Witch’s Honour. Jan Siegel
had come into her eye.
Her friend reverted firmly to the original subject. ‘As far as I can tell, it takes a special kind of concentration to split someone from their physical body. I couldn’t begin to do it, though I can separate myself—that’s quite simple, many people do it in dreams, with no spell involved. You only need to be a little Gifted. The majority of people have some magic in them, even if they never use it. But Morgus’ power was exceptional. It looks as if Dana Walgrim’s spirit was stolen, like mine—only Morgus is dead. So we’re looking for someone with the same kind of power, which is not a nice thought. And Skuldunder has already come to me with a story of a new witch who may be both powerful and evil…’
‘Are you sure Morgus is dead?’
‘Of course I am. I saw her burn.’ Fern’s expression assumed a certain fixity, concealing unknown emotion. ‘I killed her.’
Gaynor knew she was trespassing in private territory. ‘She deserved it,’ she offered, aware it was no consolation.
‘“Many who die deserve life. Can you give it to them?”’ Fern retorted, paraphrasing Tolkien, and there was a sharp edge to her voice. She leaned forward too quickly, reaching for the coffee pot, knocking a candle from its holder and crying out in pain as the flame seared her left hand.
‘Put it under the tap,’ said Gaynor, fielding the candle with rather more caution.
‘It doesn’t hurt much.’
‘Yes, but you know it will. Why have you got all these candles? The place looks like a fire hazard.’
‘Atmosphere,’ said Fern on her way to the kitchen. ‘Atmosphere is very important to werefolk. And Mabb is royalty, of a sort. I thought I should make an effort.’
‘She’s late,’ said Gaynor, glancing at the clock. ‘You said she would come at midnight.’
‘Of course she is,’ Fern responded from the next room, over the sound of the tap running. ‘Punctuality may be the politeness of kings, but she’s a queen. Ragginbone told me all about her. Outside her own kind, her prestige is limited, so she exercises caprice whenever she can. She’s behaving like any Hollywood superstar, keeping the audience waiting.’
Gaynor was staring fixedly at the curtains over the central window. The unstable candleflames made the shadows move; creases that should have been motionless seemed to twitch into life. She tried to picture a shape or shapes there, developing slowly. She was sure she could see something—the crook of an elbow, the point of an ear—when the smell reached her. It was a smell both animal and vegetable, a rank, hot, stoaty smell mingled with the green stink of an overripe bog. It invaded her nostrils from somewhere just to the left of her chair, making her gorge rise. She gasped: ‘Fern—!’ even as she looked round.
The goblin was standing barely a yard away. Her appearance was almost as vivid as her odour, the large head swivelling curiously on a worm-supple neck, the stick-thin limbs dressed in some garment made from dying flowers and spidersilk, with a rag of fawnskin over one shoulder. Wings plucked from a swallowtail butterfly fluttered in vain behind her. Another butterfly, in blue and green brilliants, secured the fawnskin; her nails were painted gold; the lids of her slanting eyes were zebra-striped in cream and bronze. A crown of leaves, set with the wing-cases of beetles, adorned hair as short and colourless as mouse-fur, and by way of a sceptre she held a peeled switch as tall as herself, topped with a bunch of feathers and the skull of a small bird. Gaynor found herself thinking irresistibly that the queen resembled a nightmare version of a flower fairy who had recently raided a children’s makeup counter. She made a desperate attempt to rearrange her expression into something polite.
‘You must be the witch,’ said the goblin, lifting her chin in order to look down her nose. ‘I honour you with my presence.’
‘Thank you, but…I’m not a witch,’ Gaynor stammered. ‘I’m just her friend.’
‘Councillor,’ said Fern, resuming her place on the sofa. ‘We are indeed honoured.’ Her tone was courteous but not fulsome. She’s a natural diplomat, Gaynor thought. It must be the years in PR. ‘May I offer your Highness some refreshment?’
The queen gave a brief nod and Fern mixed her a concoction of vodka, sugar, and strawberry coulis which seemed to meet with the royal approval. Gaynor, remembering Skuldunder’s reaction to the wine, wondered secretly if she had any previous experience of alcohol. Having accepted the drink Mabb seated herself in a chair opposite, leaning her switch against it. Her eyes, black from edge to edge, gleamed in the candlelight like jet beads.
‘It is well that you have come,’ Fern went on. ‘This new witch, if she is indeed powerful, could be a threat to both werefolk and Men. In time of danger it is necessary that those of us with wisdom and knowledge should take council together.’
‘What wisdom does she have?’ Mabb demanded, flashing a glare at Gaynor. ‘I have not talked to a witch in many a hundred year. I do not talk to ordinary mortals at all.’
‘She is not ordinary,’ said Fern. ‘She may be young, but she is learned in the ancient histories, and wiser than I. She stood at my side in a time of great peril, and did not flinch.’
Yes I did, I flinched frequently, Gaynor said, but only to herself.
Mabb evidently decided she would condescend to approve the extra councillor. ‘Loyalty to one another is a human thing,’ she said. ‘I am told it is important to you. Goblins are loyal only to me.’
‘We may have different customs,’ said Fern, ‘but we can still be allies. I am gratified to see your Highness wears my gifts.’
‘They please me,’ said the queen, scanning her gilded nails. ‘More gifts would be acceptable, and would confirm our alliance.’
‘Of course,’ said Fern. ‘When our meeting is concluded, I have other gifts for you. But first, I need to know more of this witch.’
Mabb made a strange gesture, like a parody of one Fern had learnt to use in summoning. ‘Skuldunder!’
The burglar materialized hesitantly.
‘Bring the exile,’ ordered the queen.
Skuldunder duly vanished, reappearing presently with another goblin in tow. He looked as brown and wrinkled as a dried apple, and there was the stamp of past terror on his face, but now he seemed in the grip of a lassitude that exceeded even fear. ‘He was a house-goblin,’ the queen explained with a flicker of contempt, ‘but he was forced to flee his house. He withers from loss and shame.’ She turned to her subjects. ‘This witch is my friend, our ally. She is not like the rest of witchkind. You must tell her about the sorceress who drove you from your house. I command you!’
The old goblin shivered a little and blinked, but said nothing.
‘What is his name?’ asked Fern.
‘Dibbuck,’ said Skuldunder.
‘Dibbuck,’ Fern dropped to the floor, bringing herself on a level with his vacant gaze, ‘I need your help. I have to learn all I can about this woman, in case I have to dispose of her. I know it’s hard for you to talk about it, especially to someone like me, but please try. It may be vital.’ And, after a pause: ‘Is she young or old?’
‘Young,’ said Dibbuck at last. His voice was not soft but faint, as if it had already begun to fade. ‘Young-looking. Old inside.’
‘Could you describe her?’
But this Dibbuck did not seem able to do. Goblins, Fern realised, see humans differently, not feature for feature but more as we see animals. ‘Green dress,’ he volunteered, and then: ‘White dress.’ For some reason he shuddered. ‘Much hair.’
This was hardly unique, Fern reflected. Most witches favoured long hair. Perhaps that was why she kept hers so short.
She groped for the right questions to ask. ‘Do you know when she came