Septimus Heap 4 - Queste (41 page)

“Seven hundred and seventy-six,” Septimus said.

“You jest!” exclaimed Hotep-Ra.

“No. I had to learn it when I first became an Apprentice. My ExtraOrdinary Wizard made me write it out and stick it on the wall. Anyway I counted them all last week.”

Hotep-Ra swallowed hard. “I thought it was maybe five or six at the most,” he said quietly. “Things are not as they should be.”

“How—how should they be?” asked Septimus.

Hotep-Ra sighed. “Eat, fellow Dragon Master,” he said. “Tell me about your Queste and I will tell you about mine.”

And so Septimus sat under the moonlit dome and told Hotep-Ra how he had come to the House of Foryx. And then, while he hungrily ate from the dishes of fragrant fruits, spicy meats and fish and drank mint tea, he listened to the soft, melodious frail voice of the Castle’s very first ExtraOrdinary Wizard.

“When I was a young man,” said Hotep-Ra, “and I was

a young man once, it was forbidden to dabble with Time. But, like many young men, I did not always obey the rules.

And when I discovered the secret of suspending Time I knew I had to find a place where I could keep my secret and make it work. I traveled far and wide until I came across a beautiful forest in the center of which was an abyss. From the middle of this chasm rose a tall rock and when I saw it I knew I had found the perfect place to build my secret House of Time.

“And so I set to work. First, I Caused a bridge to be made—it is a beautiful bridge is it not?”

Septimus nodded. Hotep-Ra spoke the truth: the bridge was beautiful.

Hotep-Ra smiled. “Beautiful but terrifying. Now, among the more Magykal Wizards, there is an unfortunate tendency to be afraid of heights. I have to admit, I wished to keep my fellow Wizards away from my House of Time—I wanted no interference and no scheming. Wizards can be jealous of true talent, Apprentice. They are not above sabotaging projects of the more gifted. Remember that. And so, to make doubly sure of being left in peace, I enticed the Foryx, which many now think are mythical beasts, for they are no longer seen—except here. I Caused them to forever run around the precipice path to guard my House of Time. I soon noticed that those who came began to call this place the House of Foryx and I was pleased, as it gave no clue that this was a place where All Times Do Meet.

“When I became old I left the Castle, the dear Queen and my poor Dragon Boat, and I came to my House of Foryx. I wish now that I had come earlier, when I still had my strength, but I wanted to see my Dragon Boat restored. Never get a boat repaired by the Port men, Apprentice—they are laggards and thieves. As I made my way to the House of Foryx, I comforted myself that although I would miss the Castle terribly, I would still know what was going on, because I had set up the Queste.

“The Queste was to be a great honor. I had toyed with the idea of having only the most talented Apprentices go on my Queste, but then I realized that this would be unfair, so I devised a lottery. I filled a huge urn with hundreds of lapis stones, of which twenty-one were inscribed with a golden Q, and which each Apprentice had a fair chance of drawing. I thought it would be a wonderful culmination to seven years’ hard study to be picked to go on the Queste—to visit the founder of the Wizard Tower, to bring him the news of the Castle and to return with new knowledge and understanding.

In order to make it safe—for I did not want to risk the lives of anyone—I Engendered a boat to take the chosen Apprentice safely across the sea and up the great river right to the edge of what was a beautiful forest. I also Engendered seven Questing Guards

to escort them on their journey, to guide them past the Foryx and across the bridge. Their most important job was, of course, to wait outside my House so that the Questor would Go Out into his or her own Time. I made sure the Stone would also guide them here for safety, should the Guards fail. That was my plan. But that is not, so it seems, how it is?”

“No,” said Septimus sadly.

“There have been twenty Questors before you, you say?” said Hotep-Ra.

Septimus nodded.

“All perished?”

“Well, no one came back. And they would have if they could, wouldn’t they?”

Hotep-Ra nodded slowly and lapsed into thought. “It is Fume,” he said. “He has Darkened this Queste. All you tell me: the frozen forest, the silence, the foul and moaning fog, the murderous Questing Guards—do not look so shocked, Apprentice, how else could he make sure that no one reached me? It is him. I know it.”

Septimus knew it too.

“He was my closest friend,” said Hotep-Ra sadly. “Once I trusted him completely. I loved him like a brother. But one time while I was away on the marshes attending to my dear Dragon Boat, he took over the Tower and sent his guards out to kill me.” Hotep-Ra shook his head in disbelief. “He had been planning that for years—and all the while showing me nothing but friendship. Think how you would feel, Apprentice, if your closest friend did this to you.”

Septimus nodded in sympathy. He couldn’t even imagine Beetle ever doing anything like that.

“Tertius only had the Tower for seven days, but it took seven years to repair the Darke damage he did. I Banished him, of course.” Hotep-Ra sighed. “And I have to admit that I missed him, even after he had betrayed me. As he left, he said that I might think I would control the Tower forever, but it would not be so. He swore he would return and that I would be sorry. I remember I told him there was nothing he could do that would make me sorrier than I was then, but now I think that is not true, for twenty young lives have been lost, and I never knew. And all those years I have been alone, waiting…” Hotep-Ra’s voice trailed off sadly into the night.

As Talmar busied herself with rugs and blankets for the nighttime chill, Septimus sat quietly, watching his Questing Stone

shimmer a deep iridescent blue in the light of the full moon, which shone through the dome above. He had done it, he told himself in amazement. He had completed the Queste .

But then a feeling of sadness came over him—twenty others had not. Septimus thought about what they had missed. Not only the rest of their lives, but also a Magykal night talking to the first-ever ExtraOrdinary Wizard. Septimus shivered.

He smelled the Magyk

in the air and, for the first time since he had started reading the works of Marcellus Pye, he felt content. This was good.

And Marcia—Marcia would be proud. If he ever saw her again.

Early the next morning, his head spinning, Septimus bade farewell to Hotep-Ra and walked out of the octagonal chamber. The Twin

of Marcia’s door closed gently behind him. With a candle in his hand, provided by a marginally more friendly Talmar Ray Bell, he wandered down the steep narrow marble passage and emerged onto the smoky balustrade landing.

Septimus knew it was morning—he had seen the sun rise through the glass dome—but there was no way of knowing that inside the blind House of Foryx. Wearily, he sat on one of the benches—avoiding the horse-faced Guardian, who still sat and waited—and like her, he too waited. All who inhabit the House of Foryx will pass by the landing if you wait long enough, Hotep-Ra had advised. Septimus was prepared to wait for as long as it took for Jenna and Beetle to pass by. But the combination of the warmth of the muggy atmosphere and his restless night soon began to have an effect, and it was not long before Septimus had lain down on his bench and fallen asleep.

He dreamed the strangest dreams: Hotep-Ra and Tertius Fume dancing down Wizard Way, Marcia flying Spit Fyre through a thunderstorm, Talmar playing cards with a crocodile and Nicko shaking him, saying, “Wake up, you lazy lummox!”

The shaking continued past the dream and blearily Septimus opened one eye to find himself face to face with—Nicko.

In a split second Septimus was wide-awake. “Nik!” He threw his arms around his brother. “Hey, you’re real.”

“And so are you.” Nicko laughed.

“Sep—oh, Sep, you’ve escaped!” Jenna cried happily.

“Well, it wasn’t really like that but—”

The tall, horse-faced woman pushed between them and clamped a heavy hand on Jenna’s shoulder.

“When you have finished your touching reunion, I will have the key. Now please.”

Beetle sprang forward and pulled the hand away. “Leave her alone,” he said.

But in the absence of a panther, the Guardian was not to be deterred. She grabbed Jenna’s arm. Jenna yelped in pain.

“Give me the key. If I have to take it I shall use it to lock you away. For Eternity.”

Nicko loathed the Guardian. She had once called Snorri a witch and Hidden her in another turret for—how long? Nicko did not know. Days, weeks, centuries—he had no idea. Now it was payback time. Using more force than he knew was necessary, Nicko grabbed the Guardian’s wrist and angrily wrenched her arm away. Suddenly there was a loud scream and the Guardian was cradling her wrist, her hand hanging limp.

“Nik!” gasped Jenna. “You’ve broken her arm.”

“Desperate times, desperate measures,” said Nicko, heading for the stairs down the hall. “Let’s get out of here. Who is waiting outside? I bet it’s Sam, isn’t it?”

Jenna ran to keep up with him. “No.”

“Or Dad. Must be Dad. I can’t wait to see him. And Mum.”

Jenna couldn’t bear it. “No! Oh, Nik, I didn’t tell you. There’s no one outside.”

Nicko stopped dead. “No one?”

“No.”

Beetle stared at his feet and wished he could disappear forever—until it occurred to him that that was exactly what he was going to do. He felt terrible.

“Then we’re all stuck,” said Nicko angrily. “Just like me and Snorri. We’ll never go home. Ever.”

“Not necessarily,” said Septimus. “I have an idea.”

DOOR TO DOOR

S omeone,” Marcia told Catchpole, “has defaced my door.”

Catchpole jumped up guiltily, his sparse sandy hair standing up in surprise. Marcia had caught him taking a quick nap in the Old Spells cupboard. “Oh,” he said.

“If this is your idea of a joke I don’t think it is very funny,” said Marcia icily.

Catchpole balanced on one leg like an embarrassed heron. He wasn’t sure what Marcia was talking about but it sounded like trouble—again. “Oh, dear,” he said.

“Well, is it?”

“Is it what?”

“Is it your idea of a joke? I know your penchant for drawing on doors.”

The penny dropped. “Oh, no. It wasn’t me, I promise. Absolutely not. Honestly—it wasn’t.”

Marcia sighed. She believed him. The bizarre scribbles were far too complicated for Catchpole to have done. “Well, go get a bucket and a scrubbing brush. I want them cleaned off. I’m off to see Sarah Heap and I expect a nice clean door by the time I return. Got that?”

“Got that, Madam Marcia. Will do.” Reprieved, Catchpole shot off to find a bucket and a scrubbing brush.

“No!” Jenna gasped. “It’s disappearing! Stop. Stop!” In front of them the map was vanishing.

“Quick, tell it to stop,” said Nicko.

“Stop!” yelled Jenna.

“No—no, I mean write on it. Quick, Jen, before it all goes.”

Jenna picked up the piece of chalk and scrawled: STOP! DO NOT ERASE.

Catchpole screamed and dropped the bucket of hot soapy water on his foot. Huge, looping letters were writing themselves across the door as he watched. It was worse than when he had started—what would Marcia say? Catchpole picked up the scrubbing brush and got to work with a vengeance, but even as he scrubbed, more words appeared in the very spot he had just cleaned. Suddenly Catchpole understood—this was a test. Marcia had set it so that he could prove himself worthy of being reinstated as a sub-Wizard. Catchpole was determined not to fail. As more and more words came into view telling him STOP! THIS IS AN URGENT MESSAGE! Catchpole sped up, catching each one with his scrubbing brush as soon as it appeared, splashing water everywhere. Soon the landing outside Marcia’s rooms was a large, chalky puddle.

“More chalk!” yelled Jenna. “Quick!”

Snorri handed her a stub of chalk. “It’s the last one,” she said.

Jenna stopped, her hand poised above the door. She could not risk wasting this precious last piece of chalk. They watched MARCIA, WE ARE HERE! disappear from the door, followed by the rest of the precious map until nothing remained of Jenna’s messages. “It’s not going to work,” she said miserably. “The door just gets rid of it.”

Everyone fell silent, a feeling of despair hanging in the air. Suddenly Septimus said, “It did work. But someone is washing it off.”

“Who would do that?” asked Nicko.

“Marcia wouldn’t,” said Jenna, “or any of the Wizards. They’d know it was important.”

“So who would be so stupid?” said Nicko.

Septimus knew exactly who. “Catchpole,” he said.

“Catchpole?”

“Yep. It has to be. No one else in the Tower would dream of doing that. Jen, give me the chalk. I know what to write.”

Jenna handed over the chalk. She hoped Septimus knew what he was doing.

IS THAT YOU, CATCHPOLE? Septimus wrote in very clear letters.

“Is that you” was quickly erased, but the rubbing out stopped at the “C” of “Catchpole.”

“I’ll wait for him to reply,” said Septimus. “There’s no point wasting any more chalk until we know he’s figured it out.”

Outside the Twin

of Marcia’s door five people watched with bated breath. Seven long minutes passed while Catchpole threw the spiral stairs into fast mode and zoomed down to the Old Spells cupboard to get his pen.

He returned to find an irate Marcia accompanied by an anxious Sarah Heap—who Marcia had bumped into under the Great Arch. Marcia was staring at the door, her robes gathered around her ankles, her purple pythons soaking up the chalky water like a couple of pointy sponges. Catchpole jumped off the stairs, skidded across the soapy floor and careened into his bucket, sending the rest of the water flying over Marcia. “What do you think you are doing?” she exploded. “I ask you to perform the simple task of removing graffiti from my door and you have the cheek to daub it with your own name. Catchpole, this is the last straw. You are fired!”

Sarah Heap looked shocked. No wonder Septimus had run away if Marcia spent so much time yelling like this.