Deathscent: Intrigues of the Reflected Realm. Robin Jarvis

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СКАЧАТЬ a triumphant shake of its stiff, leathery ears, the piglet rocketed for the stable door. Haring under Adam’s legs it set off, pelting between the disassembled sheep and cattle which lay between it and freedom. But, even as the yard came into view, a pair of strong hands seized its stumpy body and Suet was plucked from the ground.

      Jack Flye lifted the small creature high into the air until it was level with his own lean face and stared into the tiny eyeholes cut into the animal’s carved head.

      “Now then,” he said firmly, “we’ll have no more of that. You can go back to Old Temperance tomorrow.”

      Before Suet could begin to squeak a protest, it was whirled around and the oldest of the apprentices pressed the Wutton crest which was chiselled upon its back. In that instant the piglet’s struggles ceased, the small trotters juddered to a stop and dangled limply from their axles as the concertina snout extended to its full length with a sad whine of escaping air.

      “Thank you, Jack,” Master Edwin sighed, mopping his forehead with his cuff. “Hum hum, take hout the cordial and we can lug the gleemen across to the manor house.”

      Suspending the inert piglet from a wire by the hook of its tail, Jack unfastened the clip that held the creature together and the wooden keg of its body swung in half. Deftly, the apprentice reached inside and removed a small glass phial which he carried to where Adam was helping Henry lift the fallen musician back on to the bench. Master Edwin fanned his glowing face with his hat while overseeing this final adjustment.

      At seventeen years of age, Jack Flye was the most experienced of his apprentices. He was a serious young man, determined in his ambition to possess his own workshop one day. Adam and Henry both looked up to him; they watched in respectful silence as the youth brushed the dark hair from his eyes and measured several drops of Suet’s ichor into a larger glass vessel already swilling with yellow bile.

      “There,” he breathed, placing the second phial into the mannequin’s polished brass head. “The level is amended, the amber cordial is in perfect accord with the red. This fellow is ready to toot until his bellows bust.”

      Nodding in satisfaction, Master Dritchly closed the musician’s face and fastened it shut.

      “Well done, lads,” he said, a great grin splitting his own features. “I never thought has how we’d do it – I never did, most honest I never. Hum hum.”

      Jack sucked his teeth thoughtfully as he gazed at the renovated mechanicals. Arrayed in their repaired finery, the figures looked quite presentable. The recorder player was dressed in a peascod paunch doublet of popinjay green, embellished with gold brocade with matching slops. Not an inch of the internal frame could be seen, and that was just as well for one of the arms was undoubtedly a modified cow’s leg with chicken-claw fingers. Hidden from view by sleeve and glove, nobody would be able to guess – especially at a distance and in candlelight, which was the plan.

      The lutanist was dressed in much the same manner, except that the velvet was Coventry blue, pinked with silver tinsel. Yet the colours had faded from both costumes, the trimmings were tarnished and, despite Mistress Dritchly’s best efforts, she had been unable to eradicate the worst patches of mildew.

      “Let’s just hope they’ll play in tune after all these years,” Jack murmured.

      “Hum hum, may God and the heavenly spheres permit it,” Master Edwin said, “for there’s no time to test them.”

      Bidding Henry and Adam to follow them with the actual instruments, Master Edwin and Jack hoisted the musicians over their shoulders and marched from the workshop.

      Cog Adam glanced around at the wreckage of animals and birds that littered the stables. “Look at the state of this mess. It’ll take three days at least to put everything back the way it was,” he muttered. “We won’t be able to find half of what’s needed, there’ll be bits missing and most of the sheep will end up limping.”

      Henry Wattle picked up the detached head of a tin goose and blew through its neck as though it were a trumpet. The head wagged and a loud “HONK” blasted throughout the workshop. “Duck!” he shouted, throwing it at Adam and cackling at the bad joke.

      Adam scowled at him, then clambered up to the hay loft where the instruments had been stored. He reappeared a moment later carrying a large recorder and a very dusty lute.

      “One of the strings is broken,” he said, passing the unusual, bowl-shaped object to Henry. “Do you think it matters? Will anyone notice?”

      The boy shook his curly head and snorted rather like Old Temperance. “Listen, Coggy,” he laughed, “the less strings there are the better. Less racket, see? Do you really think them mechanicals are going to be able to play? I’ll be amazed if they can hold the instruments, never mind a tune.”

      “Master Edwin knows what he’s doing,” Adam insisted. “There’s no one better at motive science than him. If he thinks they’ll work that’s good enough for me!”

      Henry wiped a hand across his already dirty face and succeeded in making it worse. “Hog’s breath!” he said scornfully. “If Hummy Hum, Dull as Ditch Water Dritchly was really any good he wouldn’t be stuck in this dung pile. He’d be out there on some rich estate making heaps of money. That’s what I’m going to do, soon as I’m able. Sir Henry Wattle, that’s who I’ll be one day. Work for the Queen Herself, maybe, and have pots and pots of gold coin.”

      “Well, you’ll just have to make do with that lute for now,” Adam told him as he went into the yard. “Bring it to the house.”

      Alone in the workshops, Henry Wattle spat on the floor, then kicked an upended, headless sheep, forcing air through its internal pipes. A hoarse “Baaaaaaa” echoed from the circular neck hole.

      “I will be rich,” he said defiantly, “I will live in a great house of my own – I know it.”

      Leaving the stables, Henry was surprised to see Adam still in the yard. It was quite dark now and the fair-haired boy was staring out along the dusty road that led to the village.

      “What you doing?” Henry asked.

      Adam pointed with the recorder. “They’re here,” he murmured. “Lord Richard’s guests.”

      Then Henry heard the faint sound of cantering hooves and saw indistinct shapes riding through the shadows.

      “Five of them,” Adam counted. “No, there are five horses but only four riders. I wonder who they are.”

      The message that Lord Richard Wutton received that morning had not divulged the identity of the important guest who would be visiting his estate. The desire to know the answer to that mystery burned in the hearts of both apprentices. Their errand momentarily forgotten, they stood rooted to the spot as the riders drew closer.

      “What if it’s the Queen Herself?” Adam whispered.

      “You loony,” Henry scoffed. “Why would Her Majesty come to this muddy backwater? Nowt in this muck hole to interest the likes of Her.”

      “She came here once,” Adam answered. “Supposed to have been good friends with Lord Richard in the old days, when he were rich and important.”

      Henry clicked his tongue. “Well СКАЧАТЬ