by Nix,Garth
Mogget saw her staring.
“The Book of the Dead,” he said. “Best left alone.”
“I am an Abhorsen,” said Clariel. She remembered Bel talking about this book, how it contained the knowledge the Abhorsens needed to enter Death and return, how to wield their seven bells to bind and command the Dead. She found the book weirdly fascinating, though she had no particular interest in the Abhorsen’s peculiar kind of necromancy.
The book itself was fascinating. She felt like she was watching an animal, waiting to see where it would spring, being on guard in case it attacked but also tensed to pursue if it fled. “Doesn’t that give me the right to read it?”
“No,” said Mogget. “You’re one of the family, sure enough, but only the Abhorsen or the Abhorsen-in-Waiting can read that particular book.”
“Bel told me he read it,” said Clariel. “And he thought Yannael hadn’t, maybe even Tyriel had never read it.”
“Like I said,” replied Mogget.
“What?” asked Clariel.
“People seem to have got confused about who’s who and what’s what since I last got let out of this house,” said Mogget, which didn’t help Clariel at all. “Now, you wanted writing materials, I believe?”
“Um, yes,” said Clariel. She was still thinking about what the cat had said. “But everyone calls Yannael the Abhorsen-in-Waiting . . . you mean she isn’t?”
“Everything you need is on the desk,” said Mogget. “Be very careful you don’t spill the ink.”
Clariel looked at the massive redwood desk. Each corner of the tabletop was adorned with intricately carved dragon heads. The dragons all had individual expressions; she could see the character of each of them: melancholy, angry, happy, and a fourth had its eyes closed, apparently asleep.
For the first time she wondered if dragons had once really existed. These seemed modeled from life. In the middle of the dragon table there was a silver inkwell, very finely made and old, accompanied by several quill pens, a knife to cut them, a sheaf of paper, and a blotter made from the dried sponge she had last seen in quantity, wet, in the fish market of Belisaere.
She pushed one of the high-backed chairs aside and bent down to cut a pen. Inking it, she held it above the paper, while Mogget watched from a safe distance on the other side of the table.
“Oh no, you’ve got ink on your hand,” he said, though she didn’t, or at least didn’t yet. “Best ask your sending for a wet cloth. Actually a wet cloth and a dry one, and perhaps a small bottle of spirits of hartshorn; that ink is very difficult to shift.”
Clariel spilled some ink on her hand, turned to the sending, and repeated Mogget’s request. The sending bowed, and drifted out of the room. As soon as it was gone, Mogget leaped over to Clariel and began to whisper, his whiskers quivering because he was talking so fast.
“That’ll only get us a few minutes. The ordinary ones aren’t very smart, but if it runs into one of the superior sendings it’ll be here in an instant. Do you still want to escape from the house?”
“Yes,” said Clariel. “But that’s not all.”
“What else?” asked Mogget.
“I want to know where the silver bottle Tyriel brought has been taken.”
“Ah-ha!” cried Mogget. “I knew it. I smelt it on you, the lovely tang of Free Magic, and not just because you’re a berserk. Things come together, paths converge—”
“What do you mean?”
“When you held the creature, as Bel says you did, did it tell you its name?” asked Mogget.
“Yes,” said Clariel. “Aziminil.”
Mogget’s eyes widened and his mouth curled up in a smile. He got up and circled around three times, tail almost whisking across Clariel’s face.
“Aziminil, Ziminil, Zimminy-Az,” he said. “Caught in Belisaere, you say. And now Az is here, and not completely put away, and so are you, and you’re a berserk and you want to get out when bridge, boat, and paperwing are barred against you.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Clariel. “Quickly!”
Mogget stopped his circling.
“What I mean is that while there are more ways to leave this house than you might think, there is only one way for you to leave this house that offers a reasonable chance of success, not to mention survival,” he said. “It requires the . . . assistance . . . of a Free Magic creature. But how to do this? Charter Mages can only bind such creatures, they cannot make use of them. But you are a berserk, the Free Magic is strong inside you. Tell me, did Aziminil submit to you when you first met?”
“Something like that,” said Clariel. “She—”
“She?” asked Mogget. “Clever Aziminil. Go on.”
“She tried to enter my mind . . . to bend me to her will. But I went into her mind, and forced her to obey me. Then Kargrin speared her and she would have been trapped, so I . . . I let her go.”
“You let her go,” chuckled Mogget. “Let her go. Ah, there is more than mischief to be gained here. Were you in the rage when she surrendered herself to you?”
“Yes,” said Clariel. “How can Aziminil help me escape? Where is she?”
“She is down below, where the Abhorsens take their captives and hold them close. She ought to be sunk deeper still, but the sendings only take the prisoners so far. Tyriel should have finished the job, put the bottle out with the rest, but he’s shirked it, as so much else.”
“How do I use Aziminil to escape?” asked Clariel. “And how can I make sure she doesn’t kill me, or . . . do whatever Free Magic creatures do to people?”
“Summon the rage, bend her to your will,” said Mogget. “As for your escape, if Aziminil is strong enough she can become a vessel to take you out through the waterfall.”
“Out through the waterfall?” asked Clariel.
“Yes, indeed,” said Mogget. “Az will know how, but it will be a question of strength, for the waterfall is mighty indeed. Aziminil alone may not suffice, you could need more than one of the prisoners to take you through. But one or two or three, you can command them. You have the power within you, fueled by your rage.”
“Only for a short time,” said Clariel. “What happens afterward, when I am weak?”
“Have them swear when you first hold them in your sway,” said Mogget, his eyes alight, his claws out. “You can fix them then, make them serve you no matter whether you are weak or not, awake or not, unconscious . . .”
“There is no way they can turn against me?” asked Clariel.
“Any bond will weaken over time,” said Mogget. “But it can be made anew.”
“I have always heard it said that Free Magic creatures are inimical to life,” said Clariel. She was excited by the prospect of freedom, but cautious too. “What exactly does that mean?”
Mogget did not answer immediately, choosing instead to lick one of his paws with intense interest.
“Mogget! What does it mean, that Free Magic creatures are inimical to life?”
“Bah! An exaggeration,” said Mogget. He hesitated for a moment, twisting his neck as if his collar had caught on something, before adding more quietly, “I suppose it is true that their substance, the manifestation of their flesh, is corrosive to living things. But it can be contained, avoided, taken care of in numerous ways. Why, the Abhorsens use a kind of Free Magic all the time, in their bells and spells in Death. They used to use it more freely still. You would be no different.”
Clariel nodded. She’d been wondering how Kilp and Aronzo had survived if Aziminil really was so dangerous. They hadn’t even bound her to their service, she had just agreed to serve them. That didn’t sound like a creature “inimical” to all life.
Against that, though, she had to balance the fact that her mother had died fighting against the very idea of working with a Free Magic creature. Jaciel had even slain one before who had assumed the shape of her brother. But then, Clariel thought, Jaciel was not like other people. She never compromised, she would not depart from her chosen path, no mat
ter what. Perhaps if she had talked to Kilp, taken the more sensible approach, then she would still be alive, and Harven, and Clariel would be on her way to Estwael . . .
Clariel shook her head. There was no point in thinking over might-have-beens. She had to work out what to do now, deal with the situation as it was.
“If a Free Magic creature’s touch is corrosive, how can Aziminil take me through the waterfall?”
“The swift water will lessen the effect,” said Mogget.
“Lessen?” asked Clariel. “That doesn’t sound very good. Is there anything else I can do? I remember Kargrin said something about the Abhorsens having special robes . . .”
Again, Mogget was slow to answer. It looked to Clariel as if he was struggling with a desire not to answer at all, or perhaps to lie. Even though he was a cat, she’d seen merchants behave similarly, shifting where they looked, hunching their shoulders, even nervously clawing at their collars, as Mogget was doing . . .
“There are garments, robes, masks, and suchlike that provide protection for a time,” said Mogget. “For when the Abhorsens used to deal more closely with their prisoners. There should be some such stuff below.”
“Should be?” asked Clariel. “I’m not risking a ‘should be.’ And what does ‘for a time’ mean?”
“They are there,” said Mogget grumpily. “Old, but serviceable. I presume you would not be able to renew the marks within them?”
“No,” said Clariel shortly.
“Then once put in use, they will fail at the next full moon.”
“Which is in about five days, I think,” said Clariel, counting on her fingers. There had been a half moon when she slept in the forest, the night before last. “Not long. If Aziminil can take me through a waterfall, can she also move me swiftly? To fly like a paperwing or become some sort of mount? I need to be in Belisaere as soon as I can. I have to rescue my aunt. And kill Kilp and Aronzo.”
“Free Magic can shape itself to almost any need,” said Mogget. “Swift travel, unseen passage, impenetrable armor, unbreakable weapons . . . it will all be at your command. You simply will whatever is needful.”
Clariel thought of that, for a moment. Sorcery that did not need laboriously memorized Charter marks, learned over years, or the disorienting plunge into the Charter . . . simply to will something, to use raw power. It was a heady temptation. But she must be careful . . .
“What if I need to imprison Aziminil again,” said Clariel. “I can’t do it wth Charter Magic, I do not have the skill or knowledge. Could I force her into a bottle and secure it just by the force of my will?”
“You could,” said Mogget. “As I said, I can tell you have the strength. You remind me of some of the earlier Abhorsens, who had much to do with Free Magic entities.”
“You remind me of one of mother’s apprentices,” said Clariel. “All flattery and guile. You said you would help me for love of mischief, and maybe more . . . and I see you think it is more. What do you hope to gain?”
“Freedom,” whispered Mogget. “Freedom from my enslavement.”
“You mean you want me to take your collar off?”
“Only the Abhorsen can remove my collar,” said Mogget. “And the Abhorsen has the means to put it back on again. I need some greater manumission.”
“So how will you helping me forward your ambition?”
“A small stone cast from a hilltop may dislodge larger stones,” said Mogget with a sly glance. “And the larger stones may move great . . . stones . . . and then the whole hillside might come tumbling down.”
“What does that mean?” asked Clariel.
“That things change, and an opportunity might present itself that otherwise would not,” said Mogget, his tail twisting around almost as much as his words.
“And what would you do with your freedom?” asked Clariel.
“Who can say?” replied Mogget evasively. “But I would no longer be a prisoner, no longer a slave. I think you understand that, do you not?”
“Perhaps,” said Clariel. “But I am not sure I should think of you as I would a person enslaved.”
“Why not?” asked the affronted cat. “Am I a piece of furniture? A block of wood?”
“I do need your help,” said Clariel. “But I won’t do anything actively to release you. There must be a reason you are bound to serve the Abhorsens.”
“Reasons can always be found to bind a slave,” said Mogget sulkily. He turned away to plonk down in the middle of the table, addressing Clariel over his shoulder. “You have found some for yourself, after all.”
“I suppose I have,” whispered Clariel. She was thinking about that, and what she might do with Aziminil after she had freed Aunt Lemmin and set matters to rights. The creature had been in Belisaere for months without killing people and causing trouble, surely there would be some way to set her free, somewhere she could exist without being hunted by Charter Mages and at the same time, offer no threat to ordinary people?
“Where is—” Clariel started to ask Mogget, but she stopped as the cowled sending stepped off the top of the stair and slid over to her side, offering several clothes, a dish of water, and a small bottle of hartshorn.
Clariel scrubbed slowly at her hands and wondered how she could distract the sending again. But as she scrubbed, Mogget got up and came over to her, and surprisingly jumped into her lap. She flinched, but he felt just like any normal cat, even to the extent of him shifting around to get comfortable, not bothering that his claws were doing the precise opposite to Clariel.
When he was settled, Mogget leaned forward and dipped one extended claw in the inkwell. Then he wrote on the paper, in very small, perfectly formed letters.
You must act soon in case Tyriel does recall his duty and put Aziminil under the waterfall. Tonight is best, at midnight. I will distract sendings first and meet you in kitchen store, we go down from there.
Clariel read over his shoulder as the cat wrote. He hesitated at the end, and she felt him wriggle, as if struggling with something. The marks on his collar grew brighter, some spell there coming to the fore. Mogget hissed, and then wrote again, the marks growing brighter still as he did so:
Garments not whole protection. You must remember to order Aziminil not to touch you and—
With that last word, Mogget yowled and sprang out of Clariel’s lap as if he had been singed on the tail. Rampaging across the table, he overset the ink. A great tide of it spread across the paper, blacking out his words. Trailing inky paw-prints, he leaped from the table and shot down the stairs.
Clariel watched the cat go, over the back of the sending who had bent to mop up the spilled ink. She almost got up, but stayed where she was and thought for a moment. It was always advisable when going into the wilds to let someone know your intentions, the path you planned to take . . .
She took up a piece of paper that was only marbled at the edges with ink, cut a new quill, and used the last of the ink in the well to write a short note to Bel. If things went wrong, then he would know what she had done, and why, and perhaps might be able to do something about it.
Bel,
I am going to release the Free Magic creature we fought on the Islet and with its help escape from here and go to Belisaere. There I hope to rescue my Aunt Lemmin. If the creature proves powerful enough, I will use it to slay Kilp and Aronzo and end their rebellion. They are guilty of murder and treason, and deserve no better.
I almost bound the creature before on the Islet, and I think am sure I can do so again. Its name is Aziminil. Mogget says there are special robes I can wear to avoid the corruption of flesh or whatever it is such creatures do. I don’t suppose my actions will spur my grandfather into doing anything, but if I should fail, I call on you to do what you can for my Aunt Lemmin and also to ensure justice is done.
I am sorry I was cross with you today, you don’t deserve it.
Your friend
She signed it simply with her name, absently almost added an “X” for a kiss but didn�
�t, folded it twice, wrote “Bel” on the outside, and put it in the middle of the desk.
“Leave this here, but tell Belatiel about it tomorrow,” she said. The sending paused in its ink-cleaning duties to bow, indicating it understood.
“Not when he arrives, when he is about to leave,” Clariel added cautiously. Even a few hours might make a difference, and doubtless it would be better not to leave a note at all.
But she felt two conflicting emotions battling inside her. One was all excitement, bursting to get going, to finally do something, to act of her own volition, rather than being forced into doing what her parents wanted, and then being a prisoner of Kilp, and now effectively a prisoner of Tyriel. But against that excited, pent-up feeling there was a much quieter, more sober voice that warned that she might be doing something stupid. That it was not always better to do something than nothing. Hunting sometimes required stillness and waiting.
But this small voice was no match for the excitement Clariel felt rising inside her. She had read The Fury Within. She knew how to raise the berserk anger that would fuel her domination of Aziminil. She knew where the free Magic creature was, and that it could not only help her escape, but speed her to Belisaere.
Finally she would be a hunter again, rather than the hunted.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
Chapter Twenty-Seven
INTO THE WATERFALL
After dinner, which she ate in the hall alone, save for numerous sendings, Clariel went to the armory. The sending there once again offered her armor and weapons; this time she accepted them, taking the shirt of gethre plates, which fit quite well over the jerkin she had been given at Hillfair, though it was shorter, hanging only an inch below her hips; and also a short, broad-bladed sword similar to her old falchion.
