by Garth Nix
The steel door led to a large open warehouse area dominated by high metal shelves stacked with boxes of books and a long sorting desk piled high with books, and beyond that a sunken receiving dock and ramp lined on one side with half a dozen motorbikes and a blue Jensen Interceptor leading up to a lorry-sized roller door that was closed. A smaller metal gate next to it was open. One of Una’s bikers stood by it, a slung L1A1 SLR on his back, the kind of rifle Susan recognized as being the same as the ones used by UNIT in Doctor Who.
The other bikers from the response team were at work at the sorting table, along with four more young left- and right-handed booksellers. They were opening boxes, checking off stock, and putting books in shopping baskets ready to be carried to the appropriate part of the store, or wrapping orders to be dispatched outwards to mail order or phone customers.
Una herself was sitting in a folding aluminum deck chair on the side of the loading dock, reading Heat and Dust by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala and drinking tea from a large blue mug. She had a sword similar to Merlin’s on the floor next to her, alongside a sawn-off double-barreled shotgun. She looked up from the book at the new arrivals, sniffed, and went back to her reading.
“I didn’t realize how big this bookshop is,” said Susan. “It must be even bigger than Foyles.”
“And it is much better,” said Vivien. “We are all professional booksellers. Come on.”
“Foyles has a charm that Vivien does not perceive,” said Merlin. “I like all kinds of bookshops myself, not just ours.”
Vivien looked at him scornfully and turned left, and they crossed the warehouse to yet another door, marked “Fire Exit,” and then up five flights of fire stairs to what Susan warily thought was the top of the building, though if it was like the New Bookshop, possibly not. The fire door here opened into a charming atelier, under a Victorian iron-and-glass roof. It was still raining in a desultory fashion, drops plinking on the glass and sliding down in slow rivulets. On a sunny day it would be beautifully bright, but today the natural illumination was assisted by a line of very large and unusual art deco light bulbs that ran along under the peak of the ceiling.
The floor was of warm, old oak planks, many of the individual planks extraordinarily long, as if sawn from the mast of a tall ship. There were two working tables in the middle of the room, and around the walls were located a binder’s press, with its tall screw; a camera stand; an industrial sewing machine; a gluing cabinet with exhaust hood; a guillotine table and cutting board; a TRS-80 computer and dot matrix printer on a narrow mahogany desk that might have come from a boat; a partner’s table topped in green leather and gilt edging on which resided no fewer than six typewriters, ranging from a 1920s Underwood to a very recent all-plastic Brother machine; a mid-eighteenth-century highly polished flame mahogany map cabinet of twelve drawers; and a French Second Empire grandfather clock with an intricately carved headpiece. There were also several other small worktables of less obvious purpose, complete with racks of tools and shelves of papyrus, vellum, paper and cardboard, and other writing materials.
At the closest table, a fiftyish woman with dark curly hair tinged with silver was examining a page in a giant medieval Bible bound in leather and iron, complete with chain. She wasn’t wearing gloves, and both her hands shone with the silver luminosity Susan had seen in the New Bookshop, with Cousin Sam.
The woman at the next table was perhaps a decade older than the first. She sat in a lightweight wheelchair with chromed rims. She was entirely white-haired and slighter, and was engaged in delicately separating stuck-together leaves of some impossibly thin paper with what looked like a small ivory or bone spatula and long tweezers. Like the other women, she was dressed in a well-cut white pantsuit, almost like a navy tropical uniform. She also didn’t wear gloves and her hands were silvery and beautiful.
“Yes,” whispered Vivien. “They’re both even-handed.”
Something in the way she said it told Susan that Vivien would like to be one of the even-handed.
“Aunt Zoë, Aunt Helen!” called out Merlin.
Both women continued their tasks for several seconds, and then at exactly the same time, they leaned back and turned their heads to look at the visitors.
“Hello, my dears,” said the closer woman. “We had a note from Thurston to say you were coming over with a little puzzle sometime. But we’re quite busy now. Could you come back—”
“No, I’m afraid we can’t,” said Vivien. “I’m sorry, but I think it’s more urgent than Great-Uncle Thurston realizes. Um, this is Susan Arkshaw, by the way. Susan, our aunt Helen and behind her, our aunt Zoë.”
Aunt Helen blinked and pushed the magnifying lens up her forehead, like a knight lifting a visor. Aunt Zoë pursed her lips and leaned forward, eyebrows lifting in anticipation of something interesting.
“We think it might be related to what happened to Mum,” said Merlin quietly.
“Poor Antigone,” said Helen. Behind her, Zoë nodded. “Well, what is it you want us to look at?”
“A lending library card,” said Vivien, pushing Susan forward. “I don’t know which library it’s from, and the name of the person it was issued to is gone. Then there’s a 1964 Harshton and Hoole cigarette case, I know it’s silver, not paper, but there’s something about the design on the front . . . I’d like your opinion on. It reminds me of something. . . .”
“Let’s see it!” declared Helen, wheeling out from the table to hold out her shining right hand. Zoë stood up and came up to stand behind her cousin.
Susan took the cigarette case from the pocket of her boiler suit, popped it open, and handed it over. Helen took out the library card and held it up to the light, flipping it over several times. Zoë watched closely, then took the card herself, Helen handing it over her shoulder without looking around.
She examined the cigarette case next, and smiled immediately.
“Oh, they have such cunning artists up at Harshton and Hoole,” she said. “I can almost forgive them forsaking books in the great split of 1553.”
“You know what that is, then?” asked Susan.
“I will shortly,” said Helen. She pushed her wheelchair over to one of the smaller tables and rummaged in the boxes upon it. “Heelball, heelball . . . ah . . . here we are.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Susan. “A rubbing! I should have thought of that.”
Helen held up a ball of inky black material and took it and the cigarette case back to her table. Placing the case on a heavy wooden chopping block branded “Fortnum & Mason” in pokerwork in the corner, she laid a piece of paper over it and rubbed it with the heelball, a black image forming as she rubbed. At first it seemed no more than many small lines, but within a few seconds, the lines made sudden sense, though were still somewhat abstract.
“It’s a mountain,” said Merlin. “Or a hill. With clouds.”
“Yes,” said Helen thoughtfully. “Very simple lines, the lesser ones are almost invisible in the silver, hence the need for a rubbing to see it clearly. It reminds me of something, some part of a broader landscape, a painting or drawing . . . I daresay it will come to me. . . .”
“Thank you so much,” said Susan. “That’s already incredibly helpful. If I . . . we . . . can work out where this mountain is—”
“It’s not a very distinctive mountain,” muttered Merlin.
“What about the library card?” asked Vivien.
“The where is easy,” replied Zoë, surprising Susan, because she had an American accent, a notable Western twang. “It’s from the Robert Southey Library, one of the smaller private libraries that sadly hasn’t lasted. It closed down in 1967, and the collection was sold to the London Library, which also absorbed the membership.”
“And the name?” asked Susan. “I thought perhaps it starts with an O.”
“More likely a C, I think,” said Zoë judiciously. “With this sort of thing, the surname was often written first; I think the trace of the comma separating the names is visible. The good news i
s even though the ink has almost completely faded, we can probably bring up the name with a photographic technique, using ultraviolet light.”
“Thank you,” said Susan. “I’m very grateful.”
“But we don’t have the UV lights here; a friend at the museum does that kind of specialized work for us,” said Zoë. “When she can fit it in.”
“I think it really is urgent,” said Vivien.
“I’ll call Jocelyn and see if she can do it tomorrow morning,” said Zoë. “We’ve put in to get fluorescing UV light for the darkroom here in the annual stipendiary requests, but it never gets approved. I think Thurston won’t sign it off because the globes come from America now; the local manufacturer went out of business a few years ago.”
“Made in Britain,” muttered Merlin.
“Now, now, dear,” said Helen. “You were made in Britain, after all. We still make many fine new things, and who but us know the value of the old so well?”
“I know,” sighed Merlin, giving his aunt a smile so bright and charming Susan felt she had to look away or go weak at the knees. “I guess I’m . . . I don’t know . . . on edge.”
“And hungry,” said Vivien. She looked at the grandfather clock. “It’s after four and we still haven’t had any lunch!”
“They’ve got stargazy pie in the canteen today,” said Helen brightly.
The others all shuddered.
“And corned beef and Branston pickle sandwiches.”
Susan brightened at this, suppressing an urge to lick her lips. Merlin did not seem cheered.
“I’m sure Jocelyn at the museum will help as soon as she can,” said Helen. “What’s this about, anyway?”
Susan looked at Merlin, who looked at Vivien.
“The case and the card were probably my father’s,” said Susan awkwardly. “We’re trying to find out who he is because . . . um . . . well, a Raud Alfar warden shot at me, and both criminals and the May Fair goblins have tried to abduct me. All of which seems to be about my father.”
“What did Grandmother say?” asked Zoë. “Thurston said you saw her this morning. Which one was it?”
“The eldest, in the end,” replied Vivien. She hesitated. “Ah . . .”
“We won’t tell Thurston or Merrihew,” said Helen. She looked at Susan. “Yes, I can read minds a little. And I see our old granny told you something that scares you.”
“She did,” said Susan slowly. “Apparently, my father is of the oldest blood, one of the Ancient Sovereigns.”
“That would do it,” said Helen. She wheeled over, close to Susan, and held up her luminous hands. “May I touch your face, child? It won’t harm you.”
“Uh, I guess so,” said Susan uncomfortably. She leaned forward. The older woman gently laid her hands on Susan’s cheeks, cradling her as she might some grandchild. She held her breath for a long, long minute, the room silent, Susan hardly daring to breathe herself. Then she exhaled, sat back, and folded her luminous hands in her lap.
“There is a spark of some great and ancient power within you,” she said. “Only an ember . . . but embers can flare into mighty fires. Did you have a significant birthday recently?”
“May first,” said Susan. “I turned eighteen.”
“I don’t know what the power is or where it comes from,” said Helen. “Or whether it will grow. But it seems to me to be the promise of something to come. . . .”
She hesitated for a moment, before quietly continuing.
“I do not wish to give you sad news, but I suspect . . . only suspect, mind, I cannot say for sure . . . that you would not have this small spark within you if your father is still present in either the Old World or the New. It smacks of a gift given in inheritance, some small portion of a far greater magic that is no longer here.”
“You mean my father’s dead?”
“The Old Ones do not precisely die,” said Helen. “Most sleep, perhaps never to awaken, but they are here. Some have faded almost to imperceptibility. But a few have been . . . removed, I suppose you could say. Utterly destroyed. If that is the case with you, I am sorry.”
“It’s okay,” replied Susan evenly. “I always thought he must be dead. Otherwise, you know, he would have . . . I don’t know . . . written to me at least. I have my mum, a happy childhood home. I’m lucky.”
“And I bet super hungry,” said Vivien. “Can we leave the library card with Zoë and Helen? Let’s eat and then get you home.”
“Yes,” said Susan. “I am hungry. And tired. I’d forgotten I was up half the night, after I saw the Kexa watching me from the roof of the shed.”
“A Kexa, too?” asked Zoë. She frowned. “Thurston’s note didn’t mention half of these things. Only the May Fair goblins.”
“There was a Cauldron-Born in Northumberland House,” said Merlin suddenly.
“What!” exclaimed Zoë and Helen.
“We can’t be certain. I felt it, and Viv smelled laurel and amaranth and decay,” said Merlin. “But Una and her team didn’t find anything, and Uncle Jake checked the wards, which were apparently intact.”
“Have Thurston and Merrihew been informed?”
“Una said she called Thurston; Merrihew’s probably still on her way back to Wooten.”
Helen and Zoë exchanged a look, which the others correctly interpreted as an indication of lack of confidence in the current leadership of the booksellers.
“We’ll make sure to follow this up,” said Helen.
“I wonder if they’ve told the Grail-Keeper,” mused Zoë. “I think under the circumstances that needs to be done.”
“I doubt it,” said Merlin bitterly. “Great-Uncle Thurston is in raptures over a library purchase, and Merrihew’s going after that giant carp in the old clay pit lake. Again.”
“Hmm,” said Helen.
“Besides,” continued Merlin. “If there was a Cauldron-Born, how was it made? Who has a cauldron besides us?”
Helen and Zoë shook their heads.
“No, Merlin,” they said together. “The Grail-Keeper would never allow it.”
“But—”
“No,” said the two older women together, very firmly.
“We will inform the Grail-Keeper, even if the Greats have not,” said Aunt Zoë. “I can nip into the Serpentine tomorrow.”
Susan looked at her blankly but didn’t have the opportunity to ask what on earth that meant as Helen asked her a question.
“Are you staying with Merlin at the Northumberland, Susan?”
“No,” said Susan. She could feel herself blushing.
“She’s at Mrs. London’s; you know, the place Special Branch keep for us to park the oddbods,” said Merlin. “Though they’ve been naughty and put in a couple of Soviet defectors and I’d say some sort of ex-peace group infiltrator who’s been found out as well.”
“Is that who they are?” asked Susan, who had been mystified by her housemates. Their desire to not discuss who they were or why they were there was even greater than her own.
“Is it sufficiently secure?” asked Zoë. “You mentioned a Kexa?”
“It has the usual wards,” said Vivien. “It’s on neutral ground. As much as you can get in London, anyway. No known entity of the Old World resides there, or claims it; it doesn’t fall under the suzerainty of any Ancient Sovereign.”
“And I’ll be there with Susan,” said Merlin.
“In the house, generally,” added Susan. “Not in my room or anything.”
Merlin nodded, as if nothing else had been implied. Maybe nothing else had been implied, Susan thought. She didn’t know what was worse. He wasn’t as self-obsessed and vain as she’d thought, but no less attractive. . . .
“While it is not uncommon for some of the lesser entities and minor human dabblers to also be criminals in the ordinary sense,” said Helen, “this sort of directed activity by goblins—who most certainly would not answer to any mere mortal instruction—in combination with gangsters is very unusual. It can’t be a coinciden
ce. And you think this connects with what happened to your mother?”
“I don’t know, but I think it’s worth finding out,” said Merlin.
“It certainly is,” said Zoë. “If Jocelyn can’t do the photographs at the BM tomorrow, I’ll find someone who can. Either way, I’ll have the job done by midmorning. Call me.”
“I’ll drop in,” said Vivien. “I’ll be here anyway. I have a shift tomorrow, front counter.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Susan. “I have to work tomorrow, too. I’d forgotten, what with everything . . . but I guess I’ll be safe at the pub?”
“I’ll be with you,” said Merlin cheerily. “Like a remora stuck to a whale . . . no . . . something rather nicer, like a strawberry in champagne—”
He oofed as Vivien struck him sharply in the stomach, and subsided.
“Be careful, children,” said Helen. She spun her wheelchair around, back to her desk.
“Yeah, be very careful,” said Zoë. “And don’t eat the godawful pie they have downstairs!”
Chapter Twelve
Short stories are brill
Novels can thrill
A play’s just the thing
But poems can sing
SUSAN AND MERLIN FINALLY GOT BACK TO MRS. LONDON’S CLOSE TO seven, because after their very late lunch, which vehemently did not include stargazy pie, they had to go first to Northumberland House to drop off Vivien, who wanted to look at the wards there, and to wait for Merlin to pack and close a ridiculously large leather suitcase that boasted numerous straps. At Merlin’s insistence, aided by Vivien’s diplomacy to actually make it happen, they traveled in one of the bookseller’s cabs, this time driven by the very silent, focused Cousin Wendover, not Audrey.
Susan was exhausted, wanting only a bath and bed, but this was denied her, for as they walked in the hall, the door to what Mrs. London called the common room swung open to reveal Inspector Greene, wearing the identical clothes she’d been in the week before when she’d brought Susan from Highgate Police Station to this house. A definite look.
