Peter Nimble was a warrior who had faced death dozens of times in his career. He had fought bullies and sea serpents and kings and thieves and brigands and apes and even an entire army of rats. But none of that mattered at the moment, because right now he was scared.
When Sophie had said she needed some way to retrieve those books, he knew it was up to him. But what he had not reckoned until this very moment was that he was not his usual self. The smoke from the flaming beast and the screams from the mob had left his stronger senses effectively useless. All that remained were his emerald eyes.
It was difficult enough weaving through the crowd to get to the bridge, but once he had scaled the outer turret and begun climbing the first lamppost, he began to realize that what he was doing was impossible. One-handed boys were not meant to leap between lampposts. One-handed boys were not meant to fight their way through mobs or race headlong into the arms of flaming monsters. One-handed boys were not meant to be heroes.
“Er,” Sir Tode said from his place in Peter’s burgle-sack, which was dangling perilously from Peter’s thin shoulder. “What’s the holdup?”
“I . . . I can’t do it,” Peter said. His one good arm was wrapped tightly around the iron post. A cold sweat prickled across his brow. He could feel his hand slipping. The lamppost shuddered and swayed as people raced past it, fighting to reach the shore. He swallowed, trying to slow his heartbeat, which was pounding loudly in his ears. “The emerald eyes . . . I can’t concentrate . . . I can’t focus . . .”
“It’s nothing you haven’t done a hundred times before.” Sir Tode screwed up his snout. “Can’t you just shut your eyes and pretend you have the blindfold on?”
“There’s too much noise and smoke,” Peter said. “I can’t hear or smell anything.” He clenched his jaw, looking away from the crowd—a dizziness had overtaken him, and it felt as if the entire world were spinning.
He tried to focus on the next lamppost, but the gap was impossibly wide. The height from the ground was farther still. If he slipped and fell, he would be trampled by the mob. And even if he made it, he would be running right into the arms of the flaming Zeitgeist. He felt a twisting in his stomach, recalling again the sight of Prigg being eaten alive, his body consumed in flames.
The Zeitgeist roared on the opposite shore, its hot breath creating a rash of steam atop the water. “I have to get down,” Peter said, loosening his grip. “I have to get down now.”
“Peter,” Sir Tode said. “Look at me!”
It was not a request. Peter swallowed and turned toward his friend—a friend whose face he hardly recognized in plain sight. Sir Tode stared at him, holding his gaze. His yellow eyes were wide and unblinking, and it was difficult for Peter to tell whether the knight was scared or angry or both. “Now, I’ve seen you escape death a hundred times,” Sir Tode said. “I’ve seen you walk a wire across the towers of Moog. I’ve seen you steal the gold fillings out of a sleeping pirate’s mouth. I’ve seen you fend off three angry bugbears with nothing but a bar of soap and your wits. I’ve seen you swipe a bullet from a loaded pistol.” His feline face crinkled. “You are Peter Nimble, Heir to the House of HazelPort, Vagabond King of the Wild Seas, the Silver-Handed Terror, and the Greatest Thief Who Ever Lived . . . and that girl back there needs you.”
Peter swallowed, staring out at the long bridge, at the mob of screaming people, at the hundred-foot flaming monster waiting to greet him on the other side. “I . . . I think I can make it . . .” he said weakly.
“This is no time for I think,” Sir Tode snapped. “If that beast crosses the bridge, this city and everyone in it will burn. It’s up to us to stop that.” He settled into the burgle-sack, bracing himself. “If we’re to meet our end, let us meet it like heroes. With our eyes open. And our weapons held high.”
Peter nodded, adjusting his feet on the post. He fixed his gaze on the next lamppost—forcing out every other thought, every other image, every other fear. He gripped the horizontal bar at the top of the lamp and swung his body around like a gymnast, turning again and again, moving faster and faster until the entire world was a blur. And then he let go . . .
They say time waits for no man, but that first leap between lampposts was without question the longest moment in Peter’s life. As he soared, screaming, he could see the lamppost moving slowly toward him, growing ever larger as he approached, his arms and legs swinging wildly through empty air . . .
Peter’s body struck the far lamppost with a bone-breaking clang that resounded through his entire body. He gripped the iron with both arms and legs, hanging upside down like a clumsy possum. “I did it!” he cried.
“Well done!” Sir Tode said. “Only a dozen more to go!”
Peter pulled himself upright and looked to the next post. This leap, while technically the same distance as the first one, seemed smaller somehow, and Peter managed to make it with little trouble.
By the fifth lamp, he was almost enjoying himself as he bounded through the air above the stampeding crowd. “Bravo!” Sir Tode cheered as Peter managed a final backflip before landing lightly at the far end of the bridge. “I think I shall have to devote an entire chapter to this little adventure! I’ll call it ‘A Leap of Faith.’”
Peter crouched low to the ground, bracing himself against the tremendous heat radiating from the Pyre. He stared up at the Zeitgeist, which was towering directly above him now, burning books spilling from its maw. “Hold on tight,” Peter said, and he raced headlong into the flames.
“On your right!” Sir Tode shouted.
Peter dove to one side as the beast’s tail smashed down upon the spot where he had been only a heartbeat before. Earth and rock exploded from the impact. He tumbled sideways across the ground and scrambled back to his feet. Not as graceful as he would have liked, but he was still alive.
Peter stared at the hazy field, searching for the place where Inquisitor Prigg had been. Piles of burning books lay scattered across the field like charred corpses. “Where are the Four Questions?”
“Up ahead!” Sir Tode shouted, pointing a hoof. Through the smoke and rubble, Peter could see a bag dangling from a piece of flaming wood.
“Hold on!” Peter cried, racing toward it.
He snatched the bag, opening it. Inside were the four books—Who, What, Where, and When—slightly singed but still intact. “Now we just have to get them back to—”
“Jump!” Sir Tode cried.
Peter dove down from the podium just as the beast’s tail swished through the air directly above his head. The wooden podium shattered into flaming splinters. “Thanks for the heads-up,” Peter said as he raced to the opposite shore.
The way back across the bridge was made much easier by the fact that Peter was no longer running against the crowd. Indeed, the mob of people very nearly carried him across as they pushed and shoved and scratched and bit to get clear of the rampaging Pyre.
“Miss me?” Peter shouted, throwing the bag toward Sophie as he met her on the street. It was not a very good throw, but she caught the bag nonetheless.
“You have no idea,” she answered. He caught a spark in her eyes that he wished he could have seen more of. Sophie held the bag over her head and cried, “What if!” At once, the four books burst from the bag and floated around her, awaiting her command.
People screamed as the bridge shifted beneath them, one of its railings collapsing into the river. Men, women, and children slid off their feet and splashed into the dark water below. “The walls of the canal are too high,” Peter said. “They’ll drown before they can reach shore.”
“Then we had better save them,” Sophie said, drawing back her sleeves. Peter stared at the girl, her dark hair twisting in the wind, the four books floating around her, her skin orange against the glow of the Pyre. He had not actually ever met a sorcerer in his life, but he thought that she looked the part.
Sophie spoke loudly over the chaos. “What can save the people in the river?” No sooner did she say the words than
The Book of What came to life and flipped to an entry.
Peter watched her expression as she leaned over the page to read the answer, a slight grin on her face. “What does it say?” he shouted, struggling against the mob to stand in one place. “What do we need?”
She looked up at him, her grin breaking into a smile.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
EVERYTHING but the KITCHEN SINK
Sophie stared at the entry in The Book of What:
THE LAST RESORT
“The Last Resort,” she said aloud, and instantly a cold shiver of wind swept through her. Her entire body was trembling, and for a brief moment she felt as though she were standing outside of herself. She searched the horizon for some sign that the summoning had worked.
“There!” Peter shouted. “By the pier!”
Sophie ran with him to the edge of the canal. Hundreds of people were splashing and sputtering, trying to keep afloat on whatever scraps of burning debris they could find. An eerie green light appeared deep beneath the surface of the water. It was a light Sophie recognized. “Sprites . . .” she said.
The light grew brighter and brighter, and then, with a tremendous splash, the top of the lighthouse burst from the surface of the river like a mortar shell from a cannon. It rose high into the air before crashing back down onto the surface of the river.
The Zeitgeist snarled as water splashed up against the bridge, which was currently buckling under its mountainous weight. It swiped at the top of the lighthouse, which bobbed just beyond its reach. Sophie drew the hair from her eyes and stared at the rickety wooden tower. It was broken and burned but still in one piece. And there, shouting orders on the deck—
“Pilgrims, hold fast!”
It was Scrivener Behn! And Saint Martin! And Liesel the barkeep! And a dozen other pilgrims, along with a handful of (very confused) guards who had been aboard when the Last Resort was cut from its moorings. They were all of them working together to keep the structure intact.
“Behn!” Sophie thought her heart might burst from the joy of seeing him alive.
“Ahoy, Storyguard!” Scrivener Behn cried out, a hand held high. “It seems our story is not yet told!”
The Zeitgeist roared again, swiping a fiery claw at the keeling lighthouse. “We have to get those people out of the water before they drown,” Sophie cried.
Already, Scrivener Behn and the pilgrims had started pulling people from the water onto the vessel. That their rescuers were magical creatures aboard a sprite-fueled lighthouse did not seem to trouble those drowning in the Wassail.
Madame Eldritch, who was standing beside Sophie, opened her eyes wide. “Impossible,” she whispered. “Nothing returns from the Uncannyon.” Her fingers drifted up to Taro’s hand, nestled closely on her shoulder.
Sophie watched the rescue on the river, her heart nearly bursting at the thrill of it. Hundreds of people saved from drowning. “I did that,” she said, breathless. “I summoned the Last Resort from thin air!” She stared at the four books floating before her—unlimited power awaiting her command.
Akrasia moved beside her. “I do not mean to interrupt your moment of triumph, Storyguard, but the battle is far from won. The beast approaches.”
Sophie looked at the bridge. The Zeitgeist was now thundering toward the opposite shore—straight for the main city.
“Peter,” she said, “you and Sir Tode have to get the remaining people as far from shore as possible. Keep them away from the newer buildings. Try to steer them toward the old quarter—stone burns slower than wood.”
“I’m not leaving you here to fight that thing alone,” Peter said.
“But I’m not alone—I have the books.” Even now, Sophie could feel the power of the Four Questions coursing through her body. There was a static crackle to the air that made the tips of her hair float like black fronds.
“I will stay with Sophie,” Akrasia said. “If the creature comes too near, I can speed her away.”
“Go,” Sophie said, looking straight into Peter’s eyes. “For once you actually have someone who wants to be rescued.”
Peter opened his mouth as though he wanted to say something more to her. But then he simply nodded and ran toward the frantic crowd.
Sophie watched his figure retreat into the distance. She felt a tightening in her chest as she thought about what might happen if they never saw each other again. “Right,” she said, turning back toward the bridge. “Time to slay a monster.”
She spread her arms out and spoke to the books. “What can stop the Zeitgeist?”
At once, The Book of What moved in front of her and opened to an entry. Sophie stared at the words, and her excitement quickly melted into confusion—
THE FOUR QUESTIONS: The books of Who, What, Where, and When, whose ancient pages chronicle all magic—past and present—in the world. The books are kept by the Storyguard, who are charged with their protection and responsible use of their power. Presently in possession of Sophie Quire, the Last Storyguard.
~For more information, see: Book of Who, “Sophie Quire,” “Storyguard”; Book of When, “Evensong”
“I don’t understand.” She grabbed the book, shaking it. “Why isn’t it answering my question?” Obviously the books could stop the beast—but how? She shut the book and asked the question again, but again the book returned to the same entry.
She snapped the book shut, shaking it. “What do you want from me?”
The Zeitgeist roared, tearing up the last lamppost and hurling it toward the city. People screamed as the lamppost slammed and skidded across the cobblestones, taking out several rows of storefronts.
Akrasia knocked Sophie down to protect her from shattering glass. “This is no time for questions,” she growled. “You must act.”
Sophie stood back up, wiping the dust from her eyes. If the books would not help her, she would have to do it herself. She scanned the horizon, looking for some inspiration, some idea of how to stop the Zeitgeist from crossing into the city. Her eyes fell on what remained of the two wolf statues at the mouth of the bridge.
“Who are the Wolves of Dawn?” she said in a loud voice.
At these words, The Book of Who snapped open and flipped to the entry—
THE WOLVES OF DAWN: Stone guardians of the ancient city of Bustleburgh. They defended the land from goblin hordes during the Long Solstice. Some say their mighty jaws cracked open the Splint Mountains, from which the Wassail River flows. The wolves stand guard on the eastern edge of Bustleburgh, which is currently being destroyed by a flaming Zeitgeist.
~For more information, see: Book of Where, “Splint Mountains,” “Bustleburgh,” “Wassail River”; Book of When, “Long Solstice”; Book of What, “Goblins,” “Zeitgeist”
The blue ink on the page glowed brightly, illuminating the hazy air. There came another rush of wind. Sophie stared up at the bridge. There was a great howling sound as the wolf statues came to life— ferocious titans made from living rock. The beasts tore themselves free from their bases and leapt in front of the Zeitgeist, hitting the ground with an earth-cracking crash. They growled and snapped their granite fangs at the flaming Pyre.
“It worked!” Sophie said. “It really worked!”
The crowds behind Sophie, having heard the howls, slowed their retreat and stared at the massive stone titans who had appeared to protect them. “The Wolves of Dawn” was a story every one of them had grown up hearing, but none of them had ever actually believed that it was true. The mythical beasts were now crouched before them, protecting them from invasion as they had a thousand years before.
The Zeitgeist and the wolves squared off—fire versus rock—neither making the first move. The wolves darted back and forth, snarling and snapping at the Zeitgeist. The flaming Zeitgeist shifted backward, raising its arms in self-defense. “It’s working!” Sophie said, grabbing Akrasia’s neck.
But Sophie spoke too soon. With a mighty howl, the wolves lunged for the Zeitgeist, but the Zeitgeist did not ret
reat. Instead, it simply opened its flaming maw wide and, with one, horrible, fiery gulp, consumed the wolves whole. Sophie heard pained yelps and the crunching of stone and then nothing.
There was a horrified moment of silence as everyone in Bustleburgh considered what had just happened: a thousand-year-old pair of titans had returned from the past to defend their city—and they had been killed in less time than it took to squash a mosquito.
The Zeitgeist reared its head, which seemed to have grown even larger. “With every piece of nonsense it eats,” Akrasia said, “it gets bigger.”
Sophie stared up at the approaching beast, feeling a hard chill of resolve. She had spent a lifetime preparing her mind for this moment, reading hundreds upon hundreds of stories—she was ready for this. She marched straight toward the beast, the books circling her torso, her tattered cloak flapping behind her. “You want nonsense?” she cried, drawing back her sleeves. “I’ll give you nonsense.”
What followed was a battle unlike any seen before in history. A lone girl—a Storyguard—summoning every manner of nonsense to defeat a flaming pyre of books. “What are storm billows?” she cried. “What are lightning wasps?” Artifacts and creatures not seen for millennia suddenly leapt from her pages in a flurry of magic. She tried to bind the Pyre with silkwyrms. She tried to petrify it with a Gorgon’s Mirror. She tried to smother it with a Pantagruelian Toad. She tried to freeze it with a Gelid Wind. She tried to plunge it into a Grazing Abyss. She tried to douse it in a Weeping Pot. She tried to shrink it with a Drink-Me-Not. One by one, the manxome monster scorched, smashed, shredded, and swallowed everything she threw at it. And with each piece of nonsense it consumed, the Zeitgeist only got bigger and angrier.
“This is impossible!” she shrieked in rage. The elation of possessing unlimited power had now given way to despair. Sophie had tried everything but the kitchen sink—and had there been an entry on kitchen sinks in the books, she might very well have tried that, too—with no success.