Septimus Heap 4 - Queste (11 page)

“Double?” Billy gasped, shocked.

“Very well, triple, then. But that’s my final offer. Will you take the job or not?”

“Yes! Er, yes, ExtraOrdinary. I would be honored.”

“My Apprentice will bring the dragon over later today. The builders will be arriving this morning.”

“Builders?”

“To construct the dragon house. Good day to you, Mr. Pot. I’ll send a contract down for you to sign later.”

“Oh. Right. Um, good day, Your ExtraOrdinariness.”

As Marcia limped off, Billy Pot sat down on the riverbank and scratched his head in amazement. He immediately wished he hadn’t. Dragon droppings were really hard to get out of your hair.

TERRY TARSAL

T erry Tarsal, shoemaker and reluctant

keeper of a purple python, liked a quiet life. Most of the time he got it—and the times he didn’t usually had something to do with purple python shoes.

Terry was a small, wiry man with large capable hands worn rough and callused after years of working with leather. He had a long, narrow shop down Footpad Passage just off Wizard Way, which smelled of dust, leather, waxed thread and, on that particular day, linseed oil. Terry enjoyed his work. What he did not enjoy was keeping a purple python in the backyard of the shop. But Marcia Overstrand was one of his best customers and over the ten years that Marcia had been ExtraOrdinary Wizard, Terry had steeled himself to look after the snake and collect its sloughed skins for when Marcia ordered her next pair of shoes.

That morning Terry had just fed the python, which always upset him. He was recovering with a cup of hot cider when through the frosted glass of his shop window he saw the purple blur of Marcia Overstrand’s robes. The next moment the shop door—which was terrified of Marcia—sprang open.

Terry Tarsal was made of sterner stuff. “Good morning, Miss Overstrand,” he said, not bothering to get up. He took another sip of cider. “Your new ones are not ready yet. I’m still waiting for the wretched python to slough.”

“I haven’t come for those,” said Marcia, hobbling in. “It’s an emergency.” She bent down, pulled off her shoe and dropped it on the counter along with the broken heel. “Snapped, just like that. No warning. I could have broken my leg.”

Terry picked up the offending shoe and held it at arm’s length. “You’ve stepped in something,” he said accusingly.

“Really? I was under the impression that was what shoes were for,” said Marcia, “stepping on things.”

“On, yes. But not in. Well, I suppose it will brush off. Do you want to wait or come back later?”

“I don’t plan on hopping all the way back to the Wizard Tower, thank you, Mr. Tarsal. I’ll wait.”

“Please yourself. I am quite happy to lend you a pair of one-size-fits-all galoshes.”

“I do not

wear galoshes,” said Marcia stonily. “And I most particularly do not wear one-size-fits-all galoshes, thank you very much.”

Terry Tarsal picked up the shoes and disappeared into the back of the shop. Marcia sat down on the uncomfortable wooden bench beside the counter—Terry did not like his customers to linger—and gazed around the little shop.

Marcia enjoyed her visits to Terry Tarsal. She liked to sit in the quiet old shop in the dark alley where no one could find her. And if someone did

stumble across her sitting there, she enjoyed the look of shock on their face at seeing the ExtraOrdinary Wizard sitting on the rickety bench in the shoemaker’s shop, waiting for her shoes just like any other Castle inhabitant.

And so, while Terry Tarsal scraped off the dragon dung and set about making a new heel and finding a scrap of python skin to cover it with, Marcia contentedly sat and gazed at the shoes awaiting pick-up. They were a motley bunch. Most were run-of-the-mill boots of brown or black leather with thick laces and heavy leather soles. There was a collection of red and green workmen’s clogs, the kind that many of those who worked in the craft rooms and small factories in The Ramblings wore to protect their feet. There was a troupe of small pink dance shoes festooned with ribbons, two pairs of fisherman’s boots made from oiled leather—which Marcia realized were the source of the pungent smell of linseed oil that filled the shop—and a pair of the most bizarre shoes, with the longest, pointiest toes that Marcia had ever seen.

Intrigued, Marcia got up and went over for a closer look at the strange shoes. She could not resist picking them up. The shoes were beautiful, made from soft red leather, embellished with deep tooled swirls of gold leaf. Although the shoes were made for a normal foot size, the long, tapering toes stretched to at least two feet in length, and at the far end of each toe two long black ribbons were sewn onto the shoe. Marcia held them in her hands, marveling at how light they were, and at what good quality leather Terry Tarsal had used. She ran her finger along the lines of the gold tooling. The more she looked, the more she became convinced that the elegant swirls on each toe formed the letter M.

Still holding the soft red shoes, Marcia retreated to the bench with a feeling of excitement that she had not felt since she was a little girl on the eve of her birthday. It was, in fact, Marcia’s birthday the following week and a suspicion had begun to form in her mind that maybe Septimus had actually put some thought into her present—rather than his usual hurried bunch of flowers picked from the Palace gardens. She remembered Septimus describing the shoes that they had worn in the Time that he had been kidnapped into by that ghastly Alchemist, Marcellus Pye. She had commented that the shoes sounded like they were about the only decent thing there. It would, thought Marcia, be just the kind of unusual present that Septimus would come up with if he put his mind to it.

Feeling a little guilty at seeing her present before her birthday, Marcia was hastily putting the shoes back on the shelf when Terry Tarsal reappeared. “Strangest shoes I’ve ever made,” he commented.

Marcia spun around as though she had been caught doing something she shouldn’t. Unable to resist, she asked, “Who ordered them?”

“Your Apprentice, if I remember rightly,” said Terry Tarsal.

“I thought as much,” said Marcia, smiling. How sweet it was of Septimus, she thought. He could be so considerate at times; she must try to be less grumpy with him. She decided that if Septimus settled down and worked hard with his Projection, she would take notice of what Alther had told her—that Septimus was getting to the age where he needed more freedom—and she would try not to make a fuss about him going out and not telling her exactly where he was going.

Terry Tarsal’s voice interrupted Marcia’s good resolutions. “Are you paying for them?” he asked.

“Certainly not! And I don’t want him to know I have seen them either. Is that clear?”

Terry Tarsal shrugged. “Don’t know what it is about these shoes,” he said. “That’s exactly what your Apprentice said to me—don’t let Marcia see them. He was very definite about that.”

“I expect he was,” said Marcia approvingly.

“Anyway, I’ve got to deliver them tomorrow. Though why he can’t come and get them himself, I don’t know. It’s not as though Snake Slipway is miles away, is it?”

“Snake Slipway? What’s Snake Slipway got to do with it?” asked Marcia.

“That’s where he lives,” said Terry patiently as though Marcia was being deliberately slow. “Now, about this heel—”

“That’s where who lives?”

“The odd fellow who came in with your Apprentice—the one who the shoes are for. Look, the glue on the heel needs at least an hour to dry and—”

“The one who the shoes are for?”

“So are you sure you want to—”

“Mr. Tarsal, answer me. Exactly who are these shoes for?”

“I really can’t answer that. It’s confidential information.”

“Balderdash!” exploded Marcia. “They’re only a pair of shoes, for heaven’s sake. It’s hardly top secret, is it?”

Terry Tarsal would not give in. “Customer confidentiality,” he replied.

“Mr. Tarsal. If you don’t tell me who these shoes are for I will be forced to…to…” Marcia racked her brain for something Terry would find particularly galling. “I shall be forced to make all the shoes awaiting pick-up half a size smaller.”

“You wouldn’t…”

“I would. Now who are these shoes for?”

“Marcellus Pye.”

“Marcellus Pye?”

Marcia yelled so loud the door rattled in terror and a jar of tiny green buttons leaped from the counter and scattered across the floor.

“Now look what you’ve done,” said Terry, getting on his hands and knees and hunting down the buttons. “I’ll never find them all. They’ve gone everywhere.”

Marcia stared at Terry scrabbling after the buttons as though he were from another planet. She could not make sense of anything; there were just three words going around in her head and they seemed to be taking up all the thinking space.

The words were: “Septimus,” “Marcellus” and “Pye.”

“You could give us a hand instead of staring into space like a constipated camel,” Terry Tarsal broke rudely into Marcia’s spinning thoughts.

It was not every day that someone called Marcia a constipated camel but it did the trick. Marcia came to and joined Terry Tarsal in the button hunt, but still the thoughts whirled around her head. “You did say Marcellus Pye, didn’t you?”

she asked.

“Yes,”

said Terry irritably. He levered a small green object out from between the floorboards with his fingernail only to discover it was a green sherbet pip. “Marcellus Pye. Remember writing it as ‘Pie’ as in apple and your Apprentice telling me it was ‘P-Y-E.’”

“You are absolutely sure?” asked Marcia. All kinds of impossible explanations were going through her head. None made sense. And all involved Septimus.

Terry Tarsal straightened up with a groan and rubbed his back. “Yes, I said. Look, do stop going on, Madam Overstrand.

I gotta concentrate here. These buttons are my best jade.”

“Best jade?” asked Marcia.

“Yes. Never find their like again. Just my luck…”

Marcia stood up and brushed down her robes, which were covered in dust—Terry preferred shoemaking to housekeeping. She clicked her fingers and muttered a Retrieve. From hidden cracks and crevices in Terry Tarsal’s floorboards the buttons gathered together, and as Terry watched open-mouthed, a fine green stream of buttons flew back into their jar.

Terry got to his feet, an expression of relief and amazement on his face. He had never actually seen any Magyk before and to have Marcia actually use it for something as mundane as finding his precious buttons touched Terry. “Thank you,” he muttered. “That’s…well, that’s very kind of you.”

“Least I could do,” said Marcia. “Now, can I see the order book?”

“Order book?”

“Yes, please, Mr. Tarsal.”

Bemused, Terry shook his head and went to fetch the order book. He returned with a heavy leather-bound ledger and thumped it down on the counter.

“I would like to see the order for those shoes,” said Marcia. “Please.”

Terry licked his finger and began leafing through to find the right day. “Here we are,” he said, pointing to an entry from three weeks ago.

Marcia took out her spectacles and peered at Terry Tarsal’s crabbed handwriting. The name Marcellus Pye jumped out and hit her. “I don’t believe it,” she muttered.

“Yeah. That’s him.”

“Was he very old?” asked Marcia, trying to make sense of things.

“No, he was young—about thirty. Quite good-looking if it weren’t for the funny haircut. I remember now, I had to measure his feet as he didn’t know what size he was. He kept giving me the old size—we stopped using those at least a hundred years ago. Even my old dad wouldn’t have remembered that. He had an odd accent, too—not that he said much.

Your Apprentice did most of the talking, if I remember.”

“Did he really?” asked Marcia, suddenly sitting down on the bench. “Well, I don’t know…”

“You all right, Miss Overstrand?” asked Terry. “You look a bit pale. I’ll get you a glass of water.”

Marcia was not all right. She felt strangely disconnected, as though the world was suddenly not quite what she had thought it was. Terry brought her a glass of water.

“Thank you, Terry.” Sitting with her purple-stockinged feet resting on the dusty floor, Marcia sipped her glass of water.

She knew that the real reason for her shock was not so much the presence of a young Marcellus Pye in her Time, which was weird enough, but the realization that Septimus—her trusted Septimus—had deceived her.

Watched by a concerned Terry Tarsal, Marcia drank the rest of the water and began to feel a little more like herself.

“Terry,” she said.

“Yes, ExtraOrdinary?”

“While you’re waiting for the heel to dry, put those jade buttons on my shoes, will you?”

WIZARD SLED

W hile Marcia waited for the

glue to dry, Septimus was doing something much more interesting—squeezing through a small trapdoor in the floor of Beetle’s hut.

“I didn’t know you could get to the Ice Tunnels through here,” Septimus said, as his feet found the rungs of the ladder fixed to the wall of ice below him.

“Tradesman’s entrance.” Beetle grinned up at Septimus. His breath was misting on the freezing air and his face was an unearthly color in the light of the flickering blue lamp he had just lit. “Miss Djinn makes me use it. Close the hatch, will you, Sep?”

“Yep,” said Septimus. He pulled down the heavy Sealed hatch—typical of all the Sealed entrances to the Ice Tunnels—that was hidden under the trapdoor, and heard the soft hiss as it settled onto its Seal. From beneath his Apprentice robes he took the Alchemie Keye

that he wore around his neck and pressed it into a circular depression in the middle of the hatch. Then he climbed down the icy metal ladder into the depths below Beetle’s hut and joined him on the slippery surface of the Ice Tunnel.

Septimus’s dragon ring, which he wore on his right index finger, gave off a dim yellow glow. But it was Beetle’s blue lamp that caught the beautiful white-blue sparkle of the ice covering the inside of the tunnel like cake icing and threw their distorted shadows across the icy vault of the high-arched roof.