by Angie Sage
“Yes, Sep. I do really want.” Jenna snatched her cloak off the Thing and to Septimus’s amazement she put it on.
Septimus decided to leave his Darke thread buried deep into the raggedy skin folds of the other Thing’s neck. There were some things he never wanted to do and diving into the folds of a Thing’s neck was one of them. Close up, Things have a foul, dead-rat kind of smell and there is something truly revolting about direct contact with them. When a human touches them, strips of slimy skin peel off and stick to flesh like glue.
Spit Fyre had watched with interest as his Pilot and Navigator so very effectively immobilized his attackers. There is a widespread theory that dragons do not feel gratitude, but this is not true—they just don’t show it in a way that people recognize. Spit Fyre lumbered obediently out of the Dragon House. He carefully avoided treading on any toes and refrained from snorting in Septimus’s face—this was dragon gratitude at its fullest.
Septimus stood close to the comforting bulk of Spit Fyre and scanned the eerily purple Dragon Field.
“Do you think there are more Things?” Jenna whispered, looking uneasily behind her.
“I dunno, Jen,” muttered Septimus. “They could be anywhere . . . everywhere. Who can tell?”
“Not everywhere, Sep. There’s one place they can’t go.” Jenna pointed skyward.
Septimus grinned. “Come on, Spit Fyre,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Chapter 31
Horse Stuff
The Gringe family was upstairs in the gatehouse. They had come home early from their traditional Longest Night wander down Wizard Way because Mrs. Gringe had felt ignored by Rupert—who had been talking to Nicko for much of the time—and had demanded to go home. Consequently they had missed the Raising of the Safety Curtain, although it would have meant little to them as the Gringes treated Magyk with great suspicion.
Mrs. Gringe was sitting in her chair, unraveling a knitted sock with quick, irritable movements, while Gringe was poking at the small log fire that they allowed themselves on the Longest Night. The chimney was cold and choked with soot, and the fire was refusing to draw and was filling the room with smoke.
Rupert Gringe, his filial duty of the Wizard Way promenade done for another year, stood hovering by the door, anxious to be away. He had a new girlfriend—the skipper of one of the Port barges—and he wanted to be there to meet her when the late-night barge arrived at the boatyard.
Beside Rupert stood Nicko Heap, equally anxious to be gone. Nicko had come along because Rupert had asked him. “There’s not so much shouting if someone else is there,” Rupert had said. But that was not the only reason Nicko had come. The truth was, he was feeling unsettled. Snorri and her mother had taken their boat, the Alfrún, on a trip to the Port and “only a little way out to sea, Nicko. We’ll be back in a few days,” Snorri had promised. When he had asked her why, Snorri had been evasive. But Nicko knew why—they were testing the Alfrún’s seaworthiness. He knew that Snorri’s mother wanted Snorri and the Alfrún to come home with her, and something told Nicko that Snorri wanted that too. And when Nicko thought about it—which he tried not to—he felt a sense of freedom at the thought of Snorri going away. But it was tinged with sadness, and after Lucy’s excited talk of weddings, Nicko longed to get back to the boatyard. At least you knew where you were with boats, he thought.
Lucy smiled at her brother trying to edge out the door. She knew exactly how he felt. Tomorrow she would be away on the early morning Port barge and she couldn’t wait.
“You definitely booked a horse space, Rupe?” she asked him, not for the first time.
Rupert looked exasperated. “Yes, Luce. I told you. The early morning barge has two horse berths and Thunder’s got one. For sure. Maggie said.”
“Maggie?” asked his mother, looking up from her sock unravelling, suddenly alert.
“The skipper, Mother,” Rupert said quickly.
It was not lost on Mrs. Gringe that Rupert had gone bright pink, his face clashing with his spiky, carrot-colored hair. “Oh. She’s a skipper, is she?” Mrs. Gringe tugged at a knot, determined to unpick it. “Funny job for a girl, that.”
Rupert was old enough now not rise to the bait. He ignored his mother’s comments and continued his conversation with Lucy. “Come down to the boatyard early tomorrow morning, Luce. About six. We’ll—I mean I’ll help you load him before the passengers arrive.”
Lucy smiled at her brother. “Thanks, Rupe. Sorry. I’m just a bit edgy.”
“Aren’t we all,” said Rupert. He hugged his sister and Lucy returned his hug. She didn’t see much of Rupert and she missed him.
After Rupert had left, Lucy felt the eyes of both her parents on her. It was not a comfortable feeling. “I’ll go and check on Thunder,” she said. “I thought I heard him whinny just then.”
“Don’t be long,” said her mother. “Supper’s nearly done. Shame your brother couldn’t wait for supper,” she sniffed. “It’s stew.”
“Thought it might be,” muttered Lucy.
“What?”
“Nothing, Ma. Back in a tick.”
Lucy clattered down the wooden stairs and pushed open the battered old door that led onto the run up to the drawbridge. She took a few deep breaths of smoke-free, snowy air and walked briskly around to the old stable at the back of the gatehouse, where Thunder was residing. Lucy pushed open the door and the horse, lit by the lamp that she had left in the tiny high window, looked at her, the whites of his eyes glistening. He pawed the straw, shook his head with its dark, heavy mane and gave a restless whinny.
Lucy was not a great horse person, and Thunder was bit of a mystery to her. She was fond of the horse because Simon loved him so much, but she was also wary. It was his hooves that worried her—they were big and heavy and she was never quite sure what Thunder was going to do with them. She knew that even Simon took care not to stand behind the horse in case he kicked.
Lucy approached Thunder cautiously and very gently patted the horse’s nose. “Silly old horse coming all this way to see me. Simon must be so upset that you’ve gone. Won’t he be pleased to see you? Silly old horse . . .”
Lucy suddenly had a vivid picture in her mind of riding Thunder off the Port barge and Simon’s look of amazement when he saw what she could do. She knew it was possible; she had seen the daredevil boys who rode their horses off the barge instead of leading them. It couldn’t be that difficult, she thought. It was only up the gangplank, which was not exactly far to ride a horse. Then Simon could take over and they could ride back together. It would be such fun . . .
Lost in her daydream, Lucy decided to see how easy it was to actually get up onto Thunder. Not at all, was the answer. Lucy regarded the horse, which stood so much taller than her—his back was as high as her head. How did people get onto horses? Ah, thought Lucy, saddles. They had saddles. With things for your feet. But Lucy did not have a saddle. Gringe had not found one cheap enough, and Thunder had had to make do with a thick horse blanket—which Lucy rather liked, as it was covered in stars. It was also, in the cold, much more useful to him.
Lucy was not deterred; she was determined to get up on Thunder. She fetched the set of wooden steps that reached to the hay manger and set them beside the horse. Then she climbed the steps, wobbled precariously at the top and clambered onto the horse’s broad back. Thunder’s only reaction was to shift his weight a little. He was a steady horse and it seemed to Lucy as though he hardly noticed her. She was right. Thunder had barely registered her presence; the horse had someone else on his mind—Simon.
“Drat!” An exclamation came from somewhere near the floor.
Lucy recognized the voice. “Stanley!” she said, looking down from her great height. “Where are you?”
“Here.” The voice sounded rather aggrieved. “I think I’ve trodden in something.” A rather portly brown rat was peering at his foot. “It’s not very nice if you don’t wear shoes,” he complained.
Lucy felt excited—
a reply from Simon, and so soon. But Stanley was fully occupied inspecting his foot with an expression of disgust. Lucy knew that the sooner he got the horse poo off his foot, the sooner she would hear Simon’s reply to her message.
“Here, have my hanky,” she said. A small, square of purple dotted with pink spots and edged in green lace floated down from Thunder. The rat caught the scrap of cloth, gave it a bemused look, and then scrubbed his foot with it.
“Thanks,” he said. With a surprisingly agile leap, Stanley hopped up the steps and jumped onto Thunder, landing just in front of Lucy. He presented her with the handkerchief.
“Mmm, thank you, Stanley,” said Lucy, taking it carefully between finger and thumb. “Now, please, tell me the message.”
With one hand holding on to Thunder’s coarse black mane for support, Stanley stood up and put on his official message delivering voice.
“No message received. Recipient marked as gone away.”
“Gone away? What do you mean, gone away?”
“Gone away. As in, not present to receive message.”
“Well, he was probably out doing something. Didn’t you wait? I paid extra for that, Stanley, you know I did.” Lucy sounded annoyed.
Stanley was peeved. “I waited as agreed,” he said. “And then, seeing as it was you, I went to the trouble of asking around, which was when I discovered that there was no point waiting any longer. I only just got the last barge home, actually.”
“What do you mean, no point waiting any longer?” asked Lucy.
“Simon Heap is not expected to return, so his domestics told me.”
“Domestics—what domestics? Simon doesn’t have any cleaners,” Lucy said snappily.
“Domestics as in the rats that live in his room.”
“Simon doesn’t have rats in his room,” said Lucy, slightly affronted.
Stanley chuckled. “Of course he has rats. Everyone has rats. He has—or had—six families under his floor. But not anymore. They left when something rather nasty turned up and took him away. It was sheer luck I bumped into them. They were looking for another place on the quayside but it’s not easy; very desirable properties there are already stuffed to the brim with rats, you wouldn’t believe how many—”
“Something nasty took him away?” Lucy was aghast. “Stanley, whatever do you mean?”
The rat shrugged. “I don’t know. Look, I must go home and see what my brood are doing. I’ve been out all day. Goodness knows what state the place will be in.” Stanley went to jump down but Lucy grabbed hold of his tail. Stanley looked shocked. “Don’t do that. It’s extremely bad manners.”
“I don’t care,” Lucy told him. “You’re not going until you’ve told me exactly what you heard about Simon.”
Stanley was saved from answering by a sudden gust of wind, which blew the stable door wide open.
Thunder raised his head and sniffed the air. He pawed the ground restlessly and Lucy began to feel slightly unsafe—there was something Magykal about Thunder and he was a little scary. Thunder had been Simon’s faithful horse through his master’s Darkest moments and there was an indissoluble connection between them. And now Thunder Knew his master was near. And where his master was, Thunder must be.
And so Thunder went. He threw his head back, whinnied and was out the stable door, his hooves slipping on the snowy cobbles as he cantered out into the night. Paying Lucy no more attention than if she had been a gnat on his back, the horse galloped off to the place where he Knew his master awaited him.
The clattering of Thunder’s hooves was the only sound to disturb the warren of deserted streets that led from the North Gate gatehouse to Wizard Way—apart from some extremely piercing screams.
“Stop! Stop, you stupid horse!”
Chapter 32
Day of Recognition
After Spit Fyre had taken off from the Dragon Field, Septimus had flown him away from the Palace and out above the river. They had wheeled to the right just before the jagged crag of Raven’s rock and were now flying above the Moat. Septimus craned over Spit Fyre’s wide, muscled neck and stared down at the Castle below on his right-hand side. He gasped. It looked as though someone had dropped a large pool of ink onto the Palace and Wizard Way. The dark irregular shape was, even as he watched, moving outward as yet more candles and torches were extinguished.
Jenna was sitting in her usual Navigator space, in the dip between the dragon’s shoulders, just behind Septimus.
“It’s so dark down there!” she shouted above the noise of Spit Fyre’s wings.
Septimus searched for a sign of Marcia’s Safety Curtain. He thought that maybe, just possibly, he could see a faint purple glimmer deep within the blackness, but he could not be sure. The only thing he could be sure of was that the Safety Curtain had failed.
At least, Septimus noted with relief, Marcia knew what was happening. The spreading blackness had halted at the wall surrounding the Wizard Tower courtyard and from its boundaries he saw the Living SafeShield begin to grow upward into the night sky, encasing the entire tower in a cone of brilliant indigo and purple lights, the colors of which showed, to Septimus’s knowledgeable eye, that Marcia was in residence. It was a magnificent sight and made him feel proud to be part of the Wizard Tower—although once again unhappy to be outside the Magyk.
They flew slowly along the Moat, keeping the Castle Walls on their right. The Darke Domaine was spreading fast and he knew that nowhere in the Castle would be safe for long. The one beacon of light—the Wizard Tower and his home—was now closed to him and to Jenna. They had a simple choice: leave the Castle and flee to safety or find somewhere within the Castle where they could hide out and keep the Darke at bay.
Jenna tapped him on the shoulder. “Sep, what are you doing? We have to get to the Palace. We have to get Mum out of there!”
They had now reached the other end of the Moat. The One Way Bridge was to their left and in front of them, on the other side of the river, lights ablaze, was the ramshackle shape of the Grateful Turbot Tavern. Septimus contemplated landing there—the lights looked so welcoming—but he needed time to think. He wheeled Spit Fyre around in a tight turn and began to retrace their path.
Septimus flew Spit Fyre slowly so that he could see how far—and how fast—the Darke Domaine was spreading. They flew over the drawbridge, which was raised as it always was at night. The Darkenesse had not yet reached there, although the Gringes’ rather mean single candle in the upstairs window of the gatehouse did not make it easy to tell. But there were other signs that all was still well; Septimus could still see the thin covering of snow on the road reflecting the light from candles in houses set back from the gatehouse. He also saw, as he dipped down for a closer look, a rectangle of lamplight thrown onto the road from an open door at the back of the gatehouse.
Septimus took Spit Fyre down low along the Moat. He was relieved to see that candles were still burning in the windows of the houses that backed onto the Castle walls, as were the lamps in Jannit Maarten’s boatyard and on the newly arrived late-night Port barge, which was just docking. But farther down, the Manuscriptorium boathouse was Darke. Not merely unlit but so dark as to be almost invisible. If Septimus had not known it was there, he would have thought it was an empty space. And yet, strangely, the houses on either side of it were still lit.
What Septimus could not see was that the Darke Domaine had followed Merrin to the Manuscriptorium and had spread through the entire premises, which extended down to the Moat. Merrin intended to make the Manuscriptorium his temporary headquarters until he got into the Wizard Tower. But being in charge was not as much fun as he had expected now that Jillie Djinn was no longer there to intimidate. The empty old place felt rather creepy, especially with the Seal on the Hermetic Chamber glowing eerily through the Darke, behind which—unknown to Merrin—Beetle was frantically searching for the Suspension Charm, which was now languishing in the garbage bin out in the yard along with the rest of the contents of the siege drawer.
Spit Fyre flew slowly on, past tiny attic windows containing flickering candles until they came to Snake Slipway. Below them, to the left of the Slipway was Rupert Gringe’s boathouse, still happily ablaze with a couple of buckets containing torches. The houses on either side of the slipway were also still untouched; many of them seemed to have caught Marcellus’s habit of burning forests of candles, and the whole slipway shone brightly.
Septimus had made his decision—Alther must wait. He would use his Darke Disguise to rescue Sarah and then he would stay and fight the spreading Darkenesse. But he could not risk Jenna’s safety. He wheeled Spit Fyre out across the Moat and over the Forest borders in order to give the dragon space to turn for a good run into Snake Slipway, where he planned to land.
“What are you doing?” yelled Jenna.
“Landing!” yelled Septimus.
“Here?”
“Not here. Snake Slipway!”
Jenna leaned forward and yelled in Septimus’s ear, “No, Sep! We have to get Mum!”
Septimus turned to face Jenna. “Not you, Jen. Too dangerous. I’ll go!”
“No way! I’m coming too!” Jenna shouted above the whooshing of the air as the dragon’s wings swept down.
Spit Fyre was lining up for the tricky swoop down into Snake Slipway, but Septimus could not concentrate with Jenna yelling in his ear. He wheeled the dragon around once more.