The Mocklore Omnibus (Mocklore Chronicles #1 & #2)

by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  * * *

  Cheerful noises were coming from the Whet and Whistle Tavern and Grill, now that she had arrived. She was a golden-eyed siren with blood-coloured hair, voluptuous in a costume of knotted silk. There was magic in her voice. She had even managed to cheer up the dismal Captain, who was watching her swinging hips with studied disinterest.

  She began to dance now, turning her body upside down and inside out in rapid succession as she sang a fast, breezy song at the top of her extraordinary vocal range. And then the song changed.

  The harmonica players, who were exhausted from trying to keep up with her, swapped their harmonica for a collection of old wooden flutes, squabbling only briefly over who got the one with the crack in the end.

  The siren sang an ancient ballad which told the tragic story of two lovers, various melodramatic complications, a deep river and the ultimately predictable conclusion. Her dancing slowed, becoming languorous and curved. Her whole body grieved for the tragic lovers as her rich voice described their final poignant moments.

  Even Bohoris the Boar Basher was weeping into his tankard by the final chorus.

  It was then that a scrawny man smelling of sea-salt pushed his way into the tavern. He tramped across the floor until he got to the bar, and slammed a bulky package on to the counter. “I’m looking for Kassa Daggersharp.”

  There was silence. The flute wavered. Halfway between describing the grief of the various plant-life and furry animals along the riverside, the glorious voice halted. Everyone looked at the newcomer, waiting for what would come next.

  “Never heard of her,” said Sparky the barman flatly. He slapped a hand on the package. “I’ll take care of this.”

  For a moment, it looked as if the messenger was going to argue. But he didn’t need to. There was a rustle as the dancer climbed down from the makeshift stage and made her way around the tables. She stopped a few feet from the messenger and gazed at him flatly. “That would be for me, then,” said Kassa Daggersharp, crown princess of pirates.

  * * *

  By the time Aragon was brought to the Imperial Receiving Room he had been bathed, shaved, scrubbed, garbed and scented with some peculiar perfume that a page had managed to dump into his bathwater before he could prevent it.

  His new clothes came equipped with a dagger and a sword. Admittedly the sword was not a proper rapier, just an ornate knitting needle of the kind carried by courtiers. Nevertheless, it was sharp and in one piece. It was better than nothing. They had given him a dagger, too. If the new Emperor was as stupid as this suggested, things might not turn out too badly.

  Aragon found himself pushed through a swinging sequined curtain into a room which had been tiled in ebony. “Aragon Silversword, former Knight of the Unmentionable Garment and Champion of the Mocklore Empire!” roared a little liveried servant with a huge voice. Aragon’s eyebrow flickered in annoyance.

  The chamber was empty. A huge circle of mirrored tiles lay in the centre of the floor, surrounded by the glossy ebony. Aragon moved forward. An emerald curtain at the back of the chamber slid aside to reveal a silken woman reclining upon a chaise longue of purple feathers.

  “Lady Talle of Zibria, 38th Emperor of Mocklore and Holder of the Sacred Bauble of Chiantrio!” bellowed the servant.

  The Lady Emperor acknowledged this with a slight movement of her half-lidded eyes. Aragon walked across the mirrored tiles, his new boots ringing sharply against the glass. Very deliberately, he looked the Lady Emperor up and down as if she were a kitchen wench.

  Far from being affronted at his insolence, Lady Talle preened and stretched, enjoying his eyes on her. Then she tilted her head, and purred, “So you are the one.”

  “That’s what they tell me,” replied Aragon crisply.

  “You betrayed your Emperor, throwing the Empire into chaos and confusion. Indirectly, you are responsible for the position I now hold.”

  “You’re welcome,” replied Aragon tonelessly.

  She stood silently, moving around him as she spoke. “You intrigue me. I want you to be my Champion.”

  “I betrayed the last Emperor I championed,” Aragon reminded her.

  “I know,” said Talle with a secret smile. “You will not betray me.”

  His eyes lit up. “Now, there’s a challenge.”

  * * *

  Kassa stepped towards the bar. A few serious drinkers slid their stools automatically aside to make room for her. She was that sort of person. Sparky the barman was suddenly very studiously polishing a glass. “You’ll be leaving us, then.”

  “I expect so,” said Kassa, toying with a bracelet. She wore a lot of jewellery. Necklaces, anklets, rings, spangles and bangles. Lobe-rings, toe-rings, beaded buttons. Anything that glittered. She eyed the package suspiciously. It was about the size of six large fists, and an awkward shape under the thick cloth binding. “Who sent it?”

  Sparky grunted, and pushed the package in her direction. “Says on the back’s from Vicious Bigbeard Daggersharp of the Dread Redhead.”

  Kassa’s expression changed and in one swift moment she grabbed the package, swept over to the door of the tavern, kicked it open and threw the package out into the snow. There was a heavy bang as the parcel exploded. Acrid smoke poured into the tavern, and she tugged the door shut to keep out the stench. “Sorry about that, Sparky. My darling daddy discovered troll thunderdust a few years back and now he uses it for everything. He shaves with it, salts his food with it, and unfortunately he seals his letters with it. He sent a load of his laundry to me a few months ago, and it ended up plastered all over the Skullcaps.”

  Sparky looked sidelong at her. “You’re Bigbeard’s daughter?”

  “Don’t spread it around.”

  Sparky then gave her the closest thing to a grin she had ever seen on his dismal, moon-shaped face. “So that’s why his ship’s called the Dread Redhead.”

  Kassa touched a hand to her suitably heroic blood-red hair. “Something like that. See you later, Sparky. I’ve got a package to scrape up from the pavement.” She wrenched her overdress and cloak back on over her scanty stage costume before heading out into the night of early winter. It was bitter outside, with the promise of becoming even colder as the night dragged on. The bits of parcel that were scattered across the melted snow were black and soggy now, no longer hissing with thunderdust.

  Amazingly, the contents of the package were still intact. It was a statue of some sort, still warm from the explosion. Kassa turned the piece over in her hands, slowly. She took careful notice of the hideously gaping mouth, the enlarged beaky nose and the large menacing eyes beneath a craggy brow, all meticulously carved in dull grey stone. It was a short, squat, rather repulsive gargoyle. Bigbeard’s taste in objets d’art had obviously not improved over the years.

  Wedged into the gargoyle’s mouth was a lump of parchment. Kassa prised it out and unfolded it. There, scratched happily in a childish hand which clearly stated that it had better things to do than write letters, was a message from her father.

  To: Mistress Kassa Daggersharp, probly in Dreadnought, Mocklore Empire etceterer, singin’ and dancin’ somewhere daft. From: Cap’n Vicious Bigbeard Daggersharp, Scourge of the Purple Seas, Master of the Dread Redhead and Winner of the Violent and Truly Orrible Sea & Sword Olympics three years running.

  Wot ho, wench. If you is reading this, I am ded. Tarra then. See you in the underwurld. I’le be in the cave with the most rum in it. Enclsed is one gargole. Take care of it and DONT DROP IT YOU STUPID BINT. Doom lurks.

  Now I am ded, you is the only proper Daggersharp left (except for Bloody Dangerous Pointybeard Daggersharp, Roaring Redbeard Daggersharp and Gormless Barechin Tim [hes your third cousin, legs removed] an they dont count cos theyr a load of girls blousies. It is your pirattical duty to get a gang together and wreak havoc. The silver I nicked from the Splashdance will help you. Braided Bones will eksplain everything. Get our Mollys useless sprog to help you wif the crew. And shuvels.

  Yo ho ho, etc,
Your Dad. [deceased]

  PS: Dont marry a McHagrty or I will haunt you like the bastard I am.

  Kassa shoved the parchment in a pocket and marched back into the tavern, ignoring them all as she headed for the stairs. Up in her cozy little attic room, she read the letter over again.

  So that was that. It was time to stop playing around in taverns and take over the family business. It was time to trade in her sequins and silk for a sturdy sword and an eyepatch. It was time to grow up.

  Kassa started throwing things at the wall. The pillows were first, followed by half her jewellery collection and an over-stuffed pink teddy bear which she usually hid under the bed. Then she dismantled the bed itself and threw the bits out the window without opening it first. Broken glass rained down upon the snowy ground outside.

  Her collection of bawdy song-parchments from exotic locations was carefully shredded and strewn liberally over the floor.

  The gargoyle was thrown at several walls, but she didn’t even manage to dent the stupid nose.

  Kassa had grown up believing that she was going to be a pirate—believing, in fact, that she already was one. But that had been a long time ago, before she had discovered that there was more to life than what could be seen from the prow of a ship.

  There was another alternative, of course. No one could blame her if she rejected her father’s career to follow her mother’s original vocation. But Kassa didn’t want to be a witch either. Witches were old and wrinkled, and spent their whole time muttering stupid spells. She knew from experience how dangerous that could be.

  Kassa had seen enough magic and enough mayhem to last her a lifetime. She didn’t want to follow either path. But now…

  Frustratedly, she flung the last pillow at the jagged corner of the broken window. Goose feathers filled the air in a sudden, silent explosion. Kassa Daggersharp stood very still as the white feathers rained down upon her blood-red hair. “I suppose I owe him that much,” she admitted to the empty room.

  She shook her fist at the gargoyle, which lay accusingly on its side in a corner of the little room. “But I’m not promising anything!” she declared.

  Feathers still drifted down from the ragged edges of the broken attic window. Kassa picked a few from her hair, and watched them flutter away into the night. “Bloody pirates,” she muttered beneath her breath. “Just when you start taking them for granted, they get themselves killed.”

  * * *

  “I remember you, Silversword,” said the Lady Emperor, her silken skirts whispering as she circled around him. “You were the best man Timregis had. Brave, skilled, highly intelligent.”

  “Not loyal, though,” noted Aragon.

  “Oh, well you can’t have everything.” Lady Talle smiled like a cat with its claws into something small and furry. “I used to have a poster of you on my wall, you know. The mighty Champion of the Empire.” She clicked her tongue. “People looked up to you, once upon a time. People believed in you.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” said Aragon laconically.

  “Oh, you didn’t. Not at all. After all, a villain is much more interesting than a hero.”

  Aragon frowned. This woman seemed familiar, and he didn’t know why. Then he remembered. “You!”

  Talle frowned, and the tiniest of wrinkles marred her exquisite forehead. “Be careful, Silversword. Do not mistake my courtesy for favour. I can have you back in that cell in a thread of an instant.”

  He advanced on her, grey eyes gleaming. “I remember you now. One of Timregis’ courtesans! Not even his favourite…”

  “No,” she said acidly. “But I was the most intelligent, Aragon. And the most powerful.”

  He laughed shortly. “You were a decoration, girl, a bauble on a shelf of ornaments. What makes you think you can run an Empire?”

  A snarl flicked across Talle’s perfect face. “I can be very, very popular,” she hissed. “I have it all now, Silversword. I waited as useless Emperor after useless Emperor went by. None of them had a clue about how to organise things, they just sat back and enjoyed the view until the money ran out. It is my turn now. And I will hold the Empire just as I hold the Sacred Bauble. The city states will pay tribute to me!”

  Aragon was intrigued. “It never occured to me that one could take over an Empire from the harem.”

  “It didn’t occur to anyone. That’s what made it so easy. Obviously you are not willing to work for me. I am sorry to have taken up so much of your time. I’m sure your cell will be just as you left it.”

  Aragon put out a hand, touching her wrist. His grey eyes were neutral, an expression very few people have ever fully mastered. “I did not say that I was not willing to negotiate, Talle.”

  She smiled slowly, a silken smile. “How benevolent of you. Let us discuss terms.”

  He touched her mouth briefly with a fingertip. “Not quite yet. I want you to tell me something first.”

  She regarded him, making no move to dislodge his finger. Then she spoke, “What do you want to know?”

  His expression flickered only slightly. “What the hell is this Sacred Bauble you keep talking about?”

  Lady Talle’s eyes bubbled with laughter. “Oh, that. It was a gift from the late Emperor Timregis. Do you want to see?” She reached down into her bodice, and drew out a transparent ball the size of a small egg. It descended slowly from her fingertips, then bobbed up towards the ceiling and finally descended into her outstretched palm with the grace and speed of a drifting goose feather. Talle slipped it back into her bodice. “Perhaps someday I will tell you what it’s for,” she suggested slyly. “But for now, let me tell you the first task I have in mind for my Champion.”

  “She intends to keep the Empire in her bodice,” said Aragon Silversword to himself. “An interesting metaphor.”

  2. Braided Bones

  Daggar Profit-scoundrel went home, a lukewarm sausage roll in one pocket and half a bottle of salt-whisky clanking under his jerkin. The snow was making his ears wet. He was whistling, more or less. Visions of the retirement scheme of the Profithood kept doing somersaults through his tortured imagination.

  The trouble was, in order to pull off the kind of scam that might impress the indomitable Leonardes, Daggar was going to need contacts. Important contacts. Contacts on the cutting edge of criminal and/or merchant society. And he didn’t have any. Not one. He didn’t really get on with other profit-scoundrels, and the closest thing he had to a fence was the tavernkeeper down the street who would accept fob-watches in exchange for drinks, no questions asked. As very few people in Daggar’s area could even afford to steal such a luxury item as a fob-watch, this wasn’t a lot of use. Clockwork had been widely embraced by the upper echelon of Mocklore society, although everyone was mildly disconcerted by the fact that they didn’t know how to make the damn stuff stop.

  Daggar’s lack of business contacts, however, was not quite as problematic as was the time-frame he had been given to work within. The local moon-cycle was not as reliable as those of other worlds…there were thirteen moons in a year, of course. Nothing could disturb that certainty. The problem was, the cycles of these moons were never of a regular length. The shortest moon-cycle ever recorded had been four days from wax to wane and back again—the longest had been about twelve weeks. It was impossible to predict whether the moon-cycle Daggar had as a deadline would be on the longer or shorter side of the spectrum, but he knew in his heart of hearts that he was not going to get a long one.

  Daggar’s home was in the Skids, quite possibly the grubbiest collection of streets in any city, on any world, in any universe. His hovel was high quality for Skids accommodation, because there were so many rats living in the walls that it was almost guaranteed never to fall down.

  He stopped attempting to whistle when he saw the bundle on the doorstep. It unfolded to reveal a familiar face, framed by blood-red hair. “I s’pose you want a drink,” said Daggar grudgingly.

  “I brought my own,” said Kassa Daggersharp, producin
g a bottle of rum.

  Daggar thought about it. “Better come in, then.”

  Theirs had always been a close family.

  * * *

  Daggar read the letter. “This makes sense to you, does it? Sounds to me like old Bigbeard was raving.”

  Kassa had given up looking for a glass in Daggar’s dingy cupboards and was drinking the rum straight from the bottle. “It means Bigbeard is dead. And he wants me to take over the family business. Me.”

  Daggar looked slightly sick. “You mean piracy?”

  “I am trained, you know,” she reminded him. “I grew up on that bloody ship.” She sniffed. “I was apprenticed.”

  “That was a long time ago,” said Daggar darkly.

  Kassa seemed to be trying to talk herself into the idea. “A girl’s got to have a career,” she said dubiously.

  “I thought you liked singing and dancing.”

  Sitting on the floor, Kassa rested her head back against the wall. “I do,” she sighed. “But piracy is in my blood. Yours, too.”

  “You’ll know all about your blood if you starts playing pirate again,” predicted Daggar gloomily. “It’s a dangerous job.”

  “I’ve done it before, it wasn’t so hard,” Kassa said sleepily.

  “Yeh,” muttered Daggar darkly. “And I remember what happened when you did.”

  She shot an icy glare at him. “We weren’t going to talk about that ever again, remember?”

  “I’m a profit-scoundrel,” he shot back at her. “I cheat.”

  She ignored him, chewing absently on a stray lock of hair. “It might be worth playing pirate to get my hands on the Splashdance silver. I wonder where I can find a crew.”

  “What’s a splashdance?”

  “It was a ship,” she yawned. “Long ago.”

  Daggar’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “That ship?”

  “That ship.”