by Kit Downes
“It’s beautiful,” he said. It was. It was old and the colours had faded, as if they were layered in dust, but it still shone beneath. A pattern of amazing complexity had been woven into it, and Zal found himself longing to repeat it. Zara smiled at his reaction, and touched the carpet with her hand. It trembled. A wave ran down from one end to the other, and then the fragment floated up from the table top and hovered for a long moment before sinking back down.
“Seeing it do that makes me wish I had been a weaver,” said Qwinton.
“It’s real,” said Zal. “They are real!”
“Told you so,” said Zara. “Thank you for showing it to us, Master Qwinton.”
Rip sniffed the fragment and gave an approving yip.
“It’s real,” said Zal again.
“Indeed it is,” said Qwinton. “You don’t think I’d waste my precious time protecting a worthless fake, do you?”
“Well … now that we’ve settled that part of the argument,” said Zara, turning to Zal, “do you think you can weave one?”
“I … um…”
Zal picked up the fragment with very careful hands. He ran his fingertips across the weaving, feeling exactly where each thread began and ended. It was a strange and intricate work. The colours were not just flat: each was made of hundreds of tones of that colour, light and dark, woven together. The extra power that must give to the carpet made Zal’s mind ache. Each stitch seemed to be perfect.
“Well?” said Zara.
“Whoever wove this,” said Zal, “must have used a needle that was thinner than a strand of spider’s web.”
“There are many good blacksmiths in the city…”
“There’s something else,” Zal said, tracing the fragment from end to end again. “I don’t know what it is, but I don’t think it’s magic.”
“Let me try.” Zara reached and touched the fragment with her fingertips. “Where is it?”
“It’s everywhere.”
Qwinton was busy cooing to one of the doves and feeding it crumbs from a cheese biscuit.
“I don’t feel anything,” said Zara.
“It’s there,” Zal said. “And I’ve got a feeling that that is what makes – what made – it fly. The missing ingredient. The thing that holds the magic in.”
Almost without him realizing it, Zal’s weaving knowledge came into play. His voice became businesslike.
“I can get wool that’s thin enough, and there must be this many tones of each colour in the city. And you’re right: the blacksmith who forged my sword should be able to make the needles. But this … mystery ingredient. I don’t know what it is or where to get it.”
“Ah, mysteries,” said Qwinton. “They fill our hours with boundless entertainment. Who doesn’t enjoy a good word game? Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun. But at the same time they irritate, infuriate and, on occasion, asphyxiate us. A good mystery is a paradox. And a paradox is often a good mystery.”
“Yes, but how do we solve this one in” – Zara looked out of the window at the sun. It was now halfway across the sky. Noon – “half a day and a night?”
“We can’t,” said Zal. He patted Rip and felt sadness, and still some amazement at the fragment of carpet.
“Now, now!” said Qwinton. He snatched up a ruler and rapped Zal across the head with it. “That’s defeatism. I’ll have none of that here. Defeatism has no place outside a maths exam. That fragment alone is proof that anything is possible.”
“But even if we find it, the race is tomorrow morning,” Zal said. “It took me three weeks to weave the six-colour carpet. I’ll never be able to do a full-sized seven-colour one in less than a day and a night!”
“Don’t worry,” said Zara, “I have that covered.”
“How?”
“Oh, you don’t need to know yet. I’ll surprise you when we get there. You’ll like it.”
“Fine,” said Zal. “But even if you can do it, which I doubt, we still don’t know where to get the mystery ingredient from.”
“Then we’ll find out,” said Zara, rubbing her hands together. “Master Qwinton, where did you get the fragment from?”
“The fragment? Oh – of course, the fragment. It is remarkable, isn’t it! And there’s a strange story behind how it came into my possession. I found it half buried on the shore of the Small Oasis. What stranger place could there be to find a fragment of carpet? I spent weeks digging around there, first with a spade, then with magic so I could be more thorough, and then with a magic spade, but I never found another strand of it. It’s a mystery.”
“You can say that again,” said Zal.
“It’s a mystery,” said Qwinton. “I’m old and tired now and addled by my own hand, but if I wanted to solve it, I would start at the Caliph’s library. All the secrets and mysteries of Azamed are stored within its walls, you know, and I once heard a rumour that he has some documents on rainbow carpets, written by Rabo the First himself.”
“Excellent,” said Zara. “That’s perfect. That’s where we’ll start. Thank you, Master Qwinton. Come on, Zal!”
Zara grabbed Zal’s wrist again and pulled him from the room.
“Good luck!” Qwinton said as he closed the door.
“Wha…? Wait!” said Zal. “The Caliph’s library?”
Twenty minutes later they had climbed up the steep streets to the Caliph’s palace and were approaching the public entrance.
“You’re crazy,” said Zal. “We can’t sneak into the Caliph’s private library and start reading his scrolls. How’s he likely to react if he catches us? He’ll have us thrown in the dungeons!”
“I’d imagine so,” said Zara, not at all concerned at the prospect. “If that happens, I’ll use magic to open the locks, then we’ll sneak back to the library and finish what we started.”
“What kind of mad…?” Zal began.
“What kind of mad person would search a library for thieves twice in one day?” Zara finished for him. “Well done: you’re catching on.” She jogged up the steps to the palace and Zal and Rip had to run to keep up.
“I am not ‘catching on’,” called Zal. “I’m trying to talk some sense into you. This is a stupid idea. We need to try something else.”
“Really? Then why are you following me?” Zara smiled.
“Because you’ve got this stupid spell on my legs, that’s why!”
“Zal, come here,” said Zara.
Zal did not move. He was startled when he realized he hadn’t.
“It wore off while we were with Qwinton,” said Zara. “You’ve been following me of your own accord ever since. You can go back now if you want to …”
Zal still did not move.
“… but that would mean losing the chance to be the first weaver in centuries to produce a rainbow carpet. And now you know they’re real…”
Zal hesitated, thinking carefully. To turn back now was the sane option. But Zara was right about the carpet. And could he really, in all good conscience – even though she was so annoying – let her go and get herself arrested? He walked up the steps, trying hard to ignore her smirk.
The Caliph’s palace was built on top of two giant stone bridges that spanned the volcano’s crater and met in an X shape. It had taken one hundred architects two hundred years to build, but they had done a very good job. Zal and Zara were entering from the eastern side, which led into the Mosaic Gardens. Inside the high, round walls were flower-beds, enchanted to be in bloom all year round, and huge, detailed mosaics made of tiny slivers of terracotta, marble and glass that depicted carpets and the Great Race.
This was the only area of the palace open to the public, and there weren’t many people around: a few families who’d brought children to play; elderly people who sat on the benches and argued; an artist painting a picture of a very beautiful flower that he alone could see. A few white storks, kept in honour of the Celestial Stork, were in the fountains eating breadcrumbs thrown by the children.
There were steps at the far end that
led into the palace, and Zara headed towards these. Zal looked with great admiration at the guardsman who stood at the top of them, leaning on his spear and chewing a blade of grass. This was where he would one day stand – if you could still become a guardsman after assisting your insane fiancée in trespass and burglary. Zal gulped. His future and his dreams were teetering on a cliff edge, and Zara might just be about to kick them over.
“Let me do the talking,” Zara whispered and marched up the steps.
The guardsman straightened and opened his mouth to inform them that they could go no further.
“Good morning,” Zara said. “Has my master come through here?”
“Your master?” asked the guardsman, puzzled.
“Yes, my master.”
“I’m not sure,” said the guardsman.
“Has he come through here, or not?” Zara said.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, have you seen him, or not?”
“I’m not sure!”
“You’re not sure if you have or have not seen my master come through here, or not?”
“Not… I mean, no. I don’t know who your master is!” The guardsman was becoming rather agitated. He leant back away from Zara and gripped his spear.
“Well, how about his associates?” Zara said.
“No…”
“His colleagues?”
“No.”
“His friends?”
“No!”
“His enemies?”
Zara ticked them off on her fingers as she recited them. The list continued through “her master’s” confidantes, spies, assassins, speechwriters, joke-writers, elder siblings, parents, children, grandchildren, cousins, nephews, wife and any or all of his mistresses. The poor guardsman became more and more distressed at the huge number of people who seemed to have slipped into the palace under his nose. Rip dozed off on the top step. Zal watched Zara’s performance with astonishment and decided he sympathized with Arna Aura’s desire to marry off his daughter as soon as possible.
“His banker?”
“Stop!” The guard’s shout made everybody in the garden look up. “Who is your master? Tell me that, and I can answer your first question.”
“You can?” said Zara. She turned to Zal. “What was my first question? It’s slipped my mind.”
Zal panicked. He couldn’t remember either.
“Whether or not your master has come through here,” said the guardsman.
“Oh, yes. That was it,” said Zara. “Has he?”
“If you’ll tell me who he is, I can tell you!”
“Oh, of course! Forgive me.”
The guard’s expression suggested that would not be happening fast.
“I am Zara Aura of the Guild of Magicians. My master is the magician Ho-Og Wa-Ash, also of the Guild. The Caliph summoned him here today to use magic to wash all the parrots in the palace menagerie without injuring any of the parrots, allowing any parrot to notice it is being washed, spilling any water, dropping the soap, or washing any other animal by accident. This has turned out to be a far more complicated task than my master imagined. He’s been sending me back and forth all morning to fetch all the people I’ve mentioned, to see if any of them can help. This is the latest, his personal carpet-weaver and fencing partner, Zal Thesa.”
“Hello,” said Zal.
“I see,” the guardsman said to Zara.
“I’m so glad,” said Zara. “Now, if you haven’t seen him or any of the others, they must have all gone straight to the menagerie. We’ll go down there, Zal, and try not to get lost. Those parrots won’t wash themselves!”
“Go to the main hall and take the blue door to the west wing,” said the guard, pointing down the corridor and standing aside so Zara and Zal could pass through.
“Thanks so much!” Zara called back.
“Hold on a second!”
They stopped and turned their heads. Zal could hear the dungeon door creaking open.
“What’s a carpet-weaver needed for?”
“Oh, my master thought it would help if the carpets had pictures of parrots on them,” said Zara. “There aren’t any in the palace that do. So he’s here to weave them.”
“But what do you need carpets for in a menagerie? They’ll get covered in…”
“You expect the parrots to be washed while standing on a cold, stone floor?” Zara filled her voice with shock and outrage.
“But I thought the parrots mustn’t realize they’re being washed!”
“It’s the principle!” said Zara. “Come on, Zal. We’re losing time.”
They hurried round the corner and out of sight before the guard could say anything else.
“I’m not sure which is more unbelievable,” said Zal. “That you tried that, or that it worked.”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” said Zara smugly.
“Fine, but when I get into the Guard, I’m warning everyone about that trick. That is, if I can even get my application looked at after this…”
“Stop worrying. You’ve got carpets to fall back on.”
“I hate carpet-weaving.”
“But you’re very good at it.”
“That doesn’t mean I like it.”
“It’s still the reason your father hasn’t given up on you.”
They hurried on, exploring the palace. It was a fantastic building. Travellers who came across the desert said that when you climbed the last dune and could see all of Azamed for the first time, the palace shone brighter than any other building. It was just as spectacular inside. Everywhere was designed to be both functional and attractive. The corridors were wide with smooth tiled floors and high, arching ceilings. At every corner, imps carved from black marble and cherubs carved from white leered and laughed down at them from the walls. The walls were all painted white or a soft green, but the skirting boards were decorated with fantastic miniature paintings and murals, like a long, tiny tapestry. The Celestial Stork, the Cosmos Vulture and a pantheon of monsters, heroes, demons and angels, together with thousands of magic carpets, flowed along the base of the walls. Though they were small, they had been painted with all the detail and determination that had gone into the Mosaic Gardens.
Zal and Zara barely noticed. Zara was set on finding the library and Zal was still thinking about her last words. Had Augur ever considered giving up on him? He wouldn’t be surprised. Zal had argued for hours, thrown temper tantrums and kicked furniture over to try and get out of carpet-weaving, but his father had always slowly and patiently persuaded him to do it. Now he thought about it, if Augur had ever really wanted to force him to weave, he could simply have confiscated Zal’s sword, dismissed his fencing teacher and forbade him from entering tournaments. But instead he’d used calm persistence to get Zal to the loom – and had also paid for his fencing classes, bought him a new sword whenever he needed one, and cheered Zal from the front row at every tournament.
“Oh, and if anyone stops us, stick with ‘We’re here to wash parrots,’ OK?” said Zara, breaking into his thoughts.
“Sorry, what?”
“Oh, never mind. It doesn’t matter. We’re here now.”
She stopped him before a tall, wooden door which had on it a bronze plaque that read, LIBRARY. Zara turned the handle but it took both of them to push open the heavy door. They peered round it before entering, but there was no movement and no sound from among the bookshelves. The trio slipped inside.
The sheer size of the library inspired reverence. The ceiling was so high, it looked no larger than a handkerchief. The shelves stretched all the way up to it, running right round the walls of the hall. Groups of shelves were divided up into small octagons, each packed with numerous tight rolls of parchment. It was like standing inside a gigantic wood and paper honeycomb. There were thousands of scrolls. Some were thicker or thinner than their companions. Some had writing on both sides and some did not. Some stuck out past the edge of the shelves, and some were tucked so far back that
they were almost invisible. The door and several tall narrow windows that let in shafts of light were the only breaks in the pattern. The silence was heavy, and their breathing seemed as loud as an orchestra. The dry, cool smell of paper and parchment was in the air. Zal and Zara both jumped and spun round as the door banged shut behind them.
“Here to wash parrots,” Zal agreed as he breathed out. He offered a quick prayer to the Celestial Stork that they would not be caught.
“Just keep quiet and we’ll be fine,” said Zara. “All the secrets and mysteries of Azamed? I can believe that.”
“Yes,” said Zal. “But where do we start looking?” They both stood, staring up at the towering bookshelves. Rip huddled close to Zal’s ankles and whimpered. Rooms were not meant to be this big. Only the outside was.
Zara, for the first time that day, found herself without an answer. Zal was right. There were no labels on the shelves, no catalogues to hand. Why would there be? This was for the Caliph and his family alone. Finding the secret of the rainbow carpet could take years. And how to narrow that down…
“I don’t have a clue,” she said.
They walked to the shelves closest to the door and began pulling out random scrolls and reading the titles printed on the brown wax seals that kept them closed.
In the first octagon, Zal found The Saga of Renguard, The Plant Life of the Cold Jungle, Northern Azamed By Night, The Dynamics of a Waterfall and Daniel the Donkey.
“There’s no order to them,” he said. “I’ve got mythology, science, tourism and a children’s story all from the same shelf.”
“I know,” said Zara. She held up the scrolls in her hand. “I’ve got philosophy, agriculture, magic and soup cooking. How does the Caliph ever find anything?”
“How are we ever going to find anything?” Zal said. He gazed up at the shelves again and then asked, “Can you do something with magic?”
