Rasgha faltered, shaking her head and blinking. The weapon, raised and ready moments before, now lowered in a hand visibly weakened and trembling. Torin, too, slowed his steps and stopped, staring at Cassandra with a vague, blank expression. Even Drig relaxed and began to sway, fractionally, in time to the music.
Lady Thayer played her pipes as Bessie had never before seen. The melody flowed, rippling, from her lips and her fingers with scarcely possible speed, but the lady never missed a note. Somewhere in the depths of Bessie’s confusion, she was conscious of a distant sense of admiration. What a musician!
Not that the music was in any way beautiful. It was harsh in character – ugly, even. Cacophonic and disordered, it grated upon Bessie’s ears in a fashion she found scarcely tolerable. But no matter how much she might wish to run away from it, she could not move.
Accordingly, she was slow to realise that they had arrived at an impasse. Cassandra’s music kept Rasgha and Torin at bay, but it could only last as long as she did, and that could not be forever. Meanwhile, the strange melody lulled her allies as well as her attackers. The danger was only postponed, not removed, and she had placed herself as much beyond help as she was beyond attack.
The stalemate stretched, minute by minute, and gradually the strain upon Lady Thayer began to show. A fine perspiration beaded her forehead, and her eyes grew wide and a little wild. Bessie fought harder to escape the pull of the music, striving to move as much as a muscle under the enchantment. If she could find something – anything – to use as a weapon, perhaps she could contrive to eliminate at least one of Cassandra’s enemies. But try as she might, she could not move.
The impasse was unbreakable. The music would stave off attack until Cassandra broke – and break she would, soon. When that happened, Cassandra and Bessie would be as poorly situated as they had been before, for Bessie’s sluggish brain would not even oblige her by using the interlude to formulate a new plan. She could see nothing about her that might serve as a weapon, nor imagine any likely outcome to the situation than the fulfilment of Rasgha’s intentions.
Unless…
Her befuddled mind conjured a single image for her perusal: an object, and a vague question.
Yes, thought Bessie. That might do.
Before she could follow the thought any further, something exploded into the room in a violent rush of shadow and a wordless snarl of rage. A frigid wind tossed Bess’s hair into her face and chilled her skin.
Cassandra’s music faltered for an instant – just long enough to permit Bessie to whirl about in search of the disruption.
Grunewald.
He stood in the centre of Maggin’s parlour, and everything about him spoke of unconquerable fury. He was bone-white with it, his eyes piercingly green and his disordered, wind-swept hair bloodier in contrast. He stared back at Bessie, his eyes noting the blood that stained her sleeve, and grew still more terrible.
‘Who,’ he said in a terrible, quiet voice, ‘Did. THAT?’ The final word erupted from him in a thunderous roar that shook the walls, and Bessie flinched. Shadows gathered around him, spears of lightning sparkling at their core, and Bessie felt that she had never seen anything more terrifying in her life. The Goblin King’s menace dwarfed even that of Tatterfoal.
He paused, listening, and then his gaze shifted to Lady Thayer. His eyes narrowed, and he shook his head, as though to clear it. ‘Rasgha,’ he said with a frightening smile. ‘It was you, was it not?’
Rasgha glared balefully at her brother. Her expression showed nothing but a fury of her own, but Bessie discerned a hint of fear. Even she must tremble before such a vast and shattering wrath.
She did not speak; probably she could not, for Lady Thayer’s music held her still. But her defiance was visible in every line of her body, and in the curl of her clenched fists.
Grunewald strolled around her in a circle, examining every inch of his wayward sister. He stopped in front of her once more, his brows lifting a bare fraction of an inch. ‘So!’ he said in a dangerously conversational tone. ‘You would like to walk in my shoes, would you? Step into my place and my throne? Perhaps you imagine that it will be amusing, to give orders and be waited upon? To be flattered and courted? You can have no notion of what it means to lead.
‘I am not, as you appear to suppose, so desperately determined to retain the role. You are unaware of how long I have been burdened with the duty. Had I known of your existence, and been able to esteem your character, I might perhaps have relinquished the role in your favour some years ago.’
This admission could not much surprise Bessie, but its effect upon Rasgha was powerful. Her eyes widened, and Bess could easily read the look in her eyes as pure shock. And, perhaps, chagrin.
Grunewald smiled congenially upon her, but the shadows wreathing his tall, thin figure roiled and flashed with lightning. ‘But you made the mistake of expecting me to be exactly like you. You have shown me every one of your poor qualities and none at all of your strengths – supposing you to possess any. As a consequence, I will see myself dead before I will see you installed as the Goblin Queen. My people – our people – deserve better.’
His words faltered a little at the end, and his eyes began to develop a glazed look. Cass’s music was getting to him. He clenched his teeth and shook his head once, defying the melody by pure force of will. ‘That being the case,’ he grated, ‘there remains the question of what to do with you.’
Something shifted in the music, and Bessie received the impression that it was drawing to a close. Cassandra was growing tired, or perhaps she had something else in mind; Bessie could not guess. But she had only a minute or two to decide on what she was to do when the music faded. A glance beyond Grunewald revealed her only hope of constructive action: a large, sturdy bucket set down near the door. She spared a moment to bless the Motley’s landlady for her habits of scrupulous cleanliness. She saw Maggin as well, still wielding the broom she had been carrying when Bessie and Cassandra had arrived. She exchanged a look with the landlady, and read a similar resolve in Maggin's eyes. The goblin woman looked first at Torin, then at the broom she carried. Then her eyes flicked to Rasgha.
Bessie understood, and held herself ready.
‘I have the perfect thing!’ continued Grunewald, smiling nastily. ‘For you and all your wretched little friends.’ He cracked his knuckles, his smile growing wider. ‘Before I begin, allow me to assure you that I am very much going to enjoy this.’
Cassandra’s melody rose to a crescendo and then cut out, so abruptly that Bessie was left briefly shocked by the sudden, heavy silence that fell.
But only for an instant. She leapt into movement, knowing as she did so that she was too slow. Her goal was Maggin's bucket, left standing by the door, but the way was not clear; she would have to get past Rasgha's friends to reach it.
As this passed through her mind, Torin spat an icy syllable into the air. Grunewald convulsed, with an agonised cry which tore at Bessie's heart. She wanted to run to him, but she must not be distracted. With a ferocious effort of will, she forced herself to ignore his distress and keep to her purpose.
But the Ayliri remained between her and her weapon of choice.
Then Drig was there. He uttered a barked, blood-curdling word which turned Bessie's stomach. It was futile; she knew it instinctively, for in the tumult, few could even hear Drig. And how could he hope to match his goblin magics against those of the royal line?
But it was not directed at Rasgha, or Torin. As he spoke, the bucket soared upwards in a graceful arc, almost to the ceiling, and then fell towards Bess. Cold metal against her hands, and an encouraging weight to lift; she had it.
She spun about, just in time to see Maggin bring her heavy birchwood broom down upon Torin’s neck with a satisfying thwack.
Bessie hefted her bucket and swung. Rasgha had only time enough to transfer her attention from Grunewald to Bessie, a look of startled horror in her eyes, before Bess brought her makeshift weapon down upon Rasg
ha’s head.
Grunewald’s sister fell like a tree, and lay inert.
Maggin was having a little more trouble with Torin. It was not for lack of enthusiasm, Bessie reflected, for she had already rained two or three blows down upon the Aylir. Her broom lacked the solid weight necessary to fell him with a single blow, or perhaps Maggin herself lacked the necessary height or strength.
Bessie reached Maggin’s side in two quick steps and dispatched the dazed Aylir with another quick, efficient swing of the bucket. She watched in satisfaction as Torin measured his length beside Rasgha, and beamed down upon them both. ‘Unfortunately for the two o’ you, I’ve always been good wi’ a bucket.’ She beamed at Drig, whose quick-thinking she had to credit. Magical attacks Rasgha would have expected, but who could have anticipated an assault with cleaning equipment? Drig tipped his hat to her, smirking.
‘Bess!’ roared Grunewald, and his ire rattled the walls once again. ‘She was mine to dispose of!’
‘Mayhap she was, but you was doin’ far too much talkin’ and not enough dispatchin’.’ Bessie put the bucket down neatly against the wall, and fixed Grunewald with a disapproving eye. She was also checking to see if he was unharmed by Torin's magical assault, though she would not have wished for him to know that.
‘I was getting to it!’
He looked a little paler than usual, but otherwise whole. Satisfied, Bessie dismissed both Grunewald and his protestations with a wave of her hand, and went to attend to Cassandra. ‘That was impressive,’ she said, noting with some concern that the lady piper was showing signs of exhaustion.
Lady Thayer smiled wearily at her, tucking her glass pipe into a pocket in her skirt. ‘So were you.’
Bessie smiled modestly. ‘Aye well, as to that. I ain’t blessed wi’ magic or music or anythin’ so fine, but I do like to keep things nice an’ tidy.’
Grunewald continued to spit and snarl somewhere nearby, but Bessie ceased to hear him. She had become abruptly aware of the wound in her arm, ignored in the midst of the conflict but now imposing itself upon her awareness in a disagreeably persistent fashion. ‘Oh,’ she said vaguely, swaying. It hurt, and her sleeve was soaked in blood.
Maggin was at her side in an instant, together with Drig and Lady Thayer. The two of them guided Bessie to a seat upon one of Maggin’s soft, well-stuffed chairs, and from this position Bessie could only smile vaguely at Grunewald as he continued to rage. Her absolute indifference to his indignation combined with her obvious weakness brought him up short, and he closed his mouth with a snap. He eyed her balefully for a moment, then swooped upon her. Bessie found herself swept up in a crushing hug, and even the growl of kingly discontent that came along with it failed to dissipate her growing sensation of peaceful satisfaction. She leaned against Grunewald and permitted herself one soft, contented sigh.
‘You’d better deal wi’ your sister, I reckon,’ she said after a moment.
‘Mmf.’ Bessie was ruthlessly kissed by way of answer, a response she submitted to without much complaint. Grunewald squeezed Bessie fractionally tighter, then released her as abruptly as he had seized her and sprang to his feet. ‘Off we go, then,’ he said, scooping up both Rasgha and Torin with remarkable ease considering the probable combined weight of the two of them. The doorway into the Darkways yawned wider in invitation.
Grunewald cast one quick, penetrating look at Cassandra. ‘At some point, you and I are going to have a talk about how you came to be so proficient with goblin music.’
He gave her no time to reply. Dragging his prey by their necks, and with a charming disregard for their comfort, Grunewald strode through the door and vanished. The shadows went with him, and the door slammed behind him with a snap.
Bessie was left alone with Cassandra, Drig and Maggin, in a parlour restored to such innocuous peace she could scarcely believe the drama that it had contained but moments before. ‘I think,’ she said vaguely as her head spun, ‘I would like to lie down for a moment.’
Before she could act upon this pleasing resolution, a sparkling grey fog engulfed her vision and she passed into pleasant oblivion.
Chapter Fifteen
Our Bess is right handy wi’ a bucket, no? Leave it t’ her to cut through the nonsense! Tis fer others to wave about they fancy magics an’ what-not! Just gi’ Bessie somethin’ solid an’ room t’ swing, an’ away goes the problem. I do like a practical lass.
Anyhow, that were that fer the time bein’. Grunewald took his wayward sister away someplace. I didn’t ask where – oh, not out of any sense o’ discretion, or any o’ that nonsense. She’s dangerous! I’ve a right to know! But Drig came t’ me wi’ the details. Seems his Majesty has somethin’ by way of a secret prison somewhere in Gadrahst. Sounds excitin’, don’t it? But it weren’t right. Grunewald says as how he’s worried she might worm her way out o’ that one, bein’ as she’s royal blood an’ all. So he whisks her off to the Hollows – the Hollow Hills, that is. Ye’ve heard me tell o' them. Tis an in-between place, driftin’ somewhere betwixt Aylfenhame and yer own, dear England. Quiet, fer the most part. There’s a doorway in not far from here, and them musicians – the ones as runs wi’ Lyrriant, the Piper? – they lives somewhere in there. Grunewald’s given her over t’ Lyrriant’s care, an’ I’ve no doubt the Piper will keep her under his eye.
As fer Torin an’ such of his crew as survived the Goblin Hunt? His Majesty weren’t lenient-like wi’ them. Not at all. I reckon thas the last we’ll ever see o’ that lot, an’ good riddance.
Lady Thayer’s gone back to her folk on the edge o’ the county. Between you an’ me, I heard as it was Lyrriant that taught her how to play them pipes the way she does, and gave ‘er the pipe, to boot. Tripped over ‘er durin’ the summer Rade, an’ took her under his wing, like. Mighty sneaky of him. I am a little put out tha’ he saw no need t’ inform me, I don’t mind tellin’ you! But thas Lyrriant. Not the most obligin’ chap I ever encountered. Anyroad, that heritage o’ hers worries me a mite. Mayhap Rasgha ain’t the only one t’ think she might be o’ use in findin’ that troublesome Kostigern fellow. I keep a watch on her, secret-like, just in case o’ further trouble.
Well, but what’s next fer the Goblin King? His cover bein’ good an’ blown in these parts, he don’t find it easy to come back. As ye may imagine! There’s many as says they always suspected Mr. Green an’ his charmin’ manners. I find tha’ mighty doubtful, but leastwise, he certainly ain’t trusted now. Chances are he’ll give up Hyde Place, though where he’s t’ pop up next is anybody’s guess.
An’ Bessie? Ye’ll be pleased to know that her arm healed, good as new, an’ she weren’t much the worse fer wear fer her adventure. Nay, not she! There ain’t much as can long dampen that spirit. But what became o’ her after? I’m right glad ye asked! I’ll tell ye. Just this last note, an’ then I’ll let ye go on yer way.
Two days after the events of the Hyde Place ball, Bessie lounged in her comfortable room at the Motley, thinking. It was a pursuit she was heartily tired of, for she had seen scarcely a soul since Grunewald’s departure with his sister. Maggin had been attentive enough, restoring her to her favourite room and ensuring that her wounded arm was seen to. But she had seen no one else – not even Lady Thayer, who had been escorted away by Drig two days ago. She had no means of venturing back into England, and no one had come seeking her in Gadrahst.
She was on the point of rising from her recumbent posture and taking herself for a turn about the inn, when there came a tapping at the door. She sat up at once, her spirits lifting, and called, ‘Enter!’
The door opened to reveal Drig, a triple-stacked hat perched atop his head and his bubble pipe in his hand. He wore a new jerkin, if she was any judge: a fine, silk confection in a dazzling shade of azure blue. He grinned at her and ducked his head by way of greeting.
‘Aye, there you are!’ Bessie cried. ‘What can you mean by keepin’ away so long, horrid creature?’
Drig’s grin widened, and he puffed a strea
m of clear bubbles into her face. ‘Apologies, and so on,’ he said, shoving the door closed behind him. ‘Things to do.’
‘Tell me at once, there’s a good fellow.’ Bessie stood over the diminutive goblin, her hands on her hips, and glared at him.
To her surprise, he wrapped his arms around her legs in a swift embrace and planted a kiss upon her right kneecap. ‘You’re a good woman, Bessie Bell,’ he informed her.
Bessie blinked down at him in amazement. ‘Why, thank you,’ she faltered.
He beamed at her. The expression was sunny and affectionate, but it occurred to Bess that there was a mischievous and unpromising curl to his lips which suggested something quite different. Her suspicions were instantly aroused. ‘Out wi’ the mischief,’ she ordered. ‘What is it yer wantin’?’
He regarded her seriously over the bowl of his pipe, his eyes glinting. ‘You do owe me a good turn, now that you mention it.’
Bessie nodded, impatient. ‘Yes, yes, I haven’t forgotten. Say on.’
Drig opened his mouth, but he was interrupted by a loud knocking upon the door. ‘That would be Maggin,’ he said.
‘Come in then, Mag!’ Bessie called.
It was Maggin. She came in beaming, but checked upon beholding Drig. ‘Ah! Ye’ve told her already! What a paltry trick, to be sure.’
Drig shook his head. ‘Your timing is impeccable, ma’am. I haven’t said a word.’
Bessie surveyed the two of them, frowning. ‘Whatever it is, you’d better tell me at once.’
Maggin and Drig exchanged a considering look. ‘You first,’ said Drig.
Maggin inclined her head, gracious as a queen. ‘Well then, Bess. Ye might remember as how I spoke of raisin’ His Majesty’s sister, when she were a tiny mite?’
‘You did say somethin’ about that, yes.’ Bessie was dying to ask how that could possibly have come about, but she did not want to interrupt whatever it was that Maggin had come to impart.
Bessie Bell and the Goblin King Page 25