Lord Sunday

by Garth Nix

Major Penhaligon nodded and sat back.

  Leaf looked out through the small, very thick armour-glass window. It made everything look blurry and it was initially hard to work out exactly where they were, but she soon recognised a building and got her bearings. Only a few minutes later, they pulled up in front of Friday’s hospital.

  There were no signs outside that indicated the building was a hospital of any kind. It looked just like the other low-rise oldish office buildings on the street, sharing with them the hallmarks of the micronuke attack, as all the windows facing East Area Hospital were shattered, and there were burn marks across the facade. There had been some trees out in front as well, but they were now only blackened stumps.

  Leaf felt a momentary doubt as she climbed out the back of the personnel carrier. What if all the sleepers were gone, transported back to the House by yet another machination of a Trustee? Then Major Penhaligon would think she was a nutcase, or a real troublemaker—

  She was thinking about that when Martine suddenly burst out through the front doors. Though she was wearing a scarf over her head and a surgical mask, it was easy to tell just from her staring eyes that she was absolutely terrified.

  ‘Help!’ she screamed. She almost fell down the wheelchair ramp, towards Sergeant Chen, who rushed forward to catch her. ‘There’s a thing – it’s come from the—’

  Martine didn’t have the breath to get out what she wanted to say, but Leaf at least was certain she knew.

  A thing from the House.

  ‘What?’ asked Major Penhaligon. ‘A what?’

  Martine just pointed back behind her, her arm shaking.

  ‘It . . . it came out of the pool.’

  ‘I don’t believe this!’ snapped Major Penhaligon. ‘Williams! Take care of this woman.’

  He brushed past Martine and stormed up to the front doors of the hospital. Leaf hurried after him, calling out, ‘Be careful! There’s . . . uh . . . weird stuff going on.’

  Sergeant Chen, who was striding up the ramp next to Leaf, turned her masked head to the girl.

  ‘Weird, like winged guys?’

  ‘Weirder,’ said Leaf.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Chen drew her pistol and racked the slide. ‘Wait up, Major! Could be real trouble.’

  Major Penhaligon, who had been about to open the door, hesitated. Then he stepped back and readied his own pistol.

  ‘This seems ridiculous,’ he said. ‘But I suppose it could be the Greyspot virus or something, making someone go crazy. Chen, stay close. Miss Leaf, you wait here.’

  He pushed open the door and went in slowly, turning his head so that he could scan the corridor, despite the limited field of vision imposed by his mask. Chen followed, and Leaf, despite being told not to, followed Chen.

  The lobby and administrative offices were empty, but as Major Penhaligon and Sergeant Chen advanced down the central corridor, with Leaf tagging along some distance behind, they heard someone screaming ahead, near where the ramp went down to the lower level.

  A sleeper staggered out of the top of the ramp, took several steps, and then was horrifyingly gripped by a long green tentacle. It wrapped around the old man and yanked him off his feet and dragged him back out of sight. There was another scream, and then silence.

  ‘You see that?’ asked Major Penhaligon unnecessarily.

  ‘Sure did,’ said Chen. ‘Twenty feet long at least, and as thick as my arm. I don’t want to see whatever it’s attached to—’

  The tentacle reappeared as she spoke, questing around the corner. It was followed by another, and another, and then the main body of the creature rounded the corner. It was the size and shape of a small car, with dimpled, tough-looking hide that was bright green. It had hundreds of foot-long legs under this central torso, and three big tentacles in total, each of which was easily thirty feet long. On top and in the middle of its main body, there was another shorter limb, perhaps a neck, about three feet long, which supported a sensory organ that resembled a daisy, hundreds of pale yellow anemone-like tendrils swirling around a central, darker yellow orb. As Major Penhaligon took a step forward, these anemone tendrils all turned towards him, as if they could sense his movement. He stopped, but most of the tendrils continued to point stiffly at him, with only a few still fluttering on the sides, as if they were watching for other potential enemies.

  ‘Watch it, but hold your fire,’ said Major Penhaligon. He then muttered something into his radio, which Leaf couldn’t catch.

  ‘I don’t reckon shooting that with anything less than a fifty cal would be worthwhile,’ said Chen, but she kept her pistol trained on the creature.

  ‘It’s got a collar,’ said Leaf, pointing to a thin band that was wound around the neck-limb. There was a slim braided lead attached to the collar, and the lead stretched back around the corner.

  ‘You said weird and you were so right,’ said Chen.

  ‘I wonder who’s holding the lead,’ said Leaf.

  She was answered a moment later when a humanoid figure stepped out from behind the creature. He was green-skinned, seven feet tall, and wore a tailed coat made of autumn leaves and breeches apparently of green turf. Because he wasn’t wearing any shoes, Leaf had a clear view of his long, yellow-brown toes, which closely resembled the taproots of a willow.

  In his right hand, he held a scythe, the butt planted upon the ground. The staff of the scythe was at least nine feet long, and the curving blade stretched behind him, from shoulder to shoulder. It was made from some dark metal that did not reflect the light.

  ‘I have come for the girl called Leaf,’ said this figure, clearly a Denizen. He waved one negligent hand. Leaf noticed that his thumbnails were a darker green than his skin, so dark they were almost black. ‘You others may go.’

  ‘What . . . Who are you?’ replied Major Penhaligon.

  ‘I am commonly called the Reaper, and that will suffice,’ replied the Denizen. ‘Leaf-girl, your presence is required by my Master. Come to me.’

  ‘Your Master?’ asked Leaf. Major Penhaligon was whispering on his radio again, and Chen had moved her aim to the green Denizen. ‘Would that be Saturday or Sunday?’

  ‘It is not needful that I tell you. Walk to me, child, ere I set the beastwort upon your companions.’

  ‘Get ready to run,’ whispered Chen, so low Leaf almost couldn’t hear her.

  ‘Run!’ shouted Major Penhaligon. As he shouted, he and Chen started shooting at the beastwort. Leaf turned and sprinted as fast as she could for the doors, the booming shots echoing around her, followed by the clomp of boots as Penhaligon and Chen caught up with her. Chen picked her up under one huge arm as they crashed through the doors, Major Penhaligon turning around to fire several times into the leading tentacle as it almost grasped his leg. While the bullets hit, they appeared to do little, if any, damage.

  ‘To the carrier!’ shouted Major Penhaligon. The vehicle had turned so that its turret machine gun was facing the door of the hospital, and its back ramp was open. Chen took Leaf out one side, with Major Penhaligon close behind, and as they ran for the ramp, the machine gun started to fire deafeningly over their heads.

  Williams and Martine were already inside. They scurried back as Chen, Leaf, and Major Penhaligon hurtled in, and then Chen pulled the lever to close the rear ramp. It whined and slowly began to rise, even as one of the beastwort’s tentacles slithered around the corner and gripped the edge.

  Outside, the heavy chatter of the turret machine gun stopped, and over the internal speaker, the driver’s panicked voice shouted, ‘It’s not stopping. I can’t—’

  The vehicle shook with a sudden impact, knocking Leaf to the floor. As she scrambled up, another tentacle came in the other side of the ramp. Chen hacked at it with her combat knife, but its flesh was like a rubbery sponge. The knife simply rebounded off, no matter how much force Chen applied.

  Then the tentacles fastened themselves completely around the ramp and ripped it off, the heavy armour plate torn in half as easily as a stick of licoric
e. The door went flying through the air to crash into a burned-out car across the street, and the beastwort slithered into view.

  Chen and Major Penhaligon tried to push Leaf back behind them, as if they could somehow shield her from the monster, but Leaf resisted.

  ‘No!’ she said. It took all her courage to get out the next few words, but she managed. ‘It’s no good. I’ll go . . . I’ll go with them. If I do, they’ll probably leave everyone else alone.’

  ‘That is so,’ said the Reaper, who stood suddenly in the doorway. ‘Come. There is little time.’

  ‘No!’ said Major Penhaligon. He grabbed Leaf’s arm as she scrambled towards the rear of the carrier. ‘There must be something we can—’

  ‘There isn’t,’ said Leaf quietly. She shook off Major Penhaligon’s light grip and stepped out of the carrier. She stopped to look back and added, ‘There’s nothing any of us can do. I just . . . I just hope Arthur can save me . . . save us all . . .’

  ‘Arthur?’ asked Major Penhaligon. Even distorted by the mask, the surprise and shock in his voice were evident. ‘My little brother?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Leaf.

  ‘Enough!’ said the Denizen. He reached out and gripped Leaf’s shoulder. She flinched under his touch, and felt a wave of fear so intense that she almost fell. But she fought against it and remained upright. She didn’t want the Denizen – or Chen and Penhaligon – to see how scared she was. It was lucky the mask covered her face, or they’d know, since she couldn’t stop the tears that were welling up uncontrollably, or even wipe them away.

  ‘Come!’

  ‘Look after the sleepers!’ Leaf shouted before she was pushed away, back towards the doors of Friday’s hospital.

  Only, through the rainbow prism of her tears, she saw they were not the doors of the hospital. They had become one tall arched door, decorated with a thousand swirling patterns and shapes, pictures of things that had happened and things that might yet come to pass, a confusing kaleidoscope of colours and movement that Leaf knew she must not keep looking at, lest she be so drawn in she lost her senses.

  In other words, it was the Front Door of the House.

  Eight

  THE TWO DENIZENS clamped Arthur’s wrists with manacles that shone with their own intense blue light. He had seen that sorcerous steel before, binding the Old One to his clock, so he struggled even harder. But the Denizens were too strong, and they were aided by the unseen power that Arthur felt pressing down upon him, the power that he knew emanated from the Seventh Key that Lord Sunday must be holding in his hand.

  As one of the Denizens fastened a chain to the manacle on his right hand, Arthur summoned up all his strength. Wrenching his arm free, he held out his hand, pointed it directly at Sunday, and shouted, ‘I, Arthur, anointed Heir to the Kingdom, claim the Seventh Key—’

  Lord Sunday’s eyes narrowed. He made a slight gesture with the Key that lay hidden in his cupped hand. Arthur immediately lost his voice, his next few words croaking away into unintelligibility.

  ‘You cannot claim the Key without the aid of Part Seven of the Will,’ said Lord Sunday. ‘And I do not wish to listen to your blatherings.’

  The Denizens finished fastening the chains, drawing Arthur’s hands up behind his back. He could feel the sorcery in the manacles. It felt like a terribly cold current in the metal, eternally running counterclockwise around his wrists. They felt so strong he doubted whether he could break them even if he managed to get back the Fifth and Sixth Keys, which seemed unlikely. They were still jumping and flying about inside the silver net, which Sunday was holding at arm’s length in his left hand, while his right held the Seventh Key. Arthur wished he could see what that Key was, but it was entirely hidden. Whatever it was, it had to be small – though it might grow and change, Arthur thought, as Sunday had changed himself.

  Lord Sunday looked up, and Arthur followed the direction of his gaze. There was something above them, a black dot against that beautiful blue sky with its whispery clouds. The dot grew larger and larger, swooping down towards them from some great height, and Arthur saw it was a huge dragonfly. It descended very quickly to hover up above them, its wings almost touching the tops of the hedges on either side.

  It was a very big dragonfly. Its body was about sixty feet long, and each of its multipart, buzzing wings was easily twice that length. Arthur couldn’t see clearly from below, but there was something on its back, a kind of cabin or deckhouse, with stained-glass windows and a roof of wooden shingles.

  A Denizen, wearing a one-piece coverall of soft tan leather and a kind of hunting hat with a feather, threw a long rope ladder down from the tail of the dragonfly. The ladder unrolled itself as it fell, ending near Lord Sunday, who quickly began to climb up it, effortlessly taking three or four rungs at once.

  While Lord Sunday was climbing up, the Denizen on the dragonfly went farther back along the creature’s body and threw down a rope that ended in a large hook. The Denizens holding Arthur looped his chains around the hook, the Denizen above waved to some other unseen crew, and the rope was hauled up, leaving Arthur dangling some thirty feet below the dragonfly. It was a very painful position, with his arms twisted behind his back and the manacles on his wrists supporting his entire weight. Arthur knew that prior to his transformation he would have been screaming in pain as his arms were dislocated at the shoulders. Now, though it hurt a lot, he merely grimaced and contained his pain, the anger inside him still stronger than any other feeling.

  Part of that anger was addressed to himself.

  How could I have been so stupid? Arthur thought. I should have got out of here somehow, as soon as I knew it was the Incomparable Gardens. I never should have been so careless with an unknown Piper’s child . . .

  The two tall, green-skinned Denizens shinnied up the rope ladder, and it was drawn up. Arthur heard a whistle above him, and the thrum of the dragonfly’s wings increased in tempo and pitch. Its legs, which had been dangling just above Arthur, retracted against the vast abdomen.

  The dragonfly zoomed up and jinked sharply to the right in a move that sent Arthur swinging on his chains, jerking his arms enough to make him let out a small gasp. His arms might be dislocation-proof now, but some part of his brain hadn’t worked that out and was still sending intense pain – do something signals.

  Arthur forced the pain back down. Then, with a herculean effort, he leaned forward till he was head down, hooked his feet through his linked arms, and swung through so that his manacled wrists were now in front and above him, and he could hold on to the chains rather than having his whole weight supported by the manacles and his wrists. He was still suspended by chains under a fast-moving giant dragonfly, but at least his wrists and shoulders didn’t hurt as much.

  With the lessening of the pain, Arthur found he could concentrate on other things, like looking around. The dragonfly had settled into level flight at about a thousand feet up, Arthur guessed, giving him a panoramic view of the Incomparable Gardens.

  In other circumstances, it would have been a wonderful vista. Below him was a patchwork of hundreds or possibly thousands of different gardens, all separated by corridors of tall green hedges like the one in which he had been ambushed. There were gardens that were small and green and tidy; gardens of russet and tan that sprawled across many acres; there were deserts and low rolling hills and swamps and even several beaches that bordered portions of ocean no more than a hundred yards long and wide. A small proportion of the gardens had buildings, varying from garden sheds to minarets and modern buildings that would not have looked out of place in Arthur’s hometown.

  Amid the patchwork of gardens, there were several other locations that occupied much larger areas. One, some distance away on Arthur’s right, was a green area that was at least a mile wide and several miles long, with a dry pond or muddy pit at its centre. A moment later, Arthur recognised this as the point where Saturday’s assault ram had broken through, and as he peered more closely, he saw that there were tiny figures
moving around the hole, and across the green lawn towards the ridge of wildflowers, where many more little dots moved. But he was several miles away, with the dragonfly climbing higher, so he couldn’t tell if the tiny figures were Sunday’s insect soldiers or Saturday’s Denizens.

  Not that it really matters, thought Arthur. He needed to concentrate on what he was going to do, instead of wondering about what was happening in the battle between Saturday and Sunday – or, for that matter, the battle in the Upper House below them, between the Piper and Saturday.

  He looked up at the manacles on his wrists. As far as he could see with the wind in his eyes and the constant swinging back and forth as the dragonfly changed course, the manacles were all one piece of sorcerous steel. They had no keyholes or bolts or any other obvious fasteners, and the chain ran through protruding eyelets that were half an inch thick and seemed as much part of the manacle as the main band, with no signs of welds or any weakness that might be exploited.

  It was likely that they could only be unfastened by the Seventh Key, or some similar power. Perhaps Arthur, with all the other six Keys, might be able to command his release if he was not opposed by Lord Sunday. But he didn’t have even one Key now.

  He brought his wrists together and tried to get the fingers of his right hand under the left manacle, to see if he could bend or break it with his now otherworldly strength. But the manacles were too tight, and in his heart he knew there was no chance that they could be opened by any physical act. Made with sorcery, they could only be undone by sorcery.

  Next, Arthur tried to summon a telephone, as he had done in other parts of the House. But whether he asked for one aloud or simply tried to will a telephone into existence, nothing happened.

  After that, he tried to call the First, Second, Third, and Fourth Keys to him, as he had done in the Middle House. But that didn’t work either, no matter how he shouted and raged, his voice hoarse from whatever Sunday had done to him, made worse by the constant rush of wind.

  Always, he felt the unseen pressure of the Seventh Key working against him. It was clear that he could not prevail against it.