StarChaser

by Angie Sage

  “That’s nice, Morris,” Stanley murmured dozily. “I always thought she left him to take over too young. I’m glad she’s come back to lend a hand.”

  Unwittingly, Marcia was at that moment echoing Stanley’s thoughts. “I sometimes feel I burdened you with all this far too young,” she was saying.

  Sometimes Septimus felt that too. But what was done was done. “You went when you needed to,” he said.

  “But not when you needed me to,” Marcia replied. “Septimus, I am sorry. I was so caught up in my own plans. But now, if you will allow me, we can fight this threat—this UnRaveling—shoulder to shoulder. I won’t leave you to face this alone.” She faltered. “Unless, of course, you would rather I did . . . I mean . . . I don’t want to intrude.”

  Septimus felt as though a great weight had been lifted from him. “Thank you,” he said. “I would like that very much indeed . . . if we could do this together.” Septimus reached inside his tunic and from around his neck he lifted off a lapis amulet with the shape of a dragon incised into it. This was the Akhu Amulet, the symbol and source of much of his power as ExtraOrdinary Wizard. He cradled the amulet in his palm, gazing at the blue stone bound with gold, lying heavy with the weight of his Magyk. “We can’t lose our Magyk,” he said. “I couldn’t bear it if one day this crumbled to dust like Driffa’s ring.”

  “We will not let that happen,” Marcia said. “I promise you, we will not. Now put that amulet back on, Septimus.” Septimus did as he was told. “Let’s go back now,” said Marcia. “We have work to do. Plans to make. Magyk to mend. Together.”

  Septimus blinked a sudden blurriness from his eyes. “I’ve missed you,” he said.

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll soon get fed up with me,” Marcia retorted, finding that her eyes had gone a little fuzzy too.

  Morris watched the pair walk away arm in arm: one resplendent in the purple robes of the office of the ExtraOrdinary Wizard, the other equally impressive in a long, flowing, multicolored cloak and purple pointy shoes that caught the light as she walked. Then the rat looked across to the other side of the Moat at what really interested him—the party in the Infirmary.

  “What is that awful noise?” the old rat in the basket chair grumbled.

  “It’s the party, Da,” Morris said.

  “Ghastly things, parties,” said the old rat. “My tummy’s cold.”

  Morris, remarkably adroit with only one arm, tucked the rug around Stanley’s large stomach and looked longingly across the water. He watched the rowboats heading across the Moat, packed with people. He saw the steady stream of dark figures making their way to the Infirmary from both the Castle and the Forest. He heard the music and laughter grow loud every time the Infirmary door was opened, he saw the blazing lights of the candles, and he sighed. Morris didn’t often wish he were human, but tonight was one of those nights when he did. Humans knew how to have fun.

  PART VII

  A WORM TURNS

  Marissa was looking good and she knew it. She wore a long purple cloak—just to get used to the idea of running the Wizzer, she told herself—and around her brown curly hair was Jenna’s gold circlet, which made her feel surprisingly regal. Tonight was going to be a blast; she knew it. There was good music, plenty of party potions and a great crowd of people. She was going to forget all about the bag of Kraan for the night. Anyway, who needed bodyguards when you had so many friends? Marissa thought, smiling at two handsome young fishermen who had just arrived on the night barge from the Port.

  Marissa took her duties as hostess seriously. She stood in the entrance lobby, greeting the waves of new arrivals as they poured in—scribes, apprentices of all descriptions, the entire staff of the Grot and, best of all, the Knights of Knee, who always made a party go with a bang.

  “Hey, Drammer,” Marissa said as Newt Makken and his younger brother arrived, “It’s way past your bedtime.”

  Drammer grinned sheepishly and sloped off to find something more interesting than FizzFroot to drink. Newt encircled Marissa in a bad-breath bear hug. “Get off, Newt,” Marissa said, pushing him away.

  Newt looked hurt. “Hey, I broke out of the Wizzer just for you. I’m not meant to be here, you know.”

  “No one’s meant to be here, Newt,” Marissa drawled. “That’s the whole point. Now run away and play, why don’t you?”

  Newt sulked off into the shadows.

  The flow of guests had slowed to a few stragglers, and Marissa was casting her eyes over the throng, considering who looked the most interesting, when the door opened and Jo-Jo Heap walked in. Jo-Jo looked good. He wore his Gothyk Grotto black cloak with a certain swagger and had on a new, but artfully scuffed, leather jerkin. Apart from the usual party offering of a bottle, Jo-Jo was also carrying a tiny box wrapped in red paper tied with purple string, which he put into Marissa’s hand.

  “Ooh, Jo-Jo, how sweet,” Marissa trilled. “I’ll open it later.” She turned to put it on a similar pile of offerings, but Jo-Jo grabbed her wrist.

  “No. Now,” he told her. Jo-Jo had decided to try a new approach with Marissa and stop being so nice. To his surprise it seemed to work—obediently, Marissa unwrapped the gift to find a little box covered in green snakeskin.

  Marissa had been expecting a love Charm of some description and was gleefully readying herself to hurl it straight out of the door. But when she opened the box she saw a tiny strip of what looked like thin black leather, forked at one end. She knew at once that was no love Charm. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Snake tongue,” Jo-Jo said in his new terse mode. He grinned. “Reminded me of you.”

  Marissa stared at Jo-Jo in shock. “Oh!” she said lamely.

  What Jo-Jo didn’t say was that he had indeed been intending to give Marissa a love Charm. But in the Charm Library he had come across something that had suddenly felt absolutely right for Marissa. Jo-Jo had enough Magykal schooling to know that where Charms were concerned you listened to your heart, not your head. And so while Rose and Tod were closeted in the Charm Chamber, Jo-Jo had used the automatic checkout service and borrowed the snake tongue. He knew no one would check up on the loan until it became overdue in two weeks’ time. And by then, Jo-Jo thought, who knew what might have happened? For Jo-Jo, who was probably the most intuitive of all the Heap brothers, had a feeling that something big and possibly nasty was brewing in the Wizard Tower.

  Marissa tentatively touched the snake tongue with the tip of a finger. “What does it do?” she whispered.

  Jo-Jo shrugged. “Makes people believe whatever you say.”

  “Wow!” Marissa breathed.

  Jo-Jo grinned. “As long as you have it in your mouth.”

  “Oh, gross,” said Marissa.

  Sticking to his resolution, Jo-Jo said no more. He threw his cloak over his shoulder, showing its new deep blue—and rather expensive—silk lining, walked haughtily past Marissa and disappeared in search of the piper. Jo-Jo had made a flute and he wanted to mark where the holes went.

  Marissa stared after Jo-Jo in stunned amazement. The evening was not turning out quite how she had expected.

  But that was only the start of it.

  SKITTLES

  Marcia and Septimus had retreated to the Pyramid Library—the only place in Septimus’s rooms where Milo’s snores did not reach. They were sitting together at the main desk. In front of them, illuminated by a trio of brightly burning candles, lay a small, tatty book titled Orm Fancier’s Factoids by Francis Fa Oom. The book was handwritten, the paper was fragile, and the writing looped untidily across the page. It was not an easy read. Marcia peered at it through her spectacles, Septimus through his Enlarging Glass. They were looking at the very last chapter, called “Orm Egg Distribution and Frequency.”

  “So . . .” murmured Marcia, running her finger along the closely written lines, “basically, Oom says that Orm eggs were always as rare as hens’ teeth and virtually impossible to find as they were trapped deep within the bedrock. Apparently a group of sor
cerers—of whom he does not approve—spent hundreds of years harvesting them. He reckons there is not even one left.” Marcia took off her spectacles and rubbed her eyes wearily. “Driffa was right.”

  Septimus nodded. “According to Fa Oom.”

  Marcia smiled. “What a silly name. Can you imagine what his Apprentices called him?”

  Septimus chuckled. Marcia made even the worst of situations feel better. He leaned back in his chair and allowed his gaze to travel around the Pyramid Library. He loved its atmosphere at this time of night. In his last year as Marcia’s Apprentice, Septimus had often worked through the night at this very desk. He would breathe in the smell of the old books, secret papers and pamphlets, and emerge in the early hours of the morning heady with Ancient Magyk. Septimus hoped that in a few years time Tod would be doing the same, exploring the most Magykal Library in the world. But if what Driffa had said was true, there would be no library left for Tod to explore, because there would be no Wizard Tower. There would be nothing left but a cloud of dust. Wearily, Septimus closed Orm Fancier’s Factoids and blew out the candles. Then he and Marcia went quietly down the stone steps to their beds.

  Neither slept well. Marcia, sleeping in Septimus’s old room, had a recurring dream that she was dropping giant blue eggs out of Septimus’s window and knocking down Wizard-shaped skittles in the courtyard far below. Septimus fared no better. He dreamed he was rowing across the Moat to the Infirmary party. The water had turned to treacle and there were shark-finned Kraan swimming in it, trying to saw his boat in half. The sawing noise sounding remarkably like Milo’s snores.

  PARTY BAG

  Marissa was losing control of the party. It had begun with a rampage led by Drammer, which had quickly degenerated into a food fight in the corridor. Now there was a full-blown brawl going on in the middle of the ward and already Marissa had heard the sound of breaking glass. To the accompaniment of the ever-increasing beat of the tambours and the wailing of Forest pipes by three excited musicians who were stirring it up, Marissa pushed her way through the throng, her passage helped by well-placed kicks and vicious elbow jabs. “Hey, guys!” she yelled at the top of her voice. “Break it up! Break it up!”

  Her answer was the crash of the nurses’ desk being overturned and the shriek of one of the Knights of Knee, upon whose foot it had landed. Marissa waded in. She pulled Newt Makken off a small Port apprentice, whom he appeared to be strangling, and threw the brawlers apart, yelling, “Stoppit, will you?” But the brawl was acting like a magnet. Anyone with a score to settle was throwing themselves into the fight with enthusiasm, landing their blows at first where they intended and then wherever else they could. Marissa was trying to separate Drammer and a chef from Wizard Sandwiches—both trading wide, swinging punches—when she became aware that someone had taken charge and things were calming down; people were helping others to their feet and slinking sheepishly away. Marissa sent Drammer off with a shove and turned to see who the referee was.

  “Jo-Jo!” she gasped.

  Jo-Jo was pulling a pile of crestfallen Port apprentices to their feet. “You come to a Castle party,” he was telling them, “and you stick to Castle rules. If you want to stay, you behave. Got that?”

  A mixture of nods and groans was the reply.

  “I knew there was going to be trouble as soon as I saw the Portsmen come in,” he growled.

  “Port who?” asked Marissa faintly. She felt quite overwhelmed, although she wasn’t sure why.

  “Portsmen. A gang of apprentices from the Port. The Knights of Knee went down there last summer and trashed their boat. I suppose this was a return match.”

  “The cheek of it!” Marissa said indignantly. She was feeling back on form now that order had returned. Marissa was not good with chaos; she liked to be in control.

  “Could have told you this would happen,” Jo-Jo said gruffly. “Should have had security on the door.”

  “Security?”

  “Yeah. Security.” True to his new persona, Jo-Jo did not elaborate. Thinking it was best to walk away while he was winning, he turned to go. Jo-Jo had spent the whole afternoon rehearsing how to walk away from Marissa, but as he performed his nonchalant turn, the floor moved from under his feet and the next moment he was lying on his back staring up at Marissa’s shocked face. He waited for her to break into a cascade of giggles, but to his surprise she didn’t.

  “Jo-Jo!” Marissa dropped to her knees beside him—then screamed and leaped to her feet. “Ouch-ouch-ouch! That hurt.”

  Jo-Jo got up carefully. “Some idiot’s put ball bearings on the floor,” he said. “That’s fighting dirty.” He picked up one of the offending objects and held it out to Marissa. “Nasty thing. It’s got a lot of Darke on it.”

  “Oh dear,” Marissa said with studied innocence. “Can I see?”

  Jo-Jo held out his hand. In the dip of his palm was what Marissa feared: a red Kraan bead. She swore under her breath.

  “Yeah,” Jo-Jo agreed. “Not nice. I’ll chuck it in the Moat. Are they all like that? I’ll chuck them in too.”

  Very slowly, all the while trying to think how she was going to get the beads back without raising Jo-Jo’s suspicions, Marissa helped gather the Kraan beads together. It was not difficult. Although they had rolled far and wide across the floor, they shone like little red eyes in the candlelight and were easy to spot. Soon other party guests joined in, and to Marissa’s discomfort, it rapidly turned into a game they had all played as children: Hunt the Bug.

  Minutes later both Jo-Jo and Marissa had a handful of nasty little red eyes staring up at them. Drammer, who was trying to get back into favor, helped to right the nurses’ desk and found beneath it the little black leather bag with three beads still inside. Looking very pleased with himself, he handed it to Marissa, saying, “There’s your necklace bag.”

  “Thanks.” Marissa snatched the bag and began to shovel in her stash of Kraan beads. As soon as she finished, Jo-Jo—without saying a word—reached over and took the bag. He was intending merely to add his own haul of beads but as he opened the drawstring to its full extent he saw a rolled up piece of paper tied with a black silk thread. Jo-Jo knew an Incantation when he saw one. Holding the offending scrap of paper between finger and thumb, he held it up, frowning at Marissa. “Where did you get this?” he asked coldly.

  Marissa faltered, shocked by the disapproval in Jo-Jo’s voice. In that brief moment of hesitation, Newt Makken—who for lack of anything better to do had come to harass his little brother—snatched the Incantation from Jo-Jo’s grasp.

  “Makken! Give that back!” Jo-Jo yelled, swinging around to grab it.

  Newt ducked under Jo-Jo’s arm and in a lightning-quick movement he grabbed the bag of Kraan beads too.

  “Give it back!” Marissa screamed.

  “Scumbag!” Jo-Jo added for good measure.

  “Come and get it, Heap boy!” Newt yelled, taking off down the ward, swinging the little bag of beads around his head.

  Marissa grabbed Jo-Jo. “Please. Get them back.” The alarm in Marissa’s eyes sent Jo-Jo after Newt like a rocket. Whatever these beads were, Jo-Jo suspected that Newt was the very worst person to have them.

  The partygoers decided to treat the chase as entertainment. The Forest pipes stopped wailing as the piper began to shout for his man: Jo-Jo Heap. However, the tambour players were all for Newt and began a chant to that effect. Soon rival chants filled the Infirmary: “Newt! Newt!” “Heap! Heap!” as the chase hurtled through the two long wards, leaving a trail of overturned chairs, tables and the occasional bed in its wake.

  Jo-Jo cornered Newt at the end of the ward. Newt leaped onto a bed and jumped up and down like a demented three-year-old, waving the bag of Kraan above his head. “Come and get them, Heap boy! Come and get them!” he yelled.

  Jo-Jo Heap accepted the invitation.

  RUNNING AWAY

  Septimus woke just after dawn with the sudden certainty that it was too dangerous for Tod to use the Ways. He
leaped out of bed, threw a cloak over his pajamas and hurried down the stone steps to the big room with the purple sofa. He found Milo quietly tending the fire, feeding it small twigs as though it were a hungry pet. Milo looked up. “The boss is still asleep,” he said.

  Septimus nodded. They both knew that Marcia was still the boss.

  “Cup of coffee?” Milo asked.

  “When I get back. Won’t be long.” With that Septimus hurried out.

  Two minutes later, Boris Catchpole, doorkeeper, was wondering what was wrong. It wasn’t every day you saw the EOW in his pajamas.

  “Catchpole!” Septimus said.

  “Yes?” Catchpole tried not to bristle. It rankled that someone over whom he once had power of life and death was now able to address him by his surname with impunity.

  “My Apprentice will be leaving soon. Will you tell her I wish to see her before she goes, please?” And then, remembering that Tod did not always take notice of Catchpole’s door instructions, he began to scribble a note.

  “She’s already gone,” Catchpole said. “Shall I tell her when she gets back?”

  “She’s gone?”

  Catchpole made a point of getting back at Septimus in little ways. Tod had actually only left a few minutes beforehand, but Catchpole saw no reason to be entirely accurate. “She left ages ago. With her backpack.” With some satisfaction, he saw Septimus’s expression of dismay. “Running away, was she?” Catchpole asked. “I always thought she was trouble, that one. No manners at all.”

  “Of course she wasn’t running away,” Septimus snapped back. “And you will keep your opinions to yourself, Catchpole, thank you very much.” He turned on his heel and strode away to the stairs.

  Tod however, was still in the courtyard. She was enjoying watching the early-morning Sprites dropping slowly to the ground and trying to catch one for luck. They all eluded her and after some minutes she gave up, stepped into the Hidden arch and began her journey.