by Angie Sage
Milo insists on paying the bill and ushers them out onto the busy quayside.
“I cannot imagine why you are here,” he says disapprovingly. “You must not stay here a moment longer. It is not suitable. These are not the kind of people you should be mixing with, Jenna.”
Jenna does not answer. She refrains from pointing out that Milo was obviously happy to mix with them.
Milo continues. “The Trading Post is not a place for babes in arms—”
“We are not—” Jenna protests.
“As near as. You will all come to my ship.”
Jenna does not like being told what she must do, even though the thought of a warm bed for the night is extremely tempting.
“No, thank you, Milo,” she says frostily.
“What do you mean?” says Milo, incredulous. “I refuse to allow you to roam around this place at night on your own.”
“We are not roaming—” Jenna begins but is cut short by Nicko.
“What kind of ship?” he asks.
“A barkentine,” Milo replies.
“We’ll come,” says Nicko.
And so it is decided they will spend the night on Milo’s ship. Jenna is relieved, though she does not show it. Beetle is relieved and shows it. A big grin spreads across his face, and even Snorri has a faint smile as she follows in Milo’s wake, Ullr at her heels.
Milo leads them around to the back of the café, through a door in a wall and into a dark alleyway, which runs along the back of the bustling harbors. It is a shortcut used by many in the day, but at night most prefer to stay under the bright lights of the harbors—unless there is secret business to be done. They are no more than a few yards along the alley when a shadowy figure comes rushing toward them. Milo steps in front of the figure, blocking his path.
“You are late,” he growls.
“I—I am sorry,” says the man. “I—” He stops to catch his breath.
“Yes?” says Milo impatiently.
“We have it.”
“You do? It is intact?”
“Yes, yes it is.”
“No one has discovered you?” Milo sounds worried. “Er, no, sir. No one. Not—not anyone, sir, and that’s the truth, honestly, sir, it is.”
“All right, all right, I believe you. How long until arrival?”
“Tomorrow, sir.”
Milo nods approval and hands the man a small purse of coins. “For your trouble. The rest on delivery. Safe and undetected delivery.”
“Thank you, sir.” The man bows and is gone, melting into the shadows.
Milo surveys his intrigued audience. “Just a bit of business. Something rather special for my princess.” He smiles fondly at Jenna.
Jenna half smiles back. She kind of likes the way Milo is— and she kind of doesn’t. It is most confusing.
But by the time they arrive at Milo’s ship, the Cerys, Jenna is less confused—the Cerys is the most wonderful ship she has ever seen, and even Nicko has to admit it is better than a stinky net loft.
1
PROMOTION
Septimus Heap, ExtraOrdinary Apprentice, was woken up by his House Mouse leaving a note on his pillow. Blearily he opened his eyes and, with a sense of relief, remembered where he was—back in his bedroom at the top of the Wizard Tower, Queste completed. And then he remembered that Jenna, Nicko, Snorri and Beetle were still not home. Septimus sat up, suddenly awake. Today, no matter what Marcia said, he was going to go and bring them back.
Septimus sat up, picked up the note and brushed a couple of mouse droppings off his pillow. He carefully unfolded the tiny piece of paper and read:
FROM THE DESK OF
MARCIA OVERSTRAND
EXTRAORDINARY WIZARD
Septimus, I would very much like
to see you at midday in my study.
I hope that is convenient for you.
Marcia
Septimus let out a low whistle. Even though he had been Marcia’s Apprentice for nearly three years, he had never had an appointment with her before. If Marcia wished to speak to Septimus, she would interrupt whatever he was doing and speak to him. Septimus would have to stop what he was doing right away and listen.
But today, his second day back from the Queste, it seemed that something had changed. As Septimus read the note again, just to make sure, the distant chimes of the Drapers Yard clock drifted through his window. He counted them— eleven—and breathed a sigh of relief. It would not be good to be late for his first-ever appointment with Marcia. Septimus had slept late, but that was on Marcia’s instructions; she had also told him that he did not have to clean the Library that morning. Septimus looked at the rainbow-colored beam of sunlight filtering through the purple glass in his window and shook his head with a smile—he could get used to this.
An hour later, dressed in a new set of green Apprentice robes that had been left out in his room for him, Septimus knocked politely on Marcia’s door.
“Come in, Septimus.” Marcia’s voice drifted through the thick oak door. Septimus pushed open the creaky door and stepped inside. Marcia’s study was a small wood-paneled room with a large desk set under the window and a fuzz of Magyk in the air that set Septimus’s skin tingling. It was lined with shelves on which were crammed moth-eaten leather-bound books, stacks of yellowing papers tied with purple ribbons and a myriad of brown and black glass pots that contained ancient things even Marcia was not sure what to do with. Among the pots Septimus saw his brother Simon’s pride and joy—a wooden box with Sleuth written on it in Simon’s loopy Heap handwriting. Septimus could not help but glance out of the tall, narrow window. He loved the view from Marcia’s study— a breathtaking vista across the rooftops of the Castle to the river and beyond that to the green slopes of the Farmlands. Far, far in the distance he could see the misty blue line of the foothills of the Badlands.
Marcia was sitting behind her desk in her much-worn—but very comfortable—tall purple chair. She looked fondly at her Apprentice, who was unusually well turned out, and smiled.
“Good afternoon, Septimus,” she said. “Do sit down.” Marcia indicated the smaller but equally comfortable green chair on the other side of the desk. “I hope you slept well?”
Septimus took his seat. “Yes, thank you,” he replied a little warily. Why was Marcia being so nice?
“You’ve had a difficult week, Septimus,” Marcia began. “Well, we all have. It is very good to have you back. I have something for you.” She opened a small drawer, took out two purple silk ribbons and laid them on the desk.
Septimus knew what the ribbons were—the purple stripes of a Senior Apprentice, which, if his Apprenticeship went well, he would get to wear in his final year. It was nice of Marcia to let him know that she would make him a Senior Apprentice when the time came, he thought, but his final year was a long way off, and Septimus knew only too well that a lot could go wrong before then.
“Do you know what these are?” Marcia asked.
Septimus nodded.
“Good. They are yours. I am making you Senior Apprentice.”
“What, now?”
Marcia smiled broadly. “Yes, now.”
“Now? Like, today?”
“Yes, Septimus, today. I trust the ends of your sleeves are still clean. You didn’t get any egg on them at breakfast, did you?”
Septimus inspected his sleeves. “No, they’re fine.”
Marcia stood up and so did Septimus—an Apprentice must never sit when his tutor is standing. Marcia picked up the ribbons and placed them on the hems of Septimus’s bright green sleeves. In a puff of Magykal purple mist, the ribbons curled themselves around the hems of the sleeves and became part of his tunic. Septimus stared at them, amazed. He didn’t know what to say. But Marcia did.
“Now, Septimus, you need to know a little about the rights and duties of a Senior Apprentice. You may determine fifty percent of your own projects and also your main timetable—within reason, of course. You may be asked to deputize for me at the basic-level
Wizard Tower meetings—for which, incidentally, I would be very grateful. As Senior Apprentice, you may come and go without asking my permission, although it is considered courteous to inform me where you are going and at what time you intend to return. But as you are still so young, I would add that I do require you to be back in the Wizard Tower by nine P.M. on weekdays—midnight at the latest on special occasions—understood?”
Still gazing at the Magykal purple stripes shimmering on the ends of his sleeves, Septimus nodded. “Understood . . . I think . . . but why . . . ?”
“Because,” Marcia said, “you are the only Apprentice ever to return from the Queste. Not only did you return alive, but you returned having successfully completed it. And—even more incredible—you were sent on this . . . this terrible thing before you had even gotten halfway through your Apprenticeship— and you still did it. You used your Magykal skills to better effect than many Wizards in this Tower could ever hope to do. This is why you are now Senior Apprentice. Okay?”
“Okay.” Septimus smiled. “But . . .”
“But what?”
“I couldn’t have done the Queste without Jenna and Beetle. And they’re still stuck in that smelly little net loft in the Trading Post. So are Nicko and Snorri. We promised to go right back for them.”
“And we will,” Marcia replied. “I am sure they did not expect us to turn around and fly back immediately, Septimus. Besides, I haven’t had a moment since we returned. This morning I was up early getting some ghastly potion from Zelda for Ephaniah and Hildegarde—both of whom are still very sick. I need to keep an eye on Ephaniah tonight, but I shall set off on Spit Fyre first thing tomorrow morning to collect them all. They’ll be back very soon, I promise.”
Septimus looked at his purple ribbons, which had a beautiful Magykal sheen, like oil on water. He remembered Marcia’s words: “As Senior Apprentice, you may come and go without asking my permission, although it is considered courteous to inform me where you are going and at what time you intend to return.”
“I shall get them,” he said, swiftly getting into Senior Apprentice mode.
“No, Septimus,” Marcia replied, already forgetting that she was now talking to a Senior Apprentice. “It is far too risky, and you are tired after the Queste. You need to rest. I shall go.”
“Thank you for your offer, Marcia,” Septimus said, a trifle formally, in the way he thought Senior Apprentices probably should speak. “However, I intend to go myself. I shall be setting off on Spit Fyre in just over an hour’s time. I shall return the day after tomorrow evening by midnight, as this can reasonably be classified, I think, as a special occasion.”
“Oh.” Marcia wished she hadn’t informed Septimus quite so fully on the rights of a Senior Apprentice. She sat down and regarded Septimus with a thoughtful look. Her new Senior Apprentice seemed to have grown up suddenly. His bright green eyes had a newly confident air as they steadily returned her gaze, and—yes, she had known something was different the moment he had walked in—he had combed his hair.
“Shall I come and see you off?” Marcia asked quietly.
“Yes, please,” Septimus replied. “That would be very nice. I’ll be down at the dragon field in just under an hour.” At the study door he stopped and turned. “Thank you, Marcia,” he said with a broad grin. “Thank you very much indeed.”
Marcia returned his smile and watched her Senior Apprentice walk out of her study with a new spring in his step.
2
KEEPER’S COTTAGE
It was a bright, blustery spring day in the Marram Marshes. The wind had blown away the early-morning mist and was sending small white clouds scudding high across the sky. The air was chilly; it smelled of sea salt, mud and burned cabbage soup.
In the doorway of a small stone cottage a gangly boy with long, matted hair was pulling a backpack onto his broad shoulders. Helping him was what appeared to be a voluminous patchwork quilt.
“Now, you are sure you know the way?” the patchwork quilt was asking anxiously.
The boy nodded and pulled the backpack straight. His brown eyes smiled at the large woman hidden within the folds of the quilt. “I’ve got your map, ckpack onto his broad appeared to be a volue way?” the sly. acked at the map, Aunt Zelda,” he said, pulling a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket. “In fact, I have all your maps.” More pieces of paper emerged. “See . . . here’s Snake Ditch to Double Drain. Double Drain to the Doom Sludge Deeps. Doom Sludge Deeps to the Broad Path. Broad Path to the reed beds. Reed beds to the Causeway.”
“But from the Causeway to the Port. Do you have that one?” Aunt Zelda’s bright blue, witchy eyes looked anxious.
“Of course I do. But I don’t need it. I remember that all right.”
“Oh, dear,” Aunt Zelda said with a sigh. “Oh, I do hope you’ll be safe, Wolf Boy dear.”
Wolf Boy looked down at Aunt Zelda, something that had only very recently become possible—a combination of him growing fast and Aunt Zelda becoming a little more stooped. He put his arms around her and hugged her hard. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow, like we said. Listen for me about midday.”
Aunt Zelda shook her head. “I don’t Hear so well nowadays,” she said a little wistfully. “The Boggart will wait for you. Now, where is he?” She scanned the Mott, which was filling fast with brackish water from the incoming tide. It had a thick, muddy appearance that reminded Wolf Boy of the brown-beetle-and-turnip soup that Aunt Zelda had boiled up for supper the previous evening. Beyond the Mott stretched the wide open flatness of the Marram Marshes, crisscrossed with long, winding ditches and channels, treacherous oozes, mile-deep mires and containing many strange—and not always friendly—inhabitants.
“Boggart!” called Aunt Zelda. “Boggart!”
“It’s all right,” said Wolf Boy, eager to be off. “I don’t need the Bog—”
“Oh, there you are, Boggart!” Aunt Zelda exclaimed as a dark brown, seallike head emerged from the thick waters of the Mott.
“Yes. I is here,” said the creature. He regarded Aunt Zelda grumpily from his large brown eyes. “I is here asleep. Or so I thought.”
“I am so sorry, Boggart dear,” said Aunt Zelda. “But I would like you to take Wolf Boy to the Causeway.”
The Boggart blew a disgruntled mud bubble. “It be a long way to the Causeway, Zelda.”
“I know. And treacherous, even with a map.”
The Boggart sighed. A spurt of mud from his nostrils splattered onto Aunt Zelda’s patchwork dress and sank into another muddy stain. The Boggart regarded Wolf Boy with a grumpy stare. “Well, then. No point hangin’ about,” he said. “Follow me.” And he swam off along the Mott, cutting through the muddy surface of the water.
Aunt Zelda enveloped Wolf Boy in a patchwork hug. Then she pushed him from her, and her witchy blue eyes gazed at him anxiously. “You have my note?” she said, suddenly serious.
Wolf Boy nodded.
“You know when you must read it, don’t you? Only then and not before?”
Wolf Boy nodded once more.
“You must trust me,” said Aunt Zelda. “You do trust me, don’t you?” Wolf Boy nodded more slowly this time. He looked at Aunt Zelda, puzzled. Her eyes looked suspiciously bright.
“I wouldn’t be sending you if I didn’t think you could do this Task. You do know that, don’t you?”
Wolf Boy nodded a little warily.
“And . . . oh, Wolf Boy, you do know how much I care for you, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” muttered Wolf Boy, beginning to feel embarrassed—and a little concerned. Aunt Zelda was looking at him as though she may never see him again, he thought. He wasn’t sure if he liked that. Suddenly he shook himself free from her grasp. “Bye, Aunt Zelda,” he said. He ran to catch up with the Boggart, who had already reached the new plank bridge over the Mott and was waiting impatiently.
Warmly swathed in her padded quilt dress, which she had spent much of the winter sewing, Aunt
Zelda stood beside the Mott and watched Wolf Boy set off across the marshes. He took what appeared to be a strange, zigzagging route, but Aunt Zelda knew that he was following the narrow path that ran beside the twists and turns of Snake Ditch. She watched, shading her old eyes against the light that came from the vast skies above the Marram Marshes, the light uncomfortably bright even on an overcast day. Every now and then Aunt Zelda saw Wolf Boy stop in response to a warning from the Boggart, and once or twice he nimbly jumped the ditch and continued on his way on the opposite side. Aunt Zelda watched for as long as she could, until the figure of Wolf Boy disappeared into the bank of mist that hovered over the Doom Sludge Deeps—a bottomless pit of slime that stretched for miles across the only route to the Port. There was only one way through the Deeps—on hidden stepping stones—and the Boggart knew every safe step.
Aunt Zelda walked slowly back up the path. She stepped into Keeper’s Cottage, gently closed the door and leaned wearily against it. It had been a difficult morning—there had been Marcia’s surprise visit and her shocking news about Septimus’s Queste. The morning had not improved after Marcia had left, because Aunt Zelda had hated sending Wolf Boy off on his Task, even though she knew it had to be done.
Aunt Zelda sighed heavily and looked around her much-loved cottage. The unaccustomed emptiness felt strange. Wolf Boy had been with her for over a year now, and she had grown used to the feeling of another life being lived beside her in the cottage. And now she had sent him away to . . . Aunt Zelda shook her head. Was she crazy? she asked herself. No, she told herself sternly in reply, she was not crazy—it had to be done.
Some months before, Aunt Zelda had realized that she was beginning to think of Wolf Boy as her Apprentice—or Intended Keeper, as tradition had it. It was time she took one on. She was getting toward the end of her Keeping Time, and she must begin to hand over her secrets, but one thing worried her. There had never been a male Keeper in the long history of Keepers. But Aunt Zelda didn’t see why there shouldn’t be. In fact, she thought, it was about time that there was one—and so, with much trepidation, she had sent Wolf Boy away to do his Task, the completion of which would qualify him to become an Intended, providing the Queen agreed.
