Isabel was speechless with surprise and dismay. She crept closer to Sophy, unconsciously seeking support. She was a little reassured when Sophy took her hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze.
‘The rumours are true?’ she said at last, in a voice barely above a whisper.
The Ferryman smiled sadly. ‘Ye ‘ave cast me in the role o’ some kind o’ prince in a tale, no? Afflicted wi’ some dreadful Curse all undeservin’, an’ requirin’ only a maid pure o’ heart t’ free me from my torment — be it wi’ a name, or a spell, or a kiss. An’ then all is well, an’ everyone goes home dancin’. Is that how it is?’
Isabel coloured. The construction he had placed upon her reasoning sounded naive to the point of foolishness, and she could not even disclaim, for he was essentially correct. She had given him a shining character, and with no particular reason to do so. Was it because of his amiable attitude towards her? Was it his smile, or his handsome face? Or was it the cruelty of his fate, and the sadness she had detected in his eyes?
It did not matter which, for they were all foolish reasons. She bowed her head, wishing that her cheeks were not so aflame, and searching uselessly for something to say. Her mind reeled away from the vision she must now consider — the congenial Ferryman, willingly aiding such a character as the Kostigern! How could a person seem so charming and pleasant, and yet be so very other in character?
‘Ye see, then,’ the Ferryman continued, after a short pause. ‘Yer catterdandy friend is more’n right t’ distrust me, an’ I will never be able t’ convince her that I am worthy o’ yer help. Because I am most assuredly not worthy.’
Isabel looked up, too sad and distressed to speak, to find that he was smiling at her. ‘I am … touched, by yer faith in me,’ he said. ‘Misplaced as it may be. It’s been many, many years since anyone believed in me at all.’ He climbed down to capture Isabel’s hands and laid a swift kiss upon each. ‘Ye must abandon this quest o’ yours,’ he said softly. ‘Find somethin’ — someone — worthy o’ yer time an’ heart.’ He gently pressed her hands and then released them, straightening. He stepped back into the Ferry, the mists swelled around the boat, and it began to rise. He was leaving, and Isabel merely stood, stupefied. In spite of his words, she did not want him to depart, did not want to abandon him. But she could think of nothing to say that would keep him with her, for he was right: if the worst Tafferty believed of him was true, then she would never help him. No one would. And perhaps — though it smote Isabel sorely to think it — perhaps she was right to refuse.
‘Sir,’ said Sophy abruptly. ‘Miss Ellerby is unusually kind-hearted, it is true, and will never willingly think ill of anyone. I am not nearly so generous of spirit, but still I cannot help feeling that her faith in you may not be wholly misguided.’ She hesitated, and added, ‘Will you tell us why you were of the Kostigern’s party in such a questionable business?’
The boat ceased to rise, though it did not descend either. The Ferryman looked down upon Sophy, and upon Isabel, with an unreadable expression. ‘He was my Master,’ he said. ‘I wish I could give ye more of an answer’n that, but I cannot. ‘Tis all I can remember o’ those days.’
Tafferty made a disgusted noise, and then appeared — to Isabel’s shock — to spit upon the ground.
‘Tafferty,’ she said, horrified. ‘Please, try to have some compassion! How would you have fared, in such a situation?’
Tafferty rounded on Isabel, growling. ‘His Master! That makes him an apprentice, no doubt in some manner o’ sorcery-like arts. An’ that means he was very likely oath-bound,’ she said disgustedly. ‘Which seemingly he was not plannin’ t’ mention hisself. But ‘tis the way o’ such things. Is it not, thou aggravatin’, troublesome witherdandy o’ nature?’ This incomprehensible insult — for Isabel took it as such — was directed at the Ferryman, towards whom Tafferty now turned with a whirl of her tail. ‘If thou wert bound in blood t’ thy Master then thou wert powerless t’ disobey. Why wouldst thou not happen t’ mention that, hey?’
‘I could,’ said the Ferryman slowly, with an odd glint in his eye, ‘have tried harder.’
Tafferty spat again and a strong shiver, apparently of revulsion, made its way from her head to the tip of her tail. ‘Oh, ye make a fine, tragic pair, that ye do! Ach! An’ now I must help thee after all, an’ I was hopin’ that Miss-there would get ‘er head out o’ the clouds an’ settle t’ some decent trainin’ in ‘er neglected powers o’ witchery.’
The Ferryman blinked, apparently as bemused as Isabel felt. But then he smiled. ‘I won’t pretend that I won’t accept yer aid, an’ gladly,’ he said. ‘But yer point is fair. How about a bargain, then, betwixt the three of us?’
Tafferty sat up. ‘Oh?’
‘Ye help me, an’ in return Miss Isabel will agree t’ pay due an’ proper attention t’ the witchy trainin’ ye’re so eager t’ give her. How’s that?’
‘Tis but half of a bargain,’ Tafferty said promptly. ‘Isabel has t’ get somethin’ out o’ the deal, or ‘tis hardly fair.’
‘Why, she wins a friend!’ replied the Ferryman, indicating with a bow that he meant himself. ‘An’ a truer-hearted friend she is scarce like t’ find anywhere. Besides which, she learns t’ be a most excellent witch, which may be o’ great use t’ her in future.’
Tafferty looked inquiringly up at Isabel. ‘Thou art mighty quiet up there, Miss. What dost thou think o’ this?’
Isabel had indeed been quiet, for she had failed to fully understand half of what had lately passed. Oath-bound, and in blood? Compelled to act? But the Ferryman should have mentioned that; why had he not? Did he truly take so much blame upon himself, in spite of so undeniable a defence? Her heart only warmed towards him more on account of it, which she knew to be absurd, but so it was.
The bargain he proposed had come when she was only halfway through this onslaught of reflections and ideas, and for an instant she merely stared at Tafferty as her brain worked to catch up. ‘Of course I agree,’ she said at last. ‘I should agree whether there were no reward in the case at all! How could I think of refusing?’
The Ferryman smiled at her. ‘Somehow, I had a thinkin’ ye would say that.’
Isabel sighed inwardly, remembering her futile attempts to compel a strawberry to resemble a raspberry. Still, it was only effort that was required, and that she could freely give in exchange for a man’s freedom.
‘Makin’ a note t’ me own, fine self,’ Tafferty growled. ‘If I wishes Miss Isabel t’ do sommat o’ use in the future, all I need do is bribe her wi’ the prospect o’ doin’ a good turn. Then she turns sweet an’ tractable as a lamb.’
Isabel began upon an embarrassed, half-indignant response, but Tafferty touched her nose to Isabel’s skirt in a gesture which seemed forgiving, even a little affectionate, and she allowed her words to die away.
‘The answer to the Keeper’s question,’ Tafferty continued, ‘is Celadon.’
Grunewald folded his arms and stared at the catterdandy. ‘And how do you know that?’ he enquired.
‘Thou wert under the impression I was lyin’ through my shiny-sharp teeth, eh?’ said Tafferty in response, glaring up at the Goblin King with her tail lashing. ‘Missy will test my knowledge any moment, an’ prove it sound enough.’
‘That does not precisely answer my question,’ said Grunewald, his bright green eyes glinting.
Tafferty merely sniffed and looked up at Isabel. ‘Wilt thou stand an’ stare all day, or get on wi’ the business?’
Isabel looked at the Ferryman. ‘I may be able to return with your name, soon,’ she said. ‘So I hope! But I do not know how long it may take to find it in such a library. Will you wait?’
The Ferryman seated himself inside his boat, and touched his hat to her. ‘Aye, I’ll wait. Provided I am not summoned away while ye are busy.’
‘You cannot ignore a summons?’
‘Never. ‘Tis a compulsion, an’ I must obey it. But as I’m thinkin’ I mentioned before, ‘tis
rare t’ receive a summons, nowadays.’
‘I shall make haste,’ Isabel said, and with a curtsey, turned back to the palace.
A few minutes later, she once again entered the Chronicler’s Tower. The Keeper had faded away; she summoned him once more with a palm to the glyph, and said without delay: ‘The answer is Celadon, sir.’
The dragon smiled toothily at her. ‘A resourceful English miss, and very quick work! Do you know why the answer is Celadon?’
‘Why… no, I’m afraid I do not,’ Isabel faltered. ‘Oh, dear. Was that part of the test as well?’
‘No, you have passed the test!’ said the Keeper enthusiastically. ‘But it is all very interesting! You see, Greyling is so-called because it is a colourless place; not in Aylfenhame, precisely, but Otherwhere. Seven colonies of faeflies live there — one for each of the Seven Shades, you understand. They are usually in hibernation, but one colony is woken from time to time in order that they might spin the finest and fairest of fibres for the Queen’s gowns. Beings of purest magic, these! When their task is done they drift away, far and far, and their wings turn in hues related to the—’
‘My good fellow,’ came Grunewald’s voice from behind Isabel. ‘As interesting as all of this is, I believe the lady is in something of a hurry.’
Isabel resisted an urge to thank the Goblin King, for a sense of urgency was gnawing at her, but she did not like to interrupt the Keeper.
With good reason, for the Keeper swelled with disgust at Grunewald’s words, and rose higher into the air. ‘This is why you will never be permitted inside!’ he said, his misty coils quivering with anger.
‘Because I am impatient? Yes, yes. I dare say I shall go on living without the scintillating experience of an hour spent perusing your dusty scrolls. But do let the lady pass.’
The Keeper scowled upon Isabel, and huffed cloudily. Without uttering another word, the mist-dragon rushed at Isabel, engulfing her in a foggy haze, and an instant later she was elsewhere. The chamber resembled the Keeper’s room, only it was much larger. The round walls went up and up, and the ceiling seemed impossibly distant. Those walls were lined with shelves, each containing a neat row of scrolls tied with ribbon. There were no ladders that Isabel could see; no way at all of reaching the upper shelves, in fact.
‘Now, then,’ said the Keeper crisply, in a tone markedly less friendly than before. ‘You will want History, Fourth Era. Third shelf, Saffron.’ The dragon sailed airily upwards towards a shelf of scrolls tied with saffron-coloured ribbons, which intrigued Isabel; shades and hues was an odd way to organise a library. She received the impression that colours were of some degree of importance to the royal family of Aylfenhame, though she could not conceive of how or why.
The Keeper hovered some way above Isabel’s head for a few minutes, and Isabel watched as scrolls detached themselves from the shelves and began to hover alongside him. At last he seemed satisfied, and drifted back down to Isabel’s level once more. The scrolls descended along with him.
‘These are not to be removed from the library,’ the Keeper said sternly, as the scrolls laid themselves in Isabel’s hands. ‘If the answer to your question is in my library at all, it will be found in these documents.’
Isabel thanked the Keeper-dragon with her best smile, hoping to soothe his irritated feelings with courtesy and congeniality. He did perhaps deflate a little, though his friendly demeanour did not return.
‘You will find tables to your left,’ the dragon said crisply. ‘And—’
The Keeper broke off abruptly, staring hard at something over Isabel’s shoulder. She turned, but could see nothing save for more shelves and tables. When she turned back to the Keeper, she discovered that he had swollen to five times his previous size and was still expanding. Worse, the mists that made up his ethereal form were turning dark, angry red.
‘TRESPASS!’ the Keeper bellowed. ‘GUARDS!’
The library, so empty and tranquil before, was suddenly awash with dragons. More solid than the Keeper, these were coloured in various shades of red and orange and snarling with aggression. Isabel whirled, confused, as the whole pack of them streamed in the direction the Keeper had been staring.
The lead dragon’s jaws snapped shut upon empty air — at least, so it appeared. But Isabel could see that it had captured something in its jaws — something fairly small and presumably solid, though invisible.
‘SHOW YOURSELF AT ONCE!’ bellowed the Keeper.
Nothing happened for a moment. Then, slowly, a figure materialised. It was less than three feet tall, dark of skin and hair, with an enormous hat and equally oversized shoes. It carried a horn in one hand.
A trow, Isabel realised, and an instant later: Palchis. One of Grunewald’s entourage.
‘The library will CLOSE!’ screamed the Keeper. ‘Instantly! Expelled, every one of you!’
Chapter Eleven
The Keeper began to spin in his rage, and within moments a fine whirlwind was sailing around the library, sending scrolls flying wildly through the air. Isabel barely ducked in time to avoid receiving two particularly large, heavy-looking scrolls in the face. Heart pounding, she clutched her saffron scrolls closely to her chest and looked around desperately for a way out. There was no door that she could see, nor any other means of egress. There wasn’t even a window.
The Keeper howled something inarticulate, and a red fog enveloped Isabel. Panicking, she gripped her scrolls all the tighter and shut her eyes, gasping for breath as she was caught up in a swirling wind. It stopped abruptly moments later, and she opened her eyes to find herself restored to the Keeper’s chamber.
Sophy was staring at her in amazed concern, but Grunewald, Ertof and Yangveld did not look at all surprised at her sudden reappearance.
‘Are you well?’ Sophy said, approaching with hands outstretched. Isabel could well imagine the picture she presented: her hair and bonnet disordered by the wild winds of the Keeper’s fury, her face a mask of shock and dismay, her arms full of tumbled scrolls.
‘Oh, Grunewald!’ Isabel gasped, casting him a look of strong reproach. ‘How could you!’
‘Palchis?’ was all that he said in response.
‘Still inside,’ Isabel said, and turned her back on him.
Grunewald cursed. He added as an aside, ‘I am sorry, Miss Ellerby, but it is more important than you can know.’
Isabel made no answer. It had occurred to her that the Keeper, highly paranoid about unauthorised entrance to his precious library, would suspect a collaboration between the two English women and the Goblin King. ‘We must depart at once,’ she said to Sophy, and immediately darted towards the staircase. Tafferty bounded before her as she ran down the stairs, and she heard Sophy’s footsteps behind.
To Isabel’s relief, the Ferryman was still awaiting her outside the palace. Better still, he had possessed the forethought to lead her mount and Sophy’s into the boat. ‘Sir Guntifer!’ Isabel called. ‘To the boat, and quickly!’ She looked behind herself, fervently praying not to see the Keeper streaming after her — or any of his frightening tower-guards. She was absconding with some of his precious scrolls! She could hardly believe it of herself, but after all the trouble of gaining access to the library, she could not bear to leave behind the information which might save the Ferryman. Particularly since Palchis’s intrusion had not been either of her choice or her making!
She saw no sign of pursuit, but she did not slow her pace as she ran towards the boat. She tipped her armful of scrolls into the Ferryman’s hands and stumbled aboard, drawing Sophy after her. Sir Guntifer was close behind, Pinch and Pinket streaming after him in matching wisp-shape. For a moment she was worried that the giant would not fit in the boat at all, and indeed, the Ferryman stared at him in open consternation. But Sir Guntifer turned himself into his giant’s shape entirely, shedding his bark and branches, and somehow contrived to squeeze himself aboard.
‘Go!’ said Isabel breathlessly.
The Ferryman nodded, paused o
nly to drop the scrolls into the bottom of the boat, and then set about the process of departure. Banks of cloud rolled in, quickly obscuring everything that lay outside the boat, and the craft began to rise.
‘I take it,’ said the Ferryman as he sat wearily down, ‘that all did not proceed as ye had planned?’
Isabel realised that her knees were shaking, and quickly sat down herself. ‘The Goblin King,’ she said tightly, ‘ruined our venture.’ She recounted what had happened, and the Ferryman listened with arms folded.
‘No doubt he has some purpose,’ said the Ferryman once Isabel had finished.
‘How wretched of him,’ Sophy sighed. ‘Tiresome man. But you retrieved something!’ She bent down to the mass of ageing paper and saffron ribbons, and extracted the nearest scroll. ‘It is very delicate,’ she said, clearly changing her mind about unrolling it. ‘They had better not be opened here, I think.’
‘Aye, an’ ye cannot leave them wi’ me anyhow,’ said the Ferryman. ‘I have no place t’ hide ‘em.’ He cocked his head at Isabel, and added, ‘Fer that matter: where are we goin’?’
‘To Grenlowe, I suppose.’ Isabel felt as tired as the Ferryman looked, worn out by travel and care. Though she knew that the ruckus in the Tower had been none of her doing, and had come to pass without her advance knowledge, she felt a vague sense of guilt at having been the unwitting cause of the mess. She did not know why the Keeper had reacted so violently, but she supposed that the Tower must contain a great deal of important and sensitive information. What Grunewald precisely wanted, and whether it would pose any danger to anyone were he to acquire it, she could not say. But she knew that the Goblin King was not always the congenial, if sarcastic, gentleman she usually found him to be. Whatever his purpose was, it might be harmless — or it might be dark indeed.
Miss Ellerby and the Ferryman Page 15