Diana Wynne Jones - Derkholm 1 - Dark Lord of Derkholm

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Greenwillow Books, New York

The right of Diana Wynne Jones to be identified as

author of this work has been asserted by her.

reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means,

electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval

system, without permission in writing from the

Publisher, Greenwillow Books, a division of William

Morrow & Company, Inc.,

1350 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10019.

www.williammorrow.com

Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Jones, Diana Wynne. Dark Lord of Derkholm / by

Diana Wynne Jones.

p. cm. Summary: Derk, an unconventional wizard, and

his magical family become involved in a plan to put a stop

to the devastating tours of their world arranged by the

tyrannical Mr. Chesney.

ISBN 0-688-16004-2

[1. Fantasy. 2. Magic—Fiction.] I. Title.

Pz7.J684Dar 1998 97-32661 CIP AC

For all my grandchildren

One

Will you all be quiet!” snapped High Chancellor Querida. She

pouched up her eyes and glared around the table.

“I was only trying to say—” a king, an emperor, and several

wizards began.

“At once,” said Querida, “or the next person to speak spends the

rest of his life as a snake!”

This shut most of the University Emergency Committee up.

Querida was the most powerful wizard in the world, and she had a

special feeling for snakes. She looked like a snake herself, small and

glossy-skinned and greenish, and very, very old. Nobody doubted

she meant what she said. But two people went on talking, anyway.

Gloomy King Luther murmured from the end of the table, “Being a

snake might be a relief.” And when Querida’s eyes darted around at

him, he stared glumly back, daring her to do it.

And Wizard Barnabas, who was vice chancellor of the University,

simply went on talking. “… trying to say, Querida, that you don’t

understand what it’s like. You’re a woman. You only have to be the

Glamorous Enchantress. Mr. Chesney won’t let women do the Dark

Lord.” Querida’s eyes snapped around at him with no effect at all.

Barnabas gave her a cheerful smile and puffed a little. His face

seemed designed for good humor. His hair and beard romped

around his face in gray curls. He looked into Querida’s pouched eyes

with his blue, bloodshot ones and added, “We’re all worn out, the lot

of us.”

“Hear, hear!” a number of people around the table muttered

cautiously.

“I know that!” Querida snapped. “And if you’d listen, instead of

all complaining at once, you’d hear me saying that I’ve called this

meeting to discuss how to put a stop to Mr. Chesney’s Pilgrim

Parties for good.”

This produced an astonished silence.

A bitter little smile put folds in Querida’s cheeks. “‘Yes,” she said.

“I’m well aware that you elected me high chancellor because you

thought I was the only person ruthless enough to oppose Mr.

Chesney and that you’ve all been very disappointed when I didn’t

immediately leap at his throat. I have, of course, been studying the

situation. It is not easy to plan a campaign against a man who lives

in another world and organizes his tours from there.” Her small

green-white hands moved to the piles of paper, bark, and

parchment in front of her, and she began stacking them in new

heaps, with little dry, rustling movements. “But it is clear to me,”

she said, “that things have gone from bad, to intolerable, to crisis

point, and that something must be done. Here I have forty-six

petitions from all the male wizards attached to the University and

twenty-two from other male magic users, each pleading chronic

overwork. This pile is three letters signed by over a hundred female

wizards, who claim they are being denied equal rights. They are

accurate. Mr. Chesney does not think females can be wizards.” Her

hands moved on to a mighty stack of parchments with large red

seals dangling off them. “This,” she said, “is from the kings. Every

monarch in the world has written to me at least once protesting at

what the tours do to their kingdoms. It is probably only necessary

to quote from one. King Luther, perhaps you would care to give us

the gist of the letter I receive from you once a month?”

“Yes, I would,” said King Luther. He leaned forward and gripped

the table with powerful blue-knuckled hands. “My kingdom is being

ravaged,” he said. “I have been selected as Evil King fifteen times

in the last twenty years, with the result that I have a tour through

there once a week, invading my court and trying to kill me or my

courtiers. My wife has left me and taken the children with her for

safety. The towns and countryside are being devastated. If the

army of the Dark Lord doesn’t march through and sack my city,

then the Forces of Good do it next time. I admit I’m being paid

quite well for this, but the money I earn is so urgently needed to

repair the capital for the next Pilgrim Party that there is almost

none to spare for helping the farmers. They hardly grow anything

these days. You must be aware, High Chancellor—”

Querida’s hand went to the next pile, which was of paper, in

various shapes and sizes. “I am aware, thank you, Your Majesty.

These letters are a selection of those I get from farmers and

ordinary citizens. They all state that what with magical weather

conditions, armies marching over crops, soldiers rustling cattle,

fires set by the Dark Lord’s minions, and other hazards, they are

likely to starve for the foreseeable future.” She picked up another

smallish pile of paper. “Almost the only people who seem to be

prospering are the innkeepers, and they complain that the lack of

barley is making it hard to brew sufficient ale.”

“My heart bleeds,” King Luther said sourly. “Where would we be

if a Pilgrim Party arrived at an inn with no beer?”

“Mr. Chesney would not be pleased,” murmured a high priest.

“May the gods defend us, Anscher preserve us from that!”

“Chesney’s only a man,” muttered the delegate from the Thieves

Guild.

“Don’t let him hear you say that!” Barnabas said warningly.

“Of course he’s only a man,” snapped Querida. “He just happens

to be the most powerful man in the world, and I’ve taken steps to

ensure that he cannot hear us inside this council chamber. Now

may I go on? Thank you. We are being pressured to find a solution

by several bodies. Here”—she picked up a large and beautifully

lettered parchment with paintings in the margins—“is an

ultimatum from Bardic College. They say that Mr. Chesney and his

agents appear to regard all bards with the tours as expendable.

Rather than lose any more promising musicians, they say here,

they are refusing to take part in any tours this year, unless we can

guarantee the safety of—”

“But we can’t!” protested a wizard two places down from

Barnabas.

“True,” said Querida. “I fear the bards are going to have to

explain themselves to Mr. Chesney. I also have here similar but

more moderate letters from the seers and the healers. The seers

complain that they have to foresee imaginary events and that this

is against the articles of their guild, and the healers, like the

wizards, complain of chronic overwork. At least they only threaten

not to work this year. And here”—she lifted up a small ragged pile

of paper—“here are letters from the mercenary captains. Most of

them say that replacements to manpower, equipment, and armor

cost them more than the fees they earn from the Pilgim Parties,

and this one on top from—Black Gauntlet, I think the man’s name

is—also very feelingly remarks that he wants to retire to a farm,

but he has not in twenty years earned enough for one coo—”

“One what?” said King Luther.

“Cow. He can’t spell,” said Barnabas.

“—even if there were any farms where he would be safe from the

tours,” said Querida. She shuffled more papers, saying as she

shuffled, “Pathetic letters from nuns, monks, werewolves. Where

are—? Oh, yes, here.” She picked up a white sheet that glowed

faintly and a large pearly slice of what seemed to be shell, covered

with faint marks. “Probably one of their old scales,” she remarked.

“These are protests from the elves and the dragons.”

“What have they got to complain of?” another wizard asked

irritably.

“Both put it rather obscurely,” Querida confessed. “I think the

Elfking is talking about blackmail and the dragons seem to be

bewailing the shrinking of their hoards of treasure, but both of

them seem to be talking about their birthrate, too, so one cannot be

sure. You can all read them in a short while, if you wish, along with

any other letters you want. For now, have I made my point?” Her

pouchy eyes darted to look at everyone around the long table. “I

have asked everyone I can think of to tell me how the tours affect

them. I have received over a million replies. My study is

overflowing with them, and I invite you all to go and inspect it.

What I have here are only the most important. And the important

thing is that they all, in different ways, say the same thing. They

want an end to Mr. Chesney’s Pilgrim Parties.”

“And have you thought of a way to stop them?” Barnabas asked

eagerly.

“No,” said Querida. “There is no way.”

“What?” shouted almost everyone around the table.

“There is no way,” Querida repeated, “that I can think of.

Perhaps I should remind you that Mr. Chesney’s decisions are

supported by an extremely powerful demon. All the signs are that

he made a pact with it when he first started the tours.”

“Yes, but that was forty years ago,” objected the young Emperor

of the South. “Some of us weren’t born then. Why should I have to

keep on doing what that demon made my grandfather do?”

“Don’t be foolish,” Querida snapped. “Demons are immortal.”

“But Mr. Chesney isn’t,” argued the young Emperor.

“Possibly he isn’t, but I’ve heard he has children being groomed to

take over after him,” Barnabas said sadly.

Querida’s eyes darted to the Emperor in venomous warning.

“Don’t speak like that outside this room. Mr. Chesney does not like

to hear anyone being less than enthusiastic about his Pilgrims, and

we do not mention the demon. Have I made myself plain?” The

young Emperor swallowed and sat back. “Good,” said Querida.

“Now, to business. The tour agents have been in this world for over

a month, and the arrangements for this year’s tours are almost

complete. Mr. Chesney is due here himself tomorrow to give the

Dark Lord and the Wizard Guides their final briefings. The purpose

of this meeting is supposed to be to appoint this year’s Dark Lord.”

Heavy sighs ran around the table. “All right,” said one of the

wizards, out of the general dejection. “Who is it to be? Not me. I did

it last year.”

Querida gave her sour little smile, folded her hands, and sat

back. “I have no idea,” she said blandly. “I have no more idea who is

to be Dark Lord than I have about how to stop the tours. I propose

that we consult the Oracles.”

There was a long, thoughtful silence. Relieved shiftings began

around the table as even the slowest of the people there realized

that Querida was, after all, trying to find a way out. At last the

high priest said dubiously, “Madam Chancellor, I understood that

the Oracles were set up for Mr. Chesney by wizards of the

University—”

“And by a former high priest, who asked the gods to speak

through the Oracles,” Querida agreed. “Is that any reason why they

shouldn’t work, Reverend Umru?”

“Well,” said the high priest. “Er. Mightn’t the Oracles, in that

case, be… well… biased?”

“Probably,” said Querida. “For that reason, I propose to ask both

the White Oracle and the Black Oracle. They will say two different

things, and we will do them both.”

“Er,” said High Priest Umru. “Two Dark Lords?”

“If necessary,” said Querida. “Anything it takes.” She pushed

back her chair and stood up. Because she was so small, this kept

her head at exactly the same height. Her small, lizardlike chin

jutted as she looked around the table. “We can’t all go to the

Oracles,” she said, “and some of you look far too tired. I shall take a

representative body. King Luther, I think, and Barnabas, you come.

And you, High Priest Umru—”

Umru stood up and bowed, with his hands clasped across his

large belly. “Madam Chancellor, I would hate to be selected on false

pretenses. I am probably one of the few people here who does not

object to the Pilgrim Parties. My temple has prospered exceedingly

out of them over the years.”

“I know,” said Querida. “You people keep taking me for a fool. I

want you as a representative of the other point of view, of course.

And I’ll take you, too, for the same reason.” Her hand darted out

like a snake’s tongue to point at the delegate from the Thieves

Guild.

He was a young man, thin and fair and clever-looking. He was

extremely surprised. “Me?” he said. “Are you sure?”

“What a silly question,” Querida said. “Your guild must have

made a mint from the Pilgrims, one way and another.”

A strange expression crossed the face of the thief, but he got up

without a word. His clothing was as rich as that of the high priest.

His long silk sleeves swirled as he walked gracefully around the

table. “Aren’t the Oracles in the Distant Desert?” he asked. “How

do we go?”

“By a translocation spell I have already set up,” Querida said.

“Come over here, the four of you.” She led the way to the empty

part of the room, where one of the large flagstones in the floor could

be seen to have faint marks around its edges. “The rest of you can

start reading those letters while we’re away,” she said. “And I’ll

need a name for you,” she told the young thief.

“Oh… Regin,” he said.

“Stand here,” Querida said, pushing him to one corner of the

flagstone. She pushed King Luther, Barnabas, and High Priest

Umru to each of the other corners and slithered between Umru and

King Luther to stand in the center of the stone herself. From the

point of view of the people still sitting at the table, she vanished

entirely behind Umru’s belly. Then, quietly and without warning,

all five of them vanished and the flagstone was bare.

From the point of view of the four people with Querida, it was

like suddenly stepping into an oven—an oven that was probably on

fire, King Luther thought, shielding his eyes with his stout woolen

sleeve. Sweat ran out from under Barnabas’s curls. Umru gasped

and staggered and then tried wretchedly to get sand out of his

embroidered slippers and loosen his vestments at the same time.

Only Querida was perfectly happy. She said, “Ah!” and stretched,

turning her face up to the raging sun with a blissful smile. Her

eyes, the young thief noticed, were wide open and looking straight

into the sun. Wizards! he thought. He was as uncomfortable as the

other three, but he had been trained to seem cool and keep his wits

about him. He looked around. The Oracles were only a few yards

away. They were two small domed buildings, the one on the left so

black that it looked like a hole in the universe, and the one on the

right so dazzlingly white that sweat ran stinging into his eyes and

he had to look away from it.

While they waited for the other three to recover, Querida took

Regin’s arm and pulled him across the sand, toward the white

building. “Why did you look so oddly when I said your guild must

have made a mint from the tours?” she hissed up at him. “Does that

mean you want the tours stopped, too?”

Trust her to notice! the thief thought ruefully. “Not exactly,

Madam Chancellor. But if you think about it, you’ll see that after

forty years we haven’t got much else to steal. We’re debating

stealing from one another, and even if we did, there’s nothing much

left to spend what we steal on. Actually, I was sent to ask whether

it was permissible to steal from the Pilgrims.”

“Don’t you steal from tourists?” Querida asked. When he shook

his head, another blissful grin spread over Querida’s little lizard

face. “Do you know, I believe that must be one thing that Mr.

Chesney forgot to put in his rules. By all means, start stealing from

tourists.” Her face darted around toward Umru, who was now

mopping his head with his embroidered cope. “Come along, man!

Don’t just stand there! Come along, all of you, before you fry. We’ll

begin with the White Oracle.”

She led the way to the white building. Regin followed, stepping

lightly in his soft boots, although sweat trickled past his ears. King

Luther and Barnabas trudged glumly after them. Umru floundered

behind and had some trouble fitting through the narrow white

doorway.

Inside, it was dark and beautifully cool. They stood in a row

looking into a complete darkness that seemed to take up much

more space than such a small building could hold.

“What do we do?” King Luther asked.

“Wait,” said Querida. “Watch.”

They waited. After a while, as happens when you stare into total

darkness, they all thought they could see dots, blobs, and twirling

patterns. Sun dazzle, King Luther thought. Trick of the eyeballs,

Regin thought. Take no notice. Means nothing.

All at once the seeming dazzles gathered purposefully together. It

was impossible to think they meant nothing. In a second or so they

definitely formed the shape of something that might have been

human, though swirling and too tall, composed of dim reds and

sullen blues and small flashes of green. A soft, hollow voice, with a

lot of echoes behind it, said, Speak your question, mortals.

“Thank you,” Querida said briskly. “Our question is this: What do

we do to abolish the Pilgrim Parties and get rid of Mr. Chesney for

good?”

The swirling shape dived, mounted to something twenty feet

high, and then shrank to something Querida’s size, weaving this

way and that. It seemed agitated. But the hollow voice, when it

spoke, was the same as before: You must appoint as Dark Lord the

first person you see on leaving here.

“Much obliged,” said Querida.

Quite suddenly the little temple was not dark at all. It was a very

small space, hardly big enough for the five of them, with bare white

walls and a floor of drifted sand in which bits of rubbish could be

seen, evidently dropped by other people who had been to consult the

White Oracle. There were scraps of paper, a small shoe, buckles,

straps, and plum stones. Something flashed, half buried in the sand

by the toes of Regin’s boots. While everyone was turning to go out,

he stooped and picked it deftly up and then paused in surprise with

the rest of them, because the doorway was no longer narrow. It was

now wide enough for all five of them to walk out side by side. They

stepped forward into the heat again, blinking at empty miles of

glaring desert.

“No one here,” said Querida.

“I suppose it’ll be the first person we see when we get back then,”

Barnabas said.

Regin looked at what he had picked up. It was a strip of cloth.

There were black letters printed on it that read: Be careful what

you ask for; you may get it. He passed it silently to King Luther,

who was nearest.

“Now it warns us!” said King Luther, and passed it to Umru.

“This is something I often tell my flock,” Umru said.

“Wizards know it, too,” Barnabas said. He took the cloth and

passed it to Querida. “We’ve been warned, Querida. Do you still

want to consult the Black Oracle as well?”

“Of course I do. And I am always very careful what I ask for,”

Querida retorted. She led the way across the short distance to the

black temple. The others looked at one another, shrugged, and

followed.

The black building breathed out cold from its surface. Umru

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A3Sdigitalback-upedition1.0clickforscannotesandproofinghistoryContents|1|2|3|4|5|6|7|8|9|10|11|12|13|14|15|16||17|18|19|20|21|22|23|24|25|26|27GreenwillowBooks,NewYorkCopyright©1998byDianaWynneJonesTherightofDianaWynneJonestobeidentifiedasauthorofthisworkhasbeenassertedbyher.Allrightsreserved.Nopart...

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