Chapter Six

 

Oh, Hastival is sought-after! Right enough! Carelessly bestowed them boots might ha’ been, but fer a lass like Bessie, they meant the world. I don’t even think Grunewald hisself knew what he ‘ad done fer her – a lass as was overlooked an’ abused by all the world before.

Well, tha’ Grunewald is an odd fellow. I think even he cannot rightly decide whether he’s more kindness or cruelty. Anyroad, he ‘ad a problem on ‘is ‘ands. That Tatterfoal was roamin’ the Wolds every night while the Markets were on in Gadrahst, and the infernal nag was gettin’ bolder. It got to be that travellers were loath to set foot abroad at night, and who could blame ‘em? One glimpse o’ Tatterfoal is enough to stop the heart, wi’ folk o’ the timid persuasion.

Not tha’ the person ridin’ the beast ‘ad yet shown hisself overmuch. Grunewald ‘ad caught a glimpse o’ the fellow, an’ Lyrriant o’ course, but naught much else ‘ad been seen o’ him besides. What, then, was he doin’ tearin’ about wi’ Tatterfoal? I sent out all o’ my best to keep an eye on ‘im, wi’ some hopes they’d learn a mite or two about his intentions.

 

Grunewald gave up on the Goblin Market. If it had failed to furnish him with fairy ointment in its first day, it had failed entirely, for he held out no hope at all that such a thing might happen to surface later. He left his servants scouring the stalls in his stead, in case he was mistaken, but he did not consider it necessary to supervise them himself.

‘There is but one person left to entreat,’ he said to Drig on the afternoon of the second day. He had returned with them to the Motley, and he, Drig and Bessie now sat before a lively fire in Maggin’s parlour. She had secured the room for their privacy on Grunewald’s account, ushering out the sparse few of her guests who had chosen to remain there at such an hour; the majority were still out enjoying the Market.

Bessie sat at her ease with a cup of chocolate in her hands. The fire was warm, her chair was comfortable, and she had not yet ceased to revel in the glory of her new boots. She sat listening drowsily, flexing her toes from time to time with a frisson of hidden glee.

Grunewald did not elaborate upon his statement; apparently it was not necessary, for Drig nodded thoughtfully and said, ‘She will not lightly help you.’

‘She is compelled to assist me,’ said his master coolly. ‘She is gravely in my debt, and she knows it.’ Grunewald had thrown off his coat and sat in his waistcoat and shirt-sleeves, his cravat loosened. He, too, cradled a cup of chocolate, though his delight in it clearly did not equal Bess’s. As a high lord in these parts, she supposed he had long since grown used to such luxuries and they could hold little wonder for him now.

Bess listened carefully, intrigued to learn more of the reluctant woman they discussed. Was she a witch, like Mrs. Aylfendeane? Why would she dislike being of use to Grunewald, and what had happened to place her in his debt?

But little more of her was said. Silence fell for a short space, and then Drig asked: ‘She is not still in Mirramay, is she?’

Grunewald grunted, an inarticulate sound which Bessie interpreted as a negative.

‘So we are to Aviel?’

Grunewald sighed deeply – and then his eyes flicked to Bess. He had, perhaps, forgotten her presence, so quiet had she been. He spoke again, but this time in a tongue she could not understand. It was a lisping, faintly guttural language, and Bess found it interesting to listen to, in spite of its utter incomprehensibility. Drig responded in the same tongue, and their conversation proceeded for some minutes.

Then, as one, they fell silent and both looked at her.

Bess’s eyelids had been drooping shut, lulled as she was by the warmth, comfort and peace of the parlour. But she opened them wide upon noticing this joint scrutiny, and waited. Clearly they had been speaking of her; what had they discussed?

‘There is some debate, dear baggage, as to what to do with you,’ said Grunewald. ‘Drig is in favour of bringing you along.’ One side of his mouth curved into an amused, half-sardonic smile; he was well aware, Bess guessed, that Drig had some ulterior motive in mind for wishing to keep her close.

‘But you are not?’ she said in reply.

‘I am in favour of depositing you back into the ditch I hauled you out of. Or one similar, for I do not think I could find precisely the same one with any accuracy.’

Bess nodded sleepily, and took another mouthful of chocolate.

‘You accept this probable fate with equanimity.’

Bess smiled upon him. ‘You ain’t really contemplatin’ it.’

Grunewald’s eyes opened wide. ‘No? Why do you say that?’

‘I dunnot think your heart is cold enough, for all that you pretend.’

Drig chuckled at that, but Grunewald sighed in annoyance. ‘I tell you one thing for certain: if you dare to use the word “ain’t” in my hearing one more time, straight into a ditch you shall go!’

‘That’s fair,’ Bessie agreed.

Grunewald muttered something inaudible, and drank the rest of his chocolate off in one gulp.

‘I hate to seem overly curious,’ Bess said, ‘but whereabouts was it you was absolutely not thinkin’ of cartin’ me off to?’

Drig glanced sideways at Grunewald, who made a carelessly dismissive gesture accompanied by a roll of his eyes.

‘We are to Aviel,’ said Drig. ‘The King’s Court, that is. There is one there who may yet be able to craft the ointment.’

‘How fascinatin’,’ said Bess politely. ‘And just what is it you’d wish me to do there?’

That stymied Drig a little, for he could hardly own out loud that he had yet to request his favour of Bess. ‘The lady is of a stubborn nature,’ he said after a moment. ‘You may be of use in persuading her!’

‘And I am noted for my powers o’ persuasion, to be sure. They have always operated powerfully upon his Gentship here, for one.’

‘Do you mean to say that you do not wish to attend us?’ said Grunewald, a little sharply.

Eagerness had availed Bessie little before; she suspected Grunewald of harbouring a contrary streak. Instead, she made a show of scepticism. ‘What would the likes of me want wi’ the King’s Court? You said it yerself: I am a disgrace in these rags. ‘Ceptin’ the booties.’ She stretched out one leg to admire her beautiful cherry-red boot yet again, smiling complacently.

Grunewald grunted.

‘Besides, I am not sure as I have the time,’ she continued. ‘I need to be settin’ about buildin’ a life for meself somewhere in these parts. Won’t happen by itself. I’ll need to seek work.’

Grunewald glowered, his teeth set. ‘Dreadful girl!’ he complained. ‘Drig, she could out-manoeuvre you any day.’

Drig grinned at Bessie. ‘Do I not know it?’

Bess watched as Grunewald struggled with himself. She could not imagine why, but she sensed that he could by no means cast her off so easily as he claimed — or what was he doing sitting at his ease in the parlour with her, when he could have departed for Aviel more than an hour since?

‘I do not require assistance with Hidenory!’ Grunewald growled. ‘She cannot refuse her aid.’

‘But it is so much nicer when people help of their own volition, is it not?’ said Drig coaxingly. ‘A willing Hidenory is always so much better than a resentful one. She might make you fairy ointment, but she’d poison it before she gave it to you.’

‘Hidenory will despise the baggage,’ Grunewald predicted. ‘This bundle of rags is the last person that lady would ever listen to.’

‘Well and well. Bess is looking for work, did you not hear? I am sure we can be of use to our English friend, and set her in the way of some suitable mode of employment in Aviel.’

Grunewald merely sat looking at Bess, his eyes half-closed. She was not fooled by this posture into thinking him careless in his scrutiny, for she felt herself closely studied, and by a mind full awake. ‘Very well, baggage. You have your offer. Out of the kindness of his tiny heart, Drig would like to assist you in this life-building business of yours. Shall you have it so?’

Bess pursed her lips. ‘Reckon I could go along wi’ that for a time. Only I’ll not be a maid again! ‘Tis to escape that fate that I left England.’

Grunewald made no outward show of satisfaction, but Bessie felt a slight lessening of tension in the room. He jumped up with alacrity and collected the coat he had carelessly thrown across a nearby chair. ‘Then let us away, and at once. There is no time to lose!’

Bessie could not account for his sudden hurry, when he had been content enough to lounge before. But she made no objection. ‘I’ll collect me things,’ she said, and darted away to her room.

When she came down, Grunewald and Drig were waiting for her in the hallway. ‘Is it far to Aviel?’ she enquired.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ said Grunewald.

‘It is rather far, but it will not take long,’ added Drig.

Bess grimaced, and sighed. ‘Very well. Just how much of my guts am I likely to be retchin’ up this time?’

‘How refreshing you are,’ said Grunewald with vast amusement. ‘I had no notion how wearied I was with fine ladies and sophisticated company. Mr. Green’s life has been sadly devoid of such plain speaking.’

‘I should not ha’ mentioned vomitin’, I suppose,’ said Bess, demurely smoothing her cloak. ‘But seein’ as you’ll be watchin’ me do it in but a short space of time, it can’t be of much use to avoid speakin’ of it now.’

‘The second time will not be so bad,’ said Drig with an encouraging smile. ‘Besides, our Gent is a better hand at the Whishawist than I. You will hardly feel it.’

‘Tis of small matter either way,’ Bessie assured him. ‘I’ll lose all my fine chocolate, which is a blow; but I dare suppose you are plannin’ to feed me again at some point after.’

‘Stale bread and water,’ Grunewald promised. ‘That is what you deserve, for your sauce.’

‘How fortunate that none of us receives our just desserts!’ Bess said devoutly.

Grunewald’s eyes gleamed amusement for but a moment, and then he was all business. She thought he might take hold of her arm again, as he had before, but nobody moved so much as a step nearer to her. ‘Here’s off,’ was all that Grunewald said, and in a conversational tone.

It was enough, for the Motley dissolved around Bess and the night rushed in.

 

In spite of Drig’s confident prediction, the sensations of disorientation, dizziness and nausea were much the same as before. Bess realised with dismay that the outcome was likely to be identical, too – until all of it stopped, all at once. She was able to breathe, and swallowed some of her panic.

She received the impression that their passage was not complete, not least because she remained buried in a darkness so deep she could see nothing. She felt, by some obscure sense, that their progress had been interrupted; an idea strengthened by Drig, who uttered two syllables in an alarmed tone only to be shushed by Grunewald.

Bess waited, breathing slowly. The darkness was unnerving, and the patently disturbed reactions of Drig and Grunewald did nothing to soothe her. What had occurred?

Judging from his call for silence, Grunewald must be listening for something, but no sound reached Bess’s ears at all. After some little time spent in breathless anticipation, a soft, greenish light flared and Grunewald’s face materialised in the darkness before her. He was frowning. He met Bess’s gaze for an instant, and she lifted a brow in a silent question.

He made no answer. A second, paler light bloomed: Drig held up a glowing bauble, and by its light he peered up at Bess. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘What are we doing here, Gaustin?’

The two lights together were strong enough to illuminate their surroundings, and Bess glanced curiously around. She perceived a tunnel with rounded, darkly gleaming walls. Each was covered in deeply-graven carvings, though she saw no lanterns or windows; why the images existed in such a dark place, Bess could not imagine. She looked more closely at the nearest patch of wall, and saw what appeared to be a trio of goblins engaged in sharing a pipe. Nightmarish creatures crept up behind the oblivious smokers, teeth bared; the inevitable outcome of the tableau was clear.

Bess looked away, half fascinated and half sickened. What manner of place was this?

‘Don’t look at the walls,’ Grunewald recommended. ‘These are the Darkways. Built by my grandfather, whose tastes were a little strange.’

‘What are we doin’ here?’ said Bess, tired of waiting for an explanation.

‘We passed someone,’ said Grunewald shortly. ‘It felt… strange to me.’

‘Someone who should not be down here?’

‘Indeed.’ Grunewald uttered the word in a clipped tone which clearly heralded the end of the conversation. Bess had no chance to enquire further, for the sickening whirl of passage resumed without warning and her thoughts shattered into confusion once more.

Some minutes passed, as far as Bess could judge; perhaps it had only been a few seconds, and the extent of her misery only made it seem longer. She came to herself again to find that, to her relief, full light had bloomed around her, and the Darkways with their disturbing carvings were gone. A moment’s investigation revealed that she had not again disgraced herself, and her garments were clean. This pleased her immeasurably.

She was once again surprised by her surroundings, though this time she experienced less of horror and more of wonder. They had emerged in a room of small proportions, but it was sumptuous in all its particulars. The floor was of dark marble, and low benches piled with richly-upholstered cushions were fitted against every wall. Those walls appeared to be made from glass, or perhaps some kind of semi-translucent crystal; they gleamed with an odd iridescence, a rainbow of purplish colour which only partially obscured the vast hall which lay beyond. Bess glimpsed soaring crystal columns and an extravagantly high ceiling.

‘This is Aviel?’ she asked.

‘Pretty, no?’ said Drig. He took off the party hat and flicked it up into the air, whereupon it rose by three or four feet and promptly disappeared. Drig drew a new hat out of nowhere, and set it onto his head. This one featured a peaked crown and a narrow brim, and was covered in ebon-black velvet.

‘Very fine,’ Bess commented.

Drig grinned at her, swept off the hat again and made her a flourishing bow. Revealed underneath was a tiny ball of glowing light, which contrived to remain floating an inch or two above Drig’s head even as he bowed. A will-o-the-wyke, Bess realised as Drig replaced his hat, concealing the wisp from sight.

‘You have contrived to keep your insides on the inside,’ said Grunewald, looking Bess over. ‘I congratulate you.’

Bess beamed. ‘Indeed, and I have scarcely ever been prouder of meself.’

Grunewald’s white teeth flashed in a grin, but he did not pause to converse further. He strode away at once, disappearing through a high archway into the vast hall beyond. Drig fell in beside Bess as she followed.

‘This place may seem strange after the Darkways,’ he said.

‘They could hardly be more different.’

‘Mm. Wasn’t built by goblins, this bit. Ayliri construct. There’s no one to beat them for beauty, has to be said.’

The hall was larger even than Bess had imagined, and well-lit with a white light turned faintly purple by the prismatic crystal. The chamber was filled with a vast assortment of people: goblins of many tribes, judging from their differing heights and skin colour, mingling with hobs, trows, a scattering of Ayliri and the occasional vast bulk of a troll or even a giant. There were other creatures aplenty for which Bess knew no name. All were fabulously dressed, and the array of colour dazzled Bess’s eyes.

‘How is it that the King’s Court is Ayliri-built?’ said Bess in confusion, as she trotted to keep up with Grunewald.

Drig, unexpectedly, laughed. ‘Tis a matter of some debate, that. Most folk would have it that the place was taken by conquest – by his grandfather.’ He nodded at Grunewald. ‘And to be sure, that particular Gaustin was of a blood-thirsty tendency – as you might guess from the Darkways. But –’

‘But it was a gift,’ interrupted Grunewald, without either slowing his pace or turning his head. He spoke with the emphasis of strong irritation, and received startled bows in response from several courtiers. ‘People enjoy the narrative of Darklings versus Aylir, but in truth there is no such thing as a “Darkling” – it is merely that some fae are blessed with excellent night vision and are, by consequence, frequently nocturnal. This apparently unsettles those with inferior vision, for some unaccountable reason I have never been able to grasp. Meanwhile, there has never been any real rivalry between the Goblin Court and the Queens-at-Mirramay. On the contrary, we have always been allies and excellent friends – yes, this was true even of my grandfather. His supposed blood-thirstiness was more for show. He always said it deterred those who might be inclined to howl for his head. He may well have had a point.’

Grunewald strode heedlessly through the throng of courtiers, talking on in the same irritable manner and ignoring every attempt to catch his attention. A trio of trows lifted their dark pipes as Grunewald approached and began to play a kind of fanfare, but their Gaustin cut this off with a dismissive wave of his hand. His relentless stride did not cease until he arrived beside an unassuming woman, her back stooped with advanced age. She wore shapeless, ragged black robes, with the hood pulled up to cover most of her wispy white hair. ‘I have brightened the place in recent years,’ he continued without pause. ‘King of the “Darklands” I may be, but I grow tired of gloom. Hello, Hidenory. I need hardly tell you that I have missed you with a fervour beyond telling.’

The old woman looked up at him with a sour expression. Her face was remarkably ugly, Bess could not help observing; her skin was spotted and mapped with a thousand wrinkles, and her bulging nose sprouted multiple boils. Her teeth were crooked and discoloured, like a collection of ancient gravestones knocked askew. ‘Grunewald,’ she said flatly. ‘Thank goodness. I could not have borne your absence an instant longer.’

Grunewald smiled beatifically. ‘I felt it instinctively. You will also be delighted to learn that I have discovered a means by which you may repay me for my infinite kindness in releasing you.’

Hidenory’s sourness increased tenfold. ‘How wonderful, for I have nothing at all pressing to do.’

Grunewald waved a hand with an odd, twisting gesture, and the purplish light which bathed the walls developed instead a yellowish tinge. As an approximation of sunlight, it was close enough, though the quality of the light was odd. There was, Bess thought, something faintly sickly about it. ‘Of course,’ he continued without pause, ‘One must consider just how many delightful refreshments I deprived you of by removing you from the tea table. I can only imagine how much you were enjoying the party! My interference was the very heights of boorishness!’

Hidenory’s lip curled. ‘Your point is made, I assure you. In what way may I be of service?’ She gave an ironic little curtsey as she spoke. Then her eye strayed to Bess, and she seemed to notice Grunewald’s companions for the first time. ‘What have we here? I cannot remember the last time I saw a human in the Halls of Aviel.’

‘I found one in a ditch,’ said Grunewald, smiling. ‘I thought it a presentable example, and made free to bring it along. Make your curtsey, baggage.’

Bess did so, but Hidenory paid no attention. ‘Found in a ditch?’ she repeated. ‘When? You have been gone but half an hour.’

Grunewald went very still. ‘Half an hour?’

‘It is certainly not much more.’

Grunewald said nothing for a moment. His face had hardened, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. ‘Are you certain that it was me?’

Hidenory blinked, and stepped back. She looked Grunewald over from head to toe, and her brows rose. ‘Mm. Have you also changed clothes in the last half an hour?’

‘I have not.’

‘If that was not you, I must say he was a more convincing example of His Majesty than you are. That waistcoat. What possessed you?’

Grunewald glanced at the vibrant peridot-green silk confection he was wearing, and his face twisted with annoyance. ‘This is serious, Hidey.’

She shrugged. ‘A prankster. A disturbingly convincing one, I grant you, but—’ Her eyes narrowed, and she stepped back. ‘Unless you are the prankster.’

Grunewald sighed deeply, and rubbed at his eyes. ‘The waistcoat is not so very uncharacteristic as all that, is it?’

Hidenory said nothing, but her posture and expression were expressive of suspicion.

‘Oh, confound it.’ He took Hidenory’s elbow and steered her away from the clusters of courtiers, into a secluded nook in between two vast pillars. Bess and Drig followed. ‘You owe me,’ Grunewald continued, ‘because I released you from the Teapot Society, where you had been acting as host for several months. It took us many attempts to discover a way to liberate you, do you not recall? For being a contrary and stubborn woman you would not settle merely for being replaced; nothing but the disintegration of the entire enchantment would do.

‘In the end it took a volunteer host and a dose of fast-acting poison. One of my retainers took your place at the head of the table – I cannot, at this moment, remember which servant it was – and seeing as he (or she, I can scarce recall) had taken a lethal dose of spear-root only moments before, he promptly died, and so ended the enchantment. Is that sufficient in detail? I can hardly imagine any prankster would be apprised of all of that.’

Hidenory looked convinced. ‘Then who did I see?’ she demanded.

‘I do not know, but there is more to this,’ Grunewald said grimly. ‘And I require your help in uncovering the imposter.’

‘Perhaps that was who we passed!’ said Drig in sudden enlightenment. ‘In the Darkways.’

‘What was he doing here?’ Grunewald said sharply. His question was directed at Hidenory, who had fallen into a thoughtful – and suspicious – silence.

‘You invited me to return to England with you,’ she said.

‘He invited you, not me! I suppose he did not happen to mention why he required your presence?’

‘Nothing so direct, no. But he did question me as to my familiarity with the county of Lincolnshire. He did it in that infernal “casual” way that you have, when you do not wish me to suspect that the answer to your question is important. I tell you, Grunewald, he was most convincing.’

Grunewald’s nostrils flared with anger. ‘He knows me.’

‘Oh, assuredly. He has studied you. He has all your mannerisms, your speech, your posture, your manner of walking. It is a consummate performance.’

Grunewald fell into deep reflection, his hands thrust into the pockets of his coat. His face was grim. ‘I cannot catch him,’ he finally said. ‘I must know who it is! More and more, I receive the sense that if I could but glimpse his true face then I would know. I must know! If he knows me so well, I must surely know him.’

Hidenory examined her yellowed, splintered nails. ‘I perceive we are returning to the question of what I am to do for you.’

‘I need fairy ointment.’

Hidenory sighed. ‘An obvious course of action, certainly, but more difficult than you know.’

Grunewald made an exasperated sound. ‘I know that it is hard to make, and that the ingredients are well-nigh impossible to assemble besides! How much more difficult can it be?’ His eyes strayed to Bess and lingered on her face, though he neither spoke nor made any obvious sign of what was passing through his mind.

‘I have attempted seventy-seven times to make fairy ointment,’ said Hidenory flatly. ‘You may imagine how many velvet queen parasols I wasted in the process. Do you wish me to waste all of yours as well? I achieved nothing but a foul-smelling mess.’

Grunewald’s eyes flickered. He opened his mouth; nothing came out, and he closed it again with a faint croak.

Hidenory looked amused. ‘You fully expected that I could but turn around twice and produce a whole cauldron-full, I suppose? Your faith in my skills is flattering, but misplaced. My abilities at Glamour know no equal, I flatter myself, but as a crafter I fall sadly short.’

She received no response to this sally, which told Bess more than anything else how hard he had taken the news. He merely rubbed at his eyes, looking weary beyond words, and when he finally spoke his voice was strained. ‘Hidenory. I feel the gravest trepidation about this business. Tell me! Do you know of anyone else who could brew it? Or any conceivable way I could contrive to buy some?’

‘I fear the art is fading,’ said Hidenory, with what sounded like sincere regret. ‘Perhaps it is because the Queen is gone, and it is now all but impossible to acquire the materials. Whatever the reason, I would be surprised to learn that any such thing still exists in Aylfenhame.’

Grunewald’s shoulders sagged, and he gave a growl of frustration. ‘I cannot catch the devil while he rides my Tatterfoal. I cannot seem to prevent him from taking the wretched nag either, and if I am not to see what lies behind the Glamour then tell me, Hidey! What is to be done?’

Bess cleared her throat, earning the startled and slightly irritated attention of both Grunewald and Hidenory. ‘I can’t help thinkin’ that the number of candidates must be small,’ she said. ‘Someone as knows my Gent particularly well; has the wherewithal to get hold of Tatterfoal, and ride such a beast besides; and, if you are right about who we passed in the Darkways, someone as can use the Goblin-roads as well. Cannot be too many people like that, surely.’

‘And,’ added Drig, ‘those are considerable powers of Glamour at work. There are not so many Glamourists who can boast of such skill.’

Silence followed these remarks. Judging from the matching blank expressions on Hidenory and Grunewald’s faces, they were casting about in their minds for a person who matched this list of specifications – without much success. ‘I can think of no one now living,’ Hidenory pronounced.

‘Nor I,’ said Grunewald heavily, ‘but I shall enquire.’ He nodded at Bessie. ‘Sound thinking, baggage. I have permitted alarm to disorder my thoughts.’

It did not seem characteristic of Grunewald to become alarmed. The theft of Tatterfoal was no small matter, to be sure, and the use of his visage must be disconcerting; but thus far, she had not heard that the imposter had inflicted any harm, or caused any real mischief. What was it that Grunewald feared?

‘I would also like to know what he wanted with you,’ Grunewald said to Hidenory. ‘And, indeed, what he wants with Lincolnshire.’

‘Seems like he is looking for something,’ Drig offered. ‘Riding around half the night in the Wolds, and questioning Hidey about Lincolnshire?’

‘Indeed, but with such scant information it is perfectly impossible to imagine what he could be after. If he appears again, Hidey, I charge you to find out from him.’ She opened her mouth to speak, but he waved a hand to cut her off. ‘Yes, how will you know that he is not me? The moment I see any of you, I shall say something perfectly absurd, and you will suffer no doubts.’

‘Shadowfire mushroom beetles,’ suggested Drig. ‘Heather-snouted newt eyebrows.’

‘You are a font of ideas.’

Bess said nothing. What is to be done? Grunewald’s question echoed in her mind, and she turned all her lively intellect upon that pressing matter. She was intrigued, and she felt all the force of Grunewald’s urgency, even if she could not precisely understand its source. What could she, Bessie Bell, do to help? The conversation among her companions turned to mild levity as Drig continued to suggest ideas for Grunewald’s inspiration, but Bess let it all pass by, her mind fully occupied in turning over an idea.

 

Bess was given a chamber of her own, among the sprawling maze of corridors dug deeply into the earth below the palace of Aviel. The room was small and comfortable, which was much to her taste. It lacked the dazzling splendour of the court rooms, displaying instead a plush, colourful cosiness that she found delightful. Nothing could be more in contrast to her former garret room at Hapworth; that chamber had been much the same size, but it had been stark and sparsely furnished, and shared with another girl. This snug little hollow was all hers, and it cost her some regret that she would be enjoying it but briefly.

Bess was served refreshment in her rooms soon afterwards, but she was not long left to the solitary enjoyment of it. A sharp tap sounded upon her door, and Hidenory entered without waiting for an invitation.

‘Do come in,’ said Bessie, without troubling to rise from her comfortable arm-chair. She might have offered more courtesy to a friend of Grunewald’s, but she sensed at once that Hidenory’s purpose was not friendly.

Hidenory shut the door behind herself, and looked down upon Bessie with amusement tinged with disdain. ‘And what of you?’ she said. ‘What a charming surprise. His Majesty returns from England with a rag in his keeping! How unlike him! And this rag has lost no time in settling herself in all due comfort at his court. What can she mean by it, I wonder?’

Bessie nodded. ‘Sound questions all, for what can the rag have in mind save somethin’ proper shady?’

Hidenory merely raised her eyebrows.

Bessie’s lips curved into a grin. ‘What is it that you’re suspectin’, particular-like? If you’re thinkin’ I might be a confederate of that Grunewaldery-fakery, you are behind the fair. That has already been suspicioned, and dismissed.’

‘That had crossed my thoughts, but perhaps it is nothing so complex; I daresay you are merely out for your own benefit, as indeed most persons are.’

‘Hangin’ onto the coat-tails of royalty, hm? Tis but a temporary state. I remain wi’ Grunewald only until I have repaid the favour Drig asked of me. Once done, it’s out into Gadrahst for me, and swift to makin’ my own fortune.’

‘Unless he should happen to want to detain you.’

Bessie swiftly saw the direction of Hidenory’s thoughts, and was unable to suppress the bubble of laughter that rose up in her at the idea. ‘Do you know what His Majesty calls me? Baggage. Tis not a name expressive of much affection, is it now? And as for me, well! He might ha’ fished me out of a ditch, which is true enough, and I am grateful for it. But he has done little since but try to get rid o’ me – exceptin’ that memorable bit where he dragged me to the very feet o’ Tatterfoal and scared me half to death. He makes use of his retainers wi’ no thought for their comfort at all, and if he looks at me wi’ some manner of interest, well; I would say it’s the kind of interest a person might feel in some crawlin’ creature never before encountered, and soon forgotten. I have no ambitions to become Queen o’ this mad Court, and the notion would never cross his mind; not if I spent a century hauntin’ these walls.’

Hidenory listened to this speech without comment, and at its end her expression changed not one whit. Bessie felt that her interrogator was unmoved, but she dismissed the thought with a mental shrug. It mattered naught to her what Hidenory thought.

‘I will be watching you,’ said Hidenory, with an intensity which inspired an odd reaction in Bessie; rather than feeling in any way cowed by this threat, she felt an inexplicable urge to laugh. She suppressed the impulse, and merely watched in silence as Hidenory swept out of the room again in a swirl of ragged cloth.

The encounter had not been pleasant, but Bessie was more troubled by her inability to understand the witch’s motive. Was it concern for Grunewald which led her to speak thus? They had, she judged, been friends, or something like it, for a long time indeed. Perhaps Hidenory endeavoured to forestall a threat to the Goblin King which he had not imagined himself.

Or perhaps she spoke out of some other motive. It was difficult for Bess to imagine that she possessed designs upon the position of Goblin Queen herself, considering her haggish appearance. But appearances could be but little relied upon, especially in Aylfenhame. Virtually anything might lie behind the witch’s wizened façade. If she saw Bess as a competitor, that could certainly lead her to speak as she had done.

Bessie could not know, or guess, what had prompted Hidenory’s visit. But she tucked the experience away, resolving to watch Hidenory just as Hidenory watched Bess herself.

 

That evening, Drig escorted her to the dining parlours, and she was able to mingle with Aviel’s many residents. The food was reminiscent of the fare she had enjoyed at the Motley, and Bess partook of it heartily, enjoying her opportunity to observe the myriad guests at the King’s Court and their sumptuous finery as she did so. Drig behaved as though he had something on his mind, and she wondered whether he was on the verge of claiming the debt she owed him, and putting forward his request. But he said nothing of any moment.

They encountered Grunewald again some little time later. Drig toured Bessie around the underlevels of Aviel, as they were called, but in time he led her back up to ground level and out into a large, glass-walled conservatory thick with flourishing vegetation. The conservatory was entirely empty, which surprised Bess, for it was a place of particular beauty. Flowers the size of her own head bloomed everywhere she looked and gleaming insects hung upon the air, filling the conservatory with a hushed, dreamy thrum. It was softly lit and scented with a heavenly aroma, and Bessie felt that she could gladly remain indefinitely.

But she understood the reason for its desertion when they rounded a corner and found Grunewald sprawled in a large armchair, his coat discarded and his cravat undone. A small table was poised at his knee, upon which sat a large decanter filled with something purple and probably alcoholic. He had already partaken of it rather freely, Bess judged, considering his air of boneless relaxation. But she doubted whether it had affected his wits, for the gaze he fixed upon her was as sharp as ever.

‘Ah, baggage. At last. You do take your time.’ He sighed, and then added, ‘Pink-footed bottle larvae.’

‘I am at your beck and call at all times, of course,’ she replied promptly. ‘What’s more, I am blessed with an uncanny ability to know the very instant yer expectin’ me.’

‘Yes, perhaps I should have sent for you,’ he agreed. ‘But here you are, nonetheless. And Drig as well. Take a glass, will you? Starberry nectar, with honey vapour. Most pleasing.’ He tapped the table, and two fresh glasses appeared: one for Bess, and a much smaller one for Drig.

But Drig bowed, and made a show of yawning. He had not seemed tired before, and Bessie mistrusted the sly look he threw at her as he straightened up. ‘I am for bed,’ he announced. ‘Saving your Gentship’s presence, of course.’

Grunewald flicked his fingers. ‘By all means.’

Drig trotted off. Bess was not unwilling to stay, but while Grunewald had thought to provide her with a glass, it had not occurred to him that she might also require somewhere to sit. She waited as he filled her glass and handed it to her, then raised a speaking brow at him.

He patted the arm of his chair. ‘Yes, I am improperly supplied with chairs. But this one is quite large enough.’

This was true, for the chair was vast, and each of its fatly stuffed arms was easily two feet wide.

‘I think not,’ said Bessie, in some surprise. She felt a faint flicker of alarm, for she had by no means anticipated such an offer from him; nor could she welcome it, not when it came from a gentleman in whose power she presently remained. Her treatment at the hands of Edward Adair flashed through her brain, and she had to resist the temptation to retreat a step or two.

But Grunewald took her refusal in good part; indeed, his eyes gleamed appreciation. ‘You will stand, will you?’

‘Given a lack of alternatives, yes.’

He grinned, and said in a different voice: ‘Armchair. Well-stuffed. Crimson velvet.’

And an armchair appeared opposite. It was as vast as his own and as plush, but where his was upholstered in night-black silk, the new chair was covered in the rich crimson velvet he had requested.

Bess sat down at once. ‘Very fittin’, for a housemaid,’ she complimented him. ‘Wi’ just the right degree of opulence.’

‘You are no housemaid.’

‘Some’d say I will always be a servant, no matter what I do now.’ She raised the glass to her lips and received an inhalation of a heady honey vapour, followed by a sip of rich, sweet wine.

‘You have spent altogether too much time at that wretched house,’ he retorted. ‘I advise you to give no credence to anything the Adair family might have said to you.’

‘I never was much in the habit of doin’ so.’

He studied her in silence for a time, his drink forgotten. Bessie bore this scrutiny without remark, savouring her drink and the remarkable comfort of her armchair. Truly, she was in danger of growing used to these luxuries.

‘Why are you here, baggage?’ said Grunewald at length.

‘Seekin’ my fortune, like any young woman in a fairy story.’

He smiled faintly. ‘No doubt you have grand dreams.’

‘Nothin’ lofty. I want…’ She paused a while to consider her words. What did she want? ‘Freedom,’ she finally decided.

‘You were not made for the merely mundane.’ A smile glimmered in his eyes. ‘I shall enjoy watching you carve a path for yourself.’

‘As shall I. At present I have little idea how I’m to go about it.’ Something upon the table caught Bessie’s eye: a rolled scroll, yellowed with age and tied with a sage-green ribbon. The sight disconcerted her, for she had not previously noticed it; how came she to have missed something so prominent? ‘What is that?’ she asked, pointing.

Grunewald appeared startled. ‘That… was supposed to be hidden,’ he said with some annoyance. He picked up the scroll and gently tossed it up into the air, whereupon it vanished.

‘Secrets, is it?’ said Bessie happily. ‘How excitin’. I shall be sure to discover all about it.’

Grunewald’s grin was a touch twisted. ‘Doubtless it is impossible to prevent you. It is a scroll, baggage, upon which is written a partial account of an old conflict.’

Bess nodded encouragingly. ‘And?’

Grunewald sighed. ‘It misrepresents me.’ His jaw clenched with anger and he glowered into his glass.

Bessie suppressed the urge to giggle. ‘Truly? Someone somewhere wrote somethin’ untrue about you and you are wastin’ your time worryin’ over it?’

Grunewald stared at her with narrowed eyes. ‘You are dismissive.’

‘Do you know how often I was accused of all manner o’ things I had nowt to do with? Servants are blamed for everythin’ that goes amiss. If I wasted my time carin’ for the opinions of those as does the blamin’, I’d have lain down and died long ago.’

Grunewald made an impatient gesture. ‘All perfectly true, but this scroll was not written by just anybody. It is the official, and broadly accepted, account of my actions in the Times of Trial, and I took it – most reprehensibly – from the Royal library at Mirramay. This account has all the weight of truth behind it.’

‘That is a mite more tryin’,’ Bessie agreed. ‘What does it say of you?’

Grunewald sighed deeply. ‘The conflict was between the King-and-Queen-at-Mirramay and one who sought to usurp their thrones. You know the sort of thing.’

‘Indeed, I am delighted to learn that Aylfenhame has its share of such folk,’ said Bess. ‘I was startin’ to think it much too charmin’ to be real.’

‘Mm. I cannot agree with you there, for it was a deeply unpleasant war, as all such conflicts are. It failed, fortunately, but —’

‘It failed?’ repeated Bessie blankly. ‘And here I was thinkin’ I was at last learnin’ what happened to yer missin’ Queen.’

‘It failed. This was more than a century ago, or thereabouts. Anthelaena survived that conflict. She broke some thirty years ago, when her husband vanished and her daughter… died.’

‘Oh.’ Bess felt unexpectedly subdued.

‘Anyway,’ Grunewald continued with some emphasis, ‘According to official report, I supported Anthelaena and Edironal at times – and I also supported their would-be usurper. Here it is in the Chronicler’s own writing. It bears the Chronicler’s Seal, and as such, its veracity is beyond question.’ He leaned forward a little, his eyes dark and intense. ‘This has long troubled me. Anthelaena and Edironal were among my dearest and oldest friends! I could never have betrayed them. And yet, Aylfenhame believes it of me. Why? I had thought it merely a cursed deplorable effect of my position; after all, what would you expect of the King of the so-called Darklings but self-interested trickery?’

Grunewald said this in a light tone, but Bessie sensed that the injustice of it troubled him more than he wished to admit, and had done so for a century. She began, dimly, to perceive that there were reasons for his flippant, cynical attitude.

‘But,’ she said with a flash of insight, ‘A Royal Librarian must be proof against such flimsy reasonin’, no?’

‘Exactly! I knew you would see it. The ordinary intellects of Aylfenhame know nothing of me, and may freely believe whatever they choose. But the Chronicler? And worse… Anthelaena?’ He shook his head. ‘Anthelaena never fully believed it of me but… she doubted. And she had never doubted me before. I wanted to know why.’

‘So you stole the scroll.’

‘Indeed. It occurred to me to wonder how recorded history remembered me, and I found a way to penetrate the Library. I did so for other reasons and other information, but I took the opportunity to explore this problem as well.’ A spasm of something like regret crossed his face, which Bess did not know how to understand. ‘And the result! The Chronicler condemns me, in the dry, dispassionate voice of history itself. My misdeeds are confirmed, in ink and parchment.’ He snatched the scroll out of the air once more and stared at it, as though to do so would force it to give up its secrets. ‘It has troubled me ever since, but the more so of late. This business with my fetch has caused me to reconsider the problem.’

‘Aye,’ said Bessie. ‘If someone can pretend to be you so successfully now, might someone not have done so before?’

‘Precisely. And I have seen, with my own eyes, how convincing an illusion it is.’ He tapped the scroll absently against his cheek, his eyes faraway with thought. ‘But what if it is not two separate souls, but one? In short, that the person impersonating me now and the person who did so before are the same person?’

Bess blinked, and said doubtfully, ‘That could be the case, but what reason do you have for thinkin’ it?’

‘Two weeks ago, I would have called it impossible that anybody could so convincingly pass themselves off as me. Now, I must consider the notion that at least two people have successfully done so. I think it… of all things the most unlikely. It is not merely a matter of adopting my face, you understand. Tatterfoal would not be so easily fooled. No, this person wields some element of my powers as well – powers which are tied to my position as Gaustin. And that is… difficult indeed to explain.’

‘Is it? How did you come to be Gaustin?’

‘Goblin society is a fraction more complex than some, but… the position is essentially inherited.’

‘So I assume, from your talkin’ of your grandfather and such. Do you have any siblin’s unaccounted for?’

‘I have none at all. My father was late to wed, and my mother bore but the one child.’

The explanation seemed obvious enough to Bessie, but she hesitated to speak her suspicions out loud. The notion that Grunewald’s father may have sired other children after all did not, in her eyes, lessen his character, but Grunewald may disagree.

‘Are you sure?’ she finally said.

His brow lowered, and his eyes glittered with some emotion Bess could not name. ‘The notion has also been in my mind, baggage. I wonder if he is my elder?’

An interesting question indeed. If Grunewald had an elder sibling, would that person qualify as the rightful Gaustin? Did the principle of primogeniture apply among the Goblins? Considering Grunewald’s question, Bess was inclined to think so. ‘A right mess, that,’ she commented.

Grunewald blinked, and then to Bessie’s surprise he grinned. ‘It is. But in some ways, I feel vastly relieved. An explanation at last! I need only prove it to be vindicated.’

‘I congratulate you, to be sure,’ she said with a smile. ‘And how will you go about it?’

‘That’s more of a problem,’ he admitted. ‘But—’ He broke off as Drig came in at a dead run, carrying his hat in his hands.

‘Majesty!’ he said breathlessly. ‘You have visitors. The Aylfendeanes, out on the Lower Green. Urgent.’ He turned at once and darted away again.