Mr Drake and My Lady Silver

by Charlotte E. English

  ‘Crowsfoot,’ she said briskly. ‘Or Derrydock, Phineas, and quickly.’

  The Crowsfoot coach was the sooner discovered, and in they climbed. Ilsevel could have blessed the amiable giant, for when the coach ejected them again at the end of a short, bumpy journey, but three new signs greeted them.

  Redguard, said one.

  Grove Ashbloom, said the second.

  And the third said, Warethorn Rose.

  Ilsevel clutched Phineas. ‘Look! That must be it.’

  Phineas stared at the third sign with unconcealed scepticism. ‘Warethorn Rose? Why?’

  ‘Because Eleri gave me a message.’ Quickly, she related what their erstwhile hostess had said. ‘Don’t you see? Seek the rose, ware the thorn! Warethorn Rose!’

  ‘Why not just leave the name of the Hollow, then?’ Phineas objected. ‘Did it have to be a riddle?’

  ‘Of course it did,’ she said impatiently. ‘Have you never set foot in fae-country before?’

  ‘No.’

  Ilsevel blinked. ‘Well then, yes: we love a riddle. They are…safe. Interesting. Diverting, clever, admirable — it is the more remarkable that we have not encountered more.’

  The look Phineas directed at her remained sceptical. ‘And who was it that left this message for you?’

  ‘A man in a pale cloak.’

  ‘And how was it known to this cloaked figure that you would someday need this information — and seek it at Autumn’s Hollow?’

  ‘I do not precisely know, Phineas, but we have not the time to consider the matter now. Warethorn Rose may not be Gilligold’s own Hollow, but that there is something of interest to be found there seems indubitable. We go on.’

  Phineas bowed. ‘Lead on, then, My Lady Silver.’

  Some minutes later, the coach rolled slowly away with Ilsevel and Phineas inside it. The equipage was shaped rather like a gigantic pumpkin wearing a peaked cap, which delighted Ilsevel but puzzled Phineas. ‘It probably was a pumpkin, once,’ she told him. ‘Where do you think coaches come from?’

  ‘A coach-builder,’ said Phineas promptly.

  ‘How tiresomely mundane.’

  Phineas produced that grin again. ‘Why, have you never set foot in England before?’

  Ilsevel rolled her eyes at him, and settled into her coach-seat with a tiny yawn. ‘Coach-builders,’ she muttered in disgust, which made Phineas laugh so hard he could barely keep his seat. ‘And what is so funny?’ she demanded.

  ‘Princesses,’ he said, unhelpfully.

  Ilsevel raised both her eyebrows.

  ‘Bet you anything you like there’s a coach-builder in Aylfenhame. At least one.’

  ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘Building vehicles for those as don’t have enchanters of impossible ability at their beck and call.’

  Ilsevel considered that. ‘I know of no such thing,’ she said loftily.

  ‘Exactly my point.’

  ‘I am not following your point.’

  Phineas’s grin widened. ‘I begin to wonder how you survived at Mrs. Yardley’s boarding-house at all.’

  ‘With great difficulty. But,’ she added nobly, ‘one is sometimes called upon to make sacrifices.’ She shuddered at the recollection. ‘Not even a fire in the morning! I have never been so cold.’

  Phineas’s smile faded. ‘Have you really never gone without a fire before?’

  ‘Discounting my regrettable years as an amphibian, no.’

  The look on Phineas’s face turned wistful, and he abruptly turned away to look out of the window. The countryside was flying by at such speed, Ilsevel could not determine whether they travelled through fields, meadows or woods — there was only a blur of green. ‘I never saw any coach go so fast,’ Phineas said, in a transparent attempt at changing the subject.

  Ilsevel permitted it. ‘Enchanters of impossible ability. How much we have to thank them for.’

  The coach, if possible, sped up still more, until Ilsevel could almost have sworn that its wheels had left the ground altogether.

  In fact, they had.

  ‘We are rising,’ gasped Phineas, clutching his seat.

  The haze of green dropped from sight, replaced by a darkening sky. Ilsevel drew nearer the window, and risked a look out. The ground was some way below them, and rapidly dwindling. ‘So we are,’ she said thoughtfully.

  ‘How does it fly?’

  ‘It is enchanted to do so. You are not afraid, my Phineas?’

  His grip upon the seat was white-knuckled, but he said stoutly: ‘No.’

  ‘The coach will not drop us.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It is not permitted to do so.’

  She received in response only a wild-eyed stare, and felt moved to pat his knee in an attempt at comfort. But this merely transferred the stare from her face to the hand resting upon his leg, and since he did not appear pleased she withdrew it.

  Before she could speak again, a great, wracking shudder rocked the coach, followed by a bump, and then stillness.

  ‘I believe we have arrived,’ she said cheerfully, and threw open the door. Their carriage had alighted upon a charming silver bridge, and at the other end of the bridge there proved to be a grassy pathway winding up to the top of a tall peak. ‘We are come to the pinnacle, I observe,’ she commented, and stepped out onto the bridge. A brisk wind tugged immediately at her gown, powerfully enough that she was obliged to steady herself against the side of the pumpkin-coach. ‘Take some care, Phineas, when you step out,’ she called. ‘The wind is in a playful humour.’

  For a moment she wondered whether Phineas would follow her at all, but he was a brave soul, and soon joined her upon the bridge. The wild look had not left his eyes. ‘The pinnacle?’ he echoed. ‘But it is not so tall a hill as all that.’

  ‘Is it not?’ Ilsevel gazed upon the evidence before her eyes: the heavy cloak of mist clinging to the high peak, and the glimpse of a dark landscape some way below.

  ‘In England, it doesn’t look half so tall. Nor even half that.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Ilsevel with a faint smile. ‘England.’

  ‘Tiresomely mundane,’ said Phineas with a small sigh. ‘I was forgetting.’

  ‘It has its merits,’ said Ilsevel, as, with a thankful pat for the coach, she set off across the bridge.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘One Phineas Drake, Baker. I find him a congenial fellow.’

  Phineas, it appeared, did not know what to say to that, for he vouchsafed no reply. He kept pace with Ilsevel as she crossed the bridge, even tucking his arm through hers, which was not at all a poor idea in all the wind. They soon alighted upon the grassy rock peak of the hill itself, a vibrant array of mandrakes and hemlock, heather and thistledown strewn among the grasses. A glance back revealed the pale coach darting away ground-wards again, starlight clinging to its wheels.

  ‘Now then, what—’ began Ilsevel, but she was prevented from completing the sentence, for two dark shapes loomed abruptly out of the mist and the shadows and words left her.

  They were very tall, very large dark shapes, and their demeanour was not in the least bit conciliating. ‘Trolls,’ she uttered intelligently, and stopped. Not giants after all, then, though they might as well be, for they were rather larger even than Mr. Balligumph, and nowhere near as friendly. They were oddly clad: one wore an ochre-yellow velvet doublet and matching hose, both rather grubby, and his hat was crowned with an extravagantly tall, bedraggled plume. The other wore a long, skirted coat of black cloth frogged in silver, with breeches and stockings and buckled shoes. He was missing the curls that would have matched such attire, but he had a wide-brimmed hat with a plume to rival his companion’s.

  ‘How the ages fly,’ Ilsevel commented. ‘And in quite the wrong direction! I believe nobody has worn such a coat since at least my grandmother’s day.’

  ‘What’s wrong with my coat?’ demanded the troll with the silver braid and the wide brim. His tusks, she was pleased to note, were n
ot half so handsome as Balligumph’s.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ said Ilsevel with a conciliating smile. ‘In fact, it is a particularly fine specimen. May I know the name of your tailor?’

  ‘You may not. Why came you to Warethorn Rose?’

  The other troll had, apparently, been fast asleep, for he awoke with a loud snort and blinked in astonishment at Ilsevel and Phineas. ‘What, is it visitors again? Gollumpus! Behold!’

  ‘I see them, Nigmenog.’

  Nigmenog was more amiable than Gollumpus, for he advanced to shake hands with Phineas and Ilsevel, crushing their hands in his mighty grip. ‘Welcome, welcome!’ he said affably. ‘Tis a long way you’ve come. Nobody comes up this far anymore, nobody at all.’

  ‘You must be very lonely,’ said Ilsevel sympathetically.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Gollumpus repressively.

  ‘Oh, shockingly!’ said Nigmenog. ‘Shall you be staying long? You must tell us all about yourselves!’

  ‘I do not know precisely how long we shall remain,’ said Ilsevel. ‘That must depend upon the conclusion of our business. We are here to see Gilligold.’

  ‘You cannot,’ said Gollumpus.

  ‘Well,’ corrected Nigmenog. ‘You can, but only if you can pass the Door.’

  ‘Which door?’

  As though alerted by the sound of its name, a great set of double doors appeared in luminous outline, shining through the thick mist. Night was fast falling, and in the gathering gloom Ilsevel had not been able to see very far. She now realised that a tall, craggy rock wall stood a little way behind Nigmenog and Gollumpus, by its appearance absolutely impassable, save by the grand doors the troll-giants flanked between them.

  ‘It couldn’t have been easy, I suppose?’ sighed Phineas at her elbow.

  Ilsevel smiled her best smile at Nigmenog, judging him an easier target than his brother. Were they brothers? ‘Shall you kindly open it for us?’

  ‘If you pass the trials.’ Nigmenog said this with a huge, exuberant smile.

  ‘Nobody ever passes the trials,’ offered Gollumpus.

  ‘It is long since anyone even tried,’ agreed Nigmenog, his smile unwavering.

  ‘I do not suppose,’ said Ilsevel with deceptive diffidence, ‘you might consent to open the Door for My Lady Silver?’ And she let her lofty status, her absolute right to power, gather palpably about her. It shone especially from her strange silver eyes, and these she directed at Nigmenog with just a hint of pleading.

  ‘No,’ said Gollumpus.

  Nigmenog regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Clearly you’re a lady of eminence, and full fair to look upon besides, if I may be so bold! But, good lady, nobody passes the Door without first passing the trials.’

  Ilsevel sighed. ‘Very well. And what must we do?’

  ‘You must answer some questions correctly.’

  ‘And what are they?’

  Nigmenog looked intently at her. ‘I will give you the questions, but first we must be clear between us. Is it your stated intention to attempt the Door?’

  ‘It is.’

  The question and its answer was of greater importance than she had imagined, for the clear, ringing toll of a bell echoed from somewhere, and the light limning the Door glittered.

  Nigmenog went on. ‘If you should fail to answer correctly, do you agree to pay the price?’

  Ilsevel’s eyes narrowed. ‘What price are we agreeing to?’

  Nigmenog did not precisely answer. He gestured to himself and Gollumpus, and that toothy smile flashed once more.

  ‘I do not understand you,’ she said.

  But Phineas’s quick mind had put it together. ‘We will become the new guardians of the Door.’

  ‘You will forgive us, I know, if we should wish for your failure,’ said Nigmenog genially. ‘How many years has it been, Gollumpus?’

  ‘Many.’

  ‘Most turn away at this juncture,’ Nigmenog confided. ‘Call back the carriage and sail away, leaving us to our fate…’

  ‘How wretched of them,’ said Ilsevel.

  ‘The cheek of such people,’ agreed Phineas.

  ‘The very heights of selfishness.’

  ‘Nothing can excuse such conduct.’

  Nigmenog nodded along with this exchange, the picture of indignation. ‘But you will not abandon us so. I knew the moment I set eyes upon you both! You are made of better stuff.’

  ‘We shall not be half so selfish, I assure you,’ said Ilsevel.

  Nigmenog beamed upon her. ‘Then you’ll attempt the trials?’

  ‘I shall, certainly, and I shall pay the price if I should fail. Phineas must answer for himself.’

  Phineas did so, without hesitation. She had left him the option of leaving, should he wish it, for what was Anthelaena’s fate to him? But he said in his strong, young voice, ‘I, too, will try.’

  ‘And pay the price?’ prompted Nigmenog.

  ‘If I fail, I will pay the price.’

  Nigmenog clapped his hands together. ‘Excellent. Well then, shall we get on?’

  ‘Please,’ said Ilsevel. ‘It grows dark.’

  Nigmenog stood tall, and straightened the hem of his doublet. He intoned: ‘How many snowberries grow in the sea?’

  ‘Why, that is easy!’ said Ilsevel. ‘The answer is—’

  But Phineas pinched her arm, turning the word she had been going to utter into a surprised and indignant ouch!

  ‘It can never be easy,’ he reminded her.

  ‘But the answer is perfectly obvious.’ She would not speak it aloud yet, if Phineas insisted, but everyone knew that the snowberry grew among the Merribourne Peaks in the far south-west of Aylfenhame, and not in the sea! So the answer could only be none.

  But Phineas said, ‘Remember what you said about riddles.’

  Does it have to be a riddle? Phineas had asked.

  Of course it does, she had replied. This is fae-country.

  ‘You have misrepresented the case, sir!’ she said to Nigmenog. ‘These are not questions at all, but riddles!’

  ‘What is a riddle but a question?’ he countered.

  ‘Is that a riddle as well?’ said she in disgust.

  ‘It is a question.’

  Had he not been so tall or so broad, Ilsevel would have been strongly tempted to offer him violence.

  ‘What is the next question, sir?’ put in Phineas, before she could act upon this blameless inclination.

  ‘How many stars are there in the sky?’ said Nigmenog.

  An impossible question! Ilsevel’s indignation grew, but Phineas merely nodded. ‘And the third?’ said he.

  ‘What is the difference between a dragon?’

  Ilsevel waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. ‘A dragon and what?’ she prompted.

  Nigmenog merely smiled.

  ‘A dragon and what? Come now, that is not even a whole question! It is but half a one!’

  ‘It is a riddle,’ said Phineas wearily.

  ‘Are these the same riddles you ask of everyone?’ Ilsevel demanded.

  ‘The same questions,’ said Nigmenog. ‘No, lady, they are brand new! Just for you, and your fine companion.’

  ‘What an honour.’

  ‘We could not be more pleased,’ Phineas put in earnestly.

  ‘Delighted beyond words,’ added Ilsevel.

  ‘Positively bursting with joy,’ said Phineas.

  Nigmenog nodded as though this fulsome praise were no more than his due. ‘Well, well, time passes. What shall you answer?’

  ‘May we have time to confer?’ Ilsevel said.

  ‘You may!’ answered Nigmenog grandly, as though unveiling some glittering prize. He made a go-forth gesture with one great, velvet-clad arm.

  Gollumpus, silent throughout, merely stood.

  Phineas, though, did not immediately consent to follow Ilsevel a little way apart. ‘I have a question of my own,’ he said to Nigmenog. ‘Only a small one.’

  ‘You may ask,’ said Nigmenog graciously.
>
  ‘Earlier, you said: visitors again. Has anyone else been here recently?’

  ‘A horrid old woman. She was most impolite.’

  ‘Insulted my hat,’ put in Gollumpus unexpectedly.

  ‘Insulted mine, too! And she said she spurned our riddles. Spurned.’

  Phineas looked at Ilsevel. ‘I wonder what your sister was doing up here?’

  Nigmenog blinked, incredulous. ‘Nay, she cannot be your sister, so fair as you are!’

  Ilsevel ignored this. ‘It does not appear that she was here to make an attempt upon the Door,’ she said to Phineas.

  ‘What did the horrid old woman do while she was here?’ said Phineas.

  Nigmenog shrugged his gigantic shoulders. ‘She insulted us, as I have told you. And then she walked about, talking to herself all the while, until Golly and I thought her quite mad. Then she went away.’

  ‘Where did she walk?’ said Phineas.

  Nigmenog gestured. ‘That way.’

  That way was so shrouded in shadow as to be wholly obscured.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Phineas politely. Taking Ilsevel’s arm, he guided her gently that way, directly into the darkness. Ilsevel soon missed the lambent glow of the Door; the light had not been strong, but it had been vastly better than nothing.

  But shortly, a mote of light sprung to life in the air near her ear, and swiftly grew in strength and brilliance until it shone like a star. It bobbed cheerfully upon the breeze, far more upbeat (Ilsevel thought in exasperation) than it had any right to be, under the circumstances.

  ‘Most interesting,’ she said. ‘Where did you get a wisp-light from, my Phineas?’

  ‘Mr. Balligumph gave it me.’

  ‘What a useful fellow he is.’

  The wisp, however, did not seem inclined to do very much of anything. It hovered there, bobbing up and down, merrily sprinkling light all about (for which Ilsevel was grateful); but the light illuminated nothing more than heathery grass beneath their feet, flanked on one side by a thicket of harebell, dog-roses and thorns growing at the base of the wall, and on the other by an alarming drop into thin air.

  ‘If it please you,’ said Phineas with his diffident charm, ‘we should like to know where the Princess Tyllanthine went when she came here.’

  This question puzzled the wisp, perhaps, for it dithered about a while, swaying back and forth as though in deep thought — or, perhaps, dancing. ‘It is not dancing?’ said Ilsevel in concern. ‘It does not imagine itself summoned in order to perform for us a quadrille?’