‘I don’t know,’ said Arthur. It was difficult to tell what was happening. There were still at least a thousand sorcerers, plus Saturday herself. They’d made a kind of shield-ring of open umbrellas, and from behind that they were shooting spells of fire and destruction, explosion and implosion, unravelling and transformation. But there were at least as many of the beetles, and they were ripping sorcerers out of the shield wall and pulling them apart with their long pincer jaws.
‘She’s winning this round,’ said the Will. ‘She’s using the Key on them, as well as ordinary sorcery. Look.’
Saturday loomed tall in the middle of her troops, with two almost-as-tall Denizens at her side. She held the Sixth Key almost casually, like an orchestra conductor might hold her baton. As Arthur watched, she carefully wrote something in the air. A line of cursive, glowing letters twined out of the pen to make a flowing ribbon in the air.
When Saturday finished writing and flicked the pen, the ribbon of words flew over the heads of her sorcerers and bored straight through first one beetle, then another and another and another, as if it were a thread flowing behind the needle of a quick-handed seamstress. Wherever it passed, whether through head or limb or carapace, the beetle fell to the ground and did not move again.
‘I think now is the opportunity,’ said the Will. ‘Claim the Key. It will come to you when you call.’
‘But she’s still got a ton of sorcerers, and those beetles are dropping like . . . like flies,’ said Arthur.
‘I know, but what else is there to do?’ asked the Will. ‘I told you I’m not so good with plans. Besides, she’s going to notice us in a second.’
‘Think. I have to think,’ muttered Arthur. He looked around. Where could he go if he got the Key? The trees were too far away, and probably housed more horrible insects. He had no idea what lay beyond them. He had no idea if Lord Sunday would intervene, and if he did, on whose side.
Saturday’s use of the Sixth Key had already been decisive, in only a matter of seconds. At least half of Sunday’s beetles lay dead or at least immobile around the ring of defensive umbrellas. More were falling, to the cheers of Saturday’s sorcerers.
‘She’s noticed us,’ said the Will. ‘Sorry about that. I think I moved my wings too much.’
Saturday was staring straight at Arthur, and so were her two cohorts, her Noon and Dusk.
Arthur looked behind him and made a decision. Transferring the Fifth Key to his left hand in one swift motion, he held up his right hand and called out as loudly as he could.
‘I, Arthur, anointed Heir to the Kingdom, claim the Sixth Key—’
Lightning flashed from Saturday’s hand. It forked to her Noon and Dusk, and then forked again to the sorcerers around them, splitting again at the next lot of sorcerers. Within a second, it had a hundred branches, and then in another second, a thousand, the force of Saturday’s spell multiplying exponentially. As all the branches left the last line of outer sorcerers, they combined back to form a lightning strike greater than any ever produced by a natural storm.
The bolt came straight at Arthur. He raised the mirror, thinking to divert or reflect it, but it was too strong. He was blasted off his feet and thrown back twenty . . . thirty feet . . . the Will cawing and shrieking at his side.
Arthur hit the dirt on the very edge of the hole. For a second he teetered there, on the brink. His hat fell off the back of his head, and the Will grabbed his arm so hard that golden blood welled up under the bird’s claws as its wings thrashed the air.
‘And with it the Mastery of the Upper House,’ shrieked Arthur as he finally lost his balance. ‘I claim it by blood and bone and contest . . .’
He fell, but even as he fell, he called out, his words echoing up to Saturday and her sorcerers.
‘Out of truth, in testament, and against all trouble!’
TWENTY-TWO
LEAF HAD ONLY managed to move twenty people when Martine came back. The older woman did not offer any explanation, or even talk. She just appeared as Leaf was grimly trying to lift one of the sleepers onto a bed, and took over. Leaf gratefully assumed the role of lifting legs as Martine heaved the sleepers up under the arms.
In an hour, they moved fifty people to the operating theatre complex and Leaf began to hope that there was a chance they would move them all. It was a small hope, but it was better than the drear fatalism that earlier had sat like a cold weight in her chest.
They were moving the fifty-first, fifty-second and fifty-third sleeper when the clock started to turn over again.
‘Oh, no!’ Martine cried as she saw the display slowly – very slowly – transform from 11:58 to 11:59.