The Road to Farringale Page 3

  ‘Yes, Milady.’

  ‘Then they will be well tended to. Regarding the trolls, their behaviour is cause for concern. I will arrange for a consultant to meet with you. He will be here this afternoon.’

  This was vague, but I knew by then that Milady’s plans always became clear soon enough, so I curtseyed again and murmured something agreeing. Jay gave me the side-eye, and said nothing.

  ‘Return to me once you have met with my consultant, for I shall have a new assignment for you this evening. Jay Patel.’

  The name was spoken in a tone so indistinguishable from the rest, it took Jay a moment to realise he was being addressed. ‘Yes?’ he said hesitantly.

  ‘This was your first assignment with Vesper. Are you contented with her?’

  Privately I thought that Milady might have done better to ask this question of Jay when I was not standing right next to him, but he took it in stride. ‘We work well enough together, Milady,’ he replied.

  ‘Very well. Vesper?’

  I thought of the hesitancy he had shown when faced with even the apathetic trolls of South Moors. I had wondered a little about his courage, but that was probably unfair of me. He was new. If he had met any trolls at the Hidden University, it might well have been limited to old Maj, professor of anthropology, and she was ancient, wizened, soft-spoken and totally unintimidating. He had faltered, but he’d held. He would get used to it. ‘I am happy to continue our partnership,’ I said. ‘We made it through the mission without getting even a little bit lost, and I can’t remember the last time that has happened to me.’

  ‘He is more than your chauffeur, Vesper.’

  ‘I know that,’ said I hastily. Did I though? It occurred to me that I knew little about Jay’s specific abilities, and the only reason Milady had given for assigning him to accompany me was my deplorable tendency to lose my way — besides his obvious need for basic induction to the Society, of course, which anybody might have provided him with. It did not much surprise me to learn that there was more to Milady’s thinking than that, but as to what it was, I was in the dark.

  No matter. This, too, would become clear in time.

  ‘You will find chocolate in the pot,’ said Milady, which befuddled Jay but I knew it for one of her characteristic, mild dismissals. I made a final curtsey, motioned Jay into a parting bow, and hustled both of us out of the tower room.

  Jay was silent all the way down four staircases. Then he said: ‘What?’

  ‘To what are you referring?’

  ‘All of it.’

  ‘More specifically?’

  ‘Let’s begin with: who exactly is Milady?’

  ‘No idea,’ I said brightly.

  Jay stopped, and stared at me.

  ‘Nobody does,’ I said with a shrug. ‘Some say she’s the latest scion of the aristocratic family who built this House, which makes sense. Some say she is the same woman who built this House, which is less likely, as she’d have to be centuries old. But who knows? She could be either of those things, or neither. We know her as the founder and benefactor of the Society, She Who Pulls Our Strings, the Bosslady, and that’s enough for most of us.’

  ‘Why is she a disembodied voice?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why did you keep curtseying to a disembodied voice?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she can see us. That window, I think, though I’m not sure how.’

  ‘You don’t think that curtseying is a little old-fashioned?’

  ‘So’s Milady.’

  Jay sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. ‘You know, when I got this job offer, they told me. At the University. They told me it was strange up here.’

  ‘They weren’t wrong.’ We’d made it back to the first floor by then; I steered Jay back to the common room, where, as promised, we found a welcome addition to its equipment. An oversized, eighteenth-century silver chocolate-pot stood upon one of the tables, wisps of steam curling invitingly from its spout. A pair of chocolate-drinking cups had been set beside; these, of course, were the delicate, porcelain kind, with gilding around the rims.

  ‘You are kidding me,’ said Jay in blank disbelief.

  I took a seat and poured out chocolate for both of us. It was sweet and spiced, dark and rich, pure luxury: exactly the way we don’t drink it anymore. ‘Have a bit,’ I encouraged Jay. ‘One tends to feel better afterwards.’ And I did, already, even after only a few sips. I was less tired, less hungry, and the scratches striping my arms were already stinging less.

  Jay did not believe me, clearly — not until he had drunk half of his share of the chocolate.

  ‘Strange but good?’ I invited him to allow.

  He drained his cup and poured out another. ‘Strange,’ he said with emphasis.

  I raised a brow, and waited. Sure enough, a reluctant smile crossed his face and he sank back into his chair with a sigh, visibly more relaxed than he had been half an hour earlier. ‘Strange but good,’ he conceded.

  We were at leisure to amuse ourselves for the next two or three hours. I spent the time changing my ruined blue dress for a printed cotton one in spring-like rose, worn with a light shawl. It clashed with my cerulean hair, so I employed my wonderful Curiosity — a ring, this one, with a charm embedded — and adjusted the latter to a more complementary blue-lavender hue.

  I don’t know what Jay did. We separated after we had finished with Milady’s chocolate, and did not reconvene until we were called to meet the consultant. I made my way back down to the soaring, marble-floored entrance hall to find Jay already waiting, jacket discarded. He wore jeans, and a simple pale blue cotton shirt which contrived to look simultaneously neat and lightweight and casual. I approved.

  My admiration was not mutual, for Jay looked me over and said: ‘You look like a bouquet of flowers.’ The words sounded complimentary enough, but he spoke them so tonelessly, his face so expressionless, that I could not help concluding that some unspoken criticism lay behind them.

  So I ignored this.

  ‘Where—’ I began, for the hall was empty other than the two of us; no sign of our promised consultant could I discern. But as I spoke, Nell — Nell Delaney, of media and tech and suchlike — stuck her exquisitely greying head around one of the doors and said: ‘Ves? Convention Chamber. He’s waiting.’

  That made me raise my brows, for that particular room is arguably the finest at Home. It’s usually used for large gatherings of the significant kind. We only put individuals in there if they’re important, and we want to impress them. Not, of course, if they’re the important kind of people we’re hoping will agree to fund us. Such a show of magnificence would be quite misplaced there. So who had Milady found to meet us?

  I adjusted my hair, checked that my attire was immaculate, and adopted my most confident stride. It wouldn’t do to appear unsure.

  ‘I don’t suppose…?’ said Jay, trailing after me.

  ‘Nope,’ I said, without waiting for the rest of his sentence. It didn’t matter what he intended to ask about this afternoon’s adventure; I had no more idea than he did.

  The grand double doors of the Convention Chamber had been invitingly flung open, and we were able to walk straight in — stopped only briefly by Robert Foster, who had obviously been given Brawn Duty outside the doors. He’s a big man, Robert, and commensurately impressive at all the arts one might wish to employ if any conceivable variety of threat might chance to be mounted in one’s vicinity. Or in other words, he’s Scary Rob.

  ‘Ves,’ he said to me with a nod. He doesn’t exactly cultivate the air of a man of force. He favours the neat, plain attire one might adopt to work as, say, a school teacher, or a general practitioner (the latter of which is not misplaced, since he… is). His tightly-curled black hair is always in need of a trim, and I’ve never seen him with less than three or four days’ worth of stubble. But I suppose he has no need to dress the part. You can feel the danger in Robert; not by any overt signs of menace, for he is a careful and essentially gent
le man. But he is so chock-full of magickal energy — the strong kind — that it’s hard to miss.

  He cast a vaguely suspicious eye over Jay, who stared back.

  Silence.

  They could be sizing each other up for half the afternoon, and we had no time for that. ‘Jay Patel,’ I said quickly. ‘My new sidekick. He’s with me.’

  ‘Wha — I’m not with — sidekick?!’

  I ignored these incoherent protestations, took Jay’s arm, and at Rob’s nod — faintly amused, judging from the involuntary curve of his lips — steered Jay into the Convention Chamber.

  The room takes my breath away every time I see it, which is not often. If the entrance hall is impressive, the Chamber is staggering. It has the kind of high ceiling which seems to soar on for half of forever, held up by buttresses of the flying type. Everything is marble and exotic wood and crystal and gilding. It doesn’t fit with the rest of the House too well, so it’s my belief that it is a later addition. As to when, how or why it came into being, however… who knows. I have been trying to get my hands on a history of the House for years, but if such a book exists, it’s very hard to find.

  Our contact sat at one of the graceful crystalline side tables, one of Milady’s chocolate pots set before him. He had been served with the best our kitchens could offer, which made me mildly envious, for those pastries are to die for. I wondered vaguely if he might be disposed to share.

  I could see little of the man himself, for he sat partially concealed behind an enormous folio. So absorbed in his book was he, he seemed unaware of our entrance. I had time to note that he was a man of some height and, apparently, strength; the mere weak and feeble amongst us (like me) would have spread that heavy book open upon the table, but he held it up before him with no sign of strain whatsoever.

  Good, then. Milady had found us a representative of the troll communities. An important one.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

  The book was instantly closed, and set aside. I received an unimpeded view of by far the most gorgeous troll I have ever beheld, and I mean gorgeous in the sense of spectacularly well-presented as well as… well, rather handsome. All height and muscle and perfect posture was he, his bulky shoulders encased in a dark blue velvet coat over a silk shirt. He wore a kind of cravat, and an actual top hat lay on the table beside him. A top hat. No wonder he and Milady were acquainted. His skin was a pleasing jadeish hue, his features perfect. All this splendour and privilege might lead one to suppose he’d have an attitude problem, but his vivid green eyes twinkled with good humour as he looked the two of us over. His gaze lingered upon the vibrant mass of my hair.

  ‘The famous Vesper,’ he said in a low, rich voice. ‘I hear much of you.’

  5

  I think it was the word famous which rattled Jay, for he transferred his attention from the gorgeously arrayed consultant and blinked incredulously at me. ‘Are you?’

  ‘No,’ I said crisply, and then amended that to, ‘Not really. Baron Alban flatters me.’

  ‘Only a little,’ said the baron, and that twinkle deepened. He fingered his cravat and added, ‘How did you guess my name?’

  ‘Your reputation precedes you.’ Oh, I’d heard about the baron all right. The Troll Court’s ambassador to the Hidden Ministry (the magickal government of England), and a prime favourite everywhere he goes. His reputation for flamboyance far exceeds my own — or shall we say, his notoriety? He is also known for his wit, his cleverness and his knowledge of magickal creatures, history and communities, but people don’t talk about any of that so much as they talk of his hats, his coats and (by rumour at least) his ladies. I’d wanted to meet him for years.

  I was still surprised, though, to find him at the House. When Milady had spoken of a “consultant”, I had at least half expected a troll, but I had pictured… what? A scholar like myself, perhaps; someone who was several years into an exhaustive study of troll customs, habits and history, to be published in about fifteen years’ time. An anthropologist, a psychologist, a folklorist… anybody but Baron Alban.

  Since he had made no move to get up and did not appear to wish to stand on ceremony, I took a chair and a cup of chocolate. ‘What can we do for you?’ I said.

  Jay followed my example, but he was wary. I could see that in the rigidity of his posture as he sat across from me, looking ready to run at a moment’s notice.

  This amused the baron all the more, and he grinned. ‘I understand there is a problem at South Moors.’

  ‘Milady spoke of a consultant.’ I laid a slight emphasis on the last word, hoping my tone would convey a polite question rather than incredulity.

  ‘So I am. I was not born into a barony, you know, and I certainly was not appointed to the post of ambassador at birth. I spent many years of my youth as a rootless vagabond with a tendency to get myself thrown out of every town I lived in, which had its drawbacks. But since I developed an unusually broad knowledge of troll life across most of its strata, it has, on occasion, made me a useful person to consult.’

  He spoke with the smoothness, the confidence and the vocabulary of a highly educated man, so I guessed that these rootless, drifting years had been followed by several more of focused study. I wondered what Alban had done to net himself a barony — other than smile gorgeously, which he was doing in my general direction at that very moment.

  All right, then.

  ‘What would be your summary of the problem?’ Alban asked.

  Jay did not seem inclined to lead the way at communicating, which suited me just fine. ‘If I had met any of the inhabitants of South Moors individually, I would have said they were… depressed,’ I said. ‘There is an air of apathy, a greyness, a blankness — though even to call it depression is to state the case too mildly, for they scarcely seemed to hear me when I spoke, and no one vouchsafed any reply. What could possibly afflict a whole village with such symptoms is beyond me to imagine, and I have never heard or read of such a case occurring in history.’

  ‘And the alikats,’ Jay put in. ‘It is not usual for them to make a meal of such beasts, is it?’

  ‘Not now,’ said Alban. ‘Some of us will eat just about anything, of course,’ — he gave a feral grin as he said this — ‘but the Accords have been in place for long enough to deter even a backwater like South Moors from snacking on endangered species.’ He winced. ‘How many alis were lost?’

  ‘We rescued two,’ I said. ‘We saw no sign of any others, but who knows what they were eating before word reached us.’

  Baron Alban raised his cup to his lips and delicately sipped, silent in thought. The cup ought to have looked tiny and fragile in his huge hands, but it, like the baron’s chair, had fitted itself to his proportions. ‘Milady was right to summon me,’ he finally decided. ‘The matter requires the immediate attention of the Court.’

  That took the problem neatly out of my hands and Jay’s, which was well enough. But I was a little sorry that our meeting with Baron Alban would soon be over, and we would probably never cross paths with him again. I studied him closely, committing points of detail to memory: the exquisite cut of his coat, the sharp points of his superb lapels, that expertly knotted cravat. His sculpted jaw, prominent cheekbones and wickedly twinkling eyes…

  He caught me at this scrutiny and gave me a wink, which, for the sake of my dignity, I pretended not to have observed. Setting down his empty cup, he said: ‘I’d like to hear the whole story, please. Everything that happened, and everything that you saw.’

  This we gave, in as much detail as Jay and I could remember between us. We did a fair job, I think. We are both graduates of the University; we’ve been taught to observe, and to question. Baron Alban heard us out without interruption, save once or twice to clarify a point of detail. His troubled look deepened as we spoke, and when we were finished he gave a great sigh and rose from his chair. My goodness, but he was tall. ‘Her Majesty will need to know at once,’ he said, gazing down at me with a smile that looked
— was it wishful thinking? — a little regretful.

  He bowed to us, already taking out his phone, and was gone before I had time to realise that he had given us no insight, no advice, no information at all. But then, he was not there to consult for our benefit; he was there to consult for Milady’s.

  Jay helped himself to more chocolate — he was swiftly growing to like it, that’s for sure — and sat back with a sigh. He had that wide-eyed, flabbergasted look again. ‘Strangest day of my life,’ he said. ‘No contest.’

  Poor boy. Little did he know. ‘It gets worse.’

  ‘How… how much worse?’

  ‘Or better,’ I amended. ‘Depends how you look at it.’

  Maybe I needed to work on my strategy, for Jay did not look encouraged.

  We were back in Milady’s tower by nine o’clock upon the following morning. Jay kept his dissatisfaction with the climb to himself this time, which I appreciated, for the morning dawned bright, sunny and beautiful and I wanted to enjoy it. ‘Glorious sun,’ I observed unnecessarily as we toiled up the stairs.

  Jay treated this offering with all the interest it deserved, and said nothing.

  This time, when we presented ourselves before Milady, Jay bowed without my encouragement. He really did like that chocolate.

  ‘Vesper. Jay. Good morning,’ said Milady’s voice, the air twinkling brightly with every syllable she uttered. ‘I hope you are in the mood to travel.’

  I perked up at that, for when I am not in the mood to explore? ‘Always!’ I declared.

  Jay’s enthusiasm did not quite equal my own. ‘Probably,’ he allowed.

  ‘You will be familiar with the Farringale Enclave, of course?’

  Of course I was. Farringale was legend. The site of the Troll Court back in the middle ages, it was renowned for everything — art, scholarship, philosophy, ideas. It was a magickal hub, overflowing with magickal energy; some of the most powerful and most visionary feats of magick ever heard of were developed there, performed there.