Sophie Quire and the Last Storyguard

by Jonathan Auxier

  “So we’ve got to get to this Magpie fellow,” Sir Tode said. “But how do we find him?”

  “The Ivory Tower is famous in hinterland lore,” Sophie said. “It’s an ancient library with thousands of books. But no one knows where it’s located.” She looked at the library. “Surely one of these bookcases could lead us there, couldn’t it?”

  Professor Cake shook his head. “Alas, I did once have a bookcase that led to the Ivory Tower. But a few years back, some fool bricked it up. Perhaps that’s the work of our mysterious baron?”

  “That would have been too easy anyway,” said Sir Tode, never one to be daunted. “I’d imagine that one of these other cases could at least get us into the right neighborhood.”

  “Yes, but which bookcase?” Peter pointed out. “It could take years to find the right one.”

  Sophie held out The Book of Who and thought carefully before speaking. “Who owns the bookcase within this library that is closest to the Ivory Tower?”

  The Book of Who opened up and turned to a new entry:

  SCRIVENER BEHN: Nomad scribe from the Scarabian Peninsula. Storyguard of The Book of Where. History unknown. Location unknown. Fate unknown.

  ~For more information, see: Book of Where, “Scarabian Peninsula”; Book of Who, “Storyguard”

  “Well, that’s not much help,” Sir Tode said. “Practically everything about him is unknown.”

  Peter turned toward Professor Cake. “Professor, I thought these books were supposed to know everything.”

  “No, not everything,” Sophie said, recalling how the books had been able to tell her precious little about Professor Cake himself. “But it does tell us something—that his last known location was somewhere close to the baron’s home.”

  “It is a curious omission, I’ll admit,” Professor Cake said, stroking his beard. “And I’m sure the reason for Scrivener Behn’s being unknown is rather worth knowing. In the meantime, there is some good news, and that is that even if I do not know where Scrivener Behn is, I do know where his bookshelf is located in my library!” He turned, indicating for them to follow him up a winding staircase that led to a platform very near the ceiling.

  Sophie soon found herself standing beneath a small bookcase that was crammed full of all manner of things—tarnished oil lamps, relish jars, hand mirrors, decks of foreign playing cards, a cage stuffed with painted birds’ eggs, a pair of chain-mail gauntlets, and what looked like a goat’s horn filled with rotting food. Pretty much anything you might imagine except actual books. Stranger still, the case itself seemed to be alive, rattling and shuddering in the wall. The junk on the shelves clinked and clanked loudly.

  “I knew a bit of Scrivener Behn and his work,” said Professor Cake, peering up at the case. “He used to carry this bookcase on his back, if you can believe it. He spent his life roaming the map, collecting stories from the different people and creatures he encountered. This bookshelf contained many rare treasures. Though, as you can see, it’s no longer in use . . .” He reached up and prodded some of the rattling junk with his cane. “I haven’t seen or heard from Behn in many years. As I said, he disappeared around the same time that your mother died.” He scratched his bearded chin. “If nothing else, this case can get you closer to Baron Magpie and The Book of What, but I’m afraid you’ll be on your own after that.”

  Sophie turned toward him. “You’re not coming with us?” The thought of leaving the Professor—of leaving this place—suddenly filled her with a profound sadness.

  The old man smiled. “I’m afraid you might find me a bit creaky for adventure.” He rocked back on his heels, peering at the endless rows of books. “Besides, my work here keeps me quite busy. Yours is not the only world I hope to save today. Which reminds me . . .” He drew a golden pocket watch from his vest and consulted the face. Sophie noticed that the watch had a great many more hands than a traditional clock, and they turned in both directions. “I have a pressing appointment with a delegate from the Parliament of Rooks. Seems they’re having a spot of trouble with something called an indifferencing engine . . .”

  He returned the watch to his pocket and turned to Sophie. His face was missing its usual hint of a smile and instead looked quite serious. “Sophie Quire,” he said, “you are a Storyguard. Just as your mother was before you. Remember your nature above all. If ever you doubt who you are or why you have been chosen for this task, you need only consult that book in your arms. The Four Questions may reveal many answers, but they are not the solution to what plagues your world.” He put his wrinkled hands on her shoulders. “You are the solution, Sophie.”

  Sophie had no way of knowing this, but these words were very similar to the words Professor Cake had spoken to Peter Nimble on the shores of his island two years before. They were words the man had spoken many times in his life, and words he would speak many more times in his future.

  Perhaps Peter made the connection, for he gestured to himself and Sir Tode. “What about us?” he said. “Are we just tagalongs?”

  “Gracious, no!” The man smiled at Peter. “You are the supplemental solution to whatever unexpected problems might hinder the primary solution in her journey!” He said this in the tone of someone hoping to elicit a laugh, but no laugh was forthcoming—probably because everyone else was still struggling to parse his logic. One thing was clear enough: This was not the answer Peter had hoped for.

  “Yes, well . . .” Sir Tode chuckled. “I suppose it beats sidekick . . . or pet.”

  “I should say so!” the Professor said, stepping back. He took his ostrich-spine cane, which he had hung from a nearby banister. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be off.” He gave a slight bow and shuffled around a corner between two bookcases that Sophie had not noticed before. She listened for the sound of his cane tapping against the floor but heard only the crackling hearth several floors below.

  “Did he just . . . disappear?” Sophie said. “How?”

  Peter shrugged. “I find how is not a very useful question to ask when it comes to Professor Cake.”

  Sophie and the others turned back to Scrivener Behn’s abandoned bookcase, which they hoped might lead them close to The Book of What. The bottom of the case was just slightly above eye level, making it quite difficult to see what might be on the other side. It shook and groaned above them, its contents rattling on the shelves. “I’ve seen a lot of bookcases in my life,” Sophie said, “but never one that could move.”

  “The Professor indicated that it was portable,” Sir Tode said. “Perhaps there’s someone shaking it on the other side?”

  Peter removed the enchanted bookend from his bag. “We’ll find out soon enough.” He reached up and felt along the bottom shelf for a place to fit the bookend.

  Sophie studied the rattling junk. “I think maybe you should step back.”

  Peter snorted. “I think I can handle a big bad bookcase.” He wedged the bookend onto the bottom shelf and turned the knob—

  Crash!

  The case swung open, and an avalanche of junk spilled out on top of him, knocking him to the ground. He cried out as he was pummeled by a seemingly endless stream of pots and pans and chairs and rugs and spindles and lamps and mirrors and baubles and hats. “Get back!” he sputtered, hacking his way free of a pair of ladies’ stockings. “We’re under attack!”

  Sophie watched the encounter with no small amount of delight. She was reassured to see that Sir Tode was similarly enjoying the performance. “Righto, Peter,” the knight said. “You show that laundry what-for!”

  The tide of junk eventually tapered off, and Peter became more aware of his situation. He pulled himself free, his ears flushed red. “You could have warned me,” he said, kicking a wooden goblet across the floor.

  “I did try to warn you,” Sophie said. “Or perhaps you’re deaf as well as blind?”

  Peter turned toward her, replacing his hat. “Who said I was blind?”

  Sophie stared at the boy, who, despite his blindfold, seem
ed completely serious. She recalled what she had read in The Book of Who about Peter having “fantastic eyes.” Perhaps that was more than a figure of speech? Before she could ask him why a boy who could see would wear a blindfold, Peter marched past her and hoisted himself up to the open case.

  “Are you coming?” he said, reaching his hand down toward her.

  Sophie gripped The Book of Who in one hand and took Peter’s hand in the other. With some small struggle, she managed to climb up through the case with her dignity still intact. She found herself sitting in the back of an open wagon. Mounds of random junk lay scattered across the bed.

  “Tally-ho!” called a voice behind her. The next moment, Sir Tode flew up through the hole and landed beside Sophie with surprising agility.

  Peter retrieved his bookend and pulled the bookcase closed. “Well, that was a new one,” he said, adjusting the bag around his shoulder. “You’ll have to put that into your next chapter, Sir Tode.”

  “Indeed, I will!” Sir Tode exclaimed. “I shall call it ‘The Case of the Rattling Bookcase.’”

  “Speaking of rattling,” Sophie said, raising her head. “Has anyone noticed that the wagon has stopped moving?”

  “I did,” said a quiet voice nearby.

  Sophie leaned to one side, looking past the back of the wagon. A man stood behind them on the road, leaning casually against a tree. He wore a tattered red coat and had a patch over one eye. Slung across his shoulders were no fewer than three flintlock pistols.

  A fourth pistol was in his right hand.

  And it was pointed at Sophie.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  TORVALD KNUCKLEMEAT

  It is one thing to see a gun in the wild; it is another thing altogether to have a gun pointed directly at you. Sophie stared at the man before her, who was watching her with his one good eye—the other was hidden behind a black silk eye patch. The man smiled at Sophie. “Down from the wagon, if you don’t mind.”

  “Who are you?” she asked, pressing herself against the bookcase, which was now firmly shut.

  “My friends call me Torvald Knucklemeat . . . not that I have any friends.” He spat out a gob of tobacco juice through the gap in his front teeth. “I’m the one who owns this wagon, which up until recently was loaded to the brim with all manner of valuable goods—goods belonging to me. One moment I’m hauling this old, empty bookcase back to the city when I hear this big loud crash behind me. Imagine my surprise when I pull over to find two little stowaways—three, counting the pet.”

  Sir Tode growled. “I am no one’s pet.”

  “Easy, kitty. I’ll blow them whiskers right off your face.” If the man had been startled to hear Sir Tode speak, he did not show it. He propped his elbow on the back of the wagon in a philosophical pose. “Now, I don’t know why you lot thought to board this here wagon, but I do know that it was a hefty mistake.”

  Peter stepped right to the edge of the wagon. “The mistake was threatening my friends.”

  Sophie was just as worried about Peter as she was about the gun. She could tell he wanted to fight the man—but no blade, no matter how fast, could parry a bullet.

  The man smiled up at Peter. “You must be the hero of the bunch. I’ve met my share of heroes. Not too fond of them, if I’m being honest. Heroes tend not to think things through. For example, they pick fights with men who’ve got pistols pointed at their girlfriends.”

  Sophie’s eyes went big. “I’m not his girlfriend!” She knew it was ridiculous to be concerned about that in a moment like this, but some things cannot be helped.

  He flashed a rakish grin. “Well, you ain’t his sister—I can see that plain enough.” He squinted, peering at her—it almost felt as if he were looking at her through his eye patch. “Where is it you’re from, exactly?”

  Sophie pulled her cloak tightly around herself. Something about his gaze made her flesh creep. “My father’s from Bustleburgh. My mother’s from . . . the Topaz Isles.” This, at least, had been what The Book of Who had told her.

  The man’s eye widened. “The Topaz Isles, you say?” He worked the wad of tobacco under his bottom lip in a manner that suggested deep contemplation. “Aren’t you the mysterious one.”

  Sophie stared right back at him, refusing to give him the pleasure of making her squirm. Torvald Knucklemeat was a tall man with a face that seemed to epitomize the word rugged. His skin was weather-beaten and tan. He had clearly not shaved for several days. The patch he wore over his eye felt almost excessive. The only clean part of him was a golden star that hung from the lapel of his threadbare coat. “That badge on your coat,” she said. “You work for Bustleburgh.”

  “I’m a deputy officer,” the man said, adjusting his badge. “The Inquisitor charges me to sniff out dangerous nonsense.”

  “Doesn’t he have guards for that?” Sophie said.

  “The easy stuff he leaves to the guards, but sometimes nonsense can be a bit shy to show itself. Lucky for me, I have an eye for such things.” So saying, he lifted up the flap of his eye patch. Sophie, despite her discomfort, was too compelled to look away. She saw that his eye had been replaced with a cloudy glass ball that shimmered in the early-afternoon light. The skin around the eye was crisscrossed with angry red scars.

  “What is that?” Sophie asked.

  “It’s a scrying jewel,” he said, replacing the patch. “Swiped it from an old fortune-teller in the marshlands. I put it in myself—not pretty, but extremely useful in my line of work. Helps me spot unusual things.”

  “You put a jewel in your eye socket?” Sophie broke away from his gaze. “That’s revolting.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Peter muttered.

  Sophie looked at the remaining junk scattered across the wagon bed. Nearly everything in the wagon, she could now see, would qualify as nonsense. She turned over an old flowerpot with her toe—inside was a writhing crop of little bean sprouts. Beside it was a little mouse nestled inside a fur slipper. Beyond that, a Scarabian oil lamp that was unlit but still radiating heat. “The Grimmwald is supposed to be free,” she said. “The No Nonsense laws don’t apply this far.”

  “They don’t, strictly speaking. Technically, I’m only supposed to gather things within city limits, but I find it’s slim pickings nowadays—most nonsense types have pulled up and fled by the time I come knocking. So I cast my net a little wider.” He gestured to the forest around him. “There’s more bounty to be had out in these parts—and they don’t know you’re coming.”

  “You can’t just seize people’s things without a warrant,” she said. “You’re nothing more than a common thief.” Sophie noticed Peter out of the corner of her eye. The boy lowered his head, his face turning red.

  Knucklemeat laughed. “If the Inquisitor has a problem with my methods, I’m not hearing about it. It’s all fuel for his Pyre.”

  “That sounds like Prigg, all right,” Sophie muttered.

  Knucklemeat’s face lit up. “So you’ve met him?” He rubbed his chin in mock rumination. “Interesting. Very interesting . . .”

  Sophie felt a tremor of alarm. There was something queer about this man. It was as if he knew far more than he was letting on. The sooner they got away from him, the better she would feel. “My dear deputy,” she said in her most polite voice, “we came to your wagon by accident. The truth is . . .” She took a breath, deciding that honesty, perhaps, might be the best policy. “The truth is, my companions and I have come here in search of a man named Magpie.”

  Knucklemeat grinned. “You’re looking for the baron?” He laughed, as if this were the funniest thing he had heard in a long time.

  “So you know him?” Sir Tode said.

  “I’ve done business with the man once or twice.” Knucklemeat spat another glob of tobacco juice onto the ground. “He’s a connoisseur—a collector. When I find something too pretty to let burn in the Pyre, I bring it by his castle. The baron likes one-of-a-kind things. And he pays well.” He nodded toward Sir Tode. “I’d wager h
e’d pay quite handsomely for that friend of yours.”

  “We’re not selling Sir Tode,” Peter said.

  Sophie smiled as sweetly as she could, half wishing she had some of Madame Eldritch’s befuddling perfume. “Do you think you could find it in your heart to point us in the direction of this baron’s estate?”

  “It’s not half a day’s ride from here, straight down the river,” Knucklemeat said. “Not that it’ll do you much good without an invitation. The baron’s not one for unexpected visitors.”

  “We’ll take our chances,” Peter replied. He turned to Sophie. “Let’s go.”

  “Not so fast,” Knucklemeat said, raising his gun. “As we’ve already established, I’m a deputy officer. While I’d love nothing more than to let you go, that would be neglecting my sworn duty.” He stepped lazily around the back of the wagon. “You see, I can’t help but recall something the Inquisitor mentioned last time I saw him. Seems there’s a fugitive who’s given him a bit of a headache. A swart-skinned girl, right about your age, who assaulted him and his men. She made off with a very unusual book.” His eye moved down to The Book of Who, clasped tightly in Sophie’s arms. “Not unlike the one you’re holding right now.”

  Sophie stepped back. “I’m sure you’re mistaken.” The idea that Prigg cared so much about finding her was distressing, to say the least. Knucklemeat stepped closer. “More important, there’s a bounty on your head. And that’s not something I turn my nose up at.”

  “Don’t you touch her,” Peter said, charging toward the man.

  Without missing a beat, Knucklemeat fired one of his guns—knocking Peter’s hat clean off his crown. “Easy, hero. I’d much rather tie you up than bury you, but if you keep on like that, bury you I will.” He slid the emptied pistol into the bandolier around his waist and drew a fresh one. “Howsabout you stow that blade?”

  “I can’t stow it,” Peter said. He pulled up his sleeve to reveal the iron cap at the end of his arm. Sophie found herself again awed by the sight, and she wondered what might have caused such horrible scars.