by Garth Nix
Far to the north of the magical Old Kingdom, the Greenwash Bridge Company has been building a bridge for almost a hundred years. It is not an easy task, for many dangers threaten the bridge builders, from nomad raiders to Free Magic sorcerers. Despite the danger, Morghan wants nothing more than to join the Bridge Company as a cadet. But the company takes only the best, the most gifted Charter mages, and trains them hard. For the night might come when even an untried young cadet must hold the bridge alone against the most devastating of foes ...
Also included in this remarkable collection are eighteen short stories that showcase Nix’s versatility as he adds a fantastical twist on an array of genres including science fiction, paranormal, realistic fiction, mystery, and adventure.
‘The reader’s absorption into the intrigue, magic and dazzling richness of the worlds and characters created by Nix is irresistible pleasure’ - Australian Review of Books
ALSO BY GARTH NIX
THE OLD KINGDOM SERIES
Clariel
Sabriel
Lirael
Abhorsen
Across the Wall: A Tale of the Abhorsen and Other Stories
The Ragwitch
One Beastly Beast: Two Aliens, Three Inventors,
Four Fantastic Tales
Shade’s Children
A Confusion of Princes
This edition published in 2015
Copyright © Garth Nix 2015
Copyright © Cover illustration, Sebastian Ciaffaglione 2015
‘To Hold the Bridge: An Old Kingdom Story’ Copyright © Garth Nix 2010, first published in Legends of Australian Fantasy, edited by Jack Dann and Jonathan Strahan, 2010 • ‘Vampire Weather’ Copyright © Garth Nix 2011, first published in Teeth, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling, 2011 • ‘Strange Fishing in the Western Highlands’ Copyright © Dark Horse Comics Inc. 2008, first published in Hellboy: Oddest Jobs, edited by Christopher Golden, 2008. Reprinted here with the kind permission of Mike Mignola. Hellboy™, BPRD™, Abe Sapien™ and all related characters are trademarks of Mike Mignola. • ‘Old Friends’ Copyright © Garth Nix 2008, first published in Dreaming Again, edited by Jack Dann, 2008 • ‘The Quiet Knight’ Copyright © Garth Nix 2009, first published in Geektastic, edited by Holly Black and Cecil Castellucci, 2009 • ‘The Highest Justice’ Copyright © Garth Nix 2010, first published in Zombies Vs Unicorns, edited by Holly Black and Justine Larbalestier, Allen and Unwin, 2010 • ‘A Handful of Ashes’ Copyright © Garth Nix 2012, first published in Under My Hat, edited by Jonathan Strahan, 2012 • ‘The Big Question’ Copyright © Garth Nix 2012, first published in Elsewhere, Edinburgh Festival Special, 2012 • ‘Stop!’ Copyright © Garth Nix 2009, first published in The Dragon Book, edited by Jack Dann and Gardner Dozois, 2009 • ‘Infestation’ Copyright © Garth Nix 2008, first published in The Starry Rift, edited by Jonathan Strahan, 2008 • ‘The Heart of the City’ Copyright © Garth Nix 2009, first published in Subterranean magazine, 2009 • ‘Ambrose and the Ancient Spirits of East and West’ Copyright © Garth Nix 2011, first published in The Thackery T. Lambshead Cabinet of Curiosities, edited by Ann and Jeff VanderMeer, 2011 • ‘Holly and Iron’ Copyright © Garth Nix 2007, first published in Wizards, edited by Jack Dann and Gardner Dozois, 2007 • ‘The Curious Case of the Moondawn Daffodils Murder: As Experienced by Sir Magnus Holmes and Almost-Doctor Susan Shrike’ Copyright © Garth Nix 2011, first published in Ghosts by Gaslight, edited by Jack Dann and Nick Gevers, 2011 • ‘An Unwelcome Guest’ Copyright © Garth Nix 2009, first published in Troll’s-Eye View, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling, 2009 •‘A Sidekick of Mars’ Copyright © Garth Nix 2012, first published in Under the Moons of Mars, edited by John Joseph Adams, 2012 • ‘You Won’t Feel a Thing’ Copyright © Garth Nix 2012, first published in After, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling, 2012 • ‘Peace in Our Time’ Copyright © Garth Nix 2011, first published in Steampunk!, edited by Kelly Link and Gavin J. Grant, 2011 • ‘Master Haddad’s Holiday’ Copyright © Garth Nix 2012, first published in A Confusion of Princes, Allen and Unwin, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.
Allen & Unwin
83 Alexander Street Crows Nest NSW 2065 Australia
Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.allenandunwin.com
A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia
www.trove.nla.gov.au
ISBN 978 1 74331 655 9
eISBN 978 1 74343 406 2
Cover and text design by Sandra Nobes
Typeset by TouCan Design
Contents
To Hold the Bridge: An Old Kingdom Story
Creatures of Darkness and Light
Vampire Weather
Strange Fishing in the Western Highlands
Old Friends
Standing Up to Be Counted
The Quiet Knight
The Highest Justice
A Handful of Ashes
The Big Question
Check Your Faint Heart at the Door
Stop!
Infestation
The Heart of the City
Ambrose and the Ancient Spirits of East and West
Holly and Iron
A Wink and a Nod
The Curious Case of the Moondawn Daffodils Murder: As Experienced by Sir Magnus Holmes and Almost-Doctor Susan Shrike
An Unwelcome Guest
A Sidekick of Mars
Under Other Skies
You Won’t Feel a Thing
Peace in Our Time
Master Haddad’s Holiday
To Anna, Edward and Thomas, and all my family and friends
To Hold the Bridge
AN OLD KINGDOM STORY
MORGHAN STOOD UNDER THE ARCH of the aqueduct and watched the main gate of the Bridge Company’s legation, across the way. The tall, twin leaves of the gate were open, so he could see into the courtyard, and the front of the grand house beyond. There was great bustle and activity going on, with nine long wagons being loaded and a tenth having a new iron-bound wheel shipped. People were dashing about in all directions, panting as they wheeled laden wheelbarrows, singing as they rolled barrels, and arguing over the order in which to load all manner of boxes, bales, sacks, chests, hides, tents, and even a very large and overstuffed chair of mahogany and scarlet cloth that was being carefully strapped atop one of the wagons and covered with a purpose-made canvas hood.
The name of the company was carved into the stone above the gate: THE WORSHIPFUL COMPANY OF THE GREENWASH & FIELD MARKET BRIDGE. That same name was written on the outside of the old and many-times folded paper that Morghan held in his hand. The paper, like the company, was much older than the young man. He had seen only twenty years, but the paper was a share certificate in an enterprise that had been founded in his great-grandfather’s time, some eighty-seven years ago.
The Bridge Company, as it was universally called, there being no other of equal significance, had been formed to do exactly as its full name suggested: to build a bridge, specifically one that would cross the Greenwash, that wide and treacherous river that marked the Old Kingdom’s northern border. The bridge would eventually facili
tate travel to the Field Market, a trading fair that by long-held custom took place at the turn of each season on a designated square mile of steppe some sixty leagues north of the river. There, merchants from the Old Kingdom would meet with traders from the nomadic tribes of both the closer steppe and the wild lands beyond the Rift, which lay still farther to the north and west.
Despite the eighty-seven years, the bridge was still incomplete. During that time the company had constructed a heavy, cable-drawn ferry; a small castle on the northern bank; a fortified bastion in the middle of the river; and the piers, cutwaters, and other foundation work of the actual bridge. Only the previous summer a narrow planked way had been laid down for the company’s workers and staff to cross on foot, but the full paved decking for the heavy wagons of the merchants was still at least a year or two away. Consequently, the only way to safely carry loads of trade goods across the river was by the ferry. The ferry, of course, was also a monopoly of the company, as per the license it had obtained from the Queen at its founding.
The ferry, and the control it gave over the northern trade, was the foundation of the company’s wealth, nearly all of which was reinvested in the bridge, which would one day enormously expand the northern trade and repay the investment a hundredfold. It was this future that made the old, dirty, and many-times folded share certificate Morghan held in his hand so valuable.
At least, he had often been told it was very valuable, and he hoped that this was true, since it was the sole item of worth that his recently dead, feckless, and generally disastrous parents had left him. The only doubt about its value was that they had left the share certificate to him, rather than selling it themselves, as they had sold all other items of worth that had been handed down from his grandmother’s estate.
There was only one way to find out. The grim and cheerless notary who had wound up his parents’ estate had told him the share could not be freely sold or transferred without first being offered back to the company, in person, at Bridge House in Navis. Of more interest to Morghan, the notary had also informed him that the share made him eligible to join the company as a cadet, who one day might even rise to the exalted position of Bridgemaster. Then, true to his miserable nature, the clerk had added that very few cadets were taken on, and those only after most rigorous testing, which none but the best-educated youngster might hope to pass. The implication was clear that he did not think Morghan would have much of a chance.
But it was a chance, no matter how slim. So here Morghan was in Navis, after a rough and literally sickening three-day sea voyage from Belisaere, a passage that had cost him the single gold noble he possessed. It had been the gift of one of his mother’s lovers when he was fourteen, not freely given but offered to buy his silence. The weight of the unfamiliar gold coin in his hand had so shocked him that the man was gone before he could give it back, or tell him that he had no need to bribe him. He had learned young not to speak of anything his parents did, whether singly or together.
One of the gate guards was looking at him, Morghan noted, and not in a friendly way. He tried to smile inoffensively, but he knew it just made him look even more suspicious. The guard rested his hand on the hilt of his sword and swaggered across the road. After a moment’s hesitation, Morghan stepped out from the shadow under the aqueduct and went to meet him. He kept his own hand well clear of the sword at his side. It was only a practice weapon anyway, blunt and dull, not much more than a metal club. That was why Emaun had let him take it from the Academy armory, it had already been written off for replacement in the new term.
‘What are you up to?’ demanded the guard. His eyes flickered up and down Morghan, taking in the cheap sword but also the Charter Mark, clear on his forehead. The guard had the mark too, though this didn’t necessarily mean he was schooled in Charter Magic, as Morghan was – at least to some degree. Not that he could do any magic, even if the guard decided he was some sort of threat and attacked him. There were probably a dozen or more proper Charter Mages within earshot, and many more around the town. They would note any sudden display of magic and come to investigate. A penniless trespasser would not be accorded much consideration, he was sure, and misuse of magic – Charter or Free – was a serious offense everywhere in the Old Kingdom.
‘I … I want to see the Bridgemaster,’ said Morghan. He held out his share certificate, so the guard could see the seal, the crazed wax roundel bearing the symbol of the half-made bridge arching over the wild river.
‘Bridgemistress, you mean, till tomorrow,’ said the guard, but his hand left his sword-hilt. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Morghan.’
‘In from the ship this morning? From Belisaere?’
Morghan shrugged. ‘Most recently.’
‘And what’s your business with the Bridgemistress?’
‘I’m a shareholder,’ said Morghan. He lifted the certificate again.
The guard glanced at the paper, and then at Morghan. He didn’t have to say anything. Morghan knew the man was looking at his frayed doublet, which showed no blazon of house or service. Morghan’s shirt also had too few laces, and his sleeves were of very different colors, and not in a fashionable way. Even his boots, once of very high quality, did not quite match, the left boot being noticeably longer and more pointed in the toe. Both had been his father’s, but not at the same time.
‘You’d better see her, then,’ said the guard amiably, which was not the reaction Morghan had been expecting.
‘Th-thank you,’ he stammered. ‘I …’
He waved his hand, unable to say that he’d been expecting to be kicked to the roadside.
‘Don’t thank me yet,’ said the guard. ‘If you have real business here, that’s one thing. If you don’t, you’ll get worse from the Bridgemistress than you’d ever get from me. Go on in, across the court, up the stairs.’
Morghan nodded and walked on, past the other three guards at the gate, into the courtyard. He wove his way through all the activity, ducking aside or stepping back as required, trying to keep out of the way. It was difficult, for there were at least a hundred people hard at work. As he weaved his way through and caught snatches of conversation, Morghan picked up that the entire caravan was leaving soon, and he had arrived just in time to catch the seasonal changing of the work crew on the bridge. This was the winter expedition, near to setting off, and when it arrived the autumn crew would return to Navis and refit for the spring.
There was as much bustle inside the house as out. Morghan walked gingerly through the open front door into a high-vaulted atrium dominated by a broad stair. The room, though very large, was entirely full of clerks, papers, maps, and plans. A long table stretched some forty feet from the rear wall and was heaped with stacks of ledgers, books, map cases, and rolled parchments tied in many different-colored ribbons.
There were several people sitting on the steps, with their papers, books, inkwells, and quills piled around them so widely that Morghan had to tread most carefully.
At the top landing, another guard waited patiently for Morghan to step over an abacus that was precariously perched next to a clerk stretched out asleep on the second-to-last stair.
Though she was at least six inches shorter than him, wore only a linen shirt and breeches rather than a mail hauberk like the gate guards, and had a long dagger at her side instead of a sword, Morghan knew that he would not last a second if he was foolish enough to try to fight this woman. The dark skin of her hands and wiry forearms was covered in small white scars, testament to a score or more years of fighting, but more telling than that was the look in her bright blue eyes. They were fierce, the gaze of a well-fed hawk that has a pigeon carelessly held and, though it can’t be bothered right now, could disembowel that prey in an instant. She also bore a Charter Mark on her forehead, and Morghan instinctively knew that she would be a Charter Mage. A real, trained mage, not someone like him who had only a smattering of knowledge and power.
‘Pause there, young master,’ she said, and held u
p one hand.
Morghan stopped below the topmost step, so that their eyes were almost level. The woman pointed two fingers toward the Charter Mark on his forehead, and waited.
Morghan nodded and raised his hand to touch the woman’s own mark at the same time she laid her fingers on his brow. He felt the familiar, warm flash pass through his hand, and the swarm of Charter symbols came close behind, a great endless sea of marks rising up to him as he fell into it and was connected with the entirety of the world … and then they were gone, as he let his hand fall and the woman stepped back to allow him up the final step, both their connections to the Charter having proven true, neither one corrupted or faked.
‘It pays to be cautious,’ she said. ‘Though it is some forty years since Bridgemaster Jark was assassinated by a Free Magic construct.’
‘Really?’ asked Morghan. He wanted to ask why anyone would want to assassinate a Bridgemaster, but it didn’t seem like the moment.
‘Really,’ said the woman drily. ‘What is your name and your business here?’
‘I am Morghan, and … uh … I wish to see the Bridgemistress.’
‘So you are,’ said the woman impatiently. ‘I am Amiel, Winter Bridgemistress of the Greenwash Bridge Company.’
‘Oh,’ said Morghan. He looked down at the share certificate, unfolded it, and proffered it to Amiel. ‘I … I … uh … inherited a share in the company from my parents …’
Amiel took the paper, flicked it fully open, and glanced across the elegantly printed lines, the handwritten number, and the gold-flecked seal. Then she leaned forward and prodded the sleeping clerk on the steps below. ‘Famagus! Wake up!’
The clerk, an elderly man, grunted and slowly sat up.
‘I told you everything has been done, to the last annotation,’ he complained. ‘A nap is the least I deserve!’
‘I need you to look up a share,’ said Amiel. ‘Number Four Hundred and Twenty-One, in the name of Sabela of Nerrym Cross.’
