by Garth Nix
“We’d better ditch the cab. The Leicestershire force will be on to it soon. It’s the murder of a police officer, as far as they’re concerned. It’ll take days at the least to sort it out with London,” said Merlin as they sped away. “I wish I hadn’t had to shoot.”
He was silent for a few seconds, before he took a breath and continued. “We’ll have to steal another car. And telephone Thurston.”
“Merrihew will be at the New Bookshop by now as well,” said Vivien, not happily. She had the scabbard back on her lap. “They’ll have activated the full operations room. First time since the early sixties, I think.”
“Where’s the sword? And, I hope, the wolf and Susan?”
Vivien concentrated, once again holding her breath. Her face did not go red, but her silver hand grew bright enough for a thin line of light to escape the top of her glove.
“West, about four miles. And I think . . . yes, they’ve stopped.”
“We’ll take the next exit,” said Merlin. “Any unattended car we see, we’ll swap over.”
Both of them were quite expert car thieves, hot-wirers, housebreakers, and picklocks. It was part of the curriculum at Wooten. The left-handed did most of that sort of thing, but as swapping handedness was very common through adolescence into the early twenties, the school trained everyone as if they would be a field agent at least until they became definitely right-handed and usually grew less interested in that sort of thing.
Merlin glanced at Vivien in the rearview mirror. She looked extremely troubled.
“Those officers back there,” she said. “Their vehicle. Registration index A163SUY. It was in the square, at the safe house.”
Merlin examined his memory.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Parked at the north end. With those officers in it.”
“They must have been sent after us almost straight away,” she said. “They could have caught up to us ages ago, stopped us.”
“But they didn’t do anything but follow,” said Merlin. “Until we stopped . . .”
“So whoever instructed them kept it simple,” said Vivien. “Follow until they stop, then shoot to kill.”
“Who or what could put an instruction like that into mortal minds?” asked Merlin, thinking aloud.
“An Ancient Sovereign, in its own demesne,” said Vivien. She hesitated, then added, “A Cauldron-Keeper, probably anywhere—the cauldrons have no geographic boundaries and they all grant powers over mortal minds, amongst their more specialized powers. And one of us could have done it. A powerful right-handed bookseller.”
“We would have felt the presence of an Old One,” said Merlin. “I mean, everyone would have. Una and the others from the response teams.”
There was silence for half a mile, both of them thinking.
“Exit,” said Merlin, veering to the left. “Head westwards, right?”
“Northwest,” said Vivien. She looked at the open Bartholomew Road Atlas of Britain next to her on the seat. “Take the A50.”
“Okay,” said Merlin. “Who was with the team from the New Bookshop? I saw Silas and Rory . . .”
“Uncle Silas, Aunt Esther, Cousins Rory, Stewart, and Darius,” said Vivien.
“Could any of them—”
“I don’t think so,” interrupted Vivien. “They’re all competent, unlike Cousin Jake. But a compulsion to kill, maintained for hours . . . Thurston could do it, of course . . . Great-Uncle Feroze and Great-Aunt Evangeline at Wooten, Great-Aunt Sheena . . .”
“Who’s Great-Aunt Sheena?” asked Merlin, frowning. They were off the M1 now, into a big roundabout. He took the exit for the A50, already looking for cars to steal. They had only a few minutes, he thought, before every police vehicle and officer in Leicestershire was hunting a London black cab.
“She heads up Harshton and Hoole in Birmingham,” replied Vivien. “You’ve never met her?”
“Never had anything to do with the silversmiths. What about the even-handed? Could they place such a compulsion?”
“Any of them could,” said Vivien. “But . . . I can’t believe they would.”
Merlin slowed as he spotted a Forte Travelodge with a large car park, and pulled in, aiming for a spot where the cab would be shielded from the hotel and the road by a lone, remnant patch of trees left in the middle of the expanse of asphalt for mysterious tree preservation reasons.
“What about that superintendent? He was there, he’s suspicious.”
“But he couldn’t do it, no mortal adept could compel someone to kill. I mean, maybe in the moment, but not to last for hours,” said Vivien.
“He bears looking into, though,” said Merlin. “You said he moved from Unit M to CID before going to gangs. His name wasn’t on the file, but I wonder if he was involved in the investigation into Mum’s murder.”
“I wish we were back at the Old Bookshop so I could look into things,” said Vivien fretfully. “I’m not meant to be in the field anymore.”
“Hasn’t been that long since you were left-handed.”
“Long enough. How about that Austin 1300, there?” asked Vivien.
“No,” said Merlin. “We might have to drive fast. Besides, that one looks like the wheels might fall off.”
Vivien sat up straighter and pointed. “That Ford Capri over there!”
“You want to be Bodie from The Professionals, don’t you?”
“I like her,” said Vivien. “So what? You like Raelene Doyle.”
“Doyle’s much the prettier of the two,” said Merlin.
He stopped the cab and they got out, moving swiftly but not in an obvious hurry. Merlin collected his yak-hair bag and suitcase, Vivien scooped up his belt, scabbard, and the road atlas.
The clump of trees shielded them from everywhere except the last row of cars in the car park, but there was no one watching. They walked three cars up, Merlin put his case down, drew a short length of what looked like a metal tape measure from his boot, slid it down next to the window, and opened the Capri’s door in three seconds. He jumped inside to unlock the other doors before starting to hot-wire the ignition. Vivien threw her stuff in the back seat, shoved Merlin’s case in as well, and got in the front passenger seat at the exact moment the engine roared into life.
Forty seconds later, they were back on the A50, now in a silver Ford Capri 3.0 Mk 11 with a black vinyl roof, exactly like the one in the ITV series The Professionals.
“Is the sword still in the same place?” asked Merlin.
“I’m checking,” said Vivien, who had to reach back to grab the atlas and the scabbard. “Keep heading west.”
Susan emerged panting and spluttering, crouched on the stony rim of the well, and looked desperately for her weapon. But she’d turned around completely in the water, and swum to the wrong side. The sword was well out of reach, and the Fenris was up, already looking healthier. Her eyes were bright again, the froth gone from her gums.
The giant she-wolf stalked without any noticeable limp towards Susan, and opened her jaws.
“No,” said Morcenna, standing in the wolf’s way. She looked very small in front of it, watery and insubstantial.
The Fenris growled, but it was a halfhearted growl, almost a drawn-out yelp.
“No. I will not allow any scathe to come to those at my well. You know this, and you have been healed. Now you must go.”
The wolf bowed her head and sprang into the air, becoming a vaguely wolf-shaped flight of dozens of somewhat insubstantial ravens that flew as one into the sky above, already bright with the new day. As the ravens circled up, they turned and became even more insubstantial, as if vanishing into some unseen wind that carried them northwards.
“What . . . how . . .”
“She was only in this world as much as was necessary to carry you,” said Morcenna. “The sacred wolves have many shapes, of varying solidity. She has taken to the air to more quickly carry word of her failure to whoever holds her in thrall.”
“Who is that?” asked Susan.
> “Some great power,” said Morcenna, with a shrug. “You, too, are healed of the slight hurts you bore, and so I ask you to leave my well. Take the sword with you; I do not want its poison here.”
“Uh, okay,” said Susan. She stood up, squelching, and walked around the edge of the pool to pick up the sword. “Um, can you tell me how long I have until the Fenris gets wherever it’s going?”
“It goes at the wind’s pace, in the upper air,” said Morcenna. “It could be anywhere within the ancient bounds of Britain in an hour, or two, or three.”
“Right,” said Susan. “Um, thanks. Why didn’t you tell me the Fenris would have to leave me alone? I mean, before I agreed to take out the sword?”
“I wanted to see what you would do,” said Morcenna. Her thin pondweed lips split to show rows and rows of tiny, highly disturbing fish teeth. “While it is true I must offer healing to all those who come to my well, and I allow no others to harm my visitors, it is left to me to decide what I do with them after the healing.”
“Oh, right,” said Susan nervously. “Thank you.”
She hesitated, then bowed her head again. Morcenna did likewise.
“I’ll . . . I’ll go,” said Susan. She looked around. The dell was surrounded by dense woodland on all sides, and there was no sign of a path. She pointed towards what she thought was east, back in the direction she’d come in. “Which way is out?”
“All of them,” said Morcenna, and dived into her pool, becoming a stream of pure, clear water as she moved, ending in a giant splash, as if someone had poured her out of a huge, invisible glass.
“Right,” whispered Susan. She looked at the sword in her hand. Though obviously ancient, its edge gleamed with what appeared to her to be visible sharpness, banishing the brief notion she’d had of somehow sticking it down the leg of her boiler suit, in order not to terrify the first people she came across. Thoughts of holding it behind her back were also banished, because that would be even scarier.
“Maybe no one will care,” she muttered to herself. “Crazy young woman with punk haircut in boiler suit emerges from ancient woodland with sword. That’s eccentric, not frighteningly insane. No sudden moves. Ask to use a telephone. It’ll be fine.”
Aiming for what looked like it might be a gap in the undergrowth, and for what she thought was east, Susan walked away from Morcenna’s Well, into the wood.
“There’s a phone,” said Vivien, pointing to a familiar red box ahead, across from a roadside café. “We’d better call in; it’s been more than two hours.”
“After we get Susan,” said Merlin. “What if they move off again? Or the sword’s fallen out? We can’t waste time.”
“The Greats will be furious,” said Vivien. “Particularly since—”
“I know, I know!” snapped Merlin. “I didn’t want to shoot that poor police officer! Where do I turn?”
“Next right,” said Vivien. “There’s an ancient wood. I think the Fenris has gone to ground there.”
“Maybe that’s its home,” said Merlin.
“You really have forgotten everything we learned at school, haven’t you,” said Vivien. “There’s no Fenris lair anywhere near here. It must have come from farther north, though that still leaves several possibilities.”
“So why has it stopped?”
“I don’t know,” said Vivien. Neither of them wanted to say aloud that the sword might have fallen out and Susan and the wolf were long gone somewhere else.
“Police behind us,” said Merlin quietly. “Two cars back. Local.”
Vivien didn’t glance around, but leaned in closer to Merlin so she could look in the rearview mirror.
“If it follows us around this turn, I reckon there’s a good chance this car’s already reported stolen, and they’ve linked it to the cab,” said Merlin. “I really don’t want to shoot any more innocents.”
“They’d have pulled us over already, or tried to,” said Vivien. “And this lot won’t be armed or compelled to try and kill us. I can probably put them to sleep, if we have to. This is it. Spendborough Road. Turn here.”
Merlin slowed and indicated in a very law-abiding fashion, and turned into the smaller, narrower road. The two vehicles behind him continued on the A50, as did the police car.
“Try the radio,” said Merlin. “See if the . . . see if the motorway incident has made the news, or they’ve put out a warning or a call for witnesses.”
Vivien turned the radio on. The car was immediately filled with Mike Oldfield’s “Moonlight Shadow” at high volume. She dialed it down and punched one of the five preset buttons for another station, which was also part of the way through “Moonlight Shadow.” She punched the next and got a dry, plummy voice talking about the habits of water voles; the fourth button produced Puccini’s “Recondita Armonia” from Tosca; and the last a confusing interview with a vicar in Somerset about the forthcoming general election and flooding, which at least in his mind were somehow related.
“Put it back on ‘Moonlight Shadow,’” said Merlin.
Vivien pressed the button and music filled the car again.
“I’m hungry,” said Merlin a minute later. “Have you got anything to eat?”
“Nope,” said Vivien. She looked in the glovebox, hoping for chocolate or a packet of crisps, but it only contained a half-empty packet of John Player Specials, a matchbox, and a torch with a flat battery.
“We should get another car after we find Susan,” said Merlin.
“As far as I can tell, the sword is . . . they’re . . . in the middle of the wood,” said Vivien. “We’ll have to walk in anyway.”
“Luckily, I have suitable outdoor garments in my case,” said Merlin. “For you, too, if you like. A charming tartan skirt and matching hat.”
Vivien made a face.
“Or you can choose something else,” said Merlin. “We need to change up how we look. Do you want the D’Oyly Carte moustache? I brought it. And a wig.”
“No thank you,” said Vivien. “But a hat’s a good idea. You do realize we’ll have to dump the suitcase sooner or later?”
“Sadly, yes,” said Merlin. “I daresay it will give the police rather a surprise when they find it.”
“The contents?”
“Perhaps. But the case itself is very special. It belonged to Noël Coward.”
“Sure,” said Vivien, with unrestrained skepticism.
“His initials are under the handle, and his personal label inside,” insisted Merlin. “I paid twenty quid for it at the Portobello Market.”
“Twenty quid? You should have got Paddington to do the bargaining,” said Vivien. “Not that he’d have been taken in to start with. I’m kind of sad a fictional bear is smarter than my brother.”
Merlin did not reply to this sally. After a minute or two, Vivien made a peace offering.
“You’ll probably get the suitcase back eventually. Afterwards.”
“Hmm,” replied Merlin. “Your optimism is welcome. Do we keep going? There’s a lane to the northwest coming up.”
The road was heading into the outskirts of some nondescript Midlands town, all red brick and 1960s concrete, takeaways and small shops sprinkled among the houses on either side of the road.
“Keep straight on for now,” said Vivien. “We don’t go into the town, we’ll be through this bit in a few minutes, there’s a couple of roundabouts. Then we take a lane on the left, called Old Forest Way.”
They drove on, accompanied by “Moonlight Shadow” and then “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)” by Eurythmics, turning into the narrow, somewhat sunken lane as the DJ told them what they’d been listening to and announced the next song was going to be “A Winter’s Tale” by David Essex, at which point both Vivien and Merlin reached to turn the radio off, his left hand momentarily clashing with her right.
Chapter Seventeen
A tree is strong
But the wind is stronger
A stone is strong
But the sea is stron
ger
The sun is strong
But sorrow is stronger
SUSAN WALKED FOR WHAT SHE ESTIMATED TO BE AT LEAST TWO hours, though she couldn’t tell for sure since her Swatch had stopped at 2:16, roughly the time the goblins had grabbed her. She knew she had already walked much, much farther out of the wood than the Fenris had gone coming in, but she was also sure she hadn’t gotten turned around. It was such a dense forest it was hard to get a good look at the sun, but every now and then there was a gap in the canopy enough to see it and get a reasonable idea which way was east.
She also hadn’t remembered the uphill slope being so long. It wasn’t very steep, but combined with having to make her way between great oak trunks and under spreading, scraping birch branches and bypassing thickets of hawthorn and holly, it was all quite exhausting and the wood appeared to go on forever.
There was no sign of the bridle path, either, but Susan remembered that it had turned up the ridge, at the point where the wolf had descended into this densely wooded, secret valley. So if she kept going uphill she would eventually come to it, and from there make it to the road, and eventually a phone to call for help.
Who exactly to call was a little puzzling. She supposed dialing 999 would be easiest, and the police would inform the booksellers. But she had a slight nagging doubt caused by Merlin’s suspicions that one of the booksellers might actively be involved in whoever or whatever was trying to kidnap her. So it might be better to try to lie low.
Susan thought about this, and stopped to catch her breath and check her pockets. Her father’s cigarette case was in the top left breast pocket, suitably buttoned down. She had about fifteen pounds and a handkerchief in her left lower pocket and . . . she felt something in the long ruler pocket, and drew out the butter knife. Checking the right lower pocket, she found a bunch of soggy, bloated, but not split packets of salt.
As she touched steel and salt, she felt a strange jolt inside her body. A sudden feeling of excitement and tension fizzed through her from toes to head, as the dormant power inside her quickened. Instinctively and very swiftly, Susan put the knife and the salt back in her pockets and lifted her hands, as if the farther away she held them the more she could avoid whatever was happening.