Issuu

Reignclowd Palace

It was raining again in the city of Quagton. The streets were unusually busy. People hurried about, sheltering themselves under their coats or gathering under walkways and awnings, waiting for the downpour to cease. But there was one man who didn’t hunch or hurry. He walked with the steady pace of a wind-up tin soldier – back straight and head held high. On top of that head, he wore a tall hat decorated with a shining metal feather. He came from the direction of the palace, footsteps tapping down the steep winding path, under a bridge, up some stairs, over a walkway. The rain pelted everything relentlessly, but it did not touch this short- statured man. If anyone had looked closely, they might have noticed he was surrounded by a halo of splashing raindrops which never touched him but rolled down an invisible forcefield in the air. Even his shoes – smart green boots with golden buckles – did not get wet as he walked through the puddles. Instead, the water parted ways as the boot approached, then sloshed back together as it left, and the man made his way to the main

road of Quagton, the Royal Way, where a cluster of women huddled in the middle.

‘You’ll have to make way. The king’s parade will be coming through here soon,’ said the man – staring up unblinking at the women.

They laughed at him. One of them said, ‘Why do you think we’re stood here, then? We’re waiting for the parade, aren’t we?’

They laughed again. The man gave no reaction at all.

‘Don’t get your beard in a knot, we’ll move,’ said another.

‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘Now, would anyone be so kind as to offer directions to a certain shop. I’m looking for an establishment called the Magpie’s Nest.’

The Magpie’s Nest. It was a strange and most useful shop, hidden in the backstreets of Quagton – capital city of the Kingdom of Ghastland. Customers knew the route by heart. Down the Bronze Way – that long avenue named for the many tarnished metal pipes which snaked along both sides. An obscure turning took you to an unassuming little street called Churning’s Lane. Nestled between a run- down old cobbler and a fairly unpopular bakery, there was the Magpie’s Nest with its sign over the window. The sign was painted purple with the name of the shop in swirling white lettering flanked by two magpies, one holding a star in its beak and the other a crescent moon. The owner of the shop was an old lady called Grace Gogginsworth, but everyone knew her as Granya. Granya’s shop sold all kinds of unusual items. Lost items, found items, magical ingredients, rare pieces, knickknacks and one-man’s-treasures. Granya could get anything a customer needed – everything a customer wanted – and many things a customer hadn’t yet discovered. The shelves were stacked high with jars, boxes and baskets. Trinkets, trifles,

powders, paints, junk and jewellery. The stock she acquired came from an assortment of sources. Granya had a wide range of connections. She knew how to get anything, and she knew what everything was worth.

One of Granya’s acquisitions – not for sale – was a girl. She had been living with Granya since she was ten years old. Helping in the shop for eleven years. This was Evnie. Serving customers, cleaning and tidying. Granya kept Evnie busy most days, but what she really liked to do was to make things. With an endless supply of interesting materials, Evnie turned her hands to tinkering and crafting. Many of the things she made could be sold in the shop, and since they were bringing in a good turnover, Granya cleared out an old cupboard to make a workshop for Evnie’s projects. It had started with fixing. Sewing up a damaged cushion cover. Evnie restored a fractured teapot until it was better than new. She learned the workings of a mechanical cake-whisk so it would spin again, then sold it to the baker next door. When Granya received some moth- eaten and mouldy books, Evnie made new, handwoven covers, and painted dust jackets to match the stories within. But that was just the beginning. Evnie was fascinated with how things were constructed and what made them work. With Granya’s help, she was able to find the information she needed to learn how to make just about anything she could come up with. Especially once she turned her attention to magic.

In the Kingdom of Ghastland, magic was permitted, and in Quagton it was widely used. Most magicians were highly trained, in lucrative careers as King’s Conjurors, Sages, Sorcerers or even Magical Engineers who designed energy systems which powered the buildings, the factories, lifts and the lights. But aside from the trained masters of magic, the

common people could use magic in their daily lives – many had the knack for it and found magic could ease the burdens of household maintenance, promote health and give the odd bit of entertainment, though of course you’d need the right ingredients, the right equipment.

And to find such items, they would visit a shop like the Magpie’s Nest. Evnie had learnt to make talismans, potions and enchanted gadgets which Granya’s customers found useful and reasonably priced.

Most of the customers barely noticed Evnie. She was a shy girl who didn’t make much conversation – unlike Granya, who stopped every visitor for a long chat. If a customer did remark on Evnie, they might say that she seemed uncomfortable – quiet and nervous – and that she was dressed in clothes that must have been hand-me-downs from Granya. Odd and ill-fitting. She had two dark, prominent freckles under her left eye, which sort of made her look sad, as if she were crying.

Evnie’s workshop was situated in the corridor between the shop front and the back room. It was a deep, double-doored pantry. The lowest shelves had been removed to make space for a narrow desk, and the rest were packed with materials: books and half-finished projects. Evnie had a small wooden stool to sit on – though if she sat down, the double doors would not close and rested ajar against her back.

It was the afternoon now and Evnie was tinkering with a work in progress that had kept her occupied for the last two years: a mechanical owl. The owl’s head was made of an old clock. The workings of the clock had been altered and Evnie now considered them to be the owl’s brain. Each time she opened up the owl’s chest to work on the complicated gadgetry within, she was greeted with the warm scent of fruit and cinnamon: his body was an oak barrel which had once

held spiced plums. Upon this clock and barrel framework, Evnie had designed and made the owl’s beak, eyes, wings and feet using metal, glass and fabrics. She had crafted two hundred and thirty feathers using some fine silk cloth which she wove herself on a hand loom. The threads, rivets, glue and varnish were all imbued with magic runes – spells which gave the owl its power.

Sat on her wooden stool, screwdriver in hand, Evnie leaned close to the owl and twisted the delicate screws on the sides of the owl’s right eyelid. His left eyelid fluttered in panic.

‘Shhh, shhh, it’s okay,’ Evnie said softly to the owl. He opened his beak and made a small ‘scree’ in reply.

Evnie leaned back. ‘Okay, let’s see if this works. Lights on.’

The owl opened his newly enhanced eyes, and dazzling light shone from behind their glass lenses. Evnie shielded her own eyes with one hand. ‘Perhaps a little too bright, owl. Can you make it dimmer?’

The owl blinked twice, and the light slowly dimmed to a warm yellow glow.

‘Very nice,’ said Evnie. ‘Now can you move the light around? Follow my finger?’ She held up her index finger and moved it slowly up, down, left and right. The owl followed with his gaze and the light moved along with it.

‘Perfect. I knew we’d get there eventually.’ Evnie placed her hands on each side of the owl’s head and he looked back at her, making a low purring noise from deep within his barrel.

‘Lights off, owl. Save your energy. Now that that’s working again, we can get on with something new.’ Evnie rummaged around under the desk and pulled out a tin cup and some thin metal tubes. ‘What I’d like to make is a tank inside, which could heat up small amounts of water for hot drinks or washing. What do you think?’

The owl stepped back, ruffling indignantly.

‘You don’t think so?’ asked Evnie.

‘Creeeeee!’ squeaked the owl.

Evnie folded her arms and smiled at the owl. ‘I suppose pouring water in and out of your mouth might be a little bit undignified for you?’

The owl closed his eyes and nodded. ‘Perhaps there’s somewhere else I can pour the water from?’

The owl squawked and opened his wings, knocking some spools of thread from the shelf with a clatter. Evnie gathered them up in one arm and patted the owl reassuringly on the head with her other hand. ‘All right, all right.’

As Evnie carefully lined up the spools on the shelf again, she heard a familiar clopping sound and Granya appeared in the cupboard doorway with her hands on her hips. Granya always brought a smell with her, and today it was hot coals and burnt herbs. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, her apron smeared with a green and yellow paste. Granya was the shape of a spinning top – wide at the top, with a large bosom and broad shoulders, but her legs were short with tiny feet on which she wore painted wooden clogs. She had wiry white hair which grew outwards in all directions, and large glasses. The eyes behind them were dark and shrewd. Evnie knew that Granya’s eyes could see the truth in anything. She had seen people squirm under the force of Granya’s glare.

‘Got your owl out again?’ asked Granya.

Evnie finished straightening out the owl’s wings. ‘Just tinkering. Do you need me to work in the shop this afternoon?’

‘No, Evnie, your head is as cluttered as this cupboard. It’s the parade today, isn’t it? You’ll want to catch it, won’t you?’

Evnie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s raining. Those things are always so busy.’

‘Come on, you’re a grown girl. Get out of your cupboard

and do something with yourself. Busy is good. Busy means potential customers to talk to, contacts, connections. You ought to put yourself out there. Have a natter.’ Granya took a small pair of scissors out of her apron pocket and began to clean under her nails with the sharp tip.

Evnie shrugged again but this time her shoulders remained up, her hair disappearing under the lapels of her knitted cardigan.

Granya tutted. ‘Well, if you don’t want to go, I can’t make you.’ She glanced up at Evnie as she wiped her scissors on her greasy apron.

‘Sorry, Granya,’ said Evnie. She began to tidy some of the materials on her desk with small, quiet movements.

Granya sighed loudly. ‘Well, if you’ve nothing else to do, you can go and get some more herbs in. I need another basketful. Bit of everything.’

Evnie nodded and went to fetch the basket.

Evnie took the basket up four flights of creeping wooden stairs to reach the roof garden. She trod slowly so as not to wake anyone sleeping in the guest bedrooms. The rooms above the Magpie’s Nest often contained unexpected visitors – Granya had many contacts and acquaintances who came and went. Even after eleven years living with Granya, Evnie had rarely seen the same guest twice. She passed her own loft bedroom – a small space filled with nothing more than a bed, a chest of clothes and a row of books lined up along the skirting board – and reached the hatch leading to the roof. Outside, the rain had slowed to occasional drips. The garden was just a collection of pots and containers, spilling over with all nature of plants. Evnie stepped over a thick, creeping tendril to get to the herbs in their tubs on the far wall. From up here on top of the building, she could see

over the city. There was Reignclowd Palace in the distance, high on its hill. Evnie always thought it looked like a cake, the towers jutting into the sky like large birthday candles. The sun glinted off their spires like twinkling flames. Reignclowd Palace didn’t look real. It looked like it was painted directly on to the grey sky. An illusion. In contrast, the city of Quagton looked heavy and solid. From above it looked like a cluttered cutlery drawer spilling out in all directions; a tangle of metal, stone and slate – and all of it coated in a sheen of fresh rain.

Now, Evnie could see the vehicles of the Royal Parade coming down from the palace on the winding slopes of the royal road. King Hematiger’s convoy was small in the distance, like a line of marching ants. Even from so far away, Evnie could see the bright colours of the palace uniforms. Tall hats, layers of patterned capes. Horseback riders in rows, vibrant wagons pulled by decorated animals – rams with painted horns and diamond-coated buffalo. A golden carriage was not pulled by animals but powered all on its own. It puffed out a thin, grey trail of steam.

Evnie got to work collecting the herbs, snipping and gathering them neatly in the basket. Mint, sage, rosemary – her eyes kept returning to the view of the city, to the parade. There were flags with a sequence of pictures that told a story. Evnie was too far away to see them clearly, but she knew it was the kings of old – the nine Clowder kings with their famous deaths. She laid a clump of lavender in the basket and dusted off her hands. Perhaps she should have gone to see the parade up close. It seemed to float down the hill like a daydream – an art gallery on wheels. The last carriage in the convoy was solid black. It held back from the others and had its own irregular rhythm. This could only be the carriage of the Commander of the royal army – the Head Sorcerer. Something brushed against Evnie’s ankle and she yelped.

It was the long, thick tendril of one of Granya’s creeping plants. Evnie kicked it away before it could wrap itself around her. I’ve got to get out of this place, she thought. This can’t be my life forever, can it? Am I going to live and work here until I grow old? But would another job in the city be any better? In the distance, the Royal Parade snaked its way under a bridge and out of sight. Who knows where they’re even travelling to. Those people are from a different world. From a dream.

Granya sat behind the shop counter in her comfy seat – an armchair that was much too low for the tall counter. She didn’t enjoy perching on the tall stool. The armchair, wedged into the narrow space, was unsuitable, awkward and possibly inappropriate, but it suited Granya. Her knitting was coiled in her lap: swamp-proof socks made of dried freshwater eels. Each eel was joined to the tail of the next by its teeth to make a long spool of eel yarn. An inflexible material to work with – but Granya could handle that. Sometimes it needed tugging, yanking, forcing. Other times, a gentle touch was better. Massage and loosen it into shape. It was slow work. Granya was pleased to hear the tinkle of the shop bell.

An old, thin woman with long grey plaits and a shabby coat pushed open the door. It was Gronta Mayven.

She stepped into the shop and looked about, then peered down the corridor to the back room. ‘Cooee? Hello?’

‘Just a moment,’ said Granya, hidden behind the counter. She wound the dried eel yarn carefully. Gronta Mayven looked in the direction of the voice and spotted fuzzy white hair and two spectacled eyes peeping over the counter. Granya stood up and revealed herself.

‘Gronta!’ said Granya.

‘Granya!’ said Gronta, and they both cackled.

‘How’s business, Gronta? What brings you to my shop?

There’s a stack of fermenting newts’ eggs in the kitchen if you’re interested? I know you like them.’

‘I do, Granya, I do indeed. You know me,’ said Gronta, looking towards the back room and licking her lips. ‘No, I shan’t right now. I’ve come to get your opinion on a little something. Take a peek at this.’

Gronta opened her bag and took out a bundle wrapped in tissue paper. She placed it on the counter and carefully unwrapped it. Inside was a small, square, woven wall-hanging: a picture of a tree with a rabbit on each side, surrounded by a border of colourful flowers.

‘Ooh, look at that. That’s lovely, that is. That’s a good find. Where’s it from, Gronta?’

‘I acquired this one three days ago, down at Bereford Market,’ said Gronta. ‘It’s been playing on my mind, you see, because the seller – rotten old Todd Busket, you know, who charges too much – he’s a swindler. I wanted to sell this on to one of those rich lords up town – art with story to it, they like that sort of business and I could get a lot for it – but I don’t want to sell them a lie. My reputation might not recover, you know. What else have I got but my good and honest reputation, Granya?’ Gronta placed one hand over her heart, solemn-faced.

Granya nodded. ‘I see, I understand completely. We must protect that fine reputation for you, Gronta. We must. So, what’s the story, then? What’s special about this tapestry?’

Gronta put her hands on the counter and leaned over towards Granya, lowering her voice to a husky purr. ‘He told me it was one of the last tapestries from the village of Spindle Hill – the village wiped out by monsters. Famous for their beauteous weavings, that place.’ Gronta stepped back from the counter, folded her arms and looked from Granya to the tapestry and back again, nodding her head. ‘What do you

think of that story, Granya? Have I indeed been swindled? Or have I uncovered myself a lucrative treasure?’

Granya sighed and clucked, then took her glasses off and leaned in close to the weaving, reaching for a magnifying glass under the counter.

‘Well, first off,’ she said, ‘I’m not sure it was truly monsters that wiped out the village. Wasn’t it a tornado?’

‘I’ve heard it was a giant serpent that climbed out of the River Teggory, wrapped itself round the whole village then pulled it into the water, every last barn and every last goat.’

‘Sounds like a fairy tale to me,’ said Granya, as she scrutinized each stitch with her magnifying glass.

‘There is another theory,’ said Gronta. ‘Some say that the people of the village called down too much magic into their looms. They angered the powers-that-be in the magical dimension and were sucked up into the sky, never to be seen again.’

‘Well, that’s just goosemuck,’ said Granya. ‘They never even used magic at Spindle Hill. They took pride in the fact.’

Gronta shrugged. ‘Heh, if you say so. Either way, the village is long gone; the art they made is rare now. Irreplaceable. And whatever the story is, it’s mysterious. It’s interesting.’

‘It’s a sad story,’ said Granya, frowning. ‘A tragedy.’

‘That’s it, yes. A tragedy!’ Gronta replied cheerfully.

‘I don’t think it’s from Spindle Hill,’ said Granya at last, putting down her magnifying glass. ‘Sorry, Gronta. It’s finely made, but not Spindle Hill. You could sell your buyer the story – they won’t know the difference.’ She winked, and both ladies cackled.

‘What makes you so sure it’s not?’ asked Gronta, pouting a little.

Granya flipped the tapestry. The back was a mess of knots

and loose threads. ‘The tapestries from Spindle Hill are said to be as beautiful on the back side as they are on the front.’

‘They say that about me too,’ joked Gronta. They both cackled again.

‘And look at this yarn,’ said Granya. ‘It’s got no lustre to it. The yarn from Spindle Hill is much brighter. Look at this.’ She rummaged around on the shelves behind the counter and came back with a ball of wool, its colour oxblood red. Granya carried it to the counter as if it were a precious jewel.

‘This,’ she said, ‘is one of the last skeins of yarn from the village of Spindle Hill. You see the difference?’

Gronta grumbled a reluctant agreement. Next to the tapestry, the genuine wool practically glowed.

‘And I know it’s one of the last skeins of yarn from the village of Spindle Hill because it was brought to me by the last surviving resident of the village of Spindle Hill,’ Granya whispered with a raise of her eyebrows.

Gronta released a delighted hiss. ‘Oooh, Granya, you do have all the connections, don’t you? You’d better keep that wool locked up safe. The monster might be after it.’

‘I should like to lure a monster to my shop,’ said Granya. ‘I might sell him something.’ She tossed the ball of wool in the air and caught it. ‘Then after, I could chop the monster up and sell the parts. Good money in that.’

They both laughed gleefully.

Evnie seethed. She stood in the corridor at the back of the shop, hidden in the shadow of the hanging coats. She saw Granya and Gronta reflected in the window, and she could hear everything they were saying. It was shyness that kept her from going in to say hello – at first. She had lurked there waiting for a good moment to appear, but when Gronta said the words Spindle Hill she felt a heavy load land in her heart.

She listened, hardly breathing, trying to steady herself to catch every detail of what they said. They were talking about her village. Her lost home.

Evnie was that last survivor who Granya was showing off about. It’s not your story to tell, she thought. Evnie always asked Granya not to talk about Spindle Hill – and in front of Evnie, she didn’t, but Granya’s instinct to tell things, to share and spread gossip, was like the stench of burning kippers. It couldn’t be contained. Granya with her endless visitors, her late-night gatherings. Evnie would lie awake at night hearing the chattering and chuckling in the room below, wondering if Granya was talking about her, about what had happened. The shop bell jingled. Gronta had gone. Evnie wiped her eyes on her sleeve and tiptoed back down the dark hall. She wouldn’t be ready to greet Granya for a while longer yet.

chap T er TWO

In Evnie’s workshop cupboard, the mechanical owl sat on the desk, one wing extended, feathers splayed. Shielded by a pair of goggles, Evnie applied a tool with a red-hot point to one of the feathers, and the owl squawked and squeaked.

‘Settle down, this won’t hurt you,’ she said softly.

The bell of the shop door jingled and Evnie sat up straight, listening. Since Gronta Mayven’s visit, she had been on edge. She felt the panic deep within her – boiling and restless. Granya had no idea that Evnie had been listening. Part of her wanted to tell Granya, confront her about it and make her feel ashamed – but what would be the point? Instead, Evnie kept the information locked away in her chest where it burned and vibrated and made her want to do – something. Though what the something was, she didn’t know. So, she worked on the owl; strengthening its wings with magic so it might be strong enough to fly and carry her away.

‘Fantasy? Your name is Fantasy,’ Evnie could hear Granya’s voice down the corridor, in the shop.

‘No, madam, it’s Fantacci. Fant-atch-ee,’ came a voice in reply.

Evnie took off her goggles and crept out of her cupboard to her hiding spot behind the coat-pegs. She had a view of the man in the reflection of the shop window, but it was distorted by the heavy rain running down the outside. She could see he was wearing the royal uniform of the palace. She could also see how small he was – even shorter than Granya.

‘Welcome, Mr Fant-atch-ee. I am Granya. Gran-ya. What can I do for you today?’ She wagged her finger and added, ‘I was about to close up the shop for the day. You squeaked in just in time.’

‘Thank you most kindly,’ said Fantacci, and he took off his hat. He plucked something out of it and held it towards Granya. ‘I believe this item was purchased here in this shop, and manufactured here too – is that correct?’

Granya looked at what he was holding. ‘Ah, yes. So that’s how you managed to stay so neat and dry in the rain. Worked a treat, hasn’t it?’

‘It certainly worked very well indeed, Mrs Granya. So, tell me, are you the person who makes these?’

‘Nooo,’ said Granya, ‘not me. They are made by my girl Evnie. Evnie Treedle. She started making the feathers last winter. The customers can’t get enough of them. You know Quagton – never stops raining. Whenever Evnie makes more, they fly off the shelves. Fly right off. You know, since they’re feathers.’ Granya cackled and the man remained silent but nodded briskly to acknowledge her joke.

‘Is Evnie Treedle here today, Mrs Granya? Could I speak with her?’ asked Fantacci.

Evnie saw him turn his head in the direction of the corridor and she dashed back to her cupboard on tiptoes.

‘Evnieeeeeee,’ Granya called down the corridor.

Evnie emerged in a perfect performance of someone who had not been eavesdropping. ‘Yes? What is it, Granya?’

‘There’s a little man here, wants to see you.’

Evnie came into the shop and was at last face to face with the stranger.

‘Hello, Evnie, I am Fantacci. I’ve come from Reignclowd Palace. We are looking for someone with your skills.’ He held up the metal feather. ‘A position is available for someone who can make articles of this nature. Are you interested? Will you discuss the possibility with me?’

They were all in the back room. Granya had closed the shop and ushered Fantacci and Evnie to the armchairs next to the fireplace where they could talk, and where Granya could listen. The back room was a large, homely area, kitchen and living room combined. The kitchen table was, as always, piled high with the clutter of whatever Granya was working on – some rancid concoction, a potion or tomorrow’s dinner. The fire was lit and a crowd of armchairs clustered around it, with a wooden coffee table set in the middle, layered with the ring stains of tea and who-knows-what other liquids.

In the clutter of the room, Fantacci looked out of place. Everything about him was neat and tidy. Not a single crease or crumple on his uniform – Evnie had never seen clothes so clean. His burgundy hair was cut into a bob. His beard was trimmed into a perfect spade. All the hairs of his moustache lay straight as if they had been brushed for hours. Perhaps they had been.

Granya had made Fantacci and Evnie a cup of tea. Evnie gripped hers with both hands. Fantacci ignored the tea but took great interest in the selection of Evnie’s gadgets and devices which, at his request, she had fetched from her cupboard and spread out on the coffee table for him to

examine. The magic metal feather was one. A carved wooden pencil which could convert spoken words into handwritten notes was another. And an egg cup which could perfectly cook a raw egg – no saucepan needed.

‘Well, maybe not perfectly. Not every time. A perfect egg is a matter of opinion, isn’t it?’ said Evnie.

Fantacci nodded slowly. ‘Indeed.’ He was measuring her with his strange gaze. She could feel it.

The mechanical owl sat in the middle of the table, blinking his eyes at this unusual visitor. Fantacci had already taken a close look at the owl, marvelling at it. He quizzed Evnie on all his functions.

‘So now, this feather. For keeping the rain away. It was brought to me by one of my staff. We don’t find magical craftsmanship like this just anywhere – I knew I had made a discovery. Tell me about it. How did you create a thing like this? How did you get the spell to work?’

‘It took a long time to design,’ Evnie said. ‘It’s a combination of runes and other magical symbols. It’s all engraved into the metal as part of the design. Very, very small engravings.’

‘I see,’ said Fantacci. ‘And where did you find the combination of runes and symbols, the recipe? In a book?’

Evnie shook her head slowly. ‘I wrote it myself. I have some books of runes, of course, but the recipe is mine.’

‘But how did you come up with it?’ asked Fantacci. ‘How did you know what was needed?’

‘It’s quite long and complicated,’ Evnie replied.

‘I’d like to have an idea of your process,’ Fantacci said. He sat back in his chair, hands resting on his knees, like a child waiting to hear a bedtime story.

‘Okay, well, I’ll try to explain.’ Evnie paused for a moment to think. Her process, that’s what Fantacci had asked for. Evnie used some kind of process every day but didn’t ever

have to talk about it out loud, explain something which mainly went on in her own head. ‘The runes and symbols all have meanings. Quite basic meanings, but they can be combined. They can do all sorts of things, but the details need to be very clear or they may have effects that you don’t want at all. When I made this feather, I started with the rune which means DrY. I knew right away that wouldn’t be enough, because of course that would just keep the feather itself dry. So I needed some symbols to explain that ‘dry’ would apply to the entire mass of whatever it was attached to, plus a few extra inches. That was the starting point. But it’s always much more complicated. I can use the rune for DrY, but won’t the person feel uncomfortable if they get too dry – in the eyes and skin, for example? Maybe the rune for repel WaTer? But what if they want to wash or drink? repel raiNWaTer? But how do you define rainwater? Is snow included? Where will the repelled water go? Will it be awkward to have water bouncing off you in all directions? The questions keep coming and I just keep finding more runes, writing more symbols and instructions to account for every eventuality. Then I test the thing and no doubt there will be lots of problems to fix. I started with a much larger feather, but once the spell worked, I designed something smaller: to reduce the symbols so that they were small enough but still functional, that was the next problem. And I wanted it to look nice, too, that’s the fun part. It’s a duck’s feather, did you know?’

Fantacci lifted the feather close to his face, right up to his eyes then away again, adjusting the distance and turning it over. He smiled and nodded. ‘Of course. Because it keeps the water off. That’s clever. I can see the symbols now; they really are incredibly small.’

‘That was the absolute smallest I could make them for it to function.’

‘The part you haven’t explained,’ said Fantacci, ‘is how you get the magic to work. Anyone can copy a symbol out of a book, but where does the magic come from? How do you activate it?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Evnie. ‘It just does.’

‘It’s instinctive?’

‘Yes. I mean, I think so.’

‘And you’ve had no formal magical training?’

‘None,’ said Evnie.

She sipped what was left of her tea. Already she felt embarrassed about everything she had said. Why even mention about it being a duck’s feather? Nothing but showing off. Worse than Granya.

‘I’ll tell you what we’re looking for, Evnie. Do you know what a Spellsmith is?’

Evnie shook her head.

‘It’s somewhere between a wizard and a craftsperson. A magical gadget-maker. Generally, a Spellsmith would have some formal magical qualifications, but I think you know a lot of what’s needed already. More than anyone else I’ve managed to find. The skills required are, to put it mildly, a little obscure these days. Most royal households don’t bother having a Spellsmith, and most magical students want to pursue loftier roles. I’ve been looking for years for an apprentice for our Spellsmith. There are lots of promising young magicians about, but they don’t like this kind of practical job. The craftspeople I’ve tried don’t have the magical intuition which is essential to activate spells. When I discovered this,’ Fantacci held up the metal feather between his fingers, ‘I knew there was someone out there who had the skills we needed. My staff member told me the feather came from this shop. So here I am.’ He held open his hands. ‘I have found you.’

On the table, the mechanical owl slowly turned his wooden

head round to look at Evnie. For a moment it was so quiet that Evnie could hear the ticking of the owl’s clockwork heart.

‘You want me to be the apprentice for the Spellsmith – in the palace? That’s the job?’ she asked.

‘Yes, well, sort of. The problem we have is that our Spellsmith has become . . . indisposed. He’s quite unwell. He’s in a coma in the infirmary and has been for weeks. He never had an apprentice, and now we are left with nobody to do the work.’ Fantacci sat with his hands clasped together on his lap. His beard made it hard for Evnie to read his expression. Was he smiling or frowning? ‘He’s trained nobody to take over his job, nobody to fill in. That’s why I’ve had to take this unusual route in my search to find someone, anyone, suitable.’

‘How did the Spellsmith get ill? What happened to him?’ asked Evnie.

‘An unfortunate accident with a sleeping device, it seems,’ said Fantacci. ‘A sort of potion he was testing for the queen – she prefers to sleep through her travels. He made some mistake in the combination of ingredients. None of us knows how long he’ll be gone for.’

‘So he could wake up any time? It might not be long at all?’

‘That’s right,’ said Fantacci. ‘But what I hope is that when he comes round, he will accept the need for an apprentice. And you’ll be ready to take that role. You really are perfect for the job. You have learnt so much already. Until he wakes up, you can keep on top of some of the work.’

There was, throughout this conversation, a background noise of clinking and clanking as Granya moved pots and pans around, pretending to be busy in the kitchen as she listened in. The clanking had become a little frantic.

Evnie looked over at her. ‘Do you need some help, Granya?’

‘No, no, not at all, my dear. Don’t you worry about me. I’m not the one who needs help.’ Granya clattered her handful of crockery on to the table and marched over to where they sat. She clutched the back of Evnie’s armchair.

‘Now tell me this, Mr Fantacci: how is Evnie going to get a moment’s peace, running up the hill to that palace each day and back again? A job here and a job there? She’s busy enough already.’

Fantacci placed his hands together. ‘Madam, I’m sorry, the position on offer would require living at the palace. Evnie would have a room there and meals provided. She would have to leave her job here, I’m afraid.’ He looked at Evnie. ‘You understand this? You would be joining the palace staff and the palace would be your home while you have this role.’

Evnie nodded slowly. She could feel the looming presence of Granya behind her. How tightly her hands were gripping the chair.

If Fantacci had turned up a day earlier, perhaps Evnie would have refused the offer – or at least taken a little longer to think about it – but she still had that dark stain of anger in her gut. The fact that Granya would be hurt made the decision all the more appealing. The way Granya had spoken about Spindle Hill, her lost home, like it was gossip – Evnie wanted to hurt her right back. But deeper than that was the intrigue of the palace. The Royal Parade still sparkled in her mind – the artful designs of the carriages, the uniforms, the animals and their decorations – Evnie wanted to see more of it. Close up. People had made those wonderful things. Evnie could be one of those people.

She turned around to look at Granya, whose eyes were pinched small, scrutinizing Fantacci.

‘When would you like me to start?’ Evnie asked.

‘As soon as possible,’ said Fantacci. ‘Come with me to the palace tonight.’

Fantacci followed Evnie to her cupboard workshop where she picked things off the shelves and put them in her bag. What would she need?

‘This is a lovely workspace. In fact, my office is quite similar,’ said Fantacci cheerfully.

Evnie doubted that could possibly be true. He was being polite. She appreciated it. Next to him she felt embarrassingly cluttered, dowdy and dirty. Mismatched jumble-sale clothes. Wonky, thick hair that Granya cut for her – more of a heap than a hairstyle. The mess of her workspace, the lingering smells of the kitchen. Dusty, horrid old shop. It must seem such a small and embarrassing place compared to Reignclowd Palace.

‘You needn’t worry about tools and materials. Everything will be provided. Everything you can imagine and more,’ said Fantacci.

Evnie took the spool of wire she’d been considering and put it back on the shelf. She packed a small toolkit of essentials. Of course the owl had to come along, and her book of runes with all its scrap-paper additions and annotations.

Evnie went upstairs to her tiny room under the eaves and rummaged through the chest containing the hodge-podge of clothes Granya had found to fit her, picking out things to take to the palace. Here was a blue dress that she’d never worn – formal, stiff and fussy. But she was going to a royal palace, so maybe this was appropriate? She rolled it up and stuffed it in the bag. What else should she take? She didn’t have much in the way of personal possessions. Nothing from her past. She had come to Granya as a little girl with nothing but the delivery of wools and yarns from her village. The last

delivery. Over the years here in Quagton, Granya had given her books, paints, toys and later tools and materials for her crafts. Granya could get any object that Evnie needed. She’d provided a home, a sort of education. Granya hadn’t hesitated to take Evnie in. Sometimes it had felt like Evnie was just another strange treasure that Granya had discovered – but is it bad to be treasured? Truly, Granya had treated her like family, like a granddaughter. Evnie frowned to herself and shook her head as she rooted through her trunk of clothes. I should be more grateful. To leave her at the first chance I get – how could I be so unkind?

Granya knocked twice on the door. She came into the room and sat down on the bed, watching Evnie roll up some socks.

‘Granya, I am sorry for leaving so suddenly. I’m sorry for leaving you without an assistant in the shop – I didn’t even think about that.’

Granya leaned back against the wall and sighed. ‘Don’t worry about any of it. You know me, I always manage.’

Evnie nodded. ‘You’re sure it’s okay for me to go? I don’t have to.’ Please don’t ask me to stay. Please.

Granya folded her arms and looked up at the bare, slanted ceiling. ‘No, no, you must go. But be careful, that’s all – the palace is a strange place. Must be a strange sort of people inside. That Fantacci is odd, to say the least. He’s not all there if you ask me. He’s hiding something. Hiding himself.’

‘Do you think he’s right about me, that I’d be able to do the job? Am I up to it?’

Granya turned to Evnie with a smile. ‘You’ve got the magic knack, a good brain in your head. Can’t question your craft skills, either. No, Evnie, don’t worry about that one bit. If I have one worry about you, it’s that you’re so timid. You’ll need to meet new people, work with them. I see the truth in

people, you know how I can. I see people like I’m looking through a shop window. Most people display their wares up front. Yours are stored away. Locked away. Some of that stuff might need to come out sometime. Sort through it. Do you know what I mean?’

Evnie shoved the socks into her backpack. I know what you mean and I wish you would stop. How can I possibly sort through it? How could anyone?

Granya kept going: ‘You might find it hard in a new place. Hard to make friends if you don’t make an effort. You won’t have me around for encouragement. I hate to think of you, shut away from people, only talking to that mechanical owl.’

Make an effort. Do I have to keep trying harder all the time? Can’t I just be as I am?

‘I’m more interested in the work than the people,’ Evnie said. ‘I’m interested in what I can make and learn, and that’s all. Anyway, I won’t be alone. When the Spellsmith wakes up I’ll be working with him.’ Evnie had only said it to appease Granya, but the thought of working with this Spellsmith, whoever he was, had hardly occurred to her until this second, and her stomach went cold to think of it.

Granya shook her head and frowned. ‘That’s another thing that doesn’t smell right to me. The old Spellsmith. Whatever that box-of-tricks Fantacci says, he’s not telling us everything. The man’s in a coma? You really ought to watch where you tread, Evnie. Some sort of mistake, was it? I don’t want any “mistakes” like that happening to you.’

Evnie put the last few things in her backpack, rearranging the owl so he wasn’t buried in clothes.

‘I’ll be careful, Granya. I’ll go and I’ll make an effort, and I’ll take care to be friendly and sociable.’ She stood up and so did Granya.

‘And then come home and tell me all about everyone you

meet – and in the meantime, be sure to write to me. Often, you hear?’

‘I will.’

Granya grabbed Evnie in a tight hug. Evnie braced herself.

‘Evnie, you are a treasure who washed up into my shop. There will always be a place for you here, forever. And help. There will always be help for you here, whenever you need it. Understand me?’

Evnie patted Granya on the back and silently nodded, Granya’s hair tickling her nose.

She thinks I’ll be right back home, I’m sure. Maybe I will be.

chap T er T hree

We have witnessed this city in all its stages. A small amount of time for us.

The City of Quagton was the centre of the Kingdom of Ghastland. Ancient people thought Ghastland was a haunted place, for the fog and steam drifting over the swampland bore a resemblance to lost ghosts.

The rulers of Ghastland, the Hematiger family, were an offshoot of the illustrious Clowder bloodline – legends long past, whose empire dominated half the Earth before it crashed and fell thousands of years ago. Some cousin’s cousin had been granted an unfortunate patch of unpleasant, haunted land. Perhaps it was due to their sad, forgotten location, perched on a hill in a vast, ghost- riddled swamp, that they managed to outlive the rest of their family. The Clowder kings devoured each other, betrayed and battled to nothing. Died one after another and were remembered for all time in a children’s rhyme.

The Hematigers had stewed alone for hundreds of years while the neighbouring kingdoms prospered and grew and traded their way around that sad dip of damp land between the mountains. The Kingdom of Ghastland, a lost hole of a place.

But in the recent century, much has changed.

The gods peeped at Ghastland through a crack in the clouds. Winked their merciful eyes and granted them seeds of growth. From the ground hatched prosperity.

The change hinged on one decision by the then King – Roilo Hematiger – when he changed the laws around magic. Magic had once been restricted to a handful of limited purposes to benefit the royal family. Now, anyone was allowed to use it – in fact, they were encouraged to. In Ghastland, where beneath the swamp rich power slept, all those ghosts drifting over the swamplands were put to work, powering the growth of a huge city.

Magical technology, magical power from nature, repurposed to overcome the limits of their surroundings. In the past, building projects had failed to withstand the shifting, sinking slurry of Ghastland’s ground, but now, bolstered by magic, the royal city of Quagton grew, springing up at the foot of the palace-on-the-hill. Manufacturing and trade and culture, it all drew more people. And the city flourished and the Hematiger family were no longer forgotten relics but the centre of a new world.

And at that centre was the magical brain of the King’s Oracle, who arrived nearly one hundred years ago with all the answers to all the problems: having seen the future and the past, he knew every best decision. He was the one who set it all off. It was the Oracle who made things happen.

All of this we observed, from far above, with the land growing and changing beneath us. And from within, from mind and from memory. From inside and out we have learnt about this world and will take all with us when the time comes.

The sky was dark and clear. Streetlamps glowed, reflected in puddles and wet cobblestones. Fantacci marched along with small, regimented steps. Evnie strolled alongside him, holding the straps of her backpack. The mechanical owl poked out his head, looking about. It was a long, twisted route up to Reignclowd Palace, but Fantacci had no problem finding his way, staring straight ahead, his expression flat.

Evnie’s mind was busy as she walked. She had toppled her world and she felt as if she were tumbling, waiting for a foothold to present itself.

What have I done? I’m not prepared. Why didn’t I ask for some time? What might I learn? This could be my chance to make something of myself. I’m sure I’ve forgotten something essential. Will I have a room of my own? Will I really meet the king and queen? What if I have to share a room with someone horrible? What if I’m just not up to it at all?

The nerves became unbearable. Evnie turned to Fantacci.

‘I know nothing about Reignclowd Palace. I’ve no idea what it will be like. How many people live there?’

9780241734575

Reignclowd Palace

Reignclowd Palace

PENGUIN MICHAEL JOSEPH

To Kate and Holly, my sisters

Reignclowd Palace

chap T er TWO

chap T er T hree