“You always wanted to see the Archives,” said David softly. “Well, this is your big chance. We’re going to swipe Bram’s Key from under the scholars’ noses.”
Connor blinked and watched David stalk off toward the woods. “I’ve been a bad influence on that one,” he concluded, rubbing his arms and hurrying after David.
Max helped Sarah off the stone and the four followed David and Connor. They paused only for a parting glance at the grim stones that jutted like broken teeth beneath the light of the pale gibbous moon.
14
BEYOND HEAVEN’S VEIL
Dr. Rasmussen’s sharp, predatory face glared down at them from the light of his open doorway. Despite the late hour, the exiled Workshop leader was still dressed in rumpled work clothes, thumbing the handle of a pipe.
His attention locked on David.
“Up again, are you?” he asked, masking any surprise with cool reserve. He nodded at Max and didn’t bother to acknowledge the others, who peered curiously at him from the shallow flight of stairs that concluded at his room. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” he asked with a thin, mirthless smile. “It’s Christmas Eve, after all.”
“We need your help,” said David.
“Of course you do,” sighed Rasmussen with a frown. “That’s what I get for assuming you were the serving hag.”
“Her name’s Mum, in case you’ve forgotten,” said Max, glaring at the haughty man.
“Not her,” sniffed Rasmussen. “The other one. Even more revolting, if that’s conceivable, but she makes a passable cider. She’s coming any minute, so you’d best run along before she spots you out of bed. I have work to do.”
The man moved to shut his door, but Max wedged it open with his foot.
“It’ll just take a minute,” Max insisted, forcing the door open and walking inside. The others followed behind, mumbling hellos to the stunned and scowling engineer.
“Abominable child,” muttered Rasmussen, closing the door with a snick. He marched past them and swept up a pile of papers and drawings that were stacked on a writing desk near the windows. Max was surprised to see the beautiful suite was a mess. Crusted plates and stained coffee cups were piled into corners, clothes were strewn about, and the air smelled faintly sour.
“Whew,” said Connor, poking at a black dress sock hanging limply off a chair.
“I wasn’t expecting company,” said Rasmussen defensively, snatching the sock and tossing it toward a mound of dirty laundry. He folded his arms and glared at them. “What do you want?”
“Your displacement thingy,” said Max. “The one that bends light waves.”
Rasmussen twitched his nose as though it itched.
“And what would we be doing with it?” he asked.
“That’s none of your business,” said David. “We’re asking you for a favor and I think you owe us one.”
“Ha!” snorted Rasmussen. “Oh, the arrogance! I owe you? Because of you, I’m surrounded by bumbling idiots and malodorous hags! Because of you, my life’s work has been ruined! I owe you nothing.”
There was a sharp knock at the door. Rasmussen scowled.
“Of course she’d come now,” he said in a simmering tone as he strode over to an antique chest buried beneath a mound of used towels. Reaching inside, Rasmussen retrieved the wondrous fabric and hurled it at Max, who snatched it out of the air and draped it over the others before slipping underneath. With a menacing stare, Rasmussen raised a finger to his lips and strode over to the door. Bellagrog stood outside with a serving cart.
“Evening, sir,” she said amiably, pushing the cart inside. “Hot cider and toast, just like you requested. Put an extra drop of the good stuff in it, since it’s Christmas and all.”
Rasmussen stiffened and glanced at the children.
“Er, yes. Thank you, serving hag. That will be all.”
Bellagrog ignored him, setting a silver tray on the writing desk and buttering his toast with brisk, efficient movements.
“I can do that myself!” said Rasmussen, red-faced, wrestling the knife from the potbellied hag.
“Awright, awright,” said Bellagrog, holding her hands up. “I thought you liked me to do it, that’s all. Never bothered ya before, did it?”
“Yes, well, things have changed,” said Rasmussen, squinting as he set to buttering a piece of toast with inexpert stabbing motions. Bits of bread were flung into the air as the toast was chiseled into a pockmarked wreck.
Bellagrog merely watched him with a bemused expression. Her crocodile eye wandered up and down Rasmussen’s spare frame. Her gaze became distant. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse.
“Ya got any family, Doc?”
“No,” muttered Rasmussen, abandoning one shredded catastrophe and moving on to another.
“Well, I do,” drawled the hag thoughtfully. “Sure, I got me wee sis right here with me, but Yuletide gets me thinkin’ ’bout the others, too. They can drive ya batty, family can, but blood’s blood.”
“Very moving,” said Rasmussen, oblivious to Bellagrog’s cautious movements.
Max gasped as the hag suddenly slipped a massive cleaver out of her apron. Without a moment’s hesitation, she lifted the heavy blade above her head and—
The cleaver froze, poised like a guillotine, above the unsuspecting man.
Bellagrog sniffed the air, nostrils puckering like a pig’s. Her eyes widening with surprise, the hag gaped in the direction of Max and the others. Abruptly lowering the blade, she scowled and hid the cleaver in her apron’s pouch.
“There!” said Rasmussen in triumph, holding up a reasonably whole piece of buttered toast.
“Bravo, Doctor! Well done, indeed!” crowed Bellagrog, applauding Rasmussen, who poured himself a mug of pungent cider.
“Yes, well, the others were clearly defective,” said Rasmussen, glancing at the small mound of toast scraps. “You’ll have to make more.”
“In a jiffy,” said Bellagrog with a low curtsy. “I believe that piece was toasted a bit more than the others, sir. I’ll be sure the others follow suit.”
“See to it,” said Rasmussen, dismissing her with a wave.
“Shall we do your laundry tomorrow, sir?” asked the hag, pushing the cart toward the door.
“Yes,” said Rasmussen, gazing imperiously about the room. “Yes, I believe so.”
“Of course, sir. Trust your Bel to take care of everything. Merry Christmas, sir.”
“Yes, yes. Merry Christmas,” Rasmussen murmured, downing his cup in one smooth swallow.
With a parting glare in the direction of the children, the hag shambled out, pushing the cart before her. Rasmussen closed the door and spun on his heel.
“Well, you’ve got what you’ve come for, haven’t you?” he said, fumbling through his pockets for a match. He lit his pipe, puffing at them with the impatient air of a peevish lord. “I’ll expect it folded and placed at my door when you’re finished. And don’t think you don’t owe me something in return.”
“Sure thing,” said Max, slipping out from beneath the cloth. “I’ll even give you a tip for free.”
“What’s that?” growled Rasmussen, standing aside as the others filed past into the hallway.
“Never let Bellagrog in here again,” Max warned. “Never be alone with her. Have someone else prepare your meals. That hag’s crafty as they come and she wants your head on a platter. Literally.”
Rasmussen snorted with laughter and blew sweet-smelling tobacco in Max’s face.
“My, my, are you trying to frighten me?” he scoffed. “It’s Christmas, not Halloween, miserable boy. Happy slinking about or whatever it is you Rowan students do at two in the morning. Off with you.”
* * *
Max imagined they must resemble an awkward insect, twelve legs moving out of sync as they bumped and jostled one another beneath the displacement fabric. While the campus was quiet, their precautions were warranted; they had to wait several times for Agents or sleepless parents to pass on
nighttime strolls. Hurrying up the stairs of Old Tom, they wound their way along the stairwells and down the halls until they reached Room 313. David glanced down the hallway before placing his palm on the door.
“Wait,” hissed Lucia. “Why can’t we just ask for Bram’s Key or whatever it is? After all, you two had it to begin with!”
“Don’t chicken out now, Lucia,” moaned Connor.
“Shhh,” said Sarah. Footsteps sounded in the hall above them.
“There will be too many questions, and there’s no guarantee they’ll give it to us,” said Max. “You heard what Astaroth said—my mother doesn’t have much time! We can’t wait.”
“But—” protested Lucia.
“What are you worried about?” whispered Connor incredulously. “Getting detention? Lucia, the whole world’s going dark. Or haven’t you noticed? I don’t think anyone’s gonna lose sleep over your permanent record!”
Footsteps sounded in the stairwell; someone was approaching.
“Vola, vola!” hissed Lucia, scowling and pinching Connor.
David muttered a word and tapped the doorknob three times. It swung open on well-oiled hinges and David stepped inside, hurrying over to the blackboard. He scratched at the board awkwardly with his left hand before abandoning the effort. Another command and the chalk bobbed into the air, writing the necessary words in a bold hand: By right and necessity, David Menlo requests access to the Archives.
Max swiveled the board down and raised it once again to reveal the dark staircase below. In a quiet, even voice David gave the group brief instructions. Connor wrinkled his nose at the plan and shook his head.
“But we’ll get caught for sure!” he said.
“That’s precisely the point,” muttered David.
“But I want to come with you,” protested Connor.
“Me too,” said Sarah. “You can’t do all this alone.”
David said nothing for some time. When he spoke, his eyes glittered with tears.
“We’re not doing this alone,” he said. “You’re helping us right now. But you can’t come with us—none of you can. There’s no guarantee we’re coming back.”
Max said nothing as Sarah’s eyes locked onto his own. He had already suspected the terrible truth that David voiced aloud. He squeezed Sarah’s hand and kissed it as Cynthia removed her pearl necklace and enveloped David in a fierce hug.
“What’s this?” he asked as she pressed the necklace into his hand.
“This was my grandmama’s,” said Cynthia. “You bring it back or I’ll kill you!”
The six children laughed and hugged one another close again. Cynthia blew a long, lingering honk into her sleeve.
“We’ll make you proud,” she said, blinking away tears.
Max tightened David’s pack on his shoulders as the group stole down the warm, wet stairs and into the living heart of Rowan.
At the bottom of the stairs, the shedu stood flanking the door, as massive and imposing as Max remembered. The guardians stared straight ahead while David slipped from beneath the sheet to approach them. Speaking softly, David bowed low and made a supplicating gesture. There was a low rumble as the creatures lowered themselves to the ground, still towering over David. Max held his breath; they could have crushed the small boy at any moment. Gradually, the shedu closed their eyes and rested their heads on the clean stone floor.
“What did you do?” asked Max, leading the others forward.
“I suggested they have a nap,” said David simply. “They’re under a powerful spell, you know, to keep them alert. Poor things haven’t slept in centuries.”
Max peered through the double doors to the Archives. There in the center of the main reading room was Bram’s Key. Its silver was polished to a fine gleam; all about it were scholars huddled at surrounding tables strewn with charts and papers and parchments galore. Max squinted and saw Vilyak sipping coffee while he chatted quietly with nine men and women in dark nanomail.
“The Red Branch,” Max whispered. “They’re the best Agents in the world.”
Connor gave a low whistle.
“This changes everything,” whispered Cynthia. “Those are anything but scholars. How on earth are we supposed to fool them?”
“You don’t need to fool them forever,” said David. “You just need to be a distraction, nothing more. Who’s going to be the lucky one to get things moving?”
“I’ll do it,” said Sarah.
“Maybe I should,” said Connor.
“Please,” said Sarah. “I’m way faster than you—you’ll be nabbed in a heartbeat.”
“Once you’re caught, don’t resist,” Max said, peering out at the Red Branch. “Don’t even joke around, Connor—I mean it. Surrender right away and demand to speak to Ms. Richter. Those Agents are deadly serious. Don’t give them any excuse to hurt you.”
Lucia made a funny whimper; Connor swallowed hard.
Reaching into his pack, David removed a rolled-up pair of socks and squeezed it within his fist. The pair of socks suddenly grew and assumed a metallic luster. Seconds later, David held a perfect replica of the silver armillary sphere.
Sarah slipped under the blanket with Max and David while the others remained behind. Slowly, the hidden trio made their way into the Archives, creeping along the floor until they were crouched a mere foot from the table where Bram’s Key was perched. Across the way, Vilyak continued his conversation with the Red Branch.
David handed Max the replica sphere. Both glanced at Sarah. The beautiful Nigerian girl nodded and set her jaw.
In one fluid movement, Sarah dashed out from beneath the blanket and snatched Bram’s Key from its pedestal. There was a commotion as scholars sat up suddenly at their tables. Vilyak’s black doll’s eyes flicked onto Sarah. Before anyone could move, David flexed his fingers and Sarah shut her eyes.
“Solas!”
The room exploded in light. Scholars shouted and fell back from their tables; Vilyak and the Red Branch cursed, stumbling forward as the flash of light momentarily blinded them. Sarah dashed past Max, smoothly exchanging the real Key for the replica. Huddling close to a bookcase, Max and David waited for the scholars and Agents to stampede past them as Sarah bolted toward the entrance and the stairs.
Once they had a clear path, Max and David hurried for the opposite end of the cavernous room, walking quickly in lockstep beneath the displacement blanket. Behind them, Max heard shouts as Connor, Lucia, and Cynthia ran into the room. Sarah’s voice rose above the din, yelling, “Catch!” There was a triumphant whoop from Connor, followed by more shouts and the crash of toppling furniture.
Once they reached the great spiral staircases that led up to the stacks, Max and David turned to see their friends pinned on the floor, each in the arms of two members of the Red Branch. Vilyak stood above them, red-faced and barking questions that echoed in the room’s vast acoustics. Shaken scholars righted tables and lamps, stepping around broken chairs and a shattered vase.
David tugged at Max’s arm and the two hurried up the steps, winding up and around the Archives’ perimeter until they stopped, breathless, at a remote stack of dusty tomes and ribbon-bound papers.
“This is it,” David wheezed, stowing the sphere in the pack on Max’s back. “This is the secret way I used last year.”
“I thought you said I couldn’t follow you this way,” said Max.
“We need to try,” said David, catching his breath. Below them, Vilyak’s anger echoed off the walls and filled the great space. “I’ll go first to open the passage. Instead of going straight through, I’ll try to stay inside to keep it open. Hurry after me.”
Max nodded. Slipping out from beneath the blanket, David strode toward a stack of books on Divination. The books parted and let him pass with nary a ripple. Holding his breath, Max followed after.
He gasped as he felt his body suddenly squeezed under immense pressure. A faint clicking sounded in his jaw; there was a horrendous pull on his body as though a great and greedy
giant were slurping him through a straw. The pressure in his head began to build. Strange lights swam before his eyes, and he feared his jaw would snap.
Suddenly, like a popping balloon, the pain was gone.
Opening his eyes, Max saw that he and David were standing on the path between the Manse and Old Tom. David’s teeth chattered. It was still dark, but it was Christmas morning and the campus looked serene as snow fell, clean and cold. David and Max trotted off across the lawns, past twinkling lights and holly boughs, as they made their way toward the slippery steps that would lead them down to the sea.
The Kestrel loomed black and huge against the graying dawn. Her stout planks creaked as she rocked back and forth, restless in the choppy water that splashed and steamed against her sides. The two boys hurried along the packed sand, up the steps, and down the dock like a pair of fugitives. In one spring, Max cleared the distance between the dock and the ship. He swung the gangplank over the side, pushing it toward David, who waited patiently on the dock, still in his pajamas. A moment later, David scampered up the platform and onto the ship, his cheeks pink with excitement.
“We’ll have to hurry,” he said, taking Bram’s Key from Max.
Boom!
The Kestrel groaned as some force took hold of it. The prow rose high in the air like a bucking horse and crashed down again, knocking the two boys off their feet and jarring the sphere from David’s grasp. Scrambling on all fours, Max dove for the sphere, which rolled and skittered toward starboard as the ship rocked nearly onto its side. He caught the Key by its stand, slamming painfully into the ship’s guardrails.
A familiar wailing rose up from the black ocean depths. The ship began to shake and pitch violently. As they and their classmates had discovered the previous year, the Kestrel had an unseen and most disturbing guardian. A horrific, weeping wail rose to shake their eardrums and rattle their senses.
The boys clung precariously to the ship as it bucked and rocked. Freezing water crashed over the side to drench the two as Max crawled toward the ship’s figurehead, squinting as snow and bits of ice whipped against his face in a sudden tempest. The wailing became an earsplitting scream.
The Second Siege Page 28