The boys weren’t wearing uniforms—there probably weren’t enough to go around—but they were all wearing floppy gray hats. That and the fact that they were all exactly the same height made it very hard to tell them apart. Chantel hurried along, peering at their faces, trying to find Bowser.
“Don’t,” Franklin had said, once, and then he faded into the background.
None of the boys looked at Chantel as she scanned their faces. They all stared straight ahead and hopped and yopped on command.
Then suddenly she saw Bowser, near the middle of the formation. His floppy cap was at exactly the same angle as everyone else’s floppy cap, the loose empty space creating the impression that there wasn’t very much room for a brain. This made Chantel sad, because it was what people tended to think about Bowser anyway, but she was awfully relieved to see him. She turned sideways and worked her way quickly down the row.
She stopped in front of him. “Are you all right?” she whispered.
Bowser ignored her.
“What are they going to make you do?” Chantel whispered.
Bowser’s eyes flicked once in her direction, then he stared straight ahead. He hopped. He yopped.
“Listen, you can’t fight the Sunbiters. I’ve seen them. There’re too many. And we—”
“They’re in the harbor,” Bowser whispered urgently, still staring straight ahead.
“Halt!” yelled the commander.
All hopping and yopping stopped. Absolute silence filled Traitor’s Neck, except for the sound of the commander’s boots snipping the cobbles. He had a stick under one arm.
“We are all stopping our important military drill, essential to the defense of our nation,” said the commander, in the same loud voice, “because number 8-217 has to talk to a girl.”
Chantel realized she should leave now, but her feet somehow wouldn’t move.
Bowser continued to stare straight ahead, his face red.
“Maybe,” the man yelled, his mouth now three inches from Bowser’s ear, “number 8-217 wants to be a girl.
“Is that what you want, number 8-217?” The commander’s eyes squeezed shut and his face became all mouth when he yelled.
“No, sir!” said Bowser, very loudly, still staring straight ahead.
Chantel at that moment was feeling extremely grateful that she was a girl.
“Maybe,” yelled the man, “you already are a girl!”
“No, sir!” yelled Bowser.
This whole time nobody had looked at Chantel or even seemed to notice she existed. Nonetheless, she was the problem, and finally her feet listened to her brain’s commands and marched her away. She didn’t turn around as she heard the sound of the commander’s stick whacking repeatedly.
She felt the angry prickle of tears starting in her eyes. She did not let them fall. She had deportment.
“I told you,” said Franklin, who was suddenly by her side.
“Where were you?” she demanded.
“Not making a fool of myself like you,” said Franklin, without rancor. “You can’t interrupt a military drill, for the Swamp Lady’s sake.”
“That man is just nasty!” said Chantel. “I’m sorry, but he is. What’s the point of all that yelling and hitting?”
“To make them obey perfectly,” said Franklin, looking at the ground. “And to make them mad enough to kill someone.” He kicked a cobble.
“Does your father do all that?” said Chantel.
“There’s no way those kids can stand up to my father,” said Franklin. “It’s going to be a slaughter, once he gets over the wall. The streets will run with blood.”
“Bowser said the M—Sunbiters are in the harbor.”
“Well, yeah. That would be the sensible thing for them to do,” said Franklin. “Take the harbor.”
“But that woman and her daughter, the ones who gave us the stew—”
Franklin looked uncomfortable and didn’t say anything.
“Will they be all right?” said Chantel.
“Maybe,” said Franklin.
“Maybe’s not good enough!”
“Now you see why I hate the whole thing,” said Franklin.
Chantel thought, frantically. If she could get Lightning to come out, if she could fly over the harbor and flame everybody—
Everybody would include the kind woman and her daughter.
“I’m going to the Hall of Patriarchs,” said Chantel. “And I’m going to tell them they need to give in to your father’s demands.”
“You’re wasting your time,” said Franklin, hurrying along beside her. “Men don’t do what girls tell them to.”
“I have to try,” said Chantel. “But I guess you’d better go hide again.”
She immediately realized she shouldn’t have said it. She was afraid now that he would refuse to hide, and the patriarchs would find a new executioner and lop off his head. But Franklin said nothing, and by the time she reached the Hall of Patriarchs he was no longer beside her.
21
MISS ELLICOTT DOES A SPELL
Chantel made her way through the chilly gloom of the kings’ tombs and into the clerk’s well-lit office. After everything that had happened, she was rather surprised to see Mr. Less, once again sitting at his sharply slanted desk.
“Miss Chantel,” he said. “What a surprise.”
No one had ever called Chantel “miss” before. She took it in stride. “Good afternoon, Mr. Less,” she said. “I’ve come to see the patriarchs. Are they in?”
“Those who remain,” said the clerk. “Lord Rudolph we lost to the Marauders’ arrows, along with Sir Botolph, and Sir Twang.”
“Not to the dragon?” said Chantel.
“You will surely have heard, Miss Chantel, that there was no dragon,” said Mr. Less. “If you know something to the contrary, you may wish to keep that to yourself.” He nodded at the door. “You know the way.”
The remaining patriarchs were bruised and bandaged. Sir Wolfgang had a black eye, and his arm in a sling. Chantel was dismayed to see that he sat at the head of the table. Sir Wolfgang, unlike the late Lord Rudolph, couldn’t hear girls.
And so he went on talking when she came into the room, until one of the other patriarchs—Sir Faraday, Chantel thought his name was—held up a hand to interrupt the flow of eloquence, and nodded at her.
The patriarchs all turned to look at her. She did not curtsey. She was neither shamefast nor biddable. She was not afraid of them. She had ridden a dragon.
“Good afternoon,” she said. “I’ve come to ask—”
“Who’s that?” said Sir Wolfgang.
“It’s that girl,” said Sir Faraday. “The one we were told was supposed to be something out of the ordinary.”
“Looks ordinary enough to me,” said Sir Wolfgang. “Doesn’t she curtsey?”
“I’ve seen the boys marching in the city,” said Chantel. “And I’ve seen the Marauders without the gates—Sunbiters, they’re called. And they’re in the harbor now, and who knows what’s happening to the people there? You’ve got to give the Sunbiters what they’re asking for. It’s the only way to save the harbor and the city.”
“Why’s she alone?” said Sir Wolfgang. “Weren’t there more children before? A yellow-haired girl, wasn’t there? And some kind of boy?”
“Maybe the dragon got them,” said Sir Faraday.
“There was no dragon,” said Sir Wolfgang.
Several of the patriarchs chuckled, but wearily. They had not been having a nice time lately.
“There was a dragon,” said Chantel. “I was riding it.”
“Run along,” said Sir Wolfgang. “We have no time for the pretty chirruping of little girls. This is men’s business.”
Chantel felt anger building up in her like magical strength. There were empty chairs at the table. Gathering the hem of her purple dragon-robe in one hand, she climbed onto the chair of a dead patriarch. Then she stepped up onto the table. The patriarchs exclaimed in surprise and dismay. Sh
e marched down the table and stopped in front of Sir Wolfgang.
“Listen to me,” she said. “I’m speaking! Don’t pretend you can’t hear me!”
Sir Wolfgang looked up at her. “No decent young lady,” he said, “stands on a table.”
“The dragon is real,” said Chantel. “I rode it. I flew out over the Sunbiters’ camps. Karl the Bloody has thousands of men. If he gets into the city, the streets will run with blood.”
“This is like something out of an old tale,” muttered one of the patriarchs. “Girl in a dragon robe up on the table saying portentous stuff.”
“I never heard that tale,” said another patriarch.
Chantel turned her Look on them. “There are only two things to do,” she said. “The first is to tell the Sunbiters that you’ll give them what they want. Lower the port fees and the tolls.”
“You know nothing of such things,” said Sir Wolfgang. He’d finally heard her.
“The second,” said Chantel, “is to have the sorceresses strengthen the walls. And I know where the sorceresses are.”
“So do we,” said Sir Wolfgang irritably.
“Lord Rudolph told us the Marauders have them,” said Chantel. “But that was a lie, to control us. If you’ll agree to lower the port fees and the tolls, I’ll tell you where the sorceresses really are.”
A silence greeted this. Chantel had no idea if it was a thoughtful silence or an angry silence.
There was no telling how the patriarchs might have responded to her demand if they’d had a chance to answer it.
Instead, a man’s voice in the hall outside cried out “Way! Way! Make way for the king!”
And then the king and all the sorceresses burst into the room.
The patriarchs jumped to their feet. There was a lot of shouting and shoving, and the sorceresses were busy making signs. Chantel leapt down from the table; she had no desire to be caught in a cage again.
Amid the hubbub the king cried, “There she is! The girl! Seize her!”
Chantel fled.
She ran down the hall. Footsteps came pounding behind her. Whoever was chasing her was much faster than the patriarchs had been. She burst into the hall of tombs and dodged, careening from one tomb to another. She saw a flash of white as her pursuer jumped over a tomb—it was Prince George, the king’s brother, in his spotless white uniform. She ducked and made for the door. He tackled her.
Chantel hit the floor hard, the breath knocked out of her. She rolled, kicking and punching furiously. Then she felt cold steel touch her neck.
“You’ll serve your king,” said the prince, “or die.”
Chantel froze. The blade bit into her skin. Behind her, she could hear the sounds of battle in the patriarchs’ council room. If only Franklin had come with her! He at least knew how to fight. If only she’d run down the steps to the catacombs . . . but no, the fiend was down there . . .
“The dragon,” said Prince George. “What have you done with it? Where is it?”
The fiend . . . Chantel was supposed to be good at summoning, wasn’t she? Queen Haywith had said so. . . .
A ringing smack on the side of her head made her see bright flashes of light. “Answer me, girl!”
“He’s in his lair,” Chantel gasped. “The dragon’s in his lair.” The fiend . . . Not Franklin, she probably couldn’t summon a Sunbiter boy . . . but the fiend . . .
“Summon him!” the prince demanded.
“I can’t summon a dragon!”
He hit her again. “The Ellicott woman said you could! Summon him now!”
The prince had his hands around her throat. He shook her. Her head banged against the stone floor. Summon . . . summon . . .
She clawed desperately at the prince’s hands, and she struggled to remember the fiend—the catacombs—the smell like a flooded grave—
And then there was a sound like cloth brushing against stone. And then something breathing impossibly evenly, like a bellows with pneumonia.
When Prince George turned to face the fiend, Chantel rolled quickly away, scrambled to her feet, and charged for the door.
Franklin was running up the front steps.
“Why—” Chantel gasped as they fled. Her throat still hurt and her head ached. “Why did you come here?”
“I saw the king and the wise women headed this way and I thought I’d better check up on you,” said Franklin, not out of breath at all as they ran through the streets.
“You didn’t . . . feel summoned?”
“Summoned?” said Franklin. “No.”
As they climbed the city, Chantel hurriedly told Franklin what had happened.
“Who was winning?” said Franklin.
“I don’t know. The patriarchs will probably win; they’ve got the guards.”
“Were there any guards there?”
“No,” said Chantel. “But—”
“People side with kings,” said Franklin. “The guards will go over to him once they see he’s got the wise women.”
Chantel didn’t see that this made a whole lot of difference. “Either way, your father’s going to—”
“But if the wise women win, they can do the Buttoning,” said Franklin.
“What there is of it,” said Chantel.
It took the girls from Miss Ellicott’s School a long time to fall asleep. Chantel had to roar at them, almost like a dragon, to get them to settle down, and she wouldn’t have minded being able to breathe fire as well. The dragon merely watched in amusement.
Chantel went to sleep on the dragon’s purple couch, near his tail, and woke with a start to find Lightning staring down at her.
She remembered everything that had happened the day before. The city. The patriarchs. The king—and Miss Ellicott. Was the king in control of the city now?
“Is it dawn yet?” she asked.
“Soon,” said the dragon.
There was still time.
She conjured a light-globe, got dressed, and made her way alone through the dark cavern, up through the tunnels, and then down through the still-slumbering city of Lightning Pass to Dimswitch.
It was a windy night—morning, rather. Chantel could feel another storm brewing.
The steep straight stair that had been used for Franklin’s execution was unguarded. Chantel did a self-abnegation spell, climbed over a low iron gate, and scaled the stairs. She stood on the wall-walk and looked out over the parapet.
The Sunbiters’ catapults stood assembled and loaded with heavy boulders. The siege engines, tall rolling towers of wood that protected ladders for scaling the wall, had been moved closer to Seven Buttons.
Black storm clouds loomed on the horizon.
If the king had won, then the sorceresses should be arriving soon to do the Buttoning. Chantel turned and looked down into the city. She heard footsteps crossing the cobbles.
Chantel felt some trepidation—she needed to talk to Miss Ellicott, to find out what had happened. But she did not want to be captured and handed over to the king.
“Good morning, Miss Ellicott,” she said.
Miss Ellicott glanced at Chantel and nodded absently. The sorceress had probably not had time to go to the school yet, and discover her pupils were gone, Chantel thought.
A new sound began—a distant, rhythmic thumping. “What’s that?” Chantel asked.
“A battering ram, most likely. The Marauders are at the gates,” said Miss Ellicott.
Her eyes were on the lightening sky overhead.
Chantel followed her gaze and saw something circling in the sky. Lightning, the dragon, almost too far away to see.
Chantel sat down, and waited to see what Miss Ellicott would do.
“Chantle, don’t dangle your feet like that,” said Miss Ellicott. “It’s not ladylike.”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Ellicott,” said Chantel, tucking her robe around her legs. “Could you please pronounce it shahn-TELL?”
“Have I pronounced it incorrectly?” said Miss Ellicott. “I beg
your pardon.”
“Thank you,” said Chantel. “Um, did the king’s brother . . . die?”
“I have not seen Prince George since the glorious battle of King’s Hall,” said Miss Ellicott.
And you probably won’t, thought Chantel. I . . . I killed him. Or as good as. Oh dear. “King’s Hall is the Hall of Patriarchs?”
“It is now,” said Miss Ellicott. “You must learn, Chantel, to be on the winning side. A girl must obey. It behooves her to obey those who are winning.”
The battering ram thumped steadily on. Chantel looked toward the city gate. In the growing light, she could make out the rocks and arrows raining down from the towers, onto the attackers below.
“Miss Ellicott, are you going to do the Buttoning now? It’s dawn. And—”
“Just a moment, Chantel. I am telling you important things. Do not take advice from poor advisors. They will lead you astray. And do not fail to obey your king, or you will find yourself in a place that you do not like. You will find yourself there very soon indeed.”
Chantel watched the dragon circling the city. Flickers of lightning rippled across the horizon. Along the wall, she saw guards pointing to the dragon and exclaiming.
Miss Ellicott’s advice, Chantel thought, was much too small.
“Are there sorceresses at all of the buttons?” she asked.
“Of course,” said Miss Ellicott. “The Six are positioned to do the spell.”
“It’s—It’s not the real spell, is it, Miss Ellicott? The rhyme you hid in our heads said the real spell was gone.”
Miss Ellicott looked all around to make sure no one was within earshot. “It is part of the real spell,” she said, her voice so low Chantel had to strain to hear. “It brings comfort.”
“If we found the long lost lore—”
“It is lost,” said Miss Ellicott.
Chantel thought of the vast library far beneath their feet. “What if we made a new spell—”
“Making new spells is far too dangerous. You never know what they’ll do. Now we must begin. And we would like your help.”
“What kind of help?” said Chantel warily. She had no intention of winding up inside a cage again.
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