The Triple Goddess (171 page)

The doors, which Jenny assumed to be a further metamorphosis of the famed windows, gave onto what looked like a broader and wider version of Dragonburgh’s roof terrace. Many more witches were gathered upon the terrace, and either entering the ballroom or spilling out of it.

Spotting a pair of witches near the glass doors who were engaged in so deep an
entre-nous
that they had not noticed her entrance, Jenny sidled up and stood with her back to them, to conceal her presence and enable her to eavesdrop.

‘The formula I swear by, Boadicea,’ said one of them, who had a mole on her cheek and a poor eye for matching colours, ‘for gonorrhoea calls for ratsbane instead of shrew paste. Works like a charm, if there was a charm for it, but if there is I’m not aware of it. You can mix it yourself instead of buying Hec’s preparation, which smells of Bovril and probably is. Cut the middle woman out wherever possible, that’s my philosophy.

‘It’s not as strong as the original, but clients don’t know that, and when it wears off they have to renew the prescription and you sell them some more. You can have the recipe if you like.’

‘Brill,’ said Boadicea, wiping the excess of a draught of champagne from the hairs on her pointed chin with a lace handkerchief. ‘Good to know, Lucretzia. I’ve been using gall bladder, and grinding it myself. You’ve heard me say it before, but I’ll say it again: there’s often more magic in arm and wrist than any spell. Sorry, Hec. Hic. Beg pardon. Hic.’

‘Ratsbane works better than gall bladder, Boady,’ said Lucretzia. ‘If you like I can drop the recipe over tomorrow night. You’ll need the non-bubonic version, and if you’re low on it you’ll have to be quick, because the Supermart’s putting its price up next week. There’s a shortage, apparently, but thanks to that foresight spell I invested in last year, I stocked up. Bought six cases at twenty per cent off, so I’ll be quids in, as long as it’s used before the expiry date. You can have a case at cost, if you like.’

‘I’m rarely solvent enough to buy in bulk, so thank you, Lucretzia. Tomorrow doesn’t work, though: it’s Book Club and I’m facilitating at Belinda Binge’s house. We’ve been reading that new Guild insider on how to nip these Internet witches in the bud. You can have it if you like now I’m done with it, I’ll trade you for the recipe.’

‘Super. Look, I’ll drop by anyway, and stick an envelope with the recipe in it behind the plant pot on your doorstep, and a can of ratsbane to get you started.’

‘Dandy. Look for a bag with the Internet witch book in it by the pot when you come by. I only need my notes for tomorrow night. Next month we’re reading that Penthesilea novel by Deirdre Djagger, if you’re interested.’

‘Amazon Penthesilea?’

‘I got it on my Kindle Fire, but there’s a paperback too if you’re not into those gadgets.’

‘Oh...come to think of it, Boady, I’ve got a late consultation, so I won’t have time to detour your way. I’ll have my new familiar, Pistol, drop it off. Better make a note on my band programme to remind me. I had a pencil somewhere...ah, here it is. Boad—Pistol—drop off gonorrhoea recipe, and can—pick up book. There. We can sort out the case of ratsbane next week.’

‘Pistol, you say? I didn’t know you had a new familiar, Lucretzia.’

‘Giant newt, trendy don’t you think? A serious upgrade and one I couldn’t afford, but I decided to splurge.’

‘What happened to your ferret, Samantha?’

‘Samantha was crushed in the pannier when Esmé Thurible hit my Airstream making an illegal downturn in one of those new hovercraft—Stargazers, I think they’re called—on the way to the swap meet.’

‘Condolences. Did the insurance cough up?’

‘Sore subject. Esmé was running bare, not even Third Party, and I didn’t carry the Familiars Extension. Too expensive.’

‘If she has a Stargazer, she must have had a really good year. In fact she told me so. Doesn’t make sense she can’t afford insurance.’

‘She lied. She had to cut back like crazy to afford that fancy ride, and insurance was the first thing to go. Her ’Gazer’s on hire purchase at some exorbitant rate of interest. Thurible! Never could drive, that woman, it comes of learning on an automatic. Jumping jujubes, I could have poisoned her, I’m not a Borgia for nothing. She’d have been suspended for a year if there’d been an air cop around, but there never is when one isn’t at fault. She would have been in hot water with the Guild, too.’

‘I got a parking ticket from a sky warden the other day for being a minute late back to a Mart meter. So you got nothing out of Esmé for Samantha? Giant newts are bloody expensive.’

‘She cashed in some bonds her aunt left her, enough for the down payment on Pistol, five gallons of moon juice, and a new pannier. But that was only after I threatened to take her to the Guild court. She kept maintaining that Samantha was worthless, she was so old. So I had Titty Besom pay her a visit. The size Titty is, she can be pretty intimidating.’

‘That old contraption Titty drives, she doesn’t need an airbag, that’s for sure.’

‘Esmé was right, though: the moon juice alone was worth more than Samantha. My old Airstream’s a guzzler.’

‘Sweet. Juice is an iniquitous price per gallon, but there’s nothing we can do about it while the wizard cartel’s in control. There’s talk of five pounds a litre. You have to sell a lot of gonorrhoea lotion and cream to pay that.’

‘Speaking of guzzling, that’s the only drawback to newts, should you be contemplating buying one yourself: any excuse to get pissed. On Saturday nights they’re tiddlier than owls.’

‘Thanks for the heads-up. If I do, I’ll keep the key to the drinks cabinet about my person.’

‘Hey, watch out, old girl—Sissy’s coming up behind you. If I have to hear about her you-know-what operation again I’m going to lose it. Let’s split.’

‘Well spotted. Later, Lucretzia.’

‘Mew mew, Boady.’

Lucretzia and Boadicea parted and moved in opposite directions, as Sissy, a heavily gussied woman with a purposeful stride, passed between them like a foiled underwater missile. She quickly locked onto an alternative target who didn’t see her until it was too late.

Wanting to view the scene outside, Jenny deposited her empty glass on a tray with one hand, scooped up a fresh one with the other, and passed through the open doors onto the terrace. The night air was pleasantly warm on her face, and lit not only by the flaming torches that had been placed in bracket stands at intervals, but the huge moon that she’d observed earlier. It seemed even larger and closer than before, and every crater and rocky polyp was visible.

Jenny sipped her champagne and began to enjoy herself.

Although the area was less populated than the interior, there was plenty of activity, owing to the many air conveyances that were pulling up one after the other at the end of the terrace, where a docking station had been set up. This was manned by a couple of attendants who helped each witch out of her vehicle, onto an apparently unsupported ramp that sloped down to the tiled terrace. From there a plush red tongue of carpet fed into the maw of the ballroom. The gangway was covered by a white canopy, to protect the witches’ hairdos from disturbance by any rain-shower or wind that might threaten to spoil or disarrange them.

The vehicles were as B.J. had described them, very impressive- and luxurious-looking, and Jenny moved closer to admire them. Because there was only room for one conveyance to dock at once, a line of late arrivals was visible in a holding pattern, their headlamps strung like a necklace through the night. Each was sounding its own distinctive horn in an attempt to hurry along those who were disembarking, whereupon some were wasting further minutes of party time by pausing to have their pictures taken by an official photographer wearing a tuxedo.

When each conveyance on final approach pulled up to the terrace ramp, a hydraulic door opened, and its preening occupant emerged onto the walkway. As her familiar did its best to ensure that her dress remained wrinkle-free, the witch paraded along the red carpet as if she were in a fashion show. At the entrance to the ballroom, the latest guest was welcomed with a great deal of air-kissing and insincerity by her friends, who had been looking out for her, and escorted in to make up for lost time at the ever-bubbly champagne fountain.

Having deposited its mistress on terra firma, her familiar withdrew into the vehicle, closed the door and departed so that the next conveyance might come in. Each transport then removed itself to a waiting area an eighth of a mile away, where it hovered to await the summons for departure from the signalling device on the key ring in each witch’s handbag.

From the cluster of coloured flashing lights, and the sound of a weird music and thumping bass that came from the transportation pool, Jenny gathered that the familiars of the wealthier witches were having a party of their own.

Strolling to the least witch-infested area, the better to admire the moon, Jenny rounded a giant terracotta urn and came face to face with Hecate. The ancient witch was leaning on the parapet smoking a clay pipe, the bowl of which was carved in the shape of a mediaeval gargoyle. Perhaps in disdain or defiance of the finery about her, Hecate was still wearing her pilled shawl cardigan, faded tartan skirt, shapeless blouse, and scuffed pump shoes of earlier in the day.

Hecate cocked an eye at Jenny, drew on the dottle in her pipe until it bubbled, and blew smoke towards one of the attendants as he was handing a guest onto the terrace; it drifted under his nose, causing him to sneeze, and the witch he was helping to stumble.

‘Good evening, Dame Hecate,’ said Jenny. As extraordinary as this all was, she was miffed at the lack of forewarning as to what she might expect, for which there seemed to be no reason. ‘This isn’t quite the event I was expecting, but I do thank you very much for inviting me. The champagne is excellent, even better than Lord Huntenfisch’s. As for the gown, well, what can I say? I’ve never worn anything so glamorous. You have excellent fashion sense.’

Looking at Hecate, Jenny realized the irony of the comment too late.

The old woman took the pipe from her mouth. ‘It was nothing,’ she said laconically, ‘and I did promise. Not everybody is as sartorially negligent as I am on these occasions, and I didn’t want to embarrass you. Though “Every Lover”, as Robert Burton says in his
Anatomy of Melancholy
, “admires his mistris, though she bee very deformed of her selfe, ill favored, wrinkled, pimpled, pale, red, yellow, tan’d, tallow-faced...crooked, dry, bald, gogle-eyed, bleare-eyed, or with staring eyes...a nose lik a promontory, gubber-tushed, rotten teeth, black, uneven, browne teeth, beetle browed, a Witches beard.”—old Bob Burton never witnessed such a bunch of ugly as confronts us now.’

Hecate puffed again several times to keep the tobacco in her pipe burning, and Jenny took half a step back at the noxious odour. ‘Anyway, welcome to my little gathering, where “witchcraft celebrates pale Hecate’s offerings”, to quote my quondam uninvited guest, Master Shakespeare. You must have made quite an impression as you entered. Everyone will have noticed you.’

‘Except for Lucretzia and Boadicea. I did enjoy listening to them. Will anyone talk to me?’

‘I doubt it; they’re very wrapped up in their own affairs, these women, and averse to trusting anyone new, especially when I’m the one responsible for introducing her. Kiss of Death, I am. Unlike the Guild of yesteryear, the modern body is rife with jealousy and suspicion. It’s a spirit that has been fostered by its leader, Wanda Empiria: in order to bolster her power she has her henchwomen work behind the scenes to set everyone at loggerheads with each other, so that no one can build a power-base greater than hers. Everything that woman does is calculated.

‘Would you like a cheroot?’ Reaching into a sagging pocket of her cardigan, Hecate took out a small bent cigar. ‘It’s not too strong. A small Cuban comes my way once in a blue moon, when Consuela Pinto comes back from visiting her family just outside Havana. But even when it’s duty free—Consuela doesn’t pass through Customs, of course—ordinarily a good smoke is beyond my means.’

‘No, thank you, Hecate.’

Tucking the cheroot away, Hecate tapped her pipe out on the balustrade with a shower of sparks; noticing that tar had dribbled onto the lighter-coloured porous stone, she tried to wipe it off with her sleeve, but it had already sunk in. She then took a rolled oilskin pouch from her other pocket, and, holding it by the flap, dropped it open and refilled the pipe without looking down. Putting the stem in her mouth, she sucked until a tendril of flame from a torch brand six feet away forked into the bowl and ignited the tobacco, en route incinerating a witch’s cigarette in its holder, and melting the holder.

The smoke stung Jenny’s eyes, and she moved back a little further.

Rolling the pouch up by flipping it like a yo-yo, Hecate returned it to her cardigan; then, standing on tiptoe, she reached one of the lesser terracotta urns, and removed a bottle of Jack Daniels Tennessee whiskey with the cork stopper already out, with one hand, and the pipe from her mouth with the other. She took a deep pull from the bottle, and then another, caught her breath, and grinned at the affronted witch who, having tossed what remained of her cigarette holder over the balustrade, was lighting a fresh smoke.

‘Oh, sorry, Jenny, would you like a belt?’, said Hecate, offering the bottle. Jenny shook her head. ‘Sourmash whiskey, wonderful stuff. I find it takes something stronger than champagne to get through an evening like this. I drink to be unsociable.’ She returned the bottle to its hiding place.