by C. K. Nolan
***
Harold carried an empty platter out of the Public Hall. He threaded his way through the crowd in the entrance, skipped past groups of guards and Session members who were tucking in to their meal, and went into the kitchen.
“Harold, give that platter to Lisette and see who’s knocking on the yard door, will you? Did you spot Filibert in the Great Hall?” asked Winifred.
“No, I didn’t,” called Harold, stepping into the scullery, where Lisette was washing a stack of dirty dishes.
“No, don’t put that there, Harold, that’s all clean!” scolded Lisette. “Put it in that pail and get a cloth. You can start wiping these dry and then take them out to the Great Hall.”
“Sorry, Lisette,” said Harold, dropping the platter into the pail. “But you’ll have to get one of the maids to do it. I’m busy.”
“Harold! Don’t be cheeky. Hey, come back here!” cried Lisette.
“Harold! The door!” shouted Winifred.
“Yes, yes, one moment,” grumbled Harold, and he opened the door. Marchus stood there, holding a flat leather document case.
“Good day, young man,” said Marchus. “My, something smells good! Listen, I don’t want to sit in the halls today, far too noisy for me. Can you grab me something to take upstairs? I’d be ever so grateful.”
The old man’s eyes glistened. Everyone knew of Marchus, but few ever saw this wispy-haired scribe, his mind as sharp as the tip of an ash leaf; it was almost the only part of him that seemed fully alive. Harold had certainly never seen Marchus outside.
“Why not come into the kitchen, sir?” he asked. “I’ll prepare you a platter and you can take it through the Great Hall and upstairs.”
“Oh no, my boy,” replied Marchus, leaning against the doorframe. “I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to talk to anyone. All I want is to be no bother to anyone and for nobody to be any bother to me. I’ll go down the icehouse path and then use the stairs from the underfloor. A little farther, but a lot quicker, don’t you think? So I’ll wait here. Thank you so much!”
Marchus didn’t seem to expect him to say anything, so he went back to the scullery and grabbed a clean, wet plate.
“Old Marchus is at the door,” he whispered to Lisette. “He wants some food. What shall I give him?”
“Marchus?” said Lisette, shaking the water off her hands. “Follow me. He’ll want something simple, and not too much of that, either.”
“You know Marchus, then?” asked Harold, following Lisette back through the kitchen.
“Oh, yes! He hides up in the archive most of the time. I take food up to him occasionally. I’m sure he’s not supposed to eat up there, but he has a tiny office where he’ll have a midday meal. He’s always busy: writing, instructing the scribes, organizing the library collections or preparing exhibitions of books, leaves, or manuscripts, that kind of thing. I don’t know what we’d do without him, really. Now, let’s see. A slice of cold trout should suit, a spoonful of turnip, some parsley root—keep the platter still, boy!—and shall I pour a bit of the fish stock over it all? No, better not.”
“No bread?” asked Harold.
“He doesn’t eat bread.” Lisette eyed the yard door. “Can’t you see, he hardly eats at all? I—”
“Stop gossiping you two,” said Winifred, bustling past them. “Lovely to see you, Marchus! Harold’s got you a nice plate of food. Be sure to eat it all up!”
Harold joined her at the door. Marchus held out his case, and Harold balanced the platter on top of it. His meal wasn’t very appetizing: white fish, white roots. No wonder the old man was so pale.
“Wonderful!” said Marchus. “Thank you, boy; thank you Winifred; and a thousand thanks to you, Lisette!” and off he went, walking softly down the path in his slippers.
“Can’t that man find himself a proper pair of shoes?” sniffed Winifred. “Brings me out in goose pimples just looking at him!”
“Don’t be nasty, Winifred!” said Lisette from behind them. “Here, Harold, go after Marchus and take this mug of milk upstairs with him. And check he sits down to eat, please!”
Harold took the mug and set off. Down the passageway where he’d talked to Rath, past the icehouse door—and what was that? Voices. Marchus and Bassan. Oh, he didn’t want to bump into Bassan again! What were they saying? He edged round Great Aspen’s trunk.
“Just take the case, Bassan, and make sure you don’t remove anything from it. I want it back exactly as it is.”
“We’ll go through it together. We must be absolutely clear about what’s in here. Don’t want any accusations of pilfering, do we? Shall we put the food down first? How you can carry around such a collection of documents under a platter of fish is beyond me, I have to say. Hardly exemplary behavior from our archivist!”
The metal lock turned, and light from the laboratory filled the underfloor.
“Not my fault, Bassan. My man delivered the new leaves to me. I left what I was doing and came straight down to see you, but you weren’t here, were you? Up in the halls you were, so the guard told me. So I thought I might follow your own goodly example and get myself a bite to eat also.”
Harold crept forward.
“Let’s not waste any more time,” said Bassan from the doorway. “Anything of interest in here?”
“Not that I could see. The latest leaves from the island are on top. They haven’t been copied yet, according to your instructions. Older leaves whose records are complete are below.”
“You didn’t check Great Aspen?”
“No, I didn’t. You said you’d do it yourself, so why would I?”
“Just asking, Marchus. No need to be sarcastic! Take your food and—be careful, man, I haven’t shut the case yet!”
The case thudded onto the ground. Pages and leaves flew into the air. Harold watched, alarmed, as one page floated towards him, landing right in front of his feet.
“Marchus, you fool! Look what you’ve done! Now the leaves are in a real muddle!”
“Hey Bassan! That you down there? Silva’s in my cellar, why don’t you come up and speak to her?”
That was Filibert’s voice. Harold took a few steps back along the tunnel, put the mug on the ground, lay down on his side, and then pushed himself forward, hoping that he wouldn’t crush the elm leaf in his shirt pocket. He reached out and grasped the edge of the paper.
“I’m here, Filibert!” shouted Bassan. “Right, that’s all the leaves back in the case. I’ll sort them out later. Marchus, give me the platter. I’d better carry that upstairs for you before we have another accident. Come on!”
Their voices faded as they climbed the stairs, and Harold let out a deep breath. He stood up. His clothes were damp, from the cold, or fear, he couldn’t tell. He looked at the page in his hand. It was filled with leaf illustrations and lines of very small, fine, writing, but it was too dark to read anything. Should he fold the page and take it with him? He couldn’t return it to the case. Or could he?
A line of light traced across the ground from the laboratory. Bassan hadn’t shut the door. And he wouldn’t be back for a while if he was meeting with Silva!
Harold tiptoed into the laboratory. Bassan had put the case on top of a cabinet inside the door. Harold placed his page on top of the pile, then picked up the case and took it over to Bassan’s manuscript table. All he had to do was insert this page into the pile of leaves and notes and nobody would be any the wiser. Ah! What was this between these two sheets of paper? Wasn’t it an elm leaf? Very much like his own leaf, only fresher:
“Old Elm I am, a tree alone,
With roots in earth and dew and stone.
I found a way to understand
The other trees across the land.
But they know not that I can read,
And words of mine they will not heed!”
So this was another leaf from Old Elm! Could he really understand the other trees? Harold had never imagined the trees talking to each other. Mind you, if they
could write to the islanders, they could probably write to each other, too. What would they talk about? The latest tree gossip?
Harold laughed, then froze, as someone shouted outside,
“Yes, it’s open! I’ll check in here, lock up, and take the key back to Bassan. You get along now, and I’ll see you in the guardery later.”
Harold threw the leaf into the case and ducked down behind the table. The door creaked open, and there was silence. Then the door slammed shut. A key thudded into the outside lock. It turned twice, scraping metal as it was removed.
He was caught like a fish in a net! He got up, closed the case, and plonked it on top of the cabinet. Then he looked around.
The laboratory was almost completely underground. There were no windows, and it would be impossible to escape through the light tunnel as there was nothing to hold onto. He could hide in Bassan’s supply area behind the screen, but that would be a last resort. Could there be a spare key somewhere? He could spend hours hunting through plant pots, bottles, chests, or cupboards. What about the fireplace? No, nothing hidden around here: the fire was burning low, but it was too hot to search the chimney. Where else would Bassan keep a key?
The curtain to Bassan’s chamber was open. A flowery box sat on the writing desk. He’d expected the box to be locked, but it wasn’t. He carefully opened the lid. A black cup lay inside. Nothing else. A family treasure of Bassan’s, perhaps?
He eased the cup out of the box, closed the lid, and set the cup on top. My, this was beautifully worked! Surprisingly light, smooth to the touch. Cold, too. Tiny sparkles of silver and blue glinted on its black surface, and inside the cup—what was that? A pattern of leaves covered by a silvery sheen, but difficult to see properly in here. He carried the cup to the curtain, but the sheeny effect seemed to dim. It had seemed as though something was moving around in the bottom of this cup, but maybe he was mistaken.
There was a soft scraping sound from outside, then clinks of a key in the lock. Someone was coming in! Harold leapt back behind the curtain folds just as Bassan’s voice carried into the laboratory, sharp as a knife.
“It’s here. I told you to look inside the door!”
“Well, sir, I did look, but I swear that—”
“There it is, plain as can be. Off you go, and thank the Leaf Star I won’t be complaining to Trevello, not that he believes a word I say. Go on then, man, out!”
The door slammed again. Harold gripped the cup in his shaking hands. Footsteps in the laboratory. A thud. The creak of a chair. Shuffling.
“That’s strange,” muttered Bassan. “I don’t remember picking this one up…an oak leaf lay on top, didn’t it?”
Harold turned round, tiptoed towards a large tapestry hanging on the wall, and slipped behind it.
***
Bassan read the leaf. Old Elm, wittering away as usual. And underneath that, the large oak leaf he’d rescued from the floor. What did this oak have to say for itself? More storms out at sea? What a surprise! Couldn’t these oaks ever think about anything else? Maple leaves, ash leaves, aspens from the river through the Hintermounts—and the blank bark of a yew. That was typical, wasn’t it? Marchus was right for once: nothing of interest. He needn’t have worried about anyone seeing these. It seemed that none of the trees farther afield sensed any danger here in Southernwood.
This case wasn’t as he’d left it, though. He’d accompanied Marchus up to the library, then come down to Filibert’s cellar where he’d realized he hadn’t locked the laboratory. So he’d gone to the Great Hall and sent a guard down with the key to check the case was safe and lock the door. But the case hadn’t been there, had it? The guard had told the truth. Someone must have got in, read the leaves in the case, and then put it back once the door was locked. Which meant, it would seem, that the guard had shut that mysterious someone into the laboratory. He—or she—must still be here.
He glanced across to his mother’s writing box. He got up softly, and crept into his chamber. Nobody. If someone was hiding behind the screen in the laboratory and wanted to make a dash for it, he’d let them. They wouldn’t get far. He opened the box.
The Mazer was gone.
His stomach twisted. His breath stuck in his throat. He stared into the empty box then scrabbled around inside it as if this would reveal his missing treasure. Had he left it on the divan, on a chest, on the floor, under the desk? No, he knew he’d left it in here. Stupid, stupid Marchus! If the old man hadn’t dropped that case…well, it was too late to worry about that. The question was, who had stolen the Mazer?
A cloud of silence settled around his head, waiting to be filled with the running steps of an intruder escaping. But the laboratory was empty, and his heart knew it. Was it possible that someone had a copy of the key to his laboratory? They could have taken the case out and left, then let themselves in once the guard had locked up. If anyone did have a key, however, they would have sneaked in much more often and he would have known, he was sure of it.
No. There was only one other way out. The tunnel to Oakenwood. And even if you knew nothing of the tunnel, wouldn’t that tapestry make a fine place to conceal yourself?
The air around him cleared, and he shouted as loudly as he could, “Hey! Hey!”
He strode to the fireplace, pulled the tapestry away from the wall, and gazed into the empty darkness.
Who had escaped through here? Would they follow the tunnel? Of course they would! They’d bump into Great Aspen’s root and disturb the bats, shriek in fear, and run, stumbling their way along to Oakenwood.
But wait. This thief was clever, quick to take his chance to enter the laboratory the second the door was left unlocked, quick to find the Mazer and disappear with it. Not such a frightened mouse after all! Who could it be? Who would hide around underfloor corners waiting to slip into the laboratory? Who might know about the Mazer, or even the tunnel?
Rath. Oh, yes, that would make sense. He’d been spotted near the Albatorium, hadn’t he? Had Zossimo shown Rath the Mazer? Rath may have found out about—
There was a rap on the door. Bassan groaned. That would be Silva. Why had he arranged to see her in the laboratory? Because of the missing document case, that was why! Curse Marchus. Curse them all! He must get to Oakenwood. And how was he going to do that?
“It’s open, Silva, come in!” he shouted, leaving his chamber.
The door was already open. A bag lay on the floor, a cloak thrown on top. Then Silva appeared, breathless and red-faced.
“Oh, there you are Bassan. I had to get a few things from upstairs. Thought I’d never manage it with all the to-do around the stairs and in the halls. They’re preparing a banquet for this evening. I might even have to go and stay with Winifred tonight because I don’t know where I’m going to sleep yet. What a day it’s been!”
Her eyes took in the trestles loaded with plants, the bookshelves, the fungus pot—he should have put that behind the screen—and the chamber. “How wonderful to be here again. And it looks…not quite how I recall it exactly, but still a place where much work is done.”
Yes, she’d remember this place. What else would she remember? It might be interesting to find out.
“Come and sit at the table,” he said, pulling up another chair. “I’m pleased you like my laboratory, Silva. I have never forgotten your father. It has been my privilege to continue a great deal of his work in the way he would have wanted it done. In the way, I hope, that you, too, would wish.”
Her smile was sad. “Father trained you well. If only he were with us now! He’d sit by the fire, take off his boots, ask me to fetch a plate of food from the kitchen and tell you to be careful with the leaves he’d collected. You used to sit at a table over there by the door, didn’t you? Just where you sat when you gave me that piece of driftwood all those years ago. I told you, I keep it by Mother’s vault, something precious in a precious place. Maybe you’ve seen it there.”
No, he hadn’t seen it. He’d never looked at the vault. The crypt, ye
s, he’d been there, of course. It was situated under Master Yew, a shrewd, unsociable brute of a tree. No wonder, with all those dead people lying below him. Zossimo’s wife lay near the back wall. He knew that wall. He’d dug into it many times, trying to find a tunnel.
“I’m glad you found somewhere special to put that old wood, Silva,” he said, watching her take the elm leaf out of the case that was still sitting on the desk.
“Old wood, old leaves—and look at this! From an elm, isn’t it? Don’t tell me, Bassan. I know this tree. The Wishing Tree, as I recall. My, I’d forgotten all about him! I went to visit him once, with Father. What fun that was! He wished…now, what did he wish me? Whatever I wished for myself, or something like that. He’s a funny old tree, isn’t he, and he’s still talking, I see.”
“Oh yes,” said Bassan. “A very funny old tree indeed! As you can—”
“Thinking of old trees, I’m a bit worried about Great Aspen.”
This was more like it. Who wanted to waste their time nattering about Old Elm, when Master Aspen, whose roots curled around the tunnel beyond up to trunk, branch and leaf, was slowly sending his poison through the heart of the Albatorium!
“Tell me, Silva.”
“I spoke to him earlier. He didn’t say much, but he sounded unwell. He said he was cold. Have you ever known a tree complain of that?”
“I expect he’s exhausted. He’s had a busy couple of days.”
Silva looked at him, surprised.
Perhaps he’d said the wrong thing. “Did he say anything else?”
“No, he didn’t. You must be tired too, Bassan. After all, you didn’t get any sleep the other night because of the election, did you? Can I ask you what it was about Wystan’s rule that made you force his, er, retirement?”
She’d been listening to too much gossip from Trevello, or Filibert, or that old hag in the kitchen, Winifred.
“Silva, I never wanted to remove my brother from power. Being Legator was his finest achievement. I know he was proud that I was Librarian, but Wystan relied too heavily on my brotherly support. It took a long time, you see, probably too long, before I decided that enough was enough. I felt it was my duty to speak up in the Session.”
