Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman (19 page)

‘You
are too wise to deny it, I see,’ said Grunewald. His mocking tone
had gone; in its place was something that sounded almost
sympathetic. ‘These hide-bound Englishfolk! With your customs and
your courtesies, your age-old habits and your etiquette! So
stifling to the spirit! It amuses me greatly to play in your world
from time to time, but only for the pleasure of turning all of your
absurd customs upside-down. To watch the blossoming of a spirit,
once it throws off the shackles of duty, expectation, and sound
good sense! It is a liberating process. Miss Landon has discovered
that for herself, to some degree, for here she stands: a proper
young lady of England no more, but a citizen of Aylfenhame! A
tradeswoman, a crafts-mistress, and (I would wager) happier by far
than she would ever have been if she had married some dullard out
of England.’ He looked hard at Sophy as she said this, but his gaze
soon returned to Isabel. ‘How I wish you could be persuaded to
attempt the same, Miss Ellerby! I see a dull future in store for
you, and it pains me. To waste such a flower upon such a future
would be the greatest of misfortunes.’

Neither Isabel
nor Sophy had any reply to make to this wholly unexpected speech.
Isabel could only stare at the Goblin King, lips parted upon a
response which refused to form in her brain.

‘I
see I have been too precipitate,’ Grunewald said with a wave of his
hand. ‘I will postpone the part where I invite you to join me in
Mirramay and reign over the Goblin Kingdom as my Queen, and proceed
post-haste to other matters.’ His mocking tone was back, and the
twinkle in his eyes more pronounced than ever. Isabel did not think
that he made such a shocking offer with any intention of being
taken seriously, but with Grunewald, one never knew.

‘Such
a wondrous adventure cannot be permitted to end in failure,’
Grunewald continued gaily, and jumped up from his throne. ‘I would
see Miss Ellerby retained in Aylfenhame for as long as possible,
and therefore, I take it upon myself to assist you.’ He gave a
sweeping, flamboyant bow, evidently expecting applause.

‘Of
course you will,’ Sophy said instead. ‘How could you be expected to
resist the opportunity to further any kind of mischief?’

Grunewald laughed. ‘I do believe Miss Landon is beginning to
understand my character, and that is a lowering reflection. To
become consistent and even, stars help me, predictable!’ He gave a
theatrical shudder. ‘Palchis!’ he called abruptly. ‘Ertof!
Yangveld! Instantly, I beg you.’

Three
of the surrounding fae separated themselves from the crowd and
presented themselves at Grunewald’s feet. One was a trow, very like
the ones that had accosted them upon the road: dark-skinned and
small, with overlarge hat and shoes and an oddly-shaped horn
carried in one hand. The second was a goblin, slightly taller than
the trow and draped in silken garments. His skin was pale for a
goblin, only faintly tinted with green.

The
third — Yangveld? — was an ogre, and seemingly female. She was a
foot shorter than Sir Guntifer, but still of an imposing size. She
was fabulously coiffed and wore an entrancingly beautiful gown made
from a rippling, watery green silk.

‘Why,
Yangveld!’ Sophy cried delightedly. ‘It has been some months, I
think, since last I saw you at Silverling! I do hope you are still
happy with your gowns?’

Yangveld grinned toothily, and nodded her great head, making
her midnight-black locks bounce. ‘Aye, ma’am, that I am,’ she said
in a deepish voice. ‘Tis tricky keepin’ the hems out o’ the mud
sometimes, but ‘tis worth it for all o’ that.’

‘You
have taken very good care of this one,’ Sophy said, casting an
approving eye over the pristine silk.

Yangveld smiled happily. ‘I had Jenny Greenshoes put a
Keep-Away charm on it,’ she confided.

‘A
Keep-Away charm?’ repeated Sophy.

‘Aye!
Keeps dirt away, an’ other things.’

‘Interesting,’ said Sophy. ‘Jenny Greenshoes, who is
she?’

‘She’s the witch o’ these parts. Handy with ‘er
charms.’

Sophy
cast a speculative look at Isabel. ‘A witch! Goodness. How
wonderful it would be if I could have such a charm cast upon every
gown I make! My customers would be very happy, I think.’

Tafferty, who had apparently slept through most of the past
hour’s events, stirred and said sleepily from the back of Isabel’s
pony: ‘Oh, yes. Happen I might ha’ forgot t’ mention that t’ thee.
Charms an’ the like! Little, useful bits an’ pieces upon the whole;
nothin’ much worthy o’ note. But mayhap thou wouldst find such
trivial nonsense more t’ thy taste than Cursin’.’ She said this
last with disgust, eyeing Isabel with strong disapproval. Upon
completing her speech, she laid her tail over her eyes and spoke no
more.

‘I
would very much like to learn it!’ Isabel surprised herself by
saying. ‘Indeed, it would be of far greater use to me, and to my
friends, than Curses.’

Grunewald fell to laughing at this, which offended and
mortified Isabel in equal measure. ‘You have yet to fully
understand your new charge, I think,’ said he to the catterdandy,
who sniffed and refused to open her eyes.

‘I do
not see what is wrong with preferring to do good than to cause
harm,’ said Isabel, in the firmest tone she could muster in the
face of Grunewald’s mirth.

He
smiled upon her in a generally kind fashion. ‘Nothing at all, to be
sure,’ he replied. ‘It is your companion who amuses me, not your
own attitude. The catterdandy has never met your like before; of
that I am certain.’

Isabel did not know what to say. Upon a moment’s reflection,
she said with at least the appearance of perfect composure: ‘The
Chronicler’s Tower?’

Grunewald grinned at her. Isabel was mildly disconcerted to
note that his teeth seemed a little sharper than she remembered.
‘To the Palace!’ he said.

There
followed a flurry of activity as mounts were reclaimed and the
party organised behind Grunewald. Isabel, feeling safe once more
atop her pretty mare, took the opportunity to admire more of the
remarkable city as she followed in the Goblin King’s train. The
Palace of Mirramay was easy to identify: Isabel rounded the corner
of a narrow, twisting street paved with cobbles and there it was, a
honey-coloured magnificence rising high above the elegant pale
buildings of the rest of the city. It bore twin spires and corner
towers; impossibly large, arched windows in which perfectly clear
panes of glass twinkled in the morning sun; and graceful statues
set into niches in the walls, depicting beauteous Ayliri and fae in
striking poses. As she grew closer, Isabel saw that the Palace was
more a complex of buildings than a single structure, all enclosed
within high walls. The towering golden gates were open, and the
party rode unimpeded into a deserted courtyard.

Isabel would have been content to linger here for a little
while. On either side stretched twin pools of clear, calm waters,
blue-green and roseate-lavender respectively; their surfaces were
abloom with perfect white water flowers. The distance from the
gates to the doors of the palace itself was marked by two rows of
Elder trees, gold of bark and snow-white of leaf, and decked in
flowers of heavenly aroma. Isabel marvelled at it all, but she had
little opportunity to enjoy it, for Grunewald set a smart pace up
to the great doors, where he reined in the curious green-skinned
horse he was riding.

‘There is the Chronicler’s Tower,’ he said, pointing to the
southeasterly spire rising far above their heads. Isabel frowned,
shading her eyes against the sun. It was difficult to be certain,
for the tower was a long way above, but she thought that the
windows were wide open. Did that suggest continued habitation, or
the opposite?

Grunewald spun abruptly and strode away in the direction of
the palace doors. Isabel and Sophy hurried to keep pace with him,
though they could not quite keep up. As such, they were some steps
back when Grunewald stopped abruptly in the doorway.

‘What
is it?’ Sophy cried as they drew level with him.

He
made no answer. Instead he drew himself up, seeming to gain three
inches in moments as he drew in a great breath. Then he let forth a
vast, bellowing cry which echoed off the walls of the palace. There
were words contained therein, but in no language Isabel could
understand. The words twisted and coiled oddly, simultaneously
hissing and booming in the mouth of the Goblin King.

Isabel clapped
her hands over her ears, hating the dark sounds. When Grunewald
stepped forward and disappeared into the palace, she followed, but
reluctantly. What manner of occurrence had prompted such a cry? She
stepped over the threshold, and saw at once.

Darkling fae swarmed the grand hall of the palace. They had
probably covered the floor, moments before, but it was as though
the King’s cry had physically blown them backwards, for they now
clustered in a great, cringing horde at the rear of the hall. Trows
and goblins they were, for the most part, with imps and hobs
mingled in, and numerous others to which Isabel could put no
name.

Grunewald did not hesitate, but strode away at once and
passed rapidly beneath an enormous door in the wall. Isabel and
Sophy followed. The corridors beyond were likewise swarming with
fae, and Grunewald was obliged to repeat his terrible cry twice
more as they wound their way through curving corridors and up
spiralling stairs.

Isabel was out of breath by the time they finally stopped in
a round-walled chamber far above the ground. Its great, heavy door
had shut out the fae, but Grunewald had forced it open. The windows
were indeed agape, but there was no sign of any living presence;
dust lay thickly over the curving window-seats and the round table
and chairs which occupied the centre of the room. Bookcases bore an
air of neglect, as though their contents had lain untouched for
many years.

The
chamber was small; she and Sophy, Grunewald and his three fae
followers barely all fit inside it together. She spared a moment’s
gratitude for Sir Guntifer’s foresight in electing to remain below.
He was just visible from the window, a great Elder oak stationed
near to the main doors of the Palace. He bore the appearance of
being on guard, which reassured Isabel to some degree. She did not
know what the fae were doing in the palace in such numbers, nor
whether they were a threat. But Grunewald appeared to be able to
control them, and Sir Guntifer would keep others away.

‘But
this cannot be everything,’ she said in confusion, for there were
but few books and scrolls in evidence. Could this be the collected
histories of all of Aylfenhame, these scant records?

‘Why,
no, my dearest child,’ said Grunewald. ‘Of course, it is not
everything. One may not simply walk into the Chronicler’s Tower and
take from it as one pleases. Behold.’ A curious glyph was inlaid
into the centre of the table in silver; Grunewald leaned forward
and laid his hand over it. At once an image flickered into being
over the table: a beast, translucent and ethereal, clearly an
imagining of some kind and not a real creature. It bore the shape
of a wispy dragon, its hide glittering with white scales and its
eyes gleaming bright blue.

‘I
seek entrance,’ said Grunewald.

The
dragon sniffed, sending wisps of ethereal smoke drifting forth from
its nostrils. ‘The Goblin King,’ it said in a dusty voice. ‘You are
not permitted to access the Chronicles.’ Having completed this
laconic announcement, the dragon disappeared in a puff of
mist.

Grunewald sighed and turned away. ‘One would almost be
tempted to think that Anthelaena didn’t trust me.’

‘I
cannot think why,’ said Sophy dryly. ‘What possible reason could
you have for accessing the Chronicles?’

‘Oh,’
said Grunewald softly, with a catlike smile. ‘Perfectly
unexceptionable, selfish, highly questionable reasons, of
course.’

Sophy
smiled. ‘Quite so.’

Isabel stepped forward. ‘I had better try,’ she said, a
trifle doubtfully. ‘As it is my task.’ She laid her hand over the
glyph, and the dragon puffed back into being.

‘I
seek entrance,’ said Isabel, smiling hesitantly at the dragon. Its
expression had turned a little forbidding.