Diana Wynne Jones - Derkholm 1 by Dark Lord of Derkholm

Author:Dark Lord of Derkholm
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-09-08T19:54:21+00:00

Page 100

Surely

. About half the messages were indeed from women wizards, but they all seemed to be saying,

“We have done what you said. What do we do next?” There did not seem to be one from Mara, and there ought to have been. Mara had promised to deliver a suitable miniature universe before the sieges started.

Better write to Mara at once. And to the woman in the Emirates.

Oh, here was a message from Barnabas.

Querida unfolded it clumsily. Barnabas wrote that he was worried. Derk was turning out to be much more efficient than either of them had expected. “With this in mind,” Barnabas wrote, “I have jinxed the avians and made sure the containing camps for the army are really flimsy. I am putting the base camp in the wrong place and will probably jinx that, too, but I have to report that so far these measures have had little effect.”

Hmm. Querida leaned back in the large chair, considering. This was annoying. She had been relying on Pilgrims complaining about the Dark Lord. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that she had been injured herself before she could help Derk with either a demon or a god, or maybe it was the work of the Oracles, in which case it was possibly worth all the pain. She had better drag her heels a bit over demons and gods— while pretending to be helpful, of course—and it might be an idea to nag and bully Derk as well. In

Querida’s experience, most men responded badly to bullying. It got them making mistakes.

Mara’s activities ought to unbalance the man, too, and get him doing things wrong. Derk had to make mistakes.

Had to

.

“Because we have got to win, now we are showing our hand,” she murmured. “Once Mr.

Chesney realizes there is a fight on, we could all be in terrible trouble.”

This time her voice did not ring out entirely on its own. There were other noises, too, most of it a considerable scuffling outside the hall. Perhaps the janitor had actually managed to find the kettle and was bringing her a drink at last. If so, by the sound, he was making heavy weather of it.

Querida turned inquiringly toward the doorway, just as a scrawny gray wolf, with its hackles up in a hedge all down its spine,

came backing in through it.

“Oh, really, Wilkie,” she said, “do please try to control yourself.

What’s the matter?” The janitor, being a werewolf, was always liable to change shape in moments of stress. “Assume your proper form!” Querida snapped at him. “I can’t talk to a wolf.”

The wolf stood humbly on its hind legs and became a man, a hairy man who did not look very bright. Wilkie hitched his trousers—a wolf’s waist being lower than a man’s—and said indignantly, “I told it you were sick, ma’am, I told it you were busy, I told it to go away, and it won’t take no for an answer!”

“What won’t?” Querida snapped.

Wilkie pointed to the doorway. A huge brown

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