Septimus Heap 4 - Queste (6 page)

“You want a shovel?”

“Yeah. Pass me that big one. I’ll dig ’im out and whack ’im on the ’ead. Good practice if that Heap boy ever shows his face in ’ere.”

Stanley could hold his breath no longer. A great shower of fetid water erupted from the drain—along with a sodden rat—and Gringe reeled back, spluttering. When he finally wiped the mess from his eyes, Stanley was gone—off into the warren of alleyways and sideslips that led from the North Gate deep into the Castle.

Just outside the Palace gates, Stanley took a quick and freezing cold bath in a horse trough. A bath was not the rat’s favorite way of spending time—he couldn’t remember when he last had one—but when a rat is off to the Palace, he has to make an effort.

Back at the Grateful Turbot Tavern, Merrin, however, was not making much of an effort at all. Olaf Snorrelssen had hung around for hours waiting for Merrin to wake up, spending the entire time being berated by the tinker-woman. The boy finally staggered downstairs just after ten, having been pulled out of bed by the landlady, who wanted her room back.

Mindful of his much-regretted promise, Olaf Appeared

from the shadows. “I shall take you into the Castle, yes?” the ghost asked, hoping the boy would refuse. Unfortunately he didn’t.

“Yeah. Let’s get out of this dump,” Merrin growled.

Olaf took Merrin over the One Way Bridge, the familiar feeling of gloom that the bridge gave him settling on him like a cloud. The cloud did not lift as, dutifully, Olaf showed the boy across the drawbridge. He mediated in the argument the boy picked with the gatekeeper—who was also in a foul temper and smelled pretty bad too. Then he headed for The Ramblings, a huge warren of a place that Olaf had a real affection for. As he guided Merrin through the narrow, sometimes crowded passageways, Olaf could not shake off a strange feeling that they were being followed. But every time he glanced back he could see nothing more than the occasional fleeting shadow, which was not unusual in the shadowy, twisting alleyways. Determined to keep his word, the ghost took Merrin deep into The Ramblings. He led him to a small guesthouse where he himself had happy memories of staying many years ago.

That, Olaf mused later, was a mistake. Merrin had not liked the place. It was, he had said, a disgusting dump. When told the price of the rooms, the boy had called the owner, who was a gentle woman, a grasping old bat. Olaf decided to Appear

to the woman and apologize but that had been a mistake too. He had been flustered and got it wrong. At the sight of his sudden but incomplete Appearance the woman had screamed and slammed the door, which had Passed Through his foot and made him feel quite ill. By the time he recovered, Merrin had left. Relieved, Olaf had wandered off, unaware that he was half-Appearing

to everyone and causing havoc. By the end of the day, safely back in the ghostly haven of the Hole in the Wall Tavern, Olaf had decided that he would never Appear to anyone again. It was madness.

Stanley scuttled up one of the many back stairs of the Palace. Although he had never actually been upstairs in the Palace before, as an ex–Message Rat, Stanley knew the layout backward—he had had to learn it as part of his higher exams.

Avoiding the old ghost of a knight who was on guard—and who aimed a one-armed swipe at him with his sword—Stanley scuttled up the tapestry at the side of some big double doors. He pushed his way through the cobwebby rat-gap at the top of the wainscoting and looked down. It was a long drop on the other side. Stanley waited for a moment, gathering his courage for the jump. Far below, sitting by the fire, was Jenna Heap, Princess and heir to the Castle. Beside her lay a much-thumbed note.

Stanley could not read it from that distance, but Jenna already knew it by heart. The note read: Delivered by hand from the Wizard Tower by B. Catchpole

Received at Palace: 7:30 A.M.

From: Septimus Heap, Apprentice to Marcia Overstrand,

ExtraOrdinary Wizard

Dear Jen,

Can you meet me at Marcellus’s place at midday today? Have just had a note from him! It is really good. I think he has remembered some things at last. He has some stuff of Nicko’s to show us and he says that there may be a way for him to come back!!!! See you there.

Love,

Septimus xxxx

Jenna was so excited that she could hardly keep still, let alone wait for midday. After yet another depressing breakfast with Sarah Heap, she had escaped to her room and was trying to do something useful to pass the hours. Unaware that she was being watched by a teetering rat, she was determinedly reading a large book.

Far above Jenna, Stanley took a deep breath and launched himself into space. He landed on Jenna’s bed, bounced high into the air, thumped down onto her hearthrug and turned his ankle. “Oof!” he grunted, rolling forward and banging his head on the coal-scuttle.

Jenna leaped to her feet. “Stanley?” she gasped.

Stanley jumped up, winced and saluted. “At your service, Your Majesty.”

“Not ‘Your Majesty’ yet,” said Jenna. “Not until I am crowned with that.” She made a face and pointed to a very beautiful but simple crown sitting on a red velvet cushion on the mantelpiece.

“Ooh,” said Stanley, a little overawed. “It looks very heavy. Wouldn’t like to wear that all day.”

“Neither would I,” said Jenna. “And I don’t intend to just yet either. You know, Stanley, you always turn up when I least expect it. How are you—and Dawnie?”

“I am fine,” the rat replied. “I am sure that Dawnie is fine too. She makes a point of it, after all.”

“Ah,” said Jenna. “Things between you not good then?”

“No, Your Maj. But it was an amicable separation. Well, when I left I thought she looked kind of amicable. Possibly.

Although she was eating a pie at the time, which always puts her in a good mood.”

“Oh, I’m really sorry, Stanley.”

“I’m not,” replied the rat tersely.

“So, er…what are you doing with your life now?” asked Jenna.

“Keeping busy. Can’t complain. Visiting old friends, catching up, networking, you know how it is. Just done a bit of freelance actually—a mission to the Badlands.”

Jenna shuddered. “Horrible place,” she said.

“I’m with you there, Your Maj. And I wouldn’t like to bump into those that live there on a dark night. Actually, I’d rather not bump into them at all. But I’m making my base here now; no place like home, as they say. And I have a little proposition of my own to put to you, if you wouldn’t mind hearing me out. If you’re not too busy, that is. But if you are I can come back later. No doubt the trials and tribulations of young Queenshipdom and royaltyness bear heavy on your youthful shoulders and I—”

“I’m only reading, Stanley. I’m meeting someone later—it’s really important and I want to find out as much as I can before I go.”

“Very wise. Always go prepared. Big book you’ve got there. Not a great one for reading myself.”

“It is rather big.” Jenna sighed. “And complicated, too. It’s about Time.”

“Yes, that’s what I was thinking. It’s about time I came back and—”

“No, that’s what I am reading about. Time.”

“Quite. Been away far too long. But like I said, I have a proposition to put to you that may indeed be to your advantage.

Shall I go on?”

Jenna smiled. “Well, you generally do,” she said, closing her book and putting it down on the rug. “Sit down. Perch on my book here.”

“Ah. Thank you, Your Maj, but I think better on my feet,” he said. “Now, my proposition is that if you would be so good as to let me reopen the East Gate Lookout Tower and reinstitute the much missed Official Castle Message Rat Service, I would be honored to offer you the first year’s subscription at premium discount rates—”

“The Palace always got it free before,” said Jenna.

“Really? Well free for the first year, then. I would also throw in your own personal bodyguard rat and priority service at all times.”

“Fine,” said Jenna. “Go ahead.”

Stanley sat down on the book. “You sure?” he asked.

“Yes. We could use the Message Rat Service; it’s really missed. But where you’ll find the rats I don’t know. They’ve all disappeared. You’re the first one I’ve seen in a long time.”

Stanley jumped to his feet and saluted again—a habit he had recently picked up from an old ship’s rat in the Port. “No problem,” he said. “It takes a rat to find a rat. I’ll keep you informed, Your Maj. Your bodyguard will be dispatched ASAP ohcrumbsyou’vegotacat.” From underneath Jenna’s bed a small, scraggy orange cat had emerged. Although the cat was not much bigger than Stanley, there was a steely glint in its blue eyes that the rat did not like the look of. Not one bit. Stanley, who never forgot a cat, was sure he had seen it somewhere before.

“Oh, well, yes. I’m taking care of him for someone. Calm, Ullr,” said Jenna, noticing the cat was getting reading to pounce.

“I’ll have to rescind the bodyguard offer,” said Stanley, backing away. “Not with a cat in residence. Can’t put my staff at risk.”

Jenna picked up Ullr and held him tight. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Ullr’s the best bodyguard I could wish for.”

Stanley eyed the cat. “Bit on the small side for a bodyguard, isn’t it?” he asked. Ullr unsheathed his claws and tried to wriggle out of Jenna’s grasp. Stanley backed away hurriedly. “I’ll be off, then, Your Maj. And thank you. Good-bye.”

Jenna jumped up and let Stanley out of the door. “It’s okay, Sir Hereward,” she told the ghost who was about to aim another swipe at the rat. “He’s a friend.”

Stanley scampered along the corridor, leaped nimbly down the sweeping Palace stairs and, head held high, walked out of the main Palace door with Jenna’s words ringing in his ears. He was a friend. A friend of Royalty.

If Dawnie could see him now.

IN CHARGE

B eetle, Front Office and Inspection Clerk at Number Thirteen Wizard Way, home of the Magykal Manuscriptorium and Spell Checkers Incorporated, was not having a good day. It was a blustery, rainy Monday morning and Jillie Djinn, the Chief Hermetic Scribe, had left him in charge. At first Beetle had been thrilled. It was a real honor, since Miss Jillie Djinn chose her deputies carefully, even if it was only for an hour, and she usually gave the job to the most senior scribe.

But that morning she had fixed Beetle with her disconcerting stare—which always made him wonder what he had done wrong—and said, “Beetle, you’re in charge. Anyone comes about the job, fill out the form and I’ll see them this afternoon. Back in an hour. No earlier. No later.” Then, with a rustle of her dark blue silk robes Miss Djinn had bustled out of the door and was gone.

Beetle had closed the door against the wind and whistled a long low note. Resisting the urge to run amok yelling, “It’s mine, all mine!” he had contented himself with peering into the Manuscriptorium itself and checking that all seemed well. It did. Twenty scribes—one short of the usual number—sat perched at their high desks under twenty dim pools of light, their pens scratching away, copying out various spells, formulas, charms, enchantments, indentures, diatribes, licences, permits, proxies and anything else that was needed by the Wizards—or indeed anyone in the Castle who had a few silver pennies to spare.

Beetle celebrated his temporary promotion by sitting on his swivel chair and spinning around and around in circles—which was not allowed—while practicing his I’m-in-charge look. For five heady minutes everything had been wonderful—and then it all went wrong.

Beetle was amazed at how much trouble could cram itself into such a short space of time. It began when a tall, thin boy dressed in a shabby black tunic and travel-stained cloak came into the front office, made Jillie Djinn’s new—and extremely irritating—Daily Customer Counter click over to number three and demanded to see the Chief Hermetic Scribe.

“She’s out,” said Beetle snappily, deciding he did not like the look of the boy at all. “I’m in charge.”

The boy looked Beetle up and down and sniggered. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I don’t think.”

“Obviously not,” replied Beetle, surprised to hear himself sounding remarkably like Marcia Overstrand for a moment.

Remembering, a little late, that a member of the Manuscriptorium must be civil at all times, Beetle hurriedly asked,

“Well, um, can I help you?”

“I doubt it.” The boy shrugged.

Beetle took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then he said, “I’m sure I can do something if you tell me what you want.”

“I want that scribe’s job,” the boy replied.

Beetle was shocked. “The scribe’s job?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said the boy. He grinned, pleased at the effect he had had. “Like I said, the scribe’s job.”

“But—but do you have any qualifications?” Beetle stammered.

In reply, the boy leaned forward and clicked his finger and thumb in Beetle’s face. A flicker of black flame appeared from the tip of his thumb. “That’s my qualification,” the boy said.

Beetle sat down in his chair with a bump. He’d heard about Darke tricks, although he’d never actually seen one before.

It had not escaped his notice that the boy was wearing what he assumed to be a cheap copy of the fabled Two-Faced Darke

Ring. The boy was obviously one of those weird kids who thought that if they dressed in black and bought pretend Darke trinkets from Gothyk Grotto in The Ramblings, they were the next Apprentice to old DomDaniel.

Beetle blamed Jillie Djinn. She had, much to his disapproval, put a notice up on the door to the Manuscriptorium a few weeks ago, seeking a new scribe. Beetle had objected, saying it would be an invitation to all kinds of weird people to apply. But Miss Djinn had insisted.

To Beetle’s relief, up until that moment no one had applied for the job. He had been busy trying to persuade the notoriously stingy Miss Djinn to pay for an advertisement in The Scribes and Scriveners Journal. That morning he had, in fact, left a copy of their special-offer reduced rates on her desk. But now it looked as if his worst fears had come true.

With a sigh, Beetle got out the standard Manuscriptorium job application form, licked the end of his pencil and asked,

“Name?”

“Septimus Heap,” said the boy.