Septimus Heap, Book One: Magyk

by Angie Sage

  It wasn’t. Snorri knew it wasn’t and so did the old man. “This is most irregular,” he told Snorri.

  “Ir-regular?” asked Snorri.

  “Most irregular. It is not usual for fathers to pass their Letters of Charter on to their daughters.”

  “No?”

  “But all appears to be in order.” The old man sighed and rather unwillingly reached under the table and pulled out a stack of licenses. “Sign here,” he said, pushing a pen over to Snorri. Snorri signed her name and the old man stamped the license as though it had said something extremely personal and rude.

  He pushed it across the table to Snorri. “Stall number one. You’re early. The first one here. Market starts at dawn two weeks from Friday. Last day is MidWinter Feast Day Eve. Clear out by dusk. All trash to be removed to the Municipal Rubbish Dump by midnight. That will be one crown.” The man took the crown from where Snorri had laid it on the table and threw it into another cash box, where it landed with an empty clatter.

  Snorri took the license with a broad smile. She had done it. She was a Licensed Trader, just as her father had been.

  “Take your samples to the shed and leave them for quality control,” the old man said. “You may collect them tomorrow.”

  Snorri left her heavy bag in the sample bin outside the shed, and feeling as light as air, she danced out of the marketplace and bumped straight into a girl wearing a red tunic edged with gold. The girl had long dark hair and wore a gold circlet around her head like a crown. Beside her stood a ghost dressed in purple robes. He had a friendly expression in his green eyes and wore his gray hair neatly tied back in a pony-tail. Snorri tried not to look at the bloodstains on his robes just below his heart, for it was impolite to stare at the means by which the ghost had entered ghosthood.

  “Oh, sorry,” the girl in red said to Snorri. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  “No. I am sorry,” said Snorri. She smiled and the girl smiled back. Snorri went on her way back to the Alfrún, wondering. She had heard that the Castle had a Princess, but surely this could not be her, walking around just like anyone else?

  The girl, who was indeed the Princess, continued on her way to the Palace with the purple-robed ghost.

  “She’s a Spirit-Seer,” said the ghost.

  “Who is?”

  “That young Trader. I did not Appear to her but she saw me. I’ve never met one before. They’re very rare, they are only found in the Lands of the Long Nights.” The ghost shivered. “Gives me the creeps.”

  The Princess laughed. “You are funny, Alther,” she said. “I bet you give people the creeps all the time.”

  “I do not,” replied the ghost indignantly. “Well . . . only if I want to.”

  Over the next few days, the autumn weather closed in. The north winds blew the leaves from the trees and sent them skittering down the streets. The air grew chill and people began to notice how early it was getting dark.

  But to Snorri Snorrelssen, the weather felt good. She spent her days wandering around the Castle, exploring its highways and byways, looking with amazement into the windows of all the fascinating little shops tucked away underneath the arches in The Ramblings and even buying the odd trinket. She had gazed up at the Wizard Tower in awe, caught a glimpse of what appeared to be an extremely bossy ExtraOrdinary Wizard, and been shocked at the great piles of manure that the Wizards kept in their courtyard. She had joined the crowd watching the old clock in Drapers Yard strike twelve noon and laughed at the faces that the twelve tin figures had made as they sauntered out from behind the clock. Another day, she had walked down Wizard Way, taken a tour of the oldest printing press, and then peered through the railings at the beautiful old Palace, which was smaller than she had expected. She had even talked to an old ghost called Gudrun at the Palace Gate, who had recognized a fellow country-woman, even though they were divided by seven centuries.

  But the one ghost that Snorri had hoped to see in her wanderings eluded her. Although she only knew what he looked like from a picture that her mother kept at her bedside, she was sure that she would recognize him if she saw him. But despite constantly scanning the crowds of ghosts that wandered by, Snorri caught not so much as a glimpse of her father.

  Late one afternoon, after exploring some of the darker alleyways at the back of The Ramblings where many of the Traders took lodgings, Snorri had had a fright. It was getting near sunset and she had just bought a hand torch from Maizie Smalls’s Takeaway Torch Shop. As she walked back along Squeeze Guts Alley to the South Gate, Snorri had the uncomfortable feeling that she was being followed, but every time she turned around, there was nothing to see. Suddenly Snorri had heard a scuffling behind her, she spun around and there they were—a pair of round red eyes and one long needlelike tooth glinting in the light of her hand torch. As soon as the eyes saw the flame, they melted into the twilight and Snorri saw no more of them. Snorri told herself that it was only a rat, but not long after, as she walked briskly back to the main thoroughfare, Snorri had heard a shrill scream coming from Squeeze Guts Alley. Someone who had ventured down the Alley without a torch had not been so lucky.

  Snorri was shaken and in need of some human company, so that evening she had supper at Sally Mullin’s. Sally had warmed to Snorri because, as she had said to her friend Sarah Heap, “You can’t blame a young girl just because she’s got the misfortune to be a Trader, and I suppose they’re not all bad. You’ve got to admire her, Sarah, she’s sailed that great barge all on her own. Don’t know how she did it. I used to find Muriel difficult enough.”

  The café was strangely empty that evening. Snorri was the only customer. Sally brought Snorri an extra piece of barley cake and sat beside her. “It’s terrible for business, this Sickenesse,” she complained. “No one dares stay out after dark even though I tell them that rats run a mile when they see a flame. All they have to do is carry a torch. But it’s no good, everyone’s scared now.” Sally shook her head gloomily. “They go for your ankles, see. And quick as greased lightning they are. One bite and that’s it. You’re gone.”

  Snorri was having some trouble following Sally’s rapid stream of words. “Yorgon?” she asked, catching the end of the sentence.

  Sally nodded. “As good as,” she said. “Not dead exactly but they reckon it’s only a matter of time. You feel fine for a while, then you get a red rash spreading up from the bite, feel dizzy and bang—next thing you know you’re flat out on the floor and away with the fairies.”

  “Fairies?” asked Snorri.

  “Yes,” said Sally, springing to her feet at the welcome sight of a customer.

  The customer was a tall woman with short spiky hair. She held her cloak close around her. Snorri could see little of the woman’s face, but there was an angry look to the way she stood. A murmured conversation ensued between her and Sally, then the woman left as swiftly as she had come.

  Smiling, Sally rejoined Snorri at her seat overlooking the river. “Well, it’s an ill wind that blows no one good,” she said, much to Snorri’s bemusement. “That was Geraldine who just came in. Strange woman, reminds me of someone, though I can’t think who. Anyway, she asked if the RatStranglers can meet up here before they go out, er, rat strangling.”

  “Ratstrang-gling?” asked Snorri.

  “Well, rat catching. They reckon if they get rid of all the rats, they’ll get rid of the Sickenesse, too. Makes sense to me. Anyway, I’m very pleased. A load of hungry and thirsty rat catchers is just what the café could do with right now.”

  No one else came into the café after the spiky Geraldine left, and soon Sally started noisily putting up the benches on the tables and began to mop the floor. Snorri took the hint and bade Sally good night.

  “Good night, dear,” said Sally cheerily. “Don’t hang around outside now, will you?”

  Snorri had no intention of hanging around. She ran back to the Alfrún and was very glad to see the NightUllr prowling the deck. Leaving Ullr on guard, Snorri retreated to he
r cabin, barred the hatch and kept the oil lamp burning all night.

  EXCERPT FROM

  SEPTIMUS HEAP

  BOOK FOUR

  Queste

  PROLOGUE:

  NICKO AND SNORRI

  It is the weekly market on Wizard Way. A girl and a boy have stopped at a pickled herring stall. The boy has fair hair, twisted and braided in the style that sailors will be wearing sometime in the distant future. His green eyes have a serious, almost sad expression, and he is trying to persuade the girl to let him buy her some herring.

  The girl, too, has fair hair, but hers is almost white. It is straight and long, held in place with a leather headband, the kind worn by Northern Traders. Her pale blue eyes look at the boy. “No,” she tells him. “I cannot eat it. It will remind me too much of home.”

  “But you love herring,” he says.

  The stallholder is an elderly woman with pale blue eyes like the girl. She has not sold a single herring all morning and she is determined not to let a chance of a sale go by. “If you love herring, you must try this,” she tells the girl. “This is done the proper way. It’s how herring should be pickled.” She cuts a piece, sticks a small pointy wooden stick into it and hands it to the girl.

  “Go on, Snorri,” says the boy, almost pleading. “Try it. Please.”

  Snorri smiles. “All right, Nicko. For you, I will try it.”

  “It is good?” asks the stallholder.

  “It is good, Old Mother,” says Snorri. “Very good.”

  Nicko is thinking. He is thinking that the stallholder speaks like Snorri. She has the same lilting accent and she does not have the Old Speak patterns that he and Snorri have become used to in the few months they have already spent in this Time. “Excuse me,” he says. “Where are you from?”

  A wistful look comes into the old woman’s eyes. “You would not understand,” she tells him.

  Nicko persists. “But you are not from here,” he says. “I can tell by the way you speak. You speak like Snorri here.” He puts his arm around Snorri’s shoulders and she blushes.

  The old woman shrugs. “It is true I am not from here. I am from farther away than you could possibly imagine.”

  Now Snorri is looking at the old woman too. She begins to speak in her own language, the language of her Time.

  The old woman’s eyes light up at hearing her own tongue spoken as she had spoken it as a child. “Yes,” she says in reply to Snorri’s tentative question. “I am Ells. Ells Larusdottir.”

  Snorri speaks again and the old woman replies warily. “Yes, I do—or did—have a sister called Herdis. How do you know? Are you one of those thought-snatchers?”

  Snorri shakes her head. “No,” she says, still in her own language. “But I am a Spirit-Seer. As was my grandmother Herdis Larusdottir. And my mother, Alfrún, who was not yet born when my great-aunt Ells disappeared through the Glass.”

  Nicko wonders what Snorri could possibly be saying to make the old woman grip her flimsy stall table with such ferocity that her knuckles go white. Although Snorri has been teaching him her language, she spoke to the old woman much faster than he was used to and the only word he recognized was “mother.”

  * * *

  And this is how it happens that Great-aunt Ells takes Nicko and Snorri to her tall, thin house in the Castle walls, throws a log into her tiled stove and tells them her story. Many hours later Snorri and Nicko leave Great-aunt Ells’s house full of pickled herring and hope. Most precious of all, they have a map showing the way to the House of Foryx, the Place Where All Times Do Meet. That evening Snorri makes two copies of the map and gives one to Marcellus Pye, the Alchemist in whose house they are staying. For the next few weeks their days are full of plans as they prepare for their journey into the unknown.

  It is a gray and rainy day when Marcellus Pye stands on the Castle Quay and waves their boat farewell. He wonders if he will ever see them again. He is still wondering.

  1

  NICKO’S RELEASE

  Jannit Maarten, boatbuilder, was on her way to the Palace.

  Jannit, a lean, spare woman with a long stride and a sailor’s pigtail, had never in her strangest dreams thought that she would one day be tying up her rowboat at Snake Slipway and heading for the Palace Gates. But, on a chilly gray spring day, here she was, doing just that—and feeling more than a little apprehensive.

  Some minutes later Hildegarde, the sub-Wizard on door duty at the Palace, looked up from her night-school assignment titled “The Politics, Principles and Practice of Transformation.” She saw Jannit hesitantly walking over the wide plank bridge that spanned the ornamental moat and led to the Palace doors. Happy to have a break, Hildegarde jumped to her feet with a smile and said, “Good morning, Miss Maarten. How may I help you?”

  “You know my name!” said Jannit, amazed.

  Hildegarde did not tell Jannit that she made it her business to know everyone’s name. Instead she said, “Of course I do, Miss Maarten. Your boatyard repaired my sister’s boat last year. She was very pleased with the work.”

  Jannit had no idea who this sub-Wizard’s sister could possibly be, but she could not help wondering what boat it was. Jannit remembered boats. She smiled awkwardly and took off her battered sailor’s boater, which she had worn especially for her visit to the Palace—it was Jannit’s equivalent of a party frock and tiara.

  “Ladies are welcome to keep their hats on,” said Hildegarde.

  “Oh?” said Jannit, wondering what that had to do with her. Jannit did not think of herself as a lady.

  “Is there someone you wish to see?” Hildegarde prompted, quite used to tongue-tied visitors.

  Jannit twisted her boater around in her hands. “Sarah Heap,” she said. “Please.”

  “I will send a messenger. May I tell her what it is you wish to see her about?”

  After a long pause Jannit replied. “Nicko Heap,” she said, staring at her hat.

  “Ah. Please take a seat for a moment, Miss Maarten. I will find someone to take you to her right away.”

  Ten minutes later Sarah Heap, thinner than she had been but still in possession of the usual quota of Heap straw-colored curls, was at the small table in her sitting room. She gazed at Jannit with worried green eyes.

  Jannit was perched on the edge of a large sofa. Although Jannit felt ill at ease, this was not the reason she was on the edge of her seat. It was because that was the only space left on the sofa—the rest was covered with the clutter that always seemed to follow Sarah Heap. With a couple of plant pots digging into her back and a teetering pile of towels settling cozily up against her, Jannit sat up very straight and then almost jumped off the sofa as a soft quacking came from a pile of clothes beside the fire. To Jannit’s amazement, a pink-skinned, stubble-covered duck wearing a multicolored crocheted waistcoat emerged from the pile, waddled over and sat beside her feet.

  Sarah clicked her fingers. “Come here, Ethel,” she said to the duck. The duck got up and went to Sarah, who picked it up and sat it on her lap. “One of Jenna’s creatures,” Sarah said with a smile. “She never was one for pets and suddenly she has two. Strange. I don’t know where she got them from.”

  Jannit smiled politely, unsure how to begin telling Sarah what she had to say. There was an awkward silence and at last she said, “Um. Well . . . it’s a big place you have here.”

  “Oh, yes. Very big,” said Sarah.

  “Wonderful for a large family,” said Jannit, immediately wishing she hadn’t.

  “If they want to live with you,” said Sarah bitterly. “But not if four of them have decided to live in the Forest with a coven of witches and they refuse to come home, even for a visit. And then of course there’s Simon. I know he’s done wrong, but he’s still my first baby. I miss him so much; I would love to have him living here. It’s time he settled down. He could do a lot worse than Lucy Gringe, whatever his father says. There’s plenty of room for them all here—and children, too. And then there’s my little Septimus.
We’ve been apart all these years and there he is, stuck at the top of that Wizard Tower with Marcia Fusspot Overstrand, who whenever she sees me has the nerve to ask if I am enjoying seeing so much of Septimus. I suppose she thinks it’s some kind of joke, since I hardly ever see him now. In fact ever since Nicko . . .”

  “Ah,” said Jannit, seizing her chance. “Nicko. That’s what—well, I expect you can guess why I’m here.”

  “No,” said Sarah, who could but didn’t want to even think about it.

  “Oh.” Jannit looked down at her boater and then, very purposefully, put it on top of a pile of something behind her. Sarah’s heart sank. She knew what was coming.

  Jannit cleared her throat and began. “As you know, Nicko has been gone for six months now and as far as I understand, no one knows where he is or when—indeed, if—he is ever coming back. In fact—and I am very sorry to say this—I have heard that he will never return.”

  Sarah caught her breath. No one had dared to say this to her face before.

  “I am very sorry to have to come here like this, Madam Heap, but—”

  “Oh, it’s Sarah. Please, just call me Sarah.”

  “Sarah. Sarah, I am sorry, but we cannot struggle on without Nicko any longer. The summer season is looming, when even more foolhardy idiots will be putting to sea to try and catch a few herring. They’ll all be wanting their boats ready, plus the fact that the Port barge is in for repair again after this month’s storms—well, we are facing our busiest time. I’m so sorry, but while Nicko is still apprenticed to me, according to the Boatbuilders Association training regulations—which are an absolute minefield, but I do have to abide by them—I cannot engage anyone else. I urgently need a new apprentice, especially as Rupert Gringe is nearing the end of his Articles soon.”