Drowned Wednesday(82)

‘Let’s not talk about it till we’re actually out of here and out of Drowned Wednesday’s stomach,’ said Arthur. ‘Or, better still, getting served tea by Sneezer back in Monday’s Dayroom.’

‘If you believe, all will be well,’ intoned the Carp.

Its words were punctuated for the worse by the thud of two things hitting the ground just ahead of Jebenezer. For a moment Arthur thought they were coconuts or large round fruit. Then he saw that they were decapitated heads.

The green-mottled heads of Florenza and Padraic.

‘Feverfew!’ croaked Florenza’s head.

‘Sorry!’ whispered Padraic’s.

‘Don’t forget to —’

‘Stick our heads back on if —’

‘You win.’

‘Give me to Arthur!’ snapped the Carp. Jebenezer just managed to thrust the jam jar into Arthur’s hands before a whirl of yellow dust swept around his feet and he froze like a statue. Another gust of yellow particles wound around Suzy as she drew her knife, and she froze too, as did the two archers who were bringing up the rear.

‘I can oppose Feverfew’s powers to some degree,’ said the Carp hurriedly. ‘But it is up to you, Arthur!’

Arthur stuffed the jam jar in his pocket and drew his sword. The dust-laden breeze kept whipping around him, but it had no effect, other than to make it hard to see.

There was no other sign of Feverfew.

Arthur turned in a circle, his eyes darting from side to side. Everyone else was frozen around him. He could see no movement. The lakeshore, only twenty paces away, was bare and empty. The sick-looking trees and undergrowth would hide someone, but only if they stayed still.

Where was Feverfew?

No one ever looks up …

Arthur jumped back and looked up, just as a shadow fell across him and a blade whistled through the air. The boy raised his own sword to block, felt a shock all along his arm, and sprang away, his back up against the rough, vine-covered trunk of a large tree.

Feverfew closed his wings and dropped to the ground, the sound of both wings and footfall clouded by the whine of the yellow wind.

He looked just like Arthur imagined a pirate captain would. Tall and dashing, his long black hair flowing, his black beard braided with jewels and smoking match-cord. He was handsome, as handsome as a superior Denizen, and his clothes were bright scarlet, rimmed with gold lace and had golden death’s heads as buttons. He carried a cutlass with a blade of black iron that smoked as much as the matches in his beard.

He looked nothing like the horrid visitation Arthur had seen in the mirror. Until Arthur looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

Seen that way, Feverfew was a horrid, barely human thing. His skin was the red of severe sunburn, and shrunken against his bones. His eyes were like olive pits, black in red sockets.

He was not dressed in fine clothes, but covered in hundreds of pieces of paper. Papers of all different sizes and colours, all of them written on in a flowing, glowing script, all of them reeking of Nothing and sorcery.

‘You bear the Red Hand,’ said Feverfew. Arthur heard the pirate’s voice twice, the two voices just a little out of sync with each other. One was deep, melodious, and commanding. The other was high-pitched, whiny, and horribly penetrating. ‘You have stolen from me.’

Arthur licked his lips and took a stronger grip on his sword. He only had one chance, he knew. A clean cut to the neck . . .

‘Yet that is not all you are,’ continued Feverfew. ‘Not just a thief. But also the chosen instrument of the Architect’s Will. I know who you are, Arthur.’

Feverfew took a step forward. Arthur tensed, ready to step forward and swing.

‘I know who you are. I know all about you. Don’t I, young Leaf?’

Feverfew smiled, his cracked, too-thin lips curling back from yellow teeth.

Arthur didn’t take his eyes off Feverfew, but in the corner of his vision, he saw a line of pirates slowly walk into view. Right at the front, wearing the same clothes he’d seen her in on the Mantis, but now with a black cap, was Leaf.

‘Yes, Captain,’ said Leaf.

‘So I know you haven’t got the first two Keys with you,’ said Feverfew. ‘Of course, if you had, I’d hardly be given the time to speak, would I? And I suppose that old fish is around somewhere, talking too much about how everything is going to work out. For it, of course.’

Just one step closer, thought Arthur.

‘I expect you’d like to chop off my head,’ said Feverfew. ‘Now, as I’m a sporting gentleman, I thought I’d give you that chance. I have a proposition for you, Arthur. A wager, between two folk who once were mortals, as equals. What do you say?’