“The winds are moving again,” Fudge said. “All the stronghold will soon be up.”
“We need to hurry back to our room before we’re missed,” Lizbet said. She stuck Hengest Wolftrow’s book in her skirt pocket.
Fudge led them back through the stronghold, waddling as fast as his squat legs could carry him. “I’ll come back at dawn,” he told them, “when the winds are quiet again.”
“Be sure you do,” Strix said. “We have to escape soon, before the Pope of Storms decides to remit his sentence of five hundred years—”
“But that would be good,” Lizbet said.
“—and blow Lizbet’s soul from her body, and write it into a book instead.”
“Oh. That would be bad.”
“Hm,” Fudge said. He stared at Lizbet with sudden interest, and his nose snuffled back and forth.
Strix glared at Fudge. “I’m sure she’d be horribly dry, bland, and tasteless,” she said.
“I wasn’t even thinking about that,” Fudge protested. “I swear I wasn’t!”
1. Montgolfier balloon sewn out of drapes and hammocks. [Canceled: no way to get it out the window.]
2. Parachutes. [Canceled: same problem as climbing down ropes made of drapes: they’d still wind up in the moat with the crocodiles.]
3. Make wings out of the drapes, fly across the moat. [Canceled by Strix: even if the wings worked, none of them would be able to fly without any practice. Falling to their deaths would be more likely.]
“All of these escape plans have the same problem,” Lizbet said. “There’s only so much you can do with some drapes and a couple of hammocks. Maybe Fudge can find us enough drapes to get to the bottom, or even some real rope. But then how do we get past the crocodiles?”
“Things would certainly be easier if we had an army of the living dead at our disposal,” Strix said. “They could fight the crocodiles while we escaped.” A look of surprise and pleasure crossed her face, as if she had eaten an especially delicious mouse. “Wait, I’ve got an idea. Suppose we kidnap Griffon and Cupido? We’d tie them up and throw them to the crocodiles as a distraction. Then we’ll climb down the drapes and swim across the moat before the crocodiles know what we’re doing.”
“Strix, that’s an awful idea!”
Strix looked crestfallen. “Do you think Griffon and Cupido are too strong for us to overpower? That could be a problem.”
“No, the problem is that it would be an awful thing to do to poor Griffon and Cupido. It’s too cruel. I simply won’t hear of it. We’ll have to find some other way.”
“In other words, the real problem is that you’re too softhearted,” Strix said. “I can fix that.” The Outlaw’s bandoleer that Strix had carried with her over the Montagnes still hung around her chest. She plucked out several shells and peered into them. “You need a big squirt of Ruthlessness, and a dribble of Treachery. And while we’re about it, an ounce or two of Rebellion wouldn’t hurt you in the least.” She pulled something crimson and squirmy from one of the shells and held it up to Lizbet’s face.
Lizbet shrank back. “No! I told you before, I don’t want that.”
“But if you were more ruthless, you’d be happy to throw Griffon and Cupido to the crocs. And we could escape. See?”
“I don’t want to be ruthless,” Lizbet protested. “Or rebellious. If I were like that . . . I’d be a person who didn’t deserve to escape.”
“I’d rather be a person who escapes,” Strix said, “and worries later about whether she deserved it.” But she stuffed the bubbling red Rebellion and the slithery, bilious Treachery back into their shotgun shells. “I’m still keeping these,” she said. “Someday, you might change your mind.”
“Never.”
“As in, ‘you never know what the future might bring,’” Strix said.
For hours, Lizbet and Strix dreamed up plan after plan for escape. For hours, they discarded every one as unworkable, impractical, or madly dangerous. By midnight, their ideas spent and the wells of inspiration dry, they still had no clear idea how they might escape. Strix, with her usual insouciance in the face of impending catastrophe, gave up and threw herself into a hammock, and soon was fast asleep.
Lizbet, still beset by worry, leaned out a window. Below, the silvery waters of the moat rippled in the moonlight. To the east, dark plains disappeared to an unseen horizon beneath a deep and starry sky.
On every map of the world that Lizbet had ever seen, the Montagnes du Monde were drawn as a closed circle of peaks. All around the Montagnes were mortal lands: the Duchies of Moscow and Kiev, Lizbet’s own Holy Roman Empire, the Caliphate of the Turks, the Hindoo Indies, Cathay, and then back to the Duchies of the Rus. Inside the circle of the Montagnes, only blank white paper, and the words Terra Incognita.
But the lands over the Montagnes were not incognita to Lizbet. She was here, in them, right now. And what lay beyond, farther than she could see? If you went on and on toward the east, across this world, would you eventually cross the Montagnes again and find yourself in Cathay or the Indies? The world being round, and all.
Lizbet had a sudden vision, shocking in its clarity, of the world as a sphere divided into two halves. One half was Lizbet’s ordinary mortal world. The other half was this world of witches, and goblins, and who knew what else. The Montagnes du Monde ran around the world like a wall, separating the two halves. Keeping them apart.
Only they weren’t staying apart. Witches and goblins from the trans-Montagne world had gotten into the mortal half of the world. And Lizbet remembered seeing a few real ferns and firs amid the rake-and-umbrella trees and pinwheel wildflowers the day they had come down the eastern slopes of the Montagnes. And what about Wolftrow’s lost army of the sewers? Things from the mortal lands were seeping into the witch world too. Witch things and mortal things were beginning to mix together.
Like Lizbet herself.
Perhaps she had been thinking about escape plans all along, without realizing it, while she stared into the darkness. In her mind, all the plans began to mix together too, into something only a witch could have thought of, and only a mortal could execute. A plot that required both trickery and bravery.
Lizbet couldn’t bear to let Griffon and Cupido be eaten by the crocodiles. So she’d let herself be eaten instead.
Hip-deep in the moat, Lizbet wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. Suppose Griffon and Cupido didn’t get to her before the crocodiles did? Suppose they just didn’t care, and let her be eaten?
Serpentine ripples cut through the water. Lizbet had climbed down ropes of drapery and dropped into the moat with a splash. The crocodiles hadn’t known what to make of her at first, but now they were swimming closer.
A commotion in the window of her guest-room-dungeon, far above. Cupido’s face peered out. Fudge’s voice from inside: “They’re trying to escape! Lizbet’s in the moat!”
“Oh, my stars and garters!” Cupido squawked.
“Oh, help!” Lizbet cried as loudly as she could. “I have acted rashly! I am being eaten by crocodiles! Come save me!”
“You two were supposed to keep Lizbet safe!” Fudge’s voice yelled. “If she comes to harm, the Pope of Storms will turn you both into feather dusters!”
Gasps and shrieks from above. The faces in the window disappeared.
A crocodile’s tail swatted Lizbet’s leg, nearly knocking her over into the water. From far above, the crocodiles hadn’t looked nearly as big as they did when you were right next to them. Another one brushed her thigh. Its jaws yawned wide as it passed. Moonlight glittered on its broken-bottle teeth. Lizbet instinctively winced away, but bumped into a crocodile on her other side. It thrashed, opened its jaws, and bellowed.
With a great beating of wings, the drawbridge descended. In the moonlight Lizbet could make out three figures crossing it, one hopping madly, one tottering behind, one waddling. A
nd a ghostly figure tailing them.
Would they reach her in time?
By now Lizbet was surrounded on all sides by crocodiles. The crocodiles swam closer, jostling her back and forth, threatening to knock her off her feet. She tried to kick one away, but the water slowed her kick to nothing and almost made her lose her balance.
A crocodile lunged for her, its jaws wide. Teeth closed around Lizbet’s thigh and bit down. Lizbet yelped, and beat on the crocodile’s head with her fists. Another closed its jaws around her other leg. Sensing a kill, the remaining crocodiles thrashed madly. Spray and foam filled the air.
“Back, miscreants, back!” came Cupido’s voice across the water.
A skiff lurched over the waves toward Lizbet. It pulled up beside her. Cupid stood up in the skiff and beat at the crocodiles with an oar. He reached a feathered arm down and clasped Lizbet’s waist. “Upsy-daisy!”
Cupido pulled. Lizbet jumped. In a shower of spray, she tumbled head over heels into the rowboat, nearly capsizing it.
“Oh, my heavens, are you safe?” Cupido said. He peered at Lizbet’s legs. “Thank goodness you’re not bleeding much. Or bleeding at all, actually. What luck! I saw a crocodile with your leg in its mouth.” He took the oars, swiveled the skiff around, and headed for the opposite bank.
“I have some nasty scratches and gouges,” Lizbet said, looking over her legs. “Maybe some paint or furniture polish would help.”
“Paint?” Cupido said.
“My legs are made of oak and strap iron, with birch-bark skin,” Lizbet said. “It’s a long story.”
The outside bank of the moat drew near. “Griffon will be waiting for us,” Cupido said. “To escort you back to your room. You should never have tried to escape. The Pope of Storms will be so upset.”
“You have no idea,” Lizbet said.
The skiff grounded on the bank. Cupido hopped out. “Griffon!” he said. “I’ve rescued Lizbet!” He peered into the darkness. “Griffon, why are you lying on the ground?” Around Griffon stood a half-starved naked woman with ribs like sprung barrel staves, a Common Lesser Furry Devil, and a giant boiled crayfish. “And who let all you devils out of your restraints?”
“Mmmmmfffff!” said Griffon through the gag in his mouth, struggling against the ropes that bound his ankles and wrists.
“I made the devils promise to help us if I set them free,” Strix said, “but a lot of them ran off anyway. Devils aren’t much for keeping promises. The rest are headed into the stronghold to have a word with the Pope of Storms.”
Griffon and Cupid both fit into the birdcage of iron slats that once held the man-headed maggot. “I’m sorry,” Lizbet said to them. “You’ve both been good to us. As gaolers go, that is. You’re both a lot nicer than the gaolers keeping my father. Even the cooked shoes were okay, if a trifle bland. Cupido, you were just wonderful about saving me from the crocodiles. Griffon, I think you’d be happier if you cultivated a more positive attitude toward life.”
“That’s a tautology,” Strix said.
“You can call it names all you want, it’s still a good idea,” Lizbet said. “I’ll remember you both in my prayers.” She said to Strix, “The Pope of Storms will release them soon, won’t he?”
“As soon as he deals with the escaped devils. I’m hoping they’ll slow him up long enough for us to put some distance between us.”
“So long, then,” Lizbet said.
“Mmmmfffff!” said Griffon.
“Not so fast,” a voice behind them said.
Maglet’s voice.
A figure stalked out of the gathering darkness. Maglet. She was wild-eyed. Her hair and clothing were matted with sewage. She carried an oar like a weapon.
Chapter 19
Strix’s back was turned. She hadn’t noticed Maglet yet. “Strix!” Lizbet yelled.
Strix had half turned as Maglet swung her oar. The blade cut through the back of Strix’s right thigh. Strix staggered, and fell to the ground. She faded to a ghostly outline. Maglet stared right and left. “Where’d she go? Damned witchy tricks.”
She raised her oar high and smashed it down where Strix had been, but Strix had rolled aside. The oar missed her by inches.
“Fudge!” Lizbet yelled. “Grab Strix’s hand! She’s knit into the shadows!”
Fudge ran to Strix, and they joined hands. Fudge, too, faded away.
“Ah-ha!” Maglet yelled. “Now I know where you are.” She raised her oar to strike where Fudge had been.
Lizbet launched herself toward Maglet, yelling. Maglet turned and swung the oar. Lizbet tried to dodge. The oar glanced off her left shoulder.
Now what? If Lizbet took Strix’s other hand, Maglet would know where everyone was. Lizbet’s shoulder, numb at first where the oar hit, began to hurt badly.
“I’ve been waiting,” Maglet croaked. “Two days. I’ll not be made a fool of again, by a pair of spies.”
She began to stalk in circles, sweeping the oar in front of her, feeling for the invisible Strix and Fudge. Strix tried to stand, but couldn’t. Maglet’s oar had cut her leg almost in half. “What’s wrong, witch?” Maglet yelled at Lizbet. “Why don’t you disappear too? You’d do it, if you could. Not much of a witch, are you?”
“I—” Lizbet began.
She wanted to say, “I am too!” For the first time, she wanted to mean it. At that moment, Lizbet wished with all her strength that she were a witch. She wished she were a witch with whatever magic it took to stop Maglet.
Maglet’s oar bumped against Strix. “Ha!” she yelled. Her oar came down, crushing Strix’s foot. Maglet cried, “I hit the witch! I felt it!” She raised the oar over her head again. Strix tried to twist away. Fudge cowered, whimpering.
As soon as Strix’s legs were broken, Maglet could smash her to bits, even if she couldn’t see her. Was there nothing Lizbet could do?
If Lizbet had to have witch legs, why couldn’t she have witch magic to go with them?
Wait, she thought. I do have magic. Awful, stupid magic. The spells from her father’s grimoire were still in her pocket. She drew them out. Fudge had snorted up one, but there were two left. A gold-conjuring spell that actually made it rain mice. A spell to make noses bigger. In desperation, Lizbet began to chant the nose spell. In the near darkness, she squinted to read her father’s swirly handwriting. It was rumpty-thump dog Latin:
Naso Maximus!
Naso Cumlulo!
Naso Laxio!
Fiat!
Vide!
Naso Deformis!
Naso Horribilissimus!
Naso Formidolosissimus!
Fiat!
Vide!
“Shut your mouth, witch!” Maglet yelled.
Was Maglet’s nose any larger? In the deepening twilight, Lizbet couldn’t tell. She tried again.
Naso Maximus!
Naso Cumlulo . . .
Maglet’s nose seemed larger. A little. Or was it just Lizbet’s imagination?
Naso Maximus!
Naso Cumlulo . . .
Maglet’s nose was definitely larger. The tip of the oar dropped to the ground. Maglet’s gaze jerked back and forth, as if she realized something was wrong, but didn’t know what.
Naso Maximus!
Naso Cumlulo . . .
Maglet’s hands flew to her face. Her fingers fiddled with her nose. “Wha, wha—” she stuttered.
Naso Maximus!
Naso Cumlulo . . .
“My nose! Wha—what’s happening to my nose!”
Naso Maximus!
Naso Cumlulo . . .
Maglet’s nose was immense. It spread from cheek to cheek. It erupted from her face like a hummock, a hill, a Vesuvius of swollen pink flesh.
Naso Maximus!
Naso Cumlulo . . .
“Shut up! Shut up! SHUT UP!
” Maglet lifted her oar and charged at Lizbet.
Lizbet ran, and dodged. On defense, she had the advantage, being smaller and more agile than Maglet, and not burdened with an oar. But she couldn’t chant the spell and run too. Now what?
From the twilight, a voice:
Naso Maximus!
Naso Cumlulo . . .
Strix was chanting.
Maglet screamed in frustration. She stopped chasing Lizbet. Her nose was now larger than her head. She was barely able to keep her head erect on account of the weight of her gargantuan nose.
Together, Lizbet and Strix chanted:
Naso Maximus!
Naso Cumlulo . . .
“You know,” Strix yelled out the twilight, “this is really bad Latin.”
“Shut up and chant!” Lizbet yelled back.
With a dull thump, Maglet toppled into the dirt.
Lizbet and Strix fell quiet. Lizbet approached Maglet cautiously.
Maglet’s nose was larger than her whole body. It was red and oily, lumpy and misshapen. Its warts were the size of Lizbet’s fist. Its blackheads were like molehills. Coarse brooms of hair erupted from cavernous nostrils. It pinned Maglet’s head to the earth with its awful weight. On her hands and knees, she strained to lift her head from the ground. She failed. She groaned, and out of the corner of her eye stared fearfully at Lizbet.
Strix became fully visible. She lay on the ground a few yards away.
Lizbet said to Maglet, “We’re not spies. Really. We were prisoners of the Pope of Storms. You didn’t have to do this. None of this had to happen.”
“Lies!” Maglet hissed.
Strix said, “Some people just won’t listen, no matter what.”
“What can we do with her?” Lizbet said.
“Huh?” Strix said. “We don’t need to do anything with her. We need to get going, before the Pope of Storms figures out we’ve escaped.”
“We can’t leave her like this,” Lizbet said.
“It’s her own fault,” Strix said.
“I don’t care,” Lizbet said. She thought. “I’ve got an idea.”
Ediv!
Taif!
Half-Witch Page 20