by Toby Forward
Mattie didn’t know how he had slept at all. The screams were bad enough. The silence after was worse.
The beetles never slept. Never seemed to. He could hear them scrambling, their legs scratching. He thought they might sleep when light came. They didn’t. So he would have to make his move now.
Everything in the palace was linked in one way or another to the high boundary wall. Mattie started high up and moved as far as he could in the hollows to the outer wall. He skirted this until he came to an iron ladder set into the stones.
“So far, so good,” he said.
This took him down two levels. After that he had to walk another hollow to the next ladder. Another two levels, another hollow walkway. And so on until he came to ground level.
The beetle activity was worse here. They liked the damp earth. They liked the corners where the fleas bred in the dog piss.
Mattie had worked his way round to the gate. There was a small opening he could just squeeze through, that carried one of the chains of the portcullis.
The road was clear. All the beetles were inside. A dead horse in the courtyard was keeping them busy. There was a straight run from Mattie’s escape opening to the drawbridge. He took a deep breath, held it in, dropped down and ran for it.
The gate was open in front of him. The road urged him on. He had only to clear the drawbridge and he would be free.
As soon as he drew level with the entrance he felt as though he had run into a net stretched across it. He bounced back in, falling over and grazing his elbow. With a frightened look round at the beetles in the courtyard he ran at it again. Again he bounced back.
There was a net of magic and he couldn’t get through.
He knew when he was wasting his time. Before the beetles had a chance to notice him he scurried back, clambered up to the opening, wriggled through and out of sight.
“Now what?” he asked.
Morning, and books, and problems.
Cabbage’s sleep was populated by hundreds of strangers, lined up in rows on shelves. They stood in lines and looked down at him. He walked along the rows deciding which to take.
The first was a woman in a green dress with gold embroidery.
“Herbs and plants which heal,” she said.
He moved quickly on, not sure how to respond.
He selected a small man with a red nose, no shoes and a grey beard.
“Caves,” said the man. “And potholes and mines.”
“What do you mean?” asked Cabbage.
“Dark places underground, but not the Deep World. That’s a different book.”
“That’s me,” said a voice to his left and up.
Cabbage replaced the small man and climbed up to see who was speaking now.
“Over here.”
It was a man with his hand on a memmont and a roffle’s barrel at his feet.
“Deep World,” he said, “and things pertaining to roffles.”
Cabbage stepped down and backed away, thinking of Perry and how he had betrayed him, deserted him.
He ran to the door of the library and tried to get out. The door was locked. He tugged at it as hard as he could and woke himself up.
“Perry,” he said.
He was thirsty so he drank water from the jug on the washstand. The room was small and high-ceilinged. It had a pointy window framed in stone, with leaded panes of glass. He could see Canterstock far below him, and beyond that the fields and the road that had brought him here.
A rapping at the door brought him back. He didn’t have time to open it before a small boy threw it wide and came in with a tray.
“Sausages, bacon, fried bread, tomatoes, mushrooms, three eggs and bread and marmalade,” he said. “And milk. They said you’d eat it all.”
“I will,” said Cabbage. “Who are you?”
“Doesn’t matter,” said the boy and ran away, leaving the door open.
Cabbage ate breakfast as fast as he could. Most of his dream had disappeared and he wanted to get to the library quickly.
Jackbones was already at work when Cabbage arrived. Flaxfold and Melwood hadn’t shown up yet.
“They sat up late, talking,” said the librarian. “So they’ll not be here early.”
“How late?”
“Very late.”
How do you know?”
“I was with them.”
“Then why are you here?”
Jackbones smiled.
“That’s the way,” he said. “Ask everything. Especially in a library.”
“Do we have to wait for them?” asked Cabbage.
“Yes.”
Cabbage wandered off.
“What did you dream about last night?” asked Jackbones.
“I don’t remember,” said Cabbage.
“Really?”
“I never remember dreams,” said Cabbage.
“Fair enough,” said Jackbones.
Cabbage kept his face away so Jackbones couldn’t see him.
“If you go up those steps,” said the librarian, “and up to the first gallery, you can fetch me a book down.”
The steps were iron, latticed and delicate, and so was the floor of the gallery.
“Keep walking,” said Jackbones. “That’s it. Now stop. Look to your left. Up a bit. Along. Good. The book on herbs, please.”
Cabbage drew down a book, green leather with gold lettering. He looked at the title: Herbs and Plants which Heal.
“Don’t stand gawping. Bring it down,” said Jackbones.
Cabbage put the book on Jackbones’ desk and waited for him to look at it. Jackbones leaned back on his chair and put his feet on the desk. He leaned so far back that his chair must fall and Cabbage understood for the first time that Jackbones was a wizard.
“Now, there’s another book you could find for me,” said Jackbones.
“You haven’t looked at that one.”
Jackbones raised his eyebrows.
“Really?” he said.
“You haven’t touched it.”
“But I’ve read it before.”
“Then why do you want to read it again?”
“I don’t. Now, I’d like you to go to the third gallery and get me another book.”
“Caves,” said Cabbage, “and Potholes and Mines.”
“I said you were a clever boy,” said Jackbones.
“How did you know that’s what I dreamed?”
“Why do you think I know?”
“Because those are the books I dreamed about.”
“You said you’d forgotten.”
“Who writes these books?”
“They come from everywhere. Some are by great wizards who have never seen the college. Some by blacksmiths and farmers. Some by teachers at the college. There is no end to the places where books come from. To be honest with you, and you must never tell anyone else this, some of the books aren’t very good. We only have them because they’re written by people who taught here and who like to have a book of their own on the shelves.”
The back of the chair was nearly touching the ground now.
“You’re showing off,” said Cabbage.
Jackbones made the chair approach an upright position.
“I am,” he sighed. “I can never stop myself.”
“I remembered it when I took the book down,” said Cabbage. He put a tentative finger on the green book. “It was a woman in a green dress.”
“That’s right.”
“How did you know?”
“Now go and get me Deep World and Things Pertaining to Roffles.”
“Where’s that?”
“Have a look. See if you can find it.”
Cabbage laughed.
“There are hundreds of thousands of books in here,” he said. “Where should I start?”
Jackbones waved a dismissive hand.
“Get on with it. I’ll give you five minutes.”
Cabbage darted off.
The books weren’t alphabetical. If they were a
rranged by subject he couldn’t work out how. They weren’t grouped together by size. After wasting time running round the first gallery and getting nowhere he stopped and leaned over, looking down at Jackbones, who was leaning dangerously back with his hands behind his head and his feet on the desk, grinning.
“Two minutes left,” he said.
Cabbage scowled at him.
“What’s it called?” asked the librarian.
“Deep World,” said Cabbage, “and Things Pertaining to Roffles.”
Jackbones grinned.
Cabbage stood back from the gallery rail and whistled. Except he couldn’t whistle and it was just a blowing noise. He picked up a pen from the work table in a niche, put it to his lips and blew.
A soft whistle, melodious and inviting. He looked around. He blew again.
“Come on,” he said. “Where are you? Come on.”
A nose poked round the side of a bookcase, followed by eyes and ears set into and onto a furry head. It looked at Cabbage.
“Good boy,” said Cabbage. “Good boy. Where are they?”
The memmont climbed three galleries. Cabbage followed. It went straight to the correct shelf and Cabbage took down two volumes, identical in binding, the first one about the Deep World, the second about roffles.
Cabbage stooped and stroked the memmont.
“Thank you,” he said.
He nuzzled his face against the soft fur, enjoying the scent, quite unlike that of a dog or cat or any other animal at all. The odour took his mind back instantly to the inn yard and Perry. He hugged the memmont.
“Time’s up,” said Jackbones.
Cabbage leaned over the gallery rail and brandished the books.
“Got them,” he said.
“Bring them down.”
The memmont wouldn’t come with him, preferring to climb higher.
When he reached the ground Cabbage found Flaxfield and Melwood with Jackbones.
“There are memmonts here,” he said.
“Of course there are,” said Flaxfield. “Who else did you think kept the books tidy? Not Jackbones.”
“I didn’t know,” said Cabbage.
“Why should you?” said Melwood. “Now be nice, Flaxfield. We need to work together.”
“How shall we do this?” asked Jackbones.
“I’ll take trying to find out what’s happened to Slowin,” said Melwood.
“Then I’ll concentrate on finding out how we can get this chap,” Jackbones nodded to Flaxfield, “to be a wizard again.”
“I am a wizard,” said Flaxfield. “Never forget it.”
“Quite,” said Jackbones. “Let’s see how we can get your magic back, shall we? Now, which of you is going to work with which of us?”
“I’ll work with Melwood,” said Flaxfield. “It’s best if someone else solves my problem.”
“I want to work with her,” said Cabbage before he could stop himself.
Jackbones grinned.
“What’s wrong with me?” he asked.
Cabbage felt very uncomfortable with the three of them looking at him, waiting for an answer.
How could he say that he liked being with Melwood better? He had hardly ever spent time with women and he enjoyed the gentler approach that she had. Jackbones was too much like Flaxfield, joking and sharp and expecting a lot in return.
“Nothing,” said Cabbage. “I want to work with her because she’s looking for Slowin and if we find Slowin we might find Perry. That’s all.”
“Good answer,” said Jackbones. “Do we all agree that the lad should be able to look for his friend at the same time as we look for Slowin? Or better still, as we look for Slowin’s remains?”
Flaxfield nodded. Melwood put a reassuring hand on Cabbage’s shoulder.
“Good. We’ll swap jobs then. I’ll do the search for Slowin, Melwood can work on Flaxfield’s magic. Cabbage with me, Flaxfield with Melwood.”
“He has to look for Slowin,” said Cabbage pointing at Flaxfield.
“No, no, no. It was never a good idea. If anyone can find something that’s lost it’s the person who lost it. Flaxfield and Melwood, you and me, lad. Let’s get started.”
Morning, and blood and beetles and bodies.
The wraith that had been Slowin glided across the courtyard. It was more substantial now. The dawn light filtered through it with difficulty. It stooped, draped over the half-eaten body of a woman in brocade and silk, lapped and rose.
“What are you cackling at?” it whispered.
The wraith’s clenched black companion clattered at it and greedily fell on the remains that the wraith had left behind.
Where the wraith had lapped and sucked, the hard-shelled creature snapped and gnawed. The wraith liked the flesh. The companion liked the bones and marrow.
It clattered out a question.
“Slowin,” it said, “are we staying?”
“Not Slowin,” she replied. “Not any more. Remember? Yes, we’re staying. This will do very well.”
She examined herself, her arms, her flowing grey gown.
“I didn’t expect this,” she said. “Not this.”
Her companion clattered a warning.
A boy was approaching them on the drawbridge.
“I don’t think we need worry about this,” she replied. “How very interesting.”
The boy walked into the courtyard with an ungainly tread, bobbing up and down.
She beckoned him to her.
“Come along,” she said. Her voice was like the wind through dry reeds. “This way. Let me see you.”
The boy came close, stopping two arms’ length away. Out of reach. His feet made slurping noises on the cobbles and he left a trail of slime.
The brittle companion laughed and mocked the sound.
“Smedge,” he said. The word making trails of drool squish out of the corners of his mouth. “Smedge.”
“Oh,” said the wraith. “We like you.”
“Like to eat,” said the other.
“No,” she snapped. “We don’t eat this one. This one’s different.”
The boy raised a hand.
“Who are you?” he asked.
This troubled the wraith. Who was she? She had so many names, Slowin, Ember, and something else. Which name was she?
“Introduce yourself,” she said to her companion. It tried to say “Brassbuck” without success. It just didn’t have the right mouth for it, and it came out, Bakkmann.
“Bakkmann?” said the wraith. “Well, that’s as good as anything.”
Bakkmann jumped up and down and pointed at the boy, “Smedge,” he said, “Smedge.”
She looked at the boy.
“I’m Smedge,” he said, simply.
“And who am I?” the wraith wondered aloud.
The boy stepped forward. He lifted the sleeve of her gown, grey and so light that a small cloud of dust blew from it. He took his hand away and looked at his fingers.
“Ash,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Ash.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Bakkmann. Smedge. And Ash. Come. We’ll go inside.”
The three of them stepped over the bodies of the dead and went in. The beetles surged into the space and satisfied their appetites.
“Are you sure that’s all you remember about that day?”
Bee stared at Flaxfold.
“I’m sorry,” said the woman, “but it’s so important.”
Bee picked up a stone and weighed it in her hands.
She had spent four days going over and over the story of her life so far. All that she could remember. Flaxfold made her tell the story of Mattie in great detail.
“How did you know about the pebble and swallowing it?”
“If you have to ask that you don’t know anything about magic,” said Bee.
“Even a very experienced wizard would be frightened to do that,” said Flaxfold. “To eat the fire spell.”
“Perh
aps experienced wizards know so much that they don’t know what to do any more,” said Bee.
Bee found a different stone, a flatter one. She stood and braced herself then sent it spinning across the surface of the river. It bounced once and sank.
“Can we go now?” she asked.
“One more time, please,” said Flaxfold. “After Mattie went away?”
“I went to sign the paper for Slowin.”
“What did you put?”
“I told you. I can’t remember. Just stop asking, will you?”
“Tell me again.”
Flaxfold was patient. She never raised her voice.
“All I remember is that the name he told me to sign wasn’t right.”
She took another stone. A heavier one.
“How do you know?”
Bee glared at her.
“The same way I knew to eat the fire. The same way you really know anything. I just knew. It was the wrong name. And he wrote the wrong name for himself as well. I know he did.”
“Yes,” said Flaxfold. “I believe you. But what were the names?”
Bee looked at Flaxfold and looked at the heavy stone.
“Then everything ended and I was here. That’s it. That’s everything.”
“I’m going to stop asking you now,” said Flaxfold. “And I’ll never ask you about it again.”
Bee’s scarf had slipped and she adjusted it so that it covered her neck again.
“What?”
“Never.”
“Why?”
“If you ever want to talk about it, then I’ll listen. But you’ll have to ask.”
“Do you mean it?”
“I mean everything. I don’t make foolish promises.”
Bee found that she was hugging Flaxfold before she knew she was going to. She was hot in the autumn sun. The scarf was uncomfortable. She took her arms away, embarrassed.
“Flaxfield has to know this,” said the woman.
“I know. And someone has to tell him. Will you?”
“I have to stay here. Dorwin will go, if you allow me to tell her enough.”
Bee let go of the large stone and selected another, slimmer one. She skimmed it over the water. One bounce.
“Just the last bit,” she said. “Not the things about when I was little?”