Trunkly could wait no longer. “WHAT IS?” she begged. “TELL YOUR TRUNKLY!”
“IS HEADS.”
“HEADS? OH! HOW HAPPY IS I!” And Trunkly seized Meggymould and began a wild dance of joy.
In the House of the Ancient Crones, the looms shook, and a crashing sound from WATER WINGS suggested that nobody had remembered to put away the china.
Fiddleduster Squint paused mid-note in the middle of “The Slithering Reel” and watched the clouds of dust swirling down from the trembling roof beams of the Howling Arms.
“Dear me,” he murmured to himself. “One suspects the giants are awake.”
On a normal day, the duchess would have noticed Albion’s absence almost immediately. As it was, however, she had other things on her mind. Coming down the stairs for breakfast, she noticed the hallway looked strangely bare. Further investigation revealed that King Dowby’s vast collection of silver cups, bowls, and shields for horse racing, jumping, and dressage had disappeared. So, too, had a number of other silver items from the dining room and reception rooms. Of Bullstrop there was no sign, and when the duchess began to ask questions, it appeared that he had taken his leave of the kitchen staff the evening before, remarking that he’d had quite enough of the duchess’s airs and graces, and was off the next day to stay with his great-aunt in Niven’s Knowe. Or his uncle in Gorebreath. Or his old school chum in Dreghorn — unless, that was, he decided to settle down with his mother in Wadingburn.
“That is NOT a great deal of help,” the duchess said to herself as the last of the kitchen maids departed. “Oh, dear! We’ve never had a burglary before. What are things coming to? It’s just as well that Dowby’s away. He’d make a terrible fuss and probably call out the army and upset everyone. Hopefully we’ll find the thief before Dowby gets back. I’ll go and see if anything else is missing and make a list.” And, having equipped herself with a large piece of paper and a pen, she went to check the rest of the palace.
She was interrupted by a loud and imperious ringing at the front door, followed by a booming voice. “Hortense? Hortense! Where are you, my dear? You seem to have lost all your servants, so I’ve let myself in.”
“Bluebell!” The duchess hurried to meet her friend, who was already striding down the hallway. “Bluebell! I’m so pleased to see you! We’ve had a horrid burglary, and I’m just checking to see what’s gone.”
Queen Bluebell of Wadingburn pulled out her lorgnette and surveyed the empty shelves with a distinct lack of sympathy. “Taken Dowby’s trophies, I see. Good riddance, I’d say. Made the place look like a second-rate pawnshop. Still, I suppose burglary shouldn’t be encouraged. Any idea who it might have been?”
“I don’t think there’s any doubt about it,” Hortense said. “We had a new butler, but I told him last night that his services were no longer required, and he seems to have gone off with as much as he could carry.”
Bluebell nodded. “Anyone see him go?”
“It must have been quite late last night, when we were all in bed.” The duchess looked at her list of stolen goods. “But why would he want Dowby’s silver cups? Surely he can’t sell them. They’ve got Dowby’s name all over them.”
“Silver melts,” Bluebell informed her, with a knowledgeable wink. “Better get them back fast, I’d say, or they’ll be turned into coins of the realm, and you’ll find yourself spending Dowby’s challenge cups on peas and potatoes.” She gave her friend an encouraging hug that left the duchess breathless. “Cheer up, old girl. I’ll lend a hand. Always wanted to do a bit of sleuthing. Your Albion won’t be any help, of course.”
Hortense opened her mouth to defend her cousin, but honesty forced her to admit that Bluebell was right, and she said nothing. The queen threw herself into an armchair and went on, “Shame you haven’t got little Gracie Gillypot here and young Marcus. Proper sense of adventure, those two. That’s the kind of spirit I like to see.”
The duchess looked up. “They were here last night, as it happens. Hmm. I wonder if Marcus noticed anything when he left?” A flush of embarrassment turned her cheeks pink. “Actually, that was why I sacked Bullstrop. He thought Marcus and Gracie weren’t respectable and had Marcus shut in the guardhouse with Bobble, Gracie’s pet troll.”
“Gubble,” Bluebell corrected. “And I wouldn’t say he was anybody’s pet. That troll has a mind of his own, even if it isn’t a very big one.” She gave a snort of amusement. “So what happened to Gracie? Did you lock her up too?”
“Albion said . . .” Hortense stopped. What had Albion said? He’d certainly told her that he’d ordered a coach for Marcus and the troll. That she remembered clearly. But what had he said about Gracie? That she’d gone home? Yes, she was sure that was it, and at the time she hadn’t thought to question him further. “He said Gracie had gone home. But . . .” The duchess began to look worried. “Could she really? Is that possible? Where does she live, Bluebell?”
“House of the Ancient Crones. Miles away, outside the Five Kingdoms.” Bluebell waved her lorgnette in the air. “She couldn’t have gone home. Something’s going on. Good thing I popped over!”
“Yes.” Hortense nodded. “And why did you come, Bluebell, dear? Not that it isn’t the best thing that’s happened today. I’m only too delighted you’re here, but I wasn’t expecting to see you until your birthday.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” The queen dropped her voice. “A little bird told me that Kesta’s planning a surprise party. Such nonsense! I had a party when I was eighty, and I don’t want another until I’m ninety. Can’t be dealing with such things, so I’m relying on you to let Kesta know that, without her knowing I know. If you see what I mean.”
Hortense did. “I’ll do my best,” she said. “I had a card saying she wanted to talk to me. And I happen to know she’s asked Queen Mildred and King Frank over to Dreghorn for the day.”
Bluebell gave a gusty sigh. “There you are. They’ll be plotting cakes with enough candles to burn Wadingburn Palace to a cinder. But forget that. What are we going to do about this burglary of yours? Are there any clues? Have you looked outside?”
This idea had not occurred to the duchess. She put down her paper and pen. “Clues? Do you really think there might be some?”
“Could tell us which way he’s gone.” Bluebell heaved herself out of the armchair. “He took a lot of things, didn’t he? So his bags must have been heavy. He might have stashed the loot somewhere nearby and be planning to fetch it later tonight.”
Hortense looked at her companion in admiration. “Stashed the loot? Goodness, Bluebell! Anyone would think you’re a regular detective. Come on. Let’s go and see.” And pausing only to pick up her shawl, she took Bluebell’s arm, and the two of them sailed outside.
As they began to circle the palace, the duchess remarked, “I’ve just remembered something. Albion claimed someone was throwing carrots at him yesterday morning. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but supposing he was right? And Lubbidge — that’s the gardener’s boy — got himself locked in a shed in the vegetable garden, and he had a nasty bruise on his head when I saw him later.”
Bluebell’s eyes shone. “Excellent! Let’s check the vegetable garden right now!”
The two old women marched around the corner of the palace . . .
. . . and stopped dead.
There, in the vegetable garden, right outside the garden shed, were the unmistakable tracks of a wheelbarrow. Deep, heavy tracks — the marks of a wheelbarrow that was heavily laden. And the tracks led away from the palace, away from the garden.
Hortense looked at Bluebell, and Bluebell looked at Hortense.
“Do you know what I’m thinking, Hortense, old bean?” Bluebell asked. “I’m thinking it’s not only Gracie Gillypot and that young man of hers who can have adventures. We may be old, but we’re not past it yet. Let’s track him down!”
“Absolutely!” The duchess swirled her shawl around her in the style of a bullfighter fling
ing on his cloak. “It’s time we older ones took a stand. Oh! Shouldn’t I tell Albion that we’re going out? Not that he’ll worry, of course. He wasn’t even up when you arrived this morning, so he’s probably still having his breakfast.”
Bluebell frowned. “Just leave him to it. If he does worry, it’ll do him good. I never tell Vincent where I’m going. Keeps the boy on his toes.”
“Should we arm ourselves?” Hortense wondered. “If it was Bullstrop who did the burglary, he’s a tall man. I’m sure the two of us will be more than a match for him, but it’s best to be prepared. He might have . . .” She paused, searching for the right word.
“Partners in crime,” Bluebell suggested. “Good thinking.” She opened the shed door and looked inside. “What about a pitchfork?”
Hortense considered the rows of agricultural implements. “I think I’d rather have a hoe.” And then, “Look! An apron! Could it be Gracie’s? And the sacks . . . It looks as if someone was sleeping here last night!” She clutched the apron to her ample bosom. “Oh, my goodness. Do you think that poor child was here all the time?”
“If she was, she might have seen your burglar.” Bluebell sounded excited rather than upset. “And if I know Gracie, she’ll have gone after him. Come on, Hortense! Choose your weapon, and we’ll be off. Tally- ho, ’n’ all that!”
Hortense, Dowager Duchess of Cockenzie Rood, waved her hoe. “Tallyho, indeed!”
Prince Albion was most certainly not worrying about his cousin. He was much too worried about himself. His head hurt, and he was bruised all over from the jolting and bumping he had suffered during the journey. He had no idea where he was, and he had no idea who was pushing him; he was facing forward, and all he could see through his glazed and aching eyes was a winding track that had an unpleasantly unkempt look about it.
“Stop!” he ordered, waving a limp arm. The wheelbarrow went faster. “Help!” he tried, but no help came. His head was still far too sore to try any kind of movement, and, even if that had not been the case, he was much too fearful for his own safety to make any attempt to jump out of the wheelbarrow. Albion shut his eyes, then opened them again, but the pain was still there.
I’m being kidnapped! was his next thought. First they threw carrots, and now they’ve got me! Huh! This’ll make Cousin Hortense sorry she didn’t believe me. But where am I going? He squinted ahead and saw a ramshackle roof half hidden among the trees — a roof that did not hold out much promise of comfort, warm baths, and chocolate cake. As they drew nearer and nearer, it became all too obvious that all that would be offered was extreme discomfort of the rough-hewn-boards-and-spiders variety.
And then the noise began.
Albion had never heard anything like it. It made his eyes water and his brain feel as if it had been stuffed with jangling shards of glass. He stuck his fingers in his ears, but it made no difference. “Owwwwww!” he wailed. “OWWWWWWWW! Tell it to stop!”
The noise stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and Albion breathed again. Phew, he thought, that was terrible. Awful. Torture . . . that’s it! Of course! They’ve brought me here to torture me. Torture me for money! He struggled to sit up but was defeated by his own weight. “If you want money,” he said out loud, “you can have it! Whatever you want! Just say . . . my father’s the king, don’t you know.” A terrible doubt as to what kind of value King Dowby would put on his only son seeded itself at the back of his mind, but Albion did his best to ignore it. “You! Whoever it is that’s pushing this wheelbarrow! I’ll make you a lord! A duke! An earl! I’ll make you rich beyond your wildest —”
“Hush . . .” The voice that whispered in his ear chilled him to the back of his bones. Albion gulped and was silent.
“Hush, dear sir!” the voice went on. “My master waits for you within the humble walls of the Howling Arms. Pray excuse us for the rough-and-ready way in which we brought you to this poor place. Mr. Bagsmith, pray assist His Highness to his feet!”
It was only as Marley came around the side of the wheelbarrow to offer his arm that Albion realized who he was. He stared at Marley, his face turning a deep and furious purple. “YOU! It was YOU who kidnapped me? It was YOU who brought me to this horrible place? How . . . how DARE you! I TRUSTED you! You were my SPY! You’re fired, Bill whatever-your-name-is. You’re fired!”
Marley Bagsmith scowled. Had the shadow not been constantly hovering around his shoulders, he would have been sorely tempted to accept Albion’s offers of fame and fortune, but he was much too much of a coward to take the risk. He half lifted, half pulled the prince out of the wheelbarrow and set him on his feet outside the front door of the Howling Arms. Albion began to protest, but as he caught sight of the sinuous shadow, its long arms holding Marley in a close embrace — or was it imprisonment? — he was silent once more.
The door to the Howling Arms opened, and Gruntle Marrowgrease stepped out. “Are you the fellow Mr. Squint’s expecting?” he asked. “Because if you are, you’d better come in. He’s been waiting for you, and the practicing ain’t doing my trade any good. No good at all. So come on in, and let’s get it over with. Not,” he added hastily as he suddenly noticed the shadow wrapped around Marley Bagsmith, “not that Mr. Squint isn’t one of my best customers. A fine fellow, to be sure. But there’s a time and a place for the fiddle, and there are those who like it, and those who don’t.” And before Albion could say a word, the landlord picked him up and carried him into the darkness behind the door.
There were no windows in the Howling Arms, unless you counted the narrow slits high up under the roof beams. A few guttering candles provided all the light there was, and Albion, still groggy from the blow to his head, stared around in bewilderment. At first he could see nothing beyond the flickering flames, but gradually he realized that someone was speaking from the darkness on the other side of the room. Someone excessively tall and thin, with a face so like a skull that Albion shivered.
“Please be seated, Your Highness . . . please take your place. We welcome you. One is honored, truly honored by your presence . . . our noble prince. The prince of princes, dare one say.”
Albion began to relax a little. Whoever this person was, they had the right attitude. He screwed up his eyes to see better; the speaker was shrouded by shadows and appeared to be standing behind a thick white line drawn across the floor.
“I can’t see you properly,” Albion said plaintively as he sat down on the hard wooden chair Gruntle Marrowgrease was offering and put his feet up on a nearby canvas bag. Still far from comfortable, he tried to pull the bag nearer but was defeated by its weight. “Who are you, anyway?”
“Fiddleduster Squint, at your service. The musician of your dreams; the instigator of music that will charm you for now and evermore.”
There was a faint spatter of applause. Albion became aware of movement behind Fiddleduster but was unable to make out any individual shapes. “Oh,” he said. “Oh. So are you the chap Bill was telling me about? Why didn’t you come up to the palace?” He rubbed the bump on his head and stared reproachfully into the darkness. “Is this why he brought me here?”
“Pray excuse me, Your Highness. There was . . . there was a problem . . . a problem that could not be overcome.” The voice was silken smooth. “And such a noble, such a generous prince as yourself will surely forgive the true artiste in his search for a patron.”
“That’s all very well,” Albion said. “But you can’t go around kidnapping princes, you know. It doesn’t do. It doesn’t do at all. I could get very cross about it, actually.”
“Then we must keep you no longer than is necessary,” Fiddleduster purred. “Prepare yourself, Your Highness. Prepare for true beauty.” He took out his fiddle bow and poised it over the strings. “I will begin!”
Albion was frozen where he sat, incapable of movement or thought. The noise was even more excruciating than it had been the first time he heard it; his eyes began to water and his nose to run, and he gasped for air like a dying fish.
“There, Your Highness!” Fiddleduster held his bow high as the last notes of “The Hammering of the Slug” died slowly away. “Is that not poetry? The quintessence of loveliness?”
Albion went on gasping. Fiddleduster smiled. “I see you are overcome. That is often the case when I play for the first time. One is honored. What shall I play now? ‘The Smothering of Arduous Hardbone’?”
“NO!” Albion found his voice at last as he staggered to his feet. “No, no, NO! It’s terrible! It’s the most disgusting noise I ever heard in my entire life, and I never, never, NEVER want to hear it again!” He waved his arms and broke into hysterical laughter. “LOVELY? POETRY? It’s like cats being murdered a million trillion billion times over . . . ha-ha-ha-ha-HA!” And he hurled himself out the door and into the sunlight. Shock and horror gave him wings, and he ran into the brightness and up the path as fast as his short, stout legs could carry him.
He left silence behind him.
A long, ominous silence.
Then Fiddleduster spoke, and his voice was pure venom. “He laughed. That fat, foolish prince laughed at my music. For that he will suffer . . . and all Cockenzie Rood will suffer with him. Oh, how they will suffer! I shall bring chaos and destruction upon them all until the crying and screaming echoes the length and breadth of the Five Kingdoms!”
Gruntle Marrowgrease said nothing as Fiddleduster Squint opened the back door and made his way outside, closely followed by the shadow. As the door closed behind them, the bartender spat into a beer mug and began to polish it, a grim expression on his face. “That’ll mean trouble. It doesn’t do to upset the likes of him, Mr. Bagsmith. It doesn’t, indeed. Heigh-ho! If it wasn’t for the border line, that bumptious young fellow would have been mincemeat. Chewed and chawed to the marrow, I’d say.” And he thumped the beer mug onto the bar by way of emphasis.
Marley, who was well accustomed to the internal gloom of the Howling Arms, shuddered. He had seen, as Albion had not, how Fiddleduster Squint had leaped forward when the prince laughed, his eyes glittering, and his bloodless lips drawn back into a snarl that showed his razor-sharp teeth. He had also seen how the invisible barrier had brought Fiddleduster to a shockingly sudden stop, exactly as if he had hit a wall of glass. Marley felt in his pocket for a coin or two. He was profoundly grateful that he was on the Five Kingdoms’ side of that invisible wall; relief was now telling him that a strong drink was necessary for a full recovery.
The Music of Zombies Page 10