Leximandra Reports, and other tales

by Charlotte E. English

E. Glostrum

  The paper trembled in Lexi’s hand. Grabbing at the nearest chair, she dropped into it, her mind blank with disbelief. An interview? That was infinitely better than a mere picture; readers universally loved to hear about recent events in the protagonists’ own words. And none of the other society papers had published anything but speculation about Lady Glostrum’s possible marriage.

  Perhaps her job was safe after all.

  Sagging with relief, Lexi noticed with a start that the seventeenth hour was already past. Leaping up from the chair, she set about making her preparations.

  ***

  The seventy-third issue of Brysold’s Society Week was sold out within hours. A large picture of Lady Glostrum and her betrothed, Chief Investigator Lord Vale, appeared on the front ; inside, the interview ran to four whole pages. Lady Glostrum had not stinted on her revelations to the paper. The interview bore a new byline: “Leximandra Reports”. That had been part of Lady Glostrum’s conditions for giving the interview. Lexi swelled with pride and excitement at seeing her name in print, for the very first time.

  Brysold had waited only for the engagement to be announced by the city boards before he had published the much-anticipated issue of his paper. He had grumbled a little about the delay, but he knew as well as Lexi did that it was useless to complain. The bulletin boards were operated by the city council and they took to themselves the duty of breaking any news relevant to city business. The principles in this case were the High Summoner, leader of one of the realm’s two magical organisations, and the chief of the realm’s investigative force; as such, Brysold had been obliged to defer to the boards. But in the end this proved to be an advantage. As soon as the news had been announced, Glour’s interested citizens had gone straight to the nearest newspaper vendor and bought everything that promised more information.

  Within days, two more popular society figures sought Leximandra Greyne to interview them for the paper. At least one was a known associate of Lady Glostrum’s: her ladyship’s help clearly extended beyond the confines of a single interview. Lexi may be no good at the clandestine style of reporting, but where she was invited and welcomed she excelled. It wasn’t long before “Leximandra Reports” took its place as the most popular society column in Glour.

  Rikbeek Earns His Keep

  The gwaystrel hung, upside down, in the folds of a voluminous skirt. With his webby wings clamped firmly around his furred body and all sounds muffled by the thick fabrics that surrounded him, he existed in a state of perfect repose, quite ready for sleep.

  Until his host giant’s body shifted and began to descend in a manner that he recognised. The too-tall was sitting down.

  A flash of brief panic. Which side am I on? Front or back? If too close to the rear side this fourteen-wing-spans-tall monstrosity will adhere me to the - a quick swivel of the head - hard surface rapidly approaching - evacuate -

  The gwaystrel twisted his small body, opened his wings and darted out and away, just as the host giant merged its lumbering body with the thing it thought of as a chair.

  Spitting with indignation, the gwaystrel circled the giant’s head, dragging his claws through her no-colour hair to pull strands of it loose. The host always hated that.

  Good.

  She made a noise of protest and swatted him away. Her mind touched his with a brief note of apology for almost sitting on him.

  He ignored that. Swooping at the hand that tried to banish him, he bared his small but well-sharpened teeth and bit.

  ‘Eeaw,’ the giant said, or something of that sort. ‘Rikbeek!’

  Rik-beek. He often heard those sounds, usually spoken in a manner rich with annoyance. Rik-beek. If it was supposed to be a name, it was a stupid one.

  But at least her blood tasted good. He sampled a bit more, enjoying the musicality of her voice when she swore at him again. He’d chosen this particular too-tall because she smelled good, tasted good and sounded good. And she had such a succession of visitors; their blood never tasted as good as hers, but the flavours were varied and interesting. It was an endlessly renewing banquet, all for him.

  A babble of sounds interrupted his reflections, rending his delicate ears. Testing the confines of his surroundings, he found that he was in a space, one of those too-big ones with a top on it. No access to sky. Many more too-talls streamed in, turning themselves into giants with chairs stuck on the back as his host had done. They brayed like worvilloes, their horrible sounds merging into an appalling cacophony that echoed painfully in his ears.

  Meeting, his own too-tall told him in the silent way. Government.

  Meeting-Government, he thought resentfully. Crush and noise. Babbling echoes. Mess of smells, danger of death. Stupid meeting. Stupid Government.

  His too-tall host showed no signs of moving, so he flew up, over the heads of the babbling worvillo-imitators. A familiar whiff of scent reached him as he flew; he surveyed its source. Height: taller than the host giant, fifteen-and-one-half wing spans. This dark figure smelled of moonglow; his sounds were Ang-Strun.

  This one had good blood too. The gwaystrel tasted it on his way past, nimbly dodged the resulting blow and hurled himself at the exit.

  He passed through several rooms beyond, all full of too-talls, all reverberating with too much noise. Points of light streaked past his vision, searing his tiny, sensitive eyes. He careened onward, his mind a panicked blur of chaotic noise and lights and smells, until at last he reached somewhere new and everything faded into tranquillity.

  This space was better.

  Quiet. Dark. Not the thin stuff but real dark darkness, quiet quietness. Sleep!

  He circled the room, seeking a suitable roost. His senses mapped the shapes of two too-talls lying horizontal on the floor.

  Sleeping? This must be the sleeping-place.

  Only the layout did not match his notion of the generality of too-tall sleeping places. There were no beds, no blankets. But there were desks, as big as the one his host giant used. More of the chair-things crouched behind them.

  No matter. Suitable quiet-dark. Sleep.

  He settled, snapping his wings shut around himself. Consciousness faded gradually...

  Light seared through the comfortable cocoon of his webbed wings, hauling him out of slumber. He opened his wings and launched himself into the air, screaming his rage, arrowing at the source of the disturbance. He threw sounds at the thing, his large ears swivelling to catch the echoes. His mind built a picture of a too-tall, bending over the desk-thing. This one was careful in its movements, stealthy.

  Doesn’t want to be discovered.

  The intruder prowled through the contents of the desk, opening things and picking up pale, flat objects that rustled when they brushed against each other. Paper. The too-tall kept lifting its head, so its eyes would see if either of the two sleeping giants should wake. It had a nasty ball of light hovering near its face.

  None of these activities justified the interruption.

  Ruined my sleep. Stupid too-tall, too-fat, too-loud and too-bright.

  The gwaystrel flew at the figure, teeth ready. He pierced the skin and blood flowed into his mouth.

  Eurch. Tastes like crap.

  He bit again anyway. He was hungry, now that he thought about it, and he might as well be recompensed for the loss of slumber. The too-tall ducked and moved away from the desk, flapping its hands at the gwaystrel. After another few bites the intruder began to make the harsh noises that indicated displeasure.

  Good, he thought, and bit some more.

  Rikbeek? His distant host giant’s words came to him in the silent way. He replied with fury, hurling at her an image of the skulking too-fat that had destroyed his rest.

  He felt her approval before she withdrew. She applauded his torment? Betrayal! He would bite her extra hard when he saw her again.

  In the meantime, this one had plenty of flesh left to puncture.

  He drove the intruder before him, relishing the lumbering thing’s attempts to
drive him off. But his entertainment was short-lived; several more giant-ones spilled into the room, his own nice-smelling host giant among them. They stopped and made some startled noises.

  ‘I don’t see anyone,’ said one of them.

  ‘Follow the gwaystrel, gentlemen,’ his host-giant replied. Rik-Beek had time for one last dive, one last bite, before the skulking one was grabbed and hauled away.

  ‘A spy,’ said one, shaking the intruder. ‘From?’

  If the giant expected an answer, he didn’t get one. The skulker blessed the gwaystrel’s ears with beautiful silence.

  ‘Vale will get it out of you,’ the giant said. He sounded happy about it.

  Rik-Beek hoped that this “getting it out of him” would hurt.

  Some of the giants folded themselves over, peering at the horizontal ones. ‘One’s drugged,’ said one. ‘Other’s knocked out.’

  This prompted some head-shaking and more of the harsh words. Then the talkative giant looked at his host.

  ‘Good work, Lady Glostrum. But, um, how did you know he was here?’

  Glos-Trum. Yes, those were the sounds that went with his too-tall.

  If that was a name, it was stupid too.

  ‘I had some help,’ she replied, pointing at him. Heads turned and bright eyes settled on the gwaystrel.

  ‘You wouldn’t care to sell him, I suppose?’

  Glos-Trum laughed.

  Sell. He knew that word. It meant to send something (him) away, replacing him with something more desirable (something that clinked and shone and that all the giants loved) in return.

  Sell me? Sell me to some too-fat, too-stupid? He dived at her head.

  ‘No,’ she said to the other giant with a trace of regret. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Rik-Beek bit her anyway.

  Sigwide and the Bokren Birds

  The black-scaled drauk was at least twice the size of Sigwide, but the little grey orting wasn’t fazed. He squared off against his scaled and clawed opponent, growling deep in his small soft-furred chest.

  The drauk ignored him. It continued its advance on the one remaining bokren bird, sending the dim-witted creature into a noisy panic. Irked by this lack of consideration, Sigwide gathered his round little body into a crouch and prepared to charge.

  Ynara Sanfaer stood watching the development of this little three-way battle, suffering some indecision. Egora was one of a small flock of six bokren birds she had owned, the only one still living after a spate of drauk attacks. The bird was as dense as a stump, of course, but with her jaunty red feet and wings she was a rather attractive thing. And she laid wonderful eggs. Ynara would prefer not to lose her as well.

  Sigwide, on the other hand, had been her daughter’s beloved pet for the last eleven years and was completely irreplaceable. And just now he was intent on impaling himself on the drauk’s spiked tail.

  It wasn’t much of a choice. With a sigh, she stooped and scooped up the orting. Sigwide fought, as she had expected; she was obliged to use both hands to keep him from jumping free, and in that instant the drauk struck. The bokren squawked and struggled, feathers flying; then its neck snapped between the drauk’s strong jaws and it fell silent.

  Ynara thought briefly about rescuing the corpse - at least the poor stupid beast would make good stew - but a glance at the drauk’s wicked claws changed her mind. Gripping the wildly struggling Sigwide a little harder, she opened her wings. With a small jump she was airborne and wending her way up to the top of the broad-capped glissenwol tree in which her family lived.

  The house was built inside and around the trunk in a motley collection of wooden-walled rooms. A wide balcony hung near the top, sheltered and kept dry by the overarching glissenwol cap. Ynara landed here and stepped into the house, releasing Sigwide with some relief.

  ‘Ow,’ she muttered, inspecting the red scratches now striping the honey-brown hue of her skin.

  She found her husband and daughter in the kitchen, sharing a bowl of tea. Sigwide ran straight to Llandry and climbed her leg, his fur bristling as he chattered out his rage. Llan’s eyes travelled from the enraged orting to Ynara herself, taking in the new wounds.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said. ‘He still thinks he’s an orboe.’

  Ynara dropped into a chair with a sigh. ‘He’d need to be at least that size to take on a drauk and win. But he keeps trying.’

  Aysun grunted his disapproval. ‘Wild beast needs to learn manners. And sense.’

  ‘He’s all right, Pa,’ said Llandry, hugging Sigwide close. ‘He’s never seriously injured himself.’

  ‘Only other people,’ Aysun replied, casting a meaningful look at Ynara’s bleeding arms.

  Llandry winced. ‘Sorry, Ma.’

  Ynara shrugged. ‘They’ll heal. My poor Egora will not, however.’

  ‘Not only stupid, but wholly ineffectual as a guard as well,’ Aysun commented. At Llandry’s reproachful look, he softened the sting of his comment by reaching over and tickling the orting’s belly.

  ‘Your alarm device was wholly ineffectual, too,’ Ynara retorted.

  ‘Ah... it didn’t go off again?’

  ‘It did, but far too late. By the time I reached the ground, the drauk already had Egora cornered. I couldn’t have rescued her without getting sliced up by the thing myself.’

  ‘It’s meant to scare the thing away,’ Aysun muttered, his blond brows drawn together. ‘I’ll work on it.’

  ‘No. That’s enough. I can’t watch any more of my poor birds get butchered by the drauk population of Glinnery. As long as we live so close to the woods, it’ll always be a problem.’

  ‘You sure, Ma? If Pa built a cage, they’d be safe.’

  ‘And imprisoned. That’s no solution, love.’ Llandry’s face - so like her own, with her grey eyes, honey-coloured skin and dark black hair - was anxious and sad as she looked at her mother. She was a worrier, that girl, and seemed to feel every little hurt of her mother’s ten times over.

  Ynara smiled reassuringly and squeezed Llandry’s hand. ‘It’s all right, love. I’ll miss the birds, but we can go back to getting our eggs from the market.’

  Llandry nodded dubiously. She looked at her father. ‘I’m sure we could come up with something better. Right, Pa?’

  Aysun looked straight at Ynara and grinned. It was one of those boyish grins, full of mischief and fun; it looked no less natural on his tanned and lined face than it had twenty years ago when they were both young.

  It was the sort of grin that gave her mixed feelings. Anticipation, because it usually meant he was about to do something fiendishly clever and amusing. And trepidation, because sometimes his fiendishly clever plans went horribly awry.

  ‘Don’t get carried away,’ she said warningly. But the remarkably similar expressions on her husband and daughter’s faces told her the warning was futile.

  ***

  A week later, Llandry sat in the tiny workshop she’d built in her own home, a few minutes’ flight from her mother’s house. Sigwide was asleep in his basket, for which she felt guiltily thankful. He could be tremendously disruptive when she was trying to work, but she always found it difficult to turn the loyal little beast away.

  In her hands was a tiny round piece of black jet, matching several others that lay on her work bench. She had worked them into perfect spheres and polished them to a high shine. They now lay glinting darkly in the golden afternoon sunlight that streamed through her big windows.

  ‘A pile of eyes,’ she murmured to herself as her slender fingers worked away at the last stone. ‘How macabre.’

  Sigwide stirred in his basket and chirped something. She often wished she could understand what he was saying; he so frequently sounded conversational. He’d learned some of her words: he responded with extreme excitement whenever anybody mentioned “food”, “nuts” or “fruit”. The fact that she couldn’t decipher even a single phrase of his made her feel dense.

  She added the final piece of jet to the pile and in
spected it with some satisfaction. She loved her work as a jeweller, but never more so than when she was crafting something for her mother. The claws and beaks were finished as well, worked in vividly red firestone. She’d carved each one with precision, making them as lifelike as possible. Now it was time to deliver them to her father.

  She packed everything carefully into her belt pouch, then slung Sigwide’s carry pack across her shoulders. Once a grumbling Sigwide was safely tucked into the travel bag, she stepped out onto the wide ledge before her front door and unfurled her wings. Hers were pale grey, a hue she secretly found insipid next to her mother’s glorious dark blue.

  But then, that was essentially true of every feature. Ynara glowed with health and beauty; Llandry only managed a faint sparkle once in a while, on her best days. The contrast regularly mortified her, but she was far too attached to her mother to mind.

  Well. She didn’t mind that much.

  She adopted a lazy pace, her wings beating powerfully but slowly as she soared over the clustered glissenwol caps of the city of Waeverleyne. She always flew high, enjoying the strong currents of air in the open skies. And the view was spectacular. The realm of Glinnery was always well-lit: when the sun set, the sorcerers drew a cloak of soft, artificial light over the realm’s woods and towns, feeding the needs of the light-hungry plants, beasts and machines that their society required. Waeverleyne, Glinnery’s capital city, reflected the perpetual light from its hundreds of bejewelled buildings, its narrow rivers and its pools of still, clear water, shining brilliantly even in the softer eventide hours. She made the journey slowly, taking in the view.

  Her parents lived on the outskirts of the city, almost on the edge. The glissenwol wilds loomed in a colourful mass a half-mile or so to the east of their particularly tall tree. It had been a perfect place to grow up, for they had all the conveniences of the city within reach, and all the advantages of untamed nature a short flight away.