The Left-Handed Booksellers of London

by Garth Nix

  The sense of waking and anticipation ebbed away, but it didn’t entirely disappear. A shivering, coiled-up feeling that something truly momentous was going to happen remained inside her.

  “No,” whispered Susan to herself. “I don’t want it. Keep your powers.”

  The sensation ebbed further, like a baby settling almost off to sleep, being also ready to come awake and bawl at the slightest provocation. Which Susan was determined not to provide.

  She pushed herself off the oak she was leaning against, and started walking again, setting her mind very firmly on her immediate predicament and not on whatever was happening within her. With only £15, hiding out didn’t seem very possible. Susan tried to think how she might contact Merlin or Vivien without letting any other booksellers know. She could call the Old Bookshop, pose as a friend with a different name . . . but they probably wouldn’t be there anyway.

  Hopefully, they were looking for her, perhaps via magical means. But then so would whoever the Fenris reported to, and the she-wolf knew exactly where Susan had been, so they had the advantage. Therefore moving away was the first priority. She could worry about everything else once she was a good distance from the well and the wood.

  At least Morcenna’s healing touch had fixed up her aches and pains. Despite being rather damp, Susan felt surprisingly lively and well. She was alive, and free . . . and it was good to be out among trees, in clean air, with all the constant noise of London gone, replaced by the gentler sounds of birdsong and the rustle of small animals about the undergrowth, perhaps hedgehogs or rabbits. . . .

  Susan stopped to think about this. All she could hear were natural sounds. No aircraft overhead, no distant traffic noises from the motorway or some closer road. Nothing. But the Fenris had only gone three-quarters of a mile at most from the road, and she had walked at least a couple of miles.

  “Of course!” she muttered to herself. “It’s a mythic wood. Far bigger than it should be, once you’re in it. But how do I get out?”

  She thought about that for a bit longer. The wood didn’t feel like the May Fair; there was none of the supersaturated color or feeling of otherness. She hadn’t seen anything that appeared out of place, and instinctively she felt that this would not be the answer to getting out of the forest.

  Instead, she drew a deep breath and loudly spoke to the trees about her, but not shouting, using her best loud, very polite voice.

  “Could you please let me out? I love this wood, but I need to leave!”

  All the soft sounds stopped as she spoke, the rustling ceased, the breeze no longer played in the upper branches. Everything was absolutely still and quiet. But Susan felt something change; something flickered, for an instant, in the corner of her left eye. She turned slowly, ready to bring up her sword.

  As she turned, the little noises came back. The breeze wafted through the upper reaches, lifting leaves and branches. Something small and furry whisked through the thick undergrowth. A blackbird called again, perhaps that same hopeful male from the dell, keeping her company.

  Two overhanging beech trees, rimed with green, had fallen on each other to form a gateway, a rough path visible beyond that gate. Neither beeches nor path had been there a moment before.

  Susan bowed, said, “Thank you,” and took the path. Almost immediately the wood opened up. There were no longer thickets of brambles, the oaks were farther apart, the beeches between them shorter and less grasping. She could even see the sky and the sun. Which looked much higher than it had when she’d last seen it.

  Only a few minutes later, she heard other noises up ahead. The crack of a trodden-on stick, the swish of branches pushed aside, the scuff of footsteps . . . there were people coming towards her.

  Crouching low, Susan left the path—not without a moment’s hesitation, in case it disappeared—and slid around the trunk of a vast oak, so she could peek around but still be hidden—though the forest was so dense this worked both ways, and she couldn’t see very far.

  There were at least two people, she thought. Maybe more. She heard them come closer, then they also stopped, and she caught faint whispers. Susan held her breath, removing even that faint noise so she could hear better. They were moving again, towards her, noisier now, with clumping feet and—

  “Susan!”

  Susan whirled around, instinctively lifting her sword. Merlin had silently crept up behind her, a dagger in his left hand. She didn’t lower the sword, but he was already disappearing the dagger. Literally, she couldn’t see where it went; it was gone in the space of a single blink. Possibly up the sleeve of his corduroy jacket, which Merlin clearly considered suitable for rural wear, combined with a cream blouse atop a subdued tartan skirt, green stockings and upmarket Hunter Wellington boots with side straps, and what at first glance appeared to be a kind of green beret with a bobble on top. His tie-dyed yak-hair bag still graced one shoulder.

  “What is that on your head?” asked Susan. The look of relief on her face made it clear these words were an expression of how pleased she was to see him.

  “It’s a tam-o’-shanter, of course,” said Merlin, as if she should already know. He held out his arms and smiled. Susan walked into his embrace, they hugged for a moment, and then both recoiled as if suddenly remembering pressing appointments.

  “I was worried,” said Merlin.

  “Me too,” said Susan. “Who is that stomping around?”

  Merlin looked past Susan and called out, “Vivien! It’s Susan!”

  Vivien approached from in front, not bothering with her heavy “for the purpose of distraction” boot stomps. She was wearing jeans, a checked shirt, a wide-brimmed straw hat with a crushed crown that had been pushed out, and Adidas running shoes. A British Caledonian vinyl airline bag hung over her shoulder and she was carrying the scabbard for the old sword.

  “Oh, thank heavens,” said Vivien. “Where’s the Fenris?”

  “Gone,” said Susan. She let out her breath and lowered the sword, her heart beginning to slow down. “Merlin’s sword . . . you wounded it badly but it took a while to take effect. So she . . . it was a she-wolf, diverted to get healing from Morcenna’s Well, down there. Morcenna healed her, but wouldn’t let the wolf take me. So the Fenris turned into a bunch of ravens and flew off to whoever she answers to.”

  “Morcenna?” asked Merlin.

  “Has to be a water-fay with that name,” said Vivien. She frowned. “Lucky she wasn’t hungry.”

  “What?” asked Susan.

  “The water-fay are rather arbitrary,” said Vivien. “Kind of a fifty-fifty proposition for visiting mortals. Get helped, or get eaten. Not that they need to eat. But they like to from time to time.”

  “I saw her teeth,” said Susan, with a shudder.

  Vivien handed the scabbard to Susan, who gratefully sheathed the sword. When the blade was bare she was always uncomfortably aware of its presence and sharpness, as if it wanted to cut someone.

  “Do you remember any details about the Fenris?” asked Vivien. “I might be able to identify her. Did she have distinct silver hairs in her snout, or—”

  “Morcenna greeted her as the Fenris of somewhere that sounded like One-under Mere.”

  Merlin raised an eyebrow and looked expectantly at Vivien.

  “Onundar Myrr,” said Vivien. “Lake Windermere.”

  “Does that help?” asked Susan.

  “It will, I’m sure,” said Vivien, frowning. “But I’ll need to check the references. I don’t recall the Fenris of Lake Windermere being associated with any particular Old One . . . we need to call in, Merlin. Ask Thurston and the New Bookshop team—”

  “I’m still not sure that’s a good idea,” interrupted Merlin. “But we certainly have to get out of here, anyway.”

  He pointed at a distant speck in the sky, or what was a distant speck to Susan at least. It took her a few seconds as it drew somewhat closer to recognize it must be a helicopter.

  “Police helicopter,” said Merlin. “Following the
A50. Hopefully not looking for our new car yet.”

  “What time is it?” asked Susan, lifting her wrist to set her watch. It was going again, but clearly wrong. “I got kind of confused in the wood, and the sun looks much higher than it did. . . .”

  “It’s ten to twelve,” said Vivien, not bothering to consult any timepiece. Susan accepted this as another right-handed skill, and set her watch. “I’m glad you worked out how to get out of the wood; we’ve been wandering the fringes for the last two hours trying to find a way in. Not having the appropriate reference with us to tell us how to placate or pressure the entity concerned.”

  “I asked the wood to let me out,” said Susan. She ignored the swift glance between Vivien and Merlin. “Um, why do we need to get away from a police helicopter?”

  “Merlin had to shoot a policeman,” said Vivien. “Well, two police officers. But one was killed.”

  “What!”

  “I didn’t mean to kill him,” said Merlin wretchedly. “But once shots are fired . . . anyway, they fired first. They were under a compulsion. Like those thugs who tried to abduct you, and the ones who killed Mum. Someone . . . something . . . messed with their minds.”

  “It’s going to take time to sort that out, and we haven’t been able to call in to the Greats to get that done,” said Vivien. “In the meantime, the Leicestershire Constabulary and I guess every other force in the country will be looking for the two people who killed a cop on the M1.”

  “Oh,” said Susan, and then, “Oh! If it’s really ten to twelve, Morcenna said the Fenris would get wherever it’s going within a few hours. The wolf will have told whoever was expecting me exactly where I was.”

  “So two reasons to move,” said Merlin, visibly pulling himself together. “You haven’t got a book on you, by any chance, have you, Susan?”

  “No,” said Susan.

  “Pity.”

  “There’s no time to read, Merlin,” said Vivien gently.

  “I know, I know,” replied Merlin. “I thought a few pages, as we walked . . . it’ll have to wait. I should have put some books in with my clothes. I wasn’t thinking. Come on, let’s go.”

  “Where are we going?” Susan asked Vivien, as Merlin typically zoomed ahead. “Why does Merlin want a book?”

  “He killed someone,” said Vivien. “And he’s understandably very upset about it. The left-handed have great capability for violence, and they need to . . . counterweight it, I suppose . . . with quiet reading, or writing poems. He’ll be okay.”

  “And where are we going?” prompted Susan.

  “That’s a tricky question,” said Vivien. “Away from here, for now.”

  “Yes, let’s get some distance,” said Merlin. He’d found the bridle path and stopped to let them catch up, and was now looking up at the sky. “If we can. Damn!”

  The helicopter was flying back along the A50, west to east, heading away. But a few miles away to the north, a murmuration of starlings was rising from a distant field, thousands of the small birds moving together to form a dark cloud uncannily like an enormous hand, its fingers groping over the land below. The birds were erratically moving towards the center of the wood, in a series of turns and drifts upwards and downwards.

  “Is that natural?” asked Susan.

  “It could be,” replied Merlin. “But I bet it isn’t.”

  “Definitely an Old One’s work,” said Vivien. “And a Cauldron-Keeper to boot. Crossing too many mythic boundaries for it to be anyone else.”

  She stared in fascination at the moving cloud of birds. “I’ve never seen a murmuration before, whether perfectly natural or not. It’s rather beautiful. Or would be if it wasn’t looking for us.”

  “They’ll be overhead in less than ten minutes,” said Merlin. “Come on!”

  They’d left the Capri in a lay-by on Old Forest Way where the bridle path started, but as they got closer, Merlin stopped and held up his hand. Vivien and Susan moved up next to him and crouched down. They were still in the fringe of the forest, but Susan caught a glimpse of a silver car through the trees.

  “What is it?” whispered Vivien.

  “Helicopter’s coming back our way,” said Merlin. “Wait for it to pass over.”

  Susan could hear the whop-whop-whop of the helicopter, but couldn’t tell whether it was getting closer until all of a sudden the sound grew much louder and a few seconds later it flew overhead, quite low.

  “If it keeps going, we’re okay,” muttered Merlin to Susan. “If not, the car we took is already reported stolen and they’ll have linked it to the cab.”

  “The cab?”

  “We borrowed Audrey’s to chase after you,” said Vivien.

  The helicopter noise faded away. Merlin craned his neck, surveying what he could of the sky between the treetops.

  “It’s turned west again,” he said. “Come on.”

  He started off again, moving fast. This time, Susan and Vivien pushed themselves to keep up with him. Merlin unlocked the car and started it, as Vivien opened the passenger-side door and put the seat forward so Susan could slide into the bench seat behind.

  “Not a lot of room back here,” she said, laying the sheathed sword down on the floor, with a slight double take at the presence of Merlin’s suitcase.

  “We had a limited selection of vehicles to choose from,” replied Merlin.

  “Based on the prerequisite that it had to make us feel like we were in an episode of The Professionals,” added Vivien. “I’m Bodie and he’s Doyle.”

  “So I have to be Georgina Cowley?” asked Susan. “Thanks.”

  “She’s the boss, to be fair,” said Vivien.

  “Yeah, and thirty years older than the others,” said Susan.

  “Still tough, though,” said Merlin. He blipped the engine, put it in gear, and eased out onto the road, craning forward to look up through the windscreen. “You see the helicopter or the birds, Vivien?”

  “Can’t see the helicopter,” replied Vivien, who’d wound her window down for a better view. “The murmuration is heading for the middle of the wood.”

  “Okay,” muttered Merlin. He put his foot down and the car roared in answer, fishtailing slightly as it left the lay-by and accelerated out into the road.

  “Take it easy,” said Vivien. “We don’t want to attract attention.”

  Merlin slowed down to thirty, nodding.

  “Where are we going?” asked Susan.

  “First we need to find a phone and call in,” continued Vivien. “I asked Cousin Linda to follow up on the silversmith records and Aunt Zoë should have got the library card UV photographs done. We need to know that information before we can work anything else out.”

  “Yes,” said Susan. The strange fizzing, apprehensive but also expectant sensation inside her leaped up as she spoke. It was almost as if the power that was building up within her also wanted to know—needed to know—who her father was. A puzzle completed would lead her to . . . to completion.

  “Thurston and Merrihew will cut in if we call,” warned Merlin.

  “I know,” said Vivien calmly. “We have to risk it.”

  “Risk it?” asked Susan. “They must know about me by now, surely?”

  “They may have known all along,” said Merlin heavily.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Merlin thinks either Thurston or Merrihew may actually be behind the attempts to kidnap you,” said Vivien calmly. “And therefore also the police officers who were compelled to shoot at us.”

  “What?!”

  “But I have to say the latter event makes me think they’re not involved, or at least not directly.”

  “I don’t know—” Merlin started to say, but Vivien didn’t let him go on.

  “They’re definitely both lazy and can’t be bothered with their responsibilities anymore,” continued Vivien. “I agree they should retire. And they may know more about Susan’s father and whoever wants to grab hold of Susan than they let on. But that’s a sin of om
ission, not commission. I can’t believe either of them would compel police officers to kill us. Or that either would arrange for Mum to be murdered.”

  Merlin was silent for a few seconds, intent on the road ahead.

  “I don’t know. I think . . . I feel . . . suspicious. But I don’t know. I get mad at them for not doing the things that need to be done. I suppose laziness or inattention is more likely than anything else. . . .”

  “What about the Cauldron-Born?” asked Susan. She had a vivid memory of that strange, cricked-neck man crossing the lawn, his horrid shadow crawling behind him. “I know Helen and Zoë said they couldn’t have come from your grail, but do you accept that?”

  “Helen and Zoë know far more about our grail and the Grail-Keeper than I do,” said Merlin. “Though I guess I’d like to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

  “The Greats are still going to be a problem,” said Vivien. “Whether they’re actively involved or not, they’ll want to sweep things under the carpet, or even to apply the old-style solution to the problem Susan represents. We need to figure out what—”

  “I think I need to go to my father,” said Susan suddenly. She sounded surprised, as if this was a revelation to herself. She frowned, and repeated her words. “I need to go to my father.”

  “Uh, Cousin Helen thought he’s probably . . . gone,” said Vivien.

  “And I’m pretty sure he isn’t,” said Susan. “I can’t explain it, and I wish it wasn’t happening, but whatever power my father has given me is kind of . . . waking up. And I have this overwhelming sense I need to find him, whoever and wherever he is.”

  “Do you have a sense of that?” asked Merlin. “The where, I mean? We’re coming up to a crossroad. I’ve been heading away from those birds, but if you have somewhere more definite. . . .”

  “North,” said Susan. Her hand flashed up, and pointed. “North. That’s all I know.”