“Perhaps so,” Sir Tode said. “But currently, our goal is to keep you—and the books—safe. And that means getting out of this place before we’re eaten alive.”
A sharp clicking sound echoed from the darkness behind them. Sophie turned to see an enormous shadow slide between two mounds of carrion behind the dungeon gate. Its movements had a familiar, lurching pattern, and she thought she could see long tentacles moving across the floor. It rotated its body toward them, raw meat dangling from its beak. The creature raised its barbed limbs, which undulated in the darkness in a sort of hypnotic dance. Its red eyes glinted in the dim light.
Sophie stared at the swaying tentacles, a prickling nausea taking over her body. “I think it’s another bush-squid.”
Sir Tode peered through the slats of his cage. “This one’s a bit bigger.” He swallowed.
This was an understatement. The squid’s head nearly touched the vaulted ceiling. Its long arms were thicker than tree trunks, its eyes the size of dinner plates. Sophie recalled what Madame Eldritch had said about the first squid being just a pup. “That must be the mother,” she said, stepping back.
The enormous bush-squid wrapped its furry tentacles around the thick iron bars that separated it from fresh prey. It squawked and pulled violently on the bars, sending chunks of rubble falling from the ceiling.
“Peter, forget about the service hatch!” Sir Tode called. “Just get us out of here before that squid brings the whole place down right on top of us.”
Sophie pulled out the last loop of the tangled knot. She gathered up her skirts and climbed into the boat. Once free from its mooring, it drifted along the current toward the gate. “We’re on our way to you, Peter!” she called, trying her best to steer with a paddle she found in the bottom of the boat. “How’s that floodgate coming?”
“Done.” Peter pulled his hand back from a gear, which began ratcheting the gate up into the ceiling with a heavy clink, clink, clink. He dropped down from the archway into the boat, which sloshed perilously to one side.
The three of them drifted out of the dungeon and into the main river. Sophie took a deep breath of fresh night air. Since they had entered the castle, the sun had sunk below the horizon, leaving the sky a lightless purple. She stared over the cliff’s edge at the endless marshland that stretched into the horizon—the farthest reaches of the hinterland empire.
There was a loud splashing sound from inside the dungeon. Sophie looked over her shoulder toward the place where the bush-squid had been. The iron gate that had separated it from the rest of the dungeon was no longer visible. She turned back around and began paddling more quickly.
“Easy,” Peter said, gripping the side of the boat. “It’s not a race.”
“The bush-squid,” Sophie said, still paddling. “I think raising the floodgate set it free.”
She looked down at the water, which had suddenly taken on a hue as black as ink. She plunged her paddle into the water again, but this time something grabbed hold of it. The entire boat jolted to one side as the oar was ripped from her grip. The paddle disappeared beneath the surface and then burst up again, broken in two. “Forget about rowing to shore—we have to get out of here,” she said. “Now.”
Already the boat had drifted to the center of the river and was moving quickly with the current toward the edge of the waterfall. Sophie leaned over the front of the boat and began paddling with her hands.
“Um . . .” Sir Tode said. “Are we really sure that over the waterfall is our best option? Not all of us are strong swimmers—especially when locked in cages.”
There was a loud splash directly behind them. Sophie’s eyes went wide as a thick, furry tentacle rose from the water. “Peter, get back!” She grabbed his coat and pulled him toward her just as the tentacle lashed down, attaching itself to the side of the boat. There was a splash as three more tentacles appeared and latched themselves similarly, holding the boat fast against the current. Sophie kicked at one of them with the heel of her boot until it slithered back.
The water sloshed over them as the head of the creature, as large as a haystack, broke the surface. The beast opened its enormous beak and released a deafening squawk that made Sophie’s ears ring.
Soon all nine tentacles were out of the water, grasping for the boat. “Back, foul beast!” Sir Tode cried, trying with little success to strike an attacking tentacle with his hooves. The tentacle coiled itself around his cage and lifted Sir Tode over the water.
“Get down!” Peter spun around, very nearly taking Sophie’s head off. His blade sliced through the tip of the squid’s tentacle—cutting it in half. Sir Tode’s cage flew through the air and landed on the bank of the river with a violent clatter.
The squid’s remaining arms flailed in pain, releasing the boat once more to the current. Sophie and Peter spun around as they slid ever farther away from Sir Tode, who was kicking at his cage door with all his might.
“Stay there, Sir Tode!” Peter called. “We’re coming!”
“No!” Sophie caught his arm. “We can’t go after him.”
“Let go!” Peter shouted, pulling himself free. “What are you doing?”
But Sophie never got the chance to explain this to Peter—for it was at that very moment that the boat slid over the crest of the waterfall and plummeted into the depths below.
PART THREE
WHERE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
INTO the HINTERLANDS
Sophie blinked her eyes and found herself staring up at a swirling gray sky that was at once blinding and dim. She was lying in the boat from Baron Magpie’s dungeon, the stench of death still clinging to the rotting planks. Her clothes and hair were soaked through, and her cloak had been placed upon her like a blanket.
“You’re awake,” Peter said, standing over her. He offered her a strange gourd that was filled with water. “Drink this.”
Sophie pulled herself up and sipped from the gourd. Her stomach ached terribly, and it was all she could do to keep herself from bringing the water back up. “What happened?” she asked, gripping the sides of the boat, which sloshed to one side as she moved.
“We went over the waterfall,” Peter said, taking a seat on the bow. “The current swept us down a few miles before letting up. Now we’re just floating.” He busied himself with carving some letters into the side of the boat with the end of his hook: The Scop.
“We’re in the outer hinterlands?” Sophie wondered aloud. She peered up at the swirling fog that blotted out the sun. They were traveling through a flat, marshy land covered in ancient, twisting trees. Glittering moss clung to every surface. Beams of golden light shone down through the fog overhead, illuminating the river, which snaked back and forth among the trees and vines. The entire place was alive with the tics and chitters of frogs and insects. Though it was still autumn in Bustleburgh, down here the air was warm and wet, like summer after a storm. “How . . .” She sat up. “How long have we been here?”
“All night. When we fell down the waterfall, you were flung from the boat and carried off by the current. Your head struck a rock, and you went under.”
Sophie touched her head and found a painful cut on the crown. “And you saved me.”
Peter shook his head. “Not me. Him.” He nodded toward a spot behind Sophie’s shoulder. She turned around and saw Taro sitting directly behind her on the stern, his hands folded calmly in his lap.
“How did you . . . ?” She inched back from him. “What are you . . . ?” Try as she might, Sophie couldn’t formulate the proper question. Finally she settled for a simple “Why?”
Taro did not answer.
“He’s been sitting there like that all night,” Peter said. “Just watching you sleep. Pretty creepy, if you ask me.”
Sophie decided that if Taro had meant to hurt her, he would have done so already. They were—for now, at least—safe. “I don’t know why you did it,” she said. “But . . . thank you nonetheless.”
Taro, as usual, said no
thing in reply.
Sophie sat up on the bench and examined the rest of the boat. A hole in the floor had been plugged by Peter’s burgle-sack. Someone had fashioned a makeshift oar out of fronds. “Where’s Sir Tode?” she asked, suddenly remembering what had happened with the giant bush-squid outside the castle.
Peter lowered his head, stopping his carving. “He’s still up there somewhere—the water was too fast. By the time the current let up, we were miles away.”
Sophie reached out and clasped his shoulder. “Peter, I’m so sorry.”
The boy pulled away and began rowing. “It’s my fault,” he said, his voice tight with anger. “He asked me to unlock his cage, but I couldn’t be bothered—I was so focused on escaping. If it weren’t for that, he could have gotten away from that creature. He’d still be with us.”
“You can’t blame yourself like that,” Sophie said. “Sir Tode knew exactly what he was doing—he lived for adventure. And we still have one way to check on him.” She drew The Book of Who from its slot in her harness. The pages were wet but otherwise unharmed. “Who is Sir Tode?” she said. The cover opened and flipped to an entry, which she read aloud for Peter:
SIR TODE: Formerly Shepherd Tode, knight errant from the Valley of Nod, royal storyteller of HazelPort. Hexed by a hag during the Tournament of Boots to roam the earth in the combined body of a horse, cat, and man. Known accomplice of Peter Nimble.
~For more information, see: Book of Who, “Peter Nimble”; Book of What, “Hags”; Book of Where, “Valley of Nod,” “HazelPort”; Book of When, “Tournament of Boots”
“See?” she said, closing the book. “If he were deceased, the book would say it.” She was not certain about this point but desperately hoped that it was true. “And something tells me it would take more than some old squid to do him in.”
Peter nodded, as if willing himself to believe it. “Did I ever tell you about the time he slayed a fire-breathing dragon back in his shepherding days?” He gave a slight smile. “Well, he didn’t slay it, exactly . . . It choked on one of the sheep in his flock.”
Sophie laughed despite her horror. “I’m sorry I brought you to that tower,” she said, more serious. She found herself wondering about these adventures he and Sir Tode spoke of. Could they really all be true? Then again, she reminded herself, she was living an adventure—one as perilous as in any book she had ever read—and it was all because of them. Perhaps Peter and Sir Tode drew catastrophe toward them as a lamp draws moths?
“The way I see it,” Peter said, “the sooner we find your books, the sooner we can go back for him. Besides, Sir Tode would never approve of us quitting midquest. So where do we find the next book?”
“Akrasia said we’re looking for Scrivener Behn—that’s the Storyguard Professor Cake told us about. She told us to follow the river, so at least we’re going in the right direction.”
“And you trust her?” Peter said, sitting beside her.
“I don’t know. I think she’s hiding something, but I also think she wants us to find the books. She saved my life from that ape—she didn’t have to do that.” Sophie drew The Book of What from her harness and opened the cover. The book had a deep cut running up from the bottom of the spine. “It looks like someone tried to rip it in half.”
“Maybe your tigress friend got hungry?” Peter ventured.
“Or maybe someone tried to take The Book of What and she didn’t like that?” Sophie said, recalling how Akrasia had referred to it as her library. “Someone like Madame Eldritch,” she said, looking at Taro.
Taro’s face betrayed nothing.
“Either way, we need to keep moving.” Peter leaned over the book. “What should you ask first?”
Sophie knew the answer to that—it was the very question she had tried to ask Akrasia before they were interrupted. “My mother used The Book of What shortly before she died. She found something in it that frightened her.” She held the book out in her hands. “What was my mother looking for?”
She closed her eyes, bracing herself for the cover to swing open, but it did nothing. “What was my mother looking for?” she asked again, but the book remained silent. “What’s the point of having a magic book if it doesn’t work?” Sophie threw the book down.
“Maybe Akrasia was lying to you?” Peter said.
“Or maybe it’s something else,” she said, lifting the book back up to examine its damaged pages. “This tear in the spine . . . Maybe that prevents it from working.”
“Well, that stinks.” Peter gave a theatrical sigh. “If only we knew someone who was able to repair damaged books.”
“Knowing how is one thing,” Sophie said, “but without the right tools, I can’t—” She stopped short.
“What is it?” Peter said.
Sophie did not answer but reached into her pocket and retrieved the parcel that Madame Eldritch had given her in the carriage. “My mother’s bookmending tools.” She removed the leather cord and unrolled the bundle across her knees. She ran her fingers over the worn tools. They filled her entire body with an electric energy. It was as if she had reached back through time and felt her mother’s warm touch. She studied the tear in The Book of What, inspecting the frayed edge of the spine. “Eel skin,” she said.
“What?” Peter asked.
Sophie set the book on the bench and started arranging her work space. “These pages are vellum—they need to be patched with something that can bend without cracking. I need you to dive into the water and get an eel or some other sort of fishy creature—the larger, the better.”
Peter hesitated, poking his paddle into the murky water. “Can’t you just—I don’t know—stitch them back together with thread?”
“Not if I want them to stay in one piece,” Sophie replied. “The first law of restoring books is that you never damage the original materials—stitching with thread would mean making holes in the pages. We need to patch them.”
Peter sighed. “Fine.” He set down the paddle and began to remove his soiled shirt. “No peeking,” he said.
Sophie averted her eyes but then remembered that Peter could not see her. She watched him as he unlaced his shirt and pulled it up over his head. Sophie gasped slightly to behold Peter’s bare back. He was pale and thin, almost emaciated. Scars and bruises and cuts covered his entire body. Some of the wounds looked very old, but some looked recent. She wondered if this was the price he paid for moving blindfolded through the world—and if so, why would he choose such a life?
Sophie heard a sound behind her and turned to see that Taro was also staring at the boy, his dark eyes unblinking. Sophie remembered how Taro’s own figure looked similar to Peter’s—worked over with cuts and scratches. But Taro’s pains were the result of his servitude to Madame Eldritch, whereas Peter served neither mistress nor master.
“I’ll have to swim clear of the river’s current,” Peter said. “Keep the boat moving—I’ll catch up with you.” He removed his boots and then dove into the water. He made almost no sound as his body disappeared beneath the surface. Sophie peered over the edge, trying to watch him as he swam around a bend to a small cove along the bank. She turned back to Taro, who was fixedly watching The Book of What on the bench.
She scooted toward him. “Taro, why did you save me from drowning?”
Taro blinked but did not reply.
Sophie reminded herself that Taro had to be treated a bit like the books—only capable of answering questions phrased in the proper way. In Taro’s case, the question needed to be something he could answer without speaking—something that could be answered with a yes or a no. “Did Madame Eldritch tell you to protect me?” she said.
Taro shook his head.
“Did she tell you to protect Peter?”
Again, he shook his head.
Sophie watched his gaze, which had not left The Book of What. “Madame Eldritch told you to stay with the books, didn’t she?”
Taro nodded.
Sophie sat back. “Which means you
didn’t really rescue me. You were just trying to save the books from getting carried off by the river. Isn’t that right?”
At this question, Taro finally looked up from the books. And instead of nodding or shaking his head, he did something Sophie had not expected—
He shrugged.
Sophie folded her arms, feeling that peculiar irritation that comes from conversing with the taciturn. “Well, if you think that makes me any less grateful, you’ve got another thing coming. Books or not, you saved my life. And yet you obey Madame Eldritch like a slave. What hold does she have over you to inspire such blind loyalty?”
Sophie did not expect an answer, but here again she was surprised. At the mention of Madame Eldritch, he looked away from her, his thin mouth tugged upward in a slight smile.
Peter returned half an hour later with three wriggling eels skewered on the end of his blade. The creatures had silver skin that shone iridescent in the hazy light. “You’ll need to cure them first,” Peter said, putting on his shirt and boots. “And we could use the food.” He set to work making a small fire, using flints from his bag.
“Are you sure it’s wise to start a fire on a boat?” Sophie asked as he made sparks over a pile of dry moss he had scraped from a low-hanging vine.
“I wouldn’t call it wise,” Peter said, “but you need eel skins, and there’s only one way to get those—unless you prefer to just rub bloody gobs of raw fish meat on the pages. Plus, I’m hungry.”
Sophie watched him, a little confounded. In Bustleburgh, getting dried and stretched eel skins was as simple as going to the market. Here, however, she would have to make them herself. She and Peter spent the next several hours stretching and pounding strips of eel skin until they were so thin they could see through them.
Sophie Quire and the Last Storyguard Page 17