The Serpents of Arakesh

by V M Jones

  For my son Bryn, with love.

  Contents

  Prologue

  An autobiography

  A wish and a prayer

  Cameron’s bookmark

  A house of leaves

  A letter

  My secret mission

  Matron strikes back

  Houdini

  Quested Court

  An unexpected visitor

  Q

  Ten finalists

  The Quest Test

  Initiatives

  The final five

  The secret of Karazan

  The quest

  Alt Control Q

  In the forest

  Argos and Ronel

  Under the stars

  Force-back

  Second sight

  The parchment

  Trees of stone

  The hidden chamber

  The balm of healing

  Whispering leaves

  A padded cell

  The Potion of Invisibility

  Blind man’s buff

  An emerald vision

  No escape

  The grey angel

  Epilogue

  The Karazan Quartet

  Buddy

  Juggling With Mandarins

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Appearances — like many things — can be deceptive.

  They looked like a tramp, a bodybuilder, a bank manager and a businesswoman, sitting at a long polished table. There was a whiteboard at one end, and crystal tumblers of iced water and a small bowl of peppermints at each place. Laptop computers chattered over the quieter hum of air conditioning.

  Of the four, Veronica Usherwood looked most at home. An ostrich-skin briefcase was stowed tidily beside her chair. Her hair was immaculately cut, as smooth and glossy as starling feathers. Her flawless skin was enhanced by the merest suggestion of dusky blusher on high cheekbones, and dark lashes framed her cool, pale eyes. She wore an elegantly tailored suit and gave the impression of being composed, elegant and completely in control … if perhaps a little aloof.

  Quentin Quested looked like a tramp who’d wandered into the room by mistake. His baggy corduroy trousers had what looked suspiciously like a gravy stain on one knee, though it was difficult to be sure — they were dark brown and covered in cat hair. His shirt was wrongly buttoned under his shabby waistcoat and his pale, knobbly face wore its usual expression of vague surprise and childlike curiosity. It was hard to imagine he could see very much at all through his smeared spectacles; harder still to believe that inside his bony, freckled head was the most brilliant mind on the planet.

  If you were asked to pick which of the four in the room was one of the wealthiest people in the world, he’d probably be your last choice.

  A safer bet would have been Withers, who, being an accountant, had an air of columns and figures correctly calculated, and healthy bank balances.

  Shaw looked exactly like what he was — a bodyguard, bald as a badger and built like a bull. The smooth dome of his head topped a broad, heavy face, his curiously immobile features at odds with alert, deep-set eyes that flicked constantly round the room, missing nothing.

  A laptop computer rested in front of each person. The computers were networked so that whoever was talking — Withers, as it happened — could share the information on their screen with their colleagues.

  ‘To summarise,’ Withers was saying in his dry, papery voice, ‘we can clearly see the profits from Quest for the Golden Goblet have already outstripped Dungeon Quest.’

  He took a small sip of water from the glass at his elbow, and dabbed his lips with a clean white handkerchief before continuing.

  ‘Moving on, I am sure you will find this graph of the comparative sales of the entire Quest series interesting.’ On every screen but one, a three-dimensional graph appeared, with five lines of different colours zigzagging their way skyward.

  On Quentin Quested’s screen a cloaked figure was climbing a vertical cliff using what appeared to be suckers attached to its hands and feet.

  ‘This is all very well, Withers,’ Veronica Usherwood commented crisply. ‘But it isn’t what we’re here to discuss. I called this meeting to establish whether our new promotional strategy for Quest for the Golden Goblet has been successful.’

  A manicured fingernail rapped a key. There was a brief tussle between conflicting commands and Withers’ graph was replaced by the opening screen of the Quest website.

  Dawn, in a landscape of strange and rugged beauty. Above the distant silhouette of a mountain range twin moons, one silver and one gold, were suspended in a purple sky. Beside them shone a single star. A light mist hung in the air and for a moment it was almost as if a breath of the damp freshness of that morning found its way into the stuffy room, bringing with it the promise of a new day waiting to unfold and a distant universe waiting to be explored.

  There was silence.

  Veronica Usherwood clicked on the twinkling point of light. Instantly it zoomed to the foreground: a full-colour photograph of a computer superimposed on a twinkling starburst. Raising one delicate brow, she ran her eye over the words.

  Buy your copy of Quest for the Golden Goblet NOW and be in to win!

  Your very own state-of-the-art Nautilus computer system …

  The full Collector’s Set of Quest adventure software …

  A once-in-a-lifetime chance to attend a two-day gaming workshop with Quentin Quested — and test-drive his latest top-secret breakthrough in computer-game technology!

  ‘During the month the promotion has been running sales have increased by two-hundred and thirty-three point three, three recurring percent,’ Withers was saying.

  Shaw grunted and stretched. He reached for a peppermint from the bowl beside him, popped it into his mouth, and chewed it with a crunching sound that made Veronica Usherwood wince. ‘If percent mean out of an ’undred, then ’ow can yer ’ave two ’undred an’ wotsit percent?’

  Withers leaned across the table, putting the tips of his fingers together to form a bony tent. ‘I shall enlighten you, Mr Shaw …’

  ‘Oh no you don’t, Withers,’ snapped Ms Usherwood. ‘This meeting was scheduled to end at three thirty, and it’s already twenty-five past. We’ve established that the competition has been successful in terms of sales. But what we haven’t discussed is the other, primary agenda.’

  ‘Yer mean … gettin’ the right kids fer the job?’

  ‘Thank you, Shaw. That is precisely what I mean.’

  A witch-like cackle suddenly issued forth from Quentin Quested’s computer, making everybody jump. Hastily, he pressed a key, giving the others an apologetic smile.

  Ms Usherwood sighed. ‘We’re discussing the competition entries, Q,’ she said patiently.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Q, rubbing his nose. ‘Most interesting, Usherwood.’

  Withers called up a spreadsheet and scrolled rapidly to the bottom. ‘As of two thirty this afternoon,’ he announced, ‘we’ve had a total of twenty-nine-thousand, six-hundred and fifty-four entries. Should you wish, I am able to provide a detailed breakdown by age, geographical location and gender …’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, thank you, Withers. I think we’ve established that Q will have plenty of children to choose from. And remember, we still have almost a month to run. Q, have you made any further progress with the computer programme to select the finalists?’

  Q was keyboarding frantically, his fingers a blur of speed, and appeared not to hear.

  Veronica rolled her eyes and sighed, rose gracefully and reached down for her briefcase. Regretfully, Withers turned off his computer. Shaw pushed back his chair and lumbered to his feet. ‘Still sounds ter me like somethin’ outta
cloud cuckoo-land,’ he muttered. ‘With due respect an’ all, it just don’t seem possible.’

  To everyone’s surprise, Q looked up from his keyboard, hands momentarily suspended in mid-air. His eyes were focused and startlingly bright behind the cloudy lenses, and for a moment Veronica wondered whether he might have been listening all along.

  ‘Oh, no, Shaw,’ Q said softly, with a gentle smile, ‘there’s no cloud cuckoo-land about it. It’ll work, you’ll see.

  ‘It has to.’

  An autobiography

  ‘You may begin. And I’d like to remind you all — especially you, Adam Equinox — that I expect silence during this exercise, and a well-thought-out and legible piece of work.’

  I tipped my chair forward so all four legs were on the ground again. It made a dull thump, and Miss McCracken shot me an irritated look. I ignored it.

  All round me kids were rummaging in their pencil boxes and finding their places in exercise books. At the desk beside mine, Nicole was scribbling busily — it looked as if she’d done half a page already.

  Outside, across the playground, I could see the street. A bus had just drawn up at the bus stop. Eventually a little old lady appeared at the door, holding a walking stick and a whole bunch of shopping bags. As she teetered at the top of the steps I could practically hear her thinking: ‘What now? How do I do this?’

  Painstakingly she moved her cane into her other hand — the hand carrying all the shopping bags. Slowly, like a chameleon reaching out to grab a branch, she stretched her free hand towards the handrail.

  ‘Adam!’

  Miss McCracken was standing in front of my desk, glaring at me. Her arms were folded across her chest and her mouth had that pinched look it gets just before she sends you to the Principal’s office.

  I sighed, opened the desk and dug through looking for my English book. It should be easy to find — I’d done an Amazing Maze on the cover. Yup — there it was. I banged my desk shut. Nicole glanced across with a small frown, flipped over her page and carried on writing.

  From somewhere close by, I heard the stuttering roar of a motorbike starting up and accelerating away. I couldn’t see it, though. Imagine wind in your face; all that speed and power … the freedom to drive away — head off wherever you wanted …

  I checked on Miss McCracken. She was back at her desk, but she was watching me out of the corner of her eye — and I could practically see steam coming out her ears. Reluctantly, I picked up my pen. It had one of those globs of dried ink on the end, so I wiped it on the top corner on the page before I started.

  Right, Adam: let’s do it! First off, I looked up at the whiteboard to remind myself what we were supposed to be writing about.

  My Autobiography, Miss McCracken had written, and underneath: Name, Physical description, Family history, Birthplace, Date of Birth, Parents, Siblings, Early memories, Likes, Dislikes, Hobbies, School friends, Future ambitions.

  At the top of the page I wrote: My Autobiografy. I didn’t underline it the way Miss McCracken had on the board. I went one better and wrote it in this real cool bubble writing. When I’d finished, I tipped back my chair again to admire it. Pretty darn good. I stared down at the blank page, then up at the ceiling, chewing my pen. Risked a quick look over at the road. The bus had long gone. I half expected to see the little old lady creeping along the footpath, but she was gone, too.

  I dragged my thoughts back to the empty page.

  Describing yourself — that’s hard. How about starting with my hair and working my way down? I sighed. My hair — a shaggy, dark thatch I gave up on years ago, when I realised it would never shine like other kids’, no matter how much I brushed it. Eyebrows to match — level and dark, as though they’ve been drawn on with two bold strokes of a wide black pen. Skin that turns goldish in winter, and brown as a nut the moment I go into the sun for more than two minutes. My weird eyes, so pale and clear they look like they don’t belong to me. I thought about my long legs, my strong arms, my broad shoulders and the height that makes most people think I’m a couple of years older than I really am. I pushed my hair off my forehead with the back of my hand, and gave my head a thoughtful scratch.

  Then, painstakingly, I started to write.

  My nam is Adam Equinox. I am twelv yers old. I am cwit big and prity strong. I hav dark brown hare, my skin is kwit brown to. My eyes are gray grey lite blu.

  I read over what I’d written. So far, so good. With a glance up at the board to see what came next, I ploughed on.

  I was born in — I hesitated for a second, looking up at the ceiling again for inspiration — Yoogowsarlvia. My dad is the oner of a wold famus sircus cald Equinoxes. He is aslo the loin tamer. My mum doz a act on the hy trapeez. Wen I was littel we traveld all over Yorup. I lernd to look after the elefants wen I was ony 4. At nite I yoosd to sleep with the loins in ther caj. I dident haf to hav a bath becas the loins yoost to lik me cleen with ther tungs.

  I laid down my pen, rested my head on my hand, and gazed down at what I’d written. I wasn’t reading it, though. I was imagining the lions’ rough tongues as they licked me clean, feeling the blast of their hot breath in my face. I was seeing the elephants turning heavily towards me when I came to tend them in the grey dawn, their huge feet moving almost soundlessly through the deep, fragrant straw.

  With another part of my mind I was picturing my mother, a slim figure in spangled silver, swooping like a bird on the trapeze high overhead, unreachable as a star.

  Walking up the hill with a bunch of guys after school, I didn’t say much, as usual. Home time — what a laugh.

  One by one the guys peeled off, unlatching gates into small, tidy gardens; barging through front doors left on the latch for them as three o’clock came around.

  By the time I reached the end of the road, I was the only one left. Ours was the last house. A narrow, overgrown path was just visible winding away through the tangled trees. For a moment the thought of the forbidden ravine with its hidden caves drew me like a magnet. But I was late as it was — I didn’t dare risk it.

  Reluctantly, I swung open the white wooden gate, banging it shut behind me. I scuffed my feet through the gravel on the way up the drive, little bits of stone working their way through the splits in the toes of my shoes. Dragging my bag behind me, I trailed up the red concrete steps and into the hallway, kicked off my shoes and hung my bag on its hook. Took out my lunchbox, went through the dining hall to the kitchen, and dumped it with the others on the pile on the servery. As usual, I was one of the last back.

  I glanced at the clock in the hallway. Three thirty — half an hour till afternoon tea and homework. The big house had the empty, echoing feeling that meant everyone was outside, round the back. Weekdays, three to four — supervised playtime, weather permitting.

  Five minutes later, I was kicking a soccer ball against the tool shed wall when I heard the familiar singsong chant:

  ‘Adam Equinox

  Stupid, dumb, ugly ox

  Can’t read, can’t spell

  Can’t do anything very well.’

  I didn’t look up. Didn’t have to. I knew exactly who it was, and I didn’t want to see his angelic little face with its chubby pink cheeks and its frame of golden curls.

  Geoffrey Dempsey.

  A stone hit me on the back of my neck. Today Geoffrey didn’t intend to be ignored. Blat! Blat! Blat! I kicked the ball harder, hoping to drown the stupid rhyme as it came again … and again.

  Another stone — and this time, it stung.

  I felt my hands clench into fists. I gave the ball one last hard kick and wheeled round, scowling. Geoffrey hopped nimbly back out of harm’s way, his face beaming with malicious delight.

  He giggled, hopping from foot to foot, ready to run. ‘Hey, Adam, I thought you might be bored with the old one, so I’ve been working on an improvement.

  ‘Adam Equinox,

  Born in a shoebox,

  Can’t read, can’t write,

  Sucks his thumb ever
y night!’

  I’m not sure what happened next. All I remember is a kind of red haze and a roaring sound. And next thing I knew, my head was full of this harsh panting sound, like someone sawing wood, and some kids were pulling me off Geoffrey, who was flat on his back.

  His smug little face was covered in blood, and the smirk had been wiped right off. His curly locks were tangled in the dirt and his eyes were puffed and swollen. He had his arm up in front of his face, and he was whimpering and staring at me like I was some kind of a monster. I was kneeling over him, gasping and shaking, holding his neck with one hand. My knuckles hurt.

  As the red haze faded away and everything came slowly into focus, I saw two black lace-up shoes on the ground beside Geoffrey. Slowly, my gaze travelled up. Past two stick-like ankles in thick brown stockings. Past a tartan skirt and a starched white blouse. Past a scraggy neck like a chicken’s … and up to Matron’s face. The look on it came as no surprise, but even so, my heart sank.

  Half an hour later, instead of doing my homework, I was standing on the footstool in Matron’s office. My head was beginning to ache.

  In the comfortable armchair in the corner opposite the filing cabinet sat Geoffrey. He’d been cleaned up and changed into fresh clothes, but there was a plug of dried blood in one nostril, and his eyes were red and puffy. He was halfway through his second lolly, which he was eating very slowly with wet, sucking sounds.

  Matron stood in front of me. Matron is hard and stiff and cold. She has short frizzy hair like steel wool, and a face like a trap. Everything about her is bony and seems to push you away. Even when I was little and she used to pick me up, her fingers kind of poked and pinched and hurt. Now I’m bigger, she does the poking and pinching and hurting with her mind.