free fantasy web serial

Episode 5

Royalty and Ruin: 2

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.’

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Episode 5

Royalty and Ruin: 1

by

Right, crash course on troll culture.

Ye Olde Historic Record shows that they originated up Scandinavia way (at least, so it’s claimed. This is academia. Naturally there are those who strenuously disagree). If that’s the case, they wasted no time in spreading across the rest of Europe, and rather beyond. The oldest known troll enclaves in Britain date back to before the Roman conquest.

The brutal truth is, they are a bit cleverer than we are. A truly embarrassing number of magickal developments have been fairly laid to the trolls’ credit (for example, anyone who tells you that humans developed the flying chair trick is either misinformed or a liar — and my pretty Sunstone Wand was most certainly a troll masterpiece).

Still, at least we have the Book. Dear Mauf, or Bill as he was previously known; that marvellous construct that absorbs knowledge like a sponge, and then spits it out again in exquisitely refined nineteenth-century English. The creator of said book might have been a shady character, but at least she was human.

Then again, the Troll Court-that-was, Farringale, managed to purloin that one, and already I hear people adding Mauf’s invention to the trolls’ record of marvels. Maybe this is really how it works. It isn’t that they are so much brighter than we are. It’s that they have really, really good PR.

Anyway. Trolls are clever, and steeped in magick up to their enormous eyeballs. They’re physically superior, more sophisticated than most people think (and by an order of magnitude), and — a point which will ever endear them to my heart — they are spectacularly good at food. Mandridore, the Royal Court of the Trolls since the mid seventeenth century, is the most powerful of the Fae Courts by a wide margin, too.

And they know it. Some would accuse our troll compatriots of possessing just a smidgeon in the way of arrogance. And they would not be wrong. But, well, with so many advantages as they enjoy it’s hard to blame them for being self-satisfied. I mean, wouldn’t you be?

I may be a cosmopolitan woman of the world, with over a decade of high adventure behind me, but I admit to experiencing some small sensations of trepidation upon departing for my introduction at this particular Court. Meeting royalty hasn’t been part of my general duties to date, and these royals…! I’m a mere human. I am not up to this.

‘Yes, you are,’ said Jay, informing me of two things at once: one, that he’s a good sort, ready with the kind of staunch back-up one needs at a time like this. Two, that I had been talking to myself like a ninny.

Good start.

‘Of course I am,’ I said stoutly, and stood a bit taller. ‘And so are you.’

‘Naturally.’ It was fifty-six minutes past four in the afternoon and we were waiting for the Baron to arrive. Jay had taken up a lounging posture in an oversized armchair which had, apparently, appeared in the great hall at Home just for that purpose. I didn’t recall seeing it before. Jay flashed me the firm, confident smile of a man who knows no fear.

‘You’re petrified, aren’t you?’ I said.

‘I had to sit down. Somebody’s replaced my kneecaps with jelly.’

I subjected him to a swift, professional survey. I’ve learned that Jay tends to overcompensate; the more nervous he is, the more confident he appears. But if you didn’t know that about him, nothing about his languid posture would tip you off.

He was wearing a suit. Jay in a suit! Wise man, he had gone for a muted blue colour, with a waistcoat and everything. It set off his dark skin handsomely, and he’d done something intriguing to his black hair.

‘You look dishy,’ I told him.

‘Dishy.’

‘Yes.’

‘No one has used that word since about 1953.’

‘And you are insufficiently quiffed to merit the term? I see your point.’ Actually, the Danny Zuko quiff-and-jacket combo would suit Jay down to the ground, but I kept that thought to myself.

He grinned at me, and eyed my dress, then my hair. The former was a violet silk confection with a subdued (for me, anyway) knot work print in bejewelled colours. The latter was golden — not golden-blonde but actually pale gold — and loosely piled up on my head. Well, if there is a day for looking respectably drab and anaemic it certainly isn’t the day you’re whisked off to the heights of royal luxury.

‘You look bonny,’ said Jay.

‘Which no one has said since 1927.’

‘I am absolutely certain they did not have dresses like that in 1927.’

‘Says who? They were wild back then. Short hems and everything.’ Not that my dress was short. It was swishily long — I prefer that term to the soulless “maxi dress” — but it did leave me just a bit bare about the shoulder area.

Gravel crunched on the driveway outside as a sizeable car purred to a stop by the doors. A flash of glossy mulberry-coloured paintwork caught my eye.

‘Here we go,’ I said, collecting my shoulder-bag.

‘You aren’t taking that?’ Jay did not move.

I hefted the bag. ‘This? Why wouldn’t I?’

Jay just looked at me.

All right, perhaps it is inconsistent to deck myself in colour and silk like a gilded butterfly and then sling my faithful old satchel over my shoulder.

‘I need it.’

‘You need what’s in it. Surely we can find a better solution.’

I laid the bag back on the floor and looked at it. It is a purple cloth thing, a bit scuffed around the edges, and sturdy. It has a single dragonfly embroidered upon the flap. I put it there myself. Just at present, it was bulging with soft things for the pup to sleep in, underneath which lay Mauf-the-smart-mouthed-book, my Sunstone Wand (apparently I’m really not taking that back to Stores), and a variety of other necessities.

‘I could make a smart suitcase of it if I had a bit more time,’ I said doubtfully. I’d need to dig out the Wand, and then I’d need about half an hour. The process is a bit delicate. ‘And then the flying charm — the one we use on the chairs — should take—’

I stopped talking, because with a wiggle and a shimmy my bag was changing. It flexed its seams, and with an audible pop it became a neat oblong case, stacked high, and tinted a soft heathery-purple. The dragonfly embroidered had become an embossed design spanning the top from edge to edge.

I rapped on the top and the lid bounced open. My tiny sunny-yellow pup smiled at me from inside, and rolled onto her back. The underside of the lid revealed a scattering of tiny air holes, invisible from the surface. ‘Pup travels in style,’ I said, patting her soft head before gently closing the case again.

‘Nice work,’ said Jay, as he sprang out of his chair (which promptly melted back into the wall).

‘But, not mine.’ If Jay hadn’t done it, then who…? We were alone in the hall. ‘Did you do that, House?’

There was no answer, precisely, but as I watched, my new case rose three feet in the air and began to glide slowly towards the door.

‘You’ve got style, House,’ I said, following my jazzy new luggage. ‘Thank you.’

A sprig of gilding blossomed around the case’s edges.

Baron Alban stood leaning on the bonnet of his car, arms folded, his bronzed hair gleaming in the late afternoon sun. I was encouraged to see him wearing a suit not a million miles in style from Jay’s; apparently we were on the right track, at least sartorially.

His brows went up as my suitcase sailed gracefully over to the car and ensconced itself in the back seat.

‘Wasn’t your car green before?’ I said.

The Baron smiled. ‘Wasn’t your hair blue before?’

‘Fair point.’

‘How far are we going?’ said Jay as he joined my case in the back seat, having stashed his own, less airborne luggage in the boot.

‘Far,’ said Alban, opening the front passenger door for me. ‘And not far.’

‘Helpful.’

‘I do try.’ Having settled me in the lap of automobile luxury, Alban returned to the driver’s seat and off we went. His lovely car pulled smoothly away from Home, and I permitted myself one long, wistful look back at the familiar contours of the sprawling, craggy old building before it disappeared from view. Bathed in golden sunglow as it was, it appeared to me as a vision of paradise.

We’ll be back, I told myself.

Even Milady had implied as much, though she was responsible for our general expulsion from the property. ‘I am in no official position to grant you leave to attend Mandridore,’ she had said earlier that day. ‘But I grant it anyway, upon a strictly limited basis.’ In other words, come back soon.

Val had been more demonstrative. Never one for overt affection, she had fixed me with a gimlet stare and said frostily: ‘So you’re abandoning us for royalty.’

‘Only for a bit,’ I had protested.

‘A bit? How long is a “bit”?’

‘A while?’

Val’s eyes had narrowed dangerously.

I’d broken the unspoken rules so far as to lean down and kiss her cheek. ‘I’ll miss you too.’

‘Hmph.’ Val had gone back to her laptop, ignoring me utterly.

I’d felt loved.

There had been a text from Val a bit later. Tell the Baron. Either he brings you back in one piece, and soon, or I break his kneecaps.

I didn’t really doubt that she meant it literally.

So, the Troll Roads. These were but a recent discovery of mine. They are another of those brilliant magickal inventions the trolls are responsible for, a mingling of Waymastery magicks and goodness-knows what else. On the face of it they are not that exciting: you drive along much as normal, pootling happily down wide, well-kept roads lined with tall, flowering hedges, the boughs of an occasional overhanging oak enlivening the view. But something whooshes you along much faster than it seems, and a journey that ought to take two hours might take less than one. This was what the Baron meant by “far, but not far.”

The likes of Jay and I are not normally permitted to use them; they are strictly troll-only. But in the Baron’s company, all options are open. We cruised down these beautiful highways at a leisurely pace, and within an hour we turned off onto the M25. It should’ve taken hours to make it so far south.

‘This is the London area,’ I observed, at my most scintillatingly intelligent.

‘So it is.’ The Baron was noncommittal.

‘So Mandridore’s down London way?’

‘One could assume that.’

‘One could indeed. In fact, one has.’

No answer.

‘So am I right?’ I pressed.

‘Wait till we stop and I’ll get you an annotated map of modern Mandridore, together with a route plan down from Yorkshire.’

‘Really?’

His grin flashed. ‘No.’

Jay spoke up from the back seat. ‘I’ll remember the way.’

‘Like hell you will,’ said Alban.

‘Watch me.’

‘I’d have to kill you.’

A pause. ‘All right, don’t watch me.’

Mercifully, we were not condemned to linger long upon the M25. People have been known to lose patience, hope, sanity and their immortal souls by such foolishness (or ill luck) as that. The thing is, I couldn’t quite say when we left the motorway, or how it happened. One minute we were flying over tarmac at ninety miles an hour; the next we were swanning along a wide, white-paved road at a much more leisurely pace, low walls of pale stone flying by us on either side, with the scents of honeysuckle and lemon hanging heavy upon the air.

‘Curse you,’ muttered Jay.

Baron Alban chuckled. ‘I’ll tell you one thing for free. Those who have pleased Their Majesties have been known to walk away with a special boon by way of a thank you. Usually you’re allowed to choose.’

‘Right,’ said Jay. ‘Challenge accepted.’

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Episode 1

The Road to Farringale: 1

by

The troll was not especially large, as trolls go: six feet and a bit, maybe seven at most. He had a run-down look about him, like he hadn’t washed in a while and had no plans to do so anytime soon. He wore a ratty zip-up jumper with the air of a charity-shop purchase about it; had it been only second-hand when he’d bought it, or already third? Its faded navy colour did nothing for his sallow complexion, and the tracksuit bottoms and trainers he wore with it were no better. His bulbous eyes rested a moment upon me, took in my coiffed hair and silk dress, then shifted to my colleague, Jay, who stood nervously unsmiling beside me.

I expected an enquiry of some kind. A greeting, maybe, or even a challenge. But he said nothing; only stared at us with dull, incurious expectation.
I tried to look past him into the Enclave, but he’d opened the stone slab of the door only just wide enough to talk to us. Obstructive. Not a good sign. ‘Morning,’ I said brightly, and it was a bright morning: mid-April and balmy, sun high in the sky and rosily smiling. A perfect day for a drive into the hills. ‘We’re from the Society for Magickal Heritage,’ I told him, using my official voice. ‘We have received word of a pair of unregistered alikats in these parts. Would you know anything about that?’

The troll’s answer was to slam the door on us, setting up a fine, booming echo that reverberated along the grassy hillside.

‘He knows nothing,’ Jay translated.

‘They never do.’ I stepped back from the door, or what had once been the door, and surveyed it speculatively. Now it appeared to be nothing but a slab of bare stone in a rocky cliff face, patches of heathery grass scattered above and before it. We were deep in the Yorkshire Moors, not far from the town of Helmsley (or so Jay informed me). I wondered if the powers back Home knew how far the South Moors Troll Enclave had deteriorated. Considering the state of their Doorkeeper, the signs were unpromising.

‘Ves,’ said Jay, eyeing me. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I am wondering if there is another way in.’

‘There won’t be another legal way in. You know the rules.’

I rolled my eyes. Jay was only a few years younger than me, I judged, so he was no wide-eyed intern. But he was fresh from the Hidden University. The tutors there spend a lot of time drilling the students in The Rules, of which there are many. For example, one does not chatter about magickal stuff to those without the Vision to see it for themselves. And, one does not visit the private spaces of Hidden Communities without their express invitation, which means one is only allowed to use their front door. With one of the residents on the other side of it, politely holding it open.

‘All very true,’ I said. ‘But that’s the official policy. In our line of work, it is sometimes necessary to bend the rules a bit.’

‘Aren’t there complaints?’

I smiled mirthlessly. ‘They try that, once in a while. It rarely ends well. In this instance, I’m pretty sure these fine folk are illegally holding at least two alikats, and if it’s a breeding pair that’s even worse. How are they going to report us for misdemeanours without revealing their own transgressions?’

Jay narrowed his deep brown eyes at me. ‘That does not make it all right to freely break all the Rules.’

‘No? How else would you like to get those kats out of there, then? I make it about half an hour before the first one gets eaten.’

‘I’m sure we can come up with… wait. Eaten?’

I couldn’t help sighing. These fresh graduates, so… naive. ‘Why do you think Trolls are generally discouraged from keeping alis?’

‘Because… because alikats are considered endangered.’

Jay obviously hadn’t thought that one through. ‘Exactly.’

‘Ah.’ Jay stopped arguing and joined me in searching for a way in. We proceeded to spend half an hour or so inspecting the hillside for something conveniently resembling a back door, and came up with nothing. We ended up back in front of that stone portal, which was still firmly closed.

‘Oh well,’ said I. ‘We’ll have to do it the fun way.’

‘The fun way?’

‘I, um. I meant the questionable way.’

Jay folded his arms and stared me down. ‘After you, then.’ I do not know why he insists on wearing leather jackets but I do wish he would not; they suit him far too well.

I rang the bell again. It wasn’t a bell at all, in the usual way of those things, but the expression’s apt enough. I laid my right hand, palm-flat, against the stone and politely requested entrance.

As per the Magickal Accords, the inhabitants of the South Moors Troll Enclave — if they weren’t known to be in Recluse — were pretty much honour bound to answer the door. They were required to co-operate with Jay and I as well, of course, but that hadn’t held much weight with them, so who knew? Jay and I waited in hope, and our patience was rewarded. Eventually. About four long minutes later, a thread of dull topaz light raced around the cliff face, tracing the outline of a door, and that door creaked open.

They had changed their Doorkeeper. Mr. Tracksuit and Trainers was nowhere in evidence; replacing him was a larger, lumpier, and rather more belligerent fellow — no, lady — who wasted no time whatsoever in demonstrating how matters stood between us. She bared her yellow teeth and I waited for the spectacular roar of displeasure, most likely preparatory to tearing off our heads, which would undoubtedly follow.

Trolls have a certain reputation, do they not? Not only among those with the Vision to see them. Even the Magicless tell stories like The Three Billy Goats Gruff, in which trolls are hideous beasts who’ll eat practically anything.

Usually, they are wrong. I’ve encountered trolls whose manners, tastes and general refinement would put the finest of the British aristocracy to shame. Trolls whose delight in beauty, culture and the arts go virtually unrivalled across the world; trolls whose academic aptitude and scholastic achievements far exceed my own.

Then again, I have periodically encountered the other sort, too. The ones the Norwegians were talking about when they began telling that story about the Gruffs. Those trolls really will eat almost anything, provided it’s fresh, and in a pinch that would certainly include yours truly.

So I had to forgive Jay for his obvious unease, faced as he was with a displeased Doorkeeper who possibly hadn’t eaten for an hour or two. He backed away, leaving me to face the good lady alone.

In his defence, it did look like an involuntary step back. Those survival instincts, they’ll put paid to your manly courage any day of the week.

Fortunately, nothing put paid to mine. I smiled my nicest smile at the Doorkeeper — who had not, after all, chosen to treat us to a vocal display of displeasure — and said, in my friendliest tone, ‘We’d really like to come in. Just a quick visit, nothing to—’

I stopped because the Doorkeeper was opening her mouth. She was probably preparing to shout at us, or roar at us, or something of the kind, though her movements were peculiarly slow. It seemed to cost her a lot of effort merely to part her lips, which was odd indeed, but convenient because it presented me with a wide open mouth to throw my neighbourly offering into. My gift was a tiny pearl of a thing, all pale, lustrous beauty and lethal potential.

Well, not really lethal. It was a sleep draught, the kind of thing that was once served oddly-coloured and bubbling in peculiar glass jars. The technicians at Home have started compressing them into these bead forms instead. It’s the same potency, only smaller, and easier to deliver. Every bit as fast-acting, though; the jelly-type shell that holds everything together dissolves in the mouth in seconds.

It took only slightly longer than that for the Doorkeeper to evince a promising swaying upon her boot-clad feet.

‘Back a bit more,’ I warned Jay, who’d begun to show signs of plucking up his courage for an advance. I wandered back a bit myself, and waited.

The troll pitched forward, and landed upon her face. All ten feet of her hit the ground with a thud, which resonated so powerfully I was even moved to hurry a little.

‘In we go,’ I said, and grabbed Jay by the arm. ‘You can study her later, if you like, but just now we need to get on with the job.’

‘I don’t want to study her,’ Jay retorted, pulling his arm out of my grip. ‘I was just interested. I’ve never seen a troll like her before.’

‘You can admire her later, too. Maybe she’ll take your phone number.’

‘I didn’t mean—’

‘Alikats,’ I reminded him. ‘Quickly.’

He muttered something inaudible, then added snidely: ‘I just find it hard to take you seriously with that hair.’

I tossed the hair in question, undaunted. Just because it was cerulean-blue, and arranged in impossibly perfect ringlets; did that give him any excuse to question my authority, or my expertise? ‘I know you are jealous, and I can’t blame you, but this is only our first assignment together and I’d like to survive it intact. If you help me retrieve these kats without anybody losing a limb, I’ll get you a Curiosity all of your own. A wardrobe that spawns a new, jazzy leather jacket every morning, say. Or a mirror that shows only your best features.’

All Jay’s features are his best features, in fairness. He flicked his pretty, pretty eyes at me in annoyance — they’re the colour of dark chocolate, those eyes, and they have that velvety quality, too. It’s all decidedly unfair, and I can’t decide yet whether or not he knows it. ‘Lead on,’ he said, choosing (perhaps wisely) to ignore my facetiousness.

I led.

The Enclave proved to be much as I expected: a jumbled mess. The town was built in circles — they do like curves, trolls — and formed of tall, imposing block stone houses built in sinuous lines. Those houses were probably handsome, once, but they’d been allowed to deteriorate. Some of them had lost their original carved oaken doors, and had others tacked on in place; the new ones looked as though they’d been ripped off some shoebox of a concrete dwelling, probably from a local housing estate. Nothing had been painted in at least ten years. Rubbish lay stacked in piles in every corner, and discarded refuse lined the cobbled stone pathways.

The aroma of the place might best be termed Unpleasant. Let’s leave it at that.

There weren’t too many residents about, which was fortunate for us, though I wondered where everybody was. I saw a few listless-looking souls trudging purposelessly hither and thither, their heads covered with cheap knitted hats. They wore the same fashion of frayed, mismatched clothes as the Doorkeepers.

Nobody stopped us. I’d half expected the noise of the Doorkeeper’s fall to attract some kind of attention, but either they had not heard (was that possible? The woman fell like a tree!) or they did not care. Nor did they question the sudden appearance of a pair of humans, one all improbably-coloured hair and spectacular fashion sense, the other all cinnamon skin, chocolate eyes and tousled cuteness (should I stop making Jay sound edible…? Okay then). I suppose they had no particular reason to interfere with us. If they were unaware of what we’d done to their Doorkeeper, they’d assume we had been given clearance to enter.

It did not take us long to find out what had become of the alikats. The Enclave was eerily quiet; the sound of a distressed yowl carried nicely. Jay and I veered as one, and made for the alikats at a run.

There proved to be a little square in the centre of the town (or shall I call it a round? For it, like everything else in the place, was pleasingly curvaceous). A cluster of trolls had gathered in an eager knot around a fire pit — or what passed for eager around here; they were at least visibly breathing, which gave them the edge over the rest of the townspeople. The leader of this little group was unquestionably the hunch-backed one in the middle, whose broad shoulders and massive hands looked more than capable of ripping me to pieces. He held a cleaver. To his left stood a troll in a candy-striped jumper that looked like it was knitted by somebody’s grandmother. For his convenience, she was obligingly holding out one of our missing alikats. The poor creature’s indigo-shaded fur bristled with fright, and it fought mightily to free itself, but to no avail; nothing could dislodge the fierce grip in which it was held.

I noticed that its captor had painted her fingernails a charming cerise, which was a nice effort, even if the lacquer was rather chipped.

‘See the other one?’ I asked of Jay as we approached.

‘Nope. You do this, I’ll do that.’ He veered off, went around the knot of trolls and disappeared.

I didn’t argue, even though his desertion left me to deal with six or eight trolls unaided. Two alikats were missing, only one was in evidence; I felt a stab of fear, for those kats are more than merely endangered. Like many magickal creatures, they feed off magickal energies (in a manner of speaking), and there are blessed few of those bouncing around nowadays. Things were different back in, say, the middle ages. In those days, practically everybody was Magickal and alikats, and all their ilk, were a dime a dozen — or comparatively, anyway. Here in the early twenty-first century… well. I can’t even guess at the approximate value of a breeding pair of alis, they are that rare. The Powers would have my head if Jay and I returned with only one.
And these idiots were trying to eat them.

‘Stop!’ I barked. The trolls’ absolute obliviousness to my presence — and Jay’s — was curious, and I had to repeat the word twice more at increasing volume before one of them finally looked up at me. This alert, lively specimen fixed his muddy grey eyes upon me with a dull spark of awareness, and nudged the hunchback.

But too late, because that cleaver was already swinging down, aimed unerringly for the yowling alikat’s neck.

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