Lirael

by Garth Nix

  Sameth shook his head, feeling something not exactly as positive as relief pass through him. Mogget was a servant of the Abhorsen, but he was also a Free Magic being of ancient power. The red collar he wore, engrained with Charter marks, and the miniature bell that hung from it, were the visible signs of the power that bound him. Once it had been Saraneth, the Binder, that rang on that collar. Since the defeat of Kerrigor, the bell that bound Mogget was a tiny Ranna. Ranna the Sleepbringer, the first of the seven bells.

  Sameth had hardly ever spoken to Mogget, for the strange cat-being had been awake only once when Sam was at Abhorsen’s House, and that had been ten years before. As on the more recent occasion, he’d woken just long enough to steal Touchstone’s fresh-caught salmon, and had addressed few words to the boy of seven who had stared incredulously as the “always sleeping” cat removed a fish as large as itself from a silver platter.

  “I really don’t understand,” mumbled Sameth as he gingerly lowered himself off Sprout’s back. “Did Mother send you to look for me? How did she wake you up?”

  “The Abhorsen,” replied Mogget, between bouts of licking his paw in a rather stately fashion, “had nothing directly to do with it. Having been associated with the family for so long, I am simply aware of when my services are required. For example, when a new set of bells appears, suggesting that an Abhorsen-in-Waiting is ready to come into his inheritance. Having woken, I simply followed the bells.

  “But the return of Cassiel’s bells did not waken me,” continued Mogget, switching to his other paw. “I was already awake. Something is happening in the Kingdom. Things long dormant are stirring, or being woken, and the ripples of their waking have spread to Abhorsen’s House, for whatever wakes threatens the Abhorsen—”

  “Do you know what it is exactly?” Sam interrupted anxiously. “Mother said she feared some ancient evil was planning terrible things. I had thought it might be Kerrigor.”

  “Your uncle Rogir?” replied Mogget, as if answering a question about some slightly eccentric relative rather than the fearful Greater Dead Adept that Kerrigor had ultimately become. “Ranna holds him tighter than she does me. He sleeps in the deepest cellar of Abhorsen’s House. And there he will sleep till the end of time.”

  “Ah,” sighed Sam, relieved.

  “Unless whatever is stirring wakes him up as well,” Mogget added thoughtfully. “Now tell me why my leisurely journey to Belisaere and its justly famous fish markets has been suddenly interrupted by a side trip to a forest. Where do you think you’re going, and why are you going there?”

  “I’m going to find my friend Nicholas,” explained Sam, though he felt Mogget’s green eyes boring into him, seeking out the deeper reasons that he continued to hide from him-self. Avoiding that gaze, he pushed together a small pyramid of twigs and dried leaves, and lit it with a friction match struck against his boot.

  “And who is Nicholas?” asked Mogget.

  “He’s an Ancelstierran, a friend of mine from school. I’m worried because he has no idea what it’s really like over here. He doesn’t even believe in Charter Magic—or any other magic, for that matter,” said Sam, as he added some larger sticks to the fire. “He thinks everything can be explained scientifically, the same way Ancelstierran things work. Even after the Dead attacked us near the Perimeter, he still wouldn’t accept that there isn’t some explanation other than magic. He’s very stubborn. Once he decides something is just so, he won’t change his mind unless you can prove it with mathematics or something he accepts. And he’s important in Ancelstierre, because he’s the Chief Minister’s nephew. I mean, you probably know that Mother and Dad are going to negotiate—”

  “Where is this Nicholas?” interrupted Mogget, hooding his eyes. Sameth could see the flames reflected in them for a moment before the lids closed, and he shivered. In the eyes of some Dead creatures, those flames would not be a reflection.

  “He was supposed to wait for me to meet him at the Wall, but he’s already crossed. At least that’s what he said in his letter. He hired a guide, and he’s going to look for some old legend called the Lightning Trap on the way to Belisaere,” continued Sameth, feeding a larger branch into the fire. “I don’t know what that is, or how he heard about it, but apparently it’s somewhere near Edge. And of course that’s where Mother and Dad think the Enemy is.”

  His voice trailed off as he realized that Mogget didn’t seem to be listening.

  “The Lightning Trap, near the Red Lake,” muttered Mogget, his eyes closing to narrow slits of darkness. “The King and the Abhorsen in Ancelstierre, trying to stop a great multitude going to their deaths. A friend of the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, a Prince of sorts himself on the other side of the Wall. The Clayr Sightless, save for visions of total ruin . . . This does not bode well, and the connections cannot be purely coincidence. The Lightning Trap. I have not heard that name precisely, but something stirs. . . . sleep grips and dulls my memory. . . .”

  Mogget’s voice had grown softer as he spoke, drifting into something like a growl. Sam waited for the cat to say something more, then realized that the growl had become a snore. Mogget was asleep.

  Shivering—but not with cold—Sam put another branch in the fire and was comforted by the flare of friendly light. It had stopped raining, or never got properly started. Just a bit of spitting and a slight drop in temperature. But this was not good news to Sam, who would have preferred to be enduring heavy rain. The last few days had been unseasonably warm for the time of year, with summer heat in late spring, and teasing rain that had never quite developed into a real storm. That meant the spring floods would be sinking early. And the Dead would roam further afield, not confined by running water.

  He looked at Mogget again and was startled to see one bright eye watching him, sparkling in the firelight, while the other eye was firmly closed.

  “How were you wounded?” purred the cat, voice low, words matching the crackle of the fire. He sounded as if he already knew the answer, but wanted to confirm something.

  Sam blushed and hung his head, hands unconsciously linking in an attitude of prayer.

  “I got in a fight with two constables. They thought I was a necromancer. The bells . . .” His voice trailed off, and he gulped. Mogget kept staring at him with that one sardonic eye, obviously waiting to hear more.

  “I killed them,” whispered Sam. “A Death-spell.”

  There was a long silence. Mogget opened his other eye and yawned, pink mouth revealing sharp, ever-so-white teeth.

  “Idiot. Worse than your father. Guilt, guilt, guilt,” he said, mid yawn. “You didn’t kill them.”

  “What!” exclaimed Sam.

  “You can’t have killed them,” replied Mogget, turning around several times to knead the leaves into a more comfortable bed. “They’re royal servants, sworn to the King. They carry his protection, even from one of his wayward children. Mind you, any other innocents about would have been slain. Very clumsy of you, to use that spell.”

  “I didn’t think,” replied Sam woodenly. He was enormously relieved that he wasn’t a murderer. Now he could feel angry at Mogget for making him feel like a foolish schoolboy.

  “Obviously,” agreed Mogget. “And you haven’t started thinking, either. If they’d died, you would have felt it. You’re the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, Charter help us.”

  Sam bit back an angry reply as he realized that the cat was correct. He hadn’t felt the constables die. Mogget kept watching him, his eyes still slitted, apparently viewing Sam with deep suspicion.

  “Coils within coils,” murmured the cat. “Fleas upon fleas, idiots begetting idiots—”

  “What?”

  “Mmm, just thinking,” whispered Mogget. “You should try it sometimes. Wake me in the morning. It may be quite difficult.”

  “Yes, Sire,” said Sam, mustering as much sarcasm as possible. It had no effect upon Mogget, who now seemed to be really asleep.

  “I always wondered why Dad said you were too big for your boots,”
Sam added, straightening his leg out in front of him and checking the bandage. He didn’t add that when he had been seven years old and newly at school in Ancelstierre, he had pointed to an illustration from “Puss in Boots” and loudly repeated something his father had once said to Sabriel: “That bloody cat of yours is too big for his boots.”

  It had also been the first time he’d worn the dunce cap and stood in the corner. “Bloody” was not in the accepted vocabulary for the young gentlemen of Thorne Preparatory School.

  Mogget didn’t reply. Sam poked his tongue out at him, then dragged a half-rotted stump onto the fire, hopping on his good leg. The stump would burn till dawn, but just in case, he broke up some deadfall branches and laid them close by.

  Then he lay down himself, with his sword under his hand and Sprout’s saddle under his head. It was a warm night, so he didn’t need his cloak or Sprout’s odorous saddle blanket. Sprout herself dozed nearby, hobbled to prevent her starting off on her own nervous adventures. Mogget slept at Sam’s side, more like a hunting dog than a cat.

  For a few moments Sam thought about staying awake to keep watch, but he didn’t have the strength to keep his eyes open. Besides, they were in the heartland of the Kingdom, close to Belisaere. It had been safe here for the last decade at least. What could possibly trouble them?

  Many things, Sam thought, as sleep battled with his awareness of all the subtle sounds of the night forest. He was deeply troubled by Mogget’s enigmatic words, and was still cataloguing potential horrors and matching them to sounds when exhaustion overcame him and he fell asleep.

  He awoke to the touch of sunlight on his face, filtered through the canopy of trees. The fire continued to smolder, smoke meandering about till he sat up, when it changed direction and blew across his face.

  Mogget was still sleeping, now curled up into a tight white ball, almost buried in the leaves.

  Sam yawned and tried to stand up. He’d forgotten about his leg, which had stiffened so much that he promptly fell over, letting out a shriek of pain. That startled Sprout, who jumped as far as her hobbles allowed her and rolled her eyes. Sam muttered soothing words at her while he used a hefty sapling to haul himself upright.

  Mogget didn’t wake then or later, sleeping on while Sam finished re-dressing his wound and cast a small Charter-spell to dull the pain and keep infection at bay. The cat stayed asleep even when Sam got out some bread and beef for a not very satisfactory breakfast.

  After he’d eaten, Sam brushed Sprout and then saddled up. With nothing left to do but cover the remnants of the fire, he decided it was time to endure more of Mogget’s insults.

  “Mogget! Wake up!”

  The cat didn’t stir. Sam leaned down closer and shouted, “Wake up!” again, but Mogget didn’t even twitch an ear.

  Finally, he reached out and shook the little cat gently behind the collar. Aside from his feeling the buzz and interplay of Free and Charter Magic, nothing happened. Mogget slept on.

  “What am I supposed to do with you?” asked Sam, looking down at him. This whole adventure/rescue business was getting out of hand. It was only his third day out of Belisaere, and he was already off the high road, wounded, and in the company of a strange and potentially extremely dangerous Free Magic construct. His question dredged up another one he’d been trying to avoid: What was he going to do now himself?

  He didn’t expect an answer to either question, but after a moment, a muffled reply came from the apparently still sleeping cat.

  “Put me in a saddlebag. Wake me up when you find some decent food. Preferably fish.”

  “All right,” replied Sam with a shrug. Picking up the cat without moving his wounded leg proved difficult, but eventually he managed it. Cradling Mogget in one forearm, he delicately transferred him to the left saddlebag, after checking that it wasn’t the one with the bells and The Book of the Dead. He didn’t like the idea of all three being put together, though he knew no reason why they shouldn’t be.

  Eventually Mogget was safely installed, with just his head poking out of the bag.

  “I’m going to ride west through this small forest, then across the open country to the Sindlewood,” explained Sam as he turned the stirrup and put his boot through, ready to mount. “We’ll go through the Sindlewood to the Ratterlin, then follow it south till we can get a boat to take us to Qyrre. From there it shouldn’t take long to get to Edge, and hopefully we’ll find Nick straightaway. Does that sound like a good plan?”

  Mogget didn’t answer.

  “So a day or so in this forest,” continued Sam as he mustered his strength to swing up and over. He liked talking about his plans out loud—it made them seem more real and sensible. Particularly when Mogget was asleep and couldn’t criticize them. “When we come out, we’re bound to find a village, or a charcoal burner’s camp or something. They’ll sell us whatever we need before we cross the Sindlewood. There’re probably woodcutters or people like that there, too.”

  He stopped talking as he mounted up, suppressing a cry of pain. His injured leg was feeling better than the day before, but not by much. And he felt a bit dizzy now, almost lightheaded. He’d have to be careful.

  “By the way,” he said, clicking Sprout into a walk, “last night you seemed to know something about this Lightning Trap Nick has gone to look for. You didn’t like the sound of it, but you fell asleep before saying anything else. I was wondering if it had anything to do with the necromancer—”

  “Necromancer?” came the immediate, yowled reply. Mogget erupted out of the saddlebag and crouched in front of Sam, looking in every direction, his fur standing on end.

  “Um, not here. I was just saying that you started to talk about the Lightning Trap, and I wondered if it had to do with Chlorr of the Mask, or the other necromancer, the one . . . the one I fought.”

  “Humph,” snorted Mogget darkly, subsiding back into the saddlebag.

  “Well, tell me something!” demanded Sam. “You can’t just sleep all day!”

  “Can’t I?” asked Mogget. “I could sleep all year. Particularly since I have no fish, which I note you have failed to procure.”

  “So what is the Lightning Trap?” prompted Sam, pulling lightly on the reins to direct Sprout towards a more westerly and well-traveled path.

  “I don’t know,” Mogget said softly. “But I mislike the sound of it. A Lightning Trap. A gatherer of lightning? Surely it cannot be—”

  “What?” asked Sam.

  “It is probably only a coincidence,” replied Mogget heavily, his eyes closing once more. “Perhaps your friend does only go to see a place where lightning strikes more commonly than it should. But there are powers working here, powers that hate everything of the Charter, Blood, and Stone. I smell plots and long-laid plans, Sameth. I do not like it at all.”

  “So what should we do?” Sam asked anxiously.

  “We must find your friend Nick,” whispered Mogget as he drifted back into sleep. “Before he finds . . . whatever it is that he seeks.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “When the Dead Do Walk, Seek Water’s Run”

  Goaded on by Mogget’s alarming presentiment, Sam pressed himself and Sprout hard—so they left the small, unnamed forest earlier than expected, on the evening of the first day, and began to cross the rolling green hills of the farmland beyond. This was part of the Middle Lands of the Old Kingdom, a wide belt of small villages, farm steadings, and sheep, stretching west across the country almost as far as Estwael and Olmond. Apart from Sindle to the north, there were no towns until Yanyl, twenty leagues past the western shore of the Ratterlin. Largely depopulated during the Interregnum, the area had recovered quickly during Touchstone’s reign, but there were still far fewer people than in the heyday of the Kingdom.

  Since his former disguise was now a liability, Sam removed the Charter-spell that disguised him as a Traveler and resumed his normal appearance. Sprout was already disguised by the mud on her legs and her very ordinary looks. In his sweaty, dirt-stai
ned clothes, it was hard to tell what Sam looked like, anyway. He had a story ready, should he be asked. He would say he was the younger son of a Belisaere merchant’s guard captain, traveling from the north to a cousin near Chasel, who would employ him as a retainer.

  He also re-bound his wound and managed to slip on his spare trousers, so as not to show an obviously wounded, blood-stained leg. His limp he could not disguise, unlike his hat, which suffered the indignity of having its brim cut in half, rendering it both less shady and less distinctive.

  Soon after leaving the forest, they entered a village, or a hamlet, really, since it boasted only seven houses. There was a Charter Stone nearby, though. Sam could feel it, somewhere behind the houses. He was tempted to find it and use it to help him cast another, stronger healing spell, but the villagers would surely notice him then.

  The place lacked an inn. Though a comfortable bed was beyond hope, he did manage to buy some almost-fresh bread, a freshly cooked rabbit, and several small, sweet apples from a woman who was taking a cartload of fair-day purchases home to her farm.

  Mogget slept through this transaction, hidden under the loosely tied flap of the saddlebag, which was just as well. Sam didn’t know how he would even begin to explain why a white cat rode with him. It was better not to tempt interest.

  Sam kept on riding till it was too dark to see and Sprout wandered into the mud on either side of what was supposed to be a road. He conjured a small Charter light, and they found an open-sided hayrick in which to take shelter. Mogget slept on, oblivious to the removal of the saddlebags and the scraping of at least some of the mud from man and horse.

  Sam tried to wake him, to learn more about the Lightning Trap. But the bell that bound Mogget worked too well, its sleepy chime sounding whenever the cat moved as if to wake up. The miniature Ranna made even Sam weary when he leaned too close, so he fell asleep next to the cat in a most uncomfortable position.