It was just after midnight when Ratlett woke up with a sense that something
strange was happening. He had made a comfortable nest for himself in a corner
of the torture chamber behind the iron maiden - an unpleasantly spiky container
in the form of a large, metallic female, known affectionately as Big Bertha
- and he had quickly grown used to the sound of water swirling through the
deathpool, and the gurgling snores of Bogbean, who slept on the rack on the
other side of the chamber.
Now there was another sound, only just audible through the noise of running
water. There was also a light. Ratlett peered out from behind Big Bertha
to observe the Duchess of Yeoveld holding a lantern and standing over Bogbean.
She was speaking to him very softly. Ratlett could not hear the actual words,
for they were obscured by the sounds form the deathpool, and he dared not
move closer in case he was seen. However, he did have a very clear view,
and his sharp, street-urchin's mind stored away every detail of what he observed.
Bogbean heaved up his misshapen bulk, as if in a trance, and swung his legs
down to stand towering over the duchess. His one good eye was open and riveted
on her face, while his jaw hung slack, with spittle dribbling down from one
corner of his mouth. Margaret seemed to have him hypnotised, and she spoke
to him, low and inaudible, for several minutes. Bogbean showed no reaction
to what was being said, and when the duchess had finished, he returned to
his sleeping position on the rack, while Margaret moved stealthily away up
the steps.
When she had gone, Ratlett crept silently over ot Bogbean and scrutinised
him in the faint moonlight which penetrated through a barred window near
the top of the staircase. The deformed and drooling monster was sleeping
as peacefully and noisily as ever, and showed no sign of having been disturbed.
***
"Now that is interesting," whispered Edmund when Ratlett reported the incident
to him early in the morning. "Very interesting indeed!"
"I'll let you know if it happens again tonight, your lordship," responded
the boy.
"Of course you will," smiled Edmund, tapping his cheek with a long, thin
finger. "You really are going to be most useful to me."
Ratlett's smile was like a rat-trap.
***
King Hackard Erraflynn III was laid to rest with his ancestors in the royal
catacombs deep beneath Middenburgh Castle. Nobody knew how far the tunnels
and chambers and galleries of bodies and bones extended, for they were deeper
than the dungeons, and older than the castle.
"They ought to be blocked off!" grumbled Sir Crispin Urswick to Mirdalph
after the burial rites had ground to their pompous and ceremonial conclusion,
"Never know who might get through them into the castle."
"Or out," added the magician.
"What? Oh, yes - that too."
They were climbing the seemingly endless spiral staircase from the subterranean
regions to the central courtyard in the wake of the departing funeral procession,
when they came upon Doctor Gudgeon, catching his breath in a window alcove.
As soon as he saw the magician, the doctor smiled a supercilious smile and
said, "The king still seems to be dead, doesn't he?"
Mirdalph gave Gudgeon a withering look and continued on his way with Sir
Crispin.
When they had climbed a few more steps, Mirdalph asked, "How is the new king?"
There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he added, "And the good Nanny
Comfrey?"
Sir Crispin blushed crimson and coughed explosively, "What?" He cleared his
throat, "I believe they are both quite well," he said in a manner too offhand
to be convincing.
"Good," said the magician. The twinkle faded form his eyes. "I believe there
is nothing that good woman would not do for her royal charge." He halted
and turned to Sir Crispin. "What do you think?"
Sir Crispin stopped to face him. He sensed something deep and serious in
the magician's question. "I think she would die to protect the king," he
said, "and so would I."
Mirdalph put his hand on Sir Crispin's shoulder. "I know you would, my friend,"
he said gently, "and I believe you are right about Nanny Comfrey. If anything
should happen to make others doubt her, do not be afraid to hold your own,
true opinion." He turned away and continued up the steps into the late morning
sunshine.
Sir Crispin frowned and pulled at his moustache for a moment, trying to
understand the meaning behind the magician's words, Then he shook his head
and followed him into the courtyard, from which they both made their way
to the council chamber to discuss the arrangements for the coronation of
King Deramo IV.
***
"I don't need a nanny!" protested Clarence for the seventeenth time.
"I'm not spending all day doing lessons and things!" protested Erryl for
the twentieth time.
"You'll both do as your mother says," announced Gilbert firmly. He was
shepherding the two rebellious princes up the stairs to the top of the north
tower,
"Anyway," said Erryl, "she's a witch - I heard father say so - and I don't
see how a witch can be a nanny!"
"And what about the dragon?" asked Clarence nervously. He had seen Bilbil
swooping round the courtyard when Granny Grimpmyre arrived the previous
afternoon, and had promptly disappeared. He had later been discovered by
Erryl, hiding under their bed - to the extreme embarrassment of the serving-wench
with whom he had been enthusiastically bouncing up and down at the time.
"Scardy-pants!" mocked Erryl.
"I'll tell mummy what you were doing!" threatened Clarence. "I know what
rumply-bumply is!"
"Sneak!" cried Erryl, and flung himself at his brother.
Gilbert sighed and hauled the two boys apart, then marched them up the rest
of the stairs by the scruffs of their necks. "Behave yourselves!" he commanded.
The boys generally did what Gilbert told them: Erryl because he worshipped
the young squire, and Clarence because Gilbert was bigger than him. They
straightened their tunics and ran their fingers through their red curls while
Gilbert knocked on the door.
"Come in, ducks!" croaked Granny's voice, and the door swung open with a
creak of rusty hinges. "Must get them hinges oiled," she added.
Gilbert prodded the two sullen princes into the chamber and halted in amazement.
He might have stepped back into Granny's cottage. The same sooty cauldron
hung in the same stone fireplace, though mercifully there was no fire or
bubbling, green slime. All the books and boxes and herbs and skeletons and
stuffed animals were scattered about in the same chaotic jumble, and along
the window-sills was ranged the same alarming collection of bottled spiders.
Even the stuffed, white ape mounted on a sledge was in the same place, with
the little dragon curled up on its shoulders. Granny herself was sitting
in a rocking-chair by the fireplace.
Gilbert stared open-mouthed round the room. "How ...?"
Granny cackled with glee. "All me bits and bobs? I told you I'd packed 'em,
didn't I?"
"And how ...?" Gilbert's attention shifted to the door, which was creakily
closing itself without any apparent help.
"Saves getting up to open it every time someone calls," chortled Granny.
The door shut with a heavy clunk.
"Erryl!" whispered Clarence in a small, frightened voice, and flung his arms
round his brother for comfort.
"It's all right, Clarry," whispered Erryl, though none too convincingly.
He put his arm protectively round the small boy.
"So you're Erryl and Clarry, eh?" grinned Granny, rocking her chair forward
and standing up.
At that moment Bilbil yawned loudly, smacked his chops and lazily flapped
his leathery wings. Clarence squealed and hid his face against Erryl's tunic.
"Come now, ducks," soothed Granny. "A big boy like you ain't afraid of a
little Jabberwock, is he?" She reached up and lifted Bilbil down onto the
floor to face Clarence.
The boy peered round at the creature, which was staring curiously at him
from big, yellow eyes. The disproportionately large head reached slowly forwards
and Bilbil sniffed inquisitively at Clarence's leg. "See?" said Granny, "he
likes you."
Clarence turned cautiously to face the dragon, which blinked and almost seemed
to smile at him.
"Why don't you scratch his head?" suggested Granny.
Clarence reached out his hand very slowly, then quickly pulled it back again.
"Go on!" encouraged Granny.
Clarence reached out again. This time his fingers tentatively brushed over
the scaly head between the eyes. Bilbil started to burble quietly - almost
like a cat purring.
"That's it!" said Granny.
Clarence's fears evaporated, and he scratched the dragon's head with increasing
confidence.
"Have you scratching his belly next," said Granny, and turned her attention
to Erryl, who was watching, defiantly determined that he was not to be won
over like his little brother. He was far too old for that sort of thing.
"You're far too old for that sort of thing, aren't you?" asked Granny. "I'm
sure you've got much better things to do elsewhere, haven't you, ducks?"
Erryl nodded suspiciously. "Well, off you go, then!" said the old witch.
"Come back when you're hungry, and we'll see what we can do."
"You mean I don't have to stay and do lessons and things?" asled Erryl, wondering
what the catch was.
"Only when you want to," replied Granny.
A grin instantly lit up Erryl's face. "Wow!" he exclaimed. "Great!" and he
was out of the door and down the stairs before Granny could change her mind.
"The duchess told me to help you unpack," said Gilbert, "but ...?" he looked
round the cluttered room, which seemed as if Granny had been living in it
for the last few centuries.
"No need," chortled the old crone. "A little bit of magic goes a long way
in a naughty world! I'm sure you'd much rather be practising sword-fighting
or something, wouldn't you, ducks?"
"Well ... I ... um ..."
"Go on, then - off you go!"
"Thanks!" Gilbert smiled his disarming smile, and he too beat a hasty retreat
down the stairs.
"Now, Clarry, ducks," chuckled Granny, "how are you getting on with Bilbil?"
She turned to Clarence, who was happily scratching the dragon's protruding
stomach, while the creature squirmed about on its back in burbling ecstasy.
***
Mirdalph sat in impenetrable silence throughout the meeting of the council.
He nodded when asked if he approved of the various arrangements for the
coronation, but his mind was clearly elsewhere - a fact that did not escape
the notice of Sir Edmund Gargrave.
Duke Toppard, who presided over the meeting as lord protector, was also less
than absorbed by most of the business of the day - but that was fairly normal
for him. His interest was only aroused when they reached the joustings and
junketings which were to follow the coronation.
When the meeting was over, Mirdalph remained in his seat, too absorbed in
thought to notice that the other members of the council had dispersed. Only
Sir Crispin Urswick remained. "Anything the matter?" he asked.
Mirdalph blinked and stared at him blankly for a moment. Then he observed
in sepulchral tones, "The moon is full tonight."
"Is it? Can't say I ... um ... jolly good, what?
The magician's stare became uncomfortably penetrating. "When the sun sets,
who doth not look for night?"
"Yes, indeed! Quite so!" Sir Crispin's brow furrowed with puzzlement.
"When churchyards yawn, and Hell itself breathes out contagion to this world!"
Mirdalph's voice seemed to echo from somewhere far away.
"What?" Sir Crispin had completely lost track of the conversation.
Mirdalph blinked several times and shook his head. "Drat the man!" he exclaimed
in his normal voice, "I'm even beginning to sound like him!" He rose from
his seat and moved purposefully towards the door.
"Who?" asked Sir Crispin, hurrying after him.
"King Hackard, of course!" The magician's voice was already fading away along
the corridor, and by the time Sir Crispin reached the door he had completely
disappeared.
***
Erryl returned to Granny Grimpmyre's room when his rumbling stomach told
him he was hungry. He entered to find Clarence feeding himself and Bilbil
with sticky buns, while Granny sat in her rocking chair, knitting a luminous,
scarlet stocking.
"There you are, ducks," said the old woman, and pointed with a vicious-looking
knitting-needle at the appetising selection of pies, puddings, cakes and
sticky buns arrayed on the table.
"Wow!" exclaimed Erryl, who was more accustomed to bread and cheese at this
time of day. "Thanks!" He took a huge plateful of goodies and sat down on
a stool by the fireplace to eat his fill. His gaze wandered round all the
fascinating, mysterious and horrifying objects in Granny's collection of
bits and bobs.
"What's that?" he asked through a mouthful of chocolate fudge cake, nodding
towards the stuffed, white ape on the sledge.
Without realising that they had even begun a lesson, Erryl and Clarence had
learned the entire history of the sledded Polacks together with the geogaphy
of the Ice Regions before their mother arrived to announce that it was time
for Clarence to go to bed.
"I want to stay here!" he protested. "Can't Bilbil come with me?" he asked.
"Just ten minutes more!" he pleaded - but all in vain.
"Bed!" said the duchess, and bed it was to be.
As she shepherded her two sons out of the chamber, they failed to notice
Granny Grimpmyre wink conspiratorially, and surreptitiously hand her a small,
green phial of liquid.
***
Later that evening a young serving wench was hurrying along the corridor
to the royal nursery with a mug of cocoa and some ginger biscuits on a tray,
when her way was suddenly blocked. The Duchess of Yeoveld stood like an enormous
bird of prey over the girl, who hastily curtseyed, with her head respectfully
lowered, until the duchess said, "Is that Nanny Comfrey's supper?"
"Yes, your ladyship," replied the girl nervously, and glanced up at the duchess's
face. Her eyes were immediately riveted by a piercing, violet gaze which
seemed to drain her of all feeling, will and thought.
Margaret smiled frostily and poured the contents of a small, greeen phial
into the cocoa. Then she said, "When I snap my fingers, you will continue
about your business, You will remember nothing of this meeting."
She stepped to the side of the corridor where she seemed to be absorbed into
the shadows, and snapped her fingers. The girl blinked and continued towards
the nursery, unaware that she had even seen the duchess.
Margaret waited until the girl had disappeared, then moved away towards her
own apartments. Once there, she bolted herself in the bedchamber and removed
the book entitled "Ye Summonying of Ye Demons" from its hiding-place. She
opened it to a page on which was displayed a circle containing various magical
symbols, and began to chalk a copy of this onto the floor of the chamber.
***
The twilight corridor outside the royal nursery was deserted. A shadow appeared
by the nursery door. The shadow became substance - the substance became Mirdalph.
The magician glanced round, then softly knocked on the door. There was no
reply. He knocked again, louder this time, but there was still no response.
"Drat the woman," he muttered, "she must be asleep." He glanced round once
more, then quietly entered the room.
Inside he found Nanny Comfrey asleep in her chair by the royal cot. "Wake
up," he whispered, and gently shook her by the shoulder. Her head lolled
forward onto her ample bosom, but she remained firmly asleep.
Mirdalph quickly scanned the room, and his eyes lighted on the empty mug
beside Nanny's chair. He picked it up and sniffed it. "Drugged!" he muttered
in disgust. "It looks as if I'm only just in time!"
He put down the mug and turned to the cot where the infant king was fast
asleep. "We don't want you waking up and making a noise." The magician made
several passes over the baby with his hand and a shower of glittering dust
seemed to fall onto the little face, bringing an expression of the utmost
contentment to the features. Mirdalph picked up the baby and wrapped him
in a blanket without the king showing any sign of being disturbed. The magician
glanced again at the senseless form of Nanny Comfrey, shook his head in
irritation, and made for the door.
Outside in the corridor the twilight was deepening into night as he hurried
away and down the stairs with his precious bundle.
***
Margaret had finished drawing her magic circle on the floor of the chamber,
and was kneeling in the centre of it, dressed only in a white shift. Around
her were lighted candles and various pieces of magical paraphernalia, carefully
arranged according to the instructions in the book which was lying open on
the floor in front of her.
***
In the torture chamber, Ratlett was awake and watching Bogbean from his nest
behind Big Bertha. The monstrous jailer was fast asleep, as usual, on the
rack, and nothing out of the ordinary seemed to be happening.
Then the full moon rose. Its light cut down into the chamber and fell on
Bogbean's hideous face. At once the monster heaved himself up from his
resting-place and moved towards the stairs. His eye was open and staring
and senseless to anything around him.
Ratlett crept after him as he mounted the stairs and made his way up into
the corridors of the castle.
***
Down from the corridors of the castle into the burial chambers which housed
the remains of generations of kings of Erraflynn came Mirdalph with the baby
Deramo. He paused by the stone sarcophagus in which lay the body of King
Hackard III and said, rather irritably, "I hope you're satisfied!"
A green, phosphorescent glow in the form of the dead king hauled itself up
through the stonework, nodded encouragingly and gave the magician a thumbs-up
sign, before some unseen force dragged it, groaning, back to Hell.
Mirdalph shook his head despairingly and continued on his journey through
the uncharted tunnels and galleries of the ancient catacombs.
***
Margaret began to recite the ancient formula she had learnt by heart :"Sint
mihi dei Acherontis propitii! Valeat numen triplex Iehovae!"
The darkness seemed to close in thickly round her fragile pool of candle-light,
and a faint rumbling could be heard - like distant thunder.
***
The moonlit corridor outside the royal nursery was filled by the enormous,
deformed shape of Bogbean and his rat-like shadow. Ratlett watched in awe
as Bogbean stopped at the nursery door, raised his huge fist, and smashed
it to splinters with a few well-aimed blows.
Why couldn't he just open it? wondered Ratlett. And where were the guards?
the servants? anyone? (They were, in fact, all enjoying the deep sleep induced
by the cask of wine so generously and anonymously donated to them by the
Duchess of Yeoveld.)
Bogbean lurched through the splintered door into the nursery, and Ratlett
crept forward to peer in after him. Nanny Comfrrey was still fast asleep,
and oblivious to both the noise and the deformed monster towering over the
royal cradle.
Bogbean reached down into the cradle and felt around for a moment, then pulled
out the pillow, which was all he could find. He held it up before him, and
methodically tore it to shreds, as if dismembering some unfortunate infant.
Clouds of white feathers exploded into the room and settled like snow on
the cradle, the floor, Bogbean and Nanny Comfrey, while the rumbling of distant
thunder added dramatic emphasis to the weird scene.
When there was nothing left of the pillow, Bogbean turned and lurched back
towards the door. Ratlett hastily scuttled away to hide in an alcove while
the monster moved mechanically towards the dungeons, leaving a trail of white
feathers in his wake.
Ratlett followed him, picking up all the feathers as he went, so that there
remained no trace of their passage.
***
"Ignei, aerii, aquatici, tereni spiritus salvete!" The darkness grew more
intense, almost suffocating the feeble light form the candles which flickered
and guttered round the circle in which the duchess was performing her magic
rites. The thunder rumbled closer.
***
Deep underground, Mirdalph paused and listend to the barely audible rumbling,
holding his lantern aloft and glancing down at the infant king, who still slept
in blissful ignorance of the happenings around him. The magician
sighed and continued on through the endless passageways of the catacombs,
clambering past broken tombs, stepping over ancient skulls and bones, but
never faltering in his choice of direction.
***
"Orientis Princeps Lucifer, Beelzebub inferni ardentis monarcha, et demogorgon,
propitiamus vos ut appareat et surgat Mephistophilis!"
The candles guttered for the last time and died. The darkness enveloped
everything. The thunder seemed to crash into the chamber itself, and Margaret
flung up her hands to protect her ears. The noise reverberated round and
round until it faded away into the empty fireplace.
Margaret looked to where the sound had gone, and there was a faint, red glow
where no fire had been. The glow flickered and grew in intensity and size.
Margaret watched spellbound as the flickering glow became flickering flames,
became dancing limbs, became a twisting body, became a nightmare demon of
fire and light.
Then the fire faded, the darkness withdrew, and the candles sputtered back
into life.
But the demon remained. He was a hideous creature with a mottled, scarlet
skin, leering, evil face, and a pair of little horns protruding from his
forehead. His eyes were yellow, like a reptile's, and they darted about in
gleeful expectation of something not-quite-nice. He had long, pointed ears
which were pierced with numerous silver rings and dangly things. He was almost
naked, except tor a pair of grubby, black leather trunks and a number of
silver-studded bands of leather round his sinewey limbs. His back was twisted
into a hideous hump, and his legs terminated not in feet, but in hooves that
resembled large pig's trotters.
Margaret stared speechlessly at the apparition she had conjured up. The demon
eyed her critically, then stepped out of the fireplace, his hooves clattering
on the stone floor, and said in a high-pitched, nasal voice, "Hello, who's
being a naughty girl, then?"
Whatever Margaret had been expected, it was not this! She hastily composed
herself and stood up to face the demon. "Are you Mephistophilis?" she asked.
"No," replied the demon, "he couldn't come. He's having trouble with his
sinuses - it's the sulphur fumes, you know. I'm Darren."
"Darren?"
"What's wrong with that?" spat the demon, his reptilian eyes narrowing to
sinister slits.
"Nothing!" said Margaret hastily. "Nothing at all."
The demon smiled evilly. "Excellent! You wouldn't want us to get off on the
wrong hoof, would you?"
"No," agreed Margaret, "certainly not."
"Now," said Darren, settling himself comfortably into an armchair and singeing
the cushions, "what can I do for you? The usual twenty-four year contract
is it? You're in luck - we've got a special offer on this month - twenty-five
years for no extra charge. What's it to be? Wealth, power, all that sort
of thing?"
"Not quite," said Margaret, beginning to regain her usual command of the
situation.
"Ah!" said Darren. "I should warn you that special contracts usually incur
extra penalties - more hot coals, a few hundred years longer in the boiling
oil - that sort of thing."
"I want a child."
"What?"
"A child."
"Ah! I see, A boy or a girl?"
"A boy."
"And how would you like it? Boiled? Roasted? Fricasseed?"
"No, no, no! I want you to give me son."
"You want me to what?"
"Give me a son!"
"Give you a son?"
"Yes."
"Ah! But that would involve ..." Darren waved his red, bony fingers around
aimlessly in the air.
Margaret stared at him while he grasped the situation.
"You mean you want me to ...?"
Margaret swallowed hard and nodded. The thought was repellent but she was
quite determined.
"You've got two sons already, haven't you? We don't normally get requests
like this from women in - if I may say so - the full flush of womanhood.
It's usually horrendous old crones who don't stand a snowball's chance in
Hell - if you'll forgive the allusion."
"Erryl and Clarence are far more their father's sons than mine, and they'll
never amount to anything. I want a son who has nothing of that drunken lout
in him. I want a son who has superhuman powers, not the paltry gifts of mankind
- a son who will achieve great things - and a son who is mine alone!"
"He'll have a bit of me in him as well," pointed out the demon. "Quite a
lot, if you want the superpower thing."
"Yes."
"Well, if you're quite sure that's what you want?"
"Quite sure."
"We'll just draw up the contract shall we? Twenty-four - sorry - twenty-five
years, and then we get your soul. That all right, is it?" he held out his
hand and produced a scroll of singed and smoking parchment from the air.
"You have to sign with your own blood, you know. Here's a knife." He produced
the instrument from a cloud of sulphur fumes, followed by a black quill-pen.
"You guarantee the son with superpowers?" asked Margaret.
"Oh, yes! Absolutely!"
"All right - let's get on with it."
***
Bogbean settled down again to sleep on the rack, unaware, as far as Ratlett
could tell, that he had been anywhere else. The boy picked the last remaining
feathers off him and disposed of them in the deathpool, then made his way
up to find Sir Edmund Gargrave, sure that he would want to know immediately
about the night's curious happenings.
***
In a deserted clearing near the edge of the Hollwood Forest a large stone
moved. There was a pause, then it moved again, heaving upwards as if something
were pushing it from below.
"Drat the thing!" exclaimed a muffled voice, and the stone lifted one more
time and was pushed aside to reveal a hole in the ground from which Mirdalph
climbed with some difficulty. He was still clutching the sleeping king, but
he had left his lantern below. He put the baby down gently on the grass,
replaced the stone over the hole, picked up the baby, looked round at the
deserted clearing, sighed, and sat down resignedly on the stone to wait.
***
Margaret lay back on the bed, closed her eyes and thought of Erraflynn -
the country from which the ruling family always took its name.
***
"And the king had disappeared before you got there?" asked Edmund, sitting
up in bed and regarding Ratlett intently.
"Yes, your lordship."
"That really is interesting!"
"Shall I call out the guard?" suggested the boy helpfully.
"Certainly not!" hissed Edmund. "Never be seen to know any more than you
absolutely have to - except by me, of course. You're sure there's no trace
of anything to connect poor old Bogbean with ... events?"
Ratlett shook his head: "Not a feather."
"Good. Then you'd better get back to bed and wait for developments."
***
Mirdalph cocked his head and listened intently. A sound, faint and
indistinguishable, was approaching the moonlit clearing in which he was sitting
with the still sleeping king. He rose to his feet and prepared to move out
of sight among the trees. The approaching sound crystallised into two sounds,
the sounds became voices, and the voices were arguing.
"No, it's not!"
"Yes, it is!"
"'Snot!"
"'Tis! 'Tis! 'Tis!"
Mirdalph smiled and relaxed as two whiskery little men burst into the clearing,
snarling and spitting at each other. They were actually dwarves, no more
than waist-high to the magician, and they were dressed identically in worn,
leather tunics and breeches, with an assortment of murderous-looking swords
and knives and axes and bows and arrows strapped about them. One had bushy,
black eyebrows and a long, grey beard, while the other had short, gingery
whiskers which were beginning to go grey at the edges.
They stopped in front of Mirdalph and immediately dragged him into their
argument, as if that were the sole purpose of his being in the forest in
the middle of the night.
"It's not after midnight, is it?" demanded the one with the black eyebrows.
"Yes, it is!" snapped the gingery one. "We're late, aren't we? It's all Griddle's
fault. He lost the way!"
"Rubbish!" snarled Griddle. "It's all Pot's fault! He would insist on turning
right at the Druid's oak, when I told him it was straight on!"
"Well, never mind," said Mirdalph soothingly, "you're here now, and that's
what matters."
Pot, the dwarf with the gingery whiskers, looked round the clearing and asked,
"Where's the woman?"
"There's been a slight change of plan," said Mirdalph apologetically. "She
was unable to come tonight. I'll have to bring her tomorrow."
"That's not what we agreed!" protested Griddle."
"No, it's not!" agreed Pot.
"I'm afraid I'll have to leave the baby in your care for a day," said Mirdalph.
"But we don't know anything about looking after babies - espacially human
babies!" exclaimed Griddle.
"And we'll lose another full day's work!" added Pot.
"And we've got a big order on at the moment -"
"Armour -"
"And breastplates -"
"And helmets -"
Mirdalph interrupted them: "I'll double the money I promised you."
"Done!" said the dwarves in unison.
"Here, give the baby to me," said Pot.
"No! I'll carry him!" said Griddle.
"You can take it in turns," suggested Mirdalph - but it took him another
five minutes to sort out who was going to carry the infant first.
"I'll meet you here at the same time tomorrow night," said the magician,
when Pot had finally taken charge of the king. "And mind you look after him."
"What's his name?" asked Griddle.
"Ah!" said Mirdalph, "er ... Tom - Tom Candy."
"We'll guard him with our lives," said Pot.
"Whoever he really is," added Griddle, eyeing the magician meaningfully.
I hope it won't come to that," said Mirdalph.
***
"Was it all right for you?" asked Darren as he lay back beside the duchess
with smoke coming out of his nostrils and ears.
Margaret emerged form her thoughts of the ruling house of Erraflynn. "What?"
Oh, have you finished?"
The demon glared at her, snorted pettishly, and disappeared in a cloud of
acrid smoke, leaving behind scorched sheets and the smell of burning sulphur.
***
"Atishoo!" Nanny Comfrey sneezed herself awake. She sneezed again and brushed
away the feathers that seemed to be all over her. Then she noticed what was
left of the shattered door, and turned at once to the cradle. Finding it
empty, she looked in panic round the room, and then screamed ... and screamed
... and screamed.
