The Witch's Daughter (Lamb & Castle Book 1) (13 page)

Meg didn’t even break her stride. “If they’re asking around, they might not even know for sure that we’re here. More to the point, there’s no better way out that I know of, ‘less you can climb sheer walls.”

Harold glanced at the towering city wall that seemed to grow up out of the shops and houses, as high as the tower at Springhaven, maybe higher. Holding on tight to Amelia’s hand, and with his free hand gripping the hilt of his sword, he watched the busy street for any sign of the gentlemen.

Meg whispered something to Amelia, and she slipped her hand away from his for a moment. When he felt her hand seeking the comfort of his again, it was full of cold metal: she had put on her conjuring rings. She caught his eye, and smiled.

They were less than twenty feet from Main Street when they caught sight of the two gentlemen coming out of a shop doorway, preoccupied with a large brass and leather device that one of them carried. Even in the noise of the crowd, Harold heard the catch of Amelia’s breath. “Don’t look,” he whispered to her, and they both looked away hurriedly, but it was too late. Out of the corner of his eyes, Harold had seen the two dark gentlemen turn towards Main Street, could almost hear their measured and synchronised footsteps amongst the masses. And then someone grabbed him by the hem of his shirt (or he thought so, at least) and he yelped, letting go of his sword to punch the offender (or someone, anyway) and half the street went up in shouts and swearing, like someone setting off a string of firecrackers. He saw an expressionless, black-eyed face in the crowd for just a second before he lost it again. Meg charged through the noisy churning confusion, head down and snorting like a warhorse as she dragged Amelia along, determined to reach the docks.

“Harold, don’t let go!” he could hear Amelia shouting, barely audible above the commotion – the immutable thump of drums and a piercing wail with a sort of musical intent. The rings on her fingers had warmed up well past body heat, getting hotter by the second, and that was when he realised he’d misheard her. “Harold! Let
go
!” Amelia yelled, wrenching her hand away from him. Suddenly remembering all her hours of target practice off the stern of the
Storm Chaser
, he let her go so hurriedly that Meg almost pulled her right off balance, and she misfired what she’d been planning. A rain of pretty, rainbow-coloured sparks showered over the heads of the crowd, scorching clothes and stinging unprotected skin. The crowd pulled back as a mass, individuals cowering with their arms over their heads in fear of Amelia’s pyrotechnics. By the time Harold dared look up again, Meg and Amelia had disappeared. He scanned the swarm of angry, confused and frightened strangers for the sight of their blue cloaks, but they were nowhere to be seen. There was nothing for it but to head for the docks and pray he could meet them there. Would they go straight to the
Storm Chaser
? The ship would get them safely away from the two gentlemen, but if he didn’t hurry up, Meg might leave without him. Not too far ahead, he recognised the two dark figures moving with slow determination through the crowd and towards the dock, hindered in their progress by the bulky contraption one of them still carried. Harold saw the other one raise something in his hand, and something like lightning arced through the air overhead, landing somewhere in the crowd with a flash and bang. Women and children screamed. The music faltered and died. Again the crowd surged away from the danger, slow as wading through treacle, much too late to avoid the danger that had already struck. The crowd’s movement revealed the aftermath of the weapon’s strike, though. A black flower scorched into the cobblestones, thick grey ash swirling in the air, scattered fragments of fabric. No blood: the victim must have been consumed whole in a moment by the unearthly lightning. Harold’s heart lurched, simultaneously fearing and denying the possibility that the smudge of ash might be all that remained of Amelia, the lady he had sworn to protect. He couldn’t allow himself to think that way; it was unbearable. He’d lost sight of the gentlemen again, too short to see easily over the heads of the milling multitudes. He couldn’t be sure where the tide of the crowd had taken him, even. Tall yellow stone buildings reared up all around, the distant walls enclosing them from the sky. He cast around hopelessly for a familiar landmark in the foreign city, but all he could find was the great spire of the Keystone, and a fat lot of good that did him. He turned his attention back to the crowd and the blood drained from his face. There, trampled in the gutter, lay the blue cloaks he had been looking out for. The lightning gun… But no – he hadn’t seen a second flash, and the cobblestones showed no sign of scorching. Harold struggled on through the crowd. Meg and Amelia had probably abandoned the cloaks to escape the two gentlemen – he must meet them back at the
Storm Chaser…

Meg and Amelia had reached the dock ahead of their Paladin. So had the twin brothers, who stood between the women and the
Storm Chaser.
A wide circle of empty space had cleared around the four of them, none of the Ilamirans or the visiting traders keen to intervene. They watched, though. So much for discretion. Harold, too, hesitated to approach. Even at some distance he could plainly see the look of fury on Meg’s face as she shielded Amelia with her body.

“You keep your distance,” Meg warned the strange gentlemen. “Whoever you are, I’ll bet your magic’s no match for mine. If you touch one hair on this girl’s head, I swear I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”

The gentleman who had fired the terrible weapon into the crowd still held it, but low, aimed at the ground. “It would not give us any pleasure to destroy you,” he said.

“Yes it would,” said his brother, who appeared to be struggling with the brass and leather contraption. The two exchanged a brief look of puzzlement, as if unaccustomed to being of two minds.

“Momentary gratification, perhaps,” the first gentleman conceded. “But there is more satisfaction to be had in a job well done. We have been instructed to take the White Queen alive.” Meg didn’t look taken in for one moment. The gentleman holstered his lightning pistol, but even as he did so, his brother with the heavy awkward device managed to hoist one of the carrying straps over his shoulder, and slipped a hand into some kind of metal glove that reminded Harold a little of Meg and Amelia’s conjuring rings. Two long sharp prongs protruded from it, and it connected to the big brass contraption by a long twisted cord. Harold couldn’t so much as hazard a guess what it might be for, and didn’t want to find out. Meg’s own rings glinted in the sunlight as her hands shifted subtly. Had she seen the lightning pistol and the devastation it could cause? Harold guessed that the bigger device could do even more damage, and even if Meg knew what it could do, she’d have to be fast to beat it. Something inside the brass contraption began to glow, sparks bouncing around inside it like fireflies. A low resonant hum seemed to emanate from it; Harold felt it in his teeth. He gripped the hilt of his sword again, paralysed with fear, knowing he should do
something
, but not knowing
what
. Meg had faced the wall of fire on the road out of Lannersmeet with nothing short of contempt – he hoped she would show more respect for these strange gentlemen and their awful weapons.

Sir Percival appeared at the railings of the
Storm Chaser
, taking one look at the scene below before throwing down the rope ladder.

“Perce, don’t you dare!” Meg shouted, as the knight went to climb overboard, but even as she did so, the gloved gentleman turned and raised his hand. With a hiss, lightning leapt from the prongs of the glove.

It missed, but Sir Percival disappeared from view, faster than he should have been able to in all that armour.

Harold, still watching from the fringe of the gathered crowd, could hold back no longer. The lightning pistol was in its holster and the eerie glow inside the brass contraption had gone dark, which Harold could only hope meant it had no more lightning in it, at least for the time being.

“Oi, you!” he shouted, drawing his sword and stomping out into the midst of events. “If you want Amelia, you’ll have to fight me first!” And there he stood, mere feet from the two strange gentleman, his body and his blade between them and the two ladies.

Both gentlemen stared at him with their flat black eyes, each cocking their head to one side in the curious manner of birds. “Our weaponry outclasses yours considerably,” one of them pointed out. “You are irrelevant.”

Harold felt his face turn flaming red. “I’m bloomin’ well not!” he shouted, although he wasn’t
entirely
sure what ‘irrelevant’ meant. “I’m the White Queen’s Paladin!”

The two gentleman looked him up and down, their movement in perfect synchronicity. “Oh, we do apologise,” said one of them, drawing the lightning pistol. “In that case, we will eliminate you now. Thank you for drawing our attention to this matter.”

Faced with a real live foe intent on destroying him, Harold forgot everything Sir Percival had taught him about poise and balance and technique. He swung the sword as hard as he could, putting all his strength into a blow that caught the gentleman with the lightning pistol square across the chest. The gentleman crumpled inwards and fell to the floor. This distracted his brother long enough that Meg and Amelia were able to make a run for the safety of the
Storm Chaser
. Harold froze, breathless. He had felt the crack of his enemy’s ribs, seen the man collapse, lifeless on the boards. He felt sick. Somehow, it felt very much
not
like slaughtering a pig. The second gentleman stood and stared, his expression unreadable. Harold, wide-eyed and terrified, raised the sword again, ready to defend himself. That eerie crackling glow still burned only dimly inside the machine the second gentleman carried. Too low to discharge again, but not for long. Then, suddenly, the fallen gentleman got up, brushing off his suit. The two brothers exchanged a look.

“That was unpleasant,” said the one carrying the brass contraption.

“Yes. We must endeavour to avoid such incidents in future,” said his brother, still evidently a little unhappy with the state of his suit, although it showed no sign whatsoever of Harold’s attack. He raised the lightning pistol to take aim, but Amelia was faster: a bolt of green fire shot down from the deck of the
Storm Chaser
, knocking the gentleman off his feet.

“Leave him alone!” she screamed, white faced and shaking, but readying another fireball.

A shimmer like moonlight on dark steel swept across the figure of the gentleman, and he got up again, once more apparently completely unharmed, his fancy clothes immaculate. He stamped out the little green flames that danced around his feet. Meg’s shot, refined and blinding white, took his arm clean off, the lightning pistol skidding across the platform and off the edge, into the void. This time, Harold saw the gentleman change from flesh and blood to a dark glossy statue, arms and legs all complete. A moment later, the change reversed and the gentleman’s arm was back, as suddenly as it had gone. He looked quite cross at the loss of his lightning pistol, though.

“He was slower that time!” Harold shouted up to Meg and Amelia. “Try again!” This time, when the bolt of green struck, Harold didn’t wait to see the effect, but ran for the ladder. He hurled himself over the edge and lay on the deck. “We can go! We can go!” But Captain Dunnager had made no delay, and Harold felt the deck tilt under him as the
Storm Chaser
swung away from the Ilamiran dock. He lay flat on the deck, hands over his head and dreading the imminent touch of lightning reaching out from the Ilamiran dock, but it never came. Eventually, feeling quite embarrassed, he got up.

“Let’s see that there, lad,” said Sir Percival, gently taking the sword from the trembling young Paladin. He held the blade up to the light, examining it closely. In the sunlight, the blood shone like rubies over the bright steel. “That was quite a swing you took at him. No mortal man should have been able to stand up from that.”

Meg scoffed. “Those of us that weren’t cowering in the shadows could see he was no mortal man. We were lucky to get away from there today.” She glanced at Harold. “Good job, for a butcher’s boy,” she said grudgingly.

“Did I hear him correctly?” asked Percival, ignoring Meg’s comments. “They wanted to take the White Queen alive?”

“That’s what he said, but he made it clear they don’t care much for the rest of us.”

“They just wanted Amelia,” said Harold. She’d been so brave, fighting for him even though she still struggled with her magic. He’d never seen two women so brave as Meg and Amelia… “Where’d she go to? Is she all right?”

“She’s gone for a lie down, I expect,” said Meg cheerfully. “Magic takes it out of you a lot, ‘specially when you’re first learning. I’ll go and check on her.”

~

Entering the quiet privacy of the cabin, Amelia shivered. Even after the fight, well away from the two gentleman assassins, the rings felt heavy on her hands. Too much responsibility. It amazed her to think that Meg had allowed her to use her crude and dangerous fireball spells in such a populous place. Why, the slightest flick of her fingertips at the wrong moment and she might have set all of Ilamira ablaze! She shuddered to think of the City become an insatiable inferno thousands of feet above the ground… Just as she was about to slip off those heavy rings, she saw the gilded cage, lying wide open on the floor. When she saw the open window above it, her heart dropped. “Oh, no…” Her first thought was to hide it, but what was the use in that, and besides, she could already hear Meg coming down the steps behind her. “I didn’t do it!” Amelia blurted out. “It must have been an accident.”

Meg just stared at the empty cage, her face reddening in anger, and said nothing. Amelia struggled for a moment to feel more than misplaced guilt, struggled to remember why they had been keeping the clockwork dragonette captive in the first place. In all that time feeling sorry for their captive, Amelia had forgotten all about the notion that it could be a spy. And they had kept it with them all that time, talking carelessly about their plans because they’d thought they were amongst only friends…

“I didn’t let it out!” Amelia said again, afraid that Meg wasn’t listening to her. “And if you turn me into a mouse, I shall bite you, because that just isn’t fair when I didn’t do anything wrong! It was only a stupid… accident… Oh. Wait a minute.” Amelia got down on her hands and knees and lifted the sheets that overhung the edge of the bed. She peered into the gloomy corners until she found what she’d suspected she might: a faint, barely visible haze of unhappy yellow flame. “Oh, Stupid! You wretched creature! You awful jealous nuisance! Do you know what you’ve done?” But Stupid only cowered further back in the dusty recesses under the bunk, too foolish to know the potential impact of his actions, knowing only his mistress’s anger. With a muttered spell, Amelia dived in and grabbed hold of the fire sprite with both hands. He felt unexpectedly soft, like luxurious fur, alive and writhing. He struggled, tongues of flame licking round her fingers, flickering lukewarm against her skin. Sparks flew and singed her hair, but the spell on her hands held good, and seizing up the cage, she stuffed him into it, latching the door.

“There! Perhaps that’ll keep you out of trouble!”

Stupid fizzled anxiously, never having been handled in such a way before, and quite cowed by the new experience.

“And I shan’t let you out until we catch the dragonette again, if we ever do!” Amelia shouted. She trembled, part in anger and part in fear of Meg’s wrath, but instead the witch turned on her knight, who had come to investigate the source of the racket.

“Percival, you fool! How could you let something like this happen?” she demanded.

For the first time, Amelia found herself truly glad she couldn’t see Sir Percival’s face. “Madam, I have always done my duty,” he said, stiffly. “And I will gladly continue to do whatever you request of me, but I regret to inform you that I am not infallible.”

“You know as well as I do how dangerous that thing could be – why didn’t you keep an eye on it? Sat here in safety while we were out in the City, it’s the least you could have done!”

Meg should never have kept the clockwork dragonette, suspecting it to be a spy. She should never have been so lax as to forget about it, talk openly around it. Meg had discussed their flight plans quite openly with Captain Dunnager, knowing that he could hear and speak to her wherever she happened to be on board the
Storm Chaser.
Amelia bit her tongue, but Sir Percival’s pride would not allow him to do likewise.

“I did not stay behind out of cowardice, Madam,” he snapped. “I stayed behind to guard the ship from thieves, pirates and stowaways. What you and your unfortunate protégé deem fit to carry with you is scarcely any of my business.”

“Get out!” Meg bellowed. “Get out before I set your hair on fire!” When Percival had the good sense to retreat, she sank down on the bunk, chewing her thumbnail and looking utterly miserable.

Amelia cowered, still clutching her caged fire sprite. Tears prickled at her eyelids. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

“Stop saying sorry, you stupid girl,” Meg snapped. “Never say sorry for what weren’t your fault.”

Amelia just caught another apology about to fall from her lips. “Right. Then…” She hesitated. Yes, it
was
stupid to apologise for something that hadn’t been her fault. It had been Meg’s fault, but then without Meg they probably never would have caught the clockwork dragonette in the first place, and who knew what might have happened if the little spy had been left to roam free all this time. Amelia was ashamed to realise that without Meg, she would still be locked up in her tower and hiding from the world… So, what would Meg do, if Meg were not sitting there looking defeated and miserable? Amelia didn’t have a clue. “What can we do?” she asked.

“Nothing,” said Meg, not looking up. “Absolutely nothing we can do about it now. We have to go on. We have to get there first. We’ll need fair weather and a devil of a tailwind, though.”

Amelia looked out of the porthole. The sky practically glowed a bright and spotless blue, the day warm and calm. Meg must know spells to call the winds and speed them on their way, although right now the witch looked in no mood to do so. Amelia could see no sign of ships pursuing, but as the
Storm Chaser
rounded the beaky prominence of Ilamira’s main gates, she saw something that turned her blood to ice water. Tethered at a second dock on the other side of the City, there drifted a skyship with distinctive bright yellow sails.
Sharvesh
, the Black Queen’s vessel.