Fyre

by Angie Sage

  “Smugglers’ Bolt?” asked Jenna. “What’s that?”

  “I thought you knew, since it’s your Palace,” said Jim Knee. “It’s a tunnel to the Castle.”

  “All the way to the Castle? All the way from here?”

  “Indeed. A foul and fetid way, used only by those desperate to escape the law of the Port.”

  “Or the Castle,” said Septimus.

  “Quite so, Master.”

  “But how do you know?” Jenna asked Jim Knee.

  Jim Knee was silent. Like all jinn, he was uncomfortable speaking about previous lives.

  “Answer the question, Jim Knee,” his Master told him a trifle impatiently. “How do you know?”

  “I’ve been here before,” Jim Knee said. “I was once the Royal cook.”

  “So you’ve been down the tunnel?”

  “Er, no.” A terrifying memory flashed through Jim Knee’s mind: a midnight raid. Screams. Pistols firing. Axes hacking at the doors. And—as poor, unloved Tallula Crum—watching everyone escape down the tiny steps, knowing that there was no way she would ever be able to fit. Knowing that this was the end of another life.

  “Then how do you know for sure that it goes to the Castle?” asked Jenna.

  “I know it does. It was used a lot when I was cook. Precious things were taken through it for safety. The Port was wild in those days.”

  “No change there, then,” muttered Nicko.

  They all stared at the door, longing to open it and see what lay beyond, and yet not daring. “I think we should check to see if they’re really gone,” said Jenna.

  “They won’t hang around here,” Septimus pointed out. “Not now they know you know the Committal.”

  “But I want to see for myself,” said Jenna.

  Nicko put his hand on his knife, which he always kept in a sheath hanging from his belt when he was in the Port. “Yeah,” he said. “If we’re going to stay here tonight, we have to check. We don’t want them sneaking up on us when we’re asleep.”

  “But I Ejected them,” said Septimus, a little peeved that his Magyk was not being taken seriously. “They can’t come back.”

  “They’re Darke Wizards, Sep,” said Nicko. “They can do what they like.”

  “Nik’s right,” said Simon. “We should put an Anti-Darke on the door at the very least. In fact, I would suggest a Lock and Bar as well.”

  “I wasn’t going to leave the door unguarded,” said Septimus irritably. “That would be stupid. But I need to think carefully about what to do.”

  “We all need to think,” said Simon, annoyed at not having his expertise considered.

  Jenna was tired of all the discussion. It was her Palace and she wanted to know everything about it. So while the boys were bickering, she pulled open the little door to Smugglers’ Bolt.

  “Jen!” A chorus of protest greeted her action.

  Jenna took no notice. She peered into the dark. A waft of stale, unpleasant air blew into her face. She picked up a nearby candle and pushed it into the darkness beyond the open door. In its light Jenna could see some tiny steps, no more than a foot wide, disappearing downward between two tapering walls of chiseled stone. It was the narrowest tunnel she had ever seen.

  The boys were all looking over Jenna’s shoulder now. Even Nicko—who loathed confined spaces—wanted to see. To everyone’s relief the tunnel was deserted.

  “They’ve gone,” whispered Jenna. And then she realized where they had gone. “Back to the Castle.” Quietly, Jenna closed the little door. She had heard that sound could travel a long way through a tunnel. She put her finger to her lips and beckoned everyone away to the fire, where she took up her position in front of the huge stone lintel and said, “We have some plans to make. Fast.”

  Simon, Septimus and Nicko nodded.

  “We can’t let them loose in the Castle—we absolutely can’t. So that means I have to do the Committal before they get out,” said Jenna. “And to do that I have to be ready and waiting for them at the exit from Smugglers’ Bolt.”

  “Jim Knee, how long does it take to go through Smugglers’ Bolt to the Castle?” asked Septimus.

  “It used to take about nine hours,” replied Jim Knee. “It was not a pleasant trip, I was told. But who knows the state it is in now? It could take even longer.”

  “Where does it come out?” asked Jenna.

  “Number Sixty-Seven Wizard Way—in the backyard. Of course it was a secret but my little scullion-boy’s mother used to live at Number Sixty-Seven and he told me. He was a brave lad. On his day off he’d run all the way home through that tunnel and be back first thing the next morning. Without fail.”

  “Where is Number Sixty-Seven?” asked Simon—the numbering system in Wizard Way bore little or no relation to where the building was sited.

  Septimus sighed. “It’s Larry’s place,” he said. “Larry’s Dead Languages. Great.”

  Jenna had been thinking. “So . . . I need to be there in nine hours’ time. Unless Darke Wizards travel faster?”

  “They are constrained by the bodies they InHabit,” said Septimus. “Until they can get their own form back—which they can’t until they win the battle with the person they are InHabiting. And so far Edmund and Ernold are still hanging on in there. So far . . .”

  The full horror of what had happened to her uncles began to dawn on Jenna. “Oh, that is so horrible,” she whispered. “Poor, poor Uncle Ernold and Uncle Edmund.”

  “Yes,” said Septimus. “There’s a book I had to read before my Darke Week, called InHabitees Remember. There aren’t many that do remember, of course, but a few have been rescued before they were completely Consumed. It’s unbelievably awful. There’s an entity inside your head, controlling your body, pushing you to exhaustion, trying to get you to give up, to allow them to take you over. And you can’t rest, not even for a second . . .”

  “I can’t bear to think about it,” murmured Jenna.

  “But our uncles are tough old birds,” said Simon. “I think we can be sure that the time the you-know-who take to travel the Bolt will still be limited by the state that Eddie and Ern are in.”

  “You mean they won’t die on the way back?”

  Simon looked uneasy. “Um, yes. So I think nine hours minimum to the Castle is right.”

  Nicko looked worried. “We ought to get going,” he said. “The tide’s against us now, though with any luck the wind is still in our favor. It will be a bit bumpy but I reckon if we leave now we’ll get to the Castle in about five hours.”

  “But the Port Barge went ages ago,” said Jenna.

  “I’ve got Jannit’s supply boat, Jen,” said Nicko. “That’s how I got here.”

  “Oh! Yes, of course. Okay, we’d better go.”

  “You’ve forgotten something,” said Simon.

  “What?”

  “You’re assuming that the you-know-whos are going to keep going to the Castle. But there is nothing to stop them turning around. In fact, maybe they aren’t heading for the Castle at all.”

  “Once Merrin is there, they will,” said Septimus.

  “Even so, we need to make totally sure that that is where they go, now. And for all we know there may be branches off the tunnel. Are there, Jim Knee?”

  Jim Knee shrugged. “I don’t know. No one ever told me there were. But then no one ever told me anything, as I recall.” Jim Knee didn’t like to remember how lonely he’d been as Tallula Crum. His only friends then had been the homesick little scullion-boy and the sweet pies he used to make at night for comfort. Now that Jim Knee thought about it, he could see that there had probably been something not right about Tallula Crum; she had, he suspected, been a little slow in the head. But when he had actually been Tallula Crum he hadn’t understood that. He had just felt puzzled and unhappy. All the time. Jim Knee sighed. Life was much better now.

  Unfortunately for Jim Knee that was about to change.

  “There must be other entrances in the Port,” said Nicko. “I can’
t imagine all the smugglers politely lining up outside the Port Palace to get into the Bolt, can you?”

  “You’re right,” said Septimus. “Jim Knee will have to go after them. Quickly.”

  “What?” said Jim Knee, hoping he hadn’t heard right.

  “Well, it’s too dangerous for anyone else to go.”

  “It is too dangerous for me too, Master,” said Jim Knee.

  “As Jim Knee, yes. But not as a scorpion.”

  Jim Knee was horrified. “A scorpion?”

  “A scorpion can survive almost any conditions. They are particularly good in dark tunnels and superb at traveling over bumpy terrain. And with its pincers a scorpion will be perfect for herding two Darke Wizards.”

  “They are also particularly small, Master. It will take a scorpion many weeks to scuttle all the way to the Castle. That’s if it doesn’t get stamped on first.”

  “So you will Transform into a large scorpion, Jim Knee. As large as is compatible with scorpion life. Which, if I remember rightly, is about the size that will fit nicely down those steps.”

  Jim Knee stared at his Master. Sometimes he was too clever for his own good. He was certainly too clever for Jim Knee’s good. Jim Knee leaned back against the little door and his yellow hat drooped disconsolately. He thought of the bony exoskeleton, the eight little pointy legs, the clamping pincers, the horrible hairy tail looped up behind him, dangling its sting, and all those segments. Jim Knee shivered. He hated segments.

  “About ten feet long, plus pincers,” said Septimus. “That should give you enough speed to catch up with them.”

  “And what do I do when I catch up with them, Oh Master?”

  “You will herd them toward the Castle end of the tunnel. You will not allow them to turn back. Jenna and I will be waiting there when you arrive.”

  “Very well, Oh Master,” said Jim Knee. “Your wish is my command and all that. Unfortunately.”

  “Yes, it is,” Septimus replied gruffly. He felt bad about Jim Knee. It was tough being a jinnee, he thought. Tough to have all the sensibilities of a human, and yet to be forever at the mercy of another. And it must be especially tough to not even be in control of the form your own body took. But Septimus knew that if he wanted Jim Knee to do his bidding he must not show any weakness. And so, when Jim Knee caught his eye pleadingly, Septimus merely said, “Transform.”

  There was pop of yellow light and a loud clattering. Suddenly a ten-foot-long scorpion stood in Jim Knee’s place, waving its yellow-tipped sting at the end of its tail.

  “Eew!” gasped Jenna. The scorpion turned toward her and gave her a reproachful stare. “Sorry, Jim Knee. Nothing personal.”

  In reply the scorpion opened its pincers and shut them with a sharp snap. It wanted to say that it didn’t get much more personal than this, thank you very much, but its conversational skills were severely limited. It consoled itself with waving its sting angrily at its Master. It could tell from the expression on its Master’s face that he wasn’t too keen on pointy stings.

  Septimus was not at all keen on pointy stings. He moved smartly off and opened the door to Smugglers’ Bolt. “Jim Knee, it’s time to go. Move.”

  Jim Knee’s Master had no idea how difficult it was to obey. The scorpion swayed from side to side in utter confusion. There were so many legs. How did you move eight of them? And they were so complicated—he had, for goodness’ sake, fifty-six knees. Which way did they bend? And—oh, no—some of them swiveled too. What should he do—move the front two first and then the back two? Or first one side and then the other? Or was there some weird combination like one-three-five-seven, then two-four-six-eight? And if there was, how did you number your legs? Did you begin at the front or at the back? Left or right?

  Septimus returned to the scorpion. “Come on, Jim Knee,” he said impatiently. “Get a move on.”

  The scorpion regarded Septimus accusingly. Clearly its Master had given not a moment’s thought to the question of legs.

  “Command him,” said Jenna. “Then he’ll have to.”

  “Jim Knee, I command you to—” He glanced back at the open door to the tunnel and lowered his voice. “Enter Smugglers’ Bolt. Go!”

  The scorpion was thrown into a state of panic: it was commanded; therefore it had to go. It activated its third left leg, the leg shot backward and its pincer feet snagged on the back leg. The back leg, which was more powerful than the others, wiggled to free itself and the scorpion began to wobble. It teetered for a few seconds, its legs splayed out and it landed on its stomach. Its tail drooped and clattered down onto the floor. Ten long feet of glistening black scorpion—plus pincers—was laid out in front of them like a bizarre rug.

  “Rats,” said Septimus.

  “Might be better if he was a rat,” observed Nicko.

  “Rats are notoriously sensitive to the Darke, unlike scorpions, which are impervious,” said Septimus. “Come on, everyone. Help him get up.”

  “Right.” Nicko gulped.

  Jenna kneeled down and pushed her hands under the smooth black carapace. “It’s only Jim Knee,” she said. “If we all just put our arms underneath we can kind of flip him back on his feet.”

  The scorpion’s pectines waved unhappily. It did not like the sound of “flip.”

  Septimus, Simon and Nicko joined Jenna. “One, two, three—flip!”

  The giant insect was surprisingly light. It flew up into the air, legs waving, and landed delicately on its eight little pointy pincer feet. Its tail resumed its curve and the scorpion staggered forward, segments breathing hard, inhaling the damp air that was rolling in from Smugglers’ Bolt.

  Transformations are slower to take over the mind than the body, but now the scorpionness of Jim Knee’s being was seeping into his brain and his legs began to work. He discovered that it was easy—there were just two movements.

  Legs-number-one: forward. Legs-number-two: back. Legs-number-three: forward. Legs-number-four: back.

  And then: legs-number-one: back. Legs-number-two: forward. Legs-number-three: back. Legs-number-four: forward. It was simple: in the first step the middle two legs acted as a pair. In the second step the front two legs and the back two legs acted as two pairs.

  Chanting silently to himself, Two-three-together, two-three-apart, Jim Knee trundled past four tall, blobby things—wondering how they balanced on only two legs—and headed gratefully for the delicious smell of damp and decay that wafted out from the darkness of Smugglers’ Bolt.

  The four blobby things watched him go, seeing the reflection of the candle flame on his shiny pincers and listening to the rattle of pincers on stone as Jim Knee headed slowly downward. (With fifty-six knees, steps required particular attention.) As the scorpion disappeared into the darkness and all became quiet, Nicko closed the door. “I wouldn’t like to hear that coming along the tunnel behind me,” he said.

  Far below in the darkness, Tallula Crum’s final wish had been granted: she was running freely through Smugglers’ Bolt.

  34

  SMUGGLERS’ BOLT

  When a jinnee is Transformed, he or she becomes a strange hybrid. In the very center of the Transformed creature, like the stone within the fruit, its old human self remains, observing and guiding from deep within. But it is the outer creature that it has become that floods the jinnee’s senses. And so, as Jim Knee scuttled along the rough rock floor of the Smugglers’ Bolt, it was scorpion instincts that drove him onward through the dark—which was lucky for Jim Knee, for the Smugglers’ Bolt was a place no human would choose to be.

  The tunnel was utterly devoid of light but the scorpion felt at home; the darkness was where it belonged. It trundled merrily along, its pincers brushing against the narrow walls, its yellow sting arched high above its head gauging the height of the tunnel, telling it all it needed to know. A wonderful feeling of lightness and agility suffused it as it hurried through the tunneled rock, heading out of the Port, following the tunnel downward as it dipped below the Marram Marshes.
/>
  Jim Knee was free—there was no way that his Master could get to him. He could do whatever he chose. Jim Knee’s choices were, however, severely limited. He could not turn around, for Smugglers’ Bolt was much narrower than he was long, and Jim Knee did not relish the thought of spending eternity as a giant scorpion wedged across a tunnel. Neither could he stop moving, because he had discovered that when he did, his legs had a disconcerting desire to tangle and send him crashing to the ground. And going backward with fifty-six knees to think about was not an option. So, Jim Knee could indeed do whatever he chose—provided that what he chose to do was to move forward along Smugglers’ Bolt.

  Smugglers’ Bolt—or the Bolt, as it had been known to generations of smugglers, brigands and footpads—had been hewn from the great plate of rock through which the river carved its way from the Castle to the Port. Some half a mile out from the Port, the Bolt dipped even more steeply down to dive below the Marshes. The air quality fell and the atmosphere became oppressive. It was this section that had once terrified even the most hardened of Bolters—as regular users of the tunnel were known. Here the more fainthearted would turn and run back, often leaving their contraband behind. But not the scorpion—it scurried along, trundling over the rotten old barrels of ill-gotten gains that lay strewn along the rocky floor of the tunnel. Down, down it went through the darkness, and when it reached the muddy water filling the lowest point of the Bolt it did not panic as many a smuggler had done, but plunged into the brackish gloop and waded on, closing its spiracles, tightening its segments to protect its delicate little book lungs and keeping tabs on its middle legs which, Jim Knee had discovered, were the key to smooth running and had a tendency to get tangled if not concentrated on. And so, like a large mechanical toy, the scorpion clattered on its way—two-three-together, two-three-apart, two-three-together, two-three-apart, two-three-together, two-three-apart—rapidly closing in on the two desperate men staggering through the darkness.