Septimus Heap 4 : Queste(37)

“Only for those messages originating from the Palace and placed in person,” said Stanley briskly. “For all others normal rates apply. Now, is it outward only or return?”

Ephaniah Grebe left the East Gate Lookout Tower three pence poorer—he had also sent two other messages, one to Sarah Heap and one to Marcia Overstrand—but underneath his rat whiskers was a happy smile. Leaving his face unswaddled and his rat nose free to sniff the night air, he took the wide path that ran along the top of the Castle walls and walked slowly back to the Manuscriptorium. He enjoyed the feeling of his sensitive tail trailing behind him as it was meant to do, touching the cool stones and balancing his upright gait. Sometimes it was a relief to be true to his real rat nature.

As Ephaniah wandered along the Walls—as he sometimes did when the confines of the Manuscriptorium basement became too much for him—he gazed down at the roofs of the little houses tucked in tight against the old stones. He saw the candles in their attic windows burning bright into the night, and inside the tiny rooms with their sloping ceilings Ephaniah saw people—fully human people with no trace of rat in them—going about their business. Whether they were sewing by the fireside, clearing away a meager supper, feeding a baby or just fast asleep in a comfortable chair, all were unaware that outside their very windows a shy half man, half rat, was wandering by, looking at a life he might have had.

Ephaniah shook off his sad thoughts as a rat will shake off a well-aimed bucket of dirty water and strode briskly on. As the tinny chimes of midnight drifted up from the Drapers’ Court clock he arrived at the top of the flight of steps that led down to the Manuscriptorium. He stopped and took a last look at the broad sweep of the Castle below him before he descended once more into his bright basement. It was breathtakingly beautiful. The moon was riding high in the sky, casting its cool, white light across the rooftops and sending long shadows down the streets far below. A myriad of pinpoint candlelights glittered across the vast expanse of the Castle, in a way that Ephaniah had never seen before.

Puzzled, Ephaniah stood for a moment wondering why he could see so many candles—and then he realized. The bright, Magykal purple and golden lights that lit up the Wizard Tower every night were gone. It was as if the Tower were no longer there. But as Ephaniah stared into the darkness he could just about make out the outline of the Tower against the moonlit clouds. But not a flicker of light came from it—the Wizard Tower was under Siege.





28


THE QUESTING BOAT

M arcia was stumbling

around the Wizard Tower, unable to see. Desperately she called, “Septimus…Septimus…where are you?”

“I’m here, I’m here!” yelled Septimus.

“Go back ’sleep,” mumbled Jenna.

“Wearghaahh,” mumbled Beetle, who was in the middle of his own dream in which Jillie Djinn had locked him in a dungeon with a giant rat.

They were sleeping—or trying to—on the floor of a small storeroom at the entrance to Ephaniah’s domain. Jenna and Beetle both slipped back into sleep, but Septimus was wide awake, his dream of the blind Marcia still frighteningly vivid. He sat up, all the events of the previous evening crowding in on him. What was happening at the Wizard Tower?

Surely Tertius Fume had discovered his escape by now? And if so had he sent people, or—more likely—ghosts, out to search for him? And what was happening to Marcia? Was she all right? Septimus put his hand in his pocket to find his last memento of the Wizard Tower and drew out the SafeCharm that Hildegarde had given him. It was so nice of Hildegarde to do that, he thought. By the comforting yellow glow of his Dragon Ring, he looked fondly at the SafeCharm—and a shot of fear ran through him like a knife. No! No no no no no. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t possibly be.

Septimus stared at the heavy, oval lapis lazuli stone in his hand, and the golden Q inscribed deep into it glinted back at him mockingly. And, when he turned it over, the number 21

began to show and Septimus knew with a horrible certainty what he had—the Questing Stone .

He stared at the Stone, trying to remember what Alther had told him at the Gathering. But it was all a blur—only the phrase Once you Accept the Stone , your Will is not your Own came into his head.

Septimus tried to think clearly. But he hadn’t accepted the Questing Stone, had he? He had accepted what he thought was a SafeCharm. So surely that was different—wasn’t it? He stared hard at the Stone. It was a beautiful thing; silky smooth, slightly iridescent with delicate veins of gold winding their way through the brilliant blue. And the dreaded Q—that was beautiful too. The gold was set deep into the stone and polished to such smoothness that as he ran his fingers over it he could feel no join at all. In fact he could almost convince himself that the Q was not there. But as soon as he looked down at the stone in his palm there it was, winking up at him in the dim yellow light, refusing to go away.

Septimus shoved the Questing Stone

back into his pocket. He would ignore it, he decided. He wouldn’t tell Jenna or Beetle either. There was enough for them to think about without worrying about some stupid Queste, which he wasn’t going on anyway.

Septimus threw himself back onto the hard bedroll and pulled the thin Manuscriptorium emergency blanket up over his head. He tried to block the Questing Stone

from his thoughts, but it would not go away. He began to remember more of Alther’s words—how the Stone was a Magykal thing and as the Questor drew nearer to his or her goal, it changed color. And at the Queste’s end it was the deepest blue, so dark that it looked black—except in the light of the full moon. Alther had gabbled a rhyme, trying to get across as much information as possible, but just then Septimus did not even want to think about it. He didn’t need to, he decided. He was not going on the Queste. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep—with little success.

About an hour later from behind the storeroom door, Ephaniah watched the NightUllr change. As the panther slept, Ephaniah saw the orange tip on his tail expand and grow, the bright color traveling across the creature like the sun chasing away the shadows. And as it grew, the sleek panther fur became a mottled tabby orange and its muscled body shrank so fast that Ephaniah was sure that Ullr would disappear completely. Indeed, when the Transformation was complete it looked as though he almost had—the DayUllr was a small and scraggly cat, who looked as if he could use a real meal. The only reminder of his nighttime attire was a black tip at the end of his tail, ready for the moment that the sun would once again set.

Now that the storeroom was guarded only by a small cat, Ephaniah dared venture in to wake its occupants. Sleepily, Jenna, Septimus and Beetle rolled up their bedrolls and stacked them back onto the orderly shelves. And then, at Ephaniah’s insistence, they gathered around the big worktable in the first cellar and ate the oatmeal that he had cooked over the small burner he generally used for melting glue. Ullr, after some persuasion from Jenna, warily accepted Ephaniah’s offering of a bowl of milk.

It was not a lively breakfast.

Jenna was anxious to get away to the Port. “If we hurry we can catch the early-morning barge to the Port,” she said, scraping the last of the surprisingly good oatmeal from the bowl.

“Good,” said Beetle, who had taken a lot of persuading to spend the night back at his old workplace and wanted to be off as soon as he could.

Ephaniah returned from putting the previous day’s work in the basket at the top of the stairs. He flapped his hands, signaling them to wait, and laid a large sheet of paper down beside the bowls. It was covered with his now familiar handwriting. He ran his thin finger along the words:

The journey to the Forests of the Low Countries is long and perilous by ship. But there is another way. There is an old saying, “A journey to a Forest is best begun in a Forest.”

Jenna knew the saying but had never understood what it meant. “What do you mean?” she asked.

Ephaniah wrote:

In the Forest there are ancient Ways that lead to other Forests. Morwenna knows. I can take you safely into the Forest by the old charcoal burners’ gulleys.

“We used to use those in the Young Army,” said Septimus. “The witches still do. Some of the Ways go to their winter quarters.”

Ephaniah nodded and wrote: We will find Morwenna. I will ask her to show you the Forest Ways.

“What do you think, Jen?” asked Septimus.

Jenna shared Sarah Heap’s mistrust of the Wendron Witches, but if it helped them to find Nicko—and get Septimus far away from the Castle, fast—then it was fine by her. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s do it.”

“Beetle?” asked Septimus.

“Yep,” said Beetle. “The sooner we’re out of here, the better.”

Ephaniah Grebe led the way down Lichen Twitten, a long, dank alleyway that went to the Manuscriptorium boathouse.

The boathouse was a tumbledown shed set a few yards down a hidden inlet off the Moat. Inside was the Manuscriptorium ferryboat, a little-used rowboat that had escaped Jillie Djinn’s new colors. Septimus and Beetle offered to row, but Ephaniah insisted on taking the oars himself. Rowing was something he had enjoyed in his younger, pre-rat days and it was a long time since he had been out in a boat.