Dancing Jax Read online

  The usual petty squabbles and rivalries of the Court were taking place as normal, but today they were coloured by the impending thrill of Fighting Pax. With her infant son in her arms, the Lady Labella gazed out of the window, at the city far below. The larger creatures had retreated from the sunrise and were now hiding in underground car parks and subways. Only the slime trails they left behind glistened in the morning light and scavenging beasts tore apart what morsels of prey had been discarded.

  “To never visit this unhappy land again,” she murmured. “How well that wouldst be. To spend the entire night rooted in the White Castle. What perfect peace. No more of this processing from country to country.”

  Nearby, the Jill of Spades had managed to corner the Jack of Clubs as he was ladling out a dollop of steaming porridge from an immense cauldron, and was demanding they go hunting together when they woke up in Mooncaster.

  “I must decline, Lady,” he said flatly. “Your hands are too bloody for my liking. You dispatch both quarry and hawk if they displease you, and I have seen the scarlet stripes on thine horse’s flank. I have no wish to observe yet more of your hard-hearted cruelty.”

  The dark-haired girl pressed her lips together crossly. “You nurse your grudges overlong,” she told him as he drizzled honey into his bowl. “I have a new hawk I wouldst try, better than the other.”

  “Then pray gallop out with the Jack of Diamonds or the Jill of Hearts. Let them be your playfellows, for I shall not.”

  “And where will you be?” she asked sourly. “Away in the hills with your proud horse? Again? The beast that will suffer no stable lad to approach it and bites the other mounts if they dare look in its direction? Have you heard what the common tongues are wagging?”

  “I think I am about to.”

  Ignoring the insult, she said, “They say that your thoughts and your heart are ever upon Ironheart, your thunderous steed, and that it is in truth a maiden under some enchantment. You spend so much time alone with her, she must be beautiful and diverting indeed. At what distance from the White Castle does the bewitchment fail and her appetite turns from hay to princes? Or does she receive her oats as gladly in whatever form?”

  The Jack of Clubs made no reply, but brushed past her, licking his spoon. The girl’s eyes blazed at him angrily.

  Creeping away from the main group, the Jack of Diamonds ducked behind a table and crawled along the floor, unnoticed. His palms were itching like never before. To be in the same room as the most valuable object in this existence was unbearable for Magpie Jack, the light-fingered knave of Mooncaster. Throughout the broadcast his eyes had been locked on the Ismus’s laptop. Then, to his astonishment and unbounded glee, he watched the Holy Enchanter leave it unattended on the crimson sofa. There it was, momentarily forgotten, the one and only copy of Fighting Pax. It made the boy almost sick with trepidation as he crept closer. If he could steal it away and be the first to read it, that would be the pinnacle of his pilfering so far.

  Stealthily, he made his way nearer, using the tables as cover and shooting sly, backward glances at the breakfasting Court and the hungry press. His knees shuffled over the carpet. Almost there now, almost there. The velvet sofa was right before him. He reached up a greedy hand and touched the cool black metal of the laptop.

  Suddenly another hand flashed out and slapped his knuckles hard. Before he could reach for the dagger at his belt, his head was torn back by his hair and he found himself staring up into the face of the Queen of Spades.

  The sharp-featured Under Queen had been observing him the entire time. The pupils of her eyes were enlarged and empty and her lips curled into a snarl.

  “I should inform the Holy Enchanter of this,” she hissed at him. “How long would you languish in gaol this time, Magpie Jack? Leg irons and a sojourn in the knee-crackers would put an end to your creeping crawls.”

  “Pray don’t!” he entreated. “I meant no harm – upon my honour. I swear it.”

  The Queen of Spades gave a disdainful snort that made her raven ringlets jiggle about her ears. “What honour is there in you?” she asked. “You are a thief, boy. A dirty, sneaking cutpurse who would pull the jewels from the crown on your own father’s head and twist the rings off your poor mother’s fingers. ’Tis high time you rekindled your acquaintance with the devices of the dungeon.”

  Digging her fingernails deep into his wrist, she enjoyed watching his panic and dread increase.

  “I am blameless!” he pleaded. “You know full well Haxxentrot placed this curse when she caught me in her tower – and I only ventured there by the earnest bidding of your daughter.”

  The Queen of Spades pretended to take pity on him. “Then grant me the pleasure of curing your palms of that oh so wicked spell,” she said.

  “There is no remedy!” Jack answered. “Malinda herself told me. It is to be my life-long torment.”

  The Under Queen chuckled softly. “Surely only whilst your hands remain jointed to your arms?” she said. “One deft blow with a blade would sever the witch’s curse completely. There are many knights who would be more than willing to aid you in this. Why, Sir Darksilver, whose brace of emerald daggers you abstracted last summer, would be beyond glad to assist you. Shall I summon him hither?”

  The Jack of Diamonds gasped in horror and shook his head.

  “Clemency!” he begged.

  “You do not wish to be rid of this affliction?”

  “Not at the price of my hands!”

  “They would make a tasty morsel for Mauger, the Growly Guardian of the Gate. I’m sure the beast would enjoy some finger food.”

  The Queen of Spades allowed the horror of that to sink in, toying with his fear, then let go of his wrist and wrinkled her face in disgust.

  “Begone, you lukewarm puke curd,” she commanded. “We will say no more on this.”

  The boy didn’t need to be told twice and made a hasty retreat back beneath the tables.

  A playful smile lifted the corners of the woman’s mouth and she turned her keen attention to the velvet sofa and the unattended laptop.

  Moments later, she was sidling behind the restaurant bar, with as casual an air as she could manage, even though her pulse was racing. When she was certain no one was watching, the Queen of Spades dipped out of sight and placed the laptop reverently on the floor. With trembling fingers, she opened it and switched it on.

  The Ismus’s desktop wallpaper displayed an image of some old-fashioned Bakelite device with an illuminated dial showing strange symbols and the letter forms of an archaic language. This held no interest for the Queen of Spades; she was too overjoyed with the discovery that there was no password protection. The Holy Enchanter really was exceedingly careless.

  There was only one folder on the desktop and it contained just one document: Fighting Pax.

  Holding her breath in her excitement, the Queen of Spades clicked on it and began to read.

  The rays of the morning sun diminished and the lights in the restaurant dwindled until darkness surrounded her. She felt an icy breath on the back of her neck that caused her to shiver and she began to rock backwards and forwards…

  14

  THE JILL OF HEARTS tossed her head back and laughed at her mother’s plump, scolding face. The Queen of Hearts had just sent the cameraman away with a haughty warning ringing in his ears and was trying to instil some decorum into her flighty daughter, in between taking sparrow-sized bites from a thick slice of bacon, impaled on a daintily held skewer.

  “You should be ducked in the millpond every sunrise and sunset!” the Under Queen chastised. “The blood’s too hot in your veins, that’s the trouble. Menfolk are not safe near your siren flame. Must you beguile and singe every one? You cause naught but strife and disharmony ’twixt spouses and the betrothed, then you sow discord and rivalry amongst the poor ’prentices and kitchen boys.”

  “I would be a very pale flame if moths were all I enticed,” Jill answered with a smirk. “There are other creatures, with brig
hter wings.”

  “Enough I say! I must needs consult my book of physic and gather some simples from the Gentle Garden to douse your appetite, my graceless girl.”

  The Jill of Hearts stopped listening to her. She called to mind that, on market day, there was a merchant who dealt in the most marvellous mechanical wonders. One of them was a golden cage in which a delightful silver bird, composed of the daintiest cogs and wheels and fine chains, could be made to sing, spread its wings and bob its head by means of a winding key. It had but one song and, though she had heard it on many occasions, she never grew as tired of it as the sound of her mother’s monotonous reproofs and she wished the Under Queen also had a key that she could remove so that she could fling it into the moat.

  Glancing across the long table, she saw the handsome cameraman disappear into the crowd and she cast about for a fresh victim to practise her bewitching smile upon. But here, in the revolving restaurant, none of the other new faces caught her interest. Her lovely eyes fell upon the Jack of Clubs. The dawn sunlight was shining in the gold of his hair, and the velvet of his tunic was stretched taut across his shoulders. The old familiar hurt ached in the girl’s heart as she remembered the curse of the Mistletoe King.

  She was the daughter of the House of Hearts and could gather suitors as plentifully as children pluck daisies, except for the one she truly desired – that would always be denied her. She took little comfort from the knowledge that the Jill of Spades had even less success at capturing his attention. It was well known how much he disliked that cold-hearted princess. If only he would spend less time riding and tending to his horse and hawk. If only she could be the quarry when he went hunting. She would give him the best sport of his life and would let him carry her back to the White Castle as a trophy.

  “Perhaps ’twould be best for all to keep you in a tower,” her mother was prattling on, “behind locked doors! That might quell the disputes and give bruised affections time to heal.”

  The girl continued to feast her eyes on Jack. He was conversing politely with three ladies-in-waiting from the House of Diamonds, oblivious to the effect his good looks and athletic appeal had on them. For a while, they tittered behind their hands and tried their best to hold his gaze for longer than courtly manners might expect. Presently Jill became aware that the ladies, and Jack too, were distracted by something across the restaurant and then she realised that everyone, except her mother, had stopped talking and was staring in one direction.

  The Jill of Hearts followed the collective gaze.

  “Will she never halt that flabby tongue?” a bitter voice suddenly cut through the shared silence. “She makes more noise but less sense than a frighted goose. Is the only way to silence her honking to follow the example set by the Bad Shepherd? Is that the answer? Is it?”

  The courtiers had parted and the Queen of Spades came staggering through from the bar area. Jill’s eyes widened. She had never seen the Under Queen so haggard and ghastly. What could have happened? She looked like an apparition conjured from the grave on the Night of All Dark.

  At last the Queen of Hearts became aware that something was happening behind her and she spun about quickly so as not to miss a moment of any new Court sensation, not realising she was about to be the focus of it. At the edge of the crowd, the Ismus folded his arms and the famous crooked smile played across his lips. He was mildly surprised to learn it was not Magpie Jack who had taken the bait of the unguarded laptop.

  “Behold!” the Queen of Spades spat as she stumbled forward. “See how we robe the kine of Mooncaster in velvet and jewels.”

  The Queen of Hearts blinked at her in astonishment.

  “Mark how she bats her bovine lashes!” the other announced bitterly. “As though the butter from her hanging udders would not melt in her venomous mouth. Yea, in truth, beneath those heaving rolls of grease and lard she is, at the core, a twisting viper. At last it is made plain to me, Madam. Now your perfidy is laid bare!”

  “Dearest Lady!” the Queen of Hearts exclaimed. “What strange affliction is this? Are you in need of a purgative? I could prepare…”

  The Queen of Spades let out a shrill scream and rushed at her like a mad dog. Her demented fury was horrible to see. Seizing the other woman’s chestnut hair with her right hand, she wrapped it tightly round her fist and gouged deep scratches across the shocked face with the fingernails of the left.

  The Queen of Hearts was so startled, she could only shriek helplessly and the skewer fell from her grasp. Her old friend was screeching vile oaths of vengeance right into her face, but she did not understand what she was supposed to have done. Before she could protest or retaliate, she felt the hair being torn from her scalp and she was dragged roughly along the side of the table.

  Plates and goblets went flying as the Queen of Spades dashed them out of the way. She snatched at knives, but discarded them as being too efficient and painless. Then her wild, glaring stare alighted upon the perfect punishment and her frenzied fingers closed round the heavy iron porridge ladle. She raised it high above her head as the Queen of Hearts flailed her dumpy arms and squealed for her life.

  The surrounding courtiers looked on in puzzlement, unsure how to react. What were the Under Queens doing? What unknown quarrel had prompted this unseemly display? They glanced over at the Ismus to read his expression, so that they might follow his lead, and were reassured to find him enjoying the unruly spectacle. Encouraged and comforted, they resumed viewing the violent entertainment with indulgent smiles. The two Jills, however, were simply annoyed. Their royal mothers were brawling like a couple of ale-sodden slatterns in The Silver Penny. When this shameful dream was over, they would remind them of this back in Mooncaster.

  “It was you!” the Queen of Spades screamed in rage as she battered the other woman’s head with the iron ladle. “You did it! You did it!”

  Bellowing, she hauled her up by the hair and rammed her face into the cauldron of steaming porridge, shoving it under and pressing down with all her strength.

  “Collect the fee owed to you!” she thundered. “In the coin of your own minting. You who put death in your potion pot, collect it now from this one. A fitting retribution!”

  The Queen of Hearts’ floundering struggles were brief and the urgent gurgling soon stopped.

  When the final bubble broke the surface of the porridge, the only sound to be heard was the heaving breath of the Queen of Spades as she tottered backwards, swaying unsteadily. Her eyes rolled up, showing only a bloodshot wedge of white, and a violent jolt snapped through her body. Then she wilted and collapsed in a faint.

  The strong arms of a Harlequin Priest were there to catch her.

  Around them the courtiers began to murmur. They were still confused. Then the Queen of Spades’ eyelids fluttered open. Her pupils were shrunken and she squinted up at the Harlequin’s face in a daze. Her mind and vision were blurred.

  “Miller?” she whispered uncertainly. “Is that you? I feel dog rough. Have… have you got a smoke?”

  The Harlequin said nothing.

  Dragging a trembling hand over her eyes, she extricated herself from his arms and peered at the coloured diamonds tattooed on his face.

  “What the bloody hell have you gone and done? Just how much did we knock back last night? Howie’s made a right mess of you. He shouldn’t have…”

  Queenie stopped. She had reached up to touch the man’s inked cheek and in that moment saw the bright red blood on her fingers.

  “Miller?” she uttered in alarm. “What’s this?”

  Then, suddenly, she was aware of her surroundings. Forty-six-year-old Queenie, whose holiday destinations had only ever included sun, sand and sangria, found herself at the top of the CN Tower, hemmed in by an audience of strangers wearing fancy dress. Miller was also in a weird get-up and, with a start, she realised that she too was tightly laced into some bizarre, old-fashioned gown of black silk and taffeta, heavy with embroidered jet beads.

  Queenie’s head reeled.
She stared at the unknown faces and began to feel afraid. There was something uncanny about their eyes; they were dark and glassy and they were studying her with doubt and suspicion.

  “That is not the Queen of Spades,” one of them declared.

  “Who is that uncouth person?” asked another. “Where did the Queen of Spades vanish to? What magick is this?”

  The faces began to look stern and the voices sounded hostile.

  “What’s happening?” Queenie cried, holding out her blood-soaked hands. “Miller – for God’s sake, tell me! Please!”

  The Harlequin Priest opened his mouth, but made no answer and Queenie wailed in revulsion when she saw the stump of his severed tongue waggling inside. The Harlequin frowned at her and pointed to a black patch on his robe to indicate his displeasure.

  Stumbling from him, she blundered into the intimidating crowd, pushing them out of the way. For an instant, she thought she caught sight of another familiar face. Was that Tommo? He and Miller were inseparable; they were practically a double act. When she saw he was wearing the same diamond-patterned costume, her panic escalated and she lurched the other way. Then she saw a face that she definitely recognised. It was thin and clever and framed with shoulder-length black hair.

  “Jezza!” she called. “Jezza!”

  The leader of the old gang back in Felixstowe gave a soft chuckle and strode forward to greet her.

  “I am the Ismus,” he corrected with some amusement. “Have you forgotten already?”

  Queenie looked intently at him, confusion scoring her brow. Of course it was Jezza; there was no question about that. But she had never seen him so groomed and elegant. Where was the shabby leather jacket that was never off his back?

  “Stop mucking about,” she pleaded. “I don’t like it here. Help me, Jezza.”

  “There is no Jezza.”

  Before she could argue, something heavy and wet fell to the floor behind her. A hideous sense of dread closed round Queenie’s soul and she turned, stiff and slow.