After that, there was a matter of making paste to affix the pages to the newly constructed spine. For that, Peter went out and brought back some tree sap, a handful of mushrooms, and a little bit of moss, which Sophie thought might make a serviceable epoxy. She set to mixing the ingredients in a mortar made from a half gourd.
Taro had by now taken an interest in Sophie’s work and was watching over her shoulder as she ground the ingredients with the pestle that had once belonged to her mother. “It’s not bonding,” Sophie said, wishing very much she had some way to boil the ingredients down—or at the very least some mineral spirits.
Taro tapped her shoulder and then reached to his neck, where a small tendril had begun to grow. He winced as he tore the fiber from his neck and offered it to her.
“Are you sure?” Sophie asked.
Taro nodded.
She dropped the root into the gourd and mixed it in with the other ingredients. Taro’s tendril worked like a charm (for, indeed, it was a charm), and the mixture instantly turned into a perfect epoxy—as clear and smooth as honey.
“Thank you,” she said, adding, “I can see why Madame Eldritch values you so highly.”
Taro did not answer but looked away and closed his eyes.
Within the hour, Sophie had managed to affix long eel-skin patches to the damaged pages of The Book of What. She ran her fingers over the work, which—despite the less-than-ideal conditions—was as fine as any she had ever done. She hoped her mother would have approved.
“First things first,” she said, putting her tools aside. “What did my mother search for in The Book of What?” At once, the book’s cover swung open on her lap and flipped through pages. It came to an entry near the back:
ZEITGEIST: Elemental creature summoned and controlled by force of will. It is thought that these creatures were responsible for the creation of the Fourth Age of Magic, as well as for bringing about a peaceful resolution to the War of the Bees.
~For more information, see Book of When, “Seven Ages of Magic,” “War of the Bees”
Sophie read and reread the words. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would she need to find this entry?” Unfortunately, there was no such thing as a Book of Why, and so her question remained unanswered.
“Akrasia said that your mother was concerned about one of the other Storyguard,” Peter said. “Maybe you should ask the books about that?”
Sophie looked up at him. “You weren’t even in the room when she said that.”
“Don’t forget who you’re talking to.” Peter smiled. “I can hear a lot more than I let on. For example, I’m fairly certain that roasted eel doesn’t agree with your stomach.”
Sophie squirmed, feeling suddenly very uncomfortable. “Moving on,” she said, and she took out The Book of Who. “Who was the Storyguard my mother was afraid of?”
The cover swung open, and the pages flipped past until they settled. Sophie stared at the open book, a jagged edge where the page had been torn out. “No . . .” she said, staring at the page that wasn’t there.
“Who is it?” Peter said. “Who was the Storyguard?”
“I don’t know.” Sophie looked up from the book. “But they also murdered my mother.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TWO SURVIVORS
Inquisitor Prigg stood over the wreckage of the Ivory Tower, a lost library that had once been the jewel of the hinterland empire. He knew of the place, of course—everyone did. But he never considered that he might actually find himself standing at its doors.
With Pyre Day so close, Prigg had not intended to venture this far from town. But when his deputy Knucklemeat had staggered into his office, bloody and tattered, with a story of his escape from the hands of the Quire girl and her as-yet-unnamed rescuer, he knew a personal trip was necessary. Prigg had ordered two dozen of his best men to accompany them to the scene of the crime. He had ridden out on his steed, which had been followed by a windowless carriage with sides of solid iron—the contents of which he dared not leave unsupervised, not even for a day.
“This here’s the spot,” Knucklemeat said as Prigg dismounted his horse at the foot of the castle. “I’ll be expecting the city to reimburse me for my troubles—and that includes a new holster for my guns.”
“If you bring me that girl,” Prigg said, “you will have all the holsters your avaricious heart desires.” He looked out over the smoldering field of quickbramble that had until that afternoon blocked the road. It had taken six of his men half the day to burn a path through the writhing thicket. He consoled himself with the thought that he had perhaps just eradicated the last known quickbramble plant in the world—one could hope, at least.
Prigg and his men entered the castle, which they found in complete shambles. Wild beasts ran freely about the hallways, eating and defecating wherever they saw fit. Pillars and doors and windows throughout the entire structure had been damaged beyond repair. The entire eastern wing—including two bedrooms and a library—appeared to have collapsed altogether, leaving little more than a few animal corpses and a pile of rubble. Strewn throughout the rooms and hallways was a vast assortment of strange goods and artifacts—things that had long ago been outlawed in Bustleburgh.
“It seems our baron had a penchant for nonsense,” Prigg muttered as he picked his way through the wreckage. He gave orders for his men to collect and inventory whatever illegal goods they found—including the beasts, which were to be dosed with ether and corralled in the foyer.
The full scope of Baron Magpie’s turpitude became apparent when they reached the ballroom. The man had apparently been using the space to house a sort of private zoo. Enormous cages were spread throughout the hall—all of them now empty. It seemed that the Quire girl and her accomplice had elected to release these abominations from their confines before fleeing the grounds.
Prigg found the baron in that same room—or what remained of him, at least. His body had been fairly picked over by the escaped animals, leaving scarcely more than his bones and a pair of velvet slippers. “A man who trades in nonsense digs his own grave,” Prigg said as his guards carried the remains past him.
“Well put!” Knucklemeat said, sounding a bit too familiar. “Let’s hope there’s a similar end for those damnable brats who done it—a hearty meal for a pack of wild beasts.”
“Language, Deputy,” Prigg said. “The man who utters vulgarities incriminates only himself.” He continued his tour of the castle, ending in the main foyer, which his soldiers had converted into a base of operations. An enormous pile of illicit goods lay at one end of the room, beside it, a cluster of wild animals, all sedated and chained. “What’s the final count?” he asked the guard who had saluted upon his entrance.
The guard consulted a list. “Two vultures, a rhino-saurus, a glob of singing pudding, some sort of winged donkey, a very large frog, and this.” The man held up a battered birdcage. Inside sat a small creature resembling a cat with hooves. The creature shivered, its wet fur clinging to its tiny body. “We found it in the mouth of that great, ugly octopus thing on the rocks—looks like the monster choked while trying to swallow the little fellow whole.” He rattled the cage. “How’s that for lucky?”
“I wouldn’t call it lucky,” said a small voice within the cage.
The guard cried out in alarm and dropped the cage. “It s-s-speaks!” he stammered.
“Indeed.” Prigg knelt and stared at the wretched little creature, still huddled behind the mangled bars. He narrowed his eyes, noting the way the hair around its snout rather resembled a mustache. “I do believe we’ve met before.”
“Indeed,” the creature said in a mocking tone. “I do believe I had the pleasure of head-butting you in the rump.” He bared his teeth in a grimace.
The guard, who had apparently recovered from his shock, picked up the cage. “You want me to put him with the rest of the beasts, sir?”
Prigg stood. “Not just yet. He is an accomplice of the fugitives. We will keep him for q
uestioning.”
Another guard approached from the hall. “Sir, we found something in the big room. It’s a . . .” He appeared to blush. “You may just want to see for yourself.”
The guard led Prigg and Knucklemeat to a corner of the ballroom that had been buried under a collapsed balcony. The wreckage had since been removed to reveal a large golden cage. Huddled on the floor of the cage was a woman with auburn hair and pale skin. Her dress had been torn up one side to reveal a scandalous glimpse of milky thigh.
“Now, that’s a fine specimen,” Knucklemeat said with a revolting leer.
The woman lifted her head and met Prigg’s gaze. “At last, I am rescued.” She burst into tears.
“That’s quite enough of that.” Prigg removed a handkerchief and tossed it to the floor of the cage. “What are you doing in there?” he asked the woman.
“I am a simple shopkeeper from Bustleburgh.” The woman stood, dabbing her dark eyes with the handkerchief. “The baron kidnapped me and kept me prisoner in this cage. He tortured me, used me as his slave. I am only grateful that you came before I could starve.” Prigg observed that the woman looked far from starvation. She turned her head, letting her auburn hair fall provocatively upon her bare shoulder. “You may call me Ezmerzelda.”
Prigg stepped back. “I know well who you are, Madame Eldritch. You sell drugged tea in Bustleburgh.” He had, in fact, heard that she sold much more in her shop. “I am surprised to find you so far from the safety of the city.”
“No more surprised than myself,” the woman said. “I had given up hope of being rescued, but now you are here.”
Prigg put his hands behind his back and paced the length of the cage. “Forgive me if your story fails to excite my sympathies. That tear in your skirt was not made by tusk or tooth; it was done by your own hand. Your hair is disheveled but not dirty. As for those tears? Well, you would not be the first woman to employ such a tactic on an unsuspecting man.” He allowed himself a small chuckle. “Madame Eldritch, I believe the more likely scenario is that you played a part in all this wickedness, and when the beasts got loose, you realized this cage was your safest bet for survival.” The woman’s face hardened slightly as he said this, which was all the confirmation he needed. “A sound plan but for one unfortunate complication: The collapsed balcony appears to have broken the release mechanism on your cage door, leaving you trapped in earnest.”
The woman gave a smile that looked rather forced. “An impressive deduction.”
“It is common sense, nothing more.” Prigg took back his handkerchief. “If your own actions have led you to this place, I see no need to intervene.” He turned toward his guard. “Leave her.” Prigg and his men started for the door.
“Wait!” the woman cried. “The girl you search for—the girl who did all this—I know who she is.”
“As do I,” Prigg shouted back. “She is a bookseller’s daughter.”
The woman clutched the bars of her cage. “But I know where she is going—my loyal servant Taro is with her now.”
Prigg, despite himself, turned toward her. “Go on.”
The woman raised her eyes to meet his. All traces of the demure victim had vanished—replaced with the spark of a huntress. “Take me with you. And I will lead you straight to her.”
Prigg considered this for a moment. “Very well,” he said, and continued through the foyer toward his horse and carriage. “Lock her up with the cat,” he said to one of his guards. “We leave immediately.”
The guard saluted. “Yes, sir. And the nonsense? There are several very valuable items—jewelry and paintings and such. What shall you have us do with those?”
“We have no need for such things,” Prigg said. “Burn them.”
The man faltered. “What of the animals, sir?”
Prigg eyed the creatures, all huddled together in a corner. “Burn them,” he said. “Burn them all.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE NIXIES of KETTLE BOG
Sophie, Peter, and Taro had traveled nearly two days on the winding river. With every mile, the land became more and more wild and overgrown. The ceiling of fog, which had seemed almost warm at first, had since turned cold and suffocating. What had once been a rushing river was now an ambling slough.
Sophie spent her hours studying the books of Who and What. It was thrilling, finally, to have the ability to compare footnotes between entries of people and objects—of course, she still didn’t know the where and when, but these two were enough, at least, to piece some things together. She soon found herself slipping into the comfortable space of a reader. It was almost as though she had never left her father’s bookshop.
Sophie noticed that Peter had taken to facing toward the Grimmwald as they sailed—the direction of Sir Tode. “Yesterday I could hear the animals from the menagerie crying out above the marshes,” he said, adjusting his grip on the paddle. “Now the sounds are gone.”
Sophie wondered if he had heard Sir Tode’s voice among those cries. “It’s not your fault,” she said, looking up from her books. “Sir Tode knew what he was doing.”
Peter turned toward her, his expression difficult to read behind the blindfold. “If he hadn’t been in that cage . . .”
“The door was jammed,” Sophie said, putting her books aside. “You couldn’t have helped him out even if you wanted to. Not with Eldritch chasing us.”
“It’s not that,” Peter said. “He shouldn’t have been in that cage in the first place.”
“Well, the cage was my idea,” Sophie said. “So if you want to blame anyone, blame me.”
“You’re not listening!” Peter snapped.
Sophie shifted her weight. It was clear that the boy was speaking of something that went beyond what had transpired at the menagerie. “Explain it to me,” she said.
Peter sighed, shaking his head. “Sir Tode wasn’t meant to be like that—cursed in that body. Professor Cake gave us a bottle with a message in it—a message from a hag begging for someone to help her. If we rescued her, she would have surely helped Sir Tode. We had a cure, right in front of us. All we had to do was sail out and find her.”
Sophie recalled what they had told her that night in the bookshop. “Sir Tode said the hag was gone.”
“She was, by the time we got there,” Peter said. “But we didn’t go right away. I wouldn’t let Tode leave.” He sighed again. “I begged him to go on one more adventure instead. And then another after that, and another after that.”
“I don’t understand,” Sophie said. “Why wouldn’t you go find the hag right away?”
Peter shrugged. “Sir Tode is the only friend I’ve ever had. I think I was afraid that if he changed, if he was turned back into a man . . . maybe he wouldn’t need me anymore.” He swallowed. “If we had gone to the island right away, then the hag might still have been there. And Sir Tode would have been cured, and he wouldn’t have been inside that cage.”
Sophie did not know what to say to this. “When we get The Book of Where, we’ll use it to find him.” She placed her hand on his, only for a moment, and then resumed her reading.
The river continued to bleed into the land, becoming ever more shallow. By midafternoon, Sophie could hear rocks and sticks scraping their little boat’s hull, as if trying to run it aground or pull it under.
“We’re stuck,” Peter said after their boat finally stopped in a flat, swampy area that reeked of sulfur and decay. The water was stagnant but for the places where bubbles burst from the steaming surface.
Sophie stared at the bubbling marsh. “Kettle Bog,” she said.
“You’ve heard of this place?” Peter said.
“In old hinterland fables. It’s said those who set foot in the bog never return. Only, I can’t remember why . . .”
“In my experience, those sorts of reports are usually a bit exaggerated,” Peter said. “One thing’s clear, though: These waters are no good for boat travel. We’re going to have to continue on foot.” He slung his burg
le-sack over his shoulder and gingerly hopped to a felled tree nearby. “Come on,” he said, extending his hand for her to grasp. “We should get to firmer ground before we’re sucked under.” He was right; the bog had already begun to pull the boat beneath its greedy surface.
Sophie cinched the harness around her shoulders and secured the books of Who and What into their slots. She took Peter’s hand and followed him onto the tree, which was slick with iridescent orange moss. Taro, as ever, remained close behind her.
The three of them inched along the slick trunk, which began to sink under their weight. Sophie grabbed hold of Peter with both arms as the trunk rolled to one side and they sank into the warm muck. She shrieked as something slithered past her ankle. “Did you feel that?” she said, gripping Peter’s arm. “I think there’s something down there.”
“I suspect there are lots of somethings,” Peter said. “Stay close.” Carefully, they waded through the bubbling bog, but with every step, they sank even deeper. Sophie noticed that the water was unseasonably warm for this time of year. “I think we’re standing on top of a sulfur deposit,” she said, now up to her waist. “That would explain the bubbles—not to mention the smell.”
“Good to know,” Peter said, trying with little success to wade through the mire. He opened his bag and started digging inside.
“No, it’s not good,” Sophie insisted. “A gaseous pocket beneath wet earth creates a silt-trap. We can easily be sucked under.” She tried to pull her foot up but found it firmly caught in the mud.
“Calm down,” Peter said. “You act as if you haven’t seen quicksand before.” He pulled a coil of rope from his bag. “All I have to do is loop this around one of those trees, and we can pull ourselves free.” Using one hand and his teeth, he quickly knotted the end of the rope into a large noose.
Sophie Quire and the Last Storyguard Page 18