House of Many Ways

by Diana Wynne Jones

  “Hush!” Timminz whispered. “No noise at all from here onward.”

  Waif stopped growling at once, but Charmain could feel her small, hot body throbbing with hidden growls. Charmain turned to Peter to make sure he had the sense to keep quiet too.

  Peter was not there. There was only herself, Waif, and Timminz.

  Charmain, wholly exasperated, knew just what had happened. Somewhere along the confusing way, when Timminz had said, “Turn left,” Peter had turned right. Or the other way round. Charmain had no idea at what point this had happened, but she knew it had.

  Never mind, she thought. He has enough colored string round his fingers to find his way to Ingary and back. He’ll probably arrive at Great-Uncle William’s house long before I do. So she forgot about Peter and concentrated on tiptoeing up the slippery, mildewed steps, and then on peering out from among the bushes without rustling so much as one leaf.

  There was blazing sunlight beyond, blazing on very green, very beautifully kept grass, with a blindingly white garden path beyond that. The path led up between trees that had been carved into knobs and points and cones and disks, like a lesson in geometry, to a small storybook palace—one that had many small pointed towers with little blue roofs. Charmain recognized it as Castel Joie, where Crown Prince Ludovic lived. She was slightly ashamed to realize that it was the building she always thought of when any book she was reading mentioned a palace.

  I must be very unimaginative, she thought. Then, No. Whenever her father made shortbreads to sell in boxes for May Day, a picture of Castel Joie always appeared on the top of the box. Castel Joie was, after all, the pride of High Norland. No wonder it was so far to walk! she thought. We must be halfway down the Norland Valley here! And it still is my idea of a perfect palace, so there!

  Footsteps crunched on the hot, white path and Prince Ludovic himself appeared, magnificent in white and azure silk, sauntering toward the palace. Just before he was level with the bush where Charmain was, he stopped and turned. “Come along, can’t you!” he said angrily. “Get a move on!”

  “We’re trying, Highness!” piped a small panting voice.

  A line of kobolds trudged into view, each bowed down under a knobby leather sack. They were all more grayish green than blue and looked most unhappy. Some of the unhappiness may have been due to the sunlight—for kobolds preferred to live in the dark—but Charmain thought their color looked more like bad health. Their legs wobbled. One or two were coughing badly. The last one in the row was so unwell that he stumbled and fell down, dropping his sack, which spilled a scatter of gold coins across the blazing white path.

  At this, the colorless gentleman strode into view. He advanced on the fallen kobold and started kicking him. He did not kick particularly hard, nor did he look particularly cruel: it was more as if he was trying to get a machine going again. The kobold scrambled about under the kicks, desperately picking up gold coins until he had them all back in the sack, and managed to stagger to his feet again. The colorless gentleman left off kicking him and came to stroll beside Prince Ludovic.

  “It’s not as if it was even a heavy load,” he said to the Prince. “It’s probably the last. They’ve no more money left, unless the King sells his books.”

  Prince Ludovic laughed. “He’d rather die than do that—which suits me, of course. We’ll have to think of some other way to get money, then. Castel Joie is so dashed expensive to run.” He looked back at the trudging, wobbling kobolds. “Move along there, will you! I have to get back to the Royal Mansion for tea.”

  The colorless gentleman nodded and strode back to the kobolds, ready to start kicking again, and the Prince waited for him, saying, “Mind you, if I never see another crumpet in my life, it will be too soon for me!”

  The kobolds saw the colorless gentleman coming and did their best to hurry. All the same, it seemed an age to Charmain until the procession was out of sight and she could no longer hear their footsteps crunching. She kept her arms tight round the throbbing Waif, who seemed to want to jump down and chase the procession, and looked down through the leaves at Timminz.

  “Why haven’t you told anyone about this before? Why didn’t you at least tell Wizard Norland?”

  “Nobody asked,” Timminz said, looking injured.

  No, of course nobody asked! Charmain thought. This was why Rollo was paid to make the kobolds angry with Great-Uncle William! He’d have got round to asking them in the end, if he hadn’t beenill. She thought it was just as well that the lubbock was dead. If it was Prince Ludovic’s parent, as Timminz had said, then it had probably meant to kill the Crown Prince and rule the country instead of him. It had more or less told her so, after all. But that still leaves Prince Ludovic to deal with, she thought. I really have to tell the King about him.

  “It seems a bit hard on those kobolds,” she said to Timminz.

  “It is,” Timminz agreed. “But they have not asked for help yet.”

  And of course it never occurred to you to help them without being asked, did it? Charmain thought. Honestly! I give up! “Can you show me the way home?” she asked.

  Timminz hesitated. “Do you think the fire demon will be glad to know the money goes to Castel Joie?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Charmain said. “Or his family will.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  IN WHICH THE CHILD TWINKLE IS KIDNAPPED

  Timminz, rather grudgingly, took Charmain the long, confusing way back to the kobolds’ cave. There, he said cheerfully, “You’ll know the way from here,” and disappeared inside the cave, leaving Charmain alone with Waif.

  Charmain did not know the way from there. She stood beside the object that Timminz had called a sled chair for several minutes, wondering what to do and watching kobolds painting and carving and upholstering the object and never sparing Charmain a glance. At length, it occurred to her to put Waif down on the ground.

  “Show me the way to Great-Uncle William’s house, Waif,” she said. “Be clever.”

  Waif trotted off with a will. But Charmain soon began seriously to doubt that Waif was being clever. Waif trotted, and Charmain walked, and they turned left, and then right, and right again, for what seemed hours. Charmain was so busy thinking about what she had discovered that, several times, she missed the moment when Waif turned left or right and had to wait, standing in the near-dark, shouting, “Waif! Waif!” until Waif came back and found her. Quite probably, Charmain doubled the distance like this. Waif began toiling and panting, with her tongue hanging out longer and longer, but Charmain did not dare pick her up in case they never got home at all. She talked to Waif instead, to encourage them both.

  “Waif, I must tell Sophie what has happened. She must be worrying about Calcifer by now. And I must tell the King about the money too. But if I go to the Royal Mansion as soon as I get home, horrible Prince Ludovic will be there, pretending to like crumpets. Why doesn’t he like them? Crumpets are nice. Because he’s a lubbockin, I suppose. I don’t dare tell the King in front of him. We’ll have to wait to go until tomorrow, I think. When do you think Prince Ludovic means to leave? Tonight? The King did tell me to come back in two days, so Ludovic should be gone by then. If I get there early, I can speak to Sophie first—Oh, dear! I’ve just remembered. Calcifer said they were going to pretend to leave, so we may not find Sophie there. Oh, Waif, I wish I knew what to do!”

  The more Charmain talked about it, the less she knew what to do. In the end, she was too tired to talk, and just stumbled after the pale shape of the limping, panting Waif, pattering along in front of her. Until at long last, Waif barged a door open and they were in Great-Uncle William’s living room, where Waif gave a moan and fell over on her side, breathing in hundreds of quick little gasping breaths. Charmain stared out of the windows at the hydrangeas all pink and purple in sunset light. We’ve been all day, she thought. No wonder Waif’s so tired! No wonder my feet hurt! At least Peter should be home by now, and I do hope he’s got supper ready.

  “Peter!” she sh
outed.

  When there was no answer, Charmain picked Waif up and went into the kitchen. Waif feebly licked Charmain’s hand in gratitude for not having to walk a step farther. Here the sunset light was falling on the zigzags of pink and white washing, still hanging gently flapping in the yard outside. There was no sign of Peter.

  “Peter?” Charmain called.

  There was no answer. Charmain sighed. Evidently Peter had got thoroughly lost, even worse than she had, and there was no knowing when he would turn up now.

  “Too many pieces of colored string!” Charmain muttered to Waif as she tapped the fireplace for dog food. “Stupid boy!”

  She felt far too tired to do any cooking. When Waif had eaten two dishes of food and drunk the water Charmain fetched from the bathroom, Charmain staggered into the living room and had Afternoon Tea. After some thought, she had Afternoon Tea a second time. Then she had Morning Coffee. Then she wondered whether to go to the kitchen and have breakfast, but found she was too tired and picked up a book instead.

  A long time later, Waif woke her up by climbing on the sofa beside her.

  “Oh, bother this!” Charmain said. She went to bed without even trying to wash and fell asleep with her glasses still on her nose.

  When she woke next morning, she could hear that Peter was back. There were bathroom noises and footsteps and the sound of doors opening and shutting. He sounds awfully brisk, Charmain thought. I wish I did. But she knew she really had to get to the Royal Mansion today, so she groaned and got up. She dug out her last set of clean clothes and took such great care washing and doing her hair that Waif arrived anxiously from somewhere to fetch her.

  “Yes. Breakfast. All right. I know,” Charmain said. “The trouble is,” she admitted, as she picked Waif up, “I’m scared of that colorless gentleman. I think he’s even worse than the prince.” She shoved the door open with one foot, turned, and turned left into the kitchen, where she stopped and stared.

  A strange woman was sitting at the kitchen table calmly eating breakfast. She was the kind of woman who you know at once is completely efficient. She had efficiency all over her narrow sun-weathered face and competence all over her strong narrow hands. Those hands were busy efficiently cutting up a mighty pile of pancakes in syrup and slicing the stack of crispy bacon beside it.

  Charmain stared, both at the pancakes and the woman’s gypsy-like clothes. She wore bright, faded flounces all over and a colorful scarf across her faded fairish hair. The woman turned and stared back.

  “Who are you?” they both said at once, the woman with her mouth full.

  “I’m Charmain Baker,” Charmain said. “I’m here to look after Great-Uncle William’s house while he’s away being cured by the elves.”

  The woman swallowed her mouthful. “Good,” she said. “I’m glad to see he left someone in charge. I didn’t like to think of the dog being left all alone with Peter. She’s been fed, by the way. Peter is not a dog person. Is Peter still asleep?”

  “Er…,” said Charmain. “I’m not sure. He didn’t come in last night.”

  The woman sighed. “He always vanishes as soon as I turn my back,” she said. “I know he must have got here safely.” She waved a fork loaded with pancake and bacon at the window. “That washing out there has Peter all over it.”

  Charmain felt her face go hot and red. “Some of it was my fault,” she admitted. “I boiled a robe. Why do you think it was Peter?”

  “Because,” said the woman, “he has never been able to get a spell right in his life. I should know. I’m his mother.”

  Charmain was rather shaken to realize she was talking to the Witch of Montalbino. She was impressed. Of course Peter’s mother is hyper-efficient, she thought. But what is she doing here? “I thought you’d gone to Ingary,” she said.

  “I had,” said the Witch. “I’d got as far as Strangia, when Queen Beatrice told me that Wizard Howl had gone to High Norland. So back I came across the mountains and dropped in on the elves, where they told me that Wizard Norland was with them. I was extremely alarmed then, because I realized that Peter was probably all alone here. I’d sent him here to be safe, you see. I came here at once.”

  “I think Peter was safe,” Charmain said. “Or he was until he got lost yesterday.”

  “He’ll be safe now that I’m here,” the Witch said. “I can feel he’s somewhere quite near.” She sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to go and look for him. He doesn’t know his right hand from his left, you see.”

  “I know,” Charmain said. “He uses colored string. He’s quite efficient, really.” But she thought as she spoke that to someone as super-efficient as the Witch of Montalbino, Peter was bound to seem as hopeless as Peter thought Charmain herself was. Parents! she thought. She put Waif on the floor and asked politely, “Excuse me for asking, but how did you get the breakfast spell to send you those pancakes?”

  “By giving the right order, of course,” said the Witch. “Want some?” Charmain nodded. The Witch flicked efficient fingers toward the fireplace. “Breakfast,” she commanded, “with pancakes, bacon, juice, and coffee.” The loaded tray appeared at once, with a most satisfactory heap of pancakes, trickling in syrup, in the center of it. “See?” said the Witch.

  “Thank you,” Charmain said, gratefully taking hold of the tray.

  Waif’s nose tilted up at the smell, and she ran round in little circles, squeaking. It was clear that, to Waif, being fed by the Witch did not count as proper breakfast. Charmain put the tray on the table and gave Waif the crunchiest piece of bacon.

  “That’s an enchanting dog you’ve got there,” the Witch remarked, going back to her own breakfast.

  “She is rather sweet,” Charmain admitted as she sat down and began to enjoy the pancakes.

  “No, I didn’t mean that,” the Witch said impatiently. “I never gush. I meant that is what she is—an enchanting dog.” She ate more pancake and added with her mouth full, “Enchanting dogs are quite rare and very magical. This one is doing you a great honor by adopting you as her human. I’m guessing that she even changed her sex to match yours. I hope you appreciate her as you should.”

  “Yes,” said Charmain. “I do.” And I’d almost rather have breakfast with Princess Hilda, she thought. Why does she have to be so severe? She went on with her breakfast, remembering that Great-Uncle William had seemed to think that Waif was a male dog. Waif had seemed to be a male dog at first. Then Peter had picked her up and said she was female. “I’m sure you’re right,” Charmain added politely. “Why is Peter not safe here on his own? He’s my age, and I am.”

  “I imagine,” the Witch said dryly, “that your magic works rather better than Peter’s.” She finished her pancakes and went on to toast. “If Peter can possibly bungle a spell, he will,” she asserted, buttering the toast. “Don’t tell me,” she said, taking a large, crunchy bite, “because I won’t believe you, that your magic doesn’t do exactly what you mean it to, however you do it.”

  Charmain thought of the flying spell and the plumbing spell and then of Rollo in the bag and said, “Yes,” through a mouthful of pancake. “I suppose—”

  “Whereas,” the Witch interrupted, “Peter is just the opposite. His method is always perfect, but the spell always misfires. One of my reasons for sending him to Wizard Norland was that I hoped the wizard could improve Peter’s magic. William Norland owns The Boke of Palimpsest, you see.”

  Charmain felt her face hotting up again. “Er…,” she said, passing Waif half a pancake, “what does The Boke of Palimpsest do, then?”

  “That dog will be too fat to walk if you go on feeding her like that,” said the Witch. “The Boke of Palimpsest gives a person the freedom to use all the magics of earth, air, fire, and water. It only gives fire if the person is trustworthy. And of course the person has to have magical ability in the first place.” Her severe face showed just a trace of anxiety. “I think Peter has the ability.”

  Charmain thought, Fire. I put the fire out on Peter. Am I
trustworthy, then? “He must have the ability,” she told the Witch. “You can’t make a spell go wrong if you can’t do magic in the first place. What other reasons made you send Peter here?”

  “Enemies,” said the Witch, somberly sipping her coffee. “I have enemies. They killed Peter’s father, you know.”

  “You mean lubbocks?” Charmain asked. She put everything back on her tray and took a last swig of coffee, preparing to get up and go.

  “There is,” said the Witch, “only the one lubbock so far as I know. It seems to have killed all its rivals. But yes, it was the lubbock that started the avalanche. I saw it.”

  “Then you can stop worrying,” Charmain said, standing up. “The lubbock’s dead. Calcifer destroyed it the day before yesterday.”

  The Witch was astonished. “Tell me!” she said eagerly.

  Although she was itching to be off to the Royal Mansion, Charmain found she had to sit down, pour herself another cup of coffee, and tell the Witch the whole story, not only about the lubbock, and the lubbock eggs, but also about Rollo and the lubbock. And this is unfair use of witchcraft, she thought as she found herself telling the Witch how Calcifer seemed to be missing.

  “Then what are you sitting about here for?” the Witch said. “Run along to the Royal Mansion and tell Sophie at once! The poor woman must be out of her mind with worry by now! Hurry it up, girl!”

  And not even, Thank you for telling me, Charmain thought sourly. I’d rather have my mother than Peter’s any day. And I’d definitely rather have breakfast with Princess Hilda!

  She got up and said a polite good-bye. Then, with Waif racing at her heels, she rushed through the living room and down the garden into the road. Lucky I didn’t tell her about the Conference Room way, she thought, pounding along with her glasses bouncing on her chest. Or she’d make me go that way, and I’d never get a chance to look for Calcifer.

  Just before the road bent, she came to the place where Calcifer had exploded the lubbock eggs. A huge lump of the cliff had fallen off there, sending a hill of boulders almost as far as the road. Several people who looked like shepherds were climbing about on the pile, searching for buried sheep and scratching their heads as if they were wondering what had caused the damage. Charmain hesitated. If Calcifer was to be found, those people would have found him by now. She dropped to a walk and stared at the heap of broken stone carefully as she passed. There did not seem to be a trace of blue among the rocks, or a sign of a flame anywhere.