The first real sound in this place swept through the seated people. It was a long throaty murmur. Of awe? Approval? Whatever it was, Christopher knew he had said the right thing. As Tacroy had told him, these people naturally lied for their Dright. And to lie convincingly for a whole day showed the utmost loyalty.
“He could then be yours,” the Dright admitted, “but on two conditions. I make two conditions because you have asked me for two things. The first one is of course that you show you know which the Septman’s soul is.” He made a small gesture with one powerful brown hand.
A movement in the trees to one side caught Christopher’s eye. He looked and found the slender trunks pouring silently aside there. When they stopped, there was a grassy lane leading to the square framework of the Gate. It was about fifty feet away. The Dright was showing him that he could get home, provided he did what was wanted.
“There’s a huge block of their magic in the way,” the Goddess whispered.
Gabriel craned over his shoulder to look longingly at the Gate. “Yes, it’s just a carrot in front of the donkey,” he agreed.
Tacroy simply groaned, with his head on his knees.
In front of Christopher, people were bringing things and laying them out in a wide crescent-shape. Each man or woman brought two or three, and stared derisively at Christopher as he or she thunked the things down in the growing line. He looked at the things. Some were almost black, some yellowish, and others white or shiny. He was not sure if they were statuettes or blobs of stuff that had melted and hardened into peculiar shapes. A few of them looked vaguely human. Most were no shape that meant anything. But the stuff they were made of meant a great deal. Christopher’s stomach twisted and he had a hard job to go on staring haughtily as he realized that all the things were made of silver.
When there were about a hundred of the objects sitting on the green turf, the Dright waved his hand again and the people stopped bringing them. “Pick out the soul of Tacroy from the souls of my people,” he said.
Miserably, Christopher paced along the curving row with his hands clasped behind him to stop them trembling and Beryl’s ornaments chinking. He felt like a General reviewing an army of metal goblins. He paced the entire line, from left to right, and none of the objects meant anything to him. Use witch sight, he told himself, as he wheeled on the right wing and started back again. It might just work on the silver statues provided he did not touch them.
He forced himself to look in that special way at the statues. It was a real effort to do it through the wavy sideways magic of Eleven. And, as he had feared, the things looked just the same, just as grotesque, just as meaningless. His witch sight was working, he knew. He could tell that a number of the people sitting in the meadow were not really there. They were in other parts of the forest busy with other schemes of the Dright’s and project-ing their images here in obedience to the Dright’s command. But his witch sight would not work on silver.
So how else could he tell? He paced along the line, thinking. The people watched him jeeringly and the Dright’s head turned majestically to follow him as he passed. They were all so unpleasant, he thought, that it was no wonder their souls were like little silver monsters. Tacroy was the only nice one—Ah! There was Tacroy’s soul! It was some way around to the left. It looked no more human than any of the others, but it looked nice, fifty times nicer than the rest.
Christopher tried to go on pacing towards it as if he had not seen it, wondering what would happen when he picked it up and lost every scrap of his magic. He would have to rely on the Goddess. He hoped she realized.
His face must have changed. The Dright knew he had found the right soul and instantly began to cheat as Christopher had known he would. The line of twisty objects was suddenly a good mile long, with Tacroy’s soul away in the far distance. And all of them were changing shape, melting into new queer blobs and fresh formless forms.
Then, with a sort of wavy jolt, everything went back to the way it was at first. Thank goodness! Christopher thought. The Goddess! He kept his eye on the soul and it was quite near. He dived forward and picked it up. As soon as he touched it, he was weak and heavy and tired. He felt like crying, but he stood up holding the soul. Sure enough, the Goddess was staring at the Dright with her arms spread. Christopher was surprised to find that, even without his magic, he could see the second pair of ghostly arms spread out underneath.
“My priestesses taught me that it was low to cheat,” she said. “I’d have thought you were too proud to stoop to it.”
The Dright looked down his nose at her. “I named no rules,” he said. Being without magic was a little like another kind of witch sight, Christopher thought. The Dright looked smaller to him now and not nearly so magnificent. There were clear signs of the shoddiness that he had seen in Uncle Ralph. Christopher was still scared stiff, but he felt much better about things now he had seen that.
While the Goddess and the Dright stared at one another, he lumbered weakly over to Tacroy. “Here you are,” he said, thrusting the strange statue at him. Tacroy scrambled on to one knee, looking as if he could not believe it. His hands shook as they closed around the soul. As soon as he had hold of it, the thing melted into his hands. The fingernails and the veins turned silvery. An instant later, Tacroy’s face flushed silvery too. Then the flush faded and Tacroy looked much as usual, except that there was a glow about him which made him much more like the Tacroy Christopher knew from The Place Between.
“Now I really am your man!” Tacroy said. He was laughing in a way that was rather like sobbing. “You can see I couldn’t ask Rosalie—Watch the Dright!”
Christopher spun around and found the Goddess on her knees, looking bewildered. It was not surprising. The Dright had thousands of years of experience. “Leave her alone!” he said.
The Dright looked at him and for a moment Christopher felt the strange distorted magic trying to force him to his knees too. Then it stopped. The Dright still had not got what he wanted from Christopher. “We now come to my second condition,” the Dright said calmly. “I am moderate. You came here demanding seven lives and a soul. I give you them. All I ask in exchange is one life.”
Gabriel laughed nervously. “I have got a few to spare,” he said. “If it means getting out of here—”
This was what the Dright wanted, Christopher realized. He had been aiming for the life of a nine-lifed enchanter, freely handed over, all along. If Christopher had not dared to ask for Tacroy’s soul, he would have asked for a life for setting Gabriel free. For just a second, Christopher thought they might as well let him have one of Gabriel’s lives. He had seven, after all, and another lying on the floor back in the Castle. Then he saw it would be the most dangerous thing he could do. It would give the Dright a hold over Gabriel—the same hold he had had over Tacroy—for as long as his other lives lasted. The Dright was aiming to control the Chrestomanci, just like Uncle Ralph was aiming to control Christopher. They did not dare give him one of Gabriel’s lives.
“All right,” Christopher said. For the first time, he was truly grateful to Gabriel that his ninth life was safely locked in the Castle safe. “As you see, I’ve still got two lives left. You can have one of them,” he said, naming conditions very carefully, because he knew the Dright would cheat if he could, “because if you take more than one it would kill me and give my world the right to punish yours. Once you have that life in your hands, your conditions are fulfilled and you must let all four of us go through the Gate back to Twelve-A.”
“Agreed,” said the Dright. He was keeping his face as expressionless as always, but underneath Christopher could tell he was hugging himself and chuckling. He stepped solemnly up to Christopher. Christopher braced himself and hoped it would not hurt much. In fact, it hurt so little that he was almost taken by surprise. The Dright stepped back a mere instant later with a floppy transparent shape dangling in his hands. The shape was wearing a ghostly tiger-skin and it had a dim gold band fluttering from its transparent head.
Christopher conjured fire to that shape, hard and sideways and wavily, with all the power he had. Fire was the one thing the Dright was not used to. He knew it was the one thing that might cancel out those thousand years of experience. To his relief, the Goddess had made exactly the same calculations. He had a glimpse of her, with all four arms spread, conjuring fire down as he called it up.
His seventh life leaped into flame all over at once. The Dright hung on to its shoulders as it blazed, grimly trying to quench it, but Christopher had been right. Fire magic was the Dright’s weak point. His attempt to reverse the spell was slow and hesitating. But he kept trying, and hung on to the life by its shoulders, until he had to let go or lose both hands. By that time the front of his lion-skin was on fire too. Christopher glimpsed him trying to beat it out and coughing in the smoke, as he collapsed himself into a writhing heap on the turf. It was worse than being crisped by the dragon. He was in agony. He had not realized it would hurt at all, let alone this much.
Tacroy scooped him up, threw him over one shoulder in a fireman’s hoist, and raced for the Gate. Every step bumped Christopher and every bump was torment. But his watering eyes caught sight of the Goddess seizing Gabriel’s arm in at least three hands and dragging him to the Gate in a mixture of brute force and magic. They all reached it together and plunged through. Christopher kept just enough sense to cancel the spells and slam the Gate shut behind them.
21
THE PAIN STOPPED the instant the Gate shut. Tacroy lowered Christopher gently to the floor, looked at him to see if he was all right, and made for Miss Rosalie.
“Gosh—look!” said the Goddess, pointing at Gabriel.
Tacroy did not look. He was too busy hugging Miss Rosalie. Christopher sat on the floor and stared with the rest of the people in the operations room. As the Dright’s magic left him, Gabriel was growing up in bursts. First he was a young man with a floral silk tie and a keen, wistful look; then he was an older keener man in a dingy suit. After that he was middle-aged and bleached and somehow hopeless and desperate, as if everything he hoped for was gone. The next instant, this man had pulled himself together into a brisk, silvery gentleman; and then the same gentleman, older and grimmer. Christopher stared, awed and rather touched. He realized that Gabriel had hated being the Chrestomanci, and they were seeing the stages by which he had come to terms with it. I’m glad I’m going to find it easier than that! Christopher thought, as Gabriel finally became the grim old man that Christopher knew. At which point, Gabriel tottered to Tacroy’s trance-couch and folded down onto it.
Beryl and Yolande rushed forward with cups of tea. Gabriel drank Beryl’s (or Yolande’s) at a gulp. Then he took Yolande’s (or Beryl’s) and sipped it slowly with his eyes almost shut. “My heartiest thanks, Christopher,” he said. “I hope the pain has gone.”
“Yes, thanks,” Christopher said, taking the cup of tea Erica handed him.
Gabriel glanced to where Tacroy was still wrapped around Miss Rosalie. “By the look of him, Mordecai has even more to thank you for than I have.”
“Don’t let him get sent to prison,” Christopher said. And there was the bootboy to ask about too, he thought distractedly.
“I’ll do what I can,” Gabriel promised. “Now that I know the circumstances. That fearsome Dright has much to answer for—though I may be right in supposing that Mordecai went on working with you for your equally fearsome uncle because he knew that any other spirit traveler your uncle chose would have turned you into a hardened criminal before long. Would you agree?”
“Well,” said Christopher, trying to be honest. “I think some of it was because we were both so keen on cricket.”
“Really?” Gabriel said politely. He turned to the Goddess. She had found Proudfoot and was holding her lovingly in both hands. Gabriel looked from the kitten to the Goddess’s bare feet. “Young lady,” he said. “You are a young lady, are you not? Pray show me the sole of your left foot.”
A little defiantly, the Goddess turned around and tipped her foot up. Gabriel looked at the purple-blue mark. He looked at Christopher.
“Yes, I am really Asheth,” said the Goddess, “but you’re not to look at Christopher like that! I came here of my own accord. I did it quite capably.”
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “By using the Goddess Asheth as your second life?” The Goddess looked down from his eyes and nodded. Gabriel put down his empty cup and took the full one Flavian handed him. “My dear girl,” he said as he sipped it, “what a very foolish thing to have done! You are clearly a powerful enchantress in your own right. You had no need to use Asheth. You have simply given her a hold over you. The Arm of Asheth is going to haunt you for the rest of your life.”
“But I thought that the magic I can do came from Asheth!” the Goddess protested.
“Oh no,” said Gabriel. “Asheth has powers, but she never shares them. The ones you have are yours.”
The Goddess’s mouth dropped open. She looked as if she might cry. Flavian said apologetically, “Gabriel, I’m afraid the Arm of Asheth is all around—”
There was a violent CRASH from below as the Lobster Pot came down.
Everyone raced for the stairs, except for Gabriel. He put his cup down slowly, obviously wondering what was happening. Christopher dashed to the stairs and then, for speed, did what he had always longed to do and slid down the rosy curve of marble banister. The Goddess followed him. When they tumbled off at the bottom, Gabriel was already there, standing by the black rope gazing down at his limp transparent life. But no one else had eyes for that.
Uncle Ralph had come through the pentacle in a suit of armor, carrying a heavy mace. Christopher had thought he might. If he had brought any anti-cat spells, however, these obviously did not work on Temple cats. The Lobster Pot had come down precisely over the pentacle, trapping Throgmorten in with Uncle Ralph, and Throgmorten was doing his best to get Uncle Ralph. Through the wreathing smoke of dragons’ blood, Uncle Ralph could be seen tramping slowly around and around inside the cage, smashing cat-saucers under his metal feet and taking violent swings at Throgmorten with his mace. Throgmorten could move faster than Uncle Ralph, or his mace, and he could climb the walls of the Lobster Pot, but he could not get at Uncle Ralph through his armor. All he could do was make shrill metal scratches on it. It was a standoff.
Christopher looked around to find Gabriel beside him. Gabriel’s face had a most unusual big wicked smile on it—no, not unusual, Christopher thought: it was the same smile Gabriel had worn when they levitated the man in Eleven.
“Shall we give the cat his chance?” Gabriel said. “For one minute?”
Christopher nodded.
Uncle Ralph’s armor vanished, leaving him in his foxy tweed suit. Throgmorten instantly became a seven-legged, three-headed, razor-clawed, flying, spitting fury. He was up and down and all over Uncle Ralph several times in the first second. So much blood got shed that Christopher was quite sorry for Uncle Ralph after fifteen such seconds. After thirty seconds, he was quite glad when Throgmorten vanished with a snarl and a jerk.
Throgmorten reappeared kicking and struggling over the Goddess’s arm. “No, Throgmorten,” she said. “I told you before you’re not to go for people’s eyes. That’s not nice.”
“Nice or not,” Gabriel said regretfully, “I was enjoying it.” He was busy winding something unseen into a careful skein over one hand. “Simonson,” he called. “Simonson, are you in charge of the cage? I got his magic off him while his mind was elsewhere. You can move the cage now and shut him up until the police can come for him.”
This produced another standoff. Throgmorten leaped for the space under the cage as soon as it started to rise. Uncle Ralph screamed. In the end, one of the stable lads had to climb up and unhook the cage from the chandelier chain. Then the cage was shoved across the floor with Uncle Ralph stumbling inside it and Throgmorten prowling after, uttering low throbbing sounds.
As soon as the cage was off the pentacle, a silver pilla
r rose out of the blood-spattered floor. The pillar looked human, but it was impossibly tall for a human, a good foot taller than Gabriel. Up and up it rose, a woman robed in silver, wearing a silver mask and carrying a silver spear.
The Goddess wailed with terror and tried to hide behind Christopher. “Silver,” he warned her. “I can’t help against silver.” His teeth chattered. For the first time, he realized how naked and soft it felt to have only one life.
The Goddess dashed behind Gabriel and clutched his black frock coat. “It’s Asheth! Save me!”
“Madam,” Gabriel said politely to the apparition, “to what do we owe the honor of this visitation?”
The apparition looked keenly through the slits in its mask, first at Gabriel and the Goddess crouching behind him, then at Christopher, then at the Lobster Pot and the general chaos in the hall. “I had hoped to find this a more respectable establishment,” she said. The voice was deep and melodious. She pushed up her mask to the top of her head, revealing a severe narrow old face. It was the kind of face that at once made Christopher feel very silly to be dressed in a tiger rug and earrings.
“Mother Proudfoot!” exclaimed the Goddess.
“I’ve been trying to get through this pentacle ever since I traced you, child,” Mother Proudfoot said testily. “I wish you had talked to me before you bolted like that. You surely knew I would have stretched the rules for you if I could.” She turned commandingly to Gabriel. “You seem respectable enough. You’re that Twelve-A enchanter de Witt, aren’t you?”
“At your service, Madam,” said Gabriel. “Do forgive our present disorder. There have been problems. We are usually a highly respectable body of people.”
“That was what I thought,” Mother Proudfoot said. “Would you be able to take charge of this Asheth Daughter for me? It would suit me ideally if you could, since I have to report her dead.”
“In what way—Take charge?” Gabriel asked cautiously.
The Lives of Christopher Chant Page 24
