Dark Lord of Derkholm by Diana Wynne Jones Read Free Book Online

everyone had one of those, too. Blade unfolded page after page of lists and swallowed unhappily. “And here are your color-coded copies,” said Mr. Addis. This time Blade received a green paper that looked slightly simpler. The other wizards got blue or yellow or green lists.
    In a fuzz of bewilderment, Blade heard Mr. Addis continue, “Please take note that this year’s tour is choreographed around the one weakness of the Dark Lord. Each party will pick up clues to the Dark Lord’s weak point as it goes around, ending in the retrieval of an object that contains this weakness—this is to be guarded by a dragon in the north—and then going on, after the battle, to kill the Dark Lord. Mr. Dark Lord, I’m sure I can count on you to lay one hundred and twenty-six clues at each spot marked with an asterisk on the map. And you will, of course, need the same number of objects for the dragon to guard.”
    Derk thought vehemently of ants crawling between people’s toes to spread disease. Otherwise he thought he might cry. “What kind of objects have you in mind?” he asked.
    â€œAny object, at your discretion”—Mr. Addis smiled—“though we tend to prefer something with a romantic bias, such as a goblet or an orb. But basically it should be capable of containing the weakness of your choice.”
    â€œAthlete’s foot?” asked Derk, with his mind on ants.
    â€œWe prefer it to be a magical weakness or even a moral one,” Mr. Addis corrected him, with a kindly smile.
    Derk stared at him, unable to concentrate. It was not just that he was thinking of ants while being deluged with instructions and colored papers. Mara was up to something. He could feel her working magic, and it worried him acutely. “Moral weakness?” he said. “You mean, sloth or something? Callette likes making objects. I suppose I could ask—”
    And here was Callette herself, with her back talons grating the terrace as she heaved along another beer barrel. She set it down with an enormous thump, in the wrong place, between Mr. Chesney and the woman with the clipboard. Whump . The top was open. Bright red stuff splashed in all directions, smelling rather nasty.
    Chairs scraped as everyone but Mr. Chesney got out of the way. The woman sprang up with a scream. “Oh, Mr. Chesney! It’s blood!”
    Blood was running down one side of Mr. Chesney’s face and dripping on his suit. He turned and stared reprovingly at the barrel while he got out his handkerchief.
    Derk wondered how Callette had come to be so stupid. Callette’s mind was always a mystery to him, but still! “Callette,” he said, “that’s not beer.”
    Callette’s huge head pecked forward. She stared down into the rippling red liquid in the utmost surprise. Every innocent line of her said How is it not beer?
    â€œIt just isn’t,” Derk told her. “It’s one of the vats from my workroom, and I know it was sealed by a stasis spell. I can’t think why it’s open. I’m terribly sorry,” he said to the woman. She was still standing up, whimpering and dabbing at red spots on her tight pin-striped skirt with a paper hankie. “I’ll get it off for you—for both of you. It’s only pigs’ blood.”
    The pigs on the roof heard him. At the words pig’s blood, there was an instant outcry, squeals, grunts, and yells of protest. Pink bodies surged about up there, and trotters clattered on tiles.
    â€œOh, shut up!” Derk yelled up at them. “It’s a pig from the village. Your ancestors came from the marshes.”
    This did nothing to soothe the pigs. They continued to surge about, yelling their protest, until Ringlet, one of the larger sows, slipped, overbalanced, and toppled off the roof. As her heavy round body came plummeting down, squealing fearsomely, she looked certain to land splat in the middle of the table.