by Angie Sage
The art of Feeling that someone you love is near (and it only works if you really do love them) is easy to learn with a good teacher, and Marcia had been taught by one of the best—Alther Mella. But it was what he had called a Fugitive Art, which meant that the more you thought about it, the less certain you were. So as soon as Marcia realized she Felt that Septimus was close by, she no longer Felt it. And then she began to wonder if she ever had.
“Don’t be silly, Marcia,” she muttered. “You Felt it. You know you did.”
Marcia decided to check out the other two arches even though she knew that they were both bricked up. She shone her FlashLight across the central arch and gave it a tentative shove, remembering something she had once read about Alchemists’ Mortar. It was solid and—eurgh—still greasily sooty. Marcia wiped her hand on her handkerchief and moved on to the right-hand arch, shining her FlashLight into the darkness.
To her shock, Marcia saw that there was a gaping hole in the brickwork below the archway. She felt a huge feeling of relief—so this was where they were. Marcellus had opened up an old tunnel and presumably they had got lost. She hurried into the opening and suddenly the ground disappeared below her right pointy python. Marcia toppled forward. A cold gust of air came up to meet her as she teetered, arms flailing, on the brink. She grabbed hold of the wall beside her but it gave way, sending bricks hurtling down into the dark. Some seconds later she heard the clang as they hit something far below.
Panic shot through Marcia. She knew that she was balanced on the edge of a precipice.
17
FALLING
A sudden boom woke Septimus from an uncomfortable doze. He jumped up.
Marcellus groaned. “What was what?”
“Something landed on the roof!”
“You were dreaming, Apprentice,” said Marcellus.
“No. No, I’m sure I heard—”
Booooooomboomboombooooooom!
Suddenly the chamber reverberated to a hail of objects slamming onto its roof, ending with a huge whuuump of something heavy and soft, which sent shudders through to their feet. Marcellus and Septimus felt the chamber tilt, and then the brief but sickening sensation of free fall.
What Marcellus and Septimus did not know was the moving chamber had become lodged just above the top of the exit door where, over the centuries, a fat helictite had formed so that it obstructed its path. The falling objects had provided enough force for the chamber to snap the helictite and continue on its way. Fast.
Luckily it was only a ten-foot drop.
There was a bone-jarring crump. Marcellus and Septimus picked themselves up from the floor. They looked at each other in the darkness but saw nothing but the total absence of light that had oppressed them for almost fifteen hours.
“It’s not tilting anymore,” said Septimus. “That must be a good sign.”
“Let us hope so,” muttered Marcellus.
“I’m going to try again and see if the door will open,” said Septimus.
“It won’t,” Marcellus said flatly. “There’s no orange arrow. That means no power.”
“We may as well try,” said Septimus. “Unless there’s anything else exciting you had in mind?”
“There is no need to get tetchy, Apprentice.”
“I am not tetchy.”
“No. Of course not. Well, you take one side and I’ll take the other.”
They had already done this countless times before the chamber fell for the second time—desperately pressing their palms over the cold, smooth surface of the chamber with absolutely no response—but now they began again. Septimus took one side of the chamber and Marcellus the other. Suddenly the darkness took on a faint orange hue. Marcellus gasped.
“The arrow—it flickered! Quick, quick, Apprentice. The door’s on your side. We may have a chance. Press it now! Now!”
The problem was that without being able to see the telltale worn patch—the dim orange glow did not give out much light—Septimus could not know whether his hand was in the right place or not. Marcellus joined him and frantically they pushed their palms onto the glasslike surface in increasingly wildly improbable places, desperately seeking the spot that might—just might if they were lucky—open the door. And all the time the orange arrow flickered, reminding Septimus of the distress lights on the Wizard Tower.
“It’s going! It’s fading!” Marcellus sounded desperate as his hands slapped frantically against the wall.
Septimus knew they were never going to find the right spot by panicking. “Stop,” he said. “I want to find it a different way.”
“I told you, Apprentice, Magyk does not work in here.”
“But my mind still works,” said Septimus. “Marcellus, please. Stop and be quiet a moment. Let me . . . let me Find it.”
The orange arrow was fading away and Marcellus knew they were getting nowhere. He let his hands drop to his sides. “Very well, Apprentice. Over to you.”
Septimus closed his eyes. It made no difference as to what he could see, but it sent him back inside his head—deep into another place. He held out his right hand and remembered how he had once opened a similar door far below the Isles of Syren. He remembered how the smooth, cold material of the chamber had felt beneath his hand; he imagined that he was there now, in its bright blue light, and he allowed his hand to guide itself where it wanted to go. Then he pressed his palm down hard, throwing all his weight behind it. He heard a soft swish and Marcellus’s gasp.
“It’s open! Apprentice, you’ve done it. You’ve done it!” Terrified that the door would suddenly close, Marcellus pulled Septimus out of the chamber. As soon as they were safely across the threshold, Marcellus sat down very fast and put his head between his knees.
Septimus collapsed, giddy with relief, on a wobbly metal platform that felt dizzyingly high up. But for once he didn’t care how high he was—he was free. He was not going to finish his life trapped in a box hundreds of feet below the ground. Slowly, he began to take in his surroundings. He could feel a vast arena all around him; it was hot, and suffused with a deep red glow that shone up from below. His overwhelming impression was of a heavy sense of stillness where a quiet and purposeful process was slowly unfolding.
Septimus walked carefully along what felt like a very rickety platform to a line of Fyre Globes placed below a guardrail, and gingerly looked over. His head swam. Far, far below, a huge red circle stared up at him, as bright and intense as a sun. Across the top of the red ran tiny, vibrant flames of blue, licking and jumping up into the air. Septimus felt overawed. So this was the real Fyre. He looked away and saw a perfect green afterimage in front of his eyes. It was then Septimus realized that he was standing on a perforated metal platform as flimsy as a sieve. The bones in his legs felt as if they had turned to water and he retreated back to Marcellus.
“Wow,” he said. “That is so . . . beautiful.”
“It is,” agreed Marcellus.
“And Magykal. So alive and delicate . . .” Septimus was lost for words.
Marcellus smiled. “You understand,” he said. “I thought you would, even though most Wizards don’t understand the Magyk of Fyre.”
Septimus was overwhelmed. “I wish you had shown me before.”
Marcellus was silent for a while. “I should have done. So I cannot tempt you to change your mind and become my Apprentice. Forever?”
Septimus so much wanted to say yes. And yet, the thought of what he would have to give up was too much. “I . . . I really want to.”
“Wonderful!”
“But . . .”
“Ah, a ‘but.’” Marcellus smiled ruefully. “I thought there might be.”
“But I can’t. I have promised Marcia.”
“Oh, well,” Marcellus said sadly.
“But . . .”
“Yes?”
“Will you let me come back here sometimes?” Septimus asked.
“Of course, Apprentice. I want no more secrets—not after next month, anyway. Both you and
Marcia will be here when I DeNature the Two-Faced Ring.” Marcellus began to get to his feet, then he swayed and sat back down. He looked very pale.
“Are you all right?” Septimus asked, sitting down beside him.
“I will be in a minute. I just need . . . a little fresh air.”
“Not much of that down here.”
“No . . . but more than in that . . . coffin.”
Septimus shuddered. That had been his thought too. “I wonder what fell on it?”
“Bricks. Sounded like bricks,” said Marcellus.
“But why? Something must have made them fall.”
“Probably Marcia looking for you. It’s late.” Marcellus looked at his timepiece. “One hour past midnight.”
Septimus looked at Marcellus aghast. “Yes. Of course she would look for me. I was due back for the Wizard Warming Supper.”
“Don’t look so concerned, Apprentice. It’s good that she came, surely? Without her we’d still be stuck.”
Septimus now matched Marcellus’s pallor. “Oh, Marcellus. Supposing . . . supposing what you said is really true. Literally true.”
“Huh?”
“That without Marcia we would still be stuck.” Septimus put his head in his hands, trying to get the sound of the last thing that fell onto the chamber’s roof out of his head: heavy, yet soft.
Marcellus’s thoughts were on a different track. “Of course I would prefer that Marcia did not know about the moving chamber, Apprentice, but given the circumstances I—”
“Marcellus—the last thing that fell onto the roof . . . it wasn’t a brick, was it?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Well, it wasn’t a brick. It was heavy. But . . . kind of soft.”
“Soft?”
“Yes. Soft. And up there at the top, you couldn’t see the drop, could you? You wouldn’t be expecting it, would you? It would just be dark. You’d probably think it was a tunnel. In fact, you’d probably think that was where we had gone . . . got lost maybe. So you’d step in and there would be nothing there. You’d grab hold of the bricks, they’d fall away in your hand and then . . . and then . . .”
Marcellus suddenly got it. “Oh, great Alchemie! No!”
Septimus felt sick. He had hoped Marcellus would have an explanation. “So you think so too?”
“I can’t think of anything else,” said Marcellus, clutching his head with a groan.
They sat in silence. “We have to get back to the Alchemie Quay,” said Septimus after a while. “We have to see what’s happened.”
“If something has happened, then we won’t see anything,” said Marcellus. “It’s a long climb, Apprentice. I suggest we get going. Follow me.” He went to get up, but Septimus stopped him.
“Marcellus, I am going to do a Transport to the Alchemie Quay. I have to know what’s happened—now.”
“A Transport. Yes, of course. I will follow you by more normal methods.”
Marcellus watched Septimus begin his Transport. He saw his Apprentice close his eyes, and watched a strange shimmering purplish light begin to run across him. Marcellus shivered. This was serious Magyk. The thought of moving a human being from one place to another—blood and bone through brick and stone—made Marcellus feel very odd. He was in the presence of something he did not understand. It was right, he thought, that Septimus returned to Marcia as her Apprentice; there was more Magyk to him than he had ever realized. At the thought of Marcia, Marcellus remembered the soft yet heavy thud of something falling and a stab of dread shot through him.
If Marcia was there to return to.
18
TRANSPORTS
Septimus arrived in the middle of Alchemie Quay. As the blanketed feeling of the Transport wore off he was relieved to find he had judged it perfectly. Transports into confined spaces were difficult and dangerous; Septimus was not officially allowed to do them. But—unlike much Magyk, which required a clear head—a Transport was made more accurate by distress. And right then Septimus had that by the bucketful.
He stood still, allowing the last vestiges of Magyk to drift away. Septimus did not want to move. He wanted to stay right where he was and never, ever have to walk over to the right-hand arch and peer down into the depths. But he knew he must do it. He had to know what had happened.
Feeling as if he were wearing lead boots, Septimus walked slowly across the Quay to the right-hand archway. A terrifying feeling of vertigo came over him as he approached the black hole in the middle of the bricks—unlike Marcia, thought Septimus, he knew about the huge drop that lurked behind them.
Septimus inspected the jagged hole in the bricks. There was a large bite out of the bricks at about shoulder height, exactly at the place where he would have expected Marcia to grab hold of them. Very, very carefully, Septimus leaned forward.
“Marcia . . .” he called down into the darkness, tentatively. The sound fell into the blackness and died. “Marcia!” Septimus called more loudly. And then, “Marcia, Marcia, can you hear me?”
There was no response, just a heady sense of the emptiness below his feet. Septimus stepped back from the drop and leaned against the wall to steady himself. Of course there was no reply, he told himself; how could there be? Maybe, he thought, Marcia hasn’t been here at all. Maybe the mortar had suddenly given way and the bricks had fallen on their own. Maybe . . .
It was then that Septimus saw something he really did not want to see: a small jade button lying on the ground beside the Fyre Globe. He bent down to pick it up and cradled it in his hand. He knew what it was—a button from Marcia’s shoes. She had been complaining that Terry Tarsal had not sewn them on properly. A wave of despair washed over him. Recklessly, Septimus leaned into the darkness of the shaft.
“Marcia!” he yelled. “Mar . . . seeee . . . aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” As the sound died away, Septimus stumbled out from the archway and heard a very faint something that made him think his mind was playing cruel tricks.
“Septimus . . .”
He stopped. A shiver ran down his spine. It was Marcia’s voice. It was her ghost calling to him. Septimus stared at the gaping hole in the brickwork, half expecting to see Marcia’s ghost float out of it.
“Septimus . . .” There it was again. Behind him.
Septimus spun around. Nothing. The Quay was empty. Slowly, silently, he walked out of the arch, listening hard.
Tippy-tap, tippy-tap, tippy-tap-tap . . .
The lapis lazuli of the Labyrinth lit up, glowing a brilliant blue with its streaks of gold glistening. A figure in purple hurried out—and screamed.
“Septimus! Oh, Septimus!” Marcia hurled herself toward Septimus and enveloped him in her cloak. “You’re alive. I thought . . . I thought you were dead. I thought you’d fallen . . .”
“Me too,” said Septimus, holding on to Marcia. “Me too.”
Marcellus awoke, aching all over. He lay in his bed staring at the winter sunlight that shone through the window and he felt an odd feeling of happiness. He was not sure why. And then he remembered. The carpetbag—his soft carpetbag heavy with a crowbar and a lump hammer. It was the carpetbag that had fallen onto the roof of the moving chamber. Marcellus sank back into his pillow with a sigh of happiness. He remembered his long, slow, dismal climb through the tiny shafts that led up to Alchemie Quay. He remembered how as he had gotten nearer he had been convinced that Marcia had fallen to her death; and then he had been overcome with worry that Septimus, too, might have fallen while looking for her. By the time he had emerged onto the Quay, Marcellus was very nearly in a state of collapse. And at the sight of Marcia sitting on the edge of the Quay with her arm around Septimus, he had felt happier than he had could ever remember—which was odd, considering how annoying Marcia was. But it had been wonderful when Marcia had grabbed his hands and told him in response to all his questions that yes, it was her. Yes, she was real.
“Well, well, well,” muttered Marcellus, smiling to himself. He reached out for his timepiece on his bedside table and s
quinted at it. Nine o’clock. He had three more hours in bed before he was due to see his new Apprentice. The old Alchemist closed his eyes and soon the sound of snoring filled the room.
In the house on the other side of Snake Slipway, Lucy was excited. She had just found a note that had been pushed under the front door. She rushed into the kitchen. “Si, Si! Look, it’s from Marcellus.”
At the kitchen table, over a pot of coffee, Simon read out the note to Lucy.
“‘Dear Simon, my sincere apologies for breaking our appointment last night. I regret to say that I was detained by circumstances beyond my control and could not get a message to you. However, all is now resolved. Would it be convenient for you to renew our appointment for midday today?’”
“Yaay!” yelled Lucy, jumping up and punching the air. “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I say it would be all right?”
Simon grinned. “Yes, Lu, you did. You said it quite a lot, I seem to remember.”
At the Wizard Tower, Septimus slept on.
Up in the Pyramid Library, Marcia was very happy indeed. She had her Apprentice back and now things could get back to normal. Marcia was preparing the next stage in Septimus’s DeCyphering course—the practical. For all Apprentices, this meant having a go at the hieroglyphs inscribed into the flat silver top of the golden Pyramid that crowned the Wizard Tower. It was generally agreed that they were indecipherable—or as Marcia preferred to call them, gobbledygook. But it was a tradition and she supposed they should stick with it.
In front of Marcia was the old rubbing that a long-ago ExtraOrdinary Wizard had made of the hieroglyphs. It wasn’t, thought Marcia, very clear. No wonder no one had figured out what they meant. She remembered ruefully a comment she had made to Septimus about “going back to original sources” and she had a nasty feeling that was what he might do. He would take himself to the very top of the Pyramid and sit there, working it out. Or, at the very least, go up there to do his own rubbing. A shiver went right through Marcia—she had had enough nightmares about Septimus falling to last her a lifetime. Marcia came to a decision. She scribbled a note for Septimus in case he woke before she returned, then she was off—tippy-tapping down the stone stairs, pinning the note on Septimus’s door, then back up to the Library to pick up an envelope she’d forgotten, down the steps again, rapidly past the ghost of Jillie Djinn and out of her rooms.
