Vega Jane and the Secrets of Sorcery

by David Baldacci

He said, ‘A word, Vega Jane. I require a word.’

  6

  THANSIUS

  John, Delph and I dumbly followed Thansius outside. There was a beautiful blue carriage waiting, pulled by four magnificent grey sleps, each standing patiently on their six muscled legs. It was said that sleps used to be able to fly. I have never believed this, although along a slep’s withers, it’s possible to see a slight indentation where something used to be attached.

  Thansius looked at Delph. ‘Get along with you, Daniel. This conversation concerns private matters.’

  Delph raced away, his long legs carrying him out of sight in half a sliver.

  Thansius motioned John and I inside the carriage. Thansius settled in the seat across from us and smoothed down his robe. He glanced questioningly at John.

  ‘This is my brother, John.’

  ‘I know who he is,’ replied Thansius. ‘I am contemplating whether he needs to be here or not.’

  Even though he sat in the shadows of his seat, I could clearly see his face. It was heavy, lined with worry, the eyes small, and the flesh around them puckered. His hair was long and an odd mix of cream and silver, as was his beard.

  ‘I think I’d prefer him to wait outside,’ said Thansius at last.

  ‘I would like my brother to stay,’ I replied, and then I held my breath. I had no idea where that came from. Talking to Thansius was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Talking back to Thansius was unthinkable.

  Thansius cocked his head at me. He didn’t look angry, simply bemused.

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘In case whatever you have to ask me concerns him. Then I will not have to repeat it because I am certain I cannot match your eloquence, Thansius.’

  We all loved to listen to Thansius even if we did not always understand what he was saying.

  The bemusement turned to a half-smile, and then his face became a stone.

  From his pocket Thansius withdrew an object. I knew what it was before he even showed it to me. My grandfather’s ring.

  ‘It is quite an interesting design,’ he said.

  ‘Do you know what it means?’ I asked.

  ‘I doubt any Wug does, other than your grandfather.’ He edged forward, his wide knee nearly scraping my bony one. ‘It was found at Herms’s cottage.’

  ‘He was friends with my grandfather, so he probably gave it to him,’ I replied.

  Thansius seemed to mull this over for a few moments. Then he said, ‘Quentin Herms was your mentor as a Finisher. Did you like him?’

  ‘I did.’

  He stroked his chin with one large hand. ‘So you had no indication that he might go off . . . ?’

  ‘Where is there to go off to?’ I said quite innocently but hoping for some enlightenment.

  ‘So, no message left behind for you?’ he asked, ignoring my query.

  I furrowed my brow and willed my brain to do the best job of answering without really saying anything of importance.

  ‘I don’t know what he would have to leave for me.’ This was perfectly true.

  He stared at my face so intently it felt like my skin was melting away, allowing him to see into my soul. ‘You and your brother may be on your way.’

  We should have left right then, but I needed to say something, and although half of me was terrified to do so, the other half of me won out. ‘Can I have the ring, Thansius?’

  He stared at me. ‘The ring?’

  ‘Yes. We’re the only family left. So, can I have it?’

  I could sense John holding his breath. I held my own, awaiting Thansius’s answer.

  ‘Maybe one light, Vega, but not now.’

  He opened the carriage door and waved a hand, beckoning us to exit.

  Before the carriage door closed, I saw Thansius stare at me. It was an enigmatic look, a cross between pity and remorse. I could understand neither end of it. The door closed, Thansius’s driver, Thomas Bogle, flicked the reins, and the carriage rumbled off.

  As the carriage disappeared over the horizon, I took John’s hand and pulled him along in the direction of the Loons.

  Cacus Loon opened the door for us. He had beetle brows, a low forehead, and hair that had not been washed for at least a session or two. His pants and shirt were as greasy as his hair, and he had a habit of forever twirling the ends of his enormous moustache.

  Loon followed us into the main room of the lower floor. It was large and contained a long table where we took our meals. A kitchen adjoined it, where Loon’s wife, Hestia, spent much of her time doing the work that he told her to do. This included making meals, doing the wash, and making sure that Loon had whatever he wanted.

  ‘They say Quentin Herms has gone off,’ Loon said.

  ‘Where would he go off to?’ I asked.

  ‘You work at Stacks. Don’t you know?’

  ‘Over a hundred Wugs work at Stacks,’ I said. ‘Go ask them.’

  Without another word, I pulled John upstairs with me. Thankfully, Loon did not follow.

  We went down for our meal as the darkness gathered across Wormwood. John and I squeezed into the last two seats as Hestia, short and thin, scurried around carrying plates. I eyed the other two Loon females, still youngs, who also laboured in the kitchen. They were also small and skinny, their faces smoky from the kitchen coal fire.

  They didn’t go to Learning. This was because Cacus Loon did not believe in education for the most part. I had heard him once say that he had never gone to Learning and look how he had turned out. If that was not reason enough to read every book you could possibly get your hands on, I don’t know what was.

  Cletus Loon sat next to his father. Cletus looked more like his dad every light. He was only two sessions ahead of me, but his puffy face looked older. He was always manoeuvring to get the drop on me. I worried that one time he would wise up and bully John instead. The fact that he didn’t told me he feared me too much. Fear was a great thing if it was pointed in the right direction.

  We shovelled the food quickly down, and afterwards, John and I went to our room and climbed under our blankets. I waited until I heard snores coming from the others then slipped out of bed and put on my cloak. I also snagged my only sweater and my blanket. A sliver later, I was clear of the kitchen and out the rear door.

  I would take great pains to make sure I was not followed.

  As it turned out, I should have tried much, much harder.

  7

  THE WAY OUT

  The path to my tree had been clear enough under the milky ball in the heavens we call the Noc, but then clouds came and blocked it out, and I fell into darkness. I tied my blanket and sweater around my waist and lit a lantern I’d nicked from the Loons.

  That’s when I heard it. Every sound in Wormwood needed to be considered, especially at night. I turned my lantern in that direction.

  My other hand dipped to my pocket and clutched the cutting knife I often used at Stacks. I waited, dreading what might be coming.

  Then the smell reached me and I knew what it was.

  A garm! How could this terrible creature be so far from the Quag? I turned ready to flee, clutching my knife tightly, even though I knew it would be of no use. I put out my lantern, slung the rope tethered to the lantern over my shoulder, and shoved my knife into my pocket. Then I ran for it.

  The garm was faster than me, but I had a bit of a head start. I followed the path by memory, though I took a wrong turn once and banged off a tree. That mistake cost me precious moments allowing the beast to nearly catch up to me. I redoubled my efforts. My heart was hammering so wildly, I thought I could see it thumping through my cloak.

  I tripped over a tree root and sprawled to the ground. I scrambled on to my back, and there the beast was, barely six feet from me. It was huge and foul. It opened its fanged jaws, and I had but a moment to live because I knew what would be coming next. I flung myself behind a thick trunk an instant before the jet of flames struck the spot where I had been. The ground was scorched, and I felt th
e blast of heat all around me. I was still alive, though maybe not for much longer.

  I could hear it taking in a long breath in preparation for another blast of fire that would surely engulf me. And in that brief time, I found a certain calm, knowing what I had to do.

  I leaped out from behind the tree and hurled my knife straight and true. It struck the creature directly in its eye. Unfortunately, it had three more of them.

  As the creature howled in fury, I turned and ran. I reached my tree, put one hand on the first rung of my wooden ladder and climbed for my life.

  The wounded garm was coming on fast now. It is said that the garm hunts the souls of the dead. Others say it guards the gates of Hel, where bad Wugmorts are banished to spend eternity. Right now, I did not care which theory was right. I just didn’t want to become a dead soul this night, headed to Hel or any other place.

  I knew the steps on my tree’s trunk as well as I knew my own face but, halfway up, my hand struck an unfamiliar object. I ignored it, grabbed the next board, and kept climbing.

  I could feel the garm nearly upon me. It was large – easily thirteen feet long and over a thousand pounds in weight. Below, I heard claws on wood. I thought I felt heat rising towards me. Part of me didn’t want to look, but I did anyway.

  I saw the hard, armoured face of the garm. Its chest was smeared in blood. It had killed nothing to get this. Its chest was always dripping with its own blood as though it were constantly wounded. Maybe that’s why it was always in a foul, murderous mood. It looked up at me, its thin, spiky tongue flicking out, its three remaining cold, dead eyes staring up at me. My knife was still sticking out from its fourth eye.

  My only saving grace was that the garm, with all its strength, ferocity and ability, could not climb. However, momentum alone allowed it to get a few feet off the ground, but it fell back and hit the dirt with a thud. It roared and flames leaped upward, scorching my tree and blackening the edges of several of the wooden rungs. Even though the flames could not reach up this high, I jumped back. The garm rammed itself against the tree, attempting to knock it over. My tree shook under the assault and my oilcloth roof fell down—

  And then disaster struck. One of my planks was knocked loose, tilted upward and caught me full in the face. I collapsed backwards and plummeted before my thrashing hands closed around one of my short climbing boards. My plunging weight nearly sheared it off the trunk. As it was, only one nail remained to hold it to the bark.

  I looked frantically down below. The garm was up on its hind legs less than fifteen feet from me. Its mouth opened to deliver a blast of flames that would turn me to a blackened husk. With one hand gripping the board, I pulled my sweater from around my waist, balled it up, and threw it directly into the gaping opening. The garm choked and coughed and no flames came out. At least not yet.

  I regained purchase with my other hand and fled back up the boards as the garm roared again to clear its mouth before the flames erupted anew. I leaped over the last short board, threw myself up on the wooden platform, and lay there panting.

  I heard the garm make one more attempt to reach me and then it fell back again. Thankfully, it turned and headed off, no doubt looking for easier prey. I hoped it would not find any.

  I sat in my tree, breathing hard and letting my terror recede. I could barely see the garm’s flames now as it moved in the direction of the Quag. The Quag made me think of Quentin Herms. He’d said he had left something that would set me free. And I intended to find it.

  I looked in the waterproof tuck I kept hanging from a branch. But inside I found nothing. So where else could he have left anything?

  I looked down my tree. Something was itching at the back of my brain, but I couldn’t think what. I went back over my frantic climb up here with the garm at my heels and it occurred to me. My hand had hit something unfamiliar.

  I peered over the edge of my planks. I had nailed twenty boards as rungs against my tree’s trunk and now I counted twenty-one.

  That was what my hand had hit. An extra board that shouldn’t have been there.

  If I was right, then Quentin was brilliant. No one except me would have noticed.

  Trembling with excitement, I climbed down to the board and examined it under my lantern light. Fortunately, the garm’s flames had not touched it. It looked exactly like the other boards. Quentin was indeed a skilled Finisher.

  I scanned the front of the board for a message. There was none. But a message on the front would have been too easily seen. I tugged on it. It appeared firmly nailed into the trunk. Now I began to wonder whether Quentin was actually that smart after all. How was I supposed to pull the board out without falling and killing myself?

  But as I looked more closely, I saw that the nail heads in the board were not nail heads at all. They had been coloured to look like nail heads. So what was holding the board up? I felt along the top edge of the wood. There was a slender length of metal that hung over the board. I felt along the lower edge and discovered an identical section of metal there. The metal had been darkened to blend in perfectly with the stain of the board. I put one hand on the end of the board and pulled. It slid out from between the two metal edges. The metal had acted as both a track and a support, to slide the board into place and keep it there. Now, with the board gone, I could see how Quentin had attached the metal to the trunk using stout screws.

  I scampered back up to the top of my tree and sat on my haunches, the board in my lap. I turned it over and there it was: tethered to the back was an oilskin bag and inside it was a page of parchment.

  I caught my breath. It was a map.

  It was a map of the Quag.

  More than that, it was a map of a way through the Quag.

  8

  THE MAP

  As my eyes ran over the detailed drawings and precise writing, the enormity of what I was holding washed over me, making my skin tingle.

  If I did not give Council this map, I could be sent to Valhall.

  But curiosity overrode my fear. I studied the map closely. Quentin had not marked it with precise distances, but I saw quickly that the Quag was many times the size of Wormwood.

  Then my dilemma became obvious. I could never use this map. Every Wug knew that entering the Quag meant death, and even if I managed to survive, where would I be? For all I knew, once I crossed the Quag, I would fall into oblivion.

  In his message, Quentin had said I could escape this place if I had the desire. Well, I knew I could not leave my brother or my parents. I didn’t earn much at Stacks, but my meagre wages did support John and me.

  I opened the glass folds of my lantern and held the map close to the naked flame. But I couldn’t destroy it.

  You can never go through the Quag, Vega, so what does it matter? Just burn it. If you’re found with it, your punishment will be Valhall! You can’t risk that.

  I slowly pulled the parchment away from the flames and pondered what to do. I knew I had to destroy the map because if it were found in my possession, my punishment would be severe. But could I destroy the map and yet also keep it?

  My gaze moved to my waterproof tuck. I opened it and pulled out my ink stick. But transferring the map from one piece of parchment to another was not the answer to my dilemma.

  Another idea came to me – a brilliant one, if I do say so myself.

  It took some time, a bit of contortion, and a fair amount of ink, but when it was done, I held the map up to the spark of my lantern and let it ignite, watching it curl up and blacken. In far less than a sliver, it had reduced to ash and floated away on the breeze.

  I slipped down the rungs with the extra board in hand, put it back into its metal slot and continued my descent. My feet hit the dirt and I looked around. I now had a map that I could never use. But I also had something else. A mystery surrounding a ring that had belonged to my grandfather. Quentin Herms had once possessed my grandfather’s ring and he had left me the map. So the two must be connected in some way.

  This was abou
t my family. This was also about my history, which, in the end, meant it was ultimately about me.

  I trudged back to the Loons with far more questions than answers.

  9

  THE DELPHIAS

  Next light, John and I went downstairs and used the pipe behind the Loons to wash ourselves. I was careful with the water on myself so as not to wash off the map marks I had carefully inked on to my body while sitting atop my tree. I had been faithful in reproducing them because I knew Quentin to be a methodical Wug. He would have included only necessary details, and I desperately wanted to study them more thoroughly, even if I was never going to venture into the Quag.

  We entered the room and sat at the large table so John could eat his first light meal. I couldn’t afford such a meal for both of us. I bartered with others for food for myself with things I’d fashioned from throw-off scraps I’d scavenged at Stacks.

  The other Wugmort at the table was Ted Racksport. A young entrepreneurial Wug, he owned the only shop in Wormwood that sold mortas. Racksport was a bit taller than me, with broad shoulders, thick legs, a barrel chest, a flattened face, cracked lips, a few whiskers on his weak chin, and four fingers on his right hand.

  He smelt perpetually of sweat, metal and the black powder that gave mortas their killing force. I had seen one fired before. It tore right through thick wood and nearly scared me to the Hallowed Ground, where we lay our dead. The way Racksport looked at you, you began to realize that he knew the power he had, and he was quite happy that you didn’t have it.

  Later, John and I walked together to the Learning, where we parted company.

  ‘I’ll be back to get you after Stacks,’ I said.

  I said this every light so that John would have no worries. And he always replied, ‘I know you will.’

  But this time he said, ‘Are you sure you’ll be back for me?’

  I gaped. ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Where did you go last night?’