Fiddleduster Squint knelt down and felt the vibrations under his hand. “South-southwest,” he muttered. “Oh, my sweet music. How I will be avenged.”
Hortense was shocked to find her cousin lying on the ground and fussed over him with what even Albion felt to be a suitable level of alarm. He immediately treated her and Queen Bluebell to a high-pitched account of all the terrible things that had happened to him that day, leaving them with a confused impression of ghostly shapes, candles in the dark, and howling banshees that had tipped him out of the wheelbarrow after bopping him on the head.
Gracie did her best to make things clearer, but she was distracted by having half heard Alf’s news and knowing that it was urgent.
Marcus was rubbing his arms and feeling horribly mistreated; Marlon, seeing that both the queen and the duchess were distracted by Albion’s tales of woe, flew silently onto his shoulder. “Kid,” he whispered, “we’ve got trouble! There’s a mighty angry zombie out there, and he’s after revenge!”
Marcus, using the excuse of moving the wheelbarrow out of the way to inspect the damage, took several steps along the path. “What? What’s happened?”
Alf came fluttering down to land on Marcus’s other shoulder. “He’s gone to find some giants!” he squeaked. “He wants to squish and squash the kingdoms like a plum! Or was it a grape? Or a —”
“GIANTS?” Marcus all but fell over his own feet in shock. “Did you say GIANTS?”
“Unc told me to watch and listen,” Alf said, not without pride. “So I did. And the skeleton thing was ever so, ever so angry, and he’s going to get giants to jump and thump and squish and squash —”
“Hold it right there, kid.” Marlon sounded grim. “We get the picture —”
“What picture?” Gracie had slipped away, leaving Albion demonstrating his many bumps and bruises to his cousin and the queen.
Marcus was still absorbing the information. “Alf’s trying to tell me there’s a skeleton out there who’s trying to get a herd of giants to come and flatten the Five Kingdoms.”
“He’s no skeleton,” Marlon told him. “He’s a zombie. Or half-zombie. One of the bad ’uns, too, by the looks of him. And your Prince Albion trod on his toes —”
“I know what happened! I heard it! I heard it all!” Alf was twittering so fast that Marcus and Gracie could hardly understand what he was saying. “He’s called Fiddleduster Squint, and he wants to get revenge by squishing —”
“SHUT IT, kid!” Marlon snapped, and Alf was finally silent.
Marcus leaned on the wheelbarrow, his mind whirling. “Let me get this right. There’s a zombie out there, and he’s after Albion? Just because Albion didn’t like his music?”
“It wasn’t like ordinary music,” Gracie told him with a shiver. “It . . . it kind of twisted your brain and made everything inside you hurt.”
“But . . .” Marcus shook his head in disbelief. “But why is it so dangerous? Zombies can’t get across the border, can they? And Albion certainly isn’t going to go wandering outside the kingdoms. He practically has a heart attack if anyone even mentions the wilderness!”
Marlon sighed. “You’re right, kiddo. The zombie can’t get across — not unless someone gives him an invite, and nobody in their right mind’ll do that. But giants are something else.”
“Giants can cross the border?” Marcus asked incredulously. “Surely not?”
“They don’t need to. If Alf’s right —”
“I am!” The squeak was indignant.
Marlon ignored the interruption. “If Alf’s right, no giant would need to get across. They get within miles, and there’s an earthquake. Buildings crashing, walls collapsing into rubble . . .”
“I see.” Marcus scrubbed at his hair. “So they need to be stopped before they get too close.”
Gracie leaned forward. “Now I know who the shadow belongs to,” she said. “I knew it was evil. You should have seen Marley’s face. He was absolutely green with fear, and he did exactly what the shadow told him. If Fiddleduster Squint’s shadow is that scary, what must Fiddleduster himself be like?”
“He’s a skeleton.” Alf was not going to be left out. “He’s a skeleton, and he plays the fiddle, which is what the prince didn’t like and what —”
“OK, Alf.” Marcus had heard enough. “We have to stop him.”
“You’re right.” Gracie glanced over her shoulder. The duchess was still bent over Albion, but Queen Bluebell was straightening her shawl and looking around. “We ought to go at once . . . but what about Albion and the queen and the duchess? We can’t just leave them.” She pointed at the wheelbarrow. “And that’s useless now. You’ll have to ride for help, Marcus. I don’t see how we can do it any other way.”
“I know!” Alf flew an overexcited figure eight. “Mr. Prince who isn’t Mr. Prince is coming! He told me he was coming! And he’s got soldiers with him —”
Seeing Gracie’s blank expression, Marlon translated for her. “The twin, kiddo. Alf says he’s heading for the palace.”
“Arry?” Marcus’s eyes widened. “Are you sure? And you’ve been talking to him, Alf?”
“Sure as eggs is eggs, Mr. Prince.”
Marcus seized Gracie’s hand. “That’s it! Alf can go and get Arry and the soldiers . . . What on EARTH is he up to?” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll tell Her Maj and the duchess we’re going for help, but as soon as we’re out of sight, we’ll head for the border instead!” Seeing Gracie’s doubtful expression, he added, “It’ll be all right! Truly!”
“What’s all right? The wheelbarrow? Doesn’t look all right to me.” As Bluebell strode toward them, Marlon and Alf fluttered into the undergrowth. “I don’t see much hope of getting young Albion home in that!”
Marcus stepped forward to make his speech about riding for help but found he was quite unable to begin. There was something about Queen Bluebell’s straightforward approach to life that made it difficult to lie. Even a mere twisting of the truth felt wrong. And I bet I’m suffering from Gracie’s Trueheart effect as well, he thought. Oh, bother!
Bluebell stood watching as Marcus visibly struggled to find an explanation. “Anything you want to tell me?” she asked, and then, in what she fondly considered to be a whisper, “I can keep a secret, you know. Couldn’t help noticing you and Gracie were having a bit of a chat. What’s up?”
Arioso’s words suddenly floated back into Marcus’s mind. Bluebell likes you . . .
He took a deep breath. “Can we tell you something, ma’am? You won’t faint, or anything?”
Bluebell snorted. “Faint? My dear boy, what sort of woman do you take me for?”
“Well . . .” Marcus looked at Gracie, and she gave him a nod of encouragement. “Well . . . we’ve heard about a . . . a dangerous situation. A threat. It’s outside the Five Kingdoms, and it can’t come in, but it might . . . it might cause some damage. If Gracie and I go right now this minute, we may be able to stop it. But that would mean leaving —”
“Leaving Albion with no way of getting back home.” Bluebell finished his sentence. “I see. That does indeed present a difficulty.”
“My brother’s on his way,” Marcus said quickly, wondering if the queen was in a state of shock, although she showed no visible signs of being anything of the kind. “Honestly, he’ll be at the palace any time now, and Alf’s going to take him a message —”
“Alf?” The queen peered around. “Who’s Alf?”
The irrepressible Alf burst out from the bushes. “ME! I’m a messenger bat, and the prince who isn’t our Mr. Prince, the other one, he had a chat with me this morning, and —”
Bluebell neither screamed, fainted, nor went pale. Instead she pulled out her lorgnette and inspected the little bat with interest. “A messenger bat, eh? How very useful. And you know Prince Arioso? Well, I’d say that solves the problem nicely. You fetch him along here and tell him to bring a couple of healthy, strapping lads with him. Hortense and I will stay with A
lbion and try and keep him from having a temper tantrum until help comes.”
Alf did his best to salute in midair. “Yes, MA’AM!”
As he disappeared, Bluebell sighed. “How lovely to have friends like that. I fear I missed a great deal in my youth. Make the most of it, my dears. Now, before you go, tell me. Seriously, should I be worried?”
“We hope not,” Gracie began, and then, as if to demonstrate what could be about to happen, there was a rumbling in the far distance. The rumbling was followed by a faint shaking of the earth beneath their feet. It only lasted a few seconds, but there was no mistaking the fact that something singular had happened. There was a piercing scream from behind them, but Queen Bluebell only clasped her bag more tightly.
“Oh, dear,” Gracie said. “I really think we’d better get on our way.”
The queen raised an eyebrow. “Am I to assume that disturbance might be to do with your quest?”
“Yes,” Gracie said simply. She hesitated, then ran to the old lady and gave her a loving hug. “Thank you for being so understanding. We really must go . . . but I promise we’ll tell you everything as soon as we get back.”
“So I should hope.” Bluebell pulled out a large red handkerchief and blew her nose loudly. “Excuse me. I’m a silly old woman. But I do love a bit of bravery!”
Marcus stood to attention. “On behalf of myself and Miss Gracie Gillypot,” he said formally, “I thank you, ma’am. There is no doubt in my mind that you are . . . you are one of the absolute BEST!”
Bluebell received this formality in the spirit in which it was meant. She curtsied low before shaking Marcus’s hand with much warmth. “Dear boy. Dear, dear boy. Look after that girl of yours. She’s worth her weight in gold.”
Marcus grinned. “I know,” he said. “I absolutely do.”
“Be off with you, then.” Bluebell blew her nose for a second time. “And good luck!”
Marcus nodded, then put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. Hinny, who had been peacefully cropping grass, came trotting toward him. Marcus held a stirrup until Gracie had settled herself in the saddle, then swung himself up behind her. He raised one arm in salute, then sent the pony cantering down the track that led to the Howling Arms and the wilderness beyond.
“What?” There was an outraged shriek from Albion. “What’s going on? Where are they going? They can’t leave me! They CAN’T! Marcus! Come back right now, this minute —”
“Albion?” Bluebell’s best boom echoed up and down the path. “Are you a prince or a pretzel? Be quiet. Hortense, my dear, I have something important to tell you!”
Prince Arioso had not enjoyed the journey to Cockenzie Rood. Gubble was not a talkative companion, but he was a very wet one, and Arry was all too conscious of the fact that he was sitting in a puddle of mud. As they drew up outside the palace, Gubble grunted. “Where Marcus?”
“I’ve no idea,” Arry said. “But I’m sure the duchess will have more information.” He turned to the four soldiers accompanying him and waved them away. “You can wait in the guardhouse.” The soldiers obeyed with alacrity, hoping for tea and cake, and Arry began to climb out of the carriage. He was surprised to find Gubble reluctant to follow him. “Aren’t you coming?”
Gubble looked suspiciously at the guardhouse. “Soldiers,” he said. “Soldiers here not like Gubble.”
“You’ll be perfectly safe with me,” Arry assured him. Gubble still didn’t move, his small piggy eyes swiveling anxiously from the guardhouse to the palace and back again. The prince, somewhat to his own astonishment, put a comforting hand on the troll’s grubby green foot. “Honestly, Gubble. It’ll be all right. I’ll look after you until we find Marcus.”
Reassured, Gubble half jumped, half tumbled onto the ground. “Ug.”
Together they walked to the front door. It was wide open, but Arioso was far too polite to follow Bluebell’s example and stride inside. He rang the bell, but it took several attempts before a maid appeared. The sight of Gubble made her blink nervously, but Arry’s evident respectability made her drop a quick curtsy.
“I’m really sorry, sir,” she apologized, “but the butler’s been dismissed, and we’re all at sixes and sevens because His Majesty’s away and Her Grace went out this morning and she didn’t leave no instructions. Would you like to come in and wait?”
“Is Prince Albion available?” Arry asked.
The maid shook her head. “Not sure as he’s even up yet, sir. He hasn’t eaten any breakfast.”
“Oh.” Doubtful as to what should be his next move, Arry rubbed his nose. “Erm . . . so he hasn’t been kidnapped, then?”
“Kidnapped?” The maid stared at him. “Who would want to kidnap His Highness?”
Gubble, dimly beginning to understand that Arioso was a very different character from Marcus, decided it was time to help. “Look for prince. Look NOW!”
His intention had been to suggest it was time to go searching for Marcus, but both Arry and the maid looked at the troll as if he was a genius. “Of course!” Arry said. “That’s it! Well done, Gubble!”
The maid dropped another curtsy and scurried away, leaving the prince and the troll on the doorstep. Moments later she was back, accompanied by a smart young manservant. “This here’s the prince’s valet,” she explained. “He says the prince went out early, and he hasn’t been seen since.” She began to cry. “So he HAS been kidnapped, then!”
Arioso’s heart sank. “Erm . . . well . . .”
“He might have gone for a walk, sir,” the valet suggested, and then, more quietly, “Hush, Susan! Nobody’d ever kidnap His Highness. Not unless they was paid a million, that is.”
“A walk! Of course!” Arry cheered up at once. “That’s what he’ll be doing. Come along, Gubble. Let’s go and see. Erm . . . where does the prince like to walk?”
“He was in the vegetable garden yesterday,” the valet offered. “Had carrots thrown at him. So he said. All his imagination, if you ask me.”
Arry frowned at this disloyalty and took Gubble’s hand. “We’ll go and see for ourselves. Thank you.”
As he walked away, Arry heard the valet remark, “Odd doings round here, Susan. That there troll was here yesterday! And so was that young man, but he weren’t nearly so hoity-toity and high-and-mighty then. Still got dirty pants, though . . .”
Arioso, heir to the kingdom of Gorebreath, held his head high as he and Gubble took themselves around the corner. Half of him was resolving never to keep company with a troll again, but the kinder half couldn’t help but be touched by the confidence with which Gubble looked up at him. “Find Marcus soon? And Gracie?”
“I’m sure we will,” Arry promised. “Erm . . . where would we find the vegetable garden, would you think?”
“Looking for a cabbage, Mr. Prince who isn’t?”
The voice was cheery and familiar, and Arioso sighed. “Oh,” he said. “It’s you again.”
“Bat!” Gubble, unlike his companion, was delighted to see Alf. “Where Gracie?”
Alf demonstrated a super-straight A-line dive. His intention was to land on Arry’s shoulder, but the prince, unused to such familiarity, moved swiftly aside, and Alf was forced to do a backflip and land on Gubble’s head. “Mr. Prince and Miss Gracie are off on a really big adventure to find a skeleton in the wilderness who’s ever so, ever so angry,” he reported. “And can you bring your soldiers and follow the wheel tracks and collect the other prince, the one in the wheelbarrow, ’cause he’s hurt and he can’t get —”
The end of Alf’s sentence was cut off by the sudden removal of his perch. Gubble had heard enough. He dropped Arry’s hand, squinted up at the sun, and set off muttering, “Gubble go wilderness,” under his breath.
Alf found an alternative perch on a nearby statue and tried again. “Soldiers,” he repeated. “Mr. Prince—” Alf shut his eyes and made a supreme effort. “Mr. MARCUS Prince needs you, and he said for me to tell you ’cause we’ve met and you talked to me.” He opened his e
yes and saw Arry was still looking confused. “PLEASE, Mr. P. who isn’t Mr. P.,” he begged. “Go and get your soldiers to carry the prince!” An inspired thought came to him. “If you do, you’ll be a HERO!”
There could not have been a better way to appeal to Arioso. The idea of being a hero without having to fight any battles or do anything else that might involve messiness or unpleasantness was most appealing. Nina-Rose had been much on his mind; the thought that he could present himself to her in such a role (a role he had always thought to be way beyond his abilities) was compelling. “Absolutely,” he said. “Follow the wheel tracks, you say? Right.” The image of himself triumphantly escorting Albion back to his palace floated tantalizingly before his eyes. “THAT’LL show that valet. Humph!” And he hurried away.
Alf hesitated. Should he wait and check to see that all was done according to instructions? With some regret, he decided he should. “Responsible, that’s what you are, Alf Batster,” he told himself. “Responsible. Miss Gracie’ll be proud of you.”
It was not until Arioso and all four soldiers were well on their way that the little bat felt he could leave them to their own devices. Sailing up into the evening sky, he flew a wide circle, glancing down from time to time to see what was going on. Albion was still recumbent, but the duchess was sitting on a fallen tree and chatting amiably to Queen Bluebell. As Alf flittered past, he heard the duchess say, “Don’t worry, Bluebell. There’ll be NO surprises on your birthday. No surprises at all. I’ve had the most excellent idea. You must celebrate—” The rest of her sentence was lost as Alf circumnavigated a flock of starlings flying home to roost. The little bat grinned to himself as he glanced back; Albion was wildly waving his arms, but it was too far away to tell if he was happy or angry.
“Better move on,” Alf told himself. “Better find Miss Gracie and Mr. Prince.” He took a more direct line; immediately below him Gubble’s progress could be tracked by flattened bushes and trees bent at odd angles. Where other travelers were forced to circumvent walls or fences, Gubble went straight through. The Howling Arms had evidently had the misfortune to lie in his way; a large figure that Albion would have recognized as Gruntle Marrowgrease was standing outside and staring at a gaping hole, his whole stance registering stunned disbelief. Of Gubble himself there was no visible sign. Alf flew on and was pleased to find that Marcus and Gracie had already crossed the border. They were now on foot, picking their way up a steep and stony slope; Hinny was following them, stepping in and out of a tumbling creek. As he fluttered toward them, Alf could hear Marlon squeaking encouragement.
The Music of Zombies Page 12