Mr Drake and My Lady Silver

by Charlotte E. English

  He was right again, his good sense making light work of the problem.

  Supposing you wanted to sell them, he had added, rather more worryingly. Were it me, I might prefer to keep them.

  Indeed. The notion that Anthelaena’s personal effects were scattered all over Aylfenhame, hoarded away in the collections of unknown and unidentifiable denizens, was a chilling one, for how could they ever hope to discover them? Horrified, she had only been able to stare at Phineas.

  Some of them were probably sold, Phineas had hastily said.

  She hoped so.

  They had found Gabriel Winters lingering at the waterfront, not far from the door that led into Thieves’ Hollow. There was a public house there, and Gabriel had been monopolising a table all the long morning through, by the looks of him. It had been Phineas’s idea to seek his help, of course. The man was of an age with Phineas’s father, if not rather older, and had been deeply engaged in the thieves’ community ever since his youth. It is a place to start, Phineas had said.

  But not a good place to start, perhaps, for Winters was of no use whatsoever. ‘The queen,’ he repeated, and took a long drink from a tankard of something foul-smelling. He set the vessel down with a thud, and shook his head. ‘I’ve heard of no such fancy.’

  ‘A lyre, made from snowleaf wood, and with strings of coloured waters?’ said Ilsevel.

  Gabriel shook his head.

  ‘A gown of gold silk-tissue, with ribbons of mist? A band of starlight, to be worn around the arm? A pocket-watch made of pearls, which tells the time in six or eight places at once?’

  Gabriel shook his head again and again, his frown growing deeper and darker with each new item upon Ilsevel’s list. ‘Lady,’ he interjected at last. ‘Believe me, if I had seen anything like that in these parts, I would have wasted less time scrubbin’ about in the dirt after the miserable rubbish as usually passes through my hands. Maybe in London such marvels could pass wi’ no comment, but not here. And not even there, I’m persuaded.’

  ‘But,’ said Phineas. ‘Some articles from the royal court in Aylfenhame lately passed through the Thieves’ Market.’

  Gabriel looked sharply at Phineas. ‘Certain of that?’

  ‘My Lady Silver is quite certain of it.’

  Ilsevel added her corroboration of this. ‘We are not far from Mirramay, here. It is not so far-fetched.’

  ‘Not far from where?’

  ‘Mirramay, the royal city. Not in literal terms, for this city and mine are in different lands. But if I step through a gate in these parts, and enter into Aylfenhame, I am not more than half a day’s ride from the palace.’

  ‘So,’ put in Phineas. ‘Anyone fleeing Mirramay with their pockets full of royal loot might well find this a convenient place to rid themselves of it.’

  ‘All that’s as may be,’ said Gabriel grimly, ‘But I ain’t seen anythin’ like you describe. But then, such fine wares is not fer the likes o’ me. You would need to talk to someone higher up.’

  ‘Higher up in what?’ said Phineas.

  Gabriel smirked. ‘Thieves has a pecking order, same as everyone else. Some of us are more powerful than others, and I ain’t nearly powerful enough for your purposes. And if it’s twenty years ago yer interested in, or more, well…’

  ‘Well?’ prompted Phineas, when he did not finish the sentence.

  Gabriel drained his tankard in one long swallow, and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his coat. He appeared to be on the point of saying something, then stopped, shook his head, and began again. ‘The Thieves’ Market. Who was selling them things from the Court?’

  ‘His name we did not ask,’ answered Phineas. ‘But he was short, with a lot of pale hair, and he wore a bright cloak.’

  ‘Dark hat? Shape of yer own?’ said Gabriel, indicating Phineas’s cap with a jerk of his chin.

  ‘That was him.’

  Gabriel nodded once. ‘I know him. Oleander Whiteboots is his name, but they call him Magpie. Not because he cannot resist something shiny — in this trade, who can? They call him Magpie ‘cause whenever something especially good comes up, he’s the first to snag it. No one knows how.’

  ‘Small wonder, then, that he had Lady Galdrin’s shoe-buckle,’ said Phineas.

  ‘We need to talk to him,’ said Ilsevel firmly.

  But the man just shrugged. ‘He comes fer the Market, most times. Never see him otherwise.’

  ‘And when is the next Market?’

  ‘Twelfth Night.’

  This made no sense to Ilsevel, but Phineas sighed as though it made more sense to him than he liked. ‘That is still ten days away!’

  ‘I cannot help that, Phineas.’

  ‘You must know something more,’ Phineas pleaded. ‘Please, think.’

  Gabriel sighed, and gestured to the barkeep to top up his tankard. He sagged over the table-top, his hat laid down upon the bench beside him, his greying dark hair all twisted about by wind, or perhaps agitated fingers. He struck Ilsevel as the very embodiment of weariness, were such a quality to take human form. He had great, dark pouches of skin under his eyes, and those eyes were faintly bloodshot to boot. ‘I don’t know, Phineas,’ he said roughly. ‘I’ll tell you truly, I am far more concerned about yer father than about any tissue gowns from some far-off court of nobility.’

  ‘Why?’ said Phineas quickly. ‘What is amiss with Father?’

  ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘The day before last.’

  ‘I ain’t seen him since then, neither. Nobody has. The shop’s shut up, ain’t been opened for two days in a row.’

  Ilsevel saw worry and guilt written clearly across Phineas’s face, and impulsively reached out to grasp his hand. ‘It is the season for celebrating, is it not?’ she reminded him. ‘He has gone for a holiday, depend upon it.’

  ‘My father never celebrates,’ said Phineas shortly, and Gabriel, too, was looking at her as though she were mad. ‘And he would never shut the shop for two days together, especially not at this season.’ He stood up abruptly, jamming his cap back over his curls, and said curtly: ‘I must find him.’

  He was gone before Ilsevel could reply.

  ‘I rather need him,’ Ilsevel said to the old thief.

  Gabriel raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Why? Lady like you can fix yer own problems, I’ll wager.’

  ‘All the better with the right help.’

  ‘Ain’t that the way with us all.’ He stared moodily into his tankard, now brimming once again with the abominable substance he apparently termed drink, but did not take a swallow. ‘Old man Drake’s in a bad way,’ he said suddenly. ‘Has been since Phineas’s mother died. It was she made him go straight, or leastwise, he did it for her — and for Phineas, as was a babe-in-arms then. But he never took to it, and I fear as he has gone back to his old trade.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Highway robbery.’ Gabriel smiled faintly at Ilsevel. ‘Phineas won’t find him now.’

  Ilsevel stood up swiftly. ‘Oleander Whiteboots,’ she said, looking down upon the crumpled man before her. ‘Quickly. There is more you could tell me, I am sure.’

  Gabriel screwed up his face, whether in thought or protest Ilsevel could not tell. ‘Forget him,’ he said. ‘Said to be a counterfeiter of unusual skill. Has a way of makin’ a thing look like just what you were wantin’, when it ain’t at all. That harp you said you saw? Probably no such thing.’

  ‘It was assuredly a harp,’ said Ilsevel, disquieted.

  ‘No doubt, but unlikely to be the one you had in mind.’

  ‘So you do not think that this Whiteboots has any genuine Court articles, after all?’

  ‘He may. He may not.’

  Ilsevel nodded once. ‘I thank you,’ she said, remembered belatedly to smile, and left the tavern at a brisk, purposeful walk. But she had not gone much beyond the threshold when the thief called her back. ‘Lady!’ he bellowed.

  She returned to the table.

  ‘There is one o
ther thing,’ he said. I hardly like to tell it to you; it is most likely moonshine.’

  ‘Tell me anyway.’

  ‘Aye.’ He glanced about, as though to be sure there was no one near enough to overhear him, and leaned his grizzled head a little nearer to Ilsevel. ‘There is an old tale in these parts. I cannot say how old it is, but I first heard it when I was about Phineas’s age, or near enough. The Queen’s Hoard.’

  ‘What?’ Ilsevel sat quickly upon the bench, her attention fixed. ‘Go on.’

  He gave a small, wry smile. ‘Treasure tales are common as muck, you must know that. But this one tells of a hoard of jewels that once belonged to a great queen. Marvels beyond imagining, naturally, and they’re said to lie “under the hill” — not that anyone has made sense of that.’

  ‘The hill,’ echoed Ilsevel thoughtfully. ‘There is only one hill hereabouts, is there not?’

  Gabriel nodded. ‘Aye. You can see it from here. It’s the one with the city built on it.’

  ‘Has anyone tried to find this hoard?’

  The thief grinned. ‘I know of one or two who wasted a deal of time digging about up there, as though it were like to be buried in some obvious spot. Needless to say, nothing was found.’

  Ilsevel felt a surge of excitement, and an almost painful hope. Gabriel Winters was right: tales of treasure hoards were by no means unusual, and most were — as he had put it — nothing but moonshine. But the details of this one agreed so perfectly with the very articles she was looking for; was that like to be a coincidence?

  Furthermore, while she could well imagine that the folk of England would not find the sense of the words “under the hill”, she very well could. There were Hollows under there, and somewhere there would be a way in; one that a simple Englishman was unlikely to guess at.

  She beamed her delight, and stood up from the bench so fast that she almost became entangled in her skirts, and toppled down again. ‘I thank you!’ she said. ‘I bless the day that I met you!’

  And away she went, leaving Gabriel Winters to blink after her in befuddlement.

  Phineas, of course, was long gone by the time she regained the street, but she could guess where it was he had gone. Clutching her bonnet against the strong, chill wind, she turned her steps towards the very hill which might, if she was lucky, contain the answers to all her beleaguered sister’s problems, and hastened up the slope to Phineas’s family shop.

  She found him standing outside of the bakery, hands tucked deep into his pockets, his coat collar turned up to keep the wind off his neck. So absorbed was he by his thoughts that he did not immediately notice her approach; and she soon saw why, for the great front window, so recently ablaze with festive colour, was boarded up. A sign hung there, saying simply: CLOSED.

  Uncertain what to say, Ilsevel waited for Phineas to speak first.

  At length, he did. ‘I went inside. He has taken all his clothes, and left no word for me.’

  Was this the right moment to repeat Gabriel Winters’s opinion as to the fate of the elder Mr. Drake? She could hardly suppose that Phineas would welcome the news. Honest Phineas, who had reacted with such horror to Wodebean’s half-joking designation of him as a counterfeiter. How much had he ever known of his father’s past life? Some — his friendship with Winters was proof enough of that. But all? It was, in all probability, no accident that Winters had shared that particular confidence with Ilsevel only after Phineas had left. She was to tell him of it, but… perhaps not yet.

  ‘He will come back for you?’ Ilsevel suggested.

  But Phineas, his mouth set in a grim line, shook his head.

  ‘Did you love the bakery so much?’ Ilsevel said.

  His mouth quirked, a smile more bitter than mirthful. ‘I ask myself: Shall I take it on? I know that I could, and it is my home. And yet… I do not know that I want to.’

  ‘It is a difficult decision.’ Ilsevel, still unsure what to say, felt that her words were inadequate to the occasion. Did he feel as she had, upon returning to Mirramay? Did his heart plummet as hers had, when she entered the empty, deserted palace that had once been her home? She had hardened her heart, then, for all that was dear to her seemed lost.

  Not quite all, as it had subsequently turned out. Her sisters may be in trouble, but they were not gone; and, against all odds, her niece yet lived. Did just such a mitigation lie in store for Phineas? Would his father come back? She could not know, and did not wish to falsely raise his hopes. So she said nothing, only waited with him in silence.

  Company was more than she had had, anyway.

  After a while, Phineas gave a soft sigh, and turned his back upon the boarded-up window. He had a smile for Ilsevel even then, and being Phineas, his next words were an apology. ‘I am sorry, My Lady Silver. Where were we, before I ran away and left you?’

  She smiled back. ‘I need not impose upon you further, if you had rather go in search of your father.’

  ‘I do not know where to look,’ he admitted. ‘And you need me more than he does, for now.’ He said no more, but his eyes clearly said: I hope?

  She did not, in all truth, need him. Not really. Some other local person could just as well answer her questions, and guide her about the town, as Phineas could. Perhaps even better. But she had grown accustomed to his presence. That calm good sense he had in such abundance had more than once prevented her from haring wildly down the wrong path; his clever brain had seen answers where she had found only confusion; and it was long — so, so long — since anyone had treated her with such care. He was kind in an unassuming way, as though it were so natural for him that he did not even have to think about it. Probably he did not.

  She could manage without Phineas, but she did not want to.

  So she said: ‘I do indeed, for what do you think? Your excellent friend gave me a clue, just after you left, and it is a fine clue! I have high hopes for it.’

  ‘Gabriel did?’ Phineas gave her his blank stare — the same look he had greeted her with when she had first encountered him in his shop. But she was learning that his mind was by no means as empty as his expression had then suggested. Somewhere behind those green eyes lurked a thousand thoughts and ideas; his clever brain was collecting and sorting everything he saw and heard and discovered, fitting together the pieces, finding a way through any difficulty.

  ‘An old legend,’ she supplied. ‘The Queen’s Hoard. Said to be hidden under the Hill.’

  Phineas’s eyes narrowed. ‘Which hill?’

  By way of answer, Ilsevel lifted one booted foot and stamped upon the pavement. The Drakes’ bakery — or what was left of it — was situated some halfway up.

  Understanding dawned. He was silent for a moment. Then, ‘The Greestone Stairs. There is a way into the Hollows from there, but it is Wodebean’s way, and leads, no doubt, into the very same spaces we have but lately left.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ilsevel agreed.

  ‘But there are more. The gates around the castle, that go into Summer’s Hollow.’

  ‘Possibly the others, too,’ Ilsevel added. ‘Winter and Autumn and Spring. But Winter’s Hollow, at least, is a small, confined space, with no roads leading out of it. The residents could give me no hint of a way through into any other place — not into England, not into Aylfenhame, and not into any other Hollow.’

  ‘So they are pockets of land, sealed, and with only a gate into England by way of entry or exit?’ Phineas mused. ‘Except, there are the chests.’

  ‘And Wodebean always seems to contrive some way in or out.’

  Phineas nodded. ‘I would like to know whether Wodebean created these Hollows, or whether he merely turned them to his own purpose. How long have they been dedicated to the seasons?’

  ‘Long,’ said Ilsevel. ‘So I surmise from those of Winter’s Hollow. If he created them, he did it long before Anthelaena’s demise.’

  ‘Anthelaena,’ repeated Phineas. ‘Your sister.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Queen of Aylfenhame.’
<
br />   ‘She was, once.’

  Ilsevel expected more questions, but Phineas was silent. His face filled with a weary melancholy as he looked at her, and he seemed to shrink, turning in upon himself as though in defeat.

  A blink, and the impression was gone. ‘You had better tell me the whole story, I think,’ said Phineas.

  Ilsevel sighed, and linked her arm through his. They had lingered long enough outside of the boarded-up shop; she began, gently, to lead him back up the hill. ‘It began more than thirty years ago,’ she said. ‘Anthelaena and I were not so very old, then, and our sister Tyllanthine rather younger still. There had been peace in Aylfenhame for generations, but trouble came upon us… we became aware, by degrees, of a traitor somewhere at Court. One who sought to overthrow our family, but who would not do so by direct means. He would not oppose us openly; he brought no armies to our gates. Instead, he remained in the shadows; making deals behind our backs, coaxing and bribing our supporters away from us, countering every good we sought to do with trickery and lies. So clever an enemy was he, that to this day we do not know his identity.

  ‘It seems Tyllanthine found a way to reach him. She pretended to disaffection, made a turncoat of herself…’ Pretended? Whispered Ilsevel’s heart. Did she? ‘And Wodebean also. Then, all at once, everything went so wrong. My sister’s husband, the king, went hunting one morn and never returned. Their child, Lihyaen, died in her bed one night — or so it seemed. And then Anthela…’ Ilsevel’s grip tightened on Phineas’s arm, her thoughts awhirl. ‘Died. Poisoned by Wodebean, it appears, in a plot formed with Tyllanthine… and saved. By a curse. Trapped into a cat’s shape, in which form — I am to understand — the poison cannot destroy her.’

  ‘You seek to reverse this curse?’ Phineas said.

  ‘I do. Tyllanthine also. But a curse is an intricate thing, Phineas, and this more so than most.’

  ‘What became of the traitor?’

  Ilsevel shrugged. ‘The Kostigern, as we called him? I do not know. He disappeared, I am told, soon after Anthelaena’s apparent death. But this happened after I, too, was cursed. I was turned into… into a frog, and only recently liberated.’ Saying the words out loud sparked off a stream of questions and thoughts, the most prominent among them being: why had she been only transformed, and not killed? This hardly seemed to correspond with the rest of the Kostigern’s behaviour. Just who had it been, shrouded so completely within that white cloak?