Widdershins

by Alexander, Alex

  While she would normally be roaming the Palace Gardens weaving among fountains with a book in hand, or sat in the private library making her way through a volume of The Empire’s Encyclopedia, she was now cooped up in her room, and had been for hours, as if suffering some self inflicted case of the Rapunzels.

  She’d looked over hundreds of pages, yet read hardly any of the words. The Zolnomicon was written in the most infinitesimal inkings. So small were they, that Cassandra doubted even a highly literate mouse would be able to read half of what was there.

  It wasn’t off the printing press either. The words were heavily cursive, written by someone who clearly didn’t know how to hold a pen upright. And the bits she could read didn’t exactly make much sense either. They were written like recipes, each with its own list of curious ingredients, and not the sort of ingredients that went into Martha’s cooking. Though, Cassandra wouldn’t have been surprised if frogspawn, badger eyes and snake scales had found their way into one of the maid’s exotic stews at one point – she was a bit of an experimenter.

  There seemed to be a dozen or so names that kept appearing and each recipe belonged to one. Lyssa’s Affliction, Caligula’s Anguish, Cicero’s Undying, Ophelia’s Sorrow…

  The pages went on and on.

  Cassandra had had about enough of the book’s ramblings. She was due downstairs in the library at eleven for a lesson with her tutor Mr Eccleston, and she was still in her nightdress, which was hardly a ladylike way to present herself.

  She went over to her wardrobe and navigated the endless rail of dresses. It was a time consuming job for a princess, deciding what to wear. She had silks and fine threaded garments from all over the known world.

  She was in the process of making a shortlist when a gust of air blew into the room. It knocked bits off her dresser and sent the fabrics of her wardrobe billowing up into her face. The window had blown all the way open and the netting was flapping about. She rushed over to close it. It wasn’t the first time she’d had blustering breezes sneaking up on her. There was something amiss about it.

  There was something amiss about the Zolnomicon too. It had opened itself again, which is saying something, because the cover of the book was heavier than a paperweight.

  It had opened to a recipe she hadn’t yet seen, but one that was oddly familiar.

  Kadrik’s Eye.

  There, in the centre of the page, was a circle within a triangle within a circle. She knew the mark. It was the one from her dream.

  Mr Eccleston could wait.

  Cassandra pulled up her chair and buried her nose in the book. Her eyes flicked from line to line.

  Kadrik’s Eye

  One piece of the watch’ed’s. Three black of candle. Two and a 1/2 pounds of salt. Pink of chalk. Quill or lead. Blank parchment.

  Thee who casts Kadrik’s Eye, into another they shall spy. As one lies sleeping, the other wakes, as one dreams the other rakes. What the eye of Kadrik sees, the quill shall scrawl on paper leaves. But keepeth thee mind as black as night, for in dreams the watch’ed hath sight. And should the watch’ed come to wake, the binding of the two shall break. Thee beware when two minds be paired, for Kadrik links are often shared.

  Cassandra felt something over her shoulder. A feeling that she was being watched.

  Nonsense, she thought.

  But once her empirical, perfectly rational, sensibly minded brain had had its say, a troubling thought settled behind her thoughtful furrows. That thought went something a little like this…

  “What if? What if such things were possible?”

  In her dream, she had been in a red velvety room. The markings pictured in the book were chalked on the floor beneath her – pink chalk – and there had been black candles too, and the smell of salt hanging in the air.

  She hadn’t been alone. There had been a presence in the room. It was difficult to picture what it had been, but something had been in there with her. Something that made her afraid. She’d tried to ask who it was and then a door had opened, just a crack, and she saw and heard that boy… What was his name again? Niclas…

  Dreams weren’t the most logical things, but they always felt like dreams afterwards. This one felt real. A lucid dream’s lucid dream…

  Cassandra arrived late in the west wing library. Fancy places like the Purple Palace had three libraries. There was one in the east wing, one in the west wing and one next to the grand hall. The west wing library had all the best books, in Cassandra’s opinion. Though all three libraries put together were no match for the City Library’s collection.

  Mr Eccleston didn’t appear to notice the Princess come in. He was sat, leg over knee, enjoying a good book. He was usually enjoying a good book. He spent four fifths of his time reading, which didn’t leave a great deal many fifths for much else. But it did make him very smart.

  He was young for a tutor. Most tutors in Varcia had a lot in common with librarians. They were old, white bearded men, who spent most of their lives in-between book covers. But don’t let his age fool you. Mr Eccleston was exceedingly bright, that’s how he got the job of being the Royal Tutor.

  ‘Cassandra, you’re late,’ he said, without looking up. ‘Go on then? What’s your excuse?’

  ‘I don’t really have one, Mr Eccleston.’

  ‘You must have an excuse, Cassandra. One must always have a reason for doing something. Nothing can just be done willy-nilly. There’s always a reason. So, let’s have it.’

  Cassandra paused to think.

  ‘I got a little into my reading. The time just slipped away.’

  ‘I see. Nothing wrong with that I suppose. Still reading Professor Columbo’s History of the Colonies?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cassandra.

  ‘Remarkable, truly remarkable.’

  ‘Yes,’ lied Cassandra. She’d seen brickwork that was more remarkable.

  ‘Remarkable that you’re still reading it I mean. Does go on a bit in places, doesn’t he? Perhaps one day you’ll make a visit to the Five Isles in person. See the locals, hear the language, smell the smells, taste the foods. It’s frightfully foreign. I’ve been twice and both times, I couldn’t get enough of it.’

  ‘I would like that very much. But, I’m not sure mother would allow it.’

  ‘You’re not a child anymore, Cassandra, you’re becoming a smart young woman. I can picture you as a Varcian Ambassador, travelling the known world and speaking the many languages. Should you want it, there’s a future in diplomacy for you.’

  ‘Won’t I be busy here. You know… being Queen.’

  ‘Well, yes, of course you will. But your mother has many years left on the throne, long may she reign, there’ll be plenty of time for you to see the world before you’re swept up in all this domestic politics. And who knows? You might be a travelling monarch. It is not written that the Queen must be a permanent resident of the capital. If you think about it, the Queen should be the most travelled citizen. Going to the corners of her empire and beyond, waving a hand, smiling – it’s probably quite exhausting actually.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Right, let’s get stuck in shall we? Let’s see what’s in store for us today?’

  Mr Eccleston ventured through his extremely organised notes. He was the type of man who wrote an agenda for everything. A man with whom spontaneity didn’t stand a chance. The kind of man who pencilled in toilet trips.

  ‘Ah! Today is Geography! And peat bogs too! I do love a good peat bog, don’t you?’

  ‘Mr Eccleston, may I ask you a question?’

  ‘Is it about peat bogs?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Well, we’re running a little behind schedule but, go on?’

  Cassandra wet her lips and pondered the best way to phrase it.

  ‘What do you think dreams are?’

  ‘Dreams?’ The tutor pushed his glasses up his nose. He insisted on wearing ones that were too big for him and was constantly fighting a losing battle to keep them on. Martha
had said it was something to do with his ego, that it made up for him not having a beard like all the other tutors. ‘Hmm, dreams. Tricky dreams,’ he began. ‘There are many theories. Some scholars think their happening is something to do with our brains filing things away while we sleep. Some think they’re a sort of situational gymnastics, preparing you for your worst fears and fondest hopes. The research done by one fellow, his name escapes me, is that they’re to do with fulfilling wishes: the satisfying of unconscious desires.’

  ‘But what if the dreams don’t make any sense?’

  ‘Most dreams don’t make any sense. If we had dreams that made sense, we’d probably be able to make sense of them.’ Mr Eccleston chuckled.

  Cassandra was thinking about this very deeply. It was written on her face.

  ‘Had an odd dream did we?’ asked the tutor.

  ‘No, no. Not at all. I was just curious.’

  ‘I see…’ Cassandra was hiding something. A man like Mr Eccleston knew when someone was hiding something. ‘You have to be careful with dreams. Don’t let them bother you too much. They’re only dreams after all.’

  ‘But surely odd dreams don’t just happen, there must be a reason for them?’ said Cassandra.

  ‘Of course. There’s a reason for everything.’

  The doors flew open and Martha stormed the room armed with a feather duster.

  ‘Oh. Mornin’, M’lady. Mr Eccleston.’

  ‘Good morning,’ said the tutor.

  ‘I tell ya, there’s people all over this palace these days. We got the florists in doing the new arrangements. We got extra cooks and staff downstairs prepping for the Lords’ Banquet. We got all these blummin’ City Watch fellows standing about in corridors like bad decorations. I was supposed to be doing the bedding, but Agnes has already done that on account o’ bein’ pushed out of the kitchen by all the new bodies we got in there. So I beg your pardon, I just thought I’d do a spot of dustin’. Library’s needed one for some time now. I can come back if you’re busy. But I could just be very quiet, going about the shelves and that.’

  ‘That’s fine, Martha,’ said Cassandra.

  ‘Dust away,’ said Mr Eccleston.

  ‘Good to see you up and out of bed Cassandra, I was beginning to think you were becoming an afternoon person. Remember what they say, the early bird catches the egg.’

  ‘Worm, I believe,’ said Mr Eccleston. ‘The early bird catches the worm.’

  ‘Yep, that’s it. Silly me,’ said Martha. ‘I’ll just go about me duties, you continue with your lesson.’

  ‘We shall,’ said Mr Eccleston, shuffling his papers awkwardly.

  Cassandra smiled.

  Whenever the maid and the tutor were in the same room, Mr Eccleston would turn a shade of pink and start acting out of sorts. Martha knew as well as Cassandra did exactly what was going on. She was especially good at milking it.

  ‘Ah… Where were we? Ah yes, that’s it. Peat bogs! Do you know which of the known world’s three continents is most renowned for its peat bogs?’

  Across town in a part that did smell like horse dung – and foamy beer, sweat, debauchery and poor people, Job Button was making his way through his ninth pint of ale aptly called Hoppy Endings. It was pretty strong stuff. He had managed it well up until about three sips ago, when he’d started swaying in his seat and sweating profusely like an onion in a pan.

  ‘Aye tell ya… I’ve got a pair o’ queens ’ere starin’ at me, ya don’t standy a chancy,’ he was saying.

  ‘Job, tellin’ us yer cards ain’t gonna ’elp you win back wot you lost,’ said Tommy Woodcarp.

  ‘Or is ’e now… I reckons ’e’s bluffin’,’ said Jack Scrubbs.

  ‘Bluffin’? ’E’s too drunk to be bluffin’. Look at ’im. Drunk as a boiled owl.’

  The three were engaged in a fearsome game of cards. And it was quite obvious who was losing.

  ‘I… am… not… hiccup… drunk,’ declared Job Button, to the tavern as a whole. ‘Yer jussssst scared.’

  ‘Yep, quakin’ in me boots. I see your sixpence and raise you a threepence,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Weeeell, in that case, aye raise ya two bob.’

  The men watched as Job threw two shillings onto the pile.

  ‘Come on mate – Ouch!’ Jack was about to talk Job down, but a foot swiftly kicked him in the shin.

  ‘Didn’t know the dead paid so well,’ said Tommy, the owner of said foot.

  ‘Oooh.’ Job laughed. ‘They paaays remark’bly well.’

  Tommy Woodcarp was a seasoned gambler who’d had difficulty finding anyone to play cards with in the Brewery Quarter. That was until he’d met five-pints-in Job Button, who was now nine-pints-in and several shillings lighter. He laid his cards across the pile of coins with a delicate flourish and said, ‘Pair o’ kings.’

  Job laid his two down. ‘Two pretty little queens, as promisttt,’ he declared, proudly, spitting a bit.

  ‘Don’t know why yer smilin’,’ said Tommy, ‘kings trump queens.’

  Job, still smiling, gave his head a confident shake. ‘Ooh noo they don’t,’ he said.

  ‘Oh yes they does,’ replied Tommy. ‘It goes queens, then kings.’

  ‘Ushawally it does, but while there’s a queen sittin’ on the frone, it’s queens beatin’ kings.’

  ‘No, no, no. That’s not how it works. It’s always kings over queens.’

  ‘Really? Weeeell, say t’Queen were t’marry again,’ Job looked around with a searching finger. ‘The barman over there. Say he married the Queen. Woul…wouldn’t make ’im king now, would it? Make ’im a duke? Or summin…’

  ‘Wot’s that got to do wiv it, Job?’

  ‘I’ll tell ya if you’d just let me finish! Fing is, while a queen is on the frone a king could come along and the queen still trump ’im.’ Job picked up the cards and performed a visual demonstration of this. ‘Seeee… clippty cloppty, “I’m the new king!” “I’m the queen!” “oh-noooo!”.’ The two gambling men watched as carefully as they could, they still didn’t get it.

  ‘This is a game o’ cards. And in this game kings always trump queens. It’s bin that way since the cards wos invented. It’ll be that way till long after.’

  ‘Bit sexist,’ said Job.

  ‘’S’ow it is.’

  ‘Well, ’s’not fair,’ said Job.

  ‘Wot? Wot you mean it ain’t fair?’

  ‘Cheatin’ you are.’

  ‘You callin’ me a cheat now?’ said Tommy.

  ‘Cool it, no one’s callin’ anyone a cheat,’ said Jack.

  ‘I didn’t sign up fa’these rooooles,’ Job slurred.

  ‘Listen. The both o’ ya,’ said Jack. ‘It don’t matter. You’re both out o’ luck.’ He threw his cards down. ‘A pair o’ wise men. Trumps the lot o’ you.’

  Job and Tommy blinked at the cards.

  ‘Fair nuff,’ they said.

  Then Job screamed, ‘ahnuva!’ and slammed his half full pint down on the table.

  ‘How many times! It ain’t blummin’ table service,’ the barman shouted back.

  ‘Should be… Let’s go again,’ said Job.

  ‘You ain’t got nuff coin for ahnuva game, ’av’ ya?’

  ‘Oooo, ’aven’t I? Job closed one eye and shook his purse of coin against his ear. ‘Sounds full to me.’

  ‘Where’d you get all that anyway, Job?’ asked Jack.

  ‘I sayed. The dead pays well.’

  ‘Me late uncle was an undertaker, he said the money were tuppence, weren’t worth it unless you ’ad a fing for diggin’. Left me a will ’n’ all. Obvs weren’t no fortune, otherwise I wouldn’t be ’ere,’ said Jack.

  ‘Say, Job, if you’re makin’ so much moolah, why you wastin’ it away in ’ere with us pair o’ low-lives?’ asked Tommy.

  ‘That.. is ah… ex’lent… question,’ said Job, zoning out to admire the rising bubbles in his drink.

  ‘If I was loaded like that, I’d buy meself a ’ouse, get meself
a woman, settle down.’

  ‘Maybe I will. Maybe I could. Maybe I might.’

  ‘Not me, nah, I’d be off t’Queen’s Garter. ’av’ meself a whale o’ a time.’

  ‘Ahhhh, yes… beauties…’ said Job. ‘Been a while since I ventured into that crimson palace. What’s the name o’ that music girl, you know, the one wot plays the ’arp.’

  ‘Delilah?’ said Jack.

  ‘I fawt ’er name were Florence?’ said Tommy.

  ‘No… it was summin… summin wiv a Beeee.’

  ‘Beatrice.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Babs?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Beth?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’

  ‘Bianca?’

  ‘Nooo.’

  ‘Hang on, weren’t it Effel,’ said Jack.

  ‘Nah, that’s the one wot runs the place. Effel Spriggs! Or Madame Spriggs. She’s a dirty puzzle, she is.’ Tommy sipped at his glass and lowered it to reveal a frothy moustache.

  Just then a trapped blood vessel burst to life again in Job’s wavering brain. His eyes sprang wide and he gasped as if he were about to keel over and die. ‘Vera!’ he said.

  ‘That’s not a b?’

  ‘Ah Vera,’ said Job, ‘Vera, Vera, Vera. Wot a lovely, lovely gal. If ever I were t’marry, it’d be ’er.’

  ‘You should pop along, mate, wiv that bag o’ coins you might strike lucky.’ The two men laughed.

  ‘Ha! I wish. I’d ’av’ to rob the Merchant Bank t’even be in wiv a chance.’ Job laughed with them. Then he looked genuinely saddened. As if he’d come to realise that men like him were not meant for women like Vera… wotshername. Or any woman for that matter.

  ‘Say, speakin’ o’ the ol’Garter,’ said Tommy, ‘I ’eard summin funny the other day.’

  ‘Proper funny? Or just funny?’ said Job.

  ‘Just funny.’

  ‘As funny as that time Sneebles fell off that horse?’ said Jack

  ‘No.’

  ‘Wot about when the baker on Timpson Street got so banana’d he jumpt in the canal starkers?’ said Job.