The Chrestomanci Series

by Jones, Diana Wynne

  Tonino hated her. He was so angry and so miserable that he did not mind at all when a cardboard policeman appeared and he chased him with the stick too. He laid into the policeman as if he was the Duchess and not a cardboard doll at all.

  “Are you all right, Lucrezia?” he heard the Duke say.

  Tonino looked sideways as he dealt another mighty swipe at the policeman’s cardboard helmet. He saw the Duchess wince as the stick landed. He was not surprised when the policeman was immediately whisked away and he himself forced into a violent capering and even louder squawking. He let himself do it. He felt truly gleeful as he squawked, “What a clever fellow!” for what felt like the thousandth time. For he understood what had happened. The Duchess was the policeman, in a sort of way. She was putting some of herself into all the puppets to make them work. But he must not let her know he knew. Tonino capered and chortled, doing his best to seem terrified, and kept his eyes on that carving of the Angel, high up over the door of the room.

  And now the hooded Hangman-puppet appeared, dragging a little wooden gibbet with a string noose dangling from it. Tonino capered cautiously. This was where the Duchess did for him unless he was very careful. On the other hand, if this Punch and Judy show went as it should, he might just do for the Duchess.

  The silly scene began. Tonino had never worked so hard at anything in his life. He kept repeating the words of the Angel in his head, both as a kind of prayer and as a smokescreen, so that the Duchess would not understand what he was trying to do. At the same time, he thought, fiercely and vengefully, that the Hangman was not just a puppet – it was the Duchess herself. And, also at the same time, he attended to Mr Punch’s conversation with all his might. This had to go right.

  “Come along, Mr Punch,” croaked the Hangman. “Just put your head in this noose.”

  “How do I do that?” asked Mr Punch and Tonino, both pretending hard to be stupid.

  “You put your head in here,” croaked the Hangman, putting one hand through the noose.

  Mr Punch and Tonino, both of them quivering with cunning, put his head first one side of the noose, then the other. “Is this right? Is this?” Then, pretending even harder to be stupid, “I can’t see how to do it. You’ll have to show me.”

  Either the Duchess was wanting to play with Tonino’s feelings, or she was trying the same cunning. They went through this several times. Each time, the Hangman put his hand through the noose to show Mr Punch what to do. Tonino did not dare look at the Duchess. He looked at the Hangman and kept thinking, That’s the Duchess, and reciting the Angel for all he was worth. At last, to his relief, the Duke became restive.

  “Come on, Mr Punch!” he shouted.

  “You’ll have to put your head in and show me,” Mr Punch and Tonino said, as persuasively as he knew how.

  “Oh well,” croaked the Hangman. “Since you’re so stupid.” And he put his cardboard head through the noose.

  Mr Punch and Tonino promptly pulled the rope and hanged him. But Tonino thought, This is the Duchess! and went as limp and heavy as he could. For just a second, his full puppet’s weight swung on the end of the rope.

  It only lasted that second. Tonino had a glimpse of the Duchess on her feet with her hands to her throat. He felt real triumph. Then he was thrown, flat on his face, across the stage, unable to move at all. There he was forced to lie. His head hung down from the front of the stage, so that he could see very little. But he gathered that the Duchess was being led tenderly away, with the Duke fussing round her.

  I think I feel as pleased as Punch, he thought.

  Paolo never wanted to remember that night afterwards. He was still staring at the sick yellow message in the yard, when the rest of the family arrived. He was crowded aside to let Old Niccolo and Aunt Francesca through, but Benvenuto spat at them like hot fat hitting fire and would not let them pass.

  “Let be, old boy,” Old Niccolo said. “You’ve done your best.” He turned to Aunt Francesca. “I shall never forgive the Petrocchis,” he said. “Never.”

  Paolo was once again struck by how wretched and goblin-like his grandfather looked. He had thought Old Niccolo was helping vast, panting, muddy Aunt Francesca along, but he now wondered if it was not the other way round.

  “Well. Let’s get rid of this horrible message,” Old Niccolo said irritably to the rest of them.

  He raised his arms to start the family on the spell and collapsed. His hands went to his chest. He slid to his knees, and his face was a strange colour. Paolo thought he was dead until he saw him breathing, in uneven jerks. Elizabeth, Uncle Lorenzo and Aunt Maria rushed to him.

  “Heart attack,” Uncle Lorenzo said, nodding over at Antonio. “Get that spell going. We’ve got to get him indoors.”

  “Paolo, run for the doctor,” said Elizabeth.

  As Paolo ran, he heard the burst of singing behind him. When he came back with the doctor, the message had vanished and Old Niccolo had been carried up to bed. Aunt Francesca, still muddy, with her hair hanging down one side, was roving up and down the yard like a moving mountain, crying and wringing her hands.

  “Spells are forbidden,” she called out to Paolo. “I’ve stopped everything.”

  “And a good thing too!” the doctor said sourly. “A man of Niccolo Montana’s age has no business to be brawling in the streets. And make your great-aunt lie down,” he said to Paolo. “She’ll be in bed next.”

  Aunt Francesca would only go to the Saloon, where she refused even to sit down. She raged up and down, wailing about Old Niccolo, weeping about Tonino, declaring that the virtue had gone from the Casa Montana for good, and uttering terrible threats against the Petrocchis. Nobody else was much better. The children cried with tiredness. Elizabeth and the aunts worried about Old Niccolo, and then about Aunt Francesca. In the Scriptorium, among all the abandoned spells, Antonio and the uncles sat rigid with worry, and the rest of the Casa was full of older cousins wandering about and cursing the Petrocchis.

  Paolo found Rinaldo leaning moodily on the gallery rail, in spite of it being dark now and really quite cold. “Curse those Petrocchis,” he said gloomily to Paolo. “We can’t even earn a living now, let alone help if there’s a war.”

  Paolo, in spite of his misery, was very flattered that Rinaldo seemed to think him old enough to talk family business to. He said, “Yes, it’s awful,” and tried to lean on the rail in the same elegant attitude as Rinaldo. It was not easy, since Paolo was not nearly tall enough, but he leant and prepared the arguments he would use to persuade Rinaldo that Tonino was in the hands of an enemy enchanter. That was not easy either. Paolo knew that Rinaldo would not listen to him if he dropped the least small hint that he had talked to a Petrocchi – and besides, he would have died rather than told his cousin. But he knew that, if he persuaded Rinaldo, Rinaldo would rescue Tonino in five dashing minutes. Rinaldo was a true Montana.

  While he thought, Rinaldo said angrily, “What possessed that stupid brat Tonino to read that blessed book? I shall give him something to think about when we get him back!”

  Paolo shivered in the cold. “Tonino always reads books.” Then he shifted a bit – the elegant attitude was not at all comfortable – and asked timidly, “How shall we get him back?”

  This was not at all what he had planned to say. He was annoyed with himself.

  “What’s the use?” Rinaldo said. “We know where he is – in the Casa Petrocchi. And if he’s uncomfortable there, it’s his own fault!”

  “But he’s not!” Paolo protested. As far as he could see in the light from the yard lamp, Rinaldo turned and looked at him jeeringly. The discussion seemed to be getting further from the way he had planned it every second. “An enemy enchanter’s got him,” he said. “The one Chrestomanci talked about.”

  Rinaldo laughed. “Load of old crab-apples, Paolo. Our friend had been talking to the Petrocchis. He invented his convenient enchanter because he wanted us all working for Caprona. Most of us saw through it at once.”

  “T
hen who made that mist on the Corso?” Paolo said. “It wasn’t us, and it wasn’t them.”

  But Rinaldo only said, “Who said it wasn’t them?”

  As Paolo could not say it was Renata Petrocchi, he could not answer. Instead, he said rather desperately, “Come with me to the Casa Petrocchi. If you used a finding-spell, you could prove Tonino isn’t there.”

  “What?” Rinaldo seemed astounded. “What kind of fool do you take me for, Paolo? I’m not going to take on a whole family of spell-makers single-handed. And if I go there and use a spell, and they do something to Tonino, everyone’s going to blame me, aren’t they? For something we know anyway. It’s not worth it, Paolo. But I tell you what—”

  He was interrupted by Aunt Gina trumpeting below in the yard. “Notti’s is the only chemist open by now. Tell him it’s for Niccolo Montana!”

  With some relief, Paolo dropped the elegant attitude entirely and leant over the rail to watch Lucia and Corinna hurry through the yard with the doctor’s prescription. The sight gave his stomach a wrench of worry. “Do you think Old Niccolo’s going to die, Rinaldo?”

  Rinaldo shrugged. “Could be. He’s pretty old. It’s about time the old idiot gave up anyway. I shall be one step closer to being head of the Casa Montana then.”

  A peculiar thing happened inside Paolo’s head then. He had never given much thought to who might follow Antonio – for it was clear his father would follow Old Niccolo – as head of the Casa Montana. But he had never, for some reason, thought it might be Rinaldo. Now he tried to imagine Rinaldo doing the things Old Niccolo did. And as soon as he did, he saw Rinaldo was quite unsuitable. Rinaldo was vain, and selfish – and cowardly, provided he could be a coward and still keep up a good appearance. It was as if Rinaldo had said a powerful spell to clear Paolo’s eyes.

  It never occurred to Rinaldo, expert spell-maker though he was, that a few ordinary words could make such a difference. He bent towards Paolo and dropped his voice to a melodious murmur. “I was going to tell you, Paolo. I’m going round enlisting all the young ones. We’re going to swear to work a secret revenge on the Petrocchis. We’ll do something worse than make them eat their words. Are you with me? Will you swear to join the plan?”

  Maybe he was in earnest. It would suit Rinaldo to work in secret, with lots of willing helpers. But Paolo was sure that this plan was a step in Rinaldo’s plans to be head of the Casa. Paolo sidled away along the rail.

  “Are you game?” Rinaldo whispered, laughing a little.

  Paolo sidled beyond grabbing-distance. “Tell you later.” He turned and scudded away. Rinaldo laughed and did not try to catch him. He thought Paolo was scared.

  Paolo went down into the yard, feeling more lonely than he had felt in his life. Tonino was not there. Tonino was not vain, or selfish, or cowardly. And nobody would help him find Tonino. Paolo had not noticed until now how much he depended on Tonino. They did everything important together. Even if Paolo was busy on his own, he knew Tonino was there somewhere, sitting reading, ready to put his book down if Paolo needed him. Now there seemed to be nothing for Paolo to do. And the whole Casa reeked of worry.

  He went to the kitchen, where there seemed, at last, to be something happening. All his small cousins were there. Rosa and Marco were trying to make soup for them.

  “Come in and help, Paolo,” Rosa said. “We’re going to put them to bed after soup, but we’re having a bit of trouble.”

  Both she and Marco were looking tired and flustered. Most of the little ones were grizzling, including the baby. The trouble was Lucia’s spell. Paolo understood this because Marco dumped the baby in his arms. Its wrapper was covered with orange grease. “Yuk!” said Paolo.

  “I know,” said Rosa. “Well, Marco, better try again. Clean saucepan. Clean water. The very last packet of soup-powder – don’t make that face, Paolo. We’ve got through all the vegetables. They just sail away to the waste-bins, and they’re mouldy before they get there.”

  Paolo looked nervously at the door, wondering if the enemy enchanter was powerful enough to overhear him. “Try a cancel-spell,” he whispered.

  “Aunt Gina went through them all this afternoon,” said Rosa. “No good. Little Lucia used the Angel of Caprona, you see. We’re trying Marco’s way now. Ready, Marco?”

  Rosa opened the packet of soup and held it over the saucepan. As the dry pink powder poured into the water, Marco leant over the saucepan and sang furiously. Paolo watched them nervously. This was just what the message told them not to do, he was sure. When all the powder was in the water, Rosa and Marco peered anxiously into the saucepan. “Have we done it?” asked Marco.

  “I think—” Rosa began, and ended in a yell of exasperation. “Oh no!” The little pasta shells in the powder had turned into real sea-shells, little grey ones. “With creatures in!” Rosa said despairingly, dipping a spoonful out. “Where is Lucia?” she said. “Bring her here. Tell her I—No, don’t. Just fetch her, Paolo.”

  “She’s gone to the chemist,” said Paolo.

  There was shouting in the yard. Paolo passed the greasy baby to the nearest cousin and shot outside, dreading another sick yellow message about Tonino. Or there was just a chance the noise was Lucia.

  It was neither. It was Rinaldo. The uncles must have left the Scriptorium, for Rinaldo was making a bonfire of spells in the middle of the yard. Domenico, Carlo and Luigi were busily carrying armfuls of scrips, envelopes and scrolls down from the gallery. Paolo recognised, already curling among the flames, the army-charms he and the other children had spent such a time copying. It was a shocking waste of work.

  “This is what the Petrocchis have forced us to!” shouted Rinaldo, striking an attitude beside the flames. It was evidently part of his plan to enlist the young ones.

  Paolo was glad to see Antonio and Uncle Lorenzo hurry out of the Saloon.

  “Rinaldo!” shouted Antonio. “Rinaldo, we’re worried about Umberto. We want you to go to the University and enquire.”

  “Send Domenico,” said Rinaldo, and turned back to the flames.

  “No,” said Antonio. “You go.” There was something about the way he said it that caused Rinaldo to back away from him.

  “I’ll go,” said Rinaldo. He held up one hand, laughing. “I was only joking, Uncle Antonio.”

  He left at once. “Take those spells back,” Uncle Lorenzo said to the other three cousins. “I hate to see good work wasted.” Domenico, Carlo and Luigi obeyed without a word. Antonio and Uncle Lorenzo went to the bonfire and tried to stamp out the flames, but they were burning too strongly. Paolo saw them look at one another, rather guiltily, and then lean forward and whisper a spell over the fire. It flicked out as if it had been turned off with a switch. Paolo sighed worriedly. It was plain that no one in the Casa Montana could drop the habit of using spells. He wondered how long it would be before the enemy enchanter noticed.

  “Fetch a light!” Antonio shouted to Domenico. “And sort out the ones that aren’t burnt.”

  Paolo went back to the kitchen before they asked him to help. The bonfire had given him an idea.

  “There is quite a bit of mince,” Rosa was saying. “Dare we try with that?”

  “Why don’t you,” said Paolo, “take the food to the dining room? I’ll light a fire there, and you can cook it on that.”

  “The boy’s a genius!” said Marco.

  They did that. Rosa cooked by relays and Marco made cocoa. The children were fed first, Paolo included. Paolo sat on one of the long benches, thinking it was almost enjoyable – except if he thought of Tonino, or Old Niccolo in bed upstairs. He was very pleased and surprised when a sudden bundle of claw and warm-iron muscle landed on his knee. Benvenuto was missing Tonino too. He rubbed against Paolo with a kind of desperation, but he would not purr.

  Rosa and Marco were getting up to put the young ones to bed, when there was a sudden great clanging, outside in the night.

  “Good Heavens!” said Rosa, and opened the yard door.

  The
noise flooded in, an uneven metal sound, hasty and huge. The nearest – clang-clang-clang – was so near that it could only be the bell of Sant’ Angelo’s. Behind it, the bell of the Cathedral tolled. And beyond that, now near, now faint and tinny, every bell in every church in Caprona beat and boomed and clashed and chimed. Corinna and Lucia came racing in, their faces bright with cold excitement.

  “We’re at war! The Duke’s declared war!”

  Marco said he thought he had better go. “Oh no, don’t!” Rosa cried out. “Not yet. By the way, Lucia—”

  Lucia took a quick look at the cooking in the hearth. “I’ll go and take Aunt Gina the prescription,” she said, and prudently ran away.

  Marco and Rosa looked at one another. “Three States against us and no spells to fight with,” said Marco. “We’re not likely to have a long and happy marriage, are we?”

  “Mr Notti says the Final Reserve is being called up tomorrow,” Corinna said encouragingly. She caught Rosa’s eye. “Come on, you kids,” she said to four cousins at random. “Bedtime.”

  While the young ones were being put to bed, Paolo sat nursing Benvenuto, feeling more dismal than ever. He wondered if there would be soldiers from Florence and Pisa and Siena in Caprona by tomorrow. Would guns fire in the streets? He thought of big marble chips shot off the Cathedral, the New Bridge broken, despite all the spells in it, and swarthy enemy soldiers dragging Rosa off screaming. And he saw that all this could really have happened by the end of the week.

  Here, he became quite certain that Benvenuto was trying to tell him something. He could tell from the accusing stare of Benvenuto’s yellow eyes. But he simply could not understand.

  “I’ll try,” he said to Benvenuto. “I really will try.”

  He had, fleetingly, the feeling that Benvenuto was glad. Encouraged by this, Paolo bent his head and stared at Benvenuto’s urgent face. But it did no good. All that Paolo could get out of it was a picture in his mind – a picture of somewhere with a coloured marble front, very large and beautiful.