Distractedly, she answered concerned inquiries about the Wizard Tower from the braver passersby, while all the time her feet took her steadily toward the far end of the Way. Marcia’s feet may have known where they were going—but Marcia herself did not realize it until she had turned the corner into Snake Slipway.
Outside the tall, narrow house on Snake Slipway, Marcia took a deep breath and politely rang the bell. She waited, nervously, rehearsing her speech.
Some minutes later, after two more rings, Marcia heard hesitant footsteps shuffling toward the door. Then the bolts were drawn, a key was turned and the door opened a few inches.
“Yes?” said a hesitant voice.
“Is that Mr. Pye?” Marcia asked.
“I am he.”
“It’s Marcia here. Marcia Overstrand.”
“Oh?”
“May I come in?”
“You want to come in?”
“Yes. Please. It’s—well, it’s about Septimus.”
“He’s not here.”
“I know. Mr. Pye, I really need to talk to you.”
The door opened a little wider and Marcellus peered out anxiously. His housekeeper was off for the day and she had told him it was about time he learned to answer the door. He had ignored Marcia’s first two rings, telling himself that if the bell rang a third time he would answer it. Wondering what he had gotten himself into Marcellus opened the door wide and said, “Please come in, Madam Marcia.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pye. Just Marcia will do,” Marcia said as she stepped into the dark, narrow hall.
“And Marcellus will be perfectly adequate,” Marcellus replied with a small bow. “What can I do for you?”
Marcia glanced around, suddenly afraid of being overheard. She knew that the house was connected to the Manuscriptorium via the Ice Tunnels and that the hatch was possibly UnSealed. Anyone could be listening—and that anyone included Tertius Fume. She needed somewhere secure.
“Perhaps you would like to come to tea,” she said. “At the Wizard Tower. In half an hour?”
“Tea?” asked Marcellus, blinking with surprise.
“In my rooms. I will instruct the doors to expect you. I look forward to it, Mr. Pye—um, Marcellus. Half an hour.”
“Oh. Yes. I too shall…look forward to it. In half an hour, then. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Marcellus.”
Marcellus Pye bowed and Marcia was gone. He exhaled loudly, closed the door and leaned against it for support. What was going on? And where had he put his best shoes?
“So you see,” said Marcia, pouring Marcellus his fifth cup of tea and watching, amazed, as the Alchemist added three large spoons of sugar to it, “I am so afraid that what Hildegarde said may be true. And if it is…” Her voice trailed off.
She sighed. “If it is true, then I must know all I can about the Queste. And you, Marcellus, are the only person alive who has had any experience of the Queste. Oh, there are plenty of ghosts, of course, but quite frankly I have had enough of ghosts at the moment.”
Marcellus smiled. “And their concerns are not always those of the Living,” he said, remembering what poor company the ghosts of his old friends had been as he had grown progressively more ancient.
“True. How very true,” replied Marcia, remembering the horrors of the Gathering. She looked Marcellus in the eye as if checking whether she could trust him. Marcellus steadily returned her gaze. “I believe there were three Questes during your lifetime,” she said—and then remembered that Marcellus’s lifetime had lasted five hundred years or more. “Or, um, even more…”
“Many more,” said Marcellus Pye. “But during my natural lifetime—as it were—you are correct. Indeed, my dear friend Julius Pike lost both his Apprentices to the Queste.”
“Both!” gasped Marcia.
Marcellus nodded. “The first was a terrible shock. Syrah Syara was her name—I remember her well. I was at the Draw.
In those days, you know, the Castle alchemist worked closely with the Wizard Tower. We were invited to all the important occasions.”
With some difficulty, Marcia restrained a disapproving tut.
Marcellus continued. “I still remember the awful gasp from the Wizards as she Drew the Stone. Julius refused to let her go—Syrah was an orphan and he regarded her as his daughter. Poor Julius had a big fight with Tertius Fume. Then Syrah punched Fume in the nose—forgetting that he was a ghost—and got a huge cheer. Fume got angry and put the Tower under Siege for twenty-four hours and by then Syrah was gone. Had to be dragged on to the Questing Boat by all seven guards apparently—and landed a few punches on them too, we were told.” Marcellus Pye shook his head. “It was a terrible thing.
“Julius didn’t take another Apprentice for some years. He was an old man when it was time for the Draw once more, and no one could believe it when this Apprentice also drew the Stone. It finished Julius off. He died a few months later. And of course the Apprentice—a nice young man, very quiet—never came back. I always thought Fume did it to spite Julius.
To show him who was really in charge.”
“You mean Tertius Fume controls who gets the Stone?” asked Marcia.
Marcellus drained the last of his tea. “I believe so. Somehow he has taken control of the Queste. After Syrah had gone, Julius tried to find out as much as he could about the Queste, but all the ancient texts and protocols had disappeared. It was rumored that Fume had destroyed them because they tell a very different story. I have even heard that the Queste was set up to be an honor—a reward for talented Apprentices.” Marcellus sighed. “But, alas, that has never been the case—quite the opposite in fact. All those who went have never returned.”
Marcia was silent. This was not what she had wanted to hear. “But Septimus did not actually Draw the Stone,” she said.
“So surely he is not on the Queste?”
Marcellus shook his head. “The Draw is no more than a formality,” he said. “It is, if you ask me, a way of ritualizing the unacceptable. The key moment is when the Apprentice accepts the Stone. By Drawing it, the Apprentice accepts it. And by taking it from an InHabited
Wizard and saying “thank you,” I fear that Septimus, too, has accepted it. And now he is on the Queste, which is why you cannot Find him. As the saying goes, ‘Once you Accept the Stone, Your Will is not your Own.’”
Agitated, Marcia arose and began pacing the room. Marcellus leaped to his feet, for in his Time it was very rude to stay seated when the ExtraOrdinary Wizard was standing.
“This is terrible,” said Marcia, tramping up and down her carpet. “Septimus is only twelve. How is he going to manage?
And what is even worse, it seems that Jenna’s gone with him too.”
“That does not surprise me,” said Marcellus. “She was a very determined girl. She reminded me of my dear sister—although less inclined to scream.”
“Your sister? Oh. Yes, of course. I forget that you are the son of a Queen.”
“Not a good Queen, unfortunately. I think Princess Jenna will be a better one. When the Time Is Right.”
“Well,” said Marcia, “it won’t ever be Right if we don’t get them back, will it?”
Without thinking, Marcellus placed his hand on Marcia’s arm. Marcia looked surprised. “Marcia,” he said, very seriously, “you have to understand. No one can get an Apprentice back from the Queste.”
“Rubbish,” said Marcia.
38
TRACKED DOWN
M errin Meredith was biting the head off a licorice snake when Simon burst through the door.
“You stupid little worm,” hissed Simon.
Merrin leaped to his feet in terror.
“Give me Sleuth before I bite your head off. You thief.”
“Baaaaaah…” Merrin was paralyzed.
“Give me Sleuth. Now.”
Desperately, Merrin fumbled through the pockets of his new Manuscriptorium tunic. He had so many pockets—which one had he put Sleuth in? Simon Heap stared at Merrin, a fierce, greenish glint shining from his narrowed eyes.
“Give…me…Sleuth,” he intoned.
With relief, Merrin’s trembling fingers closed around the tracker ball. He pulled it from his pocket, hurled it at Simon and shot off into the depths of the Manuscriptorium. Simon lunged to catch the ball but Merrin’s terrified throw was wide and fast. It hurtled past Simon and, as the Manuscriptorium door opened with a sharp ping, Sleuth was deftly caught by the twenty-sixth visitor to the Manuscriptorium that day—Marcia Overstrand.
“Well caught,” said Marcellus, the twenty-seventh visitor.
Simon Heap stood gasping. He opened his mouth and a bleating noise—surprisingly like the one Merrin had made a minute before—trickled out.
“Well, well,” said Marcia. “Mr. Heap. Now remind me, Mr. Heap, about when we last met. Was it up in my rooms perhaps, after a little trouble with a particularly nasty Placement?”
“I—I, yes. It was.” Simon Heap blushed. “That was kind of a mistake. I—I’m very sorry.”
“Well, that makes it all right, then.”
“Does it?” Simon said, brightening. Suddenly the possibility of being accepted back at the Castle lifted the burden he had carried ever since the night of Septimus’s Apprentice supper, when he had been stupid enough to canoe off into the Marram Marshes and look for DomDaniel’s bones.