Septimus Heap, Book Six: Darke, Page 2

  The Thing regarded him with displeasure. “Apprentice, you will come with me. Or do I have to Fetch you?” Its voice filled the low-ceilinged room with threat.

  Simon decided to go for the drainpipe. He threw open the window, half clambered out and seized the thick black pipe that ran down the rear wall of the Customs House. A howl of anger came after him and, as Simon tried to swing his feet off the window ledge, he felt an irresistible force dragging him back into the room—the Thing had put a Fetch on him.

  Even though Simon knew that there was no resisting a Fetch, he clung desperately onto the pipe while his feet were being pulled so hard that he felt like the rope in a tug-of-war. Suddenly the rusty metal lurking below the drainpipe’s thick black paint came away in his hands, and Simon shot back into the room, pipe and all. He slammed into the bony—yet disgustingly soft—body of the Thing and fell to the floor. Unable to move, Simon lay looking up.

  The Thing smirked down at him. “You will follow me,” it intoned.

  Like a broken puppet, Simon was dragged to his feet. He staggered out of his room and lurched like an automaton down the long, narrow stairs. In front of him glided the Thing. As they emerged onto the quayside, the Thing became no more than an indistinct shadow, so that when Maureen from the Harbor and Dock Pie Shop glanced up from opening the shutters, all she saw was Simon walking stiffly across the quay, heading toward the shadows of Fore Street. Maureen wiped her hand across her eyes. Some dust must have got in them, she thought—everything around Simon looked strangely fuzzy. Maureen waved cheerily but Simon did not respond. She smiled and fastened open the last shutter. He was an odd one, that Simon. Always had his head in some Magyk book or chanting a spell.

  “Pies ready in ten minutes. I’ll save you a veg and bacon one!” she called out, but Simon had vanished into the side streets, and Maureen could once more see clearly across the empty quayside.

  * * *

  When a person is Fetched, there is no stopping, no rest, no respite, until the person has reached the place to which he is Fetched. For a whole day and half a night Simon waded through marshes, scrambled through hedges and stumbled along stony paths. Rain soaked him, winds buffeted him, snow flurries froze him, but he could stop for nothing. Relentlessly on he went until finally, in the cold, gray light of the next day’s dawn, he swum an ice-cold river, hauled himself out, staggered across the early morning dew and climbed up a crumbling wall of ivy. At the very top he was dragged through an attic window and frogmarched to a windowless room. When the door was barred behind him and he was left alone, sprawled on the bare floor, Simon no longer knew or cared where—or who—he was.

  Chapter 2

  Visitors

  Night and a cold drizzle were falling fast when the Port barge drew up at the New Quay, a recently built stone jetty just below Sally Mullin’s Tea and Ale House. Accompanied by assorted children, chickens and bundles, the frazzled passengers rose stiffly from their seats and stumbled down the gangway. Many of them made their way unsteadily along the well-trodden path to the Tea and Ale House to warm themselves by the stove and fill up with Sally’s winter specials: mulled Springo Ale and warm spiced barley cake. Others, longing to get home to a warm fireside, set off on the long trudge up the hill, past the Castle amenity rubbish dump, to the South Gate, which would remain open until midnight.

  Lucy Gringe did not relish the thought of the walk up the hill one little bit, especially when she knew that the Port barge was probably passing by where she was headed. She glanced at the woman sitting beside her. Lucy had spent the first half of the journey trying to avoid her oddly unsettling gaze but, after her neighbor had ventured a tentative question about directions to the Palace—which was where Lucy’s first errand was taking her—they had spent the second half of the journey in animated conversation. The woman now rose wearily to follow the other passengers.

  “Wait a minute!” said Lucy to her. “I’ve got an idea . . . ’Scuse me?” she shouted at the barge boy.

  The barge boy swung around. “Yeah, darlin’?”

  With some effort, Lucy ignored the “darlin’.” “Where are you docking tonight?” she asked.

  “With this North wind blowin’ up, it’ll be Jannit Maarten’s,” he replied. “Why?”

  “Well, I just wondered . . .” Lucy gave the barge boy her best smile. “I just wondered if you could possibly let us off at a landing stage on your way there. It’s so cold tonight. And dark too.” Lucy shivered expressively and looked mournfully up at the barge boy with her big brown eyes. He was lost.

  “’Course we could, darlin’. I’ll tell Skip. Where d’you want to get off?”

  “The Palace Landing Stage, please.”

  The barge boy blinked in surprise. “The Palace? You sure, darlin’?”

  Lucy fought down an urge to yell “Don’t call me darlin’, creep boy!” “Yes, please,” she said. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Nothin’s too much trouble for you, darlin’,” said creep boy, “though I wouldn’t have put you down for the Palace meself.”

  “Oh?” Lucy was not sure how to take this.

  “Yeah. You know that landing stage is haunted, don’t you?”

  Lucy shrugged. “Doesn’t worry me,” she said. “I never see ghosts.”

  The Port barge cast off from the New Quay. It made a U-turn in the wide part of the river, rocking scarily as it cut across the current and the chop of the waves whisked up by the wind. But as soon as the barge faced downstream all became quiet once more and, about ten minutes later, it was gliding to a halt beside the Palace Landing Stage.

  “Here y’are, darlin’,” said the barge boy, throwing a rope around one of the mooring posts. “Have fun.” He winked at Lucy.

  “Thank you,” said Lucy rather primly. She got up and held out her hand to her neighbor. “We’re here,” she said. The woman gave Lucy a grateful smile. She got stiffly to her feet and followed Lucy off the barge.

  The Port barge drew away from the landing stage. “See ya!” yelled the barge boy.

  “Not if I see you first,” Lucy muttered. She turned to her companion, who was gazing at the Palace in amazement. It was indeed a beautiful sight—a long, low building of ancient mellow stone with tall, elegant windows looking out over the well-tended lawns that swept down to the river. From every window, a welcoming candle flickered, making the whole building glimmer magically in the deepening twilight.

  “She lives here?” the woman murmured in a singsong accent.

  Lucy nodded shortly. Anxious to get going, she started purposefully up the wide path that led to the Palace. But her companion was not following. The woman was still on the landing stage, talking to what appeared to be an empty space. Lucy sighed—why did she always pick the weird ones? Reluctant to interrupt the woman’s one-sided conversation—which seemed to be a serious one, for she was now nodding sadly—Lucy carried on, heading toward the lights of the Palace.

  Lucy did not feel good. She was tired and cold and, above all, she was beginning to be anxious about the kind of welcome she would receive at the Palace. She put her hand in her pocket and found Simon’s letters. She drew them out and squinted at the names written in Simon’s large, loopy handwriting: Sarah Heap. Jenna Heap. Septimus Heap. She placed the one addressed to Septimus back in her pocket and kept hold of the ones addressed to Jenna and Sarah. Lucy sighed. All she wanted to do was to run back to Simon and know that it was “all right, Lucy-Lu.” But Simon had asked her to deliver the letters to his mother and sister, and—whatever Sarah Heap thought of her—deliver them she would.

  Lucy’s companion was now hurrying after her.

  “Lucy, I am sorry,” she said. “I have just heard such a sad story from a ghost. It is sad, so very sad. The love of her life—and of her death—has been Banished. By mistake. How can any Wizard make such a mistake? Oh, it is a terrible thing.” The woman shook her head. “Truly terrible.”

  “I suppose that must be Alice Nettles,” said Lucy. “Simo
n said he’d heard that something horrible had happened to Alther.”

  “Yes. Alice and Alther. So very sad . . .”

  Lucy did not have much time for ghosts. The way she saw it, ghosts were dead—it was being with the person you wanted to be with while you were alive that mattered. Which was, she thought, why she was back at the Castle right now, shivering in the bitter north wind that was blowing in off the river, tired and wishing she was wrapped up warmly in bed.

  “Shall we get going?” said Lucy. “I don’t know about you, but I’m frozen.”

  The woman nodded. Tall and thin, her thick woolen cloak wrapped around her against the wind, she stepped carefully, her bright eyes scanning the scene in front of her because, unlike Lucy, she did not see a wide, empty path. For her, the path and the lawns bounding it were full of ghosts: hurrying Palace servants, young princesses playing tag, little page boys, ancient queens wandering through vanished shrubberies, and elderly Palace gardeners wheeling their ghostly wheelbarrows. She went carefully, because the trouble with being a Spirit-Seer was that ghosts did not get out of your way; they saw you as just another ghost—until you Passed Through them. And then, of course, they were horribly offended.

  Unaware of any ghosts at all, Lucy strode up the path at a fast pace, and the ghosts, some of whom were well acquainted with Lucy and her big boots, got smartly out of her way. Lucy soon reached the top path that encircled the Palace and she turned around to check on her companion, who was lagging behind. The oddest sight met her eyes—the woman was dancing up the path on tiptoe, zigzagging to and fro, as if she was taking part in one of the old-fashioned Castle dances—on her own. Lucy shook her head. This did not bode well.

  Eventually the woman—flustered and out of breath—joined her, and Lucy set off without a word. She had decided to take the path that led around the Palace and to head for the main front door rather than risk no one hearing her knock on the multitude of kitchen and side doors.

  The Palace was a long building, and it was a good ten minutes before Lucy and the woman were at last crossing the flat wooden bridge over the decorative Palace moat. As they approached, a small boy pulled open the night door—a little door set into the main double doors.

  “Welcome to the Palace,” piped Barney Pot, resplendent in a gray Palace tunic and red leggings. “Who do you wish to see?”

  Lucy did not have a chance to reply.

  “Barney!” came a lilting voice from inside. “There you are. You must go to bed; you have school tomorrow.”

  Lucy’s companion went pale.

  Barney looked back inside. “But I like doing the door,” he protested. “Please, just five more minutes.”

  “No, Barney. Bed.”

  “Snorri?” The faltering word came from the woman.

  A tall girl with pale blue eyes and long, white-blonde hair stuck her head out of the night door and peered into the dark. She blinked, stared straight past Lucy and gasped. “Mamma!”

  “Snorri . . . oh, Snorri!” cried Alfrún Snorrelssen.

  Snorri Snorrelssen threw herself into the arms of her mother. Lucy smiled wistfully. Maybe, she thought, it was a good omen. Maybe later that night, when she knocked on the door of the North Gate gatehouse, her mother would be just as pleased to see her. Maybe.

  Chapter 3

  Birthday Eve

  But Lucy did not go to the North Gate gatehouse that night—Sarah Heap would not allow it.

  “Lucy, you are soaking wet and exhausted,” Sarah said. “I am not having you wander through the streets at night in that state; you’ll catch your death of cold. You need a long sleep in a nice warm bed—and besides, I want to hear all about Simon. Now let’s find you some supper . . .”

  Lucy gave in gratefully. The relief she felt at Sarah’s welcome made her feel suddenly tearful. She happily allowed herself to be led along the Long Walk with Snorri and Alfrún and sat down beside the fire in Sarah Heap’s little sitting room at the back of the Palace.

  That evening, as flurries of snow blew in from the Port, Sarah Heap’s sitting room was the warmest room in the Palace. Piled on the table were the remains of Sarah’s famous sausage and bean hot pot supper, and now everyone had gathered around the blazing fire, drinking herb tea. Squashed in with Lucy and Sarah were Jenna, Septimus and Nicko Heap, along with Snorri and Alfrún Snorrelssen. Snorri and Alfrún sat close together, quietly talking, while Alfrún kept hold tightly of Snorri’s hand. Nicko sat a little apart from Snorri, talking with Jenna. Septimus, Sarah noticed, was not talking to anyone but was gazing into the fire.

  There was also a menagerie of animals: a large black panther by the name of Ullr, which sat by Alfrún’s feet; Maxie, an ancient, smelly wolfhound who lay steaming gently in front of the fire; and Ethel, a stubbly, featherless duck wearing a new knitted waistcoat. Ethel sat resplendent on Sarah’s lap, nibbling delicately on a piece of sausage. The duck, Jenna noted disapprovingly, was getting fat. She suspected that Sarah had knitted the new waistcoat because the old one had gotten too small. But Sarah loved Ethel so much that Jenna merely admired the red stripes and the green buttons along the back and said nothing about Ethel’s expanding girth.

  Sarah Heap was happy. In her hand she clasped a precious letter from Simon—a letter that she had read and reread and now knew by heart. Sarah had her old Simon back again—the good Simon, the Simon she knew he had always been. And now here she was, planning the party for Jenna’s and Septimus’s fourteenth birthdays. Fourteen was a big milestone, particularly for Jenna as Princess of the Castle, and this year Sarah had at last got her wish: the celebrations for both Jenna’s and Septimus’s birthdays were to be held at the Palace rather than at the Wizard Tower.

  Sarah glanced up at the old clock on the chimneypiece and suppressed a feeling of irritation that Silas was not back yet. Recently Silas had been what he called “busy,” but Sarah did not believe it—she knew Silas well enough to know that he was up to something. She sighed. She wished he were there to share the moment of everyone being together.

  Pushing her thoughts about Silas to one side, Sarah smiled at Lucy, her daughter-in-law-to-be. Having Lucy there made her feel as if Simon was with them too, for there were moments when Lucy echoed Simon’s eager, intense way of talking. One day, thought Sarah, maybe she would have all her children and Silas with her—though how they would all fit into the sitting room she was not sure. But if she ever got the chance she’d give it her best try.

  Septimus too was glancing at the clock, and at 8:15 PM precisely he excused himself from the gathering. Sarah watched her youngest son, grown tall and gangly in recent months, get up from his perch on the arm of her battered sofa and pick his way through people and piles of books toward the door. She saw with pride his purple Senior Apprentice ribbons shimmer on the hem of the sleeves of his green tunic, but what pleased her most was his quiet, easy confidence. She wished he’d comb his hair more often but Septimus was turning into a good-looking young man. She blew her son a kiss. He smiled—slightly strained, Sarah thought—and stepped out of the cozy sitting room into the chill of the Long Walk, the wide passageway that ran along the length of the Palace.

  Jenna Heap slipped out after him.

  “Sep, wait a mo,” she called after Septimus, who was striding off in a hurry.

  Septimus slowed down unwillingly. “I’ve got to be back at nine o’clock,” he said.

  “You’ve got tons of time, then,” said Jenna, catching up and walking along beside him, matching his long strides with smaller, faster ones.

  “Sep,” she said, “you know how I told you last week it was really creepy up by the attic stairs? Well, it still is. In fact, it’s worse. Even Ullr won’t go there. Look, I’ve got the scratches to prove it.” Jenna rolled up her gold-hemmed sleeve to show Septimus a flurry of cat scratches on her wrist. “I carried him to the bottom of the stairs and he totally panicked.”

  Septimus seemed unimpressed. “Ullr’s a Spirit-Seer cat. He’s bound to get spooked sometimes wit
h all the ghosts around here.”

  Jenna was not to be put off. “But it doesn’t feel like ghosts, Sep. Anyway, most of the Palace ghosts Appear to me. I see tons of them.” As if to prove her point, Jenna nodded graciously—a real Princess nod, thought Septimus—at what appeared to him to be thin air. “There. I’ve just seen the three cooks who got poisoned by the jealous housekeeper.”

  “That was nice for you,” said Septimus, speeding up so that Jenna had to trot to keep up with him. They traveled quickly along the Long Walk, moving from the dancing flames of each rushlight into shadows and back into the light of the next.

  “So I’d see if it was ghosts,” Jenna persisted. “And it’s not. In fact, all the ghosts are keeping away from that part of the corridor. Which just goes to show.”

  “To show what?” Septimus said irritably.

  “That there’s something bad up there. And I can’t ask Marcia to check it out because Mum would throw a fit, but you’re almost as good as Marcia now, aren’t you? So please, Sep. Please just come and see.”

  “Can’t Dad do it?”

  “Dad keeps saying he’ll have a look but he doesn’t get round to it. He’s always off somewhere. You know what he’s like.”

  They had reached the large entrance hall, the light from a forest of candles illuminating its elegant flight of stairs and the thick old doors. Barney Pot had at last gone to bed and the entrance hall was empty. Septimus stopped and turned to Jenna. “Look Jen, I’ve got to go. There’s loads I have to do.”

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” Jenna sounded exasperated.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Huh! Not enough to come and check out what’s going on up there.”

  But Septimus wore the closed expression that Jenna had seen so much of over the previous few months. She hated it. It was as if, when she looked into Septimus’s bright green eyes, there was something shielding him from her.