage.
The only thing that gave Volgha any hope as she and Krespo stood at the entrance to the Hall was the memory of Santa’s armory. Whatever else he’d become since his old days, Santa was a warrior. He knew how to handle himself. She just hoped that whatever was happening, he’d seen it coming.
“We have to go down there,” said Krespo, his voice quavering. “Don’t we?”
“No,” Volgha replied. “I’ll go alone.”
You mean we’ll go alone, said Osgrey. Thanks for asking my opinion.
Krespo heaved a sigh of relief. Volgha had to hand it to the little fellow, he possessed a few shreds of bravery. He was simply loathe to employ them.
“Then what shall I do?”
Volgha pointed to a doorway leading off the main hall.
“Through there, about a hundred paces to the left—maybe two hundred for you—and you’ll find the servants’ stairwell. The portrait of Saint Perplexia is at the bottom. Keep out of sight until it’s time to meet Tickler.”
“And you?”
“I’ll be there,” answered Volgha. “With Santa.”
“Best of luck.” Krespo ran over to a huge planter, and then behind a big tapestry on the wall. He was obviously trying t
o stay hidden, but unlike tailoring or Thinkery, he had no talent for it. Volgha hoped that he’d be smart enough to avoid surrendering himself to any guards who walked within earshot.
At least he’d abandoned the high heels.
“I’m going Dim,” said Volgha.
Good idea, said Osgrey. I’ll keep quiet. I’ve no idea if inner monologue with wise old mentors might break it.
“Right,” replied Volgha. “That would be best.”
She quickly worked through the incantation and started silently creeping down into the Hall of Armaments. She heard the twang of a crossbow, the thud of metal hitting stone, and a peal of her sister’s mad cackling. At least she hadn’t heard Santa screaming. If he wasn’t already dead, he just might have escaped.
“Oh, Baaaron,” the queen sang. “Come out, come out, wherever you aaare!”
Volgha was careful to walk silently across the floor. Being Dim just meant that people were extremely unlikely to look at you, but loud noises were a sure way to break the enchantment. As she came around the corner and into the room where her sister was lurking, she was astonished at the state of the place. Suits of armor had toppled over, swords lay strewn about the room, and the charred wreckage of the foyer looked as though Her Majesty had fired a cannon at some point. Volgha smelled gunpowder. It must have happened while she and Krespo were in the queen’s wardrobe. Volgha felt fairly certain that she would have heard a cannon going off indoors, yet clearly she had not.
She resolved not to ponder it further. It was a big castle with lots of thick stone walls, and she had bigger problems.
“This will all be so much easier if you just surrender.” The queen rounded to her left, yelled, “Ha!” and fired her crossbow. The bolt collided with a large mirror, shattering it. Frowning, the queen traded crossbows with one of the two big guards who was following her. The guard started reloading the empty one.
“I liked that mirror,” she said. “You’ll pay for that, Baron!”
Volgha slowly, carefully made her way around the room, looking for Santa. He was either better at hiding than she was at seeking, or he was elsewhere.
After a few minutes of searching and a few more pieces of history ruined by crossbow bolts, Volgha gave up and crept back out into the hall. She hurried to an alcove not far off and fished a few things out of her pockets: some salt, a brass coin, and a bone sewing needle.
She made a circle on the floor with the salt, put the coin in the center, and lay the needle across it. A quick incantation and a few bent-finger gestures later, the needle spun around a few times and pointed back to where she’d just seen her sister.
Volgha gently picked up the coin, and the needle stayed true in the direction it indicated. Quietly and Dimly, she crept back into the room.
The queen had moved on to the next room of the gallery, and the needle indicated that Volgha should follow. This room had a great stone circle in the center of it, about three feet tall and fifty feet around. Suits of armor stood all around the circle, and an ornate catapult stood behind them in the center of it. The catapult was almost entirely festooned with filigreed gold and looked to be capable of hurling boulders weighing several thousand pounds.
Volgha had seen the catapult before, of course. It had been in her family for generations. It had been a gift to her great-great-great-great grandfather, Alonso, who had apparently used it for flinging all manner of things over the castle walls. Enemies, friends, livestock, expired produce—he held court outdoors so he could watch things being flung for his amusement.
The last time it was officially used was during Alonso’s funeral. His boat was set alight in the Viking tradition, then flung in the general direction of Valhalla. His heir was told that he made it, but that wasn’t the first time that lies were employed to shield the dainty feelings of royalty from unpleasant truths.
The needle was pointing directly at it. The queen was stalking her way around the circle, firing bolts through a few very old suits of armor. Every time she found one to be empty, she’d say, “Oopsie,” giggle, and swap crossbows with a guard.
Volgha slipped between two suits of armor at the needle’s urging, and there he was. Santa was wearing nothing but the tight red pants from his brunch outfit and was covered from head to toe in what appeared to be soot. His big white beard was completely black with it. He was standing nearly perfectly still in the spot of darkness created by the catapult’s upright supports.
Volgha pocketed the coin and needle and crept closer to Santa while keeping an eye on her sister. She resisted the natural urge to get really close to Santa and shout, “Boo!” given her sister’s apparently murderous frame of mind. Instead, she waited until the queen had moved on to the next room, then stood directly in front of Santa and waved a hand in front of his face, ending her Dim spell.
Santa jumped a little, then scowled. “Where have you been?” he asked, in a barely audible whisper.
“Getting the pearls,” said Volgha. “Come on.”
They crept carefully out of the room, moving as quickly as they dared, but not making a sound. Once they were out in the hallway, they started dodging from alcove to alcove.
“How did this happen?” asked Volgha.
If I know your sister, said Osgrey, this outcome was as likely as any other. Are you just making conversation?
“She’s a lunatic,” said Santa, because sometimes the obvious does need to be stated. “One minute she’s trying to ensnare me with her wiles, the next she’s literally trying to ensnare me! With snares! And then there were crossbows.”
“Did she fire a cannon at you?”
“I thought that would have gotten your attention a lot sooner.”
“The walls around my sister’s wardrobe must be exceptionally thick.”
They darted between the alcoves until they were close to the door that led to the servants’ hall. Volgha pointed to the big tapestry where Krespo had hidden earlier, then raised her hands with the palms facing him. Santa nodded and crept away, slipping soundlessly behind the tapestry.
Volgha hurried quietly through the door. It had been a long time, but she was fairly sure that she could remember how to get to the laundry from there. Two right turns, then straight to the end, then a left—no, that’s the kitchen. She said a swear word and retraced her steps. It must have been two lefts, then a right and down to the end—no, that’s the cannery. Perhaps it had been longer than she’d thought.
“Osgrey!” she shouted in a whisper. “Which way to the laundry?”
How should I know? Dangerous occupation, washing clothes. Affects the scent, animals don’t recognize you.
Volgha said a swear word. “Never mind, I’ll find it myself.”
After a few more wrong turns, she wound up in a bedding closet. It would have to do. She grabbed a couple of big woolen blankets and made her way back to the door. She opened it a crack and whistled for Santa, who came rushing over.
“About time,” said Santa once the door was shut behind him.
“I don’t know the place as well as I once did.” Volgha shoved the blankets into his hands.
“Thanks,” he grumbled. He knotted the corners of the two blankets together, making himself a sort of extra-large cape. Still covered in soot, he looked like a chimney sweep moonlighting as a crime fighter.
“One more thing we have to do,” said Volgha. She started jogging down the corridor toward the stairwell.
“I thought we were just here for the pearls!” Santa jogged along behind her.
“Complications arose,” said Volgha. “This one should be easy.”
They found the stairs, wound their way down, and reunited with Krespo.
“What happened to your clothes?” There was more reproach than concern in Krespo’s tone.
Before Santa could reply, the portrait of Saint Perplexia opened, as if on hinges, and revealed the entrance to a little hallway. Tickler’s mask emerged from within.
“Good,” he said. “You’re here.”
/> “Who’s this?” asked Santa.
“This is the queen’s Tickler,” answered Krespo. “He helped us find the pearls, and now we have to help him move a body.”
“Move a body?”
“It’s a long story,” said Tickler.
“Give me the short version.”
“He was an old man, and his heart gave out at an inopportune moment.”
“You didn’t kill him?”
“No!”
Santa eyed Tickler for a moment, the sort of stare that parents employ on children feigning ignorance regarding a broken cookie jar. Tickler must have passed scrutiny, as Santa shrugged and nodded. They made their way into the tunnel.
Volgha was surprised that it existed. As a child, she’d read books about secret passages in old castles, and had searched in earnest to find one. This one seemed very haphazard and poorly constructed, almost as though it were naturally occurring within the otherwise expertly architected walls.
Past a few twists and turns, having banged heads and elbows in the darkness and responded with liberal swearing, they eventually came to the temporary resting place of an old man wrapped in a linen sheet. He’d been a small man, about the size of Tickler.
“That’s him,” said Tickler, presumably to assuage any doubt that there might be other bodies lingering nearby, and that this was just one they’d happened upon by chance.
“How did he get here?” asked Santa.
“He was the former Tickler,” said Tickler. The new one, that is.
Santa looked at Tickler. His eyes narrowed.
“It’s not like that! I was going to take over once he retired. His heart just gave out before we could make it official.”
“No one but the Tickler knows who’s behind the mask,” Volgha told him. “It’s like a state secret. I’ll explain later when we’re not mid-performance in several crimes.”
“All right. Where are we taking him?” Santa asked.
“Out through the dungeons,” said Tickler. “There’s a patch of trees at the base of one of the ramparts that will make a decent burial plot for him.”