by Toby Forward
“Oh, dear,” he said. He wiped his eyes again. “Oh, thank you, that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in years.” He shook his head in pleasure. “You didn’t see me, so I wasn’t here.”
“I don’t see what’s funny about that,” said Sam.
The man sat down and indicated the other chair.
“Sit down,” he said.
He held out his hand to Sam.
“My name is Kafranc,” he said.
“I’m Cartouche.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sam,” he said, shaking hands.
Sam blushed.
“I’m sorry I laughed,” said Kafranc. “But I do like a good laugh, and there’s not much to make me laugh here, these days.”
“It’s not very polite.”
“Indeed not, but I’ve said I’m sorry, so there you are. Now, let me see. Do you really believe that something’s only there if you can see it?”
His face was solemn now, no trace of laughter. Sam felt he was being tested.
“Close your eyes,” said Kafranc. “Think of somewhere else.”
Sam closed his eyes and thought of Flaxfield’s house. He was in the kitchen. Flaxfield was at his table, scribbling on a sheaf of papers. Cold spring sunlight fell through the window in bright patches.
“Have you thought?”
“Yes.”
“Can you see it?”
Sam squeezed his eyelids together to stop himself from crying.
“Yes.”
“Can’t hear you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Is there anyone there with you?” Sam nodded.
“Keep your eyes closed. Are you there or here?”
Sam could smell the wood smoke from the fire, feel the warmth, see Flaxfield, his head down, concentrating.
“I’m there,” said Sam.
“Are you here?”
“Yes.”
“Can I see you?”
“Yes.”
“Can you see me? Keep your eyes closed!”
“No.”
Kafranc lowered his voice.
“This other person. Can he see you?”
Sam concentrated. Flaxfield lifted his head and looked around the kitchen. He scratched his cheek, then went back to his work.
“Can he see you?”
Sam shook his head.
“You can open your eyes now,” said Kafranc.
Sam kept them closed.
“It’s all right. He’ll still be there the next time you look. Open your eyes now.”
Sam opened his eyes and was alone in the room. He tried the door, and it opened easily.
“Sam’s leaving the room,” said Vengeabil.
He slid a little door that closed the peephole to the library.
“What do you think happened?”
“It’s up to him whether he tells us or not.”
“How could one person spoil the whole College?”
“A good principal makes a good College.”
“And is Professor Frastfil bad?”
Vengeabil took another peek into the library. Sam was sitting on the bottom stair again, his head in his hands.
“That’s the terrible thing,” he said. “Frosty isn’t really bad. But he’s weak, and bad people are making him do bad things.”
“How will it end?” she asked.
“I’ve got to go back and see Sam,” said Vengeabil. “Get on with your work.”
Sam heard Vengeabil approach. He kept his head in his hands while he wiped his eyes. Vengeabil ignored the red rims when Sam looked up.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“All right.”
“What do you want to do?”
Sam shouted at him. “Stop asking me that. Why do I have to decide what to do? Aren’t you supposed to tell me?”
Vengeabil eased down next to Sam, who had to shuffle up so that there was room for the two of them on the step. It was narrow, so their shoulders touched.
“That’s a start,” said Vengeabil. “Is that what you want? You want to be told what to do? Do you want to do the work that Dr. Duddle set for you?”
“You ripped it up. I can’t.”
Vengeabil whistled, as though summoning a dog. The pieces of paper rose up from the basket, swirled around in the air, joined together again, folded themselves into a paper bird, and flapped across to Vengeabil, who let it settle on his hand and then passed it to Sam.
Sam smiled and stroked it. Vengeabil changed his whistle to a bird song and the paper bird grew heavy in Sam’s hand, fledged and fluttered, and became a greenfinch.
“No,” said Sam, “I don’t want to do his work.”
He opened his hands and the bird flew up, circled the library, hovered over the basket, broke into twenty scraps of paper, and fell like a flurry of early snow.
Sam looked up at the rows of galleries disappearing up for ever.
“How many floors are there?” he asked.
“No one has ever found out.”
“How do they all fit in? The College isn’t that tall.”
“There’s always a way.”
They sat in silence for a while. Then Vengeabil asked, “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know why I’m here,” said Sam. “I don’t mean in the library, I mean in the College. I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
“Why did you come here?”
“I was running away, and I met a roffle and he said I should.”
“You mean someone else told you to come here?”
“Yes.”
“And now you want me to tell you what to do?”
Sam stood and crossed to the door he had opened. He put his hand on the false books and let it rest there.
“Are all the false bookshelves doors?” he asked.
Vengeabil stood up and went to the librarian’s table. He took a sheet of paper, dipped a pen in the inkwell, and wrote. Sam looked over his shoulder.
· Why am I in the College?
· How many floors are there?
· How do they all fit in?
· Are all the false bookshelves doors?
“And are there any more questions?” asked Vengeabil.
“What am I supposed to do next?”
“You mean today?”
“No. I mean next, forever.”
Vengeabil wiped the nib on a piece of blotting paper.
“Five questions,” he said. “Do you want to answer them?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“If you like.”
Vengeabil smiled. “It’s up to you,” he said.
“Where should I start?”
Vengeabil handed him the pen.
“You make the list.”
1. How many floors are there?
2. How do they all fit in?
3. Are all the false bookshelves doors?
4. Why am I in the College?
5. What should I do next?
“Very good,” said Vengeabil. “Now you have to decide. This is a library. Do you want to find out by reading in books, or by looking for yourself?”
“Both,” said Sam.
“Good answer. Let’s get started.”
The door handle rattled. Someone bumped against the door, trying to open it.
“Who’s that?” said Sam.
“You’d better open it and see.”
Sam remembered the shark-mouthed man as he opened the door, and he held himself tense, ready to fight or run from whatever stood behind it.
Tamrin couldn’t concentrate on her work, and Vengeabil and Sam were busy, so she left by another door and went to wander the corridors of the College. She knew places and passageways that had been forgotten since the old teachers and the old College workers had left.
First, she went down a crooked staircase that led to the kitchens. She was supposed to be working there, but no one ever noticed when she didn’t turn up. She sneaked in, grabbed a piece of bread and folded it around a sl
ice of chicken, pocketed an apple, and sneaked out again, all before the cooks had time to notice she had been there.
She chewed on her meal and dodged back upstairs. If the hidden corridors and passageways went all through the College, Tamrin hadn’t discovered all their secrets yet. She had to cross an open corridor to get through to the stairway to the roof, where she wanted to sit and eat her food. She looked both ways to see if the coast was clear, stepped out, and, just as she was making her way to the next hidden entrance, Smedge turned the corner and saw her.
“Tamrin,” he called out. “Hey. How are you?”
He smiled and waved.
Tamrin couldn’t dive into her secret corridor, because she didn’t want to give it away to Smedge. She either had to run away from him or stop and say hello.
He was smiling at her in a friendly way. Tamrin scowled.
“Where are you going?” he asked her.
“Nowhere.”
Smedge laughed.
“That’s where you always are. I’ll come with you. I’ve never been nowhere.”
Tamrin stood still. She held the bread and chicken to her side, not wanting to eat while he was there.
“Do you remember when we first came here?” asked Smedge.
She nodded.
Smedge looked up at the ceiling and blew a puff of air from his mouth. It began to form into a canopy of tree branches, green leaves and sun dappling through. He smiled and started to make a bird to sing to them. Tamrin frowned. The tree cover trembled. Smedge smiled harder, tensing himself. He held his breath, and for a moment the tree started to blossom. Tamrin clicked her tongue. The bird shifted shape and became a snake, curled around a dry branch. The leaves withered, shook, and began to fall around their feet. The sunlight faded. The bare branches were gray against the gloom.
Smedge tried to pretend he was not panting with effort. He smiled with his mouth at Tamrin. His eyes glared.
“Shouldn’t you be in class?” she asked.
He fought to find enough breath to answer her. The dead tree swayed over their heads.
“It would be nice if you were in lessons as well,” he said. “We miss you.”
“I’m not allowed.”
“I think that could be changed.”
Tamrin leaned against the wall.
“I don’t want to go to lessons.”
The smile never left Smedge’s face.
“You could learn more magic if you came.”
Tamrin kicked at the dry leaves underfoot. She gave him a half smile.
“Really?” she asked.
“I think Professor Frastfil would let you go back, if I asked him. I could help you. You could fit into College life again.”
Tamrin realized that he was serious. That he was threatening her. She had free run of the College and only as much kitchen work as she bothered to do; if she went back to classes, she would be trapped.
“I don’t think Dr. Duddle would have me in his class,” she said.
“Oh, I think people can be persuaded,” said Smedge. He smiled. “I’ll do what I can to help.”
He picked up a dry leaf and rested it in the palm of his hand. It uncurled and grew green and glossy. He folded his hand and held it tight.
“It would be for the best,” he said, “if you fit in more.”
Tamrin coughed. Smedge shook his shoulders. He opened his hand and saw, where the leaf had been, a bright green gout of snot. He looked straight at her. The air around him shimmered. Tamrin felt a surge of something sweep over her, cold and clenched. She swerved her body to allow it to pass. Smedge took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hand. He smiled at her.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Tamrin watched him walk away. She found a dustpan and brush and swept up the leaves. The snake had disappeared. Then she went up to sit in the sun.
It was hot on the roof. She picked pieces of chicken from her bread and held them in her hand, for the kestrel. It swooped down and snatched them, not resting. The apple was sweet in her mouth. She tossed the core over the parapet and sat in the shade, looking up at the clouds.
Some of the older village folk
call dragons worms. Starback hated this. Dragons are air and fire. Worms are prisoners of the earth.
Sandage, the old wizard, lived deep in the earth. His house was small and humble, but it covered a network of burrows and shafts. When Starback found his house, Sandage was deep underground, making a searching spell from the hidden secret places of the earth.
Starback circled the house for a long time, waiting for the old man to emerge. He didn’t.
Starback flew down and settled on a small mound a short distance from Sandage’s house. He spread his wings on the ground, like a sparrow taking a dust bath. Laying his head to one side on the ground, he drummed his wings on the earth. He stopped, waited, drummed again.
His nostrils filled the with the soft, damp scent of earth magic. All around him, thousands of worms crawled to the surface, out from their holes, wriggling in the fresh air. He raised up and flew just above the ground, keeping away from them.
Sandage’s door opened. The wizard looked out, and Starback knew that he thought his magic had done this, that he had charmed the worms, and that he thought he would find Sam.
Starback left him to follow the spoiled spell to Boolat.
Some of the older village folk call dragons worms.
Sam’s hand was moist
with anxious sweat. It slipped on the door handle. He wiped it on his sleeve, made a swift spell of opening, and turned the handle.
“Hello,” said Tim. “That door sticks a little.”
“Ah, Master Masrani,” said Vengeabil. “Come in. I’m sorry there’s not much here for you. Perhaps when you learn to read without moving your lips we’ll see more of you.”
Tim gave a shy grin.
“Hello, Vengeabil. Are you a librarian as well, now? He’s always like this,” he said to Sam. “Has he been giving you a hard time?”
Sam looked at Vengeabil, who was waiting for an answer.
“No,” said Sam.
Vengeabil lifted an eyebrow.
“Well, yes,” said Sam. “He has.”
“I’ve brought you some food. Snaffled it just before the hall opened up for lunch.”
He put a bundle of cloth on the librarian’s desk and unfolded it. There were meat pies, bread, apples, plums, a corner of cheese, and three broken biscuits.
“It’s a bit battered. I had to be quick. We can make it go three ways,” he offered Vengeabil.
“Take it away and eat it,” he said. “I’m busy. And I don’t want sticky fingers on my books. Make sure you wash your hands before you come back.”
Tim laughed.
“Your books,” he said. “Are you taking stock, counting them? You’ll have a long job. It’s not like your stores here, you know.”
Sam gripped Tim’s arm.
“He’s—”
“I’m just making sure they’re all here,” said Vengeabil, in a clear voice and with a look at Sam.
Sam helped to wrap up the food and they ran off, slamming the door behind them.
“I know a place,” said Tim.
The place was a room, a perfect cube, three times as tall as the boys, with a ridge running around the wall about two thirds of the way up, and a couple of squarish protrusions in two diagonally opposite corners. It was empty, save for some wooden packing cases and a clumsy bookshelf stacked with jars, filled with something Sam didn’t much want to look at too closely.
They spread out the cloth on a packing case, sat on smaller boxes, and laid into the food.
“What’s old Vengeabil doing in the library? What have you been doing all morning? Are you counting books with him? I got a detention from Duddle for giving him some cheek. And Smedge wasn’t there, either. Was he in the library with you?”
Sam chewed his pie while Tim poured out his questions.
“What is this place?” he
asked.
“It’s the old Brickotelle Court,” said Tim. “No one uses it now. They say Frastfil stopped people from playing it because he’s no good at it. What have you been doing?”
“Duddle set me some work to do,” said Sam, which was not a lie, but he didn’t feel very happy about not really telling the truth.
Tim groaned.
“I bet it’s really boring,” he said. He broke off a piece of cheese and ate it with the bread. “What do you think Smedge is doing?”
“I don’t know. He wasn’t in the library.”
They ate in silence for a while. The mention of Smedge had stopped their conversation.
“I’ve got to go back,” said Tim, “or I’ll be in even more trouble.”
“What did you do to cheek him?”
“I asked if you could come back to lessons.”
“Was that all?”
Tim threw an apple in the air. It bounced off the ceiling, skidded down the wall, then bounced from side to side, covering the court, deflecting at crazy angles when it hit the ridge or the lumps in the corners. Tim put his hand in the air and caught it, taking a bite just as it turned back into just an apple fit to eat.
“Brickotelle,” he said. “Of course, I cheated. In real Brickotelle you’re not allowed to use magic. That was a demonstration.”
“I thought no one played.”
Tim blushed.
“Vengeabil taught me.” He jumped up. “See you tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
They raced back to their places. Tim got there just in time to avoid another detention. Sam put his hand out to open the door when it swung open of its own accord.
“Looks like you’re expected,” said Vengeabil. “Books or explore?”
“Please show me some books,” said Sam.
Vengeabil nodded.
“Try this for a start.”
He handed Sam a book. Sam smoothed his hand over the cover. It was silver blue, with ridges and bumps. He looked at the spine. The title was in raised letters, gold and black.
THE SEVENTEEN VARIETIES OF DRAGON
Sam’s hand trembled.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t you want to read about dragons? I can get you something else.”