Septimus Heap, Book One: Magyk

by Angie Sage

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  Marcia was still too preoccupied with her sudden proximity to such a large amount of water to answer.

  “Aunt Zelda,” said Silas, who had discussed things with Sarah after Jenna had left that morning, “we’ll go and stay with Aunt Zelda.”

  The wind caught Muriel’s sails and she picked up speed, heading toward the fast current in the middle of the river. Marcia closed her eyes and felt dizzy. She wondered if the boat was meant to lean over quite so much.

  “The Keeper in Marram Marshes?” Marcia asked rather feebly.

  “Yes,” said Silas. “We’ll be safe there. She’s got her cottage permanently Enchanted now, after she was raided by the Quake Ooze Brownies last winter. No one will ever find it.”

  “Very well,” said Marcia. “We’ll go to Aunt Zelda.”

  Silas looked surprised. Marcia had actually agreed with him without an argument. But then, he smiled to himself, they were all in the same boat now.

  And so the little green boat disappeared into the night, leaving Sally a distant figure on the shore, waving bravely. As she lost sight of Muriel, Sally stood on the quay and listened to the sound of the water lapping against the cold stones. Suddenly she felt quite alone. She turned and started to make her way back along the snowy riverbank, her path lit by the yellow light shining from her cafe windows a short distance away. A few customers’ faces gazed out into the night as Sally hurried back to the warmth and chatter of the cafe, but they appeared not to notice her small figure as she tramped through the snow and made her way up the gangway to the pontoon.

  As Sally pushed open the cafe door and slipped into the warm hubbub, her more regular customers noticed that she was not her usual self. And they were right; unusually for Sally, she had only one thought on her mind.

  How long would it be before the Hunter arrived?

  10

  THE HUNTER

  It took precisely eight minutes and twenty seconds for the Hunter and his Pack to arrive at the Riverside Amenity Rubbish Dump after Sally had waved Muriel off at the quay. Sally had lived through each one of those five hundred seconds with a mounting dread in the pit of her stomach.

  What had she done?

  Sally had said nothing when she returned to the cafe, but something about her demeanor had caused most of her customers to quickly drink up their Springo, gulp down the last crumbs of barley cake and melt speedily into the night. The only customers Sally had left were the five Northern Traders, who were on their second measures of Springo Special and were talking softly among themselves in their mournful singsong accents. Even the Washing-up Boy had disappeared.

  Sally’s mouth was dry, her hands were shaking and she fought against her overwhelming desire to run away. Calm down, girl, she told herself. Tough it out. Deny everything. The Hunter has no reason to suspect you. If you run now, he’ll know you’re involved. And the Hunter will find you. He always does. Just sit tight and keep cool.

  The second hand of the big cafe clock ticked on.

  Click…Click…Click…

  Four hundred and ninety-eight seconds…Four hundred and ninety-nine seconds…Five hundred.

  A powerful searchlight beam swept across the top of the rubbish dump.

  Sally ran to a nearby window and stared out, her heart pounding. She could see a swarm of black figures milling around, silhouetted in the beam of the searchlight. The Hunter had brought his Pack, just as Marcia had warned.

  Sally stared intently, trying to make out what they were doing. The Pack was gathered around the rat door, which Marcia had jammed shut with the Lockfast and Weld Spell. To Sally’s relief the Pack seemed to be in no hurry; in fact, it looked as though they were laughing among themselves. Some faint shouts drifted down to the cafe. Sally strained her ears. What she heard made her shiver.

  “…Wizard scum…”

  “…Rats trapped by a rat door…”

  “…Don’t go away, ha ha. We’re coming to get you…”

  As Sally watched she could see the figures around the rat door becoming increasingly frantic as the door held fast against all their efforts to pull it free. Standing apart from the Pack was a lone figure watching impatiently whom Sally rightly took to be the Hunter.

  Suddenly the Hunter lost patience with the efforts to free the rat door. He strode over, grabbed an axe from one of the Pack and angrily attacked the door. Loud metallic clangs echoed down to the cafe until eventually the mangled rat door was tossed to the side, and one of the Pack was sent into the chute to dig out the rubbish. A searchlight was now trained directly into the chute, and the Pack gathered around the exit. Sally could see the glinting of their pistols in the glare of the lights. With her heart in her mouth, Sally waited for them to discover that their prey had fled.

  It didn’t take long.

  A disheveled figure emerged from the chute and was roughly grabbed by the Hunter who, Sally could tell, was furious. He shook the man violently and threw him aside, sending him sprawling down the slope of the dump. The Hunter crouched down and peered disbelievingly into the empty rubbish chute. Abruptly, he motioned for the smallest of the Pack to go into the chute. The man chosen hung back reluctantly, but he was forced in, and two Pack Guards with pistols were left at the entrance.

  The Hunter walked slowly to the edge of the rubbish dump to regain his composure after finding that his prey had eluded him. He was followed at a safe distance by the small figure of a boy.

  The boy was dressed in the everyday green robes of a Wizard Apprentice, but unlike any other Apprentice, he wore around his waist a red sash with three black stars emblazoned on it. The stars of DomDaniel.

  But at that moment the Hunter was unaware of DomDaniel’s Apprentice. He stood quietly, a short, solidly built man with the usual cropped Guard haircut. His face was brown and lined from all his years outdoors spent hunting and tracking down prey of the human kind. He wore the usual Hunter attire: dark green tunic and short cloak with thick brown leather boots. Around his waist was a broad leather belt from which hung a sheathed knife and a pouch.

  The Hunter smiled a grim smile, his mouth a thin, determined line turned down at the edges, his pale blue eyes narrowed to a watchful slit. So it was to be a Hunt, was it? Very well, there was nothing he liked better than a Hunt. For years he had been slowly making his way up through the ranks of the Hunting Pack, and at last he had reached his goal. He was a Hunter, the very best of the Pack, and this was the moment he had been waiting for. Here he was, hunting not only the ExtraOrdinary Wizard but also the Princess, the Queenling no less. The Hunter felt excited as he anticipated a night to remember: the Sighting, the Trail, the Chase, the Close and the Kill. No problem, thought the Hunter, his smile broadening to show his small pointed teeth in the cold moonlight.

  The Hunter turned his thoughts to the Hunt. Something told him that the birds had flown from the rubbish chute, but as an efficient Hunter he had to make sure that all possibilities were covered, and the Pack Guard he had sent inside had been given instructions to follow the chute and check all exits back up to the Wizard Tower. The fact that that was probably impossible did not trouble the Hunter; a Pack Guard was the lowest of the low, an Expendable, and would do his duty or die in the attempt. The Hunter had been an Expendable once but not for long—he’d made sure of that. And now, he thought with a tremor of excitement, now he must find the Trail.

  The rubbish dump, however, yielded few clues even to the skilled tracker that the Hunter was. The heat from the decay of the rubbish had melted the snow, and the constant disturbance of the rubbish by rats and gulls had already removed any trace of a Trail. Very well, thought the Hunter. In the absence of a Trail he must search out a Sighting.

  The Hunter stood on his vantage point on top of the dump and surveyed the moonlit scene through his narrowed eyes. Behind him rose the steep, dark walls of the Castle, the battlements outlined crisply against the cold, bright starry sky. In front of him lay the undulating landscape of t
he rich farmland that bordered the far side of the river, and in the distance on the horizon his eyes took in the jagged spine of the Border Mountains. The Hunter gave the snow-covered landscape a long, considered stare but saw nothing of interest to him. He then turned his attention to the more immediate scene below him. He looked down at the broad sweep of the river, his gaze following the flow of the water as it rounded the bend and flowed swiftly on to his right, past the cafe perched on the pontoon, which was floating gently on the high tide, past the little quay with its boats moored up for the night, and on down the broad sweep of the river until it disappeared from view behind Raven’s Rock, a jagged outcrop that towered over the river.

  The Hunter listened intently for sounds rising up from the water, but all he heard was the silence that the blanketing of snow brings. He scanned the water for clues—perhaps a shadow under the banks, a startled bird, a telltale ripple—but he could see nothing. Nothing. It was strangely quiet and still, the dark river silently winding through the bright snowy landscape lit by the shimmer of the full moon. It was, thought the Hunter, a perfect night for a Hunt.

  The Hunter stood immobile, tense, waiting for the Sighting to show itself to him.

  Watching and waiting…

  Something caught his eye. A white face at the window of the cafe. A frightened face, a face that knew something. The Hunter smiled. He had a Sighting. He was back on the Trail.

  11

  THE TRAIL

  Sally saw them coming.

  She jumped back from the window, straightened her skirts and collected her thoughts. Go for it, girl, she told herself. You can do it. Just put on your Welcoming Landlady face and they won’t suspect a thing. Sally took refuge behind the bar and, for the first time ever during cafe hours, she poured herself a tankard of Springo Special and took a large gulp.

  Eurgh. She had never liked the stuff. Too many dead rats in the bottom of the barrel for her taste.

  As Sally took another mouthful of dead rat, a powerful searchlight beam cut into the cafe and swept over the occupants. Briefly, it shone straight into Sally’s eyes and then, moving on, lit up the pale faces of the Northern Traders. The Traders stopped talking and exchanged worried glances.

  A moment later Sally heard the heavy thud of hurried footsteps coming up the gangway. The pontoon rocked as the Pack ran along it, and the cafe shook, its plates and glasses nervously clinking with the movement. Sally put her tankard away, stood up straight and with great difficulty put a welcoming smile on her face.

  The door crashed open.

  The Hunter strode in. Behind him, in the beam of the searchlight, Sally could see the Pack lined up along the pontoon, pistols at the ready.

  “Good evening, sir. What can I get you?” Sally trilled nervously.

  The Hunter heard the tremor in her voice with satisfaction. He liked it when they were frightened.

  He walked slowly up to the bar, leaned over and stared at Sally intently.

  “You can get me some information. I know you have it.”

  “Oh?” Sally tried to sound politely interested. But that wasn’t what the Hunter heard. He heard scared and playing for time.

  Good, he thought. This one knows something.

  “I am in pursuit of a small and dangerous group of terrorists,” said the Hunter, carefully watching Sally’s face. Sally struggled to keep her Welcoming Landlady face, but for a fraction of a second it slipped, and the briefest of expressions flitted across her features: surprise.

  “Surprised to hear your friends described as terrorists, are you?”

  “No,” said Sally quickly. And then, realizing what she had said, stuttered, “I—I don’t mean that. I…”

  Sally gave up. The damage was done. How had it happened so easily? It was his eyes, thought Sally, those thin, bright slits of eyes like two searchlights shining into your brain. What a fool she was to think she could outwit a Hunter. Sally’s heart was pounding so loudly she was sure the Hunter could hear it.

  Which of course he could. That was one of his favorite sounds, the beating heart of cornered prey. He listened for a delightful moment longer and then he said, “You will tell us where they are.”

  “No,” muttered Sally.

  The Hunter seemed untroubled by this small act of rebellion. “You will,” he told her matter-of-factly.

  The Hunter leaned against the bar.

  “Nice place you’ve got here, Sally Mullin. Very pretty. Built of wood, isn’t it? Been here a while if I remember right. Good dry seasoned timber by now. Burns exceedingly well, I’m told.”

  “No…” whispered Sally.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what, then. You just tell me where your friends have gone, and I’ll mislay my tinder box…”

  Sally said nothing. Her mind was racing, but her thoughts made no sense to her. All she could think of was that she had never got the fire buckets refilled after the Washing-up Boy set the tea towels alight.

  “Right, then,” said the Hunter. “I’ll go and tell the boys to get the fire started. I’ll lock the doors behind me when I go. We don’t want anyone running out and getting hurt, do we?”

  “You can’t…” gasped Sally, understanding that the Hunter was not only about to burn down her beloved cafe but intended to burn it down with her inside it. Not to mention the five Northern Traders. Sally glanced at them. They were muttering anxiously among themselves.

  The Hunter had said all he’d come to say. It was going pretty much as he had expected, and now was the time to show that he meant business. He turned abruptly and walked toward the door.

  Sally stared after him, suddenly angry. How dare he come into my cafe and terrorize my customers! And then swagger off to burn us all to cinders? That man, thought Sally, is nothing but a bully. She didn’t like bullies.

  Sally, impetuous as ever, ran out from behind the bar.

  “Wait!” she yelled.

  The Hunter smiled. It was working. It always did. Walk away and leave them to think about it for a moment. They always come around. The Hunter stopped but did not turn.

  A hard kick on his leg from Sally’s sturdy right boot caught the Hunter by surprise.

  “Bully,” shouted Sally.

  “Fool,” gasped the Hunter, clutching his leg. “You will regret this, Sally Mullin.”

  A Senior Pack Guard appeared. “Trouble, sir?” he inquired.

  The Hunter was not pleased to be seen hopping about in such an undignified manner. “No,” he snapped. “All part of the plan.”

  “The men have collected the brushwood, sir, and set it under the cafe as you ordered. The tinder is dry and the flints are sparking well, sir.”

  “Good,” said the Hunter grimly.

  “Excuse me, sir?” said a heavily accented voice behind him. One of the Northern Traders had left their table and made his way over to the Hunter.

  “Yes?” replied the Hunter through gritted teeth, spinning around on one leg to face the man. The Trader stood awkwardly. He was dressed in the dark red tunic of the Hanseatic League, travel-stained and ragged. His straggly blond hair was held in place by a greasy leather band around his forehead, and his face was a pasty white in the glare of the searchlight.

  “I believe we have the information you require?” the Trader continued. His voice was slowly searching for the right words in an unfamiliar language, rising as though asking a question.

  “Have you now?” replied the Hunter, the pain in his leg leaving him as, at last, the Hunt began to pick up the Trail.

  Sally stared at the Northern Trader in horror. How did he know anything? Then she realized. He must have seen them from the window.

  The Trader avoided Sally’s accusing stare. He looked uncomfortable, but he had obviously understood enough of the Hunter’s words to also be afraid.

  “We believe those you seek have left? In the boat?” the Trader said slowly.

  “The boat. Which boat?” snapped the Hunter, back in charge now.

  “We do not know your bo
ats here. A small boat, red sails? A family with a wolf.”

  “A wolf. Ah, the mutt.” The Hunter moved uncomfortably close to the Trader and growled in a low voice, “Which direction? Upstream or downstream? To the mountains or to the Port? Think carefully, my friend, if you and your companions wish to keep cool tonight.”

  “Downstream. To the Port,” muttered the Trader, finding the hot breath of the Hunter unpleasant.

  “Right,” said the Hunter, satisfied. “I suggest you and your friends leave now while you can.”

  The other four Traders silently got up and walked over to the fifth Trader, guiltily avoiding Sally’s horrified gaze. Swiftly they slipped out into the night, leaving Sally to her fate.

  The Hunter gave her a little mocking bow.

  “And good night to you too, Madam,” he said. “Thank you for your hospitality.” The Hunter swept out and slammed the cafe door behind him.

  “Nail the door shut!” he shouted angrily. “And the windows. Don’t let her escape!”

  The Hunter strode off down the gangway. “Get me a fast-pursuit bullet boat,” he ordered the Runner waiting at the end of the gangway. “At the quay. Now!”

  The Hunter reached the riverbank and turned to survey Sally Mullin’s beleaguered cafe. As much as he wanted to see the first lick of the flames before he left, he did not stop. He needed to catch the Trail before it went cold. As he strode down to the quay to await the arrival of the bullet boat, the Hunter smiled a satisfied smile.

  No one tried to make a fool of him and got away with it.

  Behind the smiling Hunter trotted the Apprentice. He was somewhat sulky at having been left outside the cafe in the cold, but he was also very excited. He wrapped his thick cloak around him and hugged himself with anticipation. His dark eyes shone, and his pale cheeks were flushed with the chill night air. This was turning into the Big Adventure his Master had told him it would be. It was the start of his Master’s Return. And he was part of it because without him it could not happen. He was Advisor to the Hunter. He was the one who would Oversee the Hunt. The one whose Magykal powers would Save the Day. A brief tremor of doubt crossed the Apprentice’s mind at this thought, but he pushed it away. He felt so important it made him want to shout. Or jump about. Or hit someone. But he couldn’t. He had to do as his Master told him and follow the Hunter carefully and quietly. But he might just hit the Queenling when he got her—that would show her.