Dark Lord of Derkholm (7 page)

“Goodness, no.” Derk unlatched the pen and let two large snowy owls hop out onto his shoulders, where they sat staring at Querida as unblinkingly as she stared up at them. “I found an old lioness who'd been wounded and left behind by the pride. I got her well again, and she obliged me with cells for all the griffins before she left. And some of the other cells were from that eagle Barnabas used to have. But I used cells from myself and from Mara, too. I wanted the griffins to be people, you see, but I didn't expect Kit or Callette to grow so big. I
think
Lydda and Don are going to turn out a more reasonable size, but I wouldn't bet on it. That's why I used some cat for Elda. She's definitely smaller, you may have noticed.” He stroked the owls' heads and strolled on. There were always problems with the griffins. He had hoped Kit and Callette would make a breeding pair, but Kit despised Callette and Callette hated Kit. And now Kit had put on that extraordinary act with Mr. Chesney—Derk wondered how he was going to pay a fine of a hundred gold without selling off half the animals.

They rounded the experimental beehives—Derk was glad Querida did not ask about those—and strolled on through the coffee plantation, where the owls left his shoulders and went ghosting off to hunt. He did not mind Querida's asking about the coffee. He was prepared to tell her quite frankly that Barnabas had taken some of his Pilgrim pay in coffee some years back. Derk had begged a few beans and was now growing coffee you did not need to roast. But there were other things over toward the stables and in the vats in his workshed he had no intention of telling Querida about.

Querida did not ask. She sniffed the rich smell rising from the bushes and wondered how many other things from Mr. Chesney's world Derk was secretly growing here. Tea? Exotic vegetables like potatoes and tomatoes? Antibiotics? That stuff they made the T-shirts from that the younger wizards liked so much?—cotton, that was its name. When she finally extorted the University dues from him, she would ask for all those if he wouldn't give her a griffin. And she wondered why he was letting her know some of his secrets. There must be something he badly wanted to ask from her.

“Wizard Derk,” she said, “I'm sure you didn't bring me all this way simply to sniff coffee and admire your beautiful owls. What were you wanting to say?”

Derk found he was going to have to work up to that thing. But there were plenty of others. “I didn't understand that man Addis,” he said, “when he talked about expendable tourists. What did he mean?”

“Just what he said,” Querida answered. “I suspect that is where Mr. Chesney really makes his money. A lot of people come on the tours who are either a trial to their families or very rich, with poor relatives who wish to inherit their money, and so on. These families pay enormous fees to make sure the person doesn't come back from the tour.”

Derk pushed out from among the coffee bushes and swung around to face Querida outside the dog pen. “But that's vile! And we all go along with this?”

“And with the fact that the Pilgrim Parties kill an average of two hundred of our citizens each,” Querida retorted, dry as a snake in a desert. “Given that Mr. Chesney has his wishes enforced by the demon, I don't see how we
don't
go along with it. Do you?”

“No.” Derk turned unhappily back to the dog run. Its door was open. The only dog still in there was the elderly hound bitch, Bertha. She came stiffly strutting out and scraped at his leg with one paw. Derk frowned as he bent to rub her ears. He knew the dogs had been shut in before the first wizard arrived. It looked as if Pretty really had learned how to open doors, in which case
damn!
Pretty was one of the many things he did not want Querida to see. He could hear the other dogs in the distance, now he thought about it, barking and yelping over by the stables, and the pigs squealing over there, too. Some game, by the sound of it. Fine, as long as they kept over there. “And how am I supposed to die one hundred and twenty-six times?” he asked distractedly.

“You have to fake that,” said Querida. “As Barnabas will tell you, it's time-consuming more than anything, considering all the other things the Dark Lord has to do. Is that dog bred for something or just a dog?”

“I was trying for wings,” Derk confessed, “but they always drop off when the puppies lose their milk teeth. See. Here's where they were.” He showed Querida the two folds in the brindled fur by Bertha's shoulder blades. Bertha turned and made an amiable effort to lick Querida's face as Querida bent to look. Derk hastily distracted Bertha by walking on around the dog run to the paddock.

“You should have tried reducing the length of their tongues instead,” Querida said sourly, at which Bertha shot her a nervous look and moved to the other side of Derk. So he bred them for understanding, too, Querida thought. “It's all right, dog. I just hate my face wet. What are these? Horses?”

“The horses we keep for riding,” Derk said. He was nervous. He was going to have to say what he had brought Querida here to say to her soon.

Querida looked shrewdly from Derk to the horses trotting eagerly over to the fence. He messes about breeding monsters out of these animals, she thought, and they still all adore him. Then she remembered the sarcastic geese. Perhaps not all of them. And none of the horses seemed anything but normal, several solid, thick-legged hacks, a couple of nice desert breds, and one truly classy broodmare, who was in foal, to judge by her bulging sides. Querida watched Derk nervously fumbling for sugar and wondered what all the dogs were barking about in the distance. “Well, Wizard Derk?”

Derk could not get around to it yet. “Did Mr. Chesney really mean it about wanting a god to manifest?” he asked instead.

“You heard the man,” said Querida. “And as none of the gods struck him dead, I conclude that his word is law with them, too, and you're going to have to produce a god for him.”

“Me?” said Derk.

“Yes,” said Querida. “You. The Dark Lord always sees to the novelty.”

“But I can't! No one can tell the gods what to do!” Derk protested, feeding sugar to horses in distracted handfuls.

“Except, of course, Mr. Chesney,” Querida agreed. “This is something else you're going to have to fake, I imagine. I think it would be safest to invent a god that doesn't exist. It can be done with a simple illusion spell then. You do remember how to do illusions, do you?” Derk nodded, still distracted. Well, that's something at least! Querida thought. But she was not sure she trusted the man to invent a suitable deity. “I'll think up a plausible god for you and let you know what it looks like.”

“Thanks,” said Derk. The sugar was all gone. He had run out of other things to ask Querida. He wiped his hands on his velvet trousers, wondering how to say what he wanted.

“Out with it, Wizard Derk!” Querida snapped impatiently.

“Yes,” he said. “It's a bit difficult. I don't like—I mean Mara's a free woman, and it's not that I mind her dressing up and seducing tourists exactly—”

“I've done it for years,” said Querida. “It's only more faking, if that's what's worrying you. At least Mara's not a dried-up old snake like me, and she won't need to disguise herself with twenty different glamours—” Derk turned and looked her keenly in the face. Querida uneasily remembered that great black griffin of his staring at Mr. Chesney. “It's a shame she's not being paid,” she said.

“No. There's something else,” Derk said. “You and Mara are up to something, aren't you? What's going on?”

Querida, for once, had a little trouble controlling her face. It was something that had not happened to her for years. Mara
did
warn me, she thought. He's not at all the farmerish fool he looks. Perhaps she ought to revise her plans and tell him, before he messed everything up trying to find out. “Now it's interesting you should say that—” she began cautiously.

The yelling and baying of the dogs abruptly grew louder, mixed with squealing, grunting, sounds like hysterical laughter, and the hammering of paws, hooves, and trotters. Before Querida could turn to see what was going on, or Derk could move, a confused crowd of excited animals swept around the corner of the paddock and galloped straight through the spot where Querida was standing.

Derk saw, horrified, Querida's tiny, dry body hurled into the air by a mixed crowd of galloping animals—and Pretty, of course. He saw her tossed aside, to land with a
thwack
against the paddock fence.

From Querida's point of view, she was suddenly in an avalanche of careering creatures. As she sailed through the air, she saw waving tails, wings, excited bared fangs, and an eye-twisting blur of black and white zigzags that puzzled her slightly. Then something slammed into her, all along one side, and she heard a snapping noise from her own body. Rather to her surprise, the old dog Bertha leaped to her side and seemed to try to defend her. And I don't even
like
dogs! Querida thought as Bertha was pushed aside and Querida found herself lying on the ground being punched by hard trotters galloping across her. To her utter dismay, something else in her body snapped, toward the far end of her.

Derk was roaring at the creatures. The horses in the paddock galloped clear, trumpeting with dismay. Otherwise most of the noise stopped, except for Bertha's indignant snarling. In fact, Bertha had made things worse by making the onrushing pigs swerve and trample Querida. “Shut
up,
Bertha!” Derk told her ungratefully as he dashed toward Querida lying against the fence. He hoped she had fainted. He could see her left arm was broken, and he rather feared her left ankle was, too. He knelt down beside her to see what he could do.

Querida sat up as he reached toward her leg. “
Oh,
no!” she said. She did not trust Derk an inch.

“I do know about bones,” Derk pointed out. “Muscles, too.”

That was probably true, Querida thought, trying not to scream with the pain, but she still did not trust Derk an inch. She stared beyond him through a dreadful throbbing mistiness. The black and white thing that had bowled her over was standing anxiously some way up the path. He was all long legs and a perky little fringe of mane. His big black and white flight feathers did indeed grow in eye-twisting zigzags. So he's bred a winged horse, Querida thought. Derk made another move to help her. She pushed him off with her good hand. “I don't want to grow wings like that creature!” she hissed. “And you should have reported it to the University.” It was unfair, but she did hurt so.

“Pretty,” said Derk. “Pretty's only just weaned. He was playing with the dogs and the pigs. Do let me try to set those bones.”

“No!” snapped Querida. It was horrible the way a person could be a perfectly sound old lady one second and a wounded emergency the next. She felt dreadful. She wanted—passionately—to have her own home and her own healer and a soothing cup of her own tea, and she wanted it all
now
. “I may be injured,” she said, “but I
am
a wizard still. If you'd just stay clear, I'll translocate home and call my own healer, please.”

“Are you sure?” said Derk. Querida's face looked like gray-blue withered paper. He knew he could not have translocated an inch in that state—not that he could go any distance at the best of times.

“Quite sure,” snapped Querida. And she was gone as she spoke, with a small
whiff
of moving air.

Derk stared at the empty space by the fence and hoped very much that Querida had arrived in the right place. He had better get Barnabas to go after her and make sure. But first, he turned to Pretty.

“Only playing,” said Pretty, who knew perfectly well what he had done.

“I've told you before,” said Derk, “that you have to look where you're
going
when you rush about like that. If you cause any more accidents, I shall have to shut you up in a stall all day.”

Pretty tossed his head and gave Derk a resentful look over one feathery shoulder. Then he minced away sideways to where his pregnant grandmother was leaning anxiously over the fence to him. Derk thought it a pity the broodmare could not talk. She might have talked some sense into Pretty. But all she could do was nose Pretty protectively. Pretty said to her, “Don't like Derk.”

“And I don't like you at the moment,” Derk retorted. “I told you not to let any of the visitors see you, and then you go and bowl one of them over. Come on, Bertha.”

Most of the wizards had left when Derk and the dog arrived back on the terrace. But Barnabas was still there and the young wizard Finn, enjoying another cup of coffee with Shona and Mara. Derk was making for Barnabas to tell him about Querida when he was brought up short by the sound of something splintering up in the roof. “Where's Kit?” he said.

“Still up there,” Shona said.

Derk backed to a place on the terrace where he could see the black feathery hump across the bent gutter. He could hear rafters creaking under Kit's weight. “KIT!” he bellowed. “Kit, get down before the roof breaks!”

There was a squawky mutter from above. The politest it could have been was “Get lost!”

“What's got into him?” Mara wondered anxiously.

“I don't know,” said Derk, “and I don't care. He could get hurt. Kit!” he yelled. “Kit, I give you three seconds to get down here. Then I
fetch
you down by magic. One. Two—”