“You’re a good lad,” said his father. “Now go in and get some pottage in you before bed.”
***
Gonda’s father looked deep into the flames. “And I never went back to that place again - not until I was making my way here. Still gives me a shiver.”
Gonda was moved to hear talk of her grandfather, whom she remembered as a frail, absent-minded and toothless old man.
“The goose?” said Lughor, his lips grim and tight.
Glenward frowned. “It got sold along with the rest at Conloot Market the very next day. And I forgot about it until about a month or so later, when my dad came home and said he’d heard the strangest thing from a butcher in Conloot.
“He said he’d been approached by the butcher, cleaver in hand, demanding a refund. A goose he had bought the month before had turned out to be bewitched. Naturally, my dad asked the butcher what the hell he meant by that, but my blood ran cold at the mention of it. I knew right away which goose he meant. The butcher was livid, said he’d chopped off the bird’s head like he always does, had plucked the carcass and chopped off the feet, only to find the head, body and feet rolling around on his chopping block. The head was hissing and the feet were slapping and the body was trying to get up, the wings stretching and flapping, blowing feathers into the air. Panicked, the butcher let loose with the cleaver, chopping and hacking until the bird was reduced to smithereens. Even then, he stood watching for over an hour in case an eye blinked or a claw twitched.
“He wanted his money back but my father told him to sling his hook, saying he’d never heard such a tale and asked what the butcher had been drinking.
“But I knew it wasn’t a tale. I’d seen what the bald old man - who must have been a wizard - had done. And I knew what he wanted to do to me. Why, I don’t know. But I could tell my dad nothing of this. And I’ve never breathed a word of it until this night.”
“Gosh,” said Gonda.
Lughor was quiet. He poked at the dying flames. “Once-dead,” he muttered.
“I’m sorry?” said Gonda. “What did you say?”
“Once-dead,” said Lughor. He told them of the broken men he had encountered at the ruined fortress and how he had despatched them. Gonda trembled; she moved closer to her father.
“This was years ago,” said Glenward. “The goose, I mean. Whatever that old wizard was up to, I’m guessing he never achieved it.”
“I don’t know,” said Lughor. “Wizards can be very patient men.”
“I don’t get it,” said Gonda. “The wizard spilled the goose’s blood on the ground and the goose got up again. Those men - they all died on the same spot and they got up again. It’s miraculous! Don’t you see that? Tullen Spee should be a shrine. No one need ever die again!”
Both men stared at her until she realised the foolishness of her words.
“No?”
“No,” said Lughor. “Those men were no longer those men when they stood up.”
“And that goose...” Glenward whistled expansively.
Gonda had to take their word for it, because they had witnessed these things and she had not. Wrapped in his blankets, Tiggy whimpered. Gonda leant over him, cooing softly. The men exchanged a glance and shared a thought.
Something had to be done about the malgrim.
Eleven
Smedlock peered into his bowl of navarin. Apart from a couple of meagre turnip tops and a few chunks of something he couldn’t identify, the liquid was clear. He gave it a stir; the ingredients swirled and then settled in a new pattern. But it was all haphazard. There was no message there.
He had been expecting to hear from them by this point: his brothers - in terms of calling if not by blood. Smedlock would rather deal with the imperious Tarkwayne than the hot-headed and, frankly, insane Pezzackeron, who had lost his marbles at the same time he had lost his hand; there had been some trouble in a provincial gaol somewhere or other - Smedlock was not privy to the details and neither did he wish to be if learning them meant spending precious time in protracted conversation with that nutter.
Yes, Pezzackeron was volatile and unpredictable but also, unfortunately, necessary. A third wizard was required for triangulation: two alone could not accomplish what was to be done.
He gave the soup another stir, just in case, and the hem of his sleeve dunked into the pot. Oops! He sucked at the rough fabric in case it gave rise to a vision. Not bad... he smacked his lips but it was lacking a little something...
Mushrooms, perhaps...
No!
Toadstools!
Smedlock hobbled to the cave mouth and checked the sky. It was dusk and the air was thick with midges. The perfect time for gathering fungi. He hooked the strap of his pouch over his shoulder and grabbed his stoutest walking staff. The cloud of tiny insects parted unbidden to let the wizard pass unbitten. Even they know better than to cross me, Smedlock tittered to himself.
He found a crop of red-capped widow-makers nestling between the roots of an ancient oak. With difficulty, he stooped to harvest the toadstools, snicking their stalks with the blunt blade of his penknife, taking care not to get any of the secretions from their porous flukes on his bare skin. Before long, his pouch was full. Smedlock leaned heavily on his staff, his hands climbing up it as he straightened his complaining back. I shall be delivered from these aches and pains soon, he reminded himself. When the plan comes to fruition. It couldn’t happen soon enough.
“Good evening.”
There was a hooded figure in front of him. Smedlock had not heard him approach - but then he wouldn’t, would he, because Tarkwayne the Mystical moved without making a sound. The wizard’s chiselled features, like an ice sculpture, looked down on his scruffier colleague with a haughty expression, piercing grey eyes over an aquiline nose. “Still grubbing about in the muck, I see.”
Smedlock was never sure if he should bow or genuflect in some way. He suspected Tarkwayne would both enjoy that and despise him for it.
“Deadliest fungus known to man and wizard,” Smedlock held up his pouch. “You have to know what to do with them, of course.”
The patrician face sneered. “I could tell you exactly what you may do with them.” Tarkwayne’s distaste for Smedlock’s antiquated methods was evident every time they met but, Smedlock knew, he needs me as much as I need him - and we both need Pezzackeron if our enterprise is to succeed.
“What news of our brother?”
Smedlock shrugged. “None.”
“I have been trying to contact you for days,” Tarkwayne scowled. “Your pot must be off the boil.”
“Of course! A low simmer is best for messages. Don’t you tell me how to keep my own cauldron!”
“I wouldn’t presume. But, honestly, old man, haven’t you considered switching to birds of prey. Far more convenient and they feed themselves.”
“Ain’t natural,” grumbled Smedlock.
“That’s what you said about the staff but I see you have reconciled yourself to that.”
“Bah,” Smedlock scowled at the stout stick. “It helps me to get around, that’s all. But that’s by the by. You’ve been trying to speak to me for days, you said?”
“Yes.”
“What about?”
“I need an update on your progress. You failed to check in when the last moon waned.”
“I was busy,” Smedlock retorted. “I don’t always have time for chitchat.”
“Well...”
“Well what?”
“You may tell me of your progress now, while I’m here.”
“There’s not that much to tell,” Smedlock shrugged, enjoying the frown of frustration that flashed across the other’s features. “The Duke is still on board, you might say, although if he knew the truth of it, we’d be scuppered.”
“The man
’s a fool.” Tarkwayne restrained himself from spitting on the ground in the manner of someone more vulgar. “What does he think is going on?”
Smedlock chuckled. “He thinks he’s getting a magical object as an anniversary present for his good lady wife. Thinks it will save both his marriage and his bloodline.”
Tarkwayne raised a finger to stop him. “This wife. Need we concern ourselves?”
“I shouldn’t think so. She’s from peasant stock. A gold-digger from the sticks. A young tart on the make. She’s no problem.”
“Excellent. Go on.”
“He’s given me full access to everything.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
Smedlock delved a hand into his robe and extracted a ring, a hoop of iron, heavy with rusted keys. Tarkwayne’s expression changed; he allowed himself a grin.
“You don’t mean...”
“I do!” Smedlock rattled the keys. “The Lighthouses of Ptorf are ours!”
He could tell Tarkwayne was dying to hold the keys but would not reach out to take them. He watched, fascinated, as Smedlock put them away.
“That is excellent,” Tarkwayne drummed his fingertips together. “But how?”
“Oh,” Smedlock pouted, “I merely told the Duke the fresh coastal air would clear my thinking. He’s been to my cave so he fell for that at once. And furthermore, I told him, being in proximity to the site of the original seam might lead to vibrations! Revelations! Excavations!”
“Good, good,” Tarkwayne approved. “Ptorf is the apex of our triangle. You will go there when the time is right. I shall to Herran’s Polp and our brother-” he leant on the word, for to name an absent wizard out loud was to attract that wizard’s attention, “– will go to Lurkin Mount.”
Smedlock nodded, envisioning a map showing these landmarks. He imagined lines joining them to form a triangle of power. “And that makes the centre...”
Tarkwayne pouted, waiting for the old scruff to cotton on.
They named the place together:
“Tullen Spee!”
Tarkwayne laughed excitedly, but then, as it invariably did, his face soured. “I would rather our brother was not involved.”
“Oh?” said Smedlock, affecting nonchalance but eager to hear some dirt on Pezzackeron.
“He’s... unpredictable. Like a loose wand. I’d much rather our late brother...”
“You mean Bradwyn?”
Tarkwayne winced.
“It’s all right; he’s well dead. Yes, I would have preferred Bradwyn to Pe - our other brother. But what choice do we have?”
“Ah, Bradwyn. Remind me to lift a goblet in his honour. His loss diminishes us all.”
“True, brother.” And so it was, for the death of a wizard reduced the collective power of those who remained.
“Well...” Tarkwayne, somewhat choked, cleared his throat, “I must be off. Keep doing what you’re doing,” he gestured at Smedlock’s pouch of toadstools, “and please reconsider getting a kestrel or something of that ilk.”
He stalked away and was gone.
“Ta-ta,” said Smedlock. Well, he told himself, that could have gone a lot worse. Old Tarkwayne might be as stuck-up as a toffee-flavoured gluepot but he’s also very trusting. Too trusting for his own good.
Smedlock shuffled back to his cave and cauldron. The widow-makers would do the job nicely.
Kestrel, my arse.
***
Smedlock dropped the widow-makers into the pot as soon as he got back to his cauldron. He did not bother to wash or even to wipe them; he did not want to diminish their effectiveness. The broth bubbled up and changed colour, taking on a vibrant, green hue as it accepted the new ingredient. Smedlock stirred it, giggling excitedly in anticipation of the visions he was certain the cauldron would show.
Sure enough, the chunks and lumps swam together, making patterns and shapes. Smedlock peered at them, heedless of the steam in his face. The message was indecipherable and he dared not stir it again.
“What?” he cried. “What are you trying to tell me?”
The ingredients tumbled and sank. The last bubble broke the surface and the soup lay still.
Smedlock stood back and mopped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. The toadstools must have been duds. Or I picked them too early. Or-
The broth spilled over the rim as if a large object had been dropped into the cauldron from a great height. A bubble grew at the centre and kept growing. It formed a skull - no, a bald head with a face Smedlock recognised, a face which he was in no particular hurry to see.
Pezzackeron!
The eyes - one a slice of carrot, the other a garden pea - opened. The runner bean lips parted in a grin, broth running from the mouth like a rivulet over a stone. “Smedlock?” said Pezzackeron’s high-pitched voice; it sounded as though he were underwater. “Stand closer. The picture is not clear. I keep telling you, you use too much stock.”
With reluctance, Smedlock shuffled closer to the countenance in the cauldron.
“Well?” Pezzackeron snapped. Eyebrows represented by asparagus tips dipped in a frown.
“Well what?” Smedlock shifted uncomfortably.
“You called me.”
“I did?”
“There is no one else who uses such an archaic means of communication. What do you want?”
“Well, now that you’re here, you can tell me how things are going?”
“Things?” The eyes narrowed. The garden pea fell out of its socket and splash-landed in the soup.
“You know... our project.”
The eyes widened. The disc of carrot slid down Pezzackeron’s cheek. “Quiet! You must be careful what you say. You never know when our stuck-up brother might be listening.”
“Who? Tarkw-”
“Ssh! You don’t have to name him. We both know who we mean. Have you seen him recently?”
“That depends on the timescale. What about your ring?”
Pezzackeron’s expression clouded. “Still no sign of it. I knew at the time it was a mistake to let that boy get away with it.”
“Yes, probably.”
“Look, I wasn’t thinking straight. I had just had my hand lopped off, hadn’t I?”
“I suppose...”
“We can do without the ring. We shall have to.”
“I suppose...”
“Will you stop saying you suppose?”
“I sup-” Smedlock stopped himself.
The head in the broth scowled. “When we three are in charge and our power is restored, do you think it will grow back again? My hand?”
“There will be nothing we cannot achieve,” said Smedlock, “Once we three rule the world. To that end, you must keep at it. I know it’s a lot to tackle single-handed.”
“Is that meant to be a joke?” the broth began to boil.
“What? Oh! Ha-ha, no! Now,” he picked up a salt cellar. “Be off with you; I should like to enjoy my supper.”
Twelve
Carith dismissed Milassa when the Duke entered her apartments. It wasn’t dinnertime - not even close - so what was he up to? He caught her expression in the looking glass and smirked.
“A man may visit his good lady wife when he wishes, no?”
“A man may,” Carith told his reflection, “but a Duke has many important responsibilities he ought not to neglect.”
The Duke had no answer to that. He stood admiring his wife’s beauty and ached to touch her. “I must say,” he said, “I do like your hair like that. The plaiting is so intricate and evenly done.”
“Milassa is a treasure,” Carith agreed. “She does all sorts of things for me.”
The Duke’s cheeks reddened and he stamped his foot. “Confound it all! You shall have me jealous
of a servant who gets to spend more time with you than I. Oh, that I might touch that hair, that my fingers might undo all of her good works!”
Carith suppressed a shudder - but only just. The last thing she wanted was his clammy hands pawing her. She stalked away from the mirror to the window. “So kind of you to pop in,” she gestured dismissively, “when I know how unutterably busy you must be.”
“I must?” the Duke blinked.
“What with the preparations, silly! It is only a couple of weeks until our anniversary. Oh, do not tell me you have forgotten! I shall be thoroughly crushed.”
The Duke blustered. “Of course not! Of course I have not forgotten, my darling. How could I forget the anniversary of the happiest day of my life?”
“Quite,” said Carith. “So you better run along then, hadn’t you?”
“I had!” The Duke bounded from the door like an eager puppy let off the leash. Carith stepped out onto the balcony.
“Idiot,” she muttered.
Beyond the palace grounds, beyond the expanse of ground known as Potlar’s plain, a wall of elder trees shielded her eyes from the town that had sprung up in the hope of providing services to the Duke and thereby receiving his royal favour. Carith Drombo never ventured there herself; she had no desire to mingle with the hoi polloi - and why keep servants and give off odours yourself? No; whenever she needed something Grimswyck had to offer, she despatched Milassa thither.
The servant had been given her orders and was about them now...
Do not fail me, Milassa, Carith stared grimly at the elders, or you might find yourself for the chop.
***
“What is this place” said Gonda as they approached the bustling settlement.
“Grimswyck,” said Lughor. “Here we shall spend the night.”
“Oh. I thought we were pressing on to the palace.” The goose girl was disappointed; after her weeks of roughing it and cross-country trekking, she was keen to see fine people and fine things.
“Always impatient,” said her father. He was carrying the boy to give his daughter’s arms some respite. Tiggy would not allow Lughor near him - a circumstance due to the tiny sword I wear, the warrior believed privately. Something about it must be upsetting to malgrims.
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