The Voyage to Magical North

by Claire Fayers

  * * *

  Boswell’s great-grandson. Brine gulped and sat down slowly. No wonder the baron had been acting so strangely. The descendant of the most famous man in the world was here in the room with her.

  “Never heard of him,” said Bill Lightning cheerfully.

  Something dark flickered in Bartimius Boswell’s lashless eyes. Brine felt a moment’s unease, which disappeared before she could wonder what had caused it.

  This ordinary man was the descendant of the greatest scientist and explorer who’d ever lived, and he was here, standing right in front of her. She felt like her heart was about to explode. She wanted to say something—tell him she’d read all Boswell’s books, that she wanted to be an explorer like him—but she knew that whatever she said would come out wrong.

  She kicked Peter, who was grinning at her, and watched as Boswell patted several pockets and drew out a square of yellow cloth. He held it in both hands for a count of ten seconds, then bent over the table and smoothed it out. If it was a ploy to get everyone’s attention, it worked. The pirates all shifted forward. Brine got up and joined them at the table.

  She was looking at a map, and not a particularly impressive one. The eight oceans were sketched in blue ink and a scattering of different-shaped spots showed the positions of the islands. Morning was marked; the Minutes cluster, unsurprisingly, was not. On the western side, a curling sprawl of letters said Here Be Dragons, and at the top the letters MN stood above a mark that looked like someone had tried to draw a ship and gotten it wrong.

  “What does ‘Here Be Dragons’ mean?” asked Brine. Her nose itched.

  “It means we don’t know what’s there, of course.” Boswell gave her a sharp look. “I thought all sailors knew that.”

  She met his gaze without blinking, then spoiled the effect by sneezing. “I’m new at it.”

  “And the rest of us are getting impatient,” added Cassie, reaching for the map.

  Boswell slid it away from her. “Then I won’t keep you. You all know the stories of Orion, I assume?”

  Everyone nodded. Who in the world hadn’t heard of Orion? The first and greatest sailor. The hero who stole fire from the stars and drove back the oceans of the world to create the first islands. If the stories were to be believed—and Brine knew they weren’t—Orion had sailed around the whole world, fought a thousand monsters, and married a thousand wives. Then, at the end of his life, he’d turned his ship north and sailed off the world altogether and up into the sky, where his ship became the first-ever constellation, a guide to all those who sailed the eight oceans.

  “It’s just a story,” Cassie said, but her gaze was fixed on the map on the table.

  Boswell’s eyebrows rose. “Just a story? It is the story. The first tale ever to be told when people were looking out to sea and wondering what might be over the horizon. Aldebran Boswell once said all stories have to start with a grain of truth, and the greatest story of all must surely carry the greatest truth.” His gaze took in the whole room. “That is why, one hundred years ago, Aldebran Boswell set sail to re-create Orion’s journey to the top of the world. He was never seen again.”

  The room was silent. Brine sat still, barely daring to breathe. So that was how Boswell had died. None of Magus’s books had said anything about the end of his life. She’d always assumed he’d retired from science and died naturally of old age.

  Trudi yawned loudly.

  “It might have escaped your notice,” said Cassie, “but we’re pirates, not scientists. Do you want to get on to the bit where there’s a big stash of stolen gold?”

  Boswell’s face creased in annoyance.

  Brine wanted to hit Cassie. She’d spoiled things again, upsetting Boswell just when they were getting to the interesting part of the tale. “No one would sail to the top of the world just because of a story,” she said quickly. “Your great-grandfather was looking for something.” Cassie frowned at her and tried to push her out of the way, but Brine stood her ground. She’d been pushed around enough for one day. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  Slowly, Boswell took his hands off the map and nodded. “You are quite correct: He was looking for something. Somewhere, to be exact. Even pirates should know that there are three north poles—geographical, magnetic, and magical.” He pointed to the top of the map. “This is what Aldebran Boswell gave his life to find. Magical North—the single most concentrated point of magic anywhere. It lies in the ice plains at the top of the world, where the sun only sets once a year. It is guarded by a monster a thousand times more terrible than the Dreaded Great Sea Beast of the South, and it is surrounded by the Sea of Sighs, where the wind howls like the souls of the dead and men have drowned themselves rather than listen. Only a madman would attempt such a voyage—a madman or a hero.”

  Nobody spoke. The room seemed to have turned colder. Boswell rested his hands on the edge of the table, his long fingers splayed out. “But once a year,” he said, “on the thirty-first day of the month of Balistes—Orion’s Day—the sun sets over the ice plains. And if, during this annual twilight, you stand on the exact point of Magical North, you will be able to see the whole world. Imagine it—everything that exists spread out before you like your own personal map. You could look up the locations of all the treasure of the world, or all the starshell. You could see your own past if you wanted to—maybe even your own future. Great-grandfather was unclear on that.”

  Brine couldn’t take her eyes off the map. The letters MN stood out at the top like bruises.

  Boswell looked around at them all. “Imagine it,” he repeated softly. “Imagine what you could do with that knowledge.”

  “Magical North is just another story,” said Ewan. “It doesn’t exist.”

  “Aldebran Boswell would disagree,” said Boswell, “and he was a far cleverer man than you’ll ever be. But if the thought of unlimited knowledge doesn’t tempt you, think about this: Boswell’s writings speak of a vast treasure trove in the northern plains. Gold, diamonds, rubies. More riches than you can possibly count, just sitting there waiting for you.”

  He paused to let them think about this. The pirates all stared at the map while trying to pretend they were looking somewhere else. Ewan Hughes crossed his arms and frowned. “What you’re saying is, all we have to do is follow a man out of a legend to a place that doesn’t exist, pile the ship with imaginary gold, and Bob’s your oyster.”

  Baron Kaitos stepped forward. “I’m willing to make you an offer,” he said, evidently deciding he’d been quiet long enough. “I will restock the Onion, taking in return the servants you brought with you today. Upon successful completion of the voyage, I will pay you a chest of silver plus one-fourth part of whatever treasure you find at Magical North.”

  Cassie stepped back from the table. Her swinging fingers casually brushed her cutlass hilt. “Only a fourth part?”

  Kaitos glanced at Boswell—Brine noticed the movement. Strange, she thought. The baron owned the whole island and must have been used to ordering everyone around, yet the way he looked at Boswell was as if he was waiting to be told what to do. He looked almost afraid.

  “This is no mere treasure hunt, Captain,” snapped Boswell. “You need someone with scientific knowledge. Someone who can steer you safely through the howling oceans and the icy coils of the sea monster. Someone who knows how to survive when the temperature drops low enough to freeze wood. And most of all, someone who has a map.” He picked it up and folded it.

  “No,” said Cassie.

  Everyone started talking together. Cassie held up her hands for silence. “The answer is no. I’m not risking the Onion on a dubious treasure hunt. Baron, thank you for your hospitality, but we have other places to be.”

  She started toward the door. The baron pushed in front of her. “You’re a fool, Cassie O’Pia.” His face reddened, but then he caught Boswell’s gaze and snapped his mouth shut.

  “I suggest we all take time to consider the idea,” said Boswell smoothly. “Until
tomorrow, at least. The captain may change her mind by then.”

  Kaitos nodded. “Until tomorrow. Let my servants know if you need anything.” His gaze found Peter and Brine. “Speaking of servants, you two come with me.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Magicians are rare. Very few people can see magic, and even fewer can manipulate it into the correct spellshapes. This is a good thing, because magic corrupts. Only the purest metals and gemstones can survive its presence, and we have to wonder what this corrupting power does to the minds of those who control it.

  (From ALDEBRAN BOSWELL’S BIG BOOK OF MAGIC)

  Once again, Peter and Brine found themselves in a kitchen. A whole pig hung over a fire the size of a rowing boat, its juices running down like sweat into the flames.

  Peter couldn’t believe this was happening to him. His only consolation was that it was happening to Brine as well.

  “This is your fault,” he said.

  “Oh, good, that means everything’s back to normal, then.” Brine turned her back on him. “I suppose it was my fault that Cassie double-crossed us.”

  “You’re just mad because the Onion’s going on an adventure and you’re not invited.”

  A hand caught him between the shoulder blades. “Work, not talk,” shouted the cook. The man was huge and missing most of his teeth. He thrust a tray of drinks at each of them, slopping liquid over the sides of the goblets. “Take these.”

  “Take them where?” asked Peter, earning himself another slap. Brine took her tray and turned away without a word. Peter followed, shaking his head, his ears still ringing. “What are you doing?”

  “Being a good servant.”

  A guard walked by, his gaze sliding over them as if they’d suddenly become invisible. Brine gave Peter an I-told-you-so grin and stopped the next guard. “Excuse me. We have to take these drinks to Mr. Boswell’s room. Can you tell us the way?”

  The guard’s eyes flicked down at her and glanced away again indifferently. “Top floor,” he said, and walked off.

  They looked up at the stairs. The steps spiraled away from them, fading into shadow. Peter felt another of Brine’s plans coming on, and his heart sank. “You can’t just go up there. What are you going to do—ask Boswell for a job?”

  “I don’t see you coming up with any better ideas.” Brine started to climb.

  Sighing, Peter climbed after her. “Just because he’s Aldebran Boswell’s great-grandson, it doesn’t mean he knows anything about him.”

  “He knows about Magical North.”

  “Yes, well, that might be the only thing he knows. And he could be making it all up. He looked shifty. The baron, too.”

  Brine hesitated.

  She’d also seen it, then, Peter thought. He was glad he hadn’t imagined it.

  “They were probably nervous being around so many pirates,” said Brine.

  “I don’t think so, and neither do you.” He tried to overtake her, but she only climbed faster, giving Peter the choice of following her or giving up and going back to the kitchen. He followed.

  The first ten stories had carpets on the floors and paintings on the walls. After that, the walls were bare and the plain stone floors looked like they could do with a wash. Everything smelled funny. Peter guessed the baron was one of those people who liked to put on a show where it mattered and let everything fall apart behind the scenes. Which made it odd that an important visitor like Boswell should be all the way up on the top floor.

  Peter paused. “Brine, I really don’t like this. Can we just stop and think for a minute?”

  “Since when did you start thinking?”

  A guard turned to look at them. “Boswell’s room?” asked Brine.

  “Top floor, end of the corridor. What do you want with Mr. Boswell?”

  “Room service,” said Brine.

  Seventeen floors. Twenty. Twenty-five. Forty. Peter’s legs burned with the effort. Finally, just when he thought his knees were going to give way altogether, the stairs ended in a narrow corridor. The uneven slant of the tower was obvious here. Gashes of light leaned at odd angles from the narrow windows, and even the floor felt wrong, as if it were trying to throw them down the corridor to the door at the end.

  Peter’s heart bumped. This was definitely not right. “Remember what happened last time we went somewhere we shouldn’t?” he asked.

  Brine set her tray down. “We’re already servants. What else can they do to us?”

  “Do you want a list?”

  She threw him a scornful look and started down the corridor. Peter sighed, put his tray down next to hers, and followed. If this turned out like her usual bright ideas, they’d both end up in the dungeon, assuming Baron Kaitos had dungeons. Peter wondered if there would be rats.

  Brine stopped outside the end door and raised her hand to knock.

  “Wait,” whispered Peter. Something didn’t feel right, and he wasn’t going to go barging straight in. He nudged Brine aside and peered through a crack in the door.

  Boswell was sitting upright in a wooden chair facing him. His eyes were closed. That, in itself, wasn’t unusual. As far as Peter knew, scientists often closed their eyes when they were thinking. From what Peter could see, the rest of the room wasn’t unusual, either—books open on the floor, a giant map on the far wall.

  No, what was unusual was the way that yellow light trickled in a thin line out of Boswell’s palms and curled in front of him, forming a shape that Peter recognized because he’d been studying it only days before. A mind control spell. And, judging by the amount of magic Boswell was pouring into the spell, it was going to be a big one.

  Peter’s skin prickled. The starshell pieces in his pocket buzzed softly. He straightened up from the door and met Brine’s gaze.

  She rubbed the end of her nose. “What is it?”

  Peter put his finger to his lips. Carefully, terrified one of them would make a sound and Boswell would hear, he tiptoed away until his back hit the far wall of the corridor. “He’s a magician,” he whispered, motioning for Brine to stay quiet. “Boswell’s great-grandson is a magician.” If the man was Boswell’s great-grandson at all. Peter spread his hands flat on the wall to keep them from shaking. He remembered the look on Baron Kaitos’s face. You’re a fool. And Boswell’s words: The captain may change her mind. The baron knew. He knew, and he was afraid.

  Brine looked like she was trying to suppress a sneeze. Peter gripped her arm. “We have to warn Cassie.” Even though she was a pirate and a promise breaker and deserved to be mind-controlled.

  Brine’s face twitched. She pinched her nose and nodded. Together, they began to edge back toward the stairs, which suddenly seemed a thousand miles away.

  And then Brine sneezed.

  A chaotic starburst of amber light flared out around Boswell’s door—the light of a spell being released too early, Peter thought. He let go of Brine’s arm. For once, her allergy had done something useful. Now Boswell would have to start his spell all over again, if he had enough magic for it at all.

  But then Peter noticed the silence. It was not a good silence. It oozed out through the cracks in the door, filling the corridor with the dark sense that something bad was just about to happen.

  “I think we should go,” muttered Brine, but Peter couldn’t move. He stood frozen, his gaze fixed on the end of the corridor, where, slowly, as if it were happening in a dream, Boswell’s door swung open.

  “Can I help you?” asked Boswell, and for a second, everything felt so normal that Peter’s knees sagged in relief. But then he saw the gold chain swinging from Boswell’s pocket. Gold—the most valuable metal in the world, because it was one of the few metals that survived in the presence of magic.

  A lump gathered at the back of Peter’s throat. “I don’t think you’re Boswell’s great-grandson at all,” he said.

  Boswell’s teeth gleamed as he laughed. “Of course I’m not.” His voice slithered unpleasantly in Peter’s ears. “Do you know how much preparation that
spell requires? How much time and magical power? Now I’m going to have to start again—just as soon as I’ve dealt with you two.”

  He came toward them, and as he walked, he changed. He grew taller, tall enough that his head almost touched the low ceiling. His very ordinary hair vanished like smoke, his eyebrows, too, leaving him completely bald, and his face became long and hollow. His brown eyes turned the color of polished amber, swarming with black flecks.

  Not-Boswell raised a hand and sketched a spellshape in the air.

  “Get down!” yelled Peter, and he shoved Brine flat as magic flared. In the enclosed corridor, the effect was like a star exploding. Peter shouted and stumbled back, half-blinded by the flash. He grabbed hold of Brine as she scrambled up, and they both ran, screaming, for the stairs.

  Voices and clanging metal sounded from below. Peter looked back over his shoulder at the man who wasn’t Boswell. He stalked toward them. Three pieces of starshell dangled like charms from the chain in his right hand, and long shadows spread from his feet, slowly swallowing the corridor.

  Brine stumbled to a halt, staring. Peter hauled her out of the way a second before the magician raised his right hand and blasted a hole in the ceiling. This was Tallis Magus all over again, except a thousand times worse.

  This time, though, Peter didn’t leave Brine and run. Even while every thought screamed that this was his stupidest idea ever and he was going to die, he stepped between her and the magician. Magic was his field. Like Cassie had the Onion and Brine had her books. He had to do something.

  Not-Boswell looked at him, the bare places where his eyebrows should have been rising in surprise. “You’re a brave boy,” he said. “Brave and exceptionally stupid.”

  Peter clenched his fists, his whole body trembling, and put his hand in his pocket for his starshell.

  Then a scrape of steel disturbed the air behind him. He turned his head with difficulty.

  Cassie O’Pia strolled up the last few steps to join them. A sword swung idly in each hand, and there was a dark patch on her shirt that might have been blood.