Syren (14 page)

S
eptimus reached the top of
the steps and looked around. The arguing couple was gone and the quayside was deserted. It was in semi-darkness, lit only by one large torch set high on a post in front of a line of very tall, narrow wooden huts at the back of the quayside. Despite the gusts of wind and the occasional spots of rain, the torch flame burned steadily behind a thick shield of glass and cast a pool of dim yellow light across
the cobblestones. Septimus remembered that it marked the entrance of the alleyway that Nicko had dragged them all down two days earlier. Smiling at the thought that he would very soon see his brother again, Septimus hoisted the saddlebags onto his shoulders and set off toward the torch, picking his way through the clutter of barrels and crates that littered the quayside.

Septimus reached the torch and stepped into the alley. The torchlight threw his long and flickering shadow in front of him. He turned a sharp corner and was plunged into darkness—but only for a few seconds. Soon the Dragon Ring that he wore on his right index finger began to glow and light the way. With the saddlebags balanced awkwardly on his shoulders, Septimus negotiated another corner and stopped outside a narrow, smelly, four-story wooden hut that sported a recently smashed front door tied together with rope. Septimus put down the heavy saddlebags and looked up at the tiny windows with their missing or smashed panes of glass. He was sure that this was the right hut, but there was no one there—the windows were dark and the place was silent and empty. A flicker of worry passed through Septimus, and then something caught his eye. A scrap of paper was pinned
to the door, and Septimus recognized Jenna’s large, looping handwriting. The note said:

Septimus smiled at the happy sight of Jenna’s exclamation marks and then frowned. How was he meant to get to Harbor Twelve?

Half an hour later Septimus’s frown had deepened. He had battled the buffeting wind and a sudden squally shower on the long exposed bridge that crossed the mouth of the wide canal and had now reached an imposing wooden gateway at the end of the bridge, which marked the boundary of Harbor Four. From behind the gate Septimus could hear the sounds of the busy harbor. Wearily he went to push the gate open and to his surprise, a man stepped out of a sentry box that Septimus had taken to be some kind of store.

“Stop right there, sonny. Afore you go in you must read the Notice.” The man, who was wearing a dark blue seafarer’s
uniform sprinkled with big gold buttons, pointed to a huge notice fixed to the wall. It was lit by two brass lanterns and was covered in large red letters in various languages.

Septimus scowled. He did not like being called “sonny”—he was used to more respect.

“An’ you can take that scowl off your face too,” growled the man. “Read the board,
all the way through
, or you can go back to where you came from. Got that?”

Stonily Septimus nodded. Much as he wanted to tell the man to get lost, he
had
to get into Harbor Four and enter the Large Harbor Network. He turned his attention to the notice:

Harbor Four

ATTENTION!

You are now leaving Harbor Three,

The last of the Small Harbors (SH)

And entering the Large Harbor Network (LHN)

By passing through this gate you agree

To be bound by the Rules (Rs)

Of the Trading Post Large Harbor Association (TPLHA)

And to Obey all Instructions issued by

Harbor Officials, Groups or Societies (HOGS)

This was followed by a long list, each line beginning with the words “DO NOT” in red capital letters. Septimus did not like lists written in red and beginning with the words “DO NOT” they reminded him of the Young Army. But under the eagle eye of the official, he read it all the way through.

“Okay,” he said as he reached the end. “I agree.”

“You didn’t read it,” objected the official.

“I read fast,” Septimus told him.

“Don’t get smart with me,” said the man. “Finish reading it.”

“I have finished. So don’t get smart with
me
,” said Septimus, throwing caution to the wind.

“Right. You’re barred,” snapped the official.

“What?”

“You heard. You are barred from the LHN. Like I said, you can go back to where you came from.”

A wave of anger came over Septimus. He lifted his right arm and pointed to his two Senior Apprentice stripes, which shone a Magykal purple in the light of the lantern. “I am on official business,” said Septimus very slowly, trying not to show his anger. “This is my badge of office. I am not who you may think I am. If you value your post, I would advise
you to allow me to pass.”

The authority with which Septimus spoke threw off the official, and the Magykal sheen on his cuffs confused him. In answer he pushed open the gate and, as Septimus stepped through, the official bowed his head almost imperceptibly. Septimus noticed but did not acknowledge it. The man closed the gate, and Septimus stepped into Harbor Four.

It was another world. Dazed, Septimus stared—it was
packed
. This was a serious harbor, with deep water and big boats. It was lit by at least twenty torches and swarming with people. One large fishing boat was in the process of being unloaded, and two tall ships were being provisioned. An almost overwhelming feeling of weariness swept over Septimus—how was he going to push his way through this crowd? Wishing that he had left the heavy saddlebags on Spit Fyre, he set them down for a moment on the cobblestones.

A loud voice came from behind him. “Don’t block the way, boy. There’s people here with jobs to do.”

Septimus stepped to one side, forgetting the saddlebags. A burly fisherman carrying a pile of precariously balanced fish boxes pushed past and promptly tripped over them, sending the contents of the boxes flying. In a shower of herring,
accompanied by an angry torrent of words that he had not heard before, Septimus heaved up the saddlebags and disappeared into the crowd. When he looked back, the crowd had closed behind him and the fisherman was lost from view. Septimus smiled. Sometimes crowds had their uses. He took a deep breath and began to push his way across the quayside of Harbor Four until at last he reached the gateway to Harbor Five. This, to his relief, was unmanned, though accompanied by the same domineering notice. Septimus ignored the notice and stepped into Harbor Five.

An hour later Septimus had very nearly reached his goal. He stood before a sign that informed him he was leaving Harbor Eleven and about to enter Harbor Twelve. Septimus felt exhausted, and was by now extremely irritated with Jenna. Why did she have to go prancing off to some fancy ship? Why couldn’t they have waited for him in the net loft as they had arranged? Didn’t they even think that he might be tired after such a long flight? He had had to cross eight harbor fronts to reach them, and it had not been easy. Some had been packed with people not always willing to make way for a bedraggled boy carrying large saddlebags. One was deserted, unlit and
crisscrossed with ropes that he had to pick his way through like a dancing circus pony; two were all but blocked by a maze of barrels and packing cases; and many had felt distinctly unfriendly.

The frazzled Septimus stopped to take stock. Harbor Twelve looked the most difficult of all. It was the largest so far and was buzzing with activity. As he peered across the hustle and bustle of the quayside, he could see a forest of tall masts with their furled sails soaring into the night sky, illuminated by the rank of blazing torches that lined the water’s edge. The light from the torches sent a rich orange glow across the scene, turning the night a deep indigo velvet and transforming the falling rain to drops of diamonds.

There was a sense of wealth and pomp to Harbor Twelve that Septimus had not encountered in the previous harbors. Officials were everywhere, and each one seemed to Septimus to have more gold braid than the last. They wore short navy blue robes from which their legs emerged swathed in buttoned leggings of golden cloth, and on their feet they wore heavy boots festooned with a multitude of silver buckles. But what really caught Septimus’s eye were the wigs—and surely these must be wigs, he thought, for no one could possibly
have enough hair for such complicated arrangements. Some were at least a foot high. They were brilliant white and coiled with curls, topknots, braids and pigtails, and each one sported a large gold badge not unlike the rosettes that Septimus had seen decorating the stable of Jenna’s horse, Domino. Septimus smiled, imagining for a moment the officials lined up in a ring being judged on “the official with the softest nose” and “the official the judges would most like to take home.”

Septimus watched, getting his energy together for a final push through the throng. He had no idea what kind of ship the
Cerys
was, although the more he thought about it, the more the name sounded familiar. He took a deep breath, picked up the saddlebags—which felt as though someone had just slipped in a handful of rocks—and stepped into the crowd. A moment later he was roughly shoved aside by a couple of uniformed dockhands making a path through the crowd for a tall woman swathed in gold cloth. She looked ahead disdainfully, seeing nothing except the beautiful multicolored bird that she carried high on her wrist, like a lantern. Septimus had learned a lot about pushing through crowds in the previous hour, and he took his chance. Quickly, before the crowd could close in
once more, he stepped in behind the woman and followed in her wake, taking care not to step on her trailing, shimmering gown.

A few minutes later Septimus watched the woman ascend the gangplank of an ornate three-masted ship, very nearly the biggest in the harbor, he figured. In fact, only the one right next to it seemed bigger and possibly more ornate. Feeling faint with fatigue, Septimus stood under a golden torchpost and looked down the long line of ships, moored prow to stern, that disappeared into the night. They seemed to go on forever, and some had two or three ships tied up alongside them, stretching out into the harbor. A feeling of impossibility came over Septimus—there were so many ships, how was he possibly going to find the
Cerys
? And supposing the
Cerys
was one of the ships tied up on the outside of another ship—how did you get to those? Did people mind you walking across their ships? Were you supposed to ask? What if they said no? A hundred anxious questions flooded his mind. Septimus was so immersed in his worries that he did not hear his name being called.

“Septimus! Sep…ti…
mus
!” And then, more impatiently, “Sep, you cloth-ears, we’re
here
.” It was the “cloth-ears” that
caught Septimus’s attention above the noise of the crowd. Only one person called him that.

“Jen! Jen, where are you?” Septimus cast around looking for the owner of the voice.

“Here! Here—no,
here
!”

And then Septimus saw her, leaning over the prow of the huge, richly embellished ship on the right, waving her hardest and smiling broadly. Septimus grinned with relief, and all the irritations of the previous hours fell away. Trust Jen to get herself onto the best ship in the harbor, he thought. Septimus pushed his way past the small knot of people who had gathered to look at the beautiful, dark-haired figurehead on the
Cerys
and, aware of envious glances, he approached the liveried sailor on duty at the end of the gangplank.

The sailor bowed. “Septimus Heap, sir?” he inquired.

“Yes,” replied Septimus, much relieved.

“Welcome aboard, sir,” said the sailor, and saluted.

“Thank you,” said Septimus, and then, suddenly remembering something Nicko had told him about it being considered bad luck to board a ship for the first time without giving some kind of offering, he reached into the pockets of his cloak and took out the first thing that came to hand—a herring.

He placed the fish into the sailor’s hand, then heaved the saddlebags over his shoulder and stumbled up the gangplank—leaving the sailor and the fish staring, blank and bemused, at each other.

S
eptimus woke the next morning
convinced that Marcia was calling him. He sat bolt upright, his hair sticking on end, his name still sounding in his ears. Where
was
he? And then he remembered.

He remembered stepping aboard the
Cerys
and Jenna throwing her arms around him, laughing. He remembered her grabbing his hand and introducing him to a
tall, dark-haired man whom he had recognized as Jenna’s father, Milo Banda, and realizing that the
Cerys
was his ship—and
that
was why the name sounded familiar.

And what a ship the
Cerys
was. Jenna had proudly showed him around, and he remembered—even through his exhaustion—being amazed at the stunning opulence. The brilliant colors and gold-leaf gilding shining in the torchlight, the neatness of countless coils of rope, the richness of the wood, the deep shine of the brass and the immaculate crew in their crisp uniforms silently busy in the background.

Eventually Jenna had realized how tired he was and had led him to a tall hatchway with gilded doors. One of the crew had sprung out of nowhere and opened the doors, bowing as they stepped down to the deck below. He remembered Jenna taking him down wide, polished steps into a paneled room lit by a forest of candles and then shouts of excitement—Beetle grinning broadly, punching him on the arm and saying, “Wotcha, Sep!” Nicko giving him a bear hug and lifting him off his feet, just to show that he was still his older brother, and Snorri smiling shyly, hanging back with Ullr. And then he remembered nothing more.

Blearily Septimus looked around his cabin. It was small
but extremely comfortable; his bunk was soft and wide and covered in a pile of warm blankets. A circular beam of sunlight streamed from a large brass porthole, through which Septimus could see the sparkling blue of the water and the dark shape of the harbor wall silhouetted against the sea beyond. He lay down and gazed at shifting patterns of light reflecting on the polished wood ceiling and felt pleased that it was obviously
not
Marcia calling him. Septimus, who was naturally an early riser, was glad to sleep in—he ached all over from the effects of two long dragon flights so close together. Dozily he wondered how many miles he and Spit Fyre had covered, and suddenly he sat bolt-upright once more—
Spit Fyre
!

Septimus threw on his tunic and was out of his cabin in thirty seconds flat. He tore along the paneled corridor, heading toward a companionway that led to a flight of steps up to an open hatch showing blue sky beyond. He hurtled along, feet thudding on the wooden boards, and cannoned straight into Jenna, throwing them both backward.

Jenna picked herself up and hauled Septimus to his feet. “Sep!” she gasped. “What’s the hurry?”

“Spit Fyre!” said Septimus, unwilling to waste any time
trying to explain. He raced off, shot up the steps and out onto the open deck.

Jenna was not far behind. “What about Spit Fyre?” she asked, catching up with him. Septimus shook his head and raced on, but Jenna grabbed hold of his sleeve and gave him her best Princess stare. “Septimus, what about Spit Fyre?
Tell me!
”

“Left-him-on-the-sand-asleep-tide’s-come-in—oh-crumbs—
hours
-ago,” Septimus babbled. He wrenched free of Jenna and fled across the deck, heading for the gangplank. Jenna, who was always faster on her feet than Septimus, was suddenly in front of him blocking the gangway. “Jen!” Septimus protested. “Get out of the way!
Please
, I gotta find Spit Fyre!”

“Well, you’ve found him—or rather, he found you. He’s
here
, Sep.”

“Where?” Septimus swung around. “I can’t see him.”

“Come on, I’ll show you.” Jenna took Septimus by the hand and led him along the freshly scrubbed deck to the stern of the ship. The dragon lay peacefully asleep, his tail flung over the gunnels with its barb resting in the water. On the quayside was a knot of ecstatic admirers, members of the Trading Post Dragon-Spotting Club—a club formed only recently, more in
hope than expectation of ever seeing a dragon.

“He turned up last night, just after you fell asleep,” said Jenna. She grinned. “You were so out of it, you didn’t even wake when he landed. There was a massive
thud
and the whole ship rocked. I thought it was going to sink. The crew went crazy, but once I explained that my dragon had—”

“
Your
dragon?” Septimus objected. “You said he was
your
dragon?”

Jenna looked sheepish. “Well, I
am
Spit Fyre’s Navigator, Sep. And I knew that if I said he was mine, it would be okay. Because, well…” Jenna stopped and smiled. “
Anything
I do on this ship is okay. Good, isn’t it?”

Septimus wasn’t so sure. “But he’s
my
dragon, Jen.”

“Oh, don’t be so silly, Sep. I know he’s your dragon. I’ll tell them he’s your dragon if you like. But it wasn’t me who left him on the beach with the tide coming in.”

“It was going
out
.”

Jenna shrugged. “What
ever
. Anyway, the cook’s gone ashore to find some chickens and stuff for his breakfast. Do you want breakfast too?”

Septimus nodded and somewhat sulkily followed Jenna back down below.

The day on board the
Cerys
did not progress according to Septimus’s satisfaction. He had expected to be welcomed as a rescuer once more, only to find that Milo Banda had stolen his thunder, and no one seemed at all interested in flying home with him on Spit Fyre. They were all planning to sail home “in style,” as Jenna put it. “And without those dragon smells, either,” Beetle had added.

Following a tedious breakfast with Milo and Jenna, which had been spent listening to Milo’s accounts of his recent exploits and his excitement about the “stupendous cargo” he was expecting at any moment, Septimus had wandered up on deck. He was pleased to find Nicko and Snorri, who were sitting with their legs dangling over the side of the ship, looking out to sea. Ullr, in his daytime guise as a small orange cat, was asleep in the warm sunshine. Septimus sat down beside them.

“Hey, Sep,” said Nicko quietly. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah. Too well. Forgot Spit Fyre,” Septimus said with a grunt.

“You were very tired, Septimus,” said Snorri. “Sometimes it is good to sleep well. And Spit Fyre is safe. He sleeps too, I
think?” At that a loud snore shook the decks, and Septimus laughed.

“It’s really good to see you, Nik,” he said.

“You too, little bro.”

“I thought we could go back on Spit Fyre later on this afternoon?”

Nicko took a while to reply. And when he did it was not what Septimus wanted to hear. “No thanks, Sep. Snorri and me, we’re going to sail the
Cerys
back home with Milo. Take some time out at sea.”

“But Nik, you
can’t
,” said Septimus.

“Why not?” Nicko sounded irritable.

“Mum, she really wants to have you safe at home, Nik. I promised her I would bring you back on Spit Fyre.” Septimus had imagined the homecoming many times—the excitement of landing his dragon on the Palace lawns, Sarah and Silas running down to greet them, Alther and Marcia too, and maybe even Aunt Zelda. It was something he had been looking forward to, the final completion of the search for Nicko that he and Jenna had begun what seemed like so long ago. He suddenly felt cheated.

“Sorry, Sep,” said Nicko. “Snorri and I have to do this. We
need time to get used to things. I don’t want to see Mum again just yet. I don’t want to have to answer all her questions and be happy and polite to everybody. And Dad won’t mind waiting, I know he won’t. I just…I just need time to think. Time to be free, time to be
me
—okay?”

Septimus didn’t think it was okay at all, but it felt mean to say so. So he said nothing, and Nicko said no more. Septimus sat with Nicko and Snorri for a while, looking out to sea, wondering about the change that had come over his brother. He didn’t like it. Nicko was ponderous and sluggish, as though the hands on his clock were traveling more slowly—and he didn’t seem to care much about what anyone else felt either, Septimus thought. And neither he nor Snorri seemed to feel the need to speak, which was weird—Nicko had always had something to say, even if it was completely crazy. Septimus missed the old Nicko, the Nicko who laughed when he shouldn’t and said things without thinking. Now it felt as if Nicko would have to think for hours before he said anything—and then it would be something serious and rather boring. After a while spent sitting in silence, Septimus got up and wandered off. Neither Nicko nor Snorri appeared to notice.

Later that afternoon, after a lunch spent listening to yet
more seafaring tales from Milo, Septimus was sitting morosely on deck, leaning against Spit Fyre, who was still asleep. In fact, apart from gulping down half a dozen chickens, a bag of sausages and the cook’s best frying pan, the dragon had done nothing
but
sleep since he had arrived on the
Cerys
. Septimus had loaded up the dragon with the saddlebags—more in hope than expectation of being able to leave—and now he sat leaning against the scales, warmed by the sun and feeling the slow rise and fall of the dragon’s breathing. He stared moodily out at the encircling harbor wall. It was bright and sunny, with a slight breeze—perfect dragon-flying weather—and he was impatient to be off. He had tried his best to wake Spit Fyre but to no avail. Even the surefire tricks of blowing up the dragon’s nose and tickling his ears had not worked. Irritably Septimus kicked out at a perfect coil of bright red rope and stubbed his toe. He wanted to get on Spit Fyre right now and go home on his own. No one would notice. If only his stupid dragon would
wake up
.

“Wotcha, your most Senior Apprenticeness!” Beetle’s voice sounded out cheerily.

“Oh, very funny. Hello, Beetle—gosh, what
are
you wearing?” asked Septimus.

Beetle flushed. “Oh,” he said. “You noticed.”

Septimus stared at Beetle’s new acquisition—a short, navy blue jacket adorned with a plethora of gold braid and frogging. “I could hardly
not
notice,” he replied. “What is it?”

“It’s a jacket,” said Beetle a little peevishly.

“What, a captain’s jacket?”

“Well, no. Admiral’s, actually. The shop’s got lots of ’em if you want one too.”

“Um, no thanks, Beetle.”

Beetle shrugged. He gingerly negotiated his way around Spit Fyre’s nose and regarded Septimus with a grin, which faded when he saw Septimus’s frown. “Spit Fyre okay?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“So what’s up?” asked Beetle, settling himself down beside Septimus.

Septimus shrugged.

Beetle regarded his friend quizzically. “You had a fight with Nicko or something?”

“Nope.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had. He’s a bit edgy, isn’t he?”

“He’s different,” said Septimus. “He’s not like Nik anymore. And even Jenna’s gotten weird—acting all Princessy, like she owns the ship or something.”

Beetle chuckled. “That’s probably because she does,” he said.

“She doesn’t. It’s Milo’s ship.”

“It
was
Milo’s ship. Until he gave it to her.”

Septimus stared at Beetle. “What, the
whole
ship?”

Beetle nodded.

“But why?” asked Septimus.

“I dunno, Sep. Because he’s her father? I suppose that’s what fathers do.” Beetle sounded wistful. “But if you ask me, it was to win Jenna over.”

“Huh,” said Septimus, sounding remarkably like Silas.

“Yeah. It was weird, you know. A real coincidence. We bumped into Milo when we went out to get food. He was so thrilled to see Jenna, but I could see she didn’t feel the same way. Then, when he found out we were camping in a rundown, filthy old net loft he insisted we stay with him instead. Nicko and Snorri really wanted to—you know how Nicko loves boats and stuff—but Jenna refused. She said we were fine in the net loft.”

“Well, you
were
,” said Septimus, thinking that was the first sensible thing he had heard about Jenna for a while.

Beetle pulled a face. “Actually, Sep, it was horrible. It stank of putrid fish, and there was a big hole in the roof, and it was soaking wet and I fell through the rotten floor and got stuck
forever
.”

“So what happened to change Jen’s mind?” asked Septimus. And then, answering his own question, “I suppose Milo gave Jen his ship, just so she would come and stay with him.”

Beetle nodded. “Yep. That’s about it.”

“And now she’s going to sail home with him?”

“Well, yes. He is her father, I suppose. But look, Sep, if you want some company on the way back, I’d be happy to come with you.”

“On a smelly dragon?”

“Yeah. Well, he is smelly, you got to admit it.”

“No, he’s not. I don’t know why everyone goes on about that, I really don’t.”

“Okay, okay. But I
would
like to come back with you, honest.”

“Really?”