Ravenwood

by Andrew Peters

“What, having a butt that could shoot for Arborium? It’s the least of our troubles, mate!” If he didn’t make it home tonight, his dad would be up worrying. But what could he do? As Mucum pulled Ark through the doorway, they were finally free of the gloom of the undercanopy. Instead of wood underfoot, there was grass. Ark quickly closed the door behind him, then turned to take in the view. The clouds had also given up the ghost, drifting away to bother some other part of Arborium. He’d forgotten that the sun still shone above the treetops. At least the place was empty. They were safe, for now, but the closer they came to the castle, the more nervous Ark became.

  “Bit of all right, this is!” Mucum walked away from the wall and slid down to rest his back against an apple tree bursting with ripe fruit. The orchard fringed the edge of a single huge scaffield, one of many that ringed the agricultural areas, their acres of crops suspended high above the earth. These enormous, walled-in platforms leaned at a slight angle to catch the sun, and were planted with wheat, barley, and corn. Ark always marveled at the stupendous engineering required to support the weight of the soil, piled at least ten feet deep on top of the platforms.

  The harvest was already in, leaving a field of stubble like the beginning of a giant’s beard. In less than a week, Dendrans would gather by the palace to celebrate the year’s produce, the merriment of festival fireworks covering up the treachery growing deep down.

  Mucum grabbed an apple and bit into it. “Can’t beat the taste of a Mary Pippins!”

  “You shouldn’t steal.” Ark frowned disapprovingly.

  “Oh, for Diana’s sake. You’re startin’ to sound like my mother. Give it a rest. Hey!” Mucum perked up. “The look on the old man’s face! Priceless!”

  Ark crumbled some soil between his fingers. A few sheep dotted the grass. In the distance, golden heads of barley bowed to a light breeze. “You don’t get it, do you? It’s more than skiving off. All this is going to be chopped down, gone!”

  “Whoa there! Just because we had a laugh, it don’t mean I ain’t thinkin’ about it.”

  “I have to speak to the King. We’re running out of time.”

  “Oh, right. Arktorious Malikum, fourteen-year-old sewage worker, here to uncover a secret plot to a-sausage-mate … a-sissy-mate … err.” Mucum bunched his lips tight in concentration. “Got it! to … kill the King! Take me to your leader! It’s really going to work, that is!”

  “I’m glad you’re so amused. Have you got any better ideas?”

  “Actually, I have. You’d be surprised what’s lurkin’ up ’ere!” Mucum tapped the side of his head as if the wisdom of ages lay within.

  “Well, I hope it’s better than your spelling.”

  “Give us some of that cheese and I might let you in on my brilliant plan.”

  By the time they finally approached the edge of the court, the October sun was falling over the far forest. The platform that supported the home of King Quercus was the biggest in the country. Some of the beams that underpinned the foundations were a hundred feet thick and over a thousand yards long. Barkingham Palace itself was massive, a magnified log cabin with battlements.

  At this time of evening, the landscaped pleasure gardens were full of courting couples. The scent of honeysuckle hung in the air, and noble families gathered for supper picnics in the grass, under ornamental cherry trees planted in raised beds sunk into the boardwalk. Happy families. Ark longed to be part of it, chewing on a chicken leg and making small talk into the twilight with not a worry in the world. Despite the unjustness of it, it was still his country, still worth saving. Maybe one day, all would be welcome. A mad dream.

  “This is how the other ‘alf live, eh?” muttered Mucum. “Anyways, we’re ’ere to do a job. Do yer see it?”

  Ark’s eyes focused. A bog-standard manhole cover was set within the planking, just a few feet from the outer wall. He’d seen a thousand in his short life. This one might be their ticket.

  “Now, remember what I said. I’ll see you in a minute.” Mucum sauntered casually toward the manhole. Ark studied the scene. Luckily, all the couples had eyes only for each other, and the plump children of the court were too busy stuffing their faces. A plumber going about his legitimate business wasn’t a cause for concern. The guard was another matter. The thought of it made Ark’s forehead prickle.

  He had no choice. Time to move. The steps at the front of the castle were wide and burnished with gold. The risers were embossed with stags, boars, eagles, and ravens, all bowing before their king. At the top, a pair of huge oak doors reared up into the sky. The sun, now orange as it sank toward the horizon, lit up the flag of Arborium high above: an oak leaf twisted into the shape of a crown.

  The studded doors were firmly shut. The guard who stood on sentry duty, with his ceremonial hat in the shape of an outsize acorn, frowned at the sight of a boy messing up his newly polished metalwork.

  “Yeah?” said the guard menacingly. The man might once have been a mountain of muscle, but his features now sagged downward, thanks to an excess of pies and too much standing around, bored out of his skull.

  Ark was on his own. “I’d like to … that is … the King. Well …” So much for speeches. “He’s in danger! I’ve overheard a plot, you see —”

  His words were cut short. “Yeah. I do see. And what I see is a little oik!”

  Good. The man was distracted. Out of the corner of his eye, Ark saw Mucum working the first bolt of the manhole. The plumber was in plain sight. Ark gulped down his fear.

  “Did yer mates set you up for this as a dare?”

  The guard leaned down and Ark caught a whiff of stale beer.

  “No!” It wasn’t a dare. It was a plan. A dumb, impossible plan. If the guard would just turn a couple of inches …

  “Well, I don’t see no plot here, unless you’ve been sent to assassinate our beloved leader?” The guard leaned back and his shoulders bobbed with laughter at his own joke. But then he lunged suddenly, grabbed Ark hard, and lifted him up until they were both at eye level. “We’ve had a bit of fun, you and me. Now go back to whatever miserable little squithole you crept from and leave me to do my job, guarding the King from real danger, eh?” He let go and Ark dropped in a heap on the floor.

  Ark allowed himself to slide his eyes quickly toward his friend, struggling with the final bolt. Ark knew this one was going to screech. Plumber’s instinct. Rust was never silent. He had to do something!

  Ark jumped up and screamed as loudly as he could at the guard. “You’ll see! Trouble’s coming!”

  Instead of running toward the sound of the bolt giving way, the guard put one hand on the hilt of his sword. “It will be if you don’t clear off, you nutter!” he hissed.

  Ark’s heart pounded as he retreated down the stairs just in time to see Mucum’s head vanish beneath the walkway. He was in! It worked! Now his only problem was how to also vanish as the guard’s eyes tracked his every movement.

  “Cooeee!” Ark and the guard turned their heads at the sound. It was an invasion that couldn’t have been timed better. One moment, the guard was glaring at the boy who was clearly off his tree, and the next, he was surrounded by a gaggle of gossiping girls, desperate for his autograph.

  I owe you one, Diana! Not the best prayer in Arborium, but Ark was truly grateful. He ran for the hole, slipping his legs over the edge.

  “We haven’t got all night!” said Mucum from the darkness below.

  “Give me a chance! Our friend is too busy being adored by some tourists of the female variety.” If Ark wasn’t so terrified, he would have laughed. They were in. Next stop, the King.

  Just as Ark was about to pull the manhole cover over his head, a voice stopped him dead.

  “Oi! What do you think you’re doing?”

  He froze. They were so close. It was over.

  10• DANGER IN THE NORTH

  Once again, Petronio felt he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “What is the boy doing here?” Grasp wouldn’t even ref
er to him by name. The High Councillor paced the rug-strewn floor, clearly ill at ease.

  “Calm yourself. Isn’t it better than having him hidden in the utility room?” Lady Fenestra sat by the fireplace in a high oak chair, staring at her fingernails. Her lips curled upward in amusement.

  “Is this your idea of a joke?” Grasp briefly stared at his errant son.

  Petronio shrank back toward the door. It had been the lady’s suggestion to have him present at the meeting, but now he wasn’t so sure.

  “The boy is … special.”

  “In what way? Other than specially capable of letting go of a spy and making my men take part in a wild-goat chase? Lucky for him, the plumber’s boy decided to end it all.” He turned to Fenestra. “Aside from that little failing, maybe you’ve discovered talents that I have yet to see. I will concede that he has a general ruthlessness that is unusual in a mere youth.” Even his compliments were barbed.

  “I’m glad you understand. Now, to the point.” Fenestra’s voice took on an edge that demanded total attention. “In a few short days, I need to know that your associates will follow you and rise against the King.”

  “Of course they will! The man is weak-willed and Arborium is rotten. He began with strength and resolve, but they have leached away, leaving only a dry husk of the leader that he was. It is time to cut that particular tree down to size.” Grasp was making speeches again. “But I don’t have the necessary manpower!”

  Petronio saw the spittle flecking his father’s beard and he realized that the High Councillor was, after all, only a little man. He also knew for the first time that after years of public put-downs and not so public beatings, he despised his father.

  “Our great empire has armies that would swamp this little backwater” — she snapped her fingers as if that were all it would take — “but unfortunately, there is the problem of a certain deadly gas.” She looked meaningfully at Petronio. Strange to think that mere hours ago, she had been on the brink of death herself.

  “We have managed to produce a tiny amount of vaccine, but not enough to equip an invasion,” she continued. “Thus, the necessary use of force must come from elsewhere. Inside. I propose that we utilize your son to go on a little errand, up north to your armories. There is a certain commander there who may be, shall we say, sympathetic to our cause.”

  Petronio’s heart beat faster. So this was what she had in mind!

  “That is preposterous! The boy going by himself to Moss-side! They’ll turn him into mincemeat!” It wouldn’t be the injuries that were a problem, more the damage to the High Councillor’s reputation.

  “Oh, do I have to explain everything? Your well-known presence may raise suspicion up there, do you not agree? Whereas a boy can travel like a ghost, and the message he carries slip through with ease. I also have faith that this young man is more than capable of looking after himself.”

  If Petronio could have purred, he would.

  “Why can’t you go?” demanded Grasp. “You seem to be able to crawl around our kingdom without being seen!”

  “What? A woman in the world of swords, crossbows, and the other backward weapons your culture is so fond of? I would stand out like, in your language, a blossom in winter!”

  Grasp wasn’t convinced. He shook his head, his mind filled with all that could go wrong.

  Lady Fenestra had no doubt. “Come, young Petronio. I am sure your father can spare his best horse?”

  Petronio found himself enjoying the emerging battle of wills, especially as his father was the loser. The Councillor looked ready to explode, but thought better of it. There was a tight silence.

  “Talk to my groom in the stables. He can take Mercury. I shall have to make do with one of the old plodders.” He pulled open the balcony doors violently, as if fresh air could blow away such madness. In the west, the sun was beginning to sink on the old country. When it rose again, what would they have set in motion? “I shortly have a meeting with Quercus concerning security arrangements for the Harvest Festival,” Grasp continued, his jawline rigid. “I shall play my part and reassure our wise king that all is well.” Then he walked out onto the balcony. As far as he was concerned, they were both dismissed.

  Lady Fenestra smiled slyly at Petronio. “That’s settled. There is much to do and little time. Follow me!”

  “Err … yes.”

  As Petronio left his father sulking in his study, Lady Fenestra pulled back into the shadows of the hallway and hissed at him.

  “Wait! The guards can be trusted, but my face will cause gossip if seen by other servants. Listen carefully. The man you are looking for has the name of Flint.”

  “Julius Flint?” Petronio looked suitably awed. Who hadn’t heard of him?

  Lady Fenestra arched her eyebrows. “I was right about you.”

  Petronio was desperate to impress her. “When I was younger and ready for bed, my nurse used to tell me to close my eyes or Flint would pluck them out. I always thought it was a far tale until my father told me how Julius Flint, a young second-in-command of the armories in his twenties, put down a civil uprising when Quercus was challenged for the throne.”

  “Yes?”

  “Once the protesters were rounded up, he grabbed one of them out of the crowd and dangled him over the edge of the branch, offering to drop him unless he informed Flint who the ringleaders were. The man was only too happy to oblige. In thanks, Flint let go.”

  “Brutal but effective!” commented Lady Fenestra.

  Petronio was on a roll now. The story beat any far tale. “That’s only the half of it,” he continued. “The leaders were dispatched in the same way, one by one. The rest of the crowd awaited their punishment, thinking about docked wages, fines maybe. Guess what he did?”

  “It’s hardly difficult.”

  “Ordered his men to push the whole lot off, saying later that every one of them — men, women, and children — had been resisting arrest and the result was truly unfortunate. Apparently, Quercus was so angry about what had been done in his name and without his agreement that he sent the lot of them up north. Out of sight, out of mind. But in fact, it’s said that in the end, the crushing of the revolt brought lasting peace to Arborium. That was the last-ever uprising. Every Dendran knows the story. After old Ponticus had his heart attack, Flint was named commander in chief—” Petronio suddenly blanched. “And this is the man you want me to find?”

  “Precisely!” She reached within the folds of her habit and pulled out a purse that jingled as she handed it over. “The old ways are the best when it comes to persuasion. And from what you say about your king, it might be easier to deal with him than I thought. Now, I want you to deliver this message and emphasize that we have only a few days to prepare.” When Lady Fenestra had finished whispering her precise instructions, she turned away and disappeared through a side door.

  Petronio was on his own. Only this morning, he had been bored to tears in a stuffy lecture hall. This was more like it! A mission. The trust of someone powerful. He ordered the groom to saddle up and took off down the branch line, the rubber-shod hooves gripping the wood as he cantered away into the twilight.

  Five minutes later, his father was also on the move, flanked by his two bodyguards. He was heading toward the Court of Quercus. The old shire horse he rode could barely keep up with the two guards. Grasp cursed Maw, Lady Fenestra, and especially his son as the horse ambled unhurriedly along the byways. At this rate, it would be midnight by the time they arrived.

  Petronio’s passage was quicker. Mercury, a silver-gray stallion, was true to his name. They flew along the broad branch lines, beating out a muffled rhythm as the sun slowly sank from the sky, and the woods filled with lengthening shadow. Petronio didn’t bother with the niceties of the Highway Code. Dendran pedestrians were a nuisance. Luckily, most heard the horse before he was upon them and they jumped out of the way, offering the rider various gestures with arms and fingers that certainly weren’t polite. The populated areas were soon le
ft behind and Petronio was by himself, heading north into unknown territory.

  He’d never been this far before, never seen for himself how the whole country truly was one big, intersecting treescape. He paused momentarily to let the horse drink from a wooden trough set against an old abandoned trunk. Either side of the deserted highway, the trees gave into darkness. His mind wandered, fixing briefly on a weathered wooden figure of a raven covered in tattered black ribbons. The old wayside shrine was almost hidden in the ivy, but it gave Petronio the shivers. The lonely byways were still dotted with these symbols of the old religion.

  As a child, when he woke calling for a mother who was no longer there, his nurse conjured tales out of the shadows of his bedroom. Her main intent seemed to have been less about comfort and more about scaring him half to death. One of her favorites was the story about Little Red Ride In The Wood, who strayed too far from the safety of home, until the Raven Queen, disguised as an old granny, invited her into a little cottage deep in the middle of nowhere. A delicious-smelling cauldron was on the boil, and it only needed one more ingredient….

  His nurse would always grab him at this point and shout:

  Into the pot with you! Corwenna’s having a do.

  Sugar and spice, gristle is nice,

  Two legs and a head and soon you’ll be dead.

  It’s time to serve up a stew, ooh!

  Woodrot! A bunch of old wives’ tales. He gathered his cloak about him and pulled the bridle hard, jamming the bit back into Mercury’s mouth.

  “That’s enough. You’re not a buddy water bottle, eh?” He dug in his heels and galloped off along the track. Roosting rooks squawked into flight, disturbed by the thundering hooves. Gray light pouring from a half-formed moon turned the forest around the highway into hills and valleys. The main north-south route was relatively straight. Under the highest leaves it swept along the massive, flattened branches with braced bridges joining to each next branch. As the highway spanned the gap between the distant trees, scaffolding flared out to hug their giant, curved trunks. Petronio sped around these lonely roundabouts, urging his steed onward to the sound of wind hissing in the leaves.