by Jenny Nimmo
"She's very pretty," said Charlie, trying to excuse Tancred's temporary defection. "So I can understand your... your ..."
"Obsession? Oh yes, she's very pretty," Tancred said sourly.
They emerged, at last, into a road of shops and lights, and Charlie began to feel he was part of the real world again. "How do we get to Piminy Street from here?" he said.
Tancred looked surprised. "What do you want to go there for?"
It was time Tancred knew what had been going on, so as they made their way across the city, Charlie filled him in. It was the sword that really grabbed Tancred's attention, just as it had with Lysander.
"A sword?" Tancred's blue eyes lit up. "Wow! And you think this Red Knight is an impostor because he stole the king's cloak?"
"I don't know for sure, Tanc. I just feel I've got to warn Mrs. Kettle."
"I can't wait to see this kettle shop and meet the woman who's a blacksmith." Tancred dashed off and Charlie had to run to keep up with him.
The thunderstorm had sent almost all the citizens indoors. The children in the Pets' Cafe, having decided that Charlie would, inevitably, have run back to Filbert Street, gathered up their pets and made their way home. Benjamin had a hard time separating Runner Bean and Chattypatra, but Mr. Onimous managed to persuade the dogs with a doggy bag of beef treats for Runner Bean to carry home, and a bowl of ice cream for Chattypatra behind the counter.
The remains of the storm lingered above Charlie and Tancred as they hurried along Piminy Street. Tancred explained that he couldn't help it. "But the weather is a protection, Charlie," he said. "Can't you feel it?"
Charlie could certainly feel something. He sensed a deepening conflict on Piminy Street, almost as though battle lines had been drawn up. How many magicians had lived here? Who, among them, had been true to the name of the Red King, and who had used magic against their neighbors?
When they reached the Stone Shop, Tancred peered into the window. He shrugged himself deeper into his winter coat. "Think of it, Charlie. An army of moving stone. Who could defeat that?"
Charlie had no answer.
Outside the fish shop, Tancred hesitated again. He looked up at the window above the badly painted sign. Charlie had told him what Emma had seen, but Tancred would have stopped anyway. Here, he sensed, was an enemy he was born to oppose. He had no way of knowing that he and Dagbert shared the same stormy ancestor: Petrello, bringer of storms, fogs, and drowning tides.
Charlie watched the sign swaying and creaking in the wind. He tugged Tancred's arm. "Let's go, Tanc. I want to get to Mrs. Kettle."
"It's not even a shop," Tancred remarked. "They've got nothing to sell, whoever they are. But I can smell fish, all right." He stepped back from the window, holding his nose.
Charlie couldn't delay his visit any longer; he ran up to the Kettle Shop and began to rap on the door. Tancred joined him and they waited a few seconds before Charlie rapped again, using the kettle-shaped knocker with some force.
"Goodness me, Charlie Bone, what brings you here again? I'm very busy." Mrs. Kettle stood in the doorway with her arms folded across her chest. She was wearing oil-stained coveralls and her face was streaked with soot. She didn't look inclined to let anyone in.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Kettle," Charlie said in a rush, "but something has happened, something that you should know about."
Mrs. Kettle leaned forward and looked furtively up and down the street. "You'd better come in. We don't want the whole street to know our business. And who's this you've brought along?"
"My name's Tancred Torsson," said Tancred, stepping into the shop. "I'm responsible for a little storm that might have breezed past your door just now."
"Little storm? It was a ruddy hurricane. You've certainly got your uses, my dear. I'm Katya Kettle. Pleased to meet you." She shook Tancred's arm so enthusiastically, he had to clutch his shoulder, fearing his arm might come out of its socket.
As they followed Mrs. Kettle into her back room, they were aware of soft plopping and tapping noises coming from every side of them. Looking around, they saw the lid of a blue kettle lift into the air and drop back again. The same thing happened with a copper kettle, and then a small iron one.
"What's going on, Mrs. Kettle?" asked Charlie.
"What do you think, Charlie, my dear? The amount of energy in this street is enough to blow my roof off." Mrs. Kettle dropped into a chair and dabbed her shining forehead with an oil-stained rag.
"My storms don't usually have that effect," said Tancred, sitting beside the large blacksmith.
"Your storm!" She gave Tancred a wry half-smile. "That was only part of it. Wickedness is growing in this city, my boys. It's blossoming like a deadly giant flower, and it all stems from that wretched youth, Manfred Bloor. His hatred is so potent it will overwhelm us unless something is done about it."
"Does anyone know about the sword you're making?" asked Tancred, glancing at the large trembling kettle that Charlie had gone to examine.
Mrs. Kettle gave a shrug. "Who knows? They're aware of what I do. No one could fail to notice the sparks and hammering coming from the back of my little shop, but soon the knight will have his sword and then we'll see..."
Charlie swung around. "Mrs. Kettle! I don't think you should give that sword to the Red Knight."
"Whatever makes you say that?" Mrs. Kettle asked, looking genuinely astonished.
Charlie struggled to put his doubts into words. "The knight on the bridge was wearing a red cloak and... and Gabriel Silk, whose family keeps the Red King's cloak, well, he says that someone has stolen it - the king's cloak, I mean."
"Charlie Bone!" The blacksmith glared at him so indignantly he shrank against the kettle-laden table. "Stolen indeed! Borrowed, or reclaimed maybe, but never stolen. What made you say such a thing?"
"I don't know." Charlie looked away from her stern, copper-colored eyes. "But a sword like that, Mrs. Kettle, it's going to be unbeatable, isn't it? And in the wrong hands, it could be very dangerous."
"It will have to be dangerous, you silly boy. Feromel's words were in my head when I forged that sword. It was his magic that shaped the steel beneath my hammer. He was with me every step of the way."
"But suppose the knight is an impostor?"
The big woman stared at him in disbelief. "Do you think I wouldn't know?"
"No," said Charlie weakly. "I suppose not."
Mrs. Kettle stood up and wiped her face again. "Well, if that's all you came to tell me, you're wasting my time. I've work to do, as you very well know."
Behind Charlie, the big iron kettle gave a loud steamy whistle. The heavy lid shot into the air and then fell to the floor with a loud clang. Charlie was about to pick it up when he noticed the moon shining in the dark liquid that filled the kettle. He looked closer and the moon swam out of vision, only to be replaced by a circle of leaping flames.
"Don't look!" a voice commanded, but Charlie's gaze was held by the changing images inside the kettle. Now he could see a man beside a fire, feeding the flames with twigs. I'm traveling, thought Charlie, but it's not the time. I mustn't travel...not into that!
He could hear voices urgently warning him. There were distant footsteps, a hand reaching out, but the fingers that gripped his shoulder were as light as dust.
Now began the whirling, gliding, tumbling through space that Charlie had come to relish and to dread. The first few seconds of travel were always the worst, when he lost his foothold on the world he knew and fell into the unknown.
He landed on straw piled at the back of a room. A small window, high on a wall, perfectly framed the full moon. Charlie's gaze traveled from the moon to the man feeding the fire. He had never seen a man so tall and whose shoulders were so vast. He gave the impression of immense strength, and Charlie hoped he was not hostile, because he could obviously squash someone of Charlie's size like an unwelcome flea.
The only light in the room came from the fire, but when Charlie's eyes had become accustomed to the dark, he could see
that the floor was bare, dusty earth, and the walls gray brick stained with soot. Beside the fire stood a large iron kettle, perhaps the very one that Charlie had fallen into.
As the man poked at the flames a cloud of ash floated out into the room, and Charlie sneezed.
"Faith!" cried the man, turning from the fire. He stared at Charlie almost fearfully. "What art thou? Some fiend they've sent to spy on me?"
Charlie stood up rather shakily and, clearing his throat, said, "Urn, no, sir. I've come from... that is, I'm a traveler."
"A traveler?" The man dropped his poker and came toward Charlie, squinting down at him incredulously. "A traveler?" he said again. "Like Amoret?"
"Amoret?" Charlie's nervous mind whirled. "The Red King's youngest daughter? Yes, I think I am her descendant."
"Fate's gift to me," The huge man clutched Charlie's shoulder. "Know that I am Feromel, and this may be my last day on earth."
Your last day, why?" asked Charlie in alarm. "How?"
"They want something and they shall not have it.
See!" From a table in the corner, Feromel picked up a bundle of red cloth. Opening the cloth, he revealed a shining sword hilt. The golden grip was decorated with ruby-eyed birds inside a diamond-shaped patterning. The cross was in the form of two winged leopards with sapphire spots.
The gleam of ancient gold and the beauty of the object lying on the scarlet cloth made Charlie gasp. "Did this belong to the Red King?" he whispered.
Feromel smiled. "I believe thou art one of the trusted."
"I hope I am," said Charlie fervently.
"Then know that the king's own hand hath fashioned this magic hilt. The sword itself has vanished; I hoped to make another, but it is too late for that."
There was a sudden, thunderous bang on the door and Feromel cried, "Quick, we must hide it." He leaped across the room, picked up the poker, and handed it to Charlie. "Keep the flame aside, lad, while I do the rest."
Trying his best not to tremble, Charlie took the poker and pushed the blazing twigs to one side of the fire. Feromel had pulled on a pair of long leather gloves and, picking up the wrapped sword hilt in one hand, with the other he reached to the back of the fire and removed one of the chimney bricks.
Another assault of deafening thuds caused the blacksmith's thick oak door to groan. Charlie dared not look around. The heat from the fire was now so intense his eyes were filled with tears, but he clearly saw the dark gap in the bricks, and he watched Feromel's gloved hand, singed by flames, push the red bundle into the cavity and close it with a brick.
"It's done, lad. I thank thee!" Feromel removed the scorched gloves and thumped Charlie on the back.
The door could bear the force outside no longer. It crashed back into the room, and three figures strode over the splintered wood: a stone man, a stone woman, bearing a cudgel, and the troll that stood outside Great-aunt Venetia's house.
For all his immense strength Feromel didn't stand a chance. His great fist rebounded off the brutal stone figures, and his long legs buckled under the stone troll's battering head.
"Go, boy! Go! Save yourself!" called Feromel.
With a sickening sense of dread, Charlie realized that he couldn't go anywhere. He'd left behind the only thing that could take him back - his white moth.
17
THE HIDDEN SWORD HILT
Charlie rubbed his eyes with sooty fists. He blinked up at the firelit rafters, hoping desperately that he would see the tiny light of his moth. Perhaps she had followed him after all.
The stone people didn't appear to see him. They were intent on their destruction of heroic Feromel. Outnumbered and overwhelmed, the blacksmith wasn't going to give up until every spark of his life had been extinguished. Seeing the terrible punishment Feromel was enduring, Charlie threw him self at the stone man, who, with one swing of his great arm, knocked Charlie clean across the room. He pulled himself to his feet and lunged at the stone woman's legs, but it was useless; he might as well have tried to topple a tree.
The troll turned its vicious stony gaze on Charlie. It spun and kicked, knocking Charlie's legs out from under him. He fell to the ground again, and as he closed his eyes in pain, a bright light swam across his vision. The next moment he was floating.
"Charlie! Charlie!" The distant words drifted closer.
"Has he been traveling? He shouldn't have looked into that kettle." This voice was loud and fretful.
"I think he's coming out of it."
Charlie found himself looking down into a circle of inky water. Slowly, he lifted his aching head. All around him polished kettles winked and glinted. Their light was so bright, Charlie had to squint his eyes against the glare.
"Sit down, boy."
Charlie was led to a chair, where he gratefully rested his aching body. A large face, glistening with sweat, came close to his.
"What did you do that for, my dear?" asked Mrs. Kettle. "Scared the living daylights out of us."
"Sorry," mumbled Charlie. "It just happened. He needed me, but it was no use. I couldn't help."
Tancred handed Charlie a glass of water. You were out for ages, Charlie, frozen to the spot. No sign of life at all. We couldn't move you."
Charlie took great gulps of the pleasantly icy water. "It was so hot in there," he spluttered.
"Where, my dear? Where did you go?" Mrs. Kettle's large face receded as she took a chair beside Charlie's.
Taking a deep breath, Charlie said, "Actually, I think I was right here, and so was Feromel."
"Feromel?" Mrs. Kettle clasped her hands expectantly. "You saw him?"
Charlie glanced at her eager face. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Kettle. I tried, but it was no use. I couldn't help him. The stone people were too strong."
Mrs. Kettle pressed her fingers to her lips. "You poor boy. You saw him die. The stone man killed him. We have always known that."
"Yikes!" said Tancred quietly.
There was a long silence while Charlie struggled with his conscience, unsure whether to tell Mrs. Kettle about the golden sword hilt. She was Feromel's descendant, and by rights, she should know of its existence, but Charlie was still troubled by the thought that the Red Knight might not be entirely friendly.
"Don't look so downcast, my dear." Mrs. Kettle took Charlie's hand and patted it. "You couldn't have done a thing. The die was cast. The dreadful deed had been done when your mind went plunging into that kettle. I've always wondered about it." Charlie followed her gaze to the big iron kettle, sitting on its table. "Sometimes, I've heard things, and then there've been times when I could swear I saw firelight blinking in its black water. I believe that old kettle reflected my ancestor's dreadful end. By why? I've asked myself. What was his purpose in recording his last day on earth?"
Charlie couldn't hold back the truth any longer. "Because he hid something, Mrs. Kettle, and maybe he hoped that one day someone like me, a traveler, would go back in time and see where he put it."
"Put what, Charlie?" asked Tancred.
Charlie looked from Tancred to Mrs. Kettle. "A sword hilt. He said it had been fashioned by the Red King himself."
"What!" Mrs. Kettle leaped out of her chair. "Where is it, Charlie? Where did Feromel hide it?"
"In a chimney."
"A chimney?" cried the blacksmith, running to her metal door. "In the furnace, then. I must put out the fire."
"No, no," said Charlie. "No, it wasn't in the furnace. It was just a little fire that he had in his room."
"There's a chimney." Tancred pointed to the chimney behind a large iron stove.
Charlie shook his head. "It was quite near the ground, so it would be well below the top of that stove."
Tancred stared doubtfully at the heavy-looking stove. "It must weigh a ton."
Mrs. Kettle had no doubts at all. "Come on, boys, give me a hand." She strode over to the stove and began to tug it away from the wall.
The boys had no choice but to help her. Luckily the stove had not been lit, so while Charlie pulled from
floor level, Tancred got a grip just above him, and Mrs. Kettle heaved from the top. Gradually, one side of the big stove began to move away from the wall. When there was a gap of half a meter, Mrs. Kettle cried, "Stop, my dears. I can see into the chimney."
Charlie peered over the stove. "It's a very small hole," he observed.
"Then we'll make it bigger." Mrs. Kettle marched through the metal door into her work space and returned, almost immediately, with a very large hammer. Squeezing herself between the wall and the stove, she gave a mighty push with her large bottom. The stove moved back another foot at least, giving the blacksmith enough room to swing her hammer against the chimney.
Crack! One blow was enough to shatter the bricks above the hole. Enveloped in a cloud of black dust, Mrs. Kettle took another swing, and then another. At the third blow, a pile of bricks tumbled out of the chimney, burying Mrs. Kettle up to her knees.
"Aha!" the blacksmith cried triumphantly. "Charlie, it's your turn. You saw where Feromel put the precious object."
Kicking the fallen bricks out of her way, she moved from behind the stove and pointed to the large hole she had made. "What do you think, my dear?"
Charlie didn't know what to think. He tried to imagine the dark room where he had helped Feromel to hide the sword hilt. Could this really be the very same chimney?
"Go on, Charlie!" Tancred's enthusiasm blew little clouds of dust into the air, and Charlie began to cough.
"Cool it, Tancred!" Mrs. Kettle said reprovingly. "Here, Charlie, put these on." She handed him a pair of oversized gloves.
Charlie cautiously pulled them on. His movements were slow and almost reluctant, for he was filled with misgiving. Perhaps such a precious object should never be found, and certainly not by someone like himself, a boy who had never proved himself worthy to touch such a great king's possession.
"What's holding you back, Charlie?" Mrs. Kettle asked gently.
"The gloves are too big," he muttered.
"Take them off, then. There's no fire in the chimney today." Mrs. Kettle laughed and Tancred joined in. Their laughter seemed out of place on such a solemn occasion.
