The Chrestomanci Series

by Jones, Diana Wynne

  The man gave no sign that he had heard. He came and leaned on the fence and stared at them as if they were something in a zoo. In order to put his elbows on top of the sharp stakes, he had somehow made a wooden armrest appear. Christopher could not fathom the peculiar magic he used to do that. But the Goddess always seemed a little quicker on the uptake than Christopher. She frowned at the armrest and seemed to get the hang of it. The block of wood hurtled away into the trees sending the man’s arms down on to the spikes, quite hard. Gabriel laughed, an ordinary, unforbidding gurgle. The man sprang upright indignantly, went to rub his arm and then remembered that he should not show pain before inferiors. He swung round and went marching away.

  Christopher was annoyed, both with the man and with the Goddess for being so much quicker than he was. The two things together made him so angry that he raised his arms and tried to hurl the man upwards, the way he had levitated all the things in Dr Pawson’s house. It was almost impossible to do. True, the man went up six feet or so. But he came down again gently and easily the next second, and looked jeeringly over his shoulder as he slipped earthwards.

  This seemed to make the Goddess even angrier than Christopher. “All do it!” she said. “Come on, Gabriel!”

  Gabriel shot her a mischievous grin and they all heaved together. Between them they only seemed to be able to raise the man three feet into the air, but they found they could keep him there. He pretended nothing was happening and kept walking as if he was still on the ground, which looked decidedly silly. “Take us to the Dright!” Christopher yelled.

  “Now down,” said the Goddess. And they bumped him to the ground again. He walked away, still pretending nothing was happening, which gave Gabriel a fit of the giggles.

  “Did that do any good?” Christopher asked Tacroy.

  “No way of knowing,” said Tacroy. “They always like to keep you waiting until you’re too tired and angry to think straight.” He settled down in a miserable huddle, with his arms round his knees.

  They waited. Christopher was wondering whether it was worth the enormous effort it would take to levitate himself in order to get the weight off his feet, when he noticed that the trees were sliding aside, to the right and left of the fence. Or perhaps the fenced enclosure was moving forward without any change to the smooth grass inside or out. It was hard to tell which. Either made Christopher feel queasy. He swallowed and kept his eyes haughtily on the trees ahead. But in less than a second those trees had wheeled away to nowhere, leaving a widening green glade. A person was in sight at the distant end of the glade, a tall, bulky person, who was sauntering slowly towards them.

  Tacroy gulped a little. “That’s the Dright.”

  Christopher narrowed his eyes to get his witch-sight working and watched the trees sliding further and further apart. It reminded him of the way he had played at shunting the trees up the Trumpington Road. He could see the Dright doing it now. In order to work magic in this world, you seemed to have to work in a way that was tipped sideways from the way you did it on any other world, with a bend and a ripple to the magic, as if you were watching yourself work it in a wavy glass ball. Christopher was not sure he was going to be able to do it.

  “I don’t get the hang of this foreign magic,” Gabriel sighed.

  As the Dright sauntered slowly nearer, Christopher squeezed the corners of his mouth in, in order to stop a grin of delight at the thought that he was actually quicker at understanding it than Gabriel was. By now, the trees had sped away to leave a big circular meadow full of greenish sunlight. The Dright was near enough for them to see that he was dressed rather like Christopher in at least two lion skins hung all over with bright chinking ornaments. His curly hair and his crisp beard were white. There were rings on the toes of his smooth brown feet.

  “He looks like one of those rather nasty gods – the ones that eat their own children,” Gabriel said in a clear and carrying voice.

  Christopher had to bite his tongue or he would have laughed. He was beginning to like this version of Gabriel. By the time he had the laugh under control, he was standing facing the Dright some yards outside the fence. He looked back incredulously. The Goddess and Gabriel were standing behind the fence, still prisoners, looking a little stupefied. Tacroy was still sitting on the ground, doing his best not to be noticed.

  Christopher lifted his chin and looked up at the Dright’s face. The smooth brown features did not have any expression on them at all. But Christopher stared, trying to see the person behind the blankness. What feelings the Dright had were so different from his own, and so lofty, that for a moment he felt like an insect. Then he remembered that glacier, years ago in Series Seven, which Tacroy had said reminded him of two people. Christopher knew that one of the people was the Dright. Like the glacier, the Dright was cold and high and too crusted with ancient knowledge for ordinary people to understand.

  On the other hand, the other person the glacier had reminded Tacroy of was Uncle Ralph. Christopher looked carefully for any signs that the Dright was like Uncle Ralph. There was not much of Uncle Ralph’s shoddy look to the Dright’s grand face, but his features did not seem sincere. Christopher could tell that the Dright would cheat and lie if it suited him, like Uncle Ralph, but he thought that the main way the two were alike was that they were both utterly selfish. Uncle Ralph used people. So did the Dright.

  “What are you?” the Dright said. His voice was deep and scornful.

  “I’m the Dright,” said Christopher. “Dright for world Twelve A. The word for it there is Chrestomanci, but it amounts to the same thing.” His legs were shaking at the sheer cheek of this. But Tacroy had said that the one thing the Dright respected was pride. He held his knees stiff and made his face haughty.

  There was no way of telling whether the Dright believed Christopher or not. He did not answer and his face was blank. But Christopher could feel the Dright putting out small tendrils of sideways, rippled Eleven magic, testing him, feeling at him to see what his powers were and what were his weak points. To himself, Christopher felt he was all weak points. But it seemed to him that, since the magic here was so peculiar, he had no idea what his own powers were, and that meant the Dright probably had no idea either.

  The meadow behind the Dright became full of people. They had not been there at first, but they were there now, a pale-headed, brown-skinned crowd, wearing all possible degrees of fur, from tiny loin-wraps to long bear-skin robes. It seemed that the Dright was saying, “Call yourself Dright if you like, but take a look at the power I have.” Every one of the people was staring at Christopher with contempt and dislike. Christopher put his face into the same expression and stared back. And he realised that his face was rather used to looking this way. He had worn this expression most of the time he had lived at the Castle. It gave him an unpleasant shock to find that he had been quite as horrible as these Eleven people.

  “Why are you here?” said the Dright.

  Christopher pushed aside his shock. If I get out of here, I’ll try to be nicer, he thought, and then concentrated carefully on what Tacroy had told him might be the best thing to say. “I’ve come to fetch back something of my own,” he said. “But first let me introduce you to my colleague the Living Asheth. Goddess, this is the Dright of Eleven.” The ostrich feather fluttered on the Goddess’s head as she stepped up to the sharp stakes and bowed graciously. There was the slightest twitch to the Dright’s features that suggested he was impressed that Christopher had actually brought the Living Asheth, but the Goddess was still behind the fence in spite of that. “And of course you know my man Mordecai Roberts already,” Christopher said grandly, trying to slip that point past as a piece of pride.

  The Dright said nothing about that either. But behind him, the people were now all sitting down. It was as if they had never been any other way. By this, the Dright seemed to be saying, “Very well. You are my equal, but I’d like to point out that my followers outnumber yours by several thousand to one – and mine are obedient to my sl
ightest whim.”

  Christopher was amazed that he had won even this much. He tried to squash down his amazement by watching the people. Some were talking and laughing together, though he could not hear them. Some of them were cooking food over little balls of bluish witch-fire, which they seemed to use instead of fire. There were very few children. The two or three Christopher could see were sitting sedately doing nothing. I’d hate to grow up on Eleven! he thought. It must be a hundred times more boring than the Castle.

  “What thing of your own have you allowed to stray into my world?” the Dright said at length.

  They were getting down to business at last, even though the Dright was trying to pretend that Christopher had been careless. Christopher smiled and shook his head, to show he thought that was a joke of the Dright’s. “Two things,” he said. “First, I have to thank you for retrieving the lives of Gabriel de Witt for me. It saved me a lot of trouble. But you seem to have put the lives together in the wrong way and made Gabriel into a boy.”

  “I put them into the form which is easiest to deal with,” said the Dright. Like everything he said, this was full of other meanings.

  “If you mean that boys are easy to deal with,” Christopher said, “I’m afraid this is not the case. Not boys from Twelve A.”

  “And not girls either,” the Goddess said loudly. “Not from anywhere.”

  “What is Gabriel de Witt to you?” the Dright asked.

  “He is as father to son,” said Christopher. Rather proud of the way he had carefully not said who was which, he glanced through the fence at Tacroy. Tacroy was still sitting wrapped into a ball, but Christopher thought his curly head nodded slightly.

  “You have a claim to de Witt,” the Dright said. “He can be yours, depending on what else you have to say.” The fence round the other three slid and poured smoothly away sideways until it was out of sight, just as the trees had.

  Gabriel looked puzzled. The Goddess stood where she was, clearly suspicious. Christopher looked warily at the Dright. This was too good to be true. “The other thing I have to say,” he said, “is about this man of mine who is usually known as Mordecai Roberts. I believe he used to be yours, which means you still have his soul. Since he is my man now, perhaps you could let me have his soul?”

  Tacroy’s head came up and he stared at Christopher in horror and alarm. Christopher took no notice. He had known this would be pressing his luck, but he had always meant to try for Tacroy’s soul. He planted his aching feet astride, folded his arms across his fur and jewellery, and tried to smile at the Dright as if what he was asking was the most ordinary and reasonable thing in any world.

  The Dright gave no sign of anger or surprise. It was not simply self-control or pride. Christopher knew the Dright had been expecting him to ask and did not mind if Christopher knew. His mind began to work furiously. The Dright had made it easy for them to come to Eleven. He had pretended to accept Christopher as an equal, and he had told him he could have Gabriel’s lives. That meant there was something the Dright expected to get out of this, something he must want very much indeed. But what?

  “If my Septman claims to be your man, you should have his soulname,” the Dright observed. “Has he given you that name?”

  “Yes,” said Christopher. “It’s Tacroy.”

  The faces of all the people sitting in the meadow behind the Dright turned his way. Every one of them was outraged. But the Dright only said, “And what has Tacroy done to make himself yours?”

  “He lied for me for a whole day,” Christopher said. “And he was believed.”

  The first real sound in this place swept through the seated people. It was a long throaty murmur. Of awe? Approval? Whatever it was, Christopher knew he had said the right thing. As Tacroy had told him, these people naturally lied for their Dright. And to lie convincingly for a whole day showed the utmost loyalty.

  “He could then be yours,” the Dright admitted, “but on two conditions. I make two conditions because you have asked me for two things. The first one is of course that you show you know which the Septman’s soul is.” He made a small gesture with one powerful brown hand.

  A movement in the trees to one side caught Christopher’s eye. He looked and found the slender trunks pouring silently aside there. When they stopped, there was a grassy lane leading to the square framework of the Gate. It was about fifty feet away. The Dright was showing him that he could get home, provided he did what was wanted.

  “There’s a huge block of their magic in the way,” the Goddess whispered.

  Gabriel craned over his shoulder to look longingly at the Gate. “Yes, it’s just a carrot in front of the donkey,” he agreed.

  Tacroy simply groaned, with his head on his knees.

  In front of Christopher, people were bringing things and laying them out in a wide crescent-shape. Each man or woman brought two or three, and stared derisively at Christopher as he or she thunked the things down in the growing line. He looked at the things. Some were almost black, some yellowish, and others white or shiny. He was not sure if they were statuettes or blobs of stuff that had melted and hardened into peculiar shapes. A few of them looked vaguely human. Most were no shape that meant anything. But the stuff they were made of meant a great deal. Christopher’s stomach twisted and he had a hard job to go on staring haughtily as he realised that all the things were made of silver.

  When there were about a hundred of the objects sitting on the green turf, the Dright waved his hand again and the people stopped bringing them. “Pick out the soul of Tacroy from the souls of my people,” he said.

  Miserably, Christopher paced along the curving row with his hands clasped behind him to stop them trembling and Beryl’s ornaments clinking. He felt like a general reviewing an army of metal goblins. He paced the entire line, from left to right, and none of the objects meant anything to him. Use witch-sight, he told himself, as he wheeled on the right wing and started back again. It might just work on the silver statues provided he did not touch them.

  He forced himself to look in that special way at the statues. It was a real effort to do it through the wavy sideways magic of Eleven. And, as he had feared, the things looked just the same, just as grotesque, just as meaningless. His witch-sight was working, he knew. He could tell that a number of the people sitting in the meadow were not really there. They were in other parts of the forest busy with other schemes of the Dright’s and projecting their images here in obedience to the Dright’s command. But his witch-sight would not work on silver.

  So how else could he tell? He paced along the line, thinking. The people watched him jeeringly and the Dright’s head turned majestically to follow him as he passed. They were all so unpleasant, he thought, that it was no wonder their souls were like little silver monsters. Tacroy was the only nice one – Ah! There was Tacroy’s soul! It was some way round to the left. It looked no more human than any of the others, but it looked nice, fifty times nicer than the rest.

  Christopher tried to go on pacing towards it as if he had not seen it, wondering what would happen when he picked it up and lost every scrap of his magic. He would have to rely on the Goddess. He hoped she realised.

  His face must have changed. The Dright knew he had found the right soul and instantly began to cheat – as Christopher had known he would. The line of twisty objects was suddenly a good mile long, with Tacroy’s soul away in the far distance. And all of them were changing shape, melting into new queer blobs and fresh formless forms.

  Then, with a sort of wavy jolt, everything went back to the way it was at first. Thank goodness! Christopher thought. The Goddess! He had kept his eye on the soul and it was quite near. He dived forward and picked it up. As soon as he touched it, he was weak and heavy and tired. He felt like crying, but he stood up holding the soul. Sure enough, the Goddess was staring at the Dright with her arms spread. Christopher was surprised to find that, even without his magic, he could see her second pair of ghostly arms spread out underneath.

 
“My priestesses taught me that it was low to cheat,” she said. “I’d have thought you were too proud to stoop to it.”

  The Dright looked down his nose at her. “I named no rules,” he said. Being without magic was a little like another kind of witch-sight, Christopher thought. The Dright looked smaller to him now and not nearly so magnificent. There were clear signs of the shoddiness that he had seen in Uncle Ralph. Christopher was still scared stiff, but he felt much better about things now he had seen that.

  While the Goddess and the Dright stared at one another, he lumbered weakly over to Tacroy. “Here you are,” he said, thrusting the strange statue at him. Tacroy scrambled on to one knee, looking as if he could not believe it. His hands shook as they closed round the soul. As soon as he had hold of it, the thing melted into his hands. The fingernails and the veins turned silvery. An instant later, Tacroy’s face flushed silvery too. Then the flush faded and Tacroy looked much as usual, except that there was a glow about him which made him much more like the Tacroy Christopher knew from The Place Between.

  “Now I really am your man!” Tacroy said. He was laughing in a way that was rather like sobbing. “You can see I couldn’t ask Rosalie – watch the Dright!”

  Christopher spun round and found the Goddess on her knees, looking bewildered. It was not surprising. The Dright had thousands of years of experience. “Leave her alone!” he said.

  The Dright looked at him and for a moment Christopher felt the strange distorted magic trying to force him to his knees too. Then it stopped. The Dright still had not got what he wanted from Christopher. “We now come to my second condition,” the Dright said calmly. “I am moderate. You came here demanding seven lives and a soul. I give you them. All I ask in exchange is one life.”

  Gabriel laughed nervously. “I have got a few to spare,” he said. “If it means getting out of here—”

  This was what the Dright wanted, Christopher realised. He had been aiming for the life of a nine-lifed enchanter, freely handed over, all along. If Christopher had not dared to ask for Tacroy’s soul, he would have asked for a life for setting Gabriel free. For just a second, Christopher thought they might as well let him have one of Gabriel’s lives. He had seven, after all, and another lying on the floor back in the Castle. Then he saw it would be the most dangerous thing he could do. It would give the Dright a hold over Gabriel – the same hold he had had over Tacroy – for as long as his other lives lasted. The Dright was aiming to control the Chrestomanci, just like Uncle Ralph was aiming to control Christopher. They did not dare give him one of Gabriel’s lives.