They walked forward the way they were facing. The trees were all so much the same and so evenly spaced that, after about twenty steps, Christopher wondered if they were moving at all. He looked around and was relieved to see the square frame of the Gate among the tree-trunks about the right distance behind. He wondered if the whole of Eleven was covered with trees. If it was, it was hardly surprising that its people did not use fire. They would risk burning the whole forest down. He looked to the front again and found that, without any change in the landscape, they were somehow walking towards a fence.
The fence stretched for as far as they could see into the trees on either side. It was made of stakes of wood, nicely varnished and wickedly pointed on top, driven into the turf about a foot apart. The points at the top only came to Tacroy’s waist. It did not look much of a barrier. But when they turned sideways to get between the stakes, the stakes seemed much too close together to let them through. When Tacroy took his jacket off to cover the points on top so that they could climb over, his jacket would not go anywhere that was not their side of the fence. As Tacroy picked his jacket up for the sixth time, the Goddess looked to the left and Christopher looked to the right, and they discovered that the fence was now all around them. Behind them, there was no sign of the Gate among the trees—nothing but a row of stakes blocking the way back.
“He did hear,” said the Goddess.
“I think they were expecting us,” said Chris-topher.
Tacroy spread his jacket on the grass and sat on it. “We’ll just have to wait and see,” he said glumly. “No, not you,” he said to Christopher as Christopher started to sit down too. “The important people always stand here. I was told that the Dright hasn’t sat down for years.”
The Goddess sank down beside Tacroy and rubbed her bare toes in the grass. “Then I’m not going to be important,” she said. “I’m sick of being important anyway. I say! Was he here before?”
A nervous-looking boy with a scruffy piece of sheepskin wound around his hips like a towel was standing on the other side of Tacroy. “I was here,” he said shyly. “You just didn’t seem to see me. I’ve been inside this fence all morning.”
The fence surrounded a small grassy space no bigger than the tower room where Christopher had hidden the Goddess. Christopher could not understand how they could have missed seeing the boy, but given the queerness of everything perhaps they could. Judging by the boy’s lank white body and straight fair hair, he was not one of the Eleven people.
“Did the Dright take you prisoner?” the Goddess asked.
The boy rubbed his funny little hooked nose in a puzzled way. “I’m not sure. I don’t seem to remember coming here. What are you doing here?”
“Looking for someone,” said Tacroy. “You don’t happen to have seen a man—or several men, maybe—called Gabriel de Witt, do you?”
“Gabriel de Witt!” said the boy. “But that’s my name!”
They stared at him. He was a timid, gangling boy with mild blue eyes. He was the kind of boy Christopher—and probably the Goddess, too—would naturally have started to boss about in the next minute or so. They would have bossed him quite kindly though, because it was easy to see that it would not take much to upset him and make him sick with nerves, rather like Fenning at school. In fact, Christopher thought, this boy reminded him of a tall, thin Fenning more than anything else. But now he knew, he saw that the boy’s face had the same pointed outline as Gabriel’s.
“How many lives have you?” he asked disbelievingly.
The boy seemed to look within himself. “That’s odd,” he said. “Usually I have nine. But I can only seem to find seven.”
“Then we’ve got all of him,” said the Goddess.
“With complications,” said Tacroy. “Does the title Chrestomanci mean anything to you?” he asked the boy.
“Isn’t he some boring old enchanter?” asked the boy. “I think his real name’s Benjamin Allworthy, isn’t it?”
Gabriel had gone right back to being a boy. Benjamin Allworthy had been the last Chrestomanci but one. “Don’t you remember Mordecai Roberts or me?” Christopher asked. “I’m Christopher Chant.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Gabriel de Witt said, with a polite, shy smile. Christopher stared at him, wondering how Gabriel had come to grow up so forbidding.
“It’s no use,” Tacroy said. “Neither of us was born when he was that age.”
“More people,” said the Goddess.
There were four of them, three men and a woman, a little way off among the trees. The men all wore fur tunics that only covered one shoulder and the woman had a longer one that was more like a dress. The four of them stood half turned away from the fence, chatting together. Occasionally one of them looked scornfully over a bare shoulder at the fence.
Tacroy sank down into himself. His face was full of misery. “Take no notice, Christopher, definitely,” he whispered. “Those are the ones I usually had to report to. I think they’re important.”
Christopher stood and stared haughtily over everyone’s heads. His feet began to ache.
“They keep turning up like that,” Gabriel said. “Rude beasts! I asked them for something to eat and they pretended not to hear.”
Five minutes passed. Christopher’s feet felt wider and hotter and more overused every second. He began to hate Eleven. There seemed to be no birds here, no animals, no wind. Just ranks of beautiful trees that all looked alike. The temperature never changed from just right. And the people were horrible.
“I hate this forest,” Gabriel said. “It’s so samey.”
“That woman-one,” said the Goddess, “reminds me of Mother Anstey. She’s going to giggle about us behind her hand any moment, I know she is.”
The woman put her hand up to her mouth and gave a scornful, tinkling laugh.
“What did I tell you?” the Goddess said. “And good riddance!”
The group of people was suddenly gone.
Christopher stood on one foot, then on the other. It made no difference to the ache. “You were lucky, Tacroy,” he said. “If they hadn’t dumped you in our world, you’d have had to live here.” Tacroy looked up with a crinkled, unhappy smile and shrugged.
A minute or so after that, the man they had seen first was back, strolling among the trees a little way off. Tacroy nodded at Christopher. Christopher called out loudly and angrily, “Hey, you! I told you to take us to the Dright! What do you mean by disobeying me like this?”
The man gave no sign that he had heard. He came and leaned on the fence and stared at them as if they were something in a zoo. In order to put his elbows on top of the sharp stakes, he had somehow made a wooden armrest appear. Christopher could not fathom the peculiar magic he used to do that. But the Goddess always seemed a little quicker on the uptake than Christopher. She frowned at the armrest and seemed to get the hang of it. The block of wood hurtled away into the trees sending the man’s arms down onto the spikes, quite hard. Gabriel laughed, an ordinary, unforbidding gurgle. The man sprang upright indignantly, went to rub his arm and then remembered that he should not show pain before inferiors. He swung around and went marching away.
Christopher was annoyed, both with the man and with the Goddess for being so much quicker than he was. The two things together made him so angry that he raised his arms and tried to hurl the man upwards, the way he had levitated all the things in Dr. Pawson’s house. It was almost impossible to do. True, the man went up six feet or so. But he came down again gently and easily the next second, and looked jeeringly over his shoulder as he slipped earthwards.
This seemed to make the Goddess even angrier than Christopher. “All do it!” she said. “Come on, Gabriel!”
Gabriel shot her a mischievous grin and they all heaved together. Between them they only seemed to be able to raise the man three feet into the air, but they found they could keep him there. He pretended nothing was happening and kept walking as if he was still on the ground, which looked decidedly silly. “
Take us to the Dright!” Christopher yelled.
“Now down,” said the Goddess. And they bumped him to the ground again. He walked away, still pretending nothing was happening, which gave Gabriel a fit of the giggles.
“Did that do any good?” Christopher asked Tacroy.
“No way of knowing,” said Tacroy. “They always like to keep you waiting until you’re too tired and angry to think straight.” He settled down in a miserable huddle, with his arms around his knees.
They waited. Christopher was wondering whether it was worth the enormous effort it would take to levitate himself in order to get the weight off his feet, when he noticed that the trees were sliding aside, to the right and left of the fence. Or perhaps the fenced enclosure was moving forward without any change to the smooth grass inside or out. It was hard to tell which. Either made Christopher feel queasy. He swallowed and kept his eyes haughtily on the trees ahead. But in less than a second those trees had wheeled away to nowhere, leaving a widening green glade. A person was in sight at the distant end of the glade, a tall, bulky person, who was sauntering slowly towards them.
Tacroy gulped a little. “That’s the Dright.”
Christopher narrowed his eyes to get his witch sight working and watched the trees sliding further and further apart. It reminded him of the way he had played at shunting the trees up the Trumpington Road. He could see the Dright doing it now. In order to work magic in this world, you seemed to have to work in a way that was tipped sideways from the way you did it on any other world, with a bend and a ripple to the magic, as if you were watching yourself work it in a wavy glass ball. Christopher was not sure he was going to be able to do it.
“I don’t get the hang of this foreign magic,” Gabriel sighed.
As the Dright sauntered slowly nearer, Christopher squeezed the corners of his mouth in, in order to stop a grin of delight at the thought that he was actually quicker at understanding it than Gabriel was. By now, the trees had sped away to leave a big circular meadow full of greenish sunlight. The Dright was near enough for them to see that he was dressed rather like Christopher in at least two lion skins hung all over with bright chinking ornaments. His curly hair and his crisp beard were white. There were rings on the toes of his smooth brown feet.
“He looks like one of those rather nasty gods—the ones that eat their own children,” Gabriel said in a clear and carrying voice.
Christopher had to bite his tongue or he would have laughed. He was beginning to like this version of Gabriel. By the time he had the laugh under control, he was standing facing the Dright some yards outside the fence. He looked back incredulously. The Goddess and Gabriel were standing behind the fence, still prisoners, looking a little stupefied. Tacroy was still sitting on the ground, doing his best not to be noticed.
Christopher lifted his chin and looked up at the Dright’s face. The smooth brown features did not have any expression on them at all. But Christopher stared, trying to see the person behind the blankness. What feelings the Dright had were so different from his own, and so lofty, that for a moment he felt like an insect. Then he remembered that glacier, years ago in Series Seven, which Tacroy had said reminded him of two people. Christopher knew that one of the people was the Dright. Like the glacier, the Dright was cold and high and too crusted with ancient knowledge for ordinary people to understand. On the other hand, the other person the glacier had reminded Tacroy of was Uncle Ralph. Christopher looked carefully for any signs that the Dright was like Uncle Ralph. There was not much of Uncle Ralph’s shoddy look to the Dright’s grand face, but his features did not seem sincere. Christopher could tell that the Dright would cheat and lie if it suited him, like Uncle Ralph, but he thought that the main way the two were alike was that they were both utterly selfish. Uncle Ralph used people. So did the Dright.
“What are you?” the Dright said. His voice was deep and scornful.
“I’m the Dright,” said Christopher. “Dright for world Twelve-A. The word for it there is Chrestomanci, but it amounts to the same thing.” His legs were shaking at the sheer cheek of this. But Tacroy had said that the one thing the Dright respected was pride. He held his knees stiff and made his face haughty.
There was no way of telling whether the Dright believed Christopher or not. He did not answer and his face was blank. But Christopher could feel the Dright putting out small tendrils of sideways, rippled Eleven magic, testing him, feeling at him to see what his powers were and what were his weak points. To himself, Christopher felt he was all weak points. But it seemed to him that, since the magic here was so peculiar, he had no idea what his own powers were, and that meant the Dright probably had no idea either.
The meadow behind the Dright became full of people. They had not been there at first, but they were there now, a pale-headed, brown-skinned crowd, wearing all possible degrees of fur, from tiny loin-wraps to long bearskin robes. It seemed that the Dright was saying, “Call yourself Dright if you like, but take a look at the power I have.” Every one of the people was staring at Christopher with contempt and dislike. Christopher put his face into the same expression and stared back. And he realized that his face was rather used to looking this way. He had worn this expression most of the time he had lived at the Castle. It gave him an unpleasant shock to find that he had been quite as horrible as these Eleven people.
“Why are you here?” said the Dright.
Christopher pushed aside his shock. If I get out of here, I’ll try to be nicer, he thought, and then concentrated carefully on what Tacroy had told him might be the best things to say. “I’ve come to fetch back something of my own,” he said. “But first, let me introduce you to my colleague the Living Asheth. Goddess, this is the Dright of Eleven.” The ostrich feather fluttered on the Goddess’s head as she stepped up to the sharp stakes and bowed graciously. There was the slightest twitch to the Dright’s features that suggested he was impressed that Christopher had actually brought the Living Asheth, but the Goddess was still behind the fence in spite of that. “And of course you know my man Mordecai Roberts already,” Christopher said grandly, trying to slip that point past as a piece of pride.
The Dright said nothing about that either. But behind him, the people were now all sitting down. It was as if they had never been any other way. By this, the Dright seemed to be saying, “Very well. You are my equal, but I’d like to point out that my followers outnumber yours by several thousand to one—and mine are obedient to my slightest whim.” Christopher was amazed that he had won even this much. He tried to squash down his amazement by watching the people. Some were talking and laughing together, though he could not hear them. Some of them were cooking food over little balls of bluish witchfire, which they seemed to use instead of fire. There were very few children. The two or three Christopher could see were sitting sedately doing nothing. I’d hate to grow up on Eleven! he thought. It must be a hundred times more boring than the Castle.
“What thing of your own have you allowed to stray into my world?” the Dright said at length.
They were getting down to business at last, even though the Dright was trying to pretend that Christopher had been careless. Christopher smiled and shook his head, to show he thought that was a joke of the Dright’s. “Two things,” he said. “First, I have to thank you for retrieving the lives of Gabriel de Witt for me. It has saved me a lot of trouble. But you seem to have put the lives together in the wrong way and made Gabriel into a boy.”
“I put them into the form which is easiest to deal with,” said the Dright. Like everything he said, this was full of other meanings.
“If you mean that boys are easy to deal with,” Christopher said, “I’m afraid this is not the case. Not boys from Twelve-A.”
“And not girls either,” the Goddess said loudly. “Not from anywhere.”
“What is Gabriel de Witt to you?” the Dright asked.
“He is as father to son,” said Christopher. Rather proud of the way he had carefully not said who was which, he glanced
through the fence at Tacroy. Tacroy was still sitting wrapped into a ball, but Christopher thought his curly head nodded slightly.
“You have a claim to de Witt,” the Dright said. “He can be yours, depending on what else you have to say.” The fence around the other three slid and poured smoothly away sideways until it was out of sight, just as the trees had.
Gabriel looked puzzled. The Goddess stood where she was, clearly suspicious. Christopher looked warily at the Dright. This was too good to be true. “The other thing I have to say,” he said, “is about this man of mine who is usually known as Mordecai Roberts. I believe he used to be yours, which means you still have his soul. Since he is my man now, perhaps you could let me have his soul?”
Tacroy’s head came up and he stared at Christopher in horror and alarm. Christopher took no notice. He had known this would be pressing his luck, but he had always meant to try for Tacroy’s soul. He planted his aching feet astride, folded his arms across his fur and jewelry, and tried to smile at the Dright as if what he was asking was the most ordinary and reasonable thing in any world.
The Dright gave no sign of anger or surprise. It was not simply self-control or pride. Christopher knew the Dright had been expecting him to ask and did not mind if Christopher knew. His mind began to work furiously. The Dright had made it easy for them to come to Eleven. He had pretended to accept Christopher as an equal, and he had told him he could have Gabriel’s lives. That meant there was something the Dright expected to get out of this, something he must want very much indeed. But what?
“If my Septman claims to be your man, you should have his soulname,” the Dright observed. “Has he given you that name?”
“Yes,” said Christopher. “It’s Tacroy.”
The faces of all the people sitting in the meadow behind the Dright turned his way. Every one of them was outraged. But the Dright only said, “And what has Tacroy done to make himself yours?”
“He lied for me for a whole day,” Christopher said. “And he was believed.”
The Lives of Christopher Chant Page 23
