by Garth Nix
“We couldn’t save even one,” whispered Lirael. “Not even one.”
Sam didn’t answer. He sat staring past her, out at the moonlit river.
“Come here, Lirael,” said the Dog gently, from her post at the bow. “Help me keep watch.”
Lirael nodded, her lower lip trembling as she tried to keep herself from sobbing. She clambered over the thwarts and threw herself down next to the Dog, and hugged her as hard as she could. The Dog bore this without a word, and said nothing about the tears that spilled off onto her coat.
Eventually, Lirael’s grip loosened, and she slid down. Sleep had claimed her, the kind of sleep that comes only after all strength is exhausted and battles won or lost.
The Dog shifted a little to make Lirael more comfortable and twisted her head to look behind her in a way no normal dog could twist. Sam was asleep, too, curled up in the stern, the tiller moving slightly above his head.
Mogget seemed to be asleep, at his customary post near the mast. But he opened one bright green eye as the Dog looked back.
“I saw it, too,” said Mogget. “On the Greater Dead, that Chlorr.”
“Yes,” said the Dog, her voice troubled. “I trust you will have no trouble remembering where your loyalties lie?”
Mogget didn’t answer. He slowly closed his eye, and a small and secret smile spread across his mouth.
All through the night, the Disreputable Dog sat at the bow, while Lirael tossed and turned beside her. They passed Qyrre in the early, silent hours of the morning, merely a white sail in the distance. Though it had been her original destination, Finder did not try to put in to the dock.
Lirael experienced a mild attack of panic when she awoke to the sound of a waterfall ahead. At this distance, it sounded like the buzz of many insects, and it took her a moment to figure out what it was. Once she did, she had a few anxious moments till she realized that Finder was traveling quite slowly compared to the tree branches, leaves, and other flotsam racing past on either side of them.
“We’re in the channel, approaching Abhorsen’s House,” explained the Dog, as Lirael rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and stretched, in a futile effort to relieve her aches and kinks.
All the deaths of the night before seemed long ago. But not at all like a dream. Lirael knew that the face of the last Southerling, his look of relief as he finally knew he had escaped the Dead, would stay with her forever.
As she stretched, she looked at the huge mass of spray thrown up by the Ratterlin’s fall over the Long Cliffs ahead. The river seemed to disappear into a great cloud that smothered the cliffs and the land beyond in a giant, undulating quilt of white. Then, just for a moment, the mist parted, and she saw a bright tower, its red-tiled, conical roof catching the sun. It looked like a mirage, shimmering in the cloud, but Lirael knew that she had come to Abhorsen’s House at last.
As they drew closer, Lirael saw more red-tiled roofs emerge from the cloud, hinting at other buildings grouped around the tower. But she couldn’t see more, because the whole island the House was built on was surrounded by a whitewashed stone wall that was at least forty feet high. Only the red tiles and some treetops were visible.
She heard Sam come forward from the stern, and he was soon next to her, looking ahead. By unspoken consent, they didn’t talk about what had happened, though the silence was heavy between them.
Finally, desperate to say something, Sam took on the role of a tour guide.
“It doesn’t look it, but the island is larger than a football field. Um, that’s a game I used to play at school, in Ancelstierre. Anyway, the island is about three hundred yards long and a hundred yards wide. There’s a garden and an orchard as well as the House itself—you can just see the blossoms on the peach trees, over on the right. Too early for fruit, though, unfortunately. The peaches here are fantastic, Charter knows why. The House isn’t much compared to the Palace in size, but it is bigger than it looks, and there’s a lot packed into it. Quite a bit different from your Glacier, I guess.”
“I like it already,” said Lirael, smiling, still looking ahead. There was the faint hint of a rainbow in the cloud, arching over the white walls, framing the House with a border of many colors.
“Just as well,” muttered Mogget, as he appeared suddenly at Lirael’s elbow. “Though you should be warned about the cooking.”
“Cooking?” asked the Dog, licking her lips. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing,” said Sam sternly. “The sendings are very good cooks.”
“Do you have sendings for servants?” asked Lirael, who was curious about the difference between the Abhorsen’s life and the Clayr’s. “We do most of the work ourselves at the Glacier. Everyone has to take turns, especially with the cooking, though there are some people who specialize.”
“No one apart from the family ever comes here,” replied Sam. “I mean the extended family—those of the Blood, like the Clayr. And no one has to do anything, really, because there are so many sendings, all eager to help. I think they get bored when the place is empty. Every Abhorsen makes a few sendings, so they kind of multiply. Some are hundreds of years old.”
“Thousands,” said Mogget. “And senile, most of them.”
“Where do we land?” asked Lirael, ignoring Mogget’s mutterings. She couldn’t see any gate or landing spot in the northern wall.
“On the western side,” said Sam, raising his voice to counter the increasing roar of the falls. “We skirt around the island, almost to the waterfall. There’s a landing stage there for the House, and the stepping-stones across to the western tunnel. Look, you can see where the tunnel entrance is, up on the bank.”
He pointed at a narrow ledge halfway up the western riverbank, a grey stone outcrop almost as high as the House. If there was a tunnel entrance there, Lirael couldn’t see it through the mist, and it seemed perilously close to the waterfall.
“You mean there are stepping-stones across that?” exclaimed Lirael, pointing to the edges where the waters rushed over in a torrent that was at least two hundred yards wide, extremely deep and going at a speed Lirael couldn’t even guess at. Worse than that, Sam had told her that the waterfall was more than a thousand feet high. If they were somehow drawn out of the channel, Finder would go over in seconds, and it was a very long way to fall.
“On both sides,” shouted Sam. “They go to the riverbanks, and then there are tunnels that lead down to the bottom of the cliffs. Or you can keep going over the banks and stay on the plateau, if you want.”
Lirael nodded and gulped, looking at the point where the stepping-stones must cross from the House to the western shore. She couldn’t even see them under all the spray and the churning of the water. She hoped she wouldn’t need to, and remembered the Charter-skin that was now safely rolled up in the bag that held The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting, ready to be put on. She could just fly across in the shape of a barking owl, screeching all the way.
A few minutes later, Finder was next to the whitewashed walls. Lirael looked up at them, drawing an imaginary line from the boat’s mast to the top of the walls. Somehow, the walls looked even higher close up, and they had curious marks that even fresh whitewash couldn’t conceal. The sort of stains left by a flood that had reached almost to the top.
Then they were at the wooden landing stage. Finder gently bumped against the heavy canvas fenders that hung there, but any sound from the bump was totally lost in the stomach-vibrating crash of the waterfall. Sam and Lirael quickly unloaded everything, gesturing to make themselves understood. The waterfall was too loud for them to hear even a shout, unless—as Sam demonstrated to Lirael—he was right against her ear, and then it hurt.
When everything was piled up on the landing stage, with Mogget perched on Lirael’s pack and the Dog happily catching spray in her mouth, Lirael kissed Finder’s figurehead on the cheek and pushed the boat off the jetty. She thought she saw the carved face of the woman wink, and her lips curve up in a smile.
“Than
k you,” she mouthed, while Sam bowed at her side, showing his respect. Finder flapped her sail in answer, then swung about and began to move upstream. Sam, watching carefully, noted that the current in the channel had reversed and was moving north, against the flow of the river. Once again, he wondered how it was done and tried to think of how he could get to look at the Charter Stones that were sunk deep in the riverbed below. Perhaps Lirael would teach him how to make an ice-otter Charter-skin—
A touch at his arm broke his reverie, and he turned to pick up his saddlebags and sword. Then he led the way to the gate and pushed it open. As soon as they passed through, the noise of the waterfall practically ceased, so Lirael had to listen carefully to hear even a distant roar. She could hear birds in the trees instead, and many bees buzzing past on their way to the peach blossoms. The mist also parted above and around Abhorsen’s House, for Lirael stood in sunshine, which quickly dried the spray that had fallen on her face and clothes.
There was a red-brick path ahead, bordered by a lawn and a line of shrubs with clumps of odd, stick-shaped yellow flowers. The path led to the front door of the House, which was painted a cheerful sky blue, bright against the whitewashed stone on either side of it. The House itself seemed normal enough. It was mainly one large building of three or four stories, in addition to the tower. It also had some sort of inner courtyard, too, because Lirael could see birds flying in and out. There were many windows, all quite large, and it exuded comfort and welcome. Clearly Abhorsen’s House was not a fortification, relying on means other than architecture for its defense.
Lirael raised her arms to the sun and drank in the clear air, and the faint perfume from the gardens, of flowers and fertile soil and green growing things. She suddenly felt peaceful, and strangely at home, though it was so different from the enclosed tunnels and chambers of the Glacier. Even the gardens in the vast chambers there, with their painted ceilings and Charter-mark suns, could not begin to duplicate the vastness of the blue sky and the true sun.
She exhaled slowly and was about to drop her arms when she saw a small speck high above her. A moment later it was joined by a dark cloud of many somewhat larger things. It took Lirael a few seconds to realize that the smaller speck was a bird that seemed to be diving straight at her, and the larger specks were also birds—or things that flew like birds. At the same time her Death sense twinged, and Sam cried out next to her.
“Gore Crows! They’re after a message-hawk!”
“They’re actually below it,” said the Dog, her head craned back. “It’s trying to dive through!”
They watched anxiously as the message-hawk fell, zigzagging slightly to try to avoid the Gore Crows. But there were hundreds of them, and they spread across a wide area, so the hawk had no choice but to try to smash through where they were fewest. It selected its point and closed its wings, dropping even faster, as if it were a stone thrown straight down.
“If it makes it through, they won’t dare pursue,” said Sam. “Too close to the river, and the House.”
“Go!” whispered Lirael, staring up at the hawk, willing it to go even faster. It seemed to fall for ages, and she realized it must have been very high indeed. Then all of a sudden it hit the black cloud, and there was an explosion of feathers and Gore Crows hurtling in all directions, while still more flew in. Lirael held her breath. The hawk didn’t re-appear. Still the Gore Crows flew in, till there were so many in a small area that they began to collide, and black, broken bodies began to fall.
“They got it,” said Sam slowly. Then he shouted. A small brown bird suddenly dropped out of the swirling mass of Gore Crows. This time it fell seemingly out of control, lacking the fierce direction and purpose they’d seen before. A few Gore Crows broke off to pursue it, but they had gone only a little way before they pulled up and sheered off, repelled by the force of the river and the protective magics of the House.
The hawk fell further, as if it were dead or stunned. But only forty or fifty feet above the garden, it suddenly spread its wings, breaking its fall just enough to swoop in and land at Lirael’s feet. It lay there, feathered breast panting, and the marks of the Gore Crows’ attacks obvious in its tattered plumage and bleeding head. But its yellow eyes were still lively, and it hopped easily enough onto Sam’s wrist when he bent down and offered it a place on the cuff of his shirt.
“Message for Prince Sameth,” it said, in a voice that was not any bird’s. “Message.”
“Yes, yes,” said Sam soothingly, gently stroking its feathers back into place. “I am Prince Sameth. Tell me.”
The bird cocked its head to one side and opened its beak. Lirael saw the hint of Charter marks there, and she suddenly understood that the bird carried a spell inside it, a spell that was probably cast upon it while it was still in its egg, to grow as it grew.
“Sameth, you idiot, I hope this finds you at the House,” said the message-hawk, its voice changing again. Now it seemed to be a woman. From the tone of voice and the expression on Sam’s face, Lirael guessed that it was his sister, Ellimere.
“Father and Mother are still in Ancelstierre. There is greater trouble there than they feared. Corolini is definitely under the influence of someone from the Old Kingdom, and his Our Country Party grows more influential in the Moot. More and more refugees are being moved nearer the Wall. There are also reports of Dead creatures all along the Ratterlin’s western shores. I am calling up the Trained Bands and will be marching south to Barhedrin with them and the Guard within two weeks, to try to prevent any crossings. I don’t know where you are, but Father says it is essential that you find Nicholas Sayre and return him to Ancelstierre at once, as Corolini claims we have kidnapped him to use as a hostage to influence the Chief Minister. Mother sends her love. I hope you can do something really useful for a change—”
The voice suddenly stopped, having reached the limit of the message-hawk’s rather tiny mind. The bird made a peeping sound and started to preen itself.
“Well, let’s go in and get cleaned up,” said Sam slowly, though he kept staring at the hawk as if it might speak again. “The sendings will look after you, Lirael. I guess we should talk about everything at dinner tonight?”
“Dinner!” exclaimed Lirael. “We’d better talk about it before then. It sounds like we should be off again straightaway.”
“But we only just got here—”
“Yes,” agreed Lirael. “But there’re the Southerlings, and your friend Nicholas is in danger. It may be that every hour counts.”
“Particularly since whoever controls Chlorr and the other Dead knows we’re here,” growled the Dog. “We must move quickly before we are besieged.”
Sam didn’t answer for a moment. “Okay,” he said quickly. “I’ll meet you for lunch in an hour, and we can . . . uh . . . work out what to do next.”
He stalked off ahead, his limp suddenly becoming noticeably worse, and pushed the front door open. Lirael followed more slowly, her hand loosely draped over the Dog’s back. Mogget walked next to them for a few paces, then used the Dog’s back to springboard himself onto Lirael’s shoulder. She jumped as he landed, but relaxed as she realized he had sheathed his claws. The little cat carefully draped himself around her neck and then seemed to go to sleep.
“I’m so tired,” Lirael said as they stepped over the threshold. “But we really can’t wait, can we?”
“No,” growled the Dog as she looked around the entrance hall, sniffing. There was no sign of Sam, but a sending was retreating with the message-hawk on its gloved hand, and two other sendings were waiting at the foot of the main staircase. They wore long habits of light cream, with deep cowls covering their heads, hiding their lack of faces. Only their hands were visible, pale ghostly hands made of Charter marks, which occasionally sparkled as they moved.
One came forward and bowed deeply to Lirael, then beckoned to her to follow. The other went straight to the Disreputable Dog and took her by the collar. No words were spoken, but both the Dog and Mogget seemed to gues
s the sending’s intentions. Mogget, despite appearing to be asleep, was the first to react. He leapt from Lirael’s neck and ran through a cat door under the stairs, displaying a speed and liveliness Lirael hadn’t seen before. The Dog was either less quick on the uptake or was less practiced in evading the attentions of the sendings of Abhorsen’s House.
“A bath!” she yelped in indignation. “I’m not having a bath! I swam in the river only yesterday. I don’t need a bath!”
“Yes you do,” said Lirael, wrinkling her nose. She looked at the sending and added, “Please make sure she has one. With soap. And scrubbing.”
“Can I at least have a bone afterwards?” asked the downcast Dog, looking back with pleading eyes as the sending led her away. Anyone would think she was going to prison, or worse, Lirael thought. But she couldn’t help herself running over to kiss the hound on the nose.
“Of course you can have a bone, and a big lunch as well. I’m going to have a bath, too.”
“It’s different for dogs,” said the Dog mournfully, as the sending opened a door to the inside courtyard. “We just don’t like baths!”
“I do, though,” whispered Lirael, looking down at her sweat-stained clothing and running her fingers through her dirty hair. For the first time she noticed that there was blood on her as well. The blood of innocents. “A bath and clean clothes. That’s what I need.”
The sending bowed again and led her to the stairs. Lirael followed obediently, enjoying the different creaks in each step as they climbed. For the next hour, she thought, I will forget about everything.
But even as she followed the sending, she was thinking of the Southerlings who had tried so hard to escape. Escape the pit where their fellows had been killed and forced into servitude. The pit she had seen, with Nicholas standing alone on a hill of spoil, while a necromancer and his lightning-blackened corpses labored to dig up something that Lirael was sure should never again see the light of day.
