by Garth Nix
‘Which is the centre of the universe,’ said Leaf. ‘At least that’s what Arthur said. My parents’d freak if they knew it was like this.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘They think there’s some big tree at the centre of the universe, with little branches going off everywhere. And animals living in harmony and being nice to each other and everything.’
‘It sounds rather pleasant,’ said Monckton. ‘If only it were so. Now, I must be getting back to my ship. I shall stop off on the way and inform Captain Swell that I shall be your counsel. I imagine the court will sit anytime within the next few days.’
‘The next few days!’ exclaimed Leaf. ‘They haven’t given me anything to eat or drink. I could starve or die of thirst!’
‘Not in the House,’ said Monckton. ‘You may get hungry and thirsty, but you won’t die from it.’
‘So you’re just going to leave me here chained up? That’s it? To wait for the court or whatever?’
‘Yes,’ said Monckton. ‘You have it exactly. A pleasure doing business with you. Good-bye.’
‘Wait!’ shrieked Leaf. But the Rat was gone. Arthur caught a flash of his tail as he left the mirror’s field of view.
‘Wait! You can’t just leave me! What if the ship sinks —’
Leaf’s shout was suddenly cut off and the mirror flickered between Leaf’s situation and Arthur’s face in the lantern light, before settling on the latter. Arthur felt a wave of nausea at the sudden change of perception, but that was banished in an instant as Sunscorch clapped him on the shoulder and whispered, ‘Arthur! Get ready, lad. There’s something coming in from the sea!’
Arthur blinked, stood up, and hurriedly put the mirror and shell in the pockets of his dressing gown. That reminded him briefly that he really needed to change into something more sensible, the thought only lasting for a second before it was gone.
‘What’s coming in from the sea?’
‘Dunno,’ replied Sunscorch. ‘Lizard saw a light far off. I’ve seen it too. It’s getting closer. Could be the Shiver, though why they’d show a light I don’t know. Here, take this knife.’
Sunscorch had a cutlass at his belt, Arthur saw. He took the long knife the Denizen offered him, still in its sheath, and tried to fasten it to his dressing-gown belt. Sunscorch shook his head.
‘That won’t serve. Come on, back to the Captain’s tent. Ichabod can find you some decent slops.’
‘Slops? I’m not hungry, particularly for something called —’ ‘Slops is clothes. Come on. We haven’t much time.’
The camp was quite different now, Arthur saw as he followed Sunscorch over to Catapillow’s tent. The Denizens were all up and getting ready for a fight. They appeared more confident and better organised than they’d been at sea.
‘Landlubbers,’ whispered Sunscorch as they passed a group of Denizens checking over their crossbows. ‘They’ll put up a better fight here than on any deck. Ichabod! Help Lord Arthur into some shipshape clothes!’
‘Aye, aye!’ called Ichabod. He came over and gave Arthur a very low bow. ‘Is there anything in particular milord requires?’
‘Don’t waste time!’ instructed Sunscorch. ‘Give him whatever fits and be quick about it. I’m off to the guns. Arthur, join me there when you’re ready.’
Ichabod sniffed.
‘Really, he has no idea the difficulties one has maintaining a proper standard of dress.’
He looked Arthur up and down, walked around him, and wrote some figures down in a small notebook. Then he indicated the standing screen with the nautical pictures in the corner of the tent. Arthur had last seen it in Catapillow’s impossible room aboard the Moth.
‘If you would care to stand behind this screen, milord, I shall endeavour to present a number of articles of attire that may approach some level of suitability for one of your most eminent position.’
Arthur went behind the screen. Almost immediately, Ichabod handed him a huge pile of clothes.
‘Undergarments. Choice of three shirts. Collars, choice of four. Neckties, choice of six. Waistcoat, choice of three. Breeches, choice of three. Stockings, choice of five. Shoes or boots?’
‘Uh, I don’t need any. My slippers are Immaterial Boots.’
‘Sea-duty belt or ceremonial?’
‘Sea duty, I think . . .’
Ichabod continued to ask questions, handing Arthur an item of clothing or equipment every few seconds. Finally he fell silent, and Arthur quickly got undressed and put on his new clothes. Surprisingly, everything fit him perfectly. Arthur hadn’t deliberately chosen any particular combination, but when he was mostly dressed he found that he had on pretty much the same uniform as Catapillow. A blue coat over a white shirt and blue waistcoat with white breeches.
As Arthur had half-expected, as soon as he changed clothes his Immaterial Boots transformed from hospital slippers into knee-high boots, the left one wider in the leg to accommodate his crab-armour cast. Arthur thought for a moment, then slipped the Atlas and Wednesday’s invitation down inside his right boot and the shell and mirror down the left boot. Immaterial Boots were proof against water, as they were to almost everything, and they would keep these articles safe and dry.
‘I don’t know what to do with this collar,’ Arthur said a few minutes later. The collar was separate from the shirt and he couldn’t figure it out.
‘Allow me,’ said Ichabod. He quickly stepped in and fastened Arthur’s collar. Before the boy could protest, Ichabod had wrapped a red cloth around his neck and tied it as a necktie as well. ‘Arms up, sir, for the belt.’
A broad leather belt seemed to be the last thing to put on, but when it was buckled up and Arthur tried to take a step out, Ichabod held up his hand and gave a slight bow. ‘Your sword, sir. One mustn’t venture into a prospective battle without one’s sword.’
‘I suppose, er, one mustn’t,’ repeated Arthur.
I’m even starting to sound like Catapillow, he thought. I hope I don’t turn into someone like him. I’d rather be like Sunscorch. Someone who gets things done.
Ichabod picked up a scabbarded sword from the floor and fastened it to Arthur’s belt on his left hip. At the same time, Arthur tied the knife he’d been given by Sunscorch onto the other hip.
‘This is a naval pattern sword, reduced in length and weight by the armourer specifically for your lordship,’ said Ichabod. He stood up and saw Sunscorch’s knife, his mouth twisting a little in distaste. ‘If I may say, milord, the knife does little for the ensemble. Perhaps if you allow me —’
‘I want to keep the knife,’ Arthur said quickly. ‘And I have to go and join Mister Sunscorch now. Thanks for your help, Ichabod. I don’t know how you got the clothes my size so quickly.’
‘Oh, I cut them down from the Captain’s and Mister Concort’s best while you were off with Doctor Scamandros,’ said Ichabod proudly. ‘Then a few minor tweaks were all that was required, as I have a very good eye, even if I say so myself. “Always anticipate!” That’s the motto of the true gentleman’s gentleman!’
‘Um, thanks,’ muttered Arthur. He hoped Catapillow and Concort wouldn’t mind their best clothes getting cut down. ‘Thanks again.’
‘And should your lordship be wounded in the forthcoming action, be assured that I have applied my motto to my other profession,’ said Ichabod.
‘What?’
‘Surgeon’s Mate,’ said Ichabod. ‘Or as the extremely vulgar call it, Loblolly Boy. I assist Doctor Scamandros. We have never had to operate upon a mortal, but I have all my equipment ready. Knives, saws, drills — all newly sharpened!’
‘Great!’ said Arthur, faking a cheerfulness he didn’t feel. ‘Well done! Keep up the good work!’
He hurried away before Ichabod had a chance to show him any newly sharpened surgeon’s tools. He was halfway through the camp to where the two cannons were pointing out to sea when he heard the sudden clang and clatter of the ship’s bell, and Sunscorch’s bellow.
‘Stand to
your guns! Make ready your crossbows! Cutlasses and boarding pikes to the tidemark!’
Thirteen
ARTHUR BROKE INTO a limping, partly rolling run, joining a dangerous crowd of cutlass- and pike-wielding Denizens heading towards the sea. Two of the Moth’s cannons had been taken off the ship and emplaced there, facing the waves.
Near the guns, the crowd split to either side of the emplacement, while Arthur stopped next to Sunscorch and one of the cannons. The weapon didn’t look too sturdy or safe to Arthur. The black iron of the long barrel was pitted and rough and its wooden carriage was splintered and cracked, with uneven wooden wheels. Both cannons were stationed on a kind of wickerwork carpet laid over the sand, and that didn’t look very solid either.
‘Stand away from the gun,’ warned Sunscorch. ‘She’ll buck when she fires. Break your other leg or your back if you’re behind.’
Arthur hastily walked over to Sunscorch’s right, putting the large Denizen between him and the guns.
‘Can you see them yet?’ Arthur asked as he peered into the darkness. Apart from the lanterns farther up the beach and the glow from the gunner’s slow matches — smouldering lengths of what looked like big fat shoelaces — there was no other light. Or was there? Arthur shaded his face with his hands and squinted to get a proper look straight ahead.
‘There is a faint glow in the distance, isn’t there?’
‘Sure enough,’ said Sunscorch. ‘But it’s too low in the water to be a ship. And it’s moving too fast to be a raft or a longboat or suchlike. I can’t fathom it, myself. Unless it’s those Rats. . .’
‘Rats?’ asked Arthur. ‘Raised Rats?’
‘Aye,’ said Sunscorch. ‘They have some uncommon vessels. But I dunno —’ He broke off as the glow in the sea suddenly shot up in the air, eclipsing a red star low on the horizon with its sudden brightness. Then it arced down again, re-entering the sea and diminishing.
Sunscorch muttered something, and Arthur heard the gunners nearby whispering nervously.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a Denizen with marine wings and a veritable glimlight of sorcery about him,’ said Sunscorch quietly. ‘Most likely Feverfew has come by himself to reclaim his treasure.’
‘By himself? But surely we’re . . . we’ve got these cannons . . . and there’s a hundred of us and Doctor Scamandros. . .’
‘We’ve little powder for the cannons,’ said Sunscorch. ‘And Feverfew is a master of dark sorceries the Doc wouldn’t
touch. He’ll turn the sea and the sand against us, like as not, same as he made the rigging of the Oceanus choke the life out of its crew. But we’ve a better chance ashore with our lot than in a sea fight, so you never know. If you get a go at him, Arthur, try to take off his head with a single blow, and get a handful of sand or grit on the neck-stump. Or lay the flat of your blade there, if there’s nought better to hand.’
Arthur swallowed and looked back at the rapidly approaching light in the water. Then he drew his sword, resting the blade on his shoulder like the Denizens with their cutlasses.
I will cut off his head, Arthur told himself. I have defeated Mister Monday and Grim Tuesday. I’ve been wounded before. I know I can take it. I’m not going to be killed by a pirate … I hope my leg doesn’t give way suddenly … This crab armour is good and the joints work well but what if it locks up or it just gets weak as I’m fighting Feverfew and …
‘Stop it!’ Arthur whispered to himself. ‘Whatever happens, I will make the best of it. I will win.’
‘Wait for it to leave the water!’ roared Sunscorch as the light grew even closer. ‘Point-blank!’
The glow streamed towards them, growing brighter and brighter, like the headlights of an oncoming car. Arthur felt transfixed by the light, unable to move as it got closer and closer. He could make out a dark shape inside the light, inside the wave. An inhuman figure, like a shark, with huge wings propelling it along. It broke the surface and began to surf in on a wave. The gunners grunted and cursed as they shoved and levered at the cannons with handspikes, trying to point them just where the thing was going to come out of the water.
Sunscorch took a breath and opened his mouth, the word ‘Fire!’ already forming there, when suddenly Doctor Scamandros came capering about in front of the cannons, shouting.
‘Hold! Hold hard! Don’t! Don’t fire!’
At his last word, one of the cannons went off with a tremendously loud bang, a spray of sparks and an eruption of thick white smoke that completely enveloped Arthur. Coughing and choking, he stumbled away, only to find his feet suddenly wet.
He was in the wash of the surf, and the thing from the sea was standing over him, its light shining through gunsmoke and darkness. It had not been hit.
It wasn’t a ‘thing’ anymore, though it still had huge wings of metallic yellow-gold feathers. It was a very beautiful, very tall woman, with bright yellow hair tied back in a wire net. She was wearing a green velvet dress with a darker green, fur-trimmed jacket that hung loose on her left shoulder, the arms swinging behind. She held a short, white, scaly whip in her right hand.
She looked down at Arthur, and at the unscathed Doctor Scamandros, who had come up next to him, and at Captain Catapillow, who Arthur hadn’t even seen around, but was now bowing and scraping and mumbling.
‘Doctor Scamandros?’
Her voice was cold and clear. It made Arthur’s ears hurt slightly, as if they were being touched by an icy breeze.
‘Yes, ma’am. I am Scamandros.’
‘I received your message. Introduce me to Lord Arthur. I am in a hurry.’
Scamandros bowed to her, indicated Arthur with his right hand, and bowed again to both of them.
‘Lord Arthur, may I present Lady Wednesday’s Dawn?’
Arthur bowed. He had already half-guessed the identity of their surprise guest. She had the hauteur that all the chief servants of the Trustees possessed. A kind of look that said, I am superior and you had better admit it.
‘Greetings, Lord Arthur,’ said Wednesday’s Dawn. ‘Please accept Lady Wednesday’s apologies for the sad miscarriage of our transport arrangements. Unfortunately I have not yet been apprised of the exact nature of the incident that led you here, but I trust that you are now ready to accompany me to the promised luncheon?’
Arthur looked up at Dawn’s beautiful but cold face.
She would cut my throat if ordered to, Arthur thought. But what choice do I have?
‘I’m not sure,’ he said aloud. He still had his sword on his shoulder, and Sunscorch’s advice about dealing with Feverfew would probably apply equally well to Wednesday’s Dawn. He tensed, ready to strike, as he slowly said, ‘I’ve heard some scary talk about how Lady Wednesday is kind of . . . well, you know . . . a giant whale that eats everything. And I don’t want to get eaten.’
‘It is a temporary indisposition,’ said Dawn. She looked at Scamandros and Catapillow. ‘Which those of lesser orders would do well not to gossip about. However, you may be assured that Lady Wednesday intends to resume her traditional human form for this luncheon. That is in indication of the importance given to your visit, Lord Arthur. It is currently a regrettable strain for milady to take human shape. She has not chosen to do so for many centuries.’
‘What does she want from me?’ asked Arthur. There seemed no point beating around the bush. ‘She’s in with the Morrow Days. She’s a Trustee who didn’t do what she was supposed to. I’m the Will’s Rightful Heir.’
‘These are not matters to discuss in public,’ sniffed Dawn. ‘Is it enough to say that my mistress recognises a need for negotiation, not battle?’
‘Maybe,’ said Arthur.
‘Excellent. Then I take it, Lord Arthur, that you are ready to come with me?’
‘Where exactly?’
‘Back to the House,’ said Dawn. ‘To the Border Sea. I have many duties, so we must not waste any time. Do you need to breathe?’
‘What?’
‘Do you need to breat
he? You are a mortal of sorts, are you not? If I am to carry you back, we shall spend large amounts of time underwater. If you have not already been ensorcelled to need less air, then I shall have to take care of that before we depart.’
‘I’m not and I don’t think I want to be,’ said Arthur. ‘I have asthma and I don’t want my lungs messed up any more with magic or anything. And I don’t want to turn into a Denizen.’
‘It is a very straightforward spell,’ said Dawn. She gave a small flick of her riding crop, as if to illustrate how small a matter it was. ‘It merely allows you to survive on far fewer breaths. Perhaps, Doctor Scamandros, you can allay Lord Arthur’s concerns. You are a university-trained sorcerer, I note, though I do not recall your name and station in the Index of Navigator-Sorcerers in the employ of Lady Wednesday.’
‘Ah, dear lady, I was a volunteer after the Deluge,’ said Scamandros. He made some nervous shuffling motions and almost tripped over his own feet. ‘So the paperwork may be a little, that is, not quite in order. But, as to the breathing spell, it is one of suspension, I take it? Perhaps the formulation known as ‘A Thousand and One Breaths’?’
‘It is a peg, purchased at Port Wednesday,’ said Dawn, removing a small cloth bag from her sleeve and proffering it to Scamandros. ‘I am unaware of its provenance. I believe it is worn on the nose.’
Scamandros took the bag, opened its drawstring, and emptied a small wooden clothespeg onto his palm. He held it up to Dawn’s light and looked at the tiny writing on it with his unaided eyes and through his smoked-quartz glasses.
‘It is a straightforward spell,’ he said to Arthur. ‘One breath will serve for a thousand, till it wears off. There will be a little magical residue, but far less than that already within your flesh and bone.’
Arthur took the clothespeg dubiously and opened and shut it, feeling the strength of the spring.
‘How will I know when it wears off?’
‘It will fall off your nose,’ said Doctor Scamandros. ‘You may take it off, of course, and reapply it — though in that case I should be careful not to be too far away from a source of air. It will work less and less well with each reapplication.’
