‘There is also a disturbance in the interior arrangement of your lungs,’ he said. ‘Most interesting. Again, there is magical contamination of a high order, but I think I could probably lessen the underlying condition. Would you like me to proceed?’
‘Uh, I’m not sure,’ said Arthur. He took a breath. He couldn’t completely fill his lungs, but it wasn’t too bad. ‘I think I’ll wait. It’ll be all right when I get back in the House.’
‘Just the leg brace, then,’ said Doctor Scamandros. ‘And amelioration of the pain.’
He slid his stubby telescope into one pocket of his greatcoat and, reaching inside, took out a flat tin labelled with the picture of a bright red crab. It had a key stuck to it, which Scamandros now broke off, connected to a tab, and used to wind back the metal lid. There was a whole small crab inside, but the Denizen only broke off one of its legs. He put the leg on the sand and passed his open palm across the tin, which disappeared.
Arthur watched with both curiosity and anxiety as Scamandros picked up the tiny crab leg and held it high in his left hand. A thick carpenter’s pencil appeared in his right hand, and he used this to lightly sketch several lines and asterisks on Arthur’s leg. Then he clapped his hands, still holding both pencil and crab leg.
The two objects disappeared and at the same time, the remnants of Arthur’s modern cast were instantly replaced by an armoured section of red-and-white-speckled crab exoskeleton, jointed at the knee and ankle.
‘As for the pain,’ Scamandros said, scribbling on a piece of paper with a pen that trailed glowing crimson ink, ‘take this prescription.’
Arthur took the page of heavy, deckle-edged paper. It was very hard to read, but he made it out eventually:
Apply pain-lessening paper to painful area once
Dr. J. R. L. Scamandros, D.H.S.
(Upper House, Failed)
‘What does D.H.S. stand for? And . . . excuse me . . . why do you put ‘failed’ on it?’ Arthur asked as he touched the paper to his leg, directly above the break, where it hurt most. The paper crumbled as he spoke, paper-dust forming a miniature tornado that appeared to go straight through his new cast and into his leg. A moment later, the dull pain there started to ebb.
‘It stands for Doctor of House Sorcery,’ said Scamandros. ‘A very high degree, which I so very nearly possess. Honesty necessitates me to reveal my failure, but it was only in my final year. Seven hundred and ninety-eight years of successful examinations, only to fall at the end. Politics, you understand! But I do not wish to speak of that.
‘Let us talk of you instead, Arth. You hold a magical book of great potency in your pocket, too potent for me to even touch without your leave. Your very flesh and bones reek of past magics. You are found on a buoy of the infamous pirate Feverfew, in the Border Sea of the House. Yet you are a mortal, or mostly so. Tell me, on what world in the Secondary Realms do you make your home?’
Arthur almost answered ‘Earth,’ but restrained himself just in time. Scamandros had certainly helped him, but there was something about the look in his piercing brown eyes that made Arthur think the fewer secrets he knew the better.
‘Passenger Arth! The Captain’s compliments, and you are to join him for a beachside supper!’
Ichabod’s call was very welcome. Arthur struggled to his feet, pleasantly surprised to find that his leg was well supported by the crab armour. Scamandros helped him find his balance.
‘We shall speak more, and soon, Arth,’ the Doctor said. Arthur noticed that his tattoos were starting to crawl across his face again, emerging from the skin like a blush. The Denizen leaned in close as Arthur started to step away, and added, ‘Or should I say Arthur, Master of the Lower House and Lord of the Far Reaches?’
Nine
ARTHUR FELT AS I F Doctor Scamandros was watching his back the whole time it took to stomp across the beach to an open-sided tent, where he could see Captain Catapillow, Concort, and Sunscorch sitting at a long, white cloth-covered table. Lanterns hung at the tent’s corners, their soft yellow glow in stark contrast to the strange scarlet twilight.
As he walked across the beach, Arthur was thinking furiously. Was Scamandros threatening to reveal his real identity? It hadn’t sounded like a threat, but he couldn’t be sure. What did the sorcerer want? Who did he serve? He was trained in the Upper House . . . or so he said. He could easily be a servant of one of the Morrow Days, who would do anything to stop Arthur from liberating any more of the Will.
‘Mind the barrels,’ said Ichabod, leading Arthur between two pyramids of different-sized barrels. There was a huge amount of stuff on the beach, all of it very carefully stacked and ordered. Barrels and boxes and crates and bags. And there in the tent, in front of the table, was Feverfew’s chest. Arthur wondered how they’d taken it away without waking him up. Perhaps he’d already slid forward into the sand by that point.
‘Bring the passenger forward, Ichabod,’ ordered Captain Catapillow. He had a writing book open in front of him, and a pen and inkwell, as did Concort. Sunscorch had a huge, thick, leather-bound tome the size of several bricks.
It looked more like a court bench than a dinner table. And ‘passenger’ had sounded awfully like ‘prisoner’.
‘Stand in front of the Captain and bow,’ whispered Ichabod, nudging Arthur forward. The boy complied, inclining his head not just to the Captain, but also to Concort and Sunscorch. Catapillow and Concort gave the slightest nods back, and Sunscorch winked, which Arthur found encouraging.
‘Now, due to, ah, the irregular nature of the last day, we have not been able to, er, keep up-to-date the log of our good ship Moth,’ said Catapillow, leaning forward to fix Arthur with his unsteady stare. ‘Wishing to be, ah, beforehand with such records and intending to inscribe you as a passenger has reminded me that we do not, ah, know who you are, where you are going, or what fare you should be charged. There is also the matter of this treasure.’
He leaned back when he’d finished talking and folded his hands together.
‘You want to know who I am?’ asked Arthur. He wasn’t sure whether Catapillow’s speech actually needed to be answered.
‘Indeed,’ said Concort. ‘That is of the essence. Who are you? Where are you from? Where are you going? How did you come to be on Feverfew’s buoy? Why did you remove the telltale red pitch from the marker so that we didn’t know whose treasure it was below? Do you claim the treasure yourself?’
‘Well . . .’ said Arthur slowly, stalling as he tried to think of some answers that wouldn’t get him into trouble. Clearly, Scamandros already knew or strongly guessed who he was. Would it be any worse if the others knew as well? He needed help — to find Leaf, for a start.
It would be a big gamble. Sunscorch would support him, he thought, because he had the Mariner’s disc. Ichabod seemed to like him. Catapillow and Concort were kind of stupid, even if they were technically in charge, so perhaps they didn’t matter too much. Doctor Scamandros . . . Arthur really wasn’t sure about that Denizen, but after he’d recovered from having his fingers burned by the Atlas he’d been nice enough. The crab armour on Arthur’s leg worked really well . . .
‘Speak up!’ ordered Concort. His voice suddenly squeaked, which removed all authority from it.
‘My real name is Arthur Penhaligon,’ Arthur said slowly. ‘I am a mortal from Earth. But I am also Master of the Lower House and of the Far Reaches, though I have given up my Keys in trust to Dame Primus, who was once Parts One and Two of the Will of the Architect.’
Catapillow’s mouth curled up at one end as Arthur spoke. Then he broke out in uproarious laughter, followed a second later by Concort. Sunscorch neither smiled nor laughed, but looked down at the huge book in front of him.
‘Very good, very good,’ Catapillow chortled. ‘Master of the Lower House and the Far Reaches! Arthur Penhaligon! Most amusing!’
‘But I am Arthur Penhaligon!’
‘Yes, yes, you’ve had your joke,’ said Catapillow. ‘Now you must answer our quest
ions.’
‘Most specifically, do you intend to claim this treasure?’ added Concort.
‘No, I really am Arthur Penhaligon! Why don’t you believe me?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ replied Catapillow. ‘Everyone knows Lord Arthur is a mighty fighter! Why, he defeated Mister Monday in personal combat and wrestled Grim Tuesday to the ground and broke both his hands. Besides, I’ve seen a picture of Lord Arthur. Huge, broad-shouldered chap, carries a bag full of magical apparatus he invented himself.’
‘Not to mention he always travels with his giant half-bear, half-frog assistant,’ said Concort. ‘And an assassin girl who used to be the Piper’s bodyguard.’
‘What?’ asked Arthur. ‘You mean the Will and Suzy Blue?’
‘It’s all here, you know,’ said Concort, pulling out a tiny book from his sleeve. It expanded into a large hardcover, bound in red, with the title embossed in enormous gilt letters on both the spine and front cover, The Epic Adventures of Lord Arthur, Hero of the House.
‘Look, the frontispiece is a portrait of Lord Arthur.’
Concort held the book open to show a colour plate that had been stuck in next to the title page. It showed a very tall, handsome man who looked and dressed rather like Monday’s Noon. He was posing next to an open carpetbag that was glowing with rainbow-coloured light. A bizarre, hunched-over monster that had the legs of a frog and the upper body and front paws of a bear crouched next to him, and in the background an Amazon woman in silver armour was cutting the head off a misshapen semi-human creature that was clearly supposed to be a Nithling.
‘So, who are you?’ asked Concort again, snapping the book shut. ‘And let’s be clear this time, what about the treasure?’
‘What about the treasure?’ asked Arthur as he tried to gather his thoughts. It hadn’t even occurred to him that they might doubt his identity. But it was clear that both Concort and Catapillow’s main concern was the treasure. ‘I don’t even know what the treasure is. Do I have a claim to it?’
Catapillow and Concort looked at Sunscorch.
‘It looks as if that’s so,’ said the Second Mate, tapping the book in front of him. ‘Doctor Scamandros had a reading of the laws for me, and it looks to be that young Arth here is entitled to ninety per cent of the value of this treasure.’
‘Ninety per cent!’ exclaimed Catapillow and Concort. Catapillow added, ‘Doctor Scamandros! How can this be so?’
Arthur hadn’t seen the Doctor, but the Denizen stepped into the light from beside the table, so he must have followed Arthur and then stood in the shadows.
‘According to The Blue Book of Admiralty, a fixed buoy treasure marker is itself considered a vessel. This young mortal here was in command of the vessel by virtue of being on it. Mister Sunscorch took him off at his request, but Arth did not relinquish command of the buoy, which marked the treasure, and which was not taken in tow. By taking the chest and not the buoy as well, the vessel is still considered to be afloat and the treasure it marked notionally still of it, though no longer marked by it. The matter is further complicated as the treasure was the property of a pirate outlawed by direct writ of Lady Wednesday. So it is considered immediately forfeit and property of the House authorities, with a reward equal to an amount of ninety per cent of the value of the treasure being paid to the finder. We are not the finder, Arth is, as demonstrated by the unfortunate fact that he is marked with the Red Hand. We are in the position of having salvaged the finder, and must come to some arrangement with him. But should Arth wish to be returned to that buoy with the chest, we must do so.’
‘I’m not sure I followed that,’ said Arthur. ‘You’re saying the treasure has to be given to Wednesday because it belongs to a pirate? And I’m entitled to a reward equal to ninety per cent of its value because I found it first?’
‘Yes,’ said Scamandros. ‘However, we do not have to help you. We can simply return you and the chest to the treasure marker. There is also the matter of the original owner of the treasure. So there is room to negotiate, I think.’
‘Sure.’ Arthur tried to smile as he spoke. It sounded crazy to him, but no crazier than some of the court reports on the news back home. Murderers who weren’t murderers because of weird technicalities. Companies that didn’t have to pay debts because of odd loopholes. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘We should first find out what’s in the chest,’ said Doctor Scamandros. ‘Do we have your permission to open it?’
‘Yes!’ exclaimed Arthur. He was surprised they hadn’t opened it already. He would have if they’d been asleep all afternoon.
‘I have taken the precaution of examining the chest with various magical instruments,’ Scamandros continued. ‘And I have neutralised a number of nasty little traps. So it should be quite safe to open. Just flip back those two catches and turn the key.’
‘There wasn’t a key there before,’ said Arthur.
‘Yes, I had to fashion one to fit,’ said Scamandros. ‘Go ahead, open it.’
‘Why do you want me to open it?’ asked Arthur. Scamandros knew who he really was, and there was still something slightly shifty about the sorcerer. He wouldn’t quite meet Arthur’s gaze. ‘What if there’s a trap you missed?’
‘I am merely following correct procedure. It is your —’ ‘Stand back, lad,’ interrupted Sunscorch, who had left the table. ‘Best to let a Denizen bear the brunt of any trickery. You mortals are too fragile.’
‘Thanks,’ muttered Arthur. He felt a bit bad now, as if he’d been a coward, but Sunscorch seemed to think it was perfectly sensible of him to refuse. He smiled and nodded at the boy as he walked past and knelt before the chest.
Sunscorch lifted the two clasps at the same time. They snapped back with a loud click, immediately followed by a strange popping noise that made Arthur jump, till he realised that it was actually the sound of the entire crew of the Moth drawing in breaths of anticipation. They were all gathered around in a half circle up the beach, beyond the lantern light. The last of the vermilion twilight had faded, so the Denizens were just dark outlines, but Arthur could sense their concentration on Sunscorch and the chest.
The Second Mate turned the key. It played musical notes as it turned several times in the lock.
Ting-ting-ting-ting-ting …
Each note seemed like it would be the last. Finally the key stopped, and instead of a jangled note, there was a soft snick as the lock released. Sunscorch leaned forward and lifted the lid.
‘Ahhhh!’ came from a hundred throats.
‘Is that all?’ asked Arthur, looking over Sunscorch’s shoulder. The contents of the chest looked very disappointing to him. It was full of little off-white blocks carved with letters. They looked like cheap mah-jong pieces.
Sunscorch didn’t answer. He seemed quite stunned. Looking around, Arthur saw that nearly everybody else was as well. They were all staring with their mouths open.
Except for Doctor Scamandros. He bent down and picked up one of the small blocks and tilted it so the character carved into its surface caught the light.
‘A deep, racking cough,’ pronounced Scamandros. ‘Fixed in auriphant ivory from Senhein. Good for twenty years or more, as House time flows.’
He put it back again and took out another piece.
‘A roseola rash around the neck, head, and ears,’ said Scamandros. ‘Fixed in wood-fired clay. Good for at least a decade in the House.’
Arthur knew that human diseases were valued by the Denizens of the House. They would get the symptoms, but not feel the effects. So these little blocks of ivory and clay were how the diseases were actually used by the Denizens, and would presumably be in demand. But what were they worth?
‘This is a great treasure,’ said Doctor Scamandros. ‘A very great treasure. There must be twenty thousand coughs, rashes, swellings, and other diseases here, all of the highest virulence and fixed by first-class sorcery. I would guess its value to be in excess of a million simoleons of gold.’
His words we
re met by a vast cheer from the crew, who began to sing and dance around and throw their caps in the air.
‘And ninety per cent of it is mine?’ asked Arthur. He could barely make himself heard above the uproar.
‘Notionally,’ replied Scamandros. ‘As I said, if you want both yourself and the treasure to remain salvaged, you must come to an agreement with Captain Catapillow.’
‘Feverfew will never bear this loss,’ muttered Sunscorch, who was still staring at the open chest. He pointed at a small bronze plaque set on the underside of the chest’s lid. As his finger touched it, the letters engraved there burst into red fire, and a booming voice roared across the beach:
‘THIEVES! THIEVES! THIEVES! This be the treasure of Captain Elishar Feverfew! The Red Hand marks you! Feverfew’s vengeance shall be swift and slow: swift in the taking, slow in the making. Regret and repentance shall prove no —’
Whatever else the voice was going to shout stopped as Doctor Scamandros tapped the plaque with an ebony paper knife that materialised in his hand. Silence fell over the beach, the only sound the lapping of the waves on the shore. The Denizens’ songs and cheer were gone, replaced by a mood of dread.
‘I’m the only one with the Red Hand,’ said Arthur. ‘Aren’t I?’
‘Yes,’ said Doctor Scamandros. ‘Though Feverfew would kill or enslave anyone sailing with you, or giving you aid.’
‘You’re a sorcerer — can’t you get rid of it?’
‘No. It is beyond my power. Feverfew is an expert in magics I do not wish to know.’
Arthur looked down at the treasure, then at his red hands.
‘So you’re all at risk from Feverfew while I’m around?’
‘Indeed. Though, in truth, Feverfew kills or enslaves everyone he encounters anyway. But the Red Hand marks you for a particularly long and unpleasant ending, and we would probably share in it.’
‘Can you send messages to other parts of the House? And can you find out what’s happening to someone if they’re in the House? I mean, by sorcery.’