The Witch's Daughter (Lamb & Castle Book 1) Page 4

  Percival made a discontented noise. “And Malthrosia wrote on the theory of leyline distribution, not alchemy,” he said, carrot cake very obviously beneath him.

  “Oh, Perce… You’re such a terrible know-it-all.”

  To Amelia’s relief, the identical well-dressed gentlemen seemed to have returned to their own conversation. There was definitely something odd about them, though. Was it only that they were twins? Amelia had heard of such things, of course, but never seen a set before. Could two people really be completely identical? The one on the left leaned with his elbows on the table and kept rubbing his eyes sleepily, to the irritation of his twin, who sat up straighter and looked more proper.

  “Don’t do that,” said the twin on the right. While the words reminded Amelia of Meg, the tone had been quite different; emotionless.

  “My eyes itch,” said the left-hand twin.

  “They’re dry. Drink your tea.”

  The left-hand twin sipped his drink obediently, and Amelia felt a pang of loneliness. Odd though they might be, they made her think how nice it would have been to have someone familiar accompanying her on this strange journey, giving her courage.

  “If I were a lizard, I could lick my own eyes,” mused the left-hand twin.

  His brother considered this. “Perhaps something to that effect can be arranged upon our return. In the meantime, allow me to lick your eyes.” And, leaning swiftly across the table, he did so.

  Amelia nearly gagged, but nobody else seemed to have noticed, the act had been carried out so quickly and in such a natural manner.

  The left-hand twin blinked owlishly. “Thank you, that appears to have improved the situation somewhat.”

  “You’re welcome. It seems likely that your script has been damaged,” said the right-hand twin. Then, with a hint of worry to his flat tone, he added “do not inform Commander Breaker.”

  Script? What did he mean by that? But even as Amelia pondered the peculiar exchange, she realised that she had eavesdropped too long; intruded on a moment of peculiar intimacy. The two identical gentlemen had taken notice of her again, their four black eyes narrowed into two identical expressions of suspicion and dislike.

  Amelia looked away again hastily. Clearing her throat, she leaned close to Meg. “Who, exactly, are the other side?” she whispered.

  “Bad people, dear,” said Meg. Not deliberately patronising, Amelia thought – simply much more interested in her cake. “They want to stop us getting to where we’ve got to go.”

  The back of Amelia’s neck prickled. “When you said they wanted me out of the way permanently, did you mean…”

  “Since I don’t know who they are yet, I can’t say exactly what they’ll do if they catch us. Perce is right though – best not talk about it right now. How’s your sticky bun, dear?”

  “Lovely,” said Amelia, feeling faint again. She’d always thought it romantic when girls in books fainted, and had been disappointed to find that she herself was not prone to swooning. Now, however, she began to see the benefit in being more robust than all that. Amelia wished Meg didn’t have her back to the strange gentlemen, but didn’t want to point them out to her again and risk… whatever consequences might result.

  Mercifully, Percival caught on. Behind the gleaming visor no-one would have seen him looking at the two well-dressed strangers. “I think Amelia might be on to something, Meg,” he said quietly. “Something distinctly off about those two fellows over by the hearth.”

  Meg nodded, as if he had only remarked that it looked like rain. “All right. We’ll be off in a minute, but let’s not be too hasty about it.” She leaned across the table to pinch the last piece of Amelia’s sticky bun. “Oh, that is lovely, isn’t it? Well I can’t make do with just one piece – I’ll have to have one to myself. How about you, dear?”

  Amelia shook her head mutely, her stomach churning. The right-hand gentleman tapped his twin on the hand, giving him a meaningful look. The staring stopped then, at least.

  “What’s that dear?” Meg asked. “Again? You really shouldn’t have had all that tea this morning! Dandelion will do that to you. Come along then…” and she hurried the sheepish and blushing Amelia out of the booth and towards the lavatory.

  “But what about Percival?” Amelia asked, as Meg shepherded her past the lavatory and out round the back of the tea house, but he wasn’t far behind them.

  “Your concern for me is appreciated, but unwarranted in this instance. Meg, have you had any thoughts about alternative means of transportation?” Percival asked, as they walked away from the tea house.

  “Mimi and Tallulah have got us this far,” said Meg. “And besides, you know the rules.”

  “I didn’t like the look of those two…”

  “I’m not running from everyone who looks the slightest bit suspicious,” said Meg. “If I did, I’d never stop. If it was them, they had their chance to attack, and they didn’t. But if it puts your mind at ease, there’s not much chance of them following us on from here.”

  Amelia looked at the signpost, and the five roads leading away from the tea house. Lannersmeet would be a good place to lose anybody who had been following them, if only the snailcastletank weren’t so slow and obvious…

  4: AN ACADEMY GIRL

  Everyone knew the story of the Flying City that fell to earth. Hundreds of years later, the wreckage of it could be seen from miles around, in the wastelands to the south. It completely obliterated the town below, its ruins becoming the headstones of ten thousand graves, and nobody on the ground below would ever trust the Flying Cities again.

  Not all of the Flying Cities gone from the skies had met such violent ends. Although more than half of the original Flying Cities had been destroyed over the millennia, some had been known to simply vanish. In modern times, Iletia was one of the few Flying Cities that lived on, home to a thriving community of mages, artisans and merchants. It was also home to the Antwin Academy, a preparatory school for young ladies wishing to pursue a career in politics, law or espionage. Constructed from a butter-coloured stone that almost glowed in the sunlight, the school was an outstanding example of Flying City architecture, if in need of some repair. Like many City institutions, it had seen better days, but the standards to which it held its students remained as high as ever. To wear its stiffly starched grey uniform was to command more respect than most young girls even dreamed of. Sometimes people commented that the quality of the students had declined over the years, and that the Academy readily accepted girls of common blood so long as their families could pay the steep fees somehow, but the Antwin Academy generally held such snide remarks below contempt.

  The gates of the Academy swung open soundlessly in the twilight, and a girl stepped out into the fresh breeze that stirred the summer sky. Whereas the ideal Antwin girl should be tall, pale and elegant, Elizabeth Castle was short, skinny and dark. The topaz pin on the high collar of her grey blazer marked her as a second year. That made her thirteen years old, and judging by the way she held her head high, well aware of the part she would one day play in shaping the world around her. Nonetheless, she still had five years of hard study ahead of her before graduation.

  The curfew bell for the younger girls had already rung, and it was strange to see anybody leave the Academy’s main gates so late, but a Master accompanied the second year. Any citizen of Iletia would recognise his heavily scarred face and his stiff straight posture, and he always had his sword at his side. Master Greyfell – a close personal friend of the Headmistress and her husband – taught history, elementary potions and modern warfare at the Academy. As Master and student left the Academy, the streetlamps were just coming alive, moths swooping in the velvet blue grey of the sky. On foot, it took a little less than half an hour to cross from one side of Iletia to the other at its broadest point. In that half an hour, the character of the City varied wildly: from the grandeur of the town hall and fine tall terraced houses overlooking the central Keystone Square, to the temples and market stre
ets, to the outskirts of the City, where cramped dwellings piled in every which way and everybody lived on top of everybody else. The confines of the Walls barely gave Iletia room to breathe, let alone grow, and yet the poorer Iletians had continued to build, right into the inner sides of the walls, crude little houses precarious and fragile as birds’ nests. The girl passed them by without a glance, deliberately disregarding the expression of disdain which briefly passed across the Master’s face. Her family still lived in some of those audacious nests.

  The sound of the docks grew closer – the shouts and thumps, the laughter of the drunks – and the two emerged into the light of bright gas lamps. A number of skyships bobbed gently in the air currents, and the sky above the dock platform bristled with a forest of masts and flagpoles, tiny courier dragonettes swooping and darting like swallows amongst them. The dragonettes flashed as their glistening scales caught the lamplight, their antics distracting as they whistled and chirped overhead.

  Master Greyfell turned to address his young charge. “Now, Elizabeth –”

  “We’re not in the schoolroom any more, Greyfell,” she said. “You can call me Bessie.”

  “I don’t think that’s appropriate at all, Miss Castle. And besides, I think you’ll find my duties have changed very little. You still have a great deal to learn.”

  Miss Castle sighed. “When I’m queen, I’m going to insist that everyone call me Bessie.”

  “Black Queen Bessie. Well. That will certainly lend an air of poetry to the history books. And as I said: you have a very long road ahead of you yet.”

  Just for a moment, the girl looked uncertain. “If only they could have waited a few years…” she murmured.

  “‘If only’, indeed,” said Greyfell, without much apparent sympathy. “But the White Queen is on the move, and we must act now or lose everything.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “But nothing, Elizabeth. The enemy is not obliged to make this easy for you. Rest assured I will do what I can to continue your tuition, albeit in a somewhat unorthodox manner.” This was an almost unprecedented display of kindness from Master Greyfell, and after it he cleared his throat uncomfortably and swiftly struck off towards a nearby skyship. Bessie hurried after.

  The skyship was of middle size: large enough to be robust even in rough skies, but not so large that she would be slow and cumbersome. Her lines were sleek and sure, and her furled sails a brilliant yellow, impossible to miss at any distance. Bessie felt sure that Greyfell couldn’t have overlooked this fact, and chose not to question him on it. The name on the skyship’s side had been painted in bold, sweeping letters, which Bessie recognised instantly as the language of the Argeans, the race who built all the best and fastest skyships.

  “Sharvesh,” she said, quietly and to herself. Like most educated people, she could read a little Argean. The Argeans’ magnificent skyships had opened up the whole world for them to trade in, and a lot of people could converse in the language, no matter how awkwardly. “But what does it mean?”

  “Sharvesh?” said Greyfell. “I haven’t the faintest clue. I’d hazard a guess that it’s a given name.”

  “So… the captain will be an Argean, then?” Bessie asked carefully, noting Greyfell’s slight expression of distaste – all the answer she needed.

  “We’ve no need for an Argean skysailor,” he said. “I know my way well enough around a skyship.”

  They caught the captain’s attention as he lounged on the upper deck, watching the clouds drift across the darkening sky, and he let down a ramp, welcoming them aboard.

  Bessie Castle was not the kind to have irrational fears: not the type of girl to shriek at the sight of a spider or a snake. No, Bessie Castle only permitted herself purely rational fears (assassins, border disputes, etc…). Having grown up in a flying city five thousand feet above the ground, she certainly couldn’t be afraid of heights… Nevertheless, as she ascended the narrow ramp up onto the skyship, she was exceptionally careful to look straight ahead. She would not allow herself to look down, to where the manor houses and grand halls of the town of Evensbridge lay like toy building blocks scattered on a counterpane.

  ~

  The Argean captain, who introduced himself cordially as Bryn, invited them to inspect the skyship at length. Bessie left that to Greyfell, while she discreetly observed the Argean. Bryn was as tall as a man, but appeared more closely related to a cat. His stance was two-footed, but balanced by a long prehensile tail. He was covered head to toe with tawny fur, his eyes were bright gold, and the delicate membranes of his huge sail-like ears flickered with every sound, constantly on the move in the busy dock. From an appropriate distance, Greyfell took the opportunity to give his student an impromptu lesson on the Argean race, from the perspective of an Antwin Academy Master.

  “Observe his enviable sense of balance,” said Greyfell quietly. Bryn was crouched on the railings, careless of the great height of City and skyship over the land. “See the way his tail provides an extra measure of grip and support? Argeans are deeply dependent on their tails for their sense of balance. Cut off an Argean’s tail in combat and he’s all but immobilised.”

  Bryn’s enormous sail-like ears flicked back. Even some distance away, he could clearly hear Greyfell’s commentary. “Excuse me?” said the subject of the lesson, nervously.

  “Ah, yes,” said Greyfell to Bessie. “And of course, the Argean’s ears may also be considered a strength and a weakness. Very sensitive.”

  “Excuse me,” said Bryn again. His ears had folded right back and his golden eyes gone as round as saucers. “What are you talking about?” He might not be human, but Bessie recognised the tension of his posture, his muscles tightly bunched and ready for fight or flight. She didn’t need Greyfell to point out the claws and fangs that would make an Argean a deadly opponent in unarmed combat.

  “May I apologise on behalf of my escort, Captain,” she said, with a polite smile. “He means no offence.”

  “I’m just a skysailor, Miss,” said Bryn. “I’m not looking for any trouble.”

  “Neither are we. If you’d come down from there, we’d like to draw up a contract now.”

  “Not yet,” Greyfell interrupted. “We haven’t seen the ship’s soulchamber yet.”

  Bryn descended warily to join them on the deck. “Sharvesh has no soulchamber,” he said.

  “Don’t be preposterous,” said Greyfell.

  The tip of the captain’s fluffy tail twitched back and forth. “I am telling you truthfully Sir: no soulchamber. Sharvesh is… different. Special,” he amended. “Very, very special.”

  Greyfell narrowed his eyes, viewing the Argean with even greater suspicion than before. “Do you expect me to believe that this ship has no soul?”

  Bryn beamed; an enormous white-fanged grin. “Sir. My lady. Step back, and allow me to demonstrate.”

  5: DAMSEL IN DISTRESS

  Harold, sent away with his tail between his legs, didn’t remain discouraged for long. The day after he’d been shooed off, he stood on the shore again, squinting across the waves at the forbidding grey tower. All the great ballads had romances where the hero and his lady must overcome great obstacles or terrible odds to be together. The thought had occurred to him, and wouldn’t leave him be, that Amelia’s parents might be keeping her captive, locked away in the upper reaches of the tower. A real hero would climb up there and rescue the girl. Or, at the very least, climb up and see if she wanted rescuing.

  As the old fisherman came back to shore, he squinted up at the would-be hero. “Going back for more, are you? What are you taking her this time, liver and onions?”

  Harold shook his head. He’d learned his lesson last time, and picked another bunch of primroses. “May I go to the tower again, please?” he asked, offering the fisherman another shiny copper coin.

  The old man shook his head. If the maiden in the tower had any sense, she wouldn’t turn down a boy with prospects as good as those of a butcher’s son, not in a little ou
t-of-the-way place like Springhaven. “Keep your money,” the old man said. “You’ll need it more than I do, soon enough.” The pair would be engaged before Harvest Festival and married in the spring, and the old fisherman liked nothing more than a good wedding. There was always plenty to eat and drink at a good wedding.

  ~

  The tower was not as defensible as it had been in the days of the war. More recent and peaceful residents had added a couple of hanging baskets, a small and now neglected roof garden halfway up, and a ladder to easily reach and maintain them. Harold paused on the straggly overgrown slice of roof garden, looking around at the weeds as he tried to make up his mind if any of them were nicer than the primroses, and then turned his attention to the upper reaches of the tower. He wasn’t much of a climber. He’d seen the ladder from shore, and hoped it would get him within easy reach of one of the top windows, but his luck had run out. A certain fairy tale came to mind, and he thought of Amelia’s long fair braids that he had caught just a glimpse of on his previous visit. Not a particularly practical answer to the problem, though, was it? Besides, although he could see a window open at the top of the tower, he didn’t want to shout for Amelia and risk being heard by her parents. Armed with a great deal of determination and a vague idea that he could use crags and nooks in the rough stone wall for handholds and footholds, Harold began to scale the last ten feet to the window.

  A truly embarrassing length of time later, the butcher’s boy hauled himself up over the windowsill, and with a thump he landed in a heap on the floor. He lay there on the rug, holding his breath, afraid that someone from downstairs would soon be up to investigate. The bedroom offered little in the way of hiding places, and he had no real choice but to scramble under the bed, where he lay for a few minutes to catch his breath. In a way, he was glad that he had found the room empty and that Amelia would have no idea how much trouble the climb had given him. On the other hand, he didn’t know where she could have got to. He sensed that he had found the right room, with its single bed and writing desk with a mirror. Since no one had come to investigate the source of the noise, he came out from underneath the bed. Harold had never been in a proper lady’s bedchamber before, and didn’t know quite what to make of the overwhelmingly mauve tones of the room, the soft and frilly furnishings. He had no sisters and didn’t pretend to understand the fairer sex. In the stories, they seemed to appreciate being rescued, but as he stood looking out of the window he had entered by, he realised he’d given no thought to how he planned to get down again, let alone with the fair maiden in tow.