Authors: Amanda Lees
Goddess of Gotham
Amanda Lees was born in Hong Kong of British parents and survived both a convent boarding school and subsequent incarceration at a Jesuit boys’ school.
A onetime stand-up comedian, she teaches presentation skills to authors and conducts workshops on story and dramatic form for children and is also now a successful author,
actress and broadcaster.
She has lived all over the world and now resides in London.
AMANDA LEES
Piccadilly Press • London
Thanks first and foremost to Peter Cox, a good friend as well as a great agent. Also to the fantastic team at Piccadilly, especially Brenda Gardner, Mary Byrne, Melissa Patey
and Anne Clark, my stalwart editor. Special appreciation to the sales team who are out there on the frontline, led by the lovely Finette. And of course a big thank you to my family and friends who
are always there for me. Most of all, I would like to acknowledge my mum for giving me so much of what ultimately led to this book. I hope that its humour and sense of adventure are a true
reflection of her spirit.
First published in Great Britain in 2007
by Piccadilly Press Ltd,
5 Castle Road, London NW1 8PR
This edition published 2008
Text copyright © Amanda Lees 2007
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in
any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the
prior permission of the copyright owner.
The right of Amanda Lees to be identified as Author
of this work has been asserted by her in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
A catalogue record for this book is available from
the British Library
ISBN: 978 1 85340 956 1 (paperback)
eISBN: 978 1 84812 179 9
3 5 7 9 1 0 8 6 4 2
Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Bookmarque, Croydon
Cover design by Simon Davis
Cover illustration by Anna Gould
Set in Stempel Garamond and Trajan
In memory of my mum
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
A
n orange moon hung low over the hidden kingdom, tingeing the snow-capped peaks that surrounded it, protecting it from the prying eyes of the world
beyond.
Unmarked on any map, it was as if the kingdom did not exist. Spy satellites swept over it, registering nothing. Nestled deep within a distant mountain range, the kingdom lay untouched, as it had
done for eons.
Which was all very well for those who liked things the way they had always been.
But not so great for a goddess-in-training who longed for a bit of life.
Tucked up in her bed, Kumari tossed to and fro. Her silk sheets twisted beneath her as she thrashed around in her sleep. The nightmare was back again, this time worse than before.
‘Mamma,’ she murmured. The sweat trickled down her face.
She could see her Mamma so clearly in her dream, walking ahead of her, but as fast as Kumari ran she could not catch up.
‘Mamma!’ she shouted, but the words stuck in the back of her throat. However hard she tried to scream, she could not make a sound. And all the time her Mamma carried on walking,
blissfully unaware of the danger that lay ahead . . .
Kumari could see it – knew just what was about to happen. But there was no way she could stop her, as hard as she tried. It was like running in quicksand, yelling into the wind. A great
gulf yawned in front of Mamma, ready to swallow her up. And then – her Mamma was gone, falling into the darkness . . . disappearing into a void from which she would never return.
Kumari woke with a start. She was sitting bolt upright, arms outstretched, empty.
I couldn’t reach her,
she thought miserably.
I failed Mamma. Again.
A tear rolled down her cheek and slid, salty, inside her lips. Her chest ached with emptiness; her heart felt hollow inside. And then she remembered. This was the night of her grand plan. The
night she might – just perhaps – kill off the nightmares at last.
The moonlight shone through the arched windows, casting shadows along the floor. It was well after midnight; soon bird song would herald the dawn. Flinging back her rumpled sheets, Kumari threw
herself out of bed. Badmash, her baby vulture, sighed and rolled over into the indent she had left. His feet were twitching, a sure sign he was dreaming. And whatever those dreams consisted of, it
was a safe bet they involved food. Kumari leaned over and tickled his fat little belly.
‘Badmash, wake up,’ she hissed. ‘Tonight’s the night!’
Badmash opened his beak and let out a squawk of protest. Instantly, Kumari clamped it shut again. The last thing she needed was to get caught. She
had
to talk to Mamma – speak to
her just one last time. And the only way to do that was through the Great Summoning Ceremony itself.
The Great Summoning Ceremony: the most difficult of rituals. In attempting to bring her mother back into this world she might well destroy them both. Mamma was caught between two states, unable
to make the final transition from queen to total goddess. Owing to her untimely death, she was in the most dangerous place of all. One slip of the tongue and it could so easily go wrong. Her Mamma
might end up in limbo forever if Kumari made a mistake.
The gods were not to be trifled with, even if you were a trainee one yourself. Incur the wrath of the heavens and the repercussions could be dreadful. Kumari did not relish the prospect but,
still, she had no choice. Already she scented danger on the wind, could feel it stalking the palace corridors. And so tonight she would perform the ceremony. Get the answers she craved.
There was just one tiny problem: she had never
actually
managed it. Never summoned up a god before, despite the Ancient Abbot’s best efforts. She could imagine her teacher now, his
hands sketching shapes in the air.
‘This is how you do it, Kumari. See – sweep down and towards you!’
Looked so simple when he did it.
‘It’s not working,’ she sighed.
‘Why not try it this way? Come, child, focus your energy. Magic is all in the mind, Kumari. In the mind and in the heart.’
As teachers went, the Ancient Abbot was rather dull. But he knew more about rituals than any man alive. And it was not his fault he was so old. Sometimes he forgot entire incantations, stopping
dead in mid-sentence. Other times he muddled them up, with spectacular results.
Age was honoured in the kingdom, a fact that occasionally drove her nuts. It was tough to be thirteen in a place where one hundred was considered young! Even harder to be a girl-goddess, with
all that it entailed. How she envied the ordinary citizens, hearts carefree, minds untroubled. Of course, it was all down to Papa and Maximum National Happiness.
It was Papa’s job to generate National Happiness, but lately he seemed lost. As far back as she could remember, Papa had worked away at the holy fires, stoking them up with love and care,
sending the smoke of Happiness to his people. Its haze drifted across the valley kingdom, infusing it with well-being. Except the haze was all but gone, the skies dishearteningly empty. National
Happiness had not been at maximum for a long time, not since Mamma’s death eight moons before.
Was it really eight moons? It felt like a heartbeat. A heartbeat that ached with unanswered questions both for herself and Papa.
Kumari could see Papa now, sitting alone by the holy fires, unable to conjure up more than the odd wisp instead of the great clouds that had once billowed forth. Papa’s Powers had deserted
him along with the ability to maintain Happiness. It was as if something was sucking the very life force out of him, rendering him impotent and withdrawn. As the holy fires dwindled, so did
Papa’s spirits. The further the king sank into deep depression, so the kingdom followed suit. OK, so Happiness was not everything, or so the Ancient Abbot said. But then what would
he
know – he was a monk, for heaven’s sake.
There was only one thing to do and that was to speak to Mamma. She had to find out what had happened, how she had really died. Only one person would tell her the truth and that person was Mamma.
And how Kumari longed to hear her voice, to be soothed by its familiar sound. Since before she could remember, Mamma had sung her to sleep, had told her stories of fairies and dragons, had murmured
her name. Later, she had been her source of wisdom, teaching Kumari of the ways of the world, talking about its biggest mysteries: magic, the meaning of life. Boys. Already, though, the sound of
Mamma’s voice in her head was fading. It was as if someone was wiping all the good memories from her mind, leaving nothing but hurt.
Tonight was the perfect night, the night of the Murmuring Moon. All over the kingdom, hundreds of people were gazing up at it, whispering their wishes in the knowledge that the gods would grant
just one. Each year the lucky winner would give thanks at the temple while the losers smiled nicely and muttered snide asides. Well, as far as Kumari was concerned this was one lottery she was
about to fix. She had a hotline to the gods and she intended to burn it up.
Time to get moving. This mission called for mountain gear. Hardly a fashion statement but then no one would see her anyway. Her winter robes were what her Ayah called ‘sensible’,
hanging like a red tent to her ankles. Beside the ladies of the court, she looked like a scarlet blob. A blob with a scowling face poking out of the top, pale and unadorned. Not that she
particularly wanted to paint her lips or totter round in tight skirts. It would be nice to have the option, though, instead of always being treated like a kid.
