Fearsome Magics Page 3

  Tansie thought about her grandmother’s gentle snoring and, for some reason, realized just then she had forgotten to pick up the chicken leg from the living room floor.

  “And you’re here to, what, take me away to fairyland?”

  Again, the discomfiting smile. “You say the word like you can imagine it, Lady, but I assure you, you cannot. Compared to this sad world, the glory of the Realm Beyond is the fire of a thousand suns next to a dying ember. The life that awaits you is exalted beyond anything any human has ever lived on the mortal plane.”

  For some reason, this reminded Tansie of the stories she had heard about foster care from some of the kids on the at-risk track. It was always advertised as going someplace better by the people taking you away from your home. Gothwiddion the Primrose Knight sounded like he worked for Child Protective Services.

  She examined the strange man more closely and realized that there was now no sign of the bloody wound that she had opened above his eye with the iron skillet. Why was that the most frightening thing that had happened yet?

  “What if I don’t want to go?” she asked him.

  The man shrugged. “My charge was to await the breaking of the seal and then retrieve you. No mention was made of your desires.” His voice had taken on that edge again. But then he relaxed, and said, “Life at court is nothing but an endless round of pleasures.”

  It sounded like the kind of place her mother would like.

  She thought of what he had said before about the seal. That was the wax on the back of the letter, the letter to her mother.

  “‘On your release…’” she said aloud.

  The man narrowed his eyes. “My release?”

  “The letter from your Queen to my mother. It says that you’ll take me… wherever, on my mother’s release.”

  The man sheathed his sword, but she remembered how fast he could draw it again. He reached into one of his voluminous sleeves and pulled out a sheet of paper rolled up into a scroll, the same color as the letter to her mother. He unrolled the sheet, read it quickly, then thrust it back in his sleeve.

  “What of it?” he asked.

  Gothwiddion the Primrose Knight seemed like somebody who liked rules.

  “Well, maybe my desires don’t come into it, but that’s an order from your Queen, right? Doesn’t it say you need my mother’s permission to take me?”

  An incredulous look crossed his face. “You are maneuvering to stay here?” He gestured, the sweep of his arm taking in the dingy kitchen, the falling-down house, the sketchy neighborhood, the whole wide world. Again, he said, “Here?”

  Her house, her world.

  She wasn’t her mother.

  The man made a scoffing sound. “Then I will go to your mother and obtain her release,” he said. “Where is she?”

  It was Tansie’s turn to shrug. “You’re not the only one who wants to know.”

  The man waved a hand at her, disgusted, then, unexpectedly, let out a high whistle. There was a sound of something very large moving in the back yard. Tansie supposed if he was some kind of knight, he must have some kind of mount. She was afraid to go see what it might look like.

  “Now I must quest across the mortal world to find this woman,” he said. “You could have won an ally this day, Lady, instead of making an enemy.”

  Tansie didn’t think she needed allies like this man, but as he started to leave, she held up her hand and said, “Wait.”

  When he paused, she rushed into the dining room and scrambled under the dining room table. He was still in the kitchen when she returned, so she thrust the paper bags full of bills and notices and summons into his arms.

  “Take these,” she said.

  HOME IS THE HAUNTER

  GARTH NIX

  THE CANNON WAS one hundred and twenty-five feet long and its rifled bore tapered from six feet in diameter at the breech to two foot nine and three quarter inches at the muzzle, using the old measures of the Mergantz system. Cast in bronze, the vast weapon’s entire length was adorned with cryptic writings and fevered drawings of tormented souls, acid-etched into the metal. Never designed to be moved at all, the great gun was currently being transported upon a dozen carefully-lashed-together ox carts, the whole being drawn by six mokleks, the shorn and gentled draft animals that were not to be confused with their wild cousins, the hairy mammoths of the icy wastes.

  Sir Hereward was seated inside the howdah of the lead moklek, resting uncomfortably on the slightly-padded shelf that was supposed to be a seat, and might have served as such for a shorter and slighter man. He would have preferred to be astride a battlemount or a horse, but their last horse had died the week before, and their last battlemount a few days after its final meal of horse.

  The mokleks would go next, Hereward thought, though their most pressing need was for water rather than food. He could then survive on moklek meat and blood for a considerable time thereafter, but without the draft animals the cannon would have to be abandoned here on the featureless steppe, the interminable grassy plain that he had loathed from the start of this ill-fated journey.

  They were taking a route that his companion Mister Fitz had claimed would cut weeks from the more usual way between Low Yalpen and Jeminero. That followed the switch-backed road up and through the passes of the Kapoman range. Though they would have needed even more mokleks to make the grade, the high road had no shortage of springs and wells and even several well-spaced and highly hospitable caravanserais.

  Hereward’s dry throat instinctively swallowed at the thought of arriving at one of those grand hostels, to be met at the gate with a silver ewer of chilled wine, as was the traditional welcome to important travelers. But the high Kapoman passes, the caravanserais and the chilled wine were regrettably far distant. Here, there was only the sea of yellow grass that stretched ahead of him so monochromatically, till at the horizon it met with the downward-curving expanse of an equally featureless sky of endless blue.

  The knight sighed and shifted the carbine off his legs, so that he could stretch out and push his feet against the front wall. But the thin pink-lacquered timber, hardly thicker than parchment, promptly splintered under his boot heels and the rear of the howdah began to bend behind him, requiring him to sit up straight again.

  “Please do not destroy our accommodation,” called out Mister Fitz as he climbed up the ear of the moklek. The ears were the only parts of the animal left unshorn, and a plaited and knotted rope of hair hung from each lobe to allow their mahouts an easy way to climb aboard.

  “You will be glad of it when the rains begin,” continued the puppet as he continued up onto the high roof of the howdah, which was made of thick canvas, painted with an oily concoction—also pink—that supposedly would repel any rain short of a tropical cloudburst. Not that there had been any rain, and in fact there was not even a single cloud to take the sting out of the sun. Even this late in the afternoon it still burned fiercely hot.

  “What rain?” asked Hereward. He spoke to the puppet’s shadow directly above him, showing through the pink canvas roof like a dark stain. “I keep hearing promises of rain, but I believe there is some requirement for clouds to be in the sky first.”

  “The rains are some days late, it is true,” agreed Mister Fitz. “However, I do not believe it is a matter of concern.”

  “Possibly because you do not need to drink. However, I and the mokleks do, so if you have any thoughts about finding water, I would welcome them.”

  Above Sir Hereward, Mister Fitz’s pumpkin-shaped papier-mache head slowly swiveled around a full three hundred and sixty degrees before finally stopping as his gaze focused ahead and somewhat to the right of their line of march.

  “I do not believe it is a matter of concern,” repeated Mister Fitz, “because we shall shortly be wading through the stuff. I expect you will then curse the abundance of water, rather than the lack.”

  “Wading? Through what?” asked Sir Hereward. He shielded his eyes with his hand, and looked where the shad
ow of Fitz’s arm pointed, but all he could see was the heat haze shimmering off the yellow grass.

  “The Shallows, as the folk hereabouts call them,” said Mister Fitz. “You will see them in a few more minutes, when we reach the crest of this rise.”

  “Rise?” asked Sir Hereward. He looked behind and scowled. He had thought they were making slow progress for flat country, but now he saw that the ground behind did slope away, albeit very gently. The ubiquity of the yellow grass and the heat haze had disguised the lay of the land, and he was disappointed in himself that he had not noticed it. As a soldier he prided himself on his awareness of any advantages or disadvantages the ground might offer if, as was often the case, battle was suddenly joined.

  “Yes, a rise,” said Mister Fitz. “We have climbed some sixty-eight paces in the last league. Assisted by the haze, an increase in altitude sufficient to mask the Shallows, even from the back of a moklek. Ah, look ahead now.”

  Hereward grunted as he turned about again and put another dent in the howdah with his elbow.

  “Do be careful,” chided Mister Fitz.

  Hereward did not answer. He was gaping at the suddenly transformed vista that lay ahead. It was like one of the trompe l’oeil shows of the Participatory Theatre of Hurshell, where backdrop after backdrop slid away to reveal new scenes and worlds. Admittedly, the panorama of clear water and reedy islands ahead lacked the fornicating nymphs and satyrs of the Hurshell, which were possibly the real reason the theatre flourished, not the scenery behind the frolics.

  “It seems unusual, topographically speaking,” said Hereward. “A freshwater lake shallow enough to wade through—why does it not dry up?”

  “It is the relic of a god,” said Mister Fitz, in his instructional voice. “Some two thousand years ago, a benign entity known as Ryzha the Twelve-Wheeled, who since time immemorial had roamed the steppe, was partially subsumed by a much more aggressive intruder from the Beyond. The resulting entity, which became known as Yeogh-Yeogh the Two-Headed, was driven mad by its conflicting natures and wreaked great destruction before, with a little assistance, Ryzha managed to assert itself for the several minutes required to irretrievably cut its throat with one of its own sharpened hooves. A vast quantity of the godlet’s blood spread across the steppe, and yet another struggle occurred as the dying godlets fought to render it into either acid or poison or something beneficial. I believe Ryzha tried to make it fermented goat milk, but instead achieved sweet water, which is preferable in any case, and certainly an improvement over the lake of extreme toxicity which Yeogh-Yeogh favoured. The sweet water has remained ever since, and so the Shallows were made.”

  “You mentioned Ryzha had a little help...” said Hereward, with a knowing glance at the puppet.

  “Yes,” said Mister Fitz. “Though not, in this case, from me. One of our own was involved, a distant relative of yours as it happens. You remind me of her sometimes.”

  “Oh?” asked Hereward. He smiled and sat up a little straighter. “In what fashion?”

  “A certain similarity of facial hair,” said Mister Fitz. “That, and an unfortunate tendency to lack forethought and allow unwarranted enthusiasms to distract you from the most pressing matters at hand. In fact, perhaps if I were to tell you of some of her more egregious follies, it might benefit your own—”

  “Facial hair?” interrupted Sir Hereward. “A female ancestor of mine had a beard?”

  “Whatever gave you that notion?” asked Mister Fitz. “Your eyebrows are identical, and incidentally, you have proven my statement about enthusiasms distracting you. You should have asked an improving question, not one about hair.”

  “An improving question?” asked Sir Hereward slowly. He was looking to the front, once again shading his eyes with his hand. “How about ‘what is that fortification that lies ahead?’”

  “Interesting...” came the puppet’s musing reply. Sir Hereward saw Fitz’s shadow lengthen as the puppet stood up on the roof. “I have no knowledge of any habitation here. It is a manor house of some kind, perhaps four or five hundred years old if I am any judge. A little newer than the most recent map in my collection.”

  The manor house in question was a squat, rectangular fortress some one hundred and fifty feet long, perhaps eighty wide and five storeys high, all but the highest two floors presenting a blank expanse of tightly-fitted ashlar stone. Even those top levels only had arrow slits, and there were no battlements, the whole being topped by a low-pitched roof of greenish copper.

  The house was built upon hundreds of log piles, Hereward surmised, the evidence for this being a burned and destroyed lesser building some distance from the main structure, where the remnants of the piles that had once been its foundation stuck out of the water like a row of heavily decayed dragon teeth.

  “A lonely house,” remarked the knight. “Who would build such a place here?”

  “It is not so strange,” said Mister Fitz. “One moment.”

  He jumped down from the roof of the howdah and went to the head of the moklek, leaning down to whisper something near its ear, before he turned to continue talking to Hereward.

  The moklek, who was the lead animal by virtue of being the smartest of the six, changed direction slightly, aiming towards the right of the manor house. The others followed dutifully, and the cannon trundled behind on its many well-greased wheels. Though the gun-carriage was jury-rigged from common ox carts and resembled a kind of articulated reptile of multiple segments, it had been carefully designed by Sir Hereward and put together by expert artisans, and the purely mechanical nature of its joints and bindings had been bolstered by the sorcerous intervention of Mister Fitz. No mere hole, bump, mound or minor obstacle could deter its passage, provided the mokleks continued to pull it with their full strength.

  “It is not so strange,” continued the puppet. “The Shallows abound with fish and other comestible aquatic life, including a weed that is dried and blended into a smoking mixture by the people of Kquq, which lies no more than a hundred and fifty leagues away. The Kquqers come three or four times a year, to harvest the weed, or at least they used to within recent memory. I would surmise that this fortification was built by some enterprising bandit with a view to exacting a suitable toll or impost upon that trade, eventually legitimizing themselves as an aristocrat.”

  “A weed-taxer,” grunted Hereward. His bottom hurt and he was not inclined to be charitable. “Hardly a noble calling. Is there not some greater authority hereabouts who would take such carryings-on amiss?”

  “None is known,” said Mister Fitz. “Long ago, this was part of the demesne of the Exclusiarch of Ryzha, the godlet’s principal servant, who was a semi-independent vassal of the Emperor in Kahaon. Since Ryzha’s fall and the unrelated but consequent decline of the Kahaonese, dozens of petty states have temporarily exerted their control. No significant political entity claims these lands now, at least not in any active fashion.”

  “The house, however, is inhabited,” said Sir Hereward. “Look, to the top left, there is the flash of a perspective glass in the second arrow-slit.”

  “Indeed,” said Mister Fitz, whose odd blue orbs were keener than any mere mortal eyes. “We are being observed by a woman. Several other women cluster tight behind her, hoping for a turn at the glass, yet judging by their posture, cannot clamour or snatch, and must wait for the current wielder who doubtless is their superior... perhaps even the mistress of the house.”

  Hereward leaned forward in sudden attention, accidentally damaging yet more of the howdah, and searched through the saddlebags at his feet for his own spyglass, a fine instrument originally owned by a famous general of artillery. It was so well-constructed that it was the only item to survive the general’s death, when the rather too short fuse of the petard he was inspecting was lit by his own cigarillo. The lenses, of course, had needed to be replaced, as did the outer case of sharkskin-covered bronze, but it was in all other respects the same.

  But by the time Hereward had found it, sn
apped it fully open, and raised it to his eye, there was only an empty arrow-slit to look at. The womenfolk had gone.

  “Did they appear friendly?” asked Hereward. “Should we... ah... skirt the place?”

  Mister Fitz leaned over the edge of the howdah’s roof, and neatly flipped himself over to land at Hereward’s side.

  “Spare me your attempts at wordplay,” said the puppet. “I would adjudge the occupants as being welcoming, even receptive. Furthermore, I suggest that we stop this night within, if they offer hospitality.”

  “Did I hear you correctly?” asked Sir Hereward with no small suspicion. It was not like Mister Fitz to think of comfortable beds or the chance of something more interesting to eat than dry biscuit and horsemeat. After all, he did not sleep or eat.

  “There is something in the air, or perhaps the water...” said the puppet slowly. He swiveled his head around in a full circle again, very slowly. “Some arcane presence is close by, though I cannot exactly place it. And as you know, I have but a single energistic needle left in my sewing desk and so I am... we are... ill-prepared for any sorcerous foe. We may need to be behind stout walls come nightfall.”

  Hereward scowled and also looked around, but all he could see was blue sky, the endless yellow grass of the steppe, the reflection of the sun on the water of the Shallows, and the tall manor house.

  “I will load my pistols with silver shot,” he said. The carbine was merely charged with lead. He hesitated, then added, “How serious is this threat? Should I get the old dagger out of the... ah... howdah-bag?”

  Mister Fitz turned his head a little way to the left and then back again to the right, still questing for the source of his disquiet.

  “Yes,” he said finally. “It may well prove a greater help than hindrance, for once.”

  The old dagger was one of the two items they had been charged to deliver to Jeminero, a great and ancient city that was readying for war. The other item was the cannon, and it was not certain which of the two weapons might be more useful when the time came. Particularly as there was some question whether either of them would be any use at all. The cannon had its peculiarities, perhaps the most significant being that it was breech-loaded via a rotating chamber, and required either sorcery or two score mightily-thewed gunners and a thirty-foot high shear-legs to open the chamber, load the cartridge and shot and then rotate it back into place within the barrel again.