‘And why were they melancholy?’ Jay put in. ‘Yes, they’d lost Farringale, and perhaps that’s reason enough. But no mention of that was made in the story. Why did they come here, instead of going to Mandridore with the rest?’
‘Third point,’ said Alban, dropping a heavy tome down onto the nearest study table with a boompf. ‘These Seas of Segorne and mountainous Vales of Wonder. Were they pulled out of thin air for the tale, because they sound good? Or were they significant? I think the latter. Look.’ He riffled quickly through the book, careless of its aging paper, and skimmed a page or two. ‘The Seas of Segorne,’ he said. ‘Place of myth, said to have existed somewhere off the southwest coast of Britain. The islands there weren’t the traditional kind, for instead of floating on the water they drifted in the air, several feet above the sea’s surface. It was thought that the area was so soaked in magick that it had been warped by it, and nothing there was as it should’ve been.’
He turned several more pages. ‘Then the Hyndorin Mountains and those Wonder Vales. Same thing. Sounds to me like there were some magickal Dells scattered about up there, but unusually potent ones, flooded with magick. They, too, had gone a little strange. One was the site of a plethora of magick-induced mutations; nothing living that went in ever came out quite the same. One was said to have made a bubble of itself and floated away. Etc.’ He looked at me. ‘They asked for a place rich in magick, according to the story.’
‘Not just rich, but drowning in it,’ I mused. ‘Even to the point of being highly unsafe.’
‘Mm. But what does that do to our theory about old Farringale? If there was some kind of magickal disaster there, and the place was flooded, then it’s natural that Torvaston and company would flee from it, like everyone else. But why would they go searching for another home much the same?’
‘I wonder if they left voluntarily,’ said Jay, leafing through a book.
‘As much so as the rest, I suppose?’ I said. ‘Nobody wanted to abandon Farringale.’
‘I don’t mean Farringale, I mean Mandridore. We’ve been assuming that they chose to come here instead. What if they were exiled?’
‘Torvaston the Second, exiled from his own court?’ Alban was incredulous. ‘And exiled by, presumably, his own wife? How could that be?’
‘I don’t know, but it would explain the melancholy, wouldn’t it?’
‘That might just have been a detail for the story,’ Alban objected. ‘Included to get the audience to pity the dispossessed king.’
‘Might be,’ Jay agreed. ‘Then again, might not.’
I mulled this over. ‘It would take something very, very big to get the king kicked out.’
‘To say the least,’ said Jay.
‘As in, catastrophically big.’ I didn’t want to air the direction my thoughts were tending in. My vague new hypothesis bordered too much on the treasonous.
So I kept it to myself.
‘If something like that happened,’ said Alban, ‘there must be some record of it at Mandridore. There must.’
‘If so, I’m guessing it’s deeply buried,’ I said.
‘Luckily, I happen to know the queen.’ Alban grinned, a shade rueful.
12
I couldn’t leave Whitmore again without checking on Zareen. So while Jay went off to coax Millie into an imminent departure and the baro— prince — went to consult with Melmidoc, I made my way down onto the wide beach beneath the Whitmore cliff where Ashdown Castle had settled itself. The poor old place looked the worse for wear. It was too ancient, too delicate and too run-down to be dragged the length and breadth of Britain and beyond; a part of its roof had caved in during the journey (to Val’s cost), and, robbed of the foundations it was used to, it had… shifted, in places. The effect was a general sagging, as of a crestfallen building enjoying a lengthy sulk.
I felt rather sorry for it. You’d think Fenella would be more careful with her family’s ancestral home.
Inside, the air was much colder than the sun-drenched outdoors. That’s the way with old buildings: all that brick and stone and none of the insulation, double-glazing and so on that characterises more modern structures. But there was something unearthly about the chill in the great, shadowy hall, and I moved with caution. Last time I had set foot in there, the walls had been weeping great, salt tears. The ten or so enslaved Waymasters who’d moved the place had not been at all happy about it.
Was Zareen even still there? I wandered down a corridor or two, feeling like the only moving object for about twelve miles. The castle had the hushed, too-still air of total desertion. ‘Zar?’ I called, though not very loudly. I had the irrational feeling that a loud noise might bring the rest of the roof down.
Miranda popped into my thoughts. I’d last seen her somewhere in these castle halls, too. She couldn’t still be here — surely she had been dispatched back to our own Britain with the rest of her new colleagues. But when I came to consider the idea, I found I was not entirely sure. Distracted, exhausted and confused, I hadn’t thought to make certain that she was among the throng we had crammed into Millie’s parlours a few days before. ‘Mir?’ I called.
No response. My footsteps made discouraging dull, ringing sounds on the tiled floors, and the echoes they sent up told me clearly enough that I was alone.
Which is why I nearly died of fright when a voice abruptly screamed: ‘Is someone there?’
‘Argh!’ I said, and fell against the nearest wall. I regretted this at once, for it oozed a freezing chill which went straight to my bones. I hurriedly leapt away again. ‘Er. It’s only me,’ I said, squinting into the pervasive gloom. I saw no one. ‘Ves of the Society. No threat to you whatsoever.’
‘You should not be here,’ said the voice. ‘The ghost witch promised no one would come in.’
Ghost witch? ‘You mean Zareen?’
‘Yes.’
‘I came to visit the ghost witch. I’m a friend. Do you know where she is?’
‘She is engaged at present and cannot receive visitors.’
‘You mean she isn’t here?’
‘Oh, she is,’ said the disembodied voice, a note of disgust creeping in. ‘She is busy. With the man.’
I was not altogether surprised to hear that George Mercer was not making himself popular. ‘Can you tell me where she is?’ I persevered.
‘Northwest tower,’ the voice snapped.
‘Ah. And where is—’
‘Up the stairs.’
My enquiries for more specific directions went unanswered, so with a sigh I toiled up the first flight of stairs I came to, their simple design and shabby state informing me that I had wandered into the servants’ quarters. I toddled down passages uncounted, through drawing-rooms and bedchambers and parlours, aided only by an occasional snappish interjection from my bad-tempered guide: ‘Not that way. The other door!’ At length, a promisingly spiralling stairwell together with the low murmur of voices (hopefully the living variety) told me I had come to the right place.
Pausing near the top of the stairs, I called: ‘Zar?’
The murmuring stopped.
‘I hope you’re Ves,’ came Zareen’s voice.
‘What if I’m not?’
‘George will blast you out of existence.’
‘I don’t see why I have to be obliterated by George, of all people. That’s just adding insult to injury. Can’t you do it?’
The rickety oak door creaked open, and Zareen appeared. She was not wearing a great deal.
Neither, I soon had occasion to note, was George.
I gave a cough. ‘Everything’s going well then, hm?’
‘Some things,’ Zareen corrected. ‘Some things are going well.’
George, lounging in a threadbare chair near the window, scowled at me, a greeting I returned with similarly warm feelings. I’d learned enough about Zareen’s past to excuse her lingering infatuation with George — if that’s what it was — but that didn’t mean I had to like the man myself.
‘What are you doing back here?’ Zareen said. ‘I didn’t think we’d be seeing you for a while.’
‘On a royal mission.’ I grinned.
‘Troll Court?’
‘How’d you know?’
‘Wild guess: has to be something to do with that smooth talker of a baron.’
I toyed with the idea of enlightening Zareen on the point of the smooth-talker’s identity (and marital status), but decided against it. Not with George hanging around. We could have that conversation later.
I also couldn’t tell her much about the mission, though her lack of questions suggested she knew that. ‘Do you two need anything?’ I asked instead.
‘Nope, we’re good.’
‘Righto. And how’s Operation Ashdown progressing? I gather George is killing it with the locals.’
‘So you met Harriet.’
‘If she’s the snappish lady with the man-hating attitude, then yes.’
Zareen grinned at George, who rolled his eyes. ‘Harriet Theale, vicar’s wife. She has ideas about propriety. I’m afraid our modern attitudes aren’t working for her at all.’
‘How sisterly of her to blame George instead of you.’
‘It’s only fair. Normally the girls get all the blame. Ves, I should tell you: we’re not bringing Ashdown home.’
Unexpected. ‘What?’ I said, my brows going up.
‘You’ve seen the state of it, no? I don’t believe it can bear another cross-world hop. Nor should it be expected to. We’re looking instead for a better, permanent home for it out here on the fifth. Obviously it can’t stay on the beach.’
‘You don’t think Fenella will want it back?’
‘I dare say she will, but that’s tough. She shouldn’t have used it like a bus service in the first place. Once the Waymasters here have had time to recover, we’ll coach them through one final removal, get the castle set down somewhere more stable, and then let them go.’
‘They won’t want to go back to their own Britain?’
‘You’re full of discouraging questions, Ves.’
‘Sorry.’
Zareen shrugged. ‘That’s a bridge we’ll cross when we get there. Any that want to go home… well, I’m hoping Melmidoc might be able to help, either way.’
He might, at that. Perhaps he could get some of them settled in their own houses. After all, Whitmore seemed to make rather a habit of it.
George was, as usual, silent. Was it just that he hated me, or was he taciturn by nature? Presumably he was more forthcoming with Zareen. ‘Thank you for sticking with Zar,’ I said to him. ‘She’s important to us.’
‘And to me.’ Three ungracious words.
I gave up.
‘Right, leaving,’ I said. ‘One thing, though. Have you seen Miranda about?’
‘Didn’t she get shipped back to the sixth with the rest?’
‘I think so, and at the same time I don’t think so.’
‘We haven’t seen her.’
‘Roger.’ Perhaps it was thinking of Miranda that led to my saluting Zareen. ‘Vesper out. Take care out here, hm?’
‘We’re okay. You go impress the socks off the troll king.’
‘Actually, I get the impression the queen rules the roost there.’
‘As it should be.’
I arrived at Millie’s farmhouse to find Alban and Jay both there before me. Millie’s front door hung open; I sauntered in. A delicate melody wafted through the rooms, emanating, I supposed, from Millie’s old spinet. But it was not Millie playing it; it was Jay.
I regarded him in silence for a moment, enjoying the sheer beauty of the music he played. I’d rarely heard anything like it before. Indeed, had I ever? The music floated and danced, like… like faerie bells, I wanted to say, though stifled the thought as too fanciful by half.
‘Did I know you could play?’ I said, when Jay’s fingers stilled upon the keys.
He jumped, and gave me a startled glance over his shoulder. ‘Hi Ves.’
‘That was beautiful.’
He didn’t answer, but he did smile. ‘Alban’s upstairs,’ he said. ‘Are you ready to go?’
‘Yes. What’s he doing upstairs?’
‘Hiding from me.’
‘Uh huh. And why does he need to hide from you?’
‘We might have had words.’
‘I hope it was nothing to do with me.’
Jay’s silence spoke volumes.
All right, so Jay was still angry with Alban for flirting with me when he shouldn’t have. Why? Did I seem broken-hearted? I didn’t think I was. Absolutely not. Not even disappointed, really. Not a bit.
I went upstairs.
Alban sat tucked into the embrace of a pretty window seat in the homely drawing-room, one of its few pretences at elegance. He was too big for it, but had curled himself into it anyway with splendid disregard for proportion. Staring, no doubt moodily, out of the window, he did not turn when I came in.
I was swiftly growing tired of talking to people’s backs. ‘What did Melmidoc have to say about our theory?’ I asked without preamble.
‘He thinks it insane.’
‘Excellent.’
‘He might be right. No Court would exile its own king, and no exiled king would go in search of precisely the same dangerous environment he had just fled from. But then, Melmidoc does have a grudge or two against the Troll Court. His opinion is hardly clear-sighted.’
‘I say we proceed.’
‘Seconded. I can’t think of a better idea.’
‘Does he know of a way to, uh, drain magick from a flooded Dell?’
‘No. Says it’s never been done anywhere, to his knowledge.’
‘I suppose no one’s had reason enough to brave the dangers.’
He nodded without answering, and finally looked at me. It seemed to cost him an effort. ‘He’s right, of course.’
‘Melmidoc?’
‘Jay. I’ve been a selfish dick.’
‘Were those Jay’s words?’
‘I paraphrase.’
I felt the beginnings of a headache coming on. ‘Jay has no right to attack you for it,’ I said briskly. ‘I believe I can understand the difficulties of your predicament. And I don’t need to be protected from you or anybody else.’
‘So you aren’t hurt?’
‘No.’ I said it stoutly, without a trace of doubt, and met Alban’s eyes squarely when he looked at me.
He held my gaze for a moment, then nodded and looked away. ‘That is good to know.’
His tone suggested he’d drawn all manner of conclusions from that single word, some of which may or may not be hurtful, and some of which may or may not be true. But I didn’t have time to deal with it just then. Trailing from Zareen and George in dishabille, to an indignant Jay, to a sulking Alban, I felt like a nanny with a large and fractious brood to manage. ‘We’d better go, hadn’t we?’
It is awfully romantic, Millie broke in. Like a fairy tale. Shall you marry the prince in the end, Miss Vesper? I do hope so!
If I’d tried to come up with the quickest way to make the scene even more painfully awkward, I couldn’t have done a better job. ‘Thanks, Millie,’ I said with a sigh.
I judged it best to beat a hasty retreat.
I like her, I heard Millie say before I had made it out of earshot.
And Alban said, softly, ‘Me too.’
13
The library of Mandridore is to die for.
I mean that almost literally. I’m sure I felt my heart stop when we walked in.
Tall people need a tall library, yes? This one soared up and up and up, to such a height there were wisps of cloud drifting near the ceiling. If there was a ceiling. No word of a lie, there really were, though I don’t suppose they ever took it upon themselves to rain. Every inch of every wall was covered in shelves housing perfectly-ordered rows of books. I looked for the traditional long ladders winding up the bookcases, but of these there was no sign. I did, however, spot a large tome floating at
a leisurely pace down from a distant shelf. At Mandridore, one did not travel to the books; the books travelled to you.
I could get used to such a place.
‘When I die,’ I heard Mauf say from inside my satchel, ‘bury me here.’
I hoped he was busy soaking up whatever he could get his filthy book-mitts upon.
A dash of magick kept the light levels on the muted side, the better to protect the collections. This lent the library’s several chambers a peaceful, serene air which could not but please. I’d walked in and felt immediately at ease.
Unfortunately, things did not go nearly so well as this auspicious beginning suggested.
While Jay wandered off to browse, drawn like a magnet to a floor-level shelf crowded with enormous leather-bound volumes, I went with Alban to the grand mahogany desk behind which sat the librarian on duty. A large, handsome woman of middle age, she became flustered at Alban’s approach, and dropped a brief curtsey. Some subtle change to Alban’s expression told me he did not welcome this deference.
‘Dame Hellenna, I wonder if you could help us,’ he said, with an approximation of his usual smile. ‘We are interested in anything you can find on the topic of Torvaston the Second. Periods of particular interest include directly before, and any time after, the fall of Farringale.’
I did not at all see why, but something about this request made Dame Hellenna nervous. She glanced uncertainly at me, then made for the bookshelves with the air of a woman running away.
A slight frown creased Alban’s brow.
The jumpy librarian soon returned. ‘I— I’m afraid there are no books available on those topics, sir,’ she said, not meeting his eye.
‘None?’ repeated Alban blankly.
Dame Hellenna shook her head.
‘How can that be? King Torvaston founded this Court!’
The librarian began to look most unhappy. ‘I quite see your point, sir, but nonetheless…’
‘You’re telling me,’ said Alban with forced calm, ‘that no one has written of Mandridore’s founders in nearly four centuries?’
‘If they have, sir, their books are not kept here.’
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