The Flight of Dragons (19 page)

Gubble’s head looked up from a patch of dandelions. “Help. Find Gracie. Find Gracie NOW!”

Marlon’s attention was entirely concentrated on the grit-covered object clutched in Gubble’s arms. “My goodness,” he exclaimed. And then, pulling himself together, “Right! Follow me!”

“Can’t,” said the head.

Marlon shook out his wings, took a deep breath, and issued instructions at such speed that the troll became hopelessly muddled. His head, when finally back on his shoulders, faced the wrong way. Marlon, suffering from intense frustration, snapped, “No time to change it. You’ll have to walk backward. Come on — this way!”

A
s Queen Bluebell’s carriage came to a halt outside the main entrance to the palace of Niven’s Knowe, she was greeted by the sight of the weeping Saturday. Weeping housemaids were a common phenomenon and, in Bluebell’s wide experience, easily dealt with. She pulled a handkerchief from her bag with a practiced flick of the wrist. “Now, now,” she said briskly. “Blow your nose, and then we’ll have a nice cup of tea. Was it the butler who upset you? Or are you in love with a footman?”

Saturday took the hankie and blew her nose hard. “Oh, Your Majesty — it’s them twins, like. Oh — I can’t bear it anymore!”

Bluebell patted Saturday’s shoulder. “Twins? What twins, my dear? I don’t remember King Horace employing any twins.”

If Saturday had not been so overwrought, she might have stayed silent, but the queen’s sympathetic gesture was too much for her. “Oh, Your Majesty!” she wailed. “Everyone’s gone! Mrs. Basket and Mr. Trout and the footmen and everybody! Only me and Bobby are left, like. And there’s that Mercy Grinder in the kitchen, making everybody blow up like balloons . . .”

Saturday had lost the queen’s attention. Bluebell had heard enough to make her realize there was a serious problem, and she had never been one to shirk her duty. “You stay here,” she ordered, and with a shake of her skirts she sailed into the palace.

Marshling Stonecrop, who had been listening with interest, immediately leaped out of the carriage and grabbed Saturday’s arm. “Blow up like balloons? This I have to see!”

“Oh, no!” Saturday gave a loud wail. “Don’t make me go back in there! Please don’t!”

“Well . . .” Marshling gave Saturday a hard stare. “Is it really that bad? Or are you just a scaredy-cat?”

“ ’Tis terrible! That Mercy Grinder — she be evil! And the twins, too!”

Marshling decided Saturday’s terror was genuine. “Is there another way in?”

Saturday nodded. “The back door.”

“Right,” Marshling said. “Around the other side, I’d guess. See you later!” And he marched off at a determined trot.

Saturday wavered, then ran after him, terrified at the thought of being left alone.

As they turned the corner of the palace, Marshling came to an abrupt halt. Saturday looked around in surprise, stared, then screamed as she saw a solid green troll standing nose to nose with Bobby. Then, realizing that the troll’s body and head were facing in opposite directions, she screamed again.

Marlon, hovering overhead, rolled his eyes at this demonstration of human foolishness. “Keep going, troll!” he squeaked, but Gubble, confused by the noise and the fact that he was obliged to walk backward, stayed where he was.

“ ’S all right, Saturday,” Bobby said through chattering teeth. “He wants to get inside the palace. I won’t let him hurt you.”

“He won’t hurt anybody.” Marshling stepped forward and gave Gubble a pat on the back. “Hello, Gubble. Why is your head on back to front? And what are you carrying?”

Gubble indicated the palace with a jerk of his chin. “Find Gracie.”

“He keeps saying that.” Bobby shook his head in bewilderment. “But I don’t know who he’s talking about.”

“Gracie.” Gubble tried again. “Ug. Gubble find Gracie . . .” He forced his very small brain to make one last supreme effort. “Pillypot!”

Marshling whistled. “That Queen Bluebell said he was Gracie Gillypot’s troll. And the queen’s in the palace. Maybe Gracie is, too. Come on, Gubble.” And he set off once more, arm in arm with Gubble. Marlon sighed with relief and zoomed after them.

“Wow!” Bobby sounded admiring. “That boy knows what he wants, doesn’t he?”

Saturday nodded agreement. “He wants to see the king and the prince, like. I told him they was all swelled up . . . Oh, Bobby! Whatever shall we do?”

Bobby was still staring after Marshling. “I think we should go, too,” he decided. “I’ve never seen a troll that close before. If it’s a good one, do you think it might get rid of that horrible Mercy Grinder?”

“Oh!” Saturday clasped her hands together. “Oh! That would be wonderful! Come on!”

Even at first glance, Queen Bluebell could see things were not as they should be: the floors were unscrubbed, and a bucket was lying on its side in a pool of dirty water. With a loud “Hmph!” she headed toward the dining room. Striding through the doors, she was astonished to see her old friend King Horace up to his whiskers in chocolate mousse, while Prince Tertius was sitting under the table eating spaghetti Bolognese with a teaspoon. Both the king and the prince were enormously swollen; when they saw the queen, they grunted a welcome but went on eating.

Marcus, crouched low outside the window, looked around at Gracie and saw she was as alarmed as he was. Alf began to shake, and Great-Uncle Alvin twitched.

“Really!” Queen Bluebell the Twenty-eighth of Wadingburn drew herself up to her full height. “Whatever is going on here? And what’s
that
?” Her eye had fallen on Carrion, who was observing her with an unwinking eye from the back of a chair. “Shoo! Shoo, you horrid thing!”

“The bird’s all right.” The king was talking with his mouth full. “Belongs to our cook. Mercy Grinder. Fabulous woman. Fabulous! Couldn’t do without her.”

“Quite right.” Tertius’s sleepy voice floated up from under the table. “She’s a wonder. Don’t know where she came from, but she’s a wonder, ain’t she, Daddy-o? And all she wants is for us to write our names on a piece of paper so she can keep them safe forever and ever. She’s a . . . a . . . haughtygraph hunter. Hunts haughtygraphs. Told us she’s got hundreds and thousands of . . . of haughtygraphs. Just waiting for ours . . . ours and Feddy’s. Darling Feddy. She’ll be down for her brekkie soon. And when we’ve signed, we’re going to have cherry tart and raspberry custard and ice cream and —”

“What piece of paper?” There was a steely note in Bluebell’s voice, and Carrion slid from his perch. With a couple of wing beats, he was out of the dining room, and seconds later he was in the kitchen.

Old Malignancy looked up, his huge shapeless body quivering with suppressed excitement. “The princess? Is she there?”

“Nope.” Carrion shook his head. “But another royal’s arrived. Better get some tea and cookies up there, pronto. She ain’t the chocolate-mousse type, and she’s asking awkward questions.”

Snatching the parchment off the table, Old Malignancy smoothed it with long, trembling fingers. “Fate is on my side, Carrion. It seems we can do without the troublesome princess. The third signatory has been delivered! Once the document is signed, I can step out as my own true self, and the laws of the Five Kingdoms will fall away.” He gave a self-satisfied chuckle. “And the power of the web will be broken forever, broken because of my incomparable skills and superlative cunning —”

“You ain’t there yet,” Carrion said sharply. “And if you don’t get that old bag sorted out pretty soon, I’d say she was the type to call out the army.”

Old Malignancy gave him a cold look but went to the cupboard and took out a plate of sugar buns — just as the twins came tumbling in, grinning from ear to ear.

“She’s gone, Granpappy! She’s gone! Saturday Mousewater — we’ve got rid of her forever and ever and EVER!”

“Be silent.” The words were quiet, but the twins lost their smiles and stood still as statues in the doorway. Their great-grandfather ignored them as he took the boiling kettle from the fire and arranged a teapot and cups on a tray. “Take this upstairs,” he ordered, handing Conducta the plate of buns. “Make sure these are eaten. All of them, do you hear? Or you will be sorry. Very sorry, indeed.” His eyes glittered. “Carrion, go with them.” He opened his arms in a grandiloquent gesture. “Return and tell me when the time has come to claim my kingdom.”

Globula picked up the tray; moments later she and her sister appeared in the dining room. “We’ve brought tea and buns,” Conducta announced as Globula thumped the teapot down on the table.

Queen Bluebell raised her lorgnette and peered through it, pursing her lips. “That is no way to serve tea! And do you not wear uniforms? Where are your aprons?”

Globula folded her arms and scowled, but Conducta, more cunning, handed the queen a sugar bun on a plate.

Bluebell took it but went on with her questioning. “Where do you come from? Where did you work before?” As she waited for the answer, she took a large bite. At once her eyes began to roll alarmingly, and she lurched into a chair.

Her horrified expression made Globula double up with laughter. “Yah! Old bag!” she jeered.

“Shh!” Conducta pulled at her arm. “She’s got to eat more.”

But she was too late. King Horace reached across the table, helped himself to the remaining buns, and demolished them in three mouthfuls.

“Oops!” Conducta and Globula looked at each other and nodded in unspoken agreement. Sliding past Queen Bluebell, they sank down behind a large sofa at the far end of the dining room. “We can watch what happens from here,” Globula whispered. “And guess what? I’ve got a treat for us!” She patted her pocket and licked her lips.

Carrion, who had observed everything, decided the moment had come to report to Old Malignancy — but he did not have to go far. The billowing figure was already outside the open door. So certain was he of success that he was ready and waiting, a pen and the parchment in his hand. He surged through the doorway; just one glance reassured him that there would be no opposition. King Horace was drooping over his bowl, and Tertius was dozing under the table.

Queen Bluebell hiccuped, then peered blearily around. “Who did that? Rudeness! Such rudeness!”

“Your Majesties,” Old Malignancy said in a voice like an oiled knife, “may I trouble you for your autographs? A kindness for a poor cook, a kindness much appreciated.”

King Horace nodded. Queen Bluebell smiled a lopsided and foolish smile. “Of course,” she said. “Of course.”

Prince Tertius held up his hand. “Whatever you say, Mercy Grinder. Whatever you say. ’S long as we get our yummy, scrummy raspberry custard.”

Carrion gave a raucous squawk of laughter. “Custard!
Ark!
Five Kingdoms signed away for a bowl of custard!”

On the other side of the window, Marcus gave a stifled gasp and jumped to his feet. Gracie, holding the egg very close, did the same. Together they tiptoed away as fast as they could go, the bats flying above them.

“I’ve got to stop them from signing that paper!” Marcus’s voice was shaking. “The Five Kingdoms are in terrible danger — and I’m going to go in there. I don’t care what that horrible thing does to me; she’s got to be stopped. And you absolutely mustn’t let her get her hands on that egg. Run away, Gracie. Take Hinny, and get away from here. Go to the crones.”

Gracie took a deep breath. “Marcus . . . do you trust me?”

Marcus was surprised by the question. “Of course I do. Why?”

“Well . . .” Gracie hesitated, then said, “I think we should go in there together. There . . . there’s something I must say to that creature. I have to.”

“What?” Marcus stared at her, his mind whirling. “What can you possibly say that’s going to stop this? Gracie, we haven’t got time to argue. I’ve got to go
now
, or I’ll be too late —”

Gracie put her hand on his. “Please, Marcus. Just trust me.”

Marcus went on staring at her. He was a prince of the Five Kingdoms; it was his right to defend them. Every bone in his body was aching to fight, to take action . . . but it was Gracie who was standing in front of him. Gracie, who was looking at him with her clear blue eyes and asking him to trust her. “OK,” he said, and swallowed hard. “OK. Say what you have to. But we have to get there before they sign anything, so come on! RUN!”