StarChaser

by Angie Sage

  In a chamber deep within the Palace, the Red Queen surveyed her catch: one useless sorcerer and two terrified and equally useless women. She had them all thrown into a dungeon and then she turned to the Captain of the Guard. “The girl—that little witch—you said she had a key to a castle?”

  The Captain waited five long seconds then replied, “Yes, Your Majesty. I questioned the guard to whom she spoke. She told him it was the key to a castle, Your Majesty. She said it was something you wanted to get your hands on, Your Majesty.”

  The Red Queen smiled. All was not yet lost. “Go,” she told the Captain. “Bring me that little witch. Now.”

  TRACKING

  After a fruitless visit to Hospitable Gard, the Captain went home to his wife and bade her a tearful farewell. There was no way, he said, he would survive this mission. The witch was gone and he had no idea where. His wife waited out his tears and then, as the sun rose, she took the Captain to the sorcerer her family had used for years. In a tiny room at the top of a turret, in return for a whole year of the Captain’s salary plus the use of their firstborn as a runner, an ancient sorcerer, bald as an egg, handed the Captain a small green ball covered in finely stitched leather. It was a new, untried Tracker ball.

  “I won it in a bet,” the sorcerer told them. “It was a wild night down in the Port of the Singing Sands and I gambled my head of hair against his Tracker ball over the turn of the cards.” The sorcerer looked up at the bemused expression on the Captain’s face. His wife, who had heard the joke many times before, wore a fixed smile as the sorcerer grinned and rubbed his hand over his smooth, bald head. “I won that night. But not the next. Always stop while you are ahead,” he said. “Or at least, while you have a head of hair.”

  The wife of the Captain of the Guard laughed politely and she nudged her husband to do the same—it was wise to humor sorcerers. When the laughter died away, she asked, “Could you tell us how to use this Magykal thing, O Wise One?”

  “You touch it to the person and then it will Track them,” the sorcerer replied.

  The Captain’s wife was aghast; she had forgotten what an idiot their family sorcerer was. But she must make the best of it. Sorcerers were a close-knit bunch and she could not now change her mind and go to another. “What a charming idea,” she said, trying her best to smile. “And if the person one wishes to Track is not actually there at the time, what does one do?”

  The sorcerer frowned and rubbed his head in thought. “An interesting question,” he said. “Yes, indeed . . . most thought-provoking.”

  The Captain and his wife waited for an answer. At last they got it. “I believe it is possible to wrap the Tracker ball in an article of the person’s clothing and leave it for . . . hmm . . . let me see now . . . yes . . . thirteen minutes.”

  “Thirteen,” the Captain’s wife said sharply. “So do I understand this to be a Darke device?”

  The sorcerer looked at her with irritation. He didn’t like clients who were too clever. “It contains an element of the Darke, madam,” he replied frostily. “As do all Tracker balls. Indeed, how else would they operate? After all, they rarely Track people with their informed consent, ha-ha. And to operate without consent requires a touch of Darke Magyk. As you are no doubt aware. You may go now.”

  The Captain’s wife knew that when a sorcerer told you to go, you went. And you did not say: Suppose we don’t have any clothing, you stupid old man. What do we do then? However much you wanted to.

  The dejected couple wandered back home in silence. At last the Captain’s wife spoke. “Cecil, I have been thinking. We must go to that Hospitable Gard place and get a piece of the witch’s clothing.”

  The Captain looked gloomy. “She will have packed it all up and taken it with her.”

  “She sounds a scatty young thing,” his wife said. “She’s bound to have left something behind.”

  “But how do I know what clothes belong to her?” the Captain asked plaintively.

  His wife sighed out loud. “From your description of the other women living there I should have thought it would be obvious.” She looked at her husband and decided that he was in such a state that he wouldn’t even recognize a little frilly nightdress with I Belong to a Witch embroidered across its front. “I’ll come with you as part of the Queen’s Guard,” she said. “You can say you’ve got a warrant to search the place. It’ll be easy. I’ll know a piece of witch stuff when I see one.”

  The Captain looked at his wife with an expression of relief. Everything would be fine if she was with him. And then he remembered something. “But Celia, you can’t be part of the Queen’s Guard,” he said. “You’re not a man.”

  “Oh, do shut up, Cecil,” said his wife.

  The housekeeper at Hospitable Gard was cleaning at the very top of the tower when she heard pounding on the front door six floors down. She was not in a good mood when she at last flung it open. “What,” she demanded, “do you want?” She saw the full dress uniform of the Captain of the Queen’s Guard and nearly fainted. “Oh, sir,” she said, “oh, I am so sorry. I was not expecting . . .”

  “I have a search warrant,” said the Captain. “Let us in. At once.”

  The housekeeper stood aside for the Captain and his young soldier. The housekeeper waited for more to troop in but she was surprised to see that there were no others. She waited respectfully for the Captain to speak. He said nothing. The housekeeper began to feel nervous. She thought she saw the young soldier nudge the Captain in the ribs but she told herself that was not possible. And then at last the Captain spoke.

  “I have reason to believe there is a witch here,” he said.

  The housekeeper was shocked. She did not like witches. “There is no one here, sir. They are removed to the Palace. I am cleaning up their mess. Mucky baggages the lot of them.”

  “Stand aside, woman,” said the Captain. “I intend to search the tower.”

  The housekeeper sank thankfully onto one of the divans and watched the Captain and his oddly feminine soldier hurry away up the stairs. She swung her feet up, lay her head on the soft nest of cushions and fell asleep.

  Ten minutes later the Captain and his wife clattered down the stairs. In her hands the wife held a tiny green slip that smelled of patchouli. The Captain agreed that there was no way either of the women could have fit into that. “Although I suppose one of them could have worn it as a scarf,” he said, doubts beginning to grow once more.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Cecil,” his wife told him.

  The housekeeper opened her eyes dozily, decided she must be dreaming and went back to sleep.

  The Tracker ball spent its thirteen minutes wrapped in the piece of patchouli-scented silk. The Captain of the Queen’s Guard spent the thirteen minutes sharpening his sword, and his wife spent it wondering if the Captain was worth all the trouble. Half an hour later, the Captain’s wife waved her husband good-bye. She watched him follow the Tracker ball as it bounced away down the alley. She hoped he would come back, but she thought it unlikely.

  The Captain followed the ball as it rolled and tumbled along. It moved fast and at times he struggled to keep sight of it. Hot and flustered, carrying his sword and a knapsack, he attracted many amused glances: the Captain of the Queen’s Guard chasing after a ball was not something often seen.

  The Tracker ball moved fast, and the Captain was soon out of breath in the afternoon heat. He just about managed to keep it in sight until suddenly, with an enormous bounce, it flew over a high wall and disappeared. The Captain ran to the only door in the wall and found it was locked. In desperation he threw himself against it, but it did not move. He pummeled the door with his fists, shouted, screamed, and then, as people began leaning out of nearby windows to see what the fuss was about, he sank to the ground in tears.

  That night the Captain left a note for his wife under the pot by their front door and then he walked out of the city. At first light he hired a camel. He didn’t know where it was going. All he knew was that he woul
d never return.

  PART III

  THE ORMLET

  It was a beautiful morning in the Castle—too good, Marwick told his self-defense class, to stay inside. And so, on the wide sweep of Palace lawns that led down to the river, the class was out in the sunshine, practicing blocking with staves. The class was a mixed bunch, chosen because each had once been in mortal danger. Among them were Tod, Oskar and Ferdie. There were an assortment of scribes from the Manuscriptorium and a few Apprentices from the Wizard Tower including, much to Tod’s discomfort, a certain Drammer Makken. There was also, at her own insistence, the Castle Queen, Jenna. Watching them from a grassy bank was a pale, convalescing Sam Heap and his brother Septimus, looking rather hot in his heavy purple ExtraOrdinary Wizard robes.

  The class instructor, Marwick, was a skinny, wild-looking young man with his hair worn in dreadlocks. Marwick had clearly used his skills for real in the past and many of the younger ones were a little in awe of him. But even Marwick could not compete with the sight of the Ormlet suddenly appearing over the tall hedge that separated the Dragon Field from the Palace lawns.

  With a flash of blue, a flutter of spiky wings and a flick of a long, flippy tail, the Ormlet rose into the air like a rocket. In the field behind the hedge a large green dragon named Spit Fyre watched his adopted baby with an expression of pride. The expression worn by everyone else was more wary. Many were wondering anxiously what the creature was going to do this time.

  Tod was not worried. Like Ferdie and Oskar she loved to see the Ormlet flying free. At a distance the creature looked like a tiny electric blue dragon as it soared high into the clear sky. Oskar followed it closely, trying to commit to memory the way it moved: quick, unpredictable, erratic—just like an automaton. Which was, Oskar thought, perfect. For it was Oskar’s dearest wish that one day, when the Ormlet had become an adult Orm and was nothing more than a huge hollow tube eating its way through rock, he might be able to create its mechanical twin so that the joyful flight of the Ormlet would never be forgotten.

  The Ormlet threw itself into a succession of complex spins. The creature had grown to appreciate the attention of humans. It loved the gasps of wonder at its acrobatics, but even more it loved the screams of alarm as it swooped down on unsuspecting victims—only to swerve past them at the very last minute. That morning it was thrilled to see so many upturned faces watching it.

  In addition to the self-defense class, the Ormlet’s audience comprised passengers on a pleasure boat tour around the Castle, a group of farmhands mowing a meadow on the opposite bank and, from an upstairs window at the Palace, a new and highly excitable wolfhound puppy called Millicent. To the background of frantic yapping, the Ormlet now launched into a series of breathtaking loops and spirals, feeling the cool morning air rushing by its shimmering leathery skin and delighting in the moment.

  Queen Jenna squinted up into the sky, watching the unpredictable flash of blue. The Ormlet was a responsibility that Jenna felt keenly. She had promised Septimus that she would keep it safe with Spit Fyre until the time came for it to TransfOrm. But the task had not been an easy one. For some reason, the presence of the Ormlet had attracted the attentions of the Wendron Witch coven. But at least, Jenna thought as she watched the Ormlet throw itself into a double loop and twist, that threat was gone now. A smile crossed Jenna’s face as she remembered the early-morning visit from her faithful witch spies, Ariel and Star. They had looked disheveled and weary with dark rings under their eyes. They had obviously had a difficult journey through the nighttime Forest, but even so they had struggled through to give her the message that the Wendron Witches were no longer intending to steal the Ormlet. That, thought Jenna, was true loyalty. And so, after Ariel and Star had gone to their Palace rooms for a well-deserved rest, Jenna had stood down the guard on the Dragon Kennel.

  Welcome though the message was, it did not take away the difficulties of playing host to the Ormlet. The snappy little reptile was accused of a series of crimes and misdemeanors.

  The charge sheet was as follows:

  For the Prosecution: Biting the boot of Barney Pot, the dragon keeper, and eating three of his toes.

  For the Defense: This was a mistake. And the toes did not taste good.

  For the Prosecution: Escaping into the Palace garden and eating the entire afternoon tea for the Garden Party of Port Officials.

  For the Defense: The officials were very boring.

  For the Prosecution: The disappearance of all the Palace cats.

  For the Defense: What cats?

  For the Prosecution: Overturning two small boats in the river.

  For the Defense: The Ormlet cannot be held responsible for spectators all choosing to stand on the same side of a boat.

  There were also a few crimes as yet to be recorded: biting off the left little finger of witch novice Selina Simpkins (on which she wore her favorite silver ring) and the theft of assorted small, shiny objects. Like a giant magpie, the Ormlet with its delicate, prehensile lips would lift a sparkling piece of jewelry left near an open window, but if the shiny thing happened to be a ring on the finger of an annoying witch poking the Ormlet with a long stick, so much the better.

  However, that morning the Ormlet looked so joyful and innocent that even Jenna forgot its wrongdoings and watched in delight.

  The Ormlet flew for the sheer joy of the sensation of air rushing beneath its wings and the warmth of the sun on its shimmering, leathery skin. Recently a feeling of impending doom had taken root in the Ormlet’s brain. It didn’t know why, but it had a presentiment that things were about to change—and not for the better. On that bright and beautiful morning, the Ormlet was trying to outfly the dark fate that it felt creeping up behind it.

  At the zenith of its arc the Ormlet stopped and hovered far above the river, flapping its wings so rapidly that they were a barely visible blur. It looked down and far below saw the upturned faces of its admirers. It watched the shimmer of the reflections on the surface of the river, the gleam of the polished brass on the river boat and then, on the Palace lawns, it saw something irresistible—a deliciously bright sparkle of gold shining on the head of a young woman in red.

  A thrill of joy went through the Ormlet’s thin, sharp nerves. It folded its wings and tipped downward so it looked like a sleek, blue arrow pointing to earth. A gasp drifted up from below as it spiraled down in a spectacular nosedive. The Ormlet waited just long enough to garner a satisfying tally of screams from the riverboat passengers before it pulled out of the dive no more than three feet above their heads. To the background of applause from the relieved passengers, the Ormlet proceeded to zigzag like a delinquent firecracker just above the water. It then took a sudden right turn, shot up the Palace lawns and—locking onto its target—flew straight for Queen Jenna, its brilliant blue eyes focused on the twinkling gold of the circlet that she wore around her hair. The self-defense class scattered like a bow wave before the onrushing missile.

  Jenna grabbed Marwick’s stave and stood ready for the attack. Oskar leaped into the air, waving his hands as though trying to catch a ball. “Ormie!” he yelled. “Ormie!”

  “Oskar!” screamed Tod, tackling his knees and throwing him to the ground out of the path of the sharp snout, dangerous as a spear. The Ormlet whizzed by so close that Tod could feel the rush of air and hear the buzz of its wings. She sat up and saw the flash of blue make a sharp right turn and zoom to the back of Jenna’s head. Tod was impressed with Jenna’s lightning reaction. The Queen wheeled around, swung her stave whistling through the air, but she was a fraction of a second too late. The Ormlet’s dexterous lips had already lifted the golden circlet from her head. Jenna succeeded in landing a glancing blow on the barb of its tail but all that did was speed the creature upon its way, a ring of gold hanging from its mouth like a huge, misplaced earring. The Ormlet soared into the sky wearing its earring with pride, along with what looked like a very smug smile.

  LAST CHANCE

  Two shouts went up sim
ultaneously, both from young men but from opposite directions. Tod watched the two men race toward the scattered self-defense class. One was her tutor, Septimus Heap; the other, who came hurtling through a hole in the hedge that separated the Dragon Field from the Palace gardens, wore a scuffed leather jerkin and trousers covered in bite marks. He was, Tod guessed, Barney Pot, the Palace dragon keeper. Despite his limp Barney reached them first. Hastily brushing strands of straw from his jerkin, he said, “I am so, so sorry, Queen Jenna.”

  “It’s not your fault, Barney,” Jenna replied, wiping the Orm spit from her hair. “Anyway, I’ve come off much more lightly than you did.”

  Breathless, Septimus joined them. “Only by luck, Jen,” he said. “It could have bitten your head off.”

  Barney looked horrified.

  Tod could see that Jenna was more shaken than she cared to admit. Which explained why the Queen rounded on Septimus and said, “No, Sep, it could not have bitten my head off. I was ready for it. And this is exactly why I asked Marwick to teach us self-defense. So that wherever the attack comes from—Orm, witch or . . . or whatever, we are ready.”

  Septimus backpedaled fast. “Okay, Jen. I do see the point of the class. Really I do.” He grinned at his old friend Marwick. “And you have the best teacher possible.”

  Marwick put his arm around Septimus’s shoulder. “Always the diplomat, eh, Sep?”

  Septimus grinned ruefully. “I have to be,” he said.

  Marwick addressed the class. He praised everyone for taking what he called “successful avoidance action” and declared that practice was over for the day. Then he took Sam off for a reviving drink at Wizard Sandwiches.

  As the class trooped back to the Palace to collect their things, Oskar saw Septimus go over to Lucy Heap. Lucy was supervising the construction of the Orm Pit—the secure place beneath the Wizard Tower where the Ormlet was destined to spend its time as a cocoon and embark upon its new life as a mature Orm. Alarm bells rang for Oskar. He dropped back from Ferdie and Tod and changed course with a rather comical sideways shuffle, trying to hear what Septimus was saying. He need not have taken the trouble. Lucy’s reply rang out loud and clear.