‘I’ve a good mind to fail you,’ retorted the mancer angrily. ‘You must obey immediately. You must never question a decision made by a gate mancer. It’s for your own safety, as well as that of the castle.’
Crafty understood his reasoning, but he still felt cross. ‘You said that my brothers found Sandy too. Didn’t you know that the dog had been changed and could be dangerous?’
The Chief Mancer shook his head. ‘We can’t predict how long it will take for the Shole to change a person or creature trapped within it. In this case it took much longer than usual. Your dog didn’t look like that when your brothers found it. It has changed since. You were lucky to survive the encounter. The guillotine may seem cruel, but you must understand that it is vital. When we look into the Shole, dangerous aberrations could easily enter the Daylight World through the gate.’
Crafty was still angry, but he didn’t want to be returned to the Shole, which would mean certain death. He might not like the mancer’s methods, but it seemed that being a gate grub was the best he could hope for, and it was still preferable to going back to the cellar.
With this in mind, he put on his most innocent and compliant expression. ‘I’m sorry, sir. Please don’t fail me. I won’t disobey you again.’
The Chief Mancer stared at him for a long time, then nodded. ‘I am inclined to give you another chance, Benson. After all, your brothers had it far easier: they were facing a normal dog. Besides, we’ve had a few … unfortunate accidents recently. We need a replacement grub urgently. So – are you clear on what this is all about?’
‘You mean being a gate grub, sir?’
‘More than just that, young man. I mean what everybody in this castle is trying to do?’
Crafty thought for a moment, then answered, ‘You’re trying to fight the Shole. That’s what my father told me. He said it was a war between the Daylight World and the Shole, and that things would get a lot worse before they got better.’
The Chief Mancer gave a strange smile. ‘I suppose that’s one way to describe it. We, the Castle Corpus, are a dedicated team of people. We divide up into groups with different specialities, but we work together in order to discover as much as possible about the Shole, in order to learn how to deal with it. Our work is urgent. Do you understand?’
Crafty nodded.
‘Good. Then welcome to the castle. You are now officially a gate grub. Training will be provided on the job …’
Crafty was marched back to his room by the same grim-faced guard, who once again locked him in – though he returned about an hour later with a bundle of clothes.
‘Put these on, boy, and report downstairs. Ground-floor corridor, the Waiting Room – and don’t be late!’
The guard went out, slamming the door behind him – but this time he didn’t lock it.
Crafty looked at the clothes. There was a pair of leather boots with shiny steel toecaps. The trousers were black, and there was a short-sleeved shirt in a shade of red which he thought was called maroon. Stitched on the left shoulder was a badge: it was a white triangle around the black letters GM. It seemed he’d been given the uniform of a gate grub.
There was also a long black military greatcoat, similar to the one his father wore on his journeys across the Shole. Crafty tried it on. It was very heavy, and came down almost to his ankles; he felt completely lost in it. Maybe I’ll have grown a bit by the time winter comes, he thought. But for now, as it was the middle of summer, he hung the coat on a hook on the back of the door.
He quickly shrugged on the rest of the uniform, not wanting to risk being late. He noticed that the other clothes were also slightly too big for him. He wondered who they had belonged to previously, and what had happened to the owners. Had they belonged to one of my brothers? he thought with a shiver.
Crafty pushed the thought to the back of his mind and set off, slowly making his way down the steps towards the ground floor. He came to a long corridor lined with closed doors, the name of each room inscribed above them: THE DEAD ROOM, THE FORENSICS ROOM, THE RELIC ROOM, THE OPTIMISTS’ ROOM, THE PESSIMISTS’ ROOM and THE GREY LIBRARY were just a few. Crafty wondered what went on inside. He was puzzled by some of the names. Why would a library be grey? Why would anyone choose to be called a pessimist, always looking on the dark side of things and fearing the worst?
Luckily THE WAITING ROOM was easy to find. He knocked softly on the door.
Nothing happened. He listened. Silence. He knocked again.
There’s probably nobody inside, thought Crafty, so he turned the handle and opened the door.
He was wrong, for at the head of a very long table, their backs to him, sat a girl and a boy. On the table stood a grubby white box, but otherwise it was bare.
Crafty entered, closed the door behind him and walked cautiously towards the table.
Now the pair twisted round to look at him. They appeared to be a couple of years older than Crafty and were wearing the same uniform. He noticed that their heavy greatcoats were draped over the backs of their chairs, and hoped he wouldn’t need his. Crafty was also surprised to see that the girl was wearing trousers too. In his experience, women always wore dresses or skirts. Perhaps trousers were more practical for this job.
The girl herself was very slim, with long brown hair that fell to her shoulders. She was very pretty, but Crafty recognized the look on her face – he’d seen it on the faces of those who judged him on his appearance before they’d even heard him speak.
He decided to try to win her over. ‘Can I sit down?’ he asked politely.
The boy next to her smiled. Crafty noticed that two fingertips were missing from his left hand and his nose was broken and squashed into his face.
‘You may sit down!’ the boy replied with a grin. ‘Whether you can or not depends upon your physical dexterity!’
Crafty looked at them both in puzzlement. If this was some sort of joke, he didn’t understand it.
The girl started grinning too. ‘Sit down,’ she invited. ‘We’re only having a bit of fun. He’s just pointing out that you should say “may” when you’re asking for permission, that’s all. You’d better get used to that sort of thing because the Chief Mancer is a real stickler for grammar. Well, he’s a stickler for everything, really. His real name’s Wainwright, but everyone calls him Ginger Bob.’
‘Why do you call him that?’ Crafty asked, remembering the Chief Mancer’s black hair.
‘You’ll find out soon enough,’ she replied with an even wider grin. ‘So, did he correct your grammar when he tested you?’
Crafty shook his head. ‘No, but he was a bit sarcastic when I used the word practicalities. He said it was a big word for a little man.’
‘Sounds like typical Ginger Bob,’ said the boy with the missing fingertips. ‘He’s an important man in this castle, boss of all the gate mancers, and he likes to think he knows everything. By the way, my name is Pete Proudfoot, but my friends call me Lucky. And this –’ he smiled at the girl – ‘is Donna Henderson. What’s your name?’
‘Colin Benson, but my family call me Crafty.’
‘You’re Brian Benson’s son?’ Lucky asked, clearly impressed. ‘Big Brian, the courier?’
‘Yes, that’s him.’ Then something occurred to Crafty. ‘You two must have met my brothers, Brock and Ben. They were gate grubs too – they died.’
Lucky shook his head. ‘Before our time. I’m sorry about your brothers, Crafty, but nobody lasts long being a gate grub. We’ve only been here for a few months ourselves. I’ve done three and Donna has done nearly four. And we’re told that nobody’s ever survived more than a year. It’s a scary and dangerous job and it never gets any easier.’
‘That’s because there’s no proper training,’ Donna added angrily. ‘You learn on the job, so the first mistake you make can cost you your life.’
Lucky nodded. ‘Lucky for me I only lost two fingertips …’ He waggled his stumps. ‘A lot depends on which gate mancer you work for. The youngest one’s a nasty piece of wo
rk – he’s caused the deaths of four grubs already. His name is Vipton, but we call him Viper because he’s a real snake in the grass who takes chances with other people’s lives. Be warned: he likes to play tricks – especially on new grubs.’
Crafty didn’t like the sound of that at all. The Chief Mancer – Ginger Bob, as they called him – was a bit pompous but seemed to know what he was doing, and he definitely took his job seriously. Surely he wouldn’t place a grub in danger unnecessarily. But if you had to work with reckless mancers like Viper, when the work was already so dangerous …
Crafty decided to focus on something else. He pointed to the letters on the front of his uniform. ‘Why does it say GM?’ he asked. ‘Shouldn’t it be GG for gate grub?’
‘That,’ said Donna scornfully, ‘shows our lowly position here in the castle. Our role doesn’t even have an official title. “Gate grub” is just a joke, something made up by the mancers. We’re just wriggling little grubs, used like bait on the end of a hook to go fishing in the Shole. GM stands for gate mancers. We aren’t part of their guild but we belong to them. That’s what those letters tell you!’
Crafty’s father was a member of the Castle Courier Guild. He knew they had rules to guide their behaviour and secrets that had to be protected from outsiders. Courier craft – the special use of Fey magic that had kept Crafty safe in the cellar for so long – was just such a secret, and his father hadn’t been allowed to teach it to his sons because they weren’t members of the guild. There were long waiting lists to join guilds, and even if your father was a member, that didn’t guarantee the same for you.
‘So when do we start work?’ Crafty asked.
‘Well, we usually just wait here until somebody needs us,’ said Donna, turning away from Lucky to face him. ‘If we’re lucky, it’ll be a quiet day and nobody will come. It’s boring waiting, but it’s better than sitting in that chair facing the gate. Sometimes we play draughts,’ she said, nodding towards the white box. ‘Just before noon they bring us sandwiches and apple juice, but I’m afraid you’ve missed that. We’re usually on duty until dusk, and then it’s a light supper in your room and bed. But we get Sundays off. The guild rules say that mancers have to attend church twice – once in the morning and once early evening.’
Crafty was about to ask why when the far door slammed open. A scowling young man in a gleaming white shirt strode into the room and glared at them.
‘You!’ he called out, pointing a finger at Crafty. ‘New boy! Come with me. I have a job for you …’
Crafty followed the young man out of the door and down three flights of steps. They were heading deep underground, and although Crafty would have liked to quiz the mancer about where they were going, he was now striding along way ahead. When they eventually came to a door, Crafty groaned silently as he spotted the name on the brass plaque:
S. W. VIPTON
This was Viper.
Inside, the room was already lit by a flickering candle and was just as gloomy as the Chief Mancer’s den. It was also smaller, but where his had been cluttered with books and manuscripts, this room was extremely tidy. A few leather-bound books were stacked on shelves but, apart from the candle, the desk was bare and free of dust. Crafty also saw a stack of neatly folded white shirts on another shelf beside a cupboard. But this room did have one other thing in common with the Chief Mancer’s: a chair was bolted to the floor in front of a black curtain. And Crafty knew what it concealed.
‘Stand there!’ Viper commanded, pointing to the floor beside his desk.
He hasn’t even asked me my name, Crafty thought, but he did as he was told.
Viper circled him three times, slowly. He was taller than Crafty, but he didn’t seem that old. Viper couldn’t have been more than twenty years of age. Although his shoulders were muscular, he was slim, with a thin face and a slightly hooked nose. His mane of hair, swept back and gleaming with oil, was the colour of midnight. His face was pink and, unlike Ginger Bob’s, closely shaven. But it was the immaculate white shirt buttoned up to the neck that drew Crafty’s eye. This was a young man who was – to use a word that would have impressed the Chief Mancer – fastidious; he was precise, fussy and painstaking in his dress and appearance.
The man in question halted, staring down imperiously at Crafty. When Crafty looked up and stared back, attempting a smile, Viper hissed angrily through his teeth. ‘Look down at your boots!’ he snapped. ‘I’ll have no insolence from a young whippersnapper like you.’
Crafty took that to mean that he didn’t like him staring back at him, so he dropped his eyes.
‘Why aren’t you in full uniform?’ demanded Viper.
At first Crafty couldn’t think what he meant. Then he remembered the long black coat he’d left in his room.
‘I – I thought that the coat was only for winter, sir,’ Crafty stammered, sensing that this wouldn’t go down well.
‘Well then, you’ve made your first big mistake, grub,’ sneered Viper. ‘In some parts of the Shole it’s always winter; so cold that you can freeze to death in less than half an hour.’
With a shock Crafty realized the implications of what Viper was saying. Did he mean that he would sometimes have to go through the silver gate, out into the Shole? He’d assumed that a gate grub just sat in the chair and found things.
He was about to ask, but before he had time to open his mouth, Viper walked over to the black curtain and drew it back to reveal the gate, set within an alcove.
‘Sit!’ he commanded.
Crafty decided not to aggravate him any further; he clambered into the chair and looked at the silver frame with the dark clouds swirling within. It looked identical to the one in the Chief Mancer’s room. The chair had similar straps too.
But Viper didn’t bind him to the chair. He gave a sly smile that Crafty found disturbing and, when he spoke, his voice was softer but somehow more menacing.
‘No doubt Mr Wainwright, the Chief Mancer, has explained to you that the primary function of a gate grub is to locate things within the Shole. This can mean objects, creatures or places. But once that task has been achieved, the gate mancer can usually, but not always, return to the same spot by using this ratchet-dial on the gate,’ he said, pointing at a circular dial. ‘We call these spots “fixed locations”, and we use them to do further research on the Shole.’
‘What’s a ratchet-dial, sir?’ Crafty asked, putting his grievances aside. He was still eager to learn all he could about his new job; any information might be useful in the future.
‘It’s a dial with metal teeth so that it cannot slip backwards and change location accidentally. That’s what I intend to do now – take us to a fixed location. Once there, I want you to retrieve something for me that was left behind by another grub.’
As he turned the dial, it made an ominous clicking sound.
‘There!’ Viper pointed into the centre of the gate.
The cloud had cleared, and Crafty found himself looking at a desolate landscape with a single tree at its centre. The ground was covered with snow, and the branches of the tree were heavily laden too. Leaning against the tree was a spade.
‘Get me that spade!’ Viper commanded. ‘Don’t worry – the area is quite safe at present.’
The spade appeared to be about a hundred yards away.
‘You want me to climb through the gate?’ Crafty asked, hoping he’d somehow misunderstood.
‘Of course I do, grub. I don’t think your arms are quite long enough to reach it from here!’ Viper gave a nasty laugh.
‘Could you please move the gate a bit nearer to the spade, sir?’ Crafty asked. Despite what Viper had said, there was something about the bleak landscape that made him fearful. He couldn’t see any danger, but he didn’t want to be there any longer than was strictly necessary.
‘That’s not possible. It’s a fixed location.’
‘Maybe I can move it nearer …’
Crafty wondered whether, if he concentrated hard on that spade,
the gate would move towards it. He’d got pretty close to Sandy when she was located. But before he could try, Viper gripped his left shoulder and pulled him backwards so fiercely that he cried out with pain.
‘How dare you! A grub obeys instantly and never questions the order of a gate mancer! Do as I say immediately or I’ll take you to the Chief Mancer this instant, and you’ll be returned from whence you came. Did you know that we discuss grub candidates at meetings? Oh yes, I know all about that miserable year you spent in the Shole. How would you like to be back in that cellar?’
Crafty knew he was right. It was better to be a gate grub than back there, waiting to die. The moment Viper released his shoulder, he gave a grimace, got to his feet and, gripping the frame with one hand, clambered through the silver gate.
The cold instantly snatched his breath away. What a fool he’d been not to bring his greatcoat! Crafty glanced up at the sky. There was no sign of the sun, just a drab uniform greyness.
He didn’t want to give Viper the satisfaction of seeing him look back, so he simply started walking towards the tree. His boots crunched as they made contact with the snow. The air was freezing, and each breath he exhaled erupted into a cloud of mist.
When he was halfway there, Crafty risked a glance back at the gate. To his surprise, he saw that it no longer looked like a silver frame mounted on ornate iron legs. From this side, only a shimmering blue circle was visible. He noted with alarm that it didn’t seem to have any real substance – it looked like something that could fade away at any moment. He began to walk faster, shivering violently.
He glanced behind him again, and for a moment the circle seemed to change into the huge gloating face of Viper. Crafty blinked in astonishment – was he seeing things? – and when he looked again, it was just a blue circle once more.
Crunch! Crunch! Crunch! went his boots on the frozen ground. It was the only thing he could hear. The Shole was utterly, eerily silent.
He’d almost reached the tree when he heard a terrifying sound: a shrill cry, rapidly descending through several octaves before erupting into a booming roar. What type of creature was that? Although distant, the beast was clearly something huge. Did it know that he was here? Had it got his scent? Was it bounding towards him right now?
The Beast Awakens Page 4