On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness (9 page)

17

The Journal of Bonifer Squoon

J
anner and Tink worked for hours while Zouzab skittered here and there, giving unwanted advice on how they should proceed and occasionally serenading them with sad, haunting songs on his odd little flute.

Oskar N. Reteep sat at his desk with glee, his spectacles on the end of his nose, recording the titles and authors in a large leather-bound tome while he directed the boys where to stack each book according to its subject.

“
The Sound of Sidgebaw
by…Riva Twotoe,” Tink read.

“Ah, a fine work. Very rare. File under S
ITTING
U
TENSILS
, there in the corner, see?” Oskar pointed above Tink's head.

“
I Came and I Wept Like the Sissy I Am
by Lothar Sweeb,” Janner read from another spine.

“Sweeb? Ah, yes, a mediocre talent, but very prolific. File under B
ACON
S
ONGS
, just behind the lampstand there.”

“
Bonked
by Phinksam Ponkbelly.”

“G
ARDENING
. Excellent book.”

Hours of this later, the boys were sweaty and exhausted. Tink's stomach growled constantly. Twice, Oskar bade Zouzab to fetch water for them, which he did without complaint before scampering back up the pile of crates and leaping across to the roof of the building like a squirrel.

Podo appeared from the front of the building, announcing his arrival with a bone-rattling belch. “Not bad manners, just good ale,” he said with a wink. “I see old Oskar's puttin' ye both to good use.”

Janner and Tink were grateful for an excuse to rest a moment. “Yes sir,” Janner said. “We're almost finished, then Mister Reteep's going to let us bring a few books home.”

“Aye, that's kind of him,” Podo said with a nod. “If you lads are fine and well, I'm off to the cottage to fetch the shovel. Need to turn it in to the blasted Fangs before sundown. Will you two be okay to walk home without me?”

Janner and Tink looked at one another. Janner was still anxious about being so close to the Fangs, but he was determined to show his grandfather that he could be trusted. “Yes sir, we'll be fine.”

“If anything happens,” Tink said, “we'll call for Leeli and she'll come kicking.”

This brought a hearty laugh out of the old pirate. “Ho! Let the lizards beware of Leeli Igiby and her deadly dog!” Podo looked them both in the eye. “You lads just keep to yourselves and come straightaway home, eh?” And with a clap to Janner's shoulder that nearly knocked him over, Podo was gone.

The last crate was smaller than the others. It appeared to be much older too. On the lid was one horrifying word:
DANG
.

Janner and Tink gasped. Even Zouzab, who had been watching so quietly all day, gasped.

“Aha! I've been waiting all day to look through this one, my boys,” Oskar said, appearing behind them. He looked to his right and left and whispered,
“It's from Dang.”

“But—how? Who—who do you know in Dang?” Tink asked.

“Shh!” Oskar put a finger to his lips and looked around again. “There are Fangs afoot in Skree if you haven't noticed. Do you want to be thrown in jail again?”

It was the first time he'd shown any sign of knowing about the Igibys' troubles the night before, and Janner noticed it.

Tink lowered his voice, “Sorry, Mister Reteep. Who do you know in—”

“I don't know anyone in Dang. I found this old box along with the others, but I didn't want to draw any attention to it, so I piled it at the bottom of the wagon. I opened it long enough to see that it's full of books. That's all I know.” He rubbed his hands together like a happy child about to eat a piece of cake, then lifted the lid. The brothers took a step closer to the crate and looked inside. They looked like ordinary books, but knowing that they were from a faraway land of danger and mystery made them fascinating to behold.

“Just bring these to me one at a time so I'll be able to record them properly.” Oskar smiled and stared at the books longingly, “I mean to read them all tonight.” He came to himself, cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows. “The afternoon is nearly spent, boys. These may be from
you know where,
but they're still just books after all. As the great explorer Jinto Qweb said, ‘Hurry! Reading is fun!'” Oskar lit his pipe and shuffled back to his desk, humming as he went.

Janner pulled the first book out of the crate. It was worn and heavy, the cover decorated with intricate loops and knots. In the center, flowing letters said
Ridgerunner Rhyme: Poetry of the Mountains.
¹

Zouzab squealed with delight and leapt to the ground. He was back on the roof of the building in the blink of an eye and left Janner standing there, empty-handed. Already the book was open and the little ridgerunner's lips were moving while he read.

“You asleep out there?” Oskar called from his desk.

As Janner and Tink scampered to bring Oskar book after book, he sat at his desk with pipe smoke drifting about his head, scribbling notes in his ledger, and mumbling.

“Mmm. Fascinating!
Nasal Dysfunction in the Woes of Shreve
…”

Janner tried his best to inspect each of the books as he carried them, and he only accidentally dropped four. Some of them were written in strange runes. Others contained maps of lands of which he had never heard. One book was titled
Mostly True Tales of the Pirates of Symia.
Janner thought of his grandfather and cracked it open. On the first page was a picture of a sleek ship lifting over a giant wave. The deck of the ship was full of pirates in flamboyant clothing clutching swords and daggers. He could barely contain the delight he felt holding that book in his hands, imagining salty seas and reckless sailors. He handed it to Oskar reluctantly.

“All in good time, lad,” Oskar said, taking the book with one hand and pressing one long lock of his white hair across his forehead with the other.

Tink found a book with drawings of creatures that he could never have imagined; small dragonlike creatures with saddles and men astride them, horses with wings and clawed feet, great hairy beasts that walked upright and had teeth as long as a man's arm. Beside each picture were notes and specifics on the creature's weaknesses and strengths. Tink walked slowly to Mr. Reteep's desk, enthralled by the pictures. Oskar smiled and held out his hand.

“Pembrick's
Creaturepedia,
²
son. Don't worry, that's one I'll let you look at. There'll be time enough to peruse all you like.”

With that, Tink quickened his pace, and before long Janner was reaching into the crate for the last book of the bunch. Smaller than the rest, its worn leather cover was decorated with the image of a dragon, wings outstretched.

Janner flipped open the book the same way he had all the others, but the inside was different. He was surprised to see handwriting, not printed type:

Janner's breath caught in his throat.
High King of Anniera? Could this be real?
Everyone had dreamed of Anniera's fair shores at least once, even those who denied it existed. Yet here he was, holding the king's advisor's own thoughts in his hands. Of course, the journal could be a hoax, but like everyone else in Skree, Janner wanted to believe that such a place existed—or had before Gnag the Nameless destroyed it. Janner showed the opened book to Tink, whose eyes grew wide. But just as Janner started to turn the page, the book was snatched from his hands.

“Zouzab!” Janner hissed, and he turned to face not Zouzab, but Mr. Reteep, whose face was stern.

“That'll be all then, Igiby boys.” Oskar put the book under one arm and gestured at the crates with his pipe. “Stack those by the woodpile, and you can come in and browse the rest of my books all you like. Each of you can take home three volumes, but I must approve of them before you go.”

Janner and Tink stood still, feeling the weight of Oskar's gaze. Janner wanted desperately to know what was in the journal, and he wondered why Mr. Reteep would be so secretive with it.

“Tink,” Oskar said. “You like to draw, don't you? Come with me. As I recall I have an extensive collection of art books that you might find helpful.” And he wandered into the maze of bookshelves.

By the time they caught up with Oskar, the light was fading and he was fumbling with lanterns for each of them to carry through the store.

The book spines looked richer somehow in the lantern's glow, and Janner thought of Oskar's words at the start of the day:
“Look around you, lads.
This is the best of the old Skree. Or at least, it's what's left of it.”
He was eager to roam the store, agonizing over which three books to borrow.

“This way, young Tink,” said Oskar. “I'll show you where to start, then you're on your own.” With a helpless look at Janner, Tink lifted his lantern and followed Oskar down the corridor out of sight.

Twice, Janner and Tink rounded a corner and nearly crashed into one another, but eventually they took their own ways deep into the labyrinth of shelves.

Tink found two art books, one of fantastic landscapes the likes of which he'd never dreamed, and the other an anatomy book that taught how to draw a chorkney in any number of positions.
³
He was still seeking book number three when his foot bumped something. He saw the snot-wax candle on the shelf and realized he was standing right where Janner had tripped earlier. He lowered his lantern to the floor for a closer look.

A narrow panel had come loose on the bottom of the shelf where it met the floor.
Janner's foot must have bumped it.
Tink bent to shift the panel into place, but his eye caught something in the shadows of the cavity below. He reached in and slipped it out just enough to see it was a rolled-up parchment, yellow with age and dusty.

Tink's heart quickened. He looked back down the aisle, wishing Janner was nearby. Nothing. Then he scanned the aisles in the other direction, but all he saw were rows of books fading into shadows.

“Janner!” he whispered.

Silence.
There's no telling where he is,
Tink thought. He scanned the aisles again. It was his first day helping at Books and Crannies, and he already felt like he'd tried Mr. Reteep's patience. Tink didn't want to upset the proprietor any further, but his curiosity was maddening.

He took one last look in each direction, set the lantern on top of his art books, and carefully pulled the parchment the rest of the way out.

Fingers trembling, Tink unrolled it.

18

Stumbling onto a Secret

T
he map was drawn with a careful hand and remarkably detailed, though riddled with tiny holes. Tink recognized the Dark Sea of Darkness, complete with little drawn sailing vessels. He saw a road that led from some cliffs to a little cluster of buildings, all neatly rendered and labeled. He bent closer to read by the yellow glow of the lantern: F
ERINIA'S
F
LOWER
S
HOP
, J
AIL
, and M
Y
B
OOKSTORE.

He realized with surprise that he was looking at a map of Glipwood, drawn by Oskar N. Reteep himself.
¹
With his finger he traced the main road toward the cliffs to the lane that led to the Igiby cottage, and sure enough, there it was. It was even labeled I
GIBY.

Across the top of the map was scrawled, “In the immortal words of Loshain P'stane, ‘If anyone reads this without permission, he will be most certainly and brutally slain. Or at the very least I'll chop off a finger or two. Or three.'”

Tink wrung his hands as his heart shriveled with fear and the parchment started to roll shut. With trembling fingers, he smoothed it out again.

Near the top of the map, at the edge of the forest, was a house labeled A
NKLEJELLY
M
ANOR
. Over the house was a large X, and beside it, this was written:

Tink jolted as the dreadful sound of Oskar N. Reteep's heavy footsteps came thudding toward him. Panicked, he rolled up the map, slipped it up his shirtsleeve, grabbed the lantern and his art books, and reached for a random book from the shelf in front of him.

Mr. Reteep's round figure turned the corner and floated into the lantern light just as Tink pulled the book from its place on the shelf.

“Ah, young Tink! I see you've found your books. What have you got there?” He squinted at the two art books, and then at the third. Tink stood still as a stone, praying that Oskar wouldn't notice the funny way his shirtsleeve was bulging.

“The Art of Itching,”
Oskar read. He looked over the top of his spectacles at Tink and raised an eyebrow.

Tink knew that he was caught. He wondered whether or not Mr. Reteep would actually slay him or if he'd show mercy and merely cut off a finger.
But which finger?
he wondered.
And what kind of instrument would the old man use?

“Is something wrong?” Oskar asked, narrowing his eyes at Tink. “You're hiding something.”

Tink's face went pale and he felt as though he might faint.

“I understand, boy,” Oskar said. “It's a very private thing. And as a matter of fact, it's none of my business is it?” Oskar lowered his voice and leaned toward Tink with a hand at the side of his mouth. “But if you've got an itchy rash of some sort, there are much more extensive books on the subject than
The Art of Itching.
Believe me, I've read them
all.
” Oskar cleared his throat. “If you know what I mean.”

Tink was so overcome with relief, he could barely speak. He forced a laugh, set down the book he'd just grabbed from the shelf, and with the free hand scratched at his belly and armpits. “Oh, I do know what you mean, sir. Ha. Ha-ha-ha.”

Janner walked around the corner with three large books under his arm, frowning at Tink's odd behavior.

Tink stopped scratching as Oskar turned and approved Janner's selections, and before Tink knew it, he found himself walking out of the store with his brother, map up his sleeve, thankful that he still had all ten fingers.

It was nearly dark when Janner and Tink began their short walk home, and Tink could barely contain himself. He waited just till they were an earshot away from Books and Crannies and blurted, “I stole a map!”

Janner stopped in the middle of the street. “You
what
?”

“I didn't mean to. It's in my sleeve right now, so I stole it, but I didn't mean to, I promise,” Tink stammered, looking around.

Janner stared at his brother in shock. “Keep walking, make sure you don't let that thing show, and tell me what happened.”

They walked fast down Main Street, past the jail where a dozen Fangs lurked, yet felt no fear. Tink was too excited to tell what he'd found, and Janner too absorbed by the story to notice Slarb the Fang watching them closely from the jail's porch with hatred in his eyes.

Commander Gnorm stood behind Slarb, but he stared down the street as though waiting for something.

“And I'd just read that whoever looks at the map without permission would get their fingers cut off, when I heard Oskar coming,” Tink panted.

“There must be some kind of mistake,” Janner said. “Can you imagine old Mister Reteep cutting off someone's fingers?”

It was Tink's turn to stop in the middle of the street. “Yes,” he said, eyes wide, head nodding.

“Well, I can't,” Janner said. “He's a kind old man.”

“
You
haven't seen the map,” Tink said, shaking his head. “When we get home, you'll see for yourself.”

A sudden, steady
clop-clop-clop
of hoofbeats and rattle of rein and bridle stopped the Igibys—a sound that curdled their blood. A whip cracked in the dusky air, and the brothers turned to see a shadowy carriage round the bend at Dunn's Green, driven by a figure in a black robe.

Janner grabbed Tink's arm, and they ran around the side of The Only Inn and flattened themselves against the wall. Janner closed his eyes to shut out the evil, but his head echoed with the sound of the approaching carriage. In his mind, he could see the iron bars and the pale arm of the black-robed driver swooping down to snatch him and Tink and lock them in the cage.

He opened one eye to see Tink peeking around the corner.

“What are you doing?”
Janner hissed.

“Look! It stopped in front of the jail,” Tink whispered over his shoulder.

Janner stayed put. “What's happening? Is it the Black Carriage?”

“I can't tell…wait… Commander Gnorm's talking to the driver…”

Janner could stand it no longer. He peeked around the corner and saw the two horses stamping the ground and snorting. The hooded driver addressed Gnorm, then slithered down from the seat and opened the carriage door.

Janner sighed. The door wasn't made of iron, but of dark, polished wood. No crows perched on the carriage roof or circled above.
It wasn't the Black Carriage at all.

Gnorm heaved himself into the coach and made himself comfortable. The door clicked shut and, with another crack of the whip, the steeds heaved. The carriage lurched forward, turned, and departed just as it had come, while the rest of the Fangs watched from the street.

But not every Fang.

“And how isss your lame little sister and that mutt of hers?” a familiar voice hissed into Tink's and Janner's ears.