by I was in no way surprised to find the Royal Court of Mandridore tucked away so close to London. Back in the bad old days of a few hundred years ago, London was rapidly becoming the centre of England and beyond, even if geographically speaking it was nothing of the kind. (And really, what’s changed?). If you had to found a new centre of government in a hurry, where else would you put it? And it wasn’t so far from the site of old Farringale, either — no more than sixty or seventy miles.
The more interesting question was: how did it fit? For London has sprawled out a long, long way over the centuries, swallowing everything in its path. But the magickal Enclaves and Dells are funny like that. It’s like they occupy their own little bubbles of space, which aren’t quite on the same plane of reality as the rest of Britain. There’s a way in, or two, and once over the magickal threshold it’s like you are in a different world.
Maybe you literally are. We’ve been making some odd, and enlightening, discoveries in that sort of direction lately.
Anyway. Being a magickal Dell (I guessed) as well as a Troll Enclave, Mandridore had all the usual hallmarks. There was that tantalising scent in the air, of the before-mentioned fruit and flowers, together with some indefinable but glorious aromas that made my head spin, they were so intoxicating. The air shimmered with the soft, silvery glow of twilight on the approach, though Britain proper was still bathed in bright sunshine. Tall, shapely shrubs occupied nooks just off the road; they looked like topiaries, posed in the shapes of animals or well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, but I think they were more than that. I could swear I saw one wave at us as we passed. We drove under perfumed arbours twinkling with starry lights, wove through a maze of rose-scattered hedgerows, and by the time we drew to a stop the sky had settled into a most intriguing configuration: one half was sunlit day, and the other lay dreaming under a silver moon.
‘I may never leave,’ I said as the Baron drew the car to a stop. We had passed several sets of ornate, silver-or-gold gates rising majestically into the skies; the Baron had paused at the sixth or seventh of these, waited as they slowly opened for us, and turned in to a sweeping, paved driveway before a handsome Elizabethan mansion. The place was built from brick, as was common for fine houses of that period; but these bricks were faintly bluish, which wasn’t at all. The house had two spacious wings poised either side of a central hall, with big diamond-paned windows and those fabulous twizzly chimney pots. And it was, of course, enormous — not just in the sense of the ground it covered, but in the height and breadth of the doors, too. This mansion had been built by trolls, for trolls.
‘Is this the Court?’ said Jay as he got out, and stood staring doubtfully at the house.
I saw his point. Handsome as it was, it was by no means a palace, and had none of the imposing grandeur one would typically expect of a royal residence.
‘No,’ said Alban. ‘This is Their Majesties’ private home.’
‘What?’
‘They asked that you be brought here first, for a private audience. You will see the Court later.’
‘So it’s a secret assignment.’ Jay did not sound pleased.
But I was. ‘The best kind,’ I told him.
He frowned at me.
‘Oh, come on. All the most exciting things happen when you’re doing things you aren’t supposed to.’
The Baron spoke firmly. ‘Their Majesties would never ask you to do anything lawless.’
I patted his arm. ‘You said that with such total confidence. It’s beautiful.’
He grimaced. ‘The life of a diplomat.’
‘Hobnobbing with beautiful people, swanning around in gorgeous cars, prancing from mansion to mansion, and strutting your stuff in expensive clothes? Really, a spot of lying-through-your-teeth here and there isn’t so much to ask.’
He gave me the side-eye. ‘Prancing?’
‘Prancing.’
He squared his shoulders, making his admittedly splendid muscles ripple. ‘I wouldn’t dream of prancing.’
And he didn’t. What he achieved on his way from car to front door was more of a manly mince.
Jay rolled his eyes, and retrieved his luggage from the boot. Mine, of course, sailed airily over to the door by itself. ‘It’s already a madhouse and we’ve been here five minutes.’
‘Chin high,’ I said, lifting my own by a couple of inches. ‘We’re important people now.’
Jay put his nose in the air, and in we went.
The door was opened to us by a towering butler. He might have been on the skinny side for a troll, but he was taller than the Baron. Little me found him plenty imposing.
‘Their Majesties are in the Topaz Parlour,’ he informed the Baron.
I had assumed we would have to wait. One did not expect immediate audiences with royals. But to my surprise, Alban led us smartly off into the east wing — doors swinging open by themselves as we approached — and rapped lightly upon an ornately carved door that looked like teak.
‘If that is Alban, he may enter,’ proclaimed a woman’s voice from beyond. I don’t use the word “proclaimed” lightly. I swear the voice had its own, ringing echo. She spoke in Court Algatish, which for some reason I am not ignorant of. Considering I had zero expectation of ever attending the Troll Court, why did I learn it? Purely because Farringale and Mandridore are, or were, major centres of learning and there are a lot of lovely old books written in that tongue.
How’s that for priorities.
‘And he will,’ said Alban, and opened the door.
I did not feel prepared, but we were going in. I had time only for a deep breath before I followed the Baron’s broad back into a room far too big to deserve the name “parlour”. You could have held a feast for thirty people in there. The topaz part was fair enough, though, for pale blue jewels sparkled everywhere: among the floral frieze that ran around the walls, highlighting the patterns embedded in the elaborate plaster ceiling, and glittering from an array of antiques upon the mantelpiece. The walls were painted an exquisite pale jade, matching the silk-and-velvet furniture upholstered in a slightly darker hue.
Amidst all this splendour sat Their Majesties.
Queen Ysurra was a large woman, with the stout figure of a person of sedentary pursuits. Where Baron Alban’s skin had a faint bluish cast, hers tended more towards the pale green, as though she, too, had been made to match the room. No court regalia at home; she wore loose silk trousers and a flowing shirt, though the semi-casual effect was somewhat belied by the golden coronet sparkling in her white hair.
King Naldran was a golden creature, his frame still muscular, though his hair was as white as his wife’s. He was wearing a dressing gown. An elegant silk confection, to be sure, with ornate braiding and a sumptuous wine-red colour, but it was nonetheless a dressing gown. Oddly, this informality reassured me. We were there for a chat, not an inquisition.
Baron Alban bowed, a little perfunctorily. So did Jay, less so. I gave them my best Milady curtsey.
‘Ma’am,’ said Alban. ‘Sir. Cordelia Vesper, and Jay Patel.’
If you’ve never been scrutinised by royalty, let me tell you: it is a disconcerting experience. Their Majesties said nothing for rather too long, surveying the pair of us as though they could read our every thought if they only looked hard enough at our faces. For all I knew, perhaps they could.
I tried to think innocent thoughts.
Having considered our attire, Jay’s height and my lack thereof, and whatever else they gleaned about us from the staring party, they finally deigned to speak.
‘Welcome,’ said the queen. ‘Thank you for accepting our invitation.’
It had been too official, and perhaps too peremptory, to figure fairly as a mere invitation; it had barely stopped short of a royal summons, perhaps only because we were not technically obliged to obey any such order. But it was a comfortable fiction.
‘It is our honour,’ I replied, recognising a cue for obsequiousness when I saw one.
Queen Ysurra smiled faintly.
‘We wished to extend our personal thanks for your services to our people,’ said King Naldran, entirely formal in demeanour despite the dressing-gown. Perhaps he had forgotten he was wearing it.
‘That was our pleasure,’ said Jay, really getting the hang of the royal interview thing.
‘We have need of such bright, active people,’ said Ysurra, putting me on my guard. Plebeians flattered the monarchy, not the other way around. Not unless they really, really wanted us for something. And why would they? Mandridore must have been full of clever, efficient folk, perfectly suited for all kinds of shenanigans and chicanery.
The queen glided smoothly on. ‘We were most interested to hear of your recent travels abroad, and attendant discoveries. Five Britains at least! What a marvel. And such a Britain, the fifth. It opens up such prospects.’
Aha. They wanted something from Melmidoc’s precious, magick-drenched kingdom. Not altogether a surprise. ‘It was one of our more entertaining adventures,’ I allowed.
‘Do you have plans to return?’
What a question. ‘Plans, no,’ I admitted. ‘It is not so easy to travel back and forth between Britains. But hopes… oh, absolutely.’
Queen Ysurra smiled. ‘Then perhaps you will be interested in our proposition.’
All right, time to get serious. ‘We would be delighted to hear it.’
‘We would like to send a delegation into this Fifth Britain,’ said the queen. ‘It ought, by preference, to consist primarily of those who are best informed, and suitably equipped, to manage both the journey and the assignment with ease.’
I assumed an expression of polite interest.
Queen Ysurra paused, and I thought I detected a hint of uncertainty. She looked at her husband.
King Naldran cleared his throat. ‘Few have set foot in this other Britain. Still fewer have ventured into lost Farringale, and know what fate befell it long ago. Is it chance, that there are three in this room who have done both?’
Jay said, his voice a little strained: ‘You want us to go back to Farringale.’
The king sat forward. ‘Can you imagine what it was like, to lose a place like Farringale? Not the Court. Grandeur may be rebuilt, new palaces raised; all that was lost there was bricks and stones and memories. But the history is irreplaceable. The knowledge. The books. All that was there seen and done, all that was discovered and recorded — all lost. And forever. If magick is fading from these shores, the loss of Farringale hastened its demise.
‘But now you bring us hope. If there is another, stronger Britain, where magick and its practitioners have lived openly down the years, and enjoyed the freedom to practice and research as they wished, then we must expect they are far more knowledgeable than we. Perhaps they can help us.’
‘Just what exactly are you hoping for help with?’ I asked, that foreboding feeling flickering to life again.
‘We want,’ said Queen Ysurra, ‘to bring back Farringale.’
