She glanced down at the cockatrice feathers she’d thrust through her belt. They had lost their reddish-gold color already, and when she touched them, they turned to dust, which fell down her leg, making a horrible muddy stain on her wet trousers.
“And ‘cockatrice feathers, just plucked,’ ” she said. “There must be a way to preserve them.”
“Here’s hail,” said Ardent, who was standing on his hind legs at a shelf farther down. “ ‘Hailstones, mountaintop, one day old, one doz.’ and then there’s more, up to a week old.”
Anya went over to the dog and took down the appropriate jar. It was very cold to touch, the hailstones inside solid and unmelted. She examined the top of the jar, noting that there was some kind of spell woven into the red wax and greased paper that sealed the metal lid.
“One dozen,” she said. “Twice what we need.”
She wrapped the jar with the map handkerchief and put it in her belt purse. Ardent, meanwhile, had gone back to look earlier in the alphabet.
“ ‘C-c-ockatrice feathers, freshly plucked, half doz,’ ” he read. “They’re wrapped up well.”
Anya went over to look. The cockatrice feathers were wrapped up like a parcel between boards that were wound with linen bandages. The label, in addition to identifying what was inside, carried the instruction Do not open until immediately before use.
Anya took a packet and thrust it through her belt.
“Right, that’s it, let’s get out of here,” she said.
At that moment, her eye fell on Denholm’s cage on the floor.
The bars were bent aside, and the frog prince was no longer there.
Denholm!”
Anya’s cry made Ardent spin around from where he’d been eyeing a very long spiral bone labeled Narwhal horn. Instantly taking in the empty cage, he ran forward with his nose to the floor, sniffing madly. The door to the hallway was shut, so he circled back. Catching the frog’s scent, he ran along the shelves towards the back of the room. Anya ran after him, with Shrub and Smoothie close behind.
It was quite dark down the far end, away from the lamp, but there was just enough light to see a door. Ardent was scratching at the base of it, around a hole that was big enough to allow a rat to get through.
Or a frog.
“He’s gone through,” said Ardent.
“The transformation spell,” said Anya. She tried the door, pushing and pulling on the iron ring, but it wouldn’t budge. “Makes him resist anyone who can change him back. Now that I have all the ingredients, it must have got stronger. Why is this door locked?!”
“Use the skeleton key!” urged Shrub.
“Quickly,” Ardent barked. “His scent is fading. He’s moving away!”
Anya got out the key, almost fumbling in her haste. As she started to turn it, the lock groaned. Then, as it opened, it let out a shill scream, rather like one of Morven’s.
Everyone jumped.
“Alarm lock,” said Shrub with professional respect. “Very tricky.”
Anya didn’t respond. She threw the door fully open and they raced up the stair beyond.
Denholm was a dozen steps above them, hopping madly towards an open archway leading to the next floor. It clearly led to the inhabited, rebuilt part of the meetinghouse, because it was lit up.
Ardent raced ahead, leaping the steps four at a time.
“Be careful!” Anya called out as she ran after him, visions of Denholm crushed in Ardent’s jaws flashing through her mind. She knew the dog could retrieve things without hurting them, but wasn’t sure he would remember that in the excitement of the moment.
She burst through the archway and almost fell over Ardent, who had stopped and was sitting on his haunches. Anya didn’t need to ask why—she could see for herself.
The archway led into another large chamber like the alchemical storeroom below, but this was a much stranger place. It was lit up, but not with lanterns. There were glowing vines that trailed down from the beams of the roof high above, and glowing fungi that was trained to grow on certain bricks in the walls.
These unusual lights illuminated a steaming tropical garden. Ferns of all shapes and sizes and strange bushes with iridescent hanging fruit in red and yellow and green clustered in groups around cleverly sculpted ornamental pools. Tiled paths wound between the smaller pools, leading to a central square that was dominated by a single high-backed, throne-like chair of wrought iron that sat facing a much larger pool.
A pool entirely full of frogs.
Or not entirely full, because there was room for one more.
Denholm reached the pool with one last great leap and entered the water with a splash. Within a second Anya lost sight of him among all the other frogs that were lazing there on lily pads, swimming idly around, or gathered on the edges in quiet contemplation of their warm and comfortable home.
“I wonder how it stays so warm and clean,” said Smoothie.
“Sorcery,” said Shrub. He licked his eyes feverishly. “This is the Garden, the Grey Mist’s hangout! That’s her gloating chair, right there! We have to get out of here. Someone will have heard the lock alarm—”
“We have to collect all the frogs,” interrupted Anya. She thought for a second, then reached behind her, pulled the Wizard’s onion sack from her belt, and unfolded it. “We’ll put them in this, make it wet so they’re not too uncomfortable, take them away, and sort out Denholm later. Let’s go!”
The others weren’t listening. They were looking at a sudden gathering of steam or mist at the far side of the garden. It had just appeared, a cloud of thick fog that had coalesced out of nowhere and was now rolling along one of the tiled paths.
Straight towards them.
“The Grey Mist!” shrieked Shrub, and ran to the left.
Smoothie slid into the closest pool, paws searching for stones to throw.
Ardent barked once and ran forward, straight at the sorcerer.
Anya gabbled out the words of power for The Withering Wind and threw the spell at the sorcerer, at exactly the same time the Grey Mist cast a spell at Ardent. The spells clashed in the air, both becoming something else, not intended by the casters. This happened very occasionally in duels between sorcerers, and was generally acknowledged to be a very bad thing indeed, since the most common result was a catastrophic explosion.
This time, Anya’s spell became greatly more energized. Instead of just making the target think there were withering winds howling around her, it actually created withering winds. They cut into the fog like a woodcarver whittling a stick, sending shreds of mist flying in all directions. There was an awful howl from inside the cloud, and it began to rapidly retreat, losing substance with every step as the winds did their work.
The Gray Mist’s spell, typically, had been a transformation. Even before it was altered by Anya’s spell it probably wouldn’t have worked on Ardent, the royal dogs being so resistant to magic. But this time it bounced off his snout and landed on a nearby palm, and again would usually have done nothing. But changed as it was, it partly transformed the palm. It was unclear what the Grey Mist had been planning for, but the trunk of the palm grew eyes, and its fronds became long grasping arms. Fortunately, it didn’t seem to have grown much of a brain, for the arms whipped the air without intelligence, and were easily avoided.
Ardent kept going, and disappeared growling into the fog. Anya chased after him, drawing her knife. She didn’t know what else to do. At least the withering winds were still withering away, cutting off layer after layer of mist. The princess hoped it hurt the ancient sorcerer, and she couldn’t help but feel some curiosity. If the winds kept going, they would reveal whether there was anything inside the cloud of mist or not.
But that curiosity was not to be satisfied. The Grey Mist reached the far end of the garden, suddenly narrowed into a thin column, and sped through a small grille low in the wall. Ardent, jumping at it, bounced off and landed badly, spinning around to look embarrassed. The withering winds, the spell fading
, howled to the ceiling and were gone.
Anya cautiously inspected the grille. She could see another room on the other side, and a moment later heard a woman—presumably the Grey Mist—shouting, “Guards! Guards!”
“Bet she doesn’t c-c-come back,” said Ardent with satisfaction. He jumped up and licked Anya’s face. “Good work, Princess!”
“She’s calling for guards,” said Anya. She looked back from the grille and around the Garden, her mind racing. “The only good thing is I can’t hear any answering yet. We have to get out. But we still have to get the frogs first.”
“There’s a lot of frogs,” said Ardent dubiously. “You’ll never be able to c-c-arry a whole sackful—”
“Just get started! And be gentle, Ardent! Smoothie, you help. Here’s the sack. Shrub! Shrub, where are you?”
“Here,” said the newt, though Anya couldn’t see him.
“Find all the ways out of here we could use, or the guards can get in. I want to go up if we can. Onto the roof.”
“Up?” asked Shrub, emerging from under a low-hanging palm.
“Up,” confirmed Anya. “And open to the air. It’s past midnight isn’t it?”
“Sure,” said Shrub. “Must be.”
“Find us a way up, and let’s get these frogs.”
The next five minutes were full of frantic activity. The frogs, though not as active as the ones back in Trallonia, nevertheless soon worked out what was going on, and tried to escape their captors. They also set up a massive croaking that made it hard to hear, which was unnerving, since this made it impossible to detect approaching enemies.
Anya kept putting frogs in the sack as she strained her ears for other sounds. It would be very useful to hear the guards arriving before they suddenly found themselves at spearpoint. Or transformed, if the Grey Mist was brave enough to come back. Or if one of the other sorcerers happened to be in the meetinghouse.
“This one’s Denholm,” said Ardent, dropping a frog carefully into the sack. “I’m pretty sure. If I had time for a better sniff … ”
It was the third frog he’d said was Denholm, but Anya couldn’t waste time looking at each frog or letting Ardent sniff them. It was much faster to take them all and be sure she’d get the prince. The weight of responsibility from her sister promise felt heavy upon her, mixed with feelings of immediate dread due to the imminent arrival of enemies and the possibility her new escape plan wouldn’t work, as well as a general sense of concern about Morven and everybody else back home.
“Last one,” said Smoothie, throwing a frog in. She was much faster than the frogs, and could grab one in each paw-hand, and had also once got one in her mouth, but Anya asked her not to do that. Those teeth of hers were just too sharp, even though that particular frog seemed to have survived the experience.
“Are you sure?” asked Anya. “Everyone, look around.”
Everyone looked, and Ardent rummaged under every nearby fern with his snout, sniffing wildly.
“Shrub? You found a way out that’s not down?”
“Yes,” called the newt. “Over here.”
Anya tied up the top of the sack and dipped it in the water. It was very heavy, and she almost couldn’t lift it back out again.
“Smoothie, help me with this.”
Between the two of them, they carried the sack over to Shrub, who had been busy pulling vines away to reveal a very large boarded-up fireplace. The boards were old and rotten, so he’d got a few of those away as well, but only enough to make a hole wide enough for himself.
“A fireplace?” groaned Anya. “Shrub, we couldn’t get up a chimney even without this sack of frogs. We’ll have to go back down—”
“Someone coming up that way,” interrupted Ardent, ears pricked. He growled, low and deep. “Hobnailed boots and halberd staves striking the walls. But they’re going slow. Fearful, I’d say.”
“I bet they are,” said Shrub happily. “Having to go up against someone that sent the Grey Mist running will make ’em very cautious. Get these boards off and I’ll show you, Princess.”
“Show me what?” Anya was trying to think how they could scare the guards even more, to make them run away so the way back to the canal would be clear. Unfortunately, nothing was coming to mind.
“These big fireplaces here, that have the inglenook you can sit in, they have little staircases that follow the chimney up,” said Shrub. “That’s what I was supposed to come down when I was here last time, only I got the wrong chimney.”
Before Shrub had finished talking, Anya and Smoothie had put the sack down and were tearing away the rotten boards, with Ardent’s enthusiastic help. There was a very spacious inglenook behind—and, sure enough, in the right-hand corner, the beginning of a stair.
“But what do we do when we get to the roof?” asked Shrub. “With the alarm sounding, the guards will be all around the outside at street level.”
“We won’t go down to the street,” said Anya as she lifted the sack again. “We’ll go up.”
Ardent, who was busily ripping a piece of glowing vine down to trail along for light, said something muffled by the vegetation in his mouth. He spat it out for a moment and exclaimed, “Ah! It’s after midnight! The c-c-arpet. Good idea, Princess. If it comes when it’s c-c-called.”
He picked up the glowing vine again and bounded into the inglenook and up the stairs, his wagging tail dislodging a fine cloud of soot.
“Yes,” said Anya. Taking up the sack with Smoothie, they followed.
Neither noticed that Shrub quickly ran back to the central pool, went to the iron gloating chair, dug something out of the tiled path directly beneath it, and ate it. Not without difficulty, his mouth stretching very wide.
He made it back and into the inglenook as the first guards poked their heads very, very cautiously through the archway from the stairs below and looked around, their crossbows rather shakily held at the ready.
The questers emerged onto a flat area between two steeply arched roofs via a hatch in the huge chimney stack. They were very much blackened with soot, and Anya and Smoothie were already tired from carrying the sack of frogs. The frogs, noisy to begin with, had also quieted, which helped. Possibly the dark interior of the sack didn’t encourage vocalization.
“Ardent, call your carpet,” said Anya breathlessly. “I do hope it comes quickly.”
“If the c-c-carpet is like its owner, it will know the importance of obeying c-c-commands,” said Ardent. “We learn this as puppies, that even if you find a bone or something really good, a whistle is a whistle, and the c-c-command should never need to be given—”
“Ardent! Call the carpet!”
Ardent put his head back and called up to the stars and the distant, fleeting silver moon, which was already near the far horizon, the blue moon a slow runner-up far behind.
“Pathadwanimithochozkal! C-c-come here!”
“Say please,” hissed Anya urgently.
“Please c-c-come here, as fast as you can, oh noble and best of c-c-carpets, my friend Pathadwanimithochozkal!”
“Don’t overdo it,” said Anya. “It might think you’re being sarcastic.”
“Praise is good,” said Ardent. He looked out, up at the night sky and sniffed. “The air is better up here.”
“That wouldn’t be difficult,” said Anya. “We all still stink, though.”
“I don’t,” said Smoothie, which was true. She’d washed the stench of the sewers off in one of the Garden’s ponds. So she was sooty, but didn’t smell awful.
“The rest of us do,” said Anya, wrinkling her nose. She had never been so filthy and stinking. Sodden from below the waist with sewer water and covered all over in soot, she didn’t look or feel much like a princess.
“Here it c-c-comes!” proclaimed Ardent happily. He pointed with his nose up at a patch of sky where something flew swiftly, the light of the moon behind it.
Anya’s eyes narrowed.
It wasn’t the carpet.
“Down!?
?? hissed Anya. “Everyone down and quiet. It’s the Duke’s bone ship!”
Everyone lay down instantly. Anya turned her head a little so she could still see the ship, now thankful for the covering of soot that would make them hard to see in the night.
The bone ship flew past them, its great feathery sails trailed out to either side. It was about fifty yards away and fifty feet higher up, descending as it passed. Anya could see the Duke standing at the stern, directing the ship simply by moving his pallid hands as if he was conducting music. There were at least a dozen weaselfolk soldiers crouched down in front of him or hanging over the sides, their red eyes fixed on the ground below.
“It’s landing,” whispered Ardent. “Maybe he’s c-c-come for the festival, like Shrub said.”
“Or he’s got word we’re here,” said Anya grimly. “Come on, carpet!”
She searched the sky again, without getting up. As soon as the Duke landed he’d hear about the intruders, and unlike the Grey Mist, he wouldn’t be so easily scared off. His weaselfolk wouldn’t be as cautious as the human guards either …
Human guards.
Anya suddenly remembered them and crawled back to the hatch in the chimney. Sure enough, she could hear someone creeping up the steps. They were trying to be quiet, but that’s difficult when you’re wearing armor and hobnailed boots, and the stairway is very narrow.
“Guards are coming up,” she said urgently. She looked around for some way to wedge the hatch shut, but there was nothing on the roof. “Any sign of the carpet?”
“Please, great Pathadwanimithochozkal!” called out Ardent. “C-c-come quickly!”
Anya took out her knife and, with some regret, wedged the hatch shut with it, pushing it in right up to the hilt. It wouldn’t last long, but it would hold for a few minutes.
“We’ll have to go across the roofs,” she said. “Shrub, which way?”
Shrub made a kind of strangled noise but didn’t say anything. He raised one foot and pointed over the high peak of the roof to their left.