Septimus Heap Complete Collection

by Angie Sage

“There’s something going on in the Palace. In the attic,” said Jenna. “No one’s allowed up there since that stuff with Dad and the Sealed Room—even I don’t go there—but sometimes when I’m in my room I hear footsteps above my head.”

  “Probably rats,” said Beetle, staring at “Chemistry” in dismay. “There’re some big ones down by the river.”

  “It’s human,” whispered Jenna.

  “But some ghosts make footstep noises,” said Beetle. “It’s one of the easiest things a ghost can Cause. And you have a load of ghosts at the Palace.”

  Jenna shook her head. That was what Silas and Sarah had said too.

  “But Beetle, someone is using those stairs—the dust is worn away from the middle of the treads. I thought it was Mum, as she does wander around a bit at night when she can’t sleep, but when I asked her about it she said she hadn’t been up there for ages. So yesterday I decided to go up and have a look.”

  Beetle looked up from the mangled mess on his plate. “What did you see?”

  Jenna told Beetle what had happened the previous evening. By the time she had finished, Beetle wore a look of consternation.

  “That’s not good. Sounds like you might have an Infestation,” he said.

  “What, like cockroaches or something?” Jenna was puzzled.

  “No. I didn’t mean that kind of infestation. It’s what we used to call it in the Manuscriptorium. I suppose Wizards might have a different name for it.”

  “For what?”

  Beetle also lowered his voice—it wasn’t good to talk about the Darke in a public place. “For when something Darke moves into someone’s house. In fact, it sounds like something might be setting up a”—he glanced around to check that no one was listening—“a Darke Domaine.”

  Jenna shivered. She didn’t like the sound of that at all. “What’s a Darke Domaine?” she whispered.

  “It’s like a kind of foggy pool of Darke. It can get really powerful if it’s not gotten rid of. It grows by drawing strength from people, and it lures them in with promises of all the things they long for.”

  “You mean there might really be something nasty in the attic?” Jenna looked scared. She hadn’t quite believed it until now.

  From what Jenna had just told him, Beetle thought it was highly likely. “Well, yes. You know, I think you should really get Marcia to have a look.”

  “But if I ask Marcia to come today, Mum will throw a fit.” Jenna thought for a moment. “Beetle, I’d really appreciate your advice first. If you say it’s a”—she too glanced around—“you-know-what, then I’ll go straight to Marcia. I promise.”

  Beetle could not refuse. “Okay,” he said.

  “Oh, thank you.” Jenna smiled.

  Beetle took out his treasured timepiece. “Suppose I come round, let’s see . . . about half-past three. Gives me time to pick up a SafeCharm from the Charm desk at the Wizard Tower. It will still be daylight then. You don’t want to go near that kind of stuff after dark.”

  It was then that Jenna remembered that the last time Beetle helped her, he had lost his job. “But what about Larry? What about your job?”

  Beetle grinned. “Don’t worry, I’ll fix it with Larry. He owes me a lot of time. And Larry’s okay as long as you tell him what you’re doing. He’s nothing like Jillie Djinn, so don’t you worry about that. Half-past three at the Palace Gate?”

  “Oh, thank you, Beetle. Thank you.” Jenna regarded the gooey mess on Beetle’s plate, which was beginning to fizz alarmingly. She pushed her stack of sandwiches to the middle of the table. “Let’s share,” she said. “I can’t possibly eat them all.”

  Chapter 9

  Charming

  Beetle and Jenna emerged from the warmth of Wizard Sandwiches into the gray chill of Wizard Way. A few stray snowflakes drifted down and Jenna pulled her red fur-lined cloak tightly around her. Beetle buttoned up his admiral’s jacket and wound his long woolly scarf around his neck.

  “Hey, Beetle!” came a shout.

  A tall, impossibly thin young man was walking toward them from the upper reaches of Wizard Way. He waved and picked up speed.

  “Good morning . . . Princess Jenna,” the young man said, out of breath. He bowed his head and Jenna felt embarrassed.

  “Wotcha, Foxy,” said Beetle.

  “Wotcha, Beet,” replied Foxy, stamping his feet and rubbing his hands together. His long, pointy nose glowed like a bright red triangle set in his thin, pale face and his teeth chattered. He looked cold in his gray scribe’s tunic. “Ser-sausage sandwich?” he asked.

  Beetle shook his head. “Not today, Foxy. Gotta go and get a SafeCharm from the Wizard Tower.”

  Foxy grinned, his slightly pointy teeth shining in the warm light from Wizard Sandwiches’ windows. “Hey, don’t go to the competition. You’re talking to the Chief Charm Scribe here.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since this morning at eight fifty-two precisely,” Foxy replied with a grin, mimicking his boss, Miss Jillie Djinn, Chief Hermetic Scribe, to perfection.

  “Wow. Hey, congratulations,” said Beetle.

  “And it would be an honor, Mr. Beetle, if you would consent to be my first commission.”

  “Okey dokey.” Beetle grinned.

  “We’ll just run through the formalities, shall we?”

  Beetle looked uneasy. “Actually Foxy, I don’t really want to go into the Manuscriptorium.”

  “No need. I have, as of this moment, in my capacity as Chief Charm Scribe, instigated the Manuscriptorium’s pioneering mobile Charm service.” Foxy took what Beetle recognized as a standard-issue scribe notebook from his book pocket and unclipped the pencil from its holder.

  “Okay,” said Foxy, pencil poised. “Just a few questions, Mr. Beetle, and then I guarantee we will have the perfect SafeCharm for you. Unlike the WT Charm Desk One-Charm-Fits-All policy, we tailor our Charms to your personal requirements. Inside or out?”

  “Um . . . inside,” answered Beetle, somewhat taken aback by Foxy’s sales patter.

  “Up or down?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I dunno. Sounds good though, don’t you think?”

  “Foxy.” Beetle laughed. “For a weird moment I thought you actually knew what you were doing.”

  “I do know what I’m doing,” protested Foxy. “Just trying to make it more exciting, that’s all. Inside is all I need to know.”

  “What about the strength?” asked Beetle.

  “Hmm . . .” said Foxy. “Forgot that. Small, medium or large . . . no, I don’t mean that.”

  “Minor, major or maximum,” Beetle supplied.

  “Yeah, that’s it. So waddyou want?”

  Beetle glanced at Jenna. “Maximum,” said Jenna. “Just in case.”

  “Okey dokey. I’ll see what we got. Delivery to place of work in one hour okay?”

  “Thanks. Just ask for me. Say it’s business.”

  “Will do, Beet. Sausage sandwich tomorrow then?”

  “Yep. See you, Foxo.”

  With that, Foxy—looking not unlike a large heron picking its way through the shallows—headed for the multicolored door of Wizard Sandwiches.

  Ten minutes later Jenna was wandering through the Northern Traders’ Market. She was looking for a fun birthday present for Septimus, but she was also avoiding going home until her appointment with Beetle. Jenna knew that if she went back to the Palace, Sarah would find her and she would end up in yet another discussion about the letters from Simon. Unlike Sarah Heap, Jenna had read her letter from Simon only once and had left it screwed up on her bedroom floor. When Sarah had asked her what he’d said, Jenna had been curt. “Sorry,” she’d replied.

  Every year the Castle inhabitants flocked to the Traders’ Market to stock up on winter provisions of woolen cloth, candles, lanterns, salted fish, dried meats and fruits, fur and sheepskins before the Big Freeze blew in and cut off the Castle for six weeks or so. People also ate the hot pies, roasted nuts, and crumbly cakes and
drank gallons of the huge varieties of spiced mulled drinks for sale. And when they were weary of shopping, they would sit and watch jugglers, fire dancers and acrobats tumbling in the roped-off space in front of the Traders’ Office.

  Despite the apparent chaos, the market was meticulously organized. Rigorous standards were applied to all traders, pitches were allocated under a strict licensing system and the marketplace was divided into sectors according to the kinds of goods sold. Generally the Northern Traders’ Market was an orderly affair, but the final day was a frenetic time and the market was packed. Crowds of people moved from stall to stall, grabbing bargains, buying things they didn’t really need “just in case,” taking a last chance to buy MidWinter feast presents. The tall, pale-eyed Northern Traders cried out their wares at the tops of their voices, trying to sell all the odds and ends that no one had wanted—up until now. The urgency in their lilting singsong voices carried over the hubbub and reminded people that the MidWinter Feast was only a few days away, and then the Big Freeze was coming.

  Every year of her life—bar one, the year she had turned ten—Jenna had visited the craft section, known as Makers’ Mile. Makers’ Mile was a relatively new section of the market; it extended out of the official market place, straggled along the road and ran around the outside of the large, brick-paved circle at the end of Ceremonial Way. As Jenna had grown older she would wander along the Mile, silently planning her perfect present list for her birthday. She had rarely received anything on the list, but it didn’t take away the fun of dreaming. This year Jenna had found nothing remotely funny to give to Septimus in the main market and decided to head out along Makers’ Mile for a last visit. As she elbowed her way toward it through the fur and prepared skins area and caught the overpowering smell of Foryx fur, Jenna noted wryly that the normal Castle respect for the Princess did not apply in the market.

  At last she emerged into the infinitely more sweet-smelling Makers’ Mile. With her old feeling of birthday anticipation, Jenna began to wander along, browsing the stalls. By the time she had walked around the circle twice, Jenna had still not found anything funny to give Septimus, but she suspected the reason had more to do with how she was feeling about Septimus than any of the goods that were on offer. She decided to head for her favorite stall—silver jewelry and lucky charms—which she had spotted near the Makers’ Mile Tally Hut.

  The stall belonged to Sophie Barley, a talented young Port jeweler. (Unlike the rest of the market, Makers’ Mile had stalls available to those who were not Northern Traders. They were mainly taken by those who lived in the Port, as Castle people preferred to buy from the market rather than sell.) Jenna was surprised to find that instead of the friendly Sophie, the stall was manned by three odd-looking women dressed in varying shades of black. Behind the stall, in an old armchair, was slumped an elderly woman with her face plastered in thick white makeup and her eyes closed. The old woman was watched over by a slight figure swathed in a muddy black cloak with a voluminous hood.

  “Ooh, it’s the Princess!” Jenna heard an excited whisper escape from beneath the hood.

  “Leave this to me, dingbat,” came the response from the fiercest-looking woman in the stall, who was clearly the boss and who—Jenna saw as she briefly glanced up—had a very nasty stare.

  The boss eyeballed Jenna. “How may I help you?” she asked. The two other stallholders—a lanky woman with her hair piled on top of her head like a spike and a short, dumpy one with food stains down her front—nudged each other and giggled behind the boss’s back.

  The last thing Jenna wanted was help. Sophie always let her browse and try on anything she liked. And Sophie certainly didn’t snatch the first thing she picked up and say, “That will be half a crown. We don’t give change. Wrap it up, Daphne,” which is what the boss-with-the-stare did with the delicate heart-shaped pendant with tiny wings that Jenna had lifted from its velvet pad.

  “But I don’t want to buy it,” Jenna protested.

  “So what’d you pick it up for?”

  “I just wanted to look at it.”

  “You can look at it on the table. We charge extra for picking up.”

  Jenna stared at the woman. She was sure she’d seen her somewhere before—and her sidekicks too.

  “Where’s Sophie?” she asked.

  “Who?”

  “Sophie. Sophie Barley. It’s her stall. Where is she?”

  The boss-with-the-stare bared a row of blackened teeth. “She couldn’t make it. She’s a bit . . . tied up at the moment.” Her two sidekicks giggled nastily.

  Jenna began to move away. The jewelry didn’t seem nearly as nice without Sophie.

  “Wait a minute!” a high voice shouted urgently. Jenna stopped and turned. “We’ve got some lovely Charms. And we don’t charge for picking up Charms, do we?”

  “Shut up, Dorinda!” The boss-with-the-stare wheeled around and glared at the hooded figure standing beside the old woman. “I’m doing this.” The boss turned back to face Jenna and her mouth twitched into a kind of U-shape which, Jenna realized, was meant to be a smile. “We do indeed have a delightful new range of Charms, Princess. Very pretty. Quite charming, in fact.” A strange spluttering ensued, which Jenna thought was probably meant to be laughter, although quite possibly the woman was choking on something. It was hard to tell.

  The boss indicated two little wooden boxes at the front of the stall. Intrigued, Jenna looked at them—they were so very different from the rest of Sophie’s jewelry. Nestled on white down inside each box was a tiny jewellike bird. The birds had a beautiful greenish-blue sheen and shimmered like the kingfishers Jenna had once loved to watch from her window in the Ramblings. Despite herself, Jenna was fascinated. She gazed at the birds, amazed at their minute feathers, which were so detailed that she could almost believe the birds were real. Tentatively she reached out a finger and stroked the plumage of one of the birds—and snatched her hand away as if it had been bitten. The bird was real. It was soft and warm and lay breathing terrified, fast breaths.

  The old woman in the armchair snapped her eyes open like a doll that has just been sat up. “Pick up the birdie, dearie,” she said in a wheedling whine.

  Jenna stepped back from the stall and shook her head.

  The boss-with-the-stare swung around and glared at the old woman. “I said leave it to me, didn’t I?” she snapped. “Idiot!”

  “Oooh!” A gasp of thrilled horror came from the hooded figure.

  The old woman was not as decrepit as Jenna had taken her to be. She rose menacingly from her armchair and pointed a long, dirty fingernail at the boss-with-the-stare. “Never, ever, talk to me like that again,” she hissed.

  The boss-with-the-stare went as white as the old woman’s plastered face. “Sorry, Wi—” She stopped herself hurriedly. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  Suddenly Jenna realized who the stallholders were. “Hey!” she exclaimed. “You’re—”

  The boss-with-the-stare leaned forward and glared at Jenna. “Yeah—what?” she challenged.

  Jenna decided against saying she thought the women were witches from the Port Witch Coven. “Not very nice,” she said, a little lamely. Then she made a hasty exit, leaving all five witches—for she was right—cackling uproariously.

  The Port Witch Coven watched Jenna disappear into the crowd.

  “I knew it wouldn’t work,” Daphne—the dumpy one with the food stains—said morosely. “Princesses are hard to catch. The Wendrons tried and they couldn’t get her.”

  “Pah!” snorted the boss-with-the-stare, whose name was Linda. “The Wendrons are fools. They’ve got a few lessons to learn. And I’m looking forward to teaching them.” She laughed unpleasantly.

  A plaintive wail came from inside the hooded figure sitting beside the old woman—who was, of course, the Witch Mother of the Port Witch Coven. “But she didn’t take the bird, she didn’t take the bird!”

  “And you can shut up too, Dorinda,” snarled Linda. “Any-way, it doesn’t matter
—she touched the bird, didn’t she?”

  Linda leaned over the two little birds. She took a deep breath in, then breathed out, sending what looked like a long stream of gray smoke curling around them. The blanket of breath settled over the tiny boxes and the witches gathered around to watch. A few moments later fluttering could be seen, and two minute, iridescent birds flew up from their boxes. Fast as a cat, Linda snatched the birds out of the air and held them up triumphantly, one in each hand.

  The other witches looked on, impressed.

  From somewhere inside her tattered black robes, Linda drew out a small silver cage on a chain, as delicate and beautiful as any of the jewelry in the stall. She unscrewed the bottom of the cage, opened her right hand and slammed the cage down over the bird. Then she poked the panicking bird into the cage with a prodding finger—it was a tight fit even though the bird was tiny. Quickly Linda tipped the cage upside down and screwed the floor back on, then she swung the cage over her neck so that it hung dangling by its chain like an exotic pendant. Inside the cage the bird blinked in shock.

  “Hostage,” Linda informed the other witches. They nodded, impressed, and—as they always were with Linda—slightly scared.

  Linda held her left fist up to the cage and slowly unfurled her fingers. Inside her fist sat the other bird, trembling. It gave a despairing tweet at the sight of the caged bird and fell silent. Linda raised the bird up to her eyes and began to mutter in a low, threatening monotone. The bird stood on her palm, transfixed. Linda finished whatever ghastly thing she was saying and the bird flew up and hovered, looking down at the silver cage dangling from Linda’s grubby neck. Linda pointed a long-nailed finger at the fluttering scrap of blue and the bird vanished. UnSeen, it flew off on an erratic course, which followed Jenna’s path as she headed for the Palace.

  “Lovebirds!” Linda commented scathingly. “Love. What rubbish.” She laughed. “But useful rubbish. I still have that bird in the palm of my hand.” She held out her empty hand and snapped her fingers shut. “And the Princess.”