Maximilian said nothing.
‘WELL?’ said his uncle.
‘It’s very nice,’ said Maximilian.
‘NICE?’
‘It seems refined and elegant,’ Maximilian said, adding at the last moment, ‘Meister.’
A waiter dressed in long white robes brought pale ceramic dishes full of rose petals and warm water. Maximilian was about to tuck in to this strange-looking broth with a spoon until he saw that his uncle was dipping his hands in it. So he did the same. The waiter then brought small black velvety towels for Maximilian and his uncle to dry their hands. The next thing that came was a huge bottle of champagne.
The meal that followed must have cost a fortune. First, Maximilian and his uncle were brought large plates with a dozen oysters on each one. Maximilian copied his uncle, who would pick up an oyster, put a few drops from a bottle of red liquid onto it, then tip the contents of the shell into his mouth. The oysters were cold, slimy, fishy and somehow the most delicious thing Maximilian had ever tasted. He could easily have eaten a dozen more.
Next came a bright yellow soup. After that the waiter brought small bowls of crushed pink ice that tasted of herbs and fruit. Then, with a great deal of ceremony, the main course arrived. It was a whole boar’s head, complete with eyes and teeth, and surrounded with cherries, almonds and raisins. A jug of thick black sauce was presented along with it.
After the boar there was another herb sorbet, then a plate of thick, oozing cheeses with black, sticky bread. They reminded Maximilian of the most interesting meal he had ever eaten, which had taken place a long way from here. But perhaps this was now becoming the most interesting meal he had ever eaten. It was certainly the nicest by far. After the cheese came small, quivering custard tarts that tasted faintly of vanilla, cinnamon and nutmeg.
Meister Lupoldus ate slowly, as if he were considering each mouthful carefully before swallowing it.
‘So, you are to be my new Apprentice,’ he said, after he had finished his last custard tart and removed the enormous linen napkin that he had tucked into his frilly collar.
‘Yes, Meister,’ said Maximilian.
‘You desire to be a great mage?’
‘Yes, Meister.’
Meister Lupoldus nodded seriously. He nodded some more. Maximilian waited. His uncle seemed to be on the verge of saying something extraordinarily important. But then it became clear that he had fallen asleep. Maximilian wondered what to do. Waking his uncle would be the same as admitting he knew he was asleep. Maximilian had a feeling that the Meister would not want to be caught napping.
Maximilian considered flicking water at his uncle. Just as he was about to do so he found the waiter was looking at him sternly. Then his uncle woke up anyway.
‘Where was I?’ he said.
‘You were telling me how to become a great mage like you, Meister,’ said Maximilian.
‘Was I? Ah, yes. What skills do you have?’
Maximilian considered this.
‘I think I can read minds,’ he said.
‘You can do WHAT?’
‘Read minds. And sort of change them.’
‘At your level? IMPOSSIBLE. What else?’
Maximilian thought there was little point in telling his uncle what he could do if his uncle was simply going to tell him what he’d said was impossible. But he couldn’t think of anything else to do, so he carried on.
‘I almost went to the Underworld,’ he ventured.
‘ABSURD.’
‘I’m quite good at reading and research.’
‘That’s BETTER.’
‘I don’t mind doing difficult things.’
‘EXCELLENT. And have you yet been initiated into the way of the magus?’
Maximilian shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Good. We will initiate you soon, if I find you pleasing. If I do not find you pleasing, you will be executed. Now we must go.’
Maximilian followed his uncle back through the garden in something of a daze.
Outside, Franz was doing a handstand.
Maximilian wondered whether his uncle was going to shout at his servant, but so far he had not said anything at all mean to Franz. Franz looked at Maximilian and Meister Lupoldus from his inverted position and then slowly lowered his legs to the ground and stood up.
‘Your carriage awaits, sir,’ he said.
‘We will walk for a while,’ said Meister Lupoldus. ‘I desire to touch the poor.’
Maximilian was still trying to process the news that he might be executed. Surely he’d find some way of avoiding it. Perhaps he could run away? What sort of uncle would execute his nephew anyway? Surely not the sort of uncle who was now walking through the thin, dimly lit streets gently touching the arms and legs of any people he encountered. There were scrawny young children in rags, and women who wouldn’t have looked out of place in a workhouse Christmas pantomime. There were also a lot of thin, muscular men who obviously worked all day long and now looked very tired. The Meister touched them all as he passed. As he did so, he looked curiously peaceful.
‘What’s he doing?’ Maximilian asked Franz.
‘He is draining them,’ said Franz, matter-of-factly.
‘Draining them?’
‘He is taking their energy. He needs it for his magic, and for his digestion, which has been troubling him lately.’
‘But—’
‘I agree it is not a nice thing to do, if that’s what you were going to point out.’
‘But why choose these people? Some of them look as if they don’t have very much energy in the first place.’
‘Because they don’t complain. Their lifeforce is purer than the rich. And also because he likes it when they die.’
‘What?’
‘He gains great pleasure from killing the weak. It’s easier when they don’t have much lifeforce. He likes doing it to animals as well, because they are also easy. Well, most of them. Once he drained a strong, fully grown man and it took all night. But that was not for his energy, rather to punish him.’
For almost the first time in Maximilian’s life, he felt quite afraid.
‘We’re almost there,’ said Franz. ‘Don’t let him see you talking to me.’
‘Why not?’
But suddenly the thin cobbled street ended and Franz led the way into a large marbled square. All the buildings around the square were extremely impressive, but one loomed over all the others. OPERA HOUSE, said its ornate golden sign. Franz stood aside so that the Meister could make an entrance. After dinner he had seemed sleepy and dulled, but now he appeared magnificent. His eyes were bright and his skin gleamed. He was brimming with the pure lifeforce of the poor he had touched. It was a terrible and awesome sight.
Maximilian followed his uncle and Franz up red carpeted stairs. Everything around him was luxurious and beautiful. The ceilings were painted with images from heaven and the walls were decked with silk, gold brocade and exquisite paintings. There were marble pillars and vast chandeliers. But that was just the entrance hall and the staircase.
The inside of the opera house was like nothing Maximilian had ever seen. Everything was gold and covered with angels. There was a central seating area, just like in a normal theatre – not that Maximilian had ever been to the theatre, but he’d seen pictures. Around this area were the opera boxes: velvet-lined private cubicles from which the most important patrons could watch the performance without any disturbance. Each one was held up with gold pillars which were decorated with carvings of naked cherubs and what must have been ancient gods and goddesses.
Meister Lupoldus took his seat in the best box in the place and gestured for Maximilian to sit next to him. Franz sat just beyond the Meister. The orchestra began warming up and, even though they were not yet playing any actual music, the notes sounded deep and pure. Franz developed a quite dreamy look. Meister Lupoldus looked extremely satisfied with himself.
Then the opera began. Maximilian had never really listened to opera
before. Sometimes screechy sounds came out of the radio at home, but his mother immediately switched them off. Once a neighbour had joined the local operatic society and Maximilian had sometimes heard the painful but occasionally stirring sounds of her nightly practice. His mother said the noise was like a cat being strangled. Many of the other neighbours agreed with her, and they all clubbed together to ban the poor woman from practising within earshot of any other human beings.
But this was entirely different. This particular opera was mainly performed by women. They sang without microphones, and their pure voices filled the large theatre. Occasionally a man sang too, and his voice was exactly the voice Maximilian would like to have had for singing in the shower, not that he took many showers. But he sounded brave, interesting and complex – just how Maximilian would like to be.
The opera seemed to be about a love triangle that led to faked suicide and madness. Maximilian wondered if Mrs Beathag Hide was familiar with the story. She would probably like it. Franz seemed to be enjoying the performance as well. Every so often he closed his eyes and seemed to go somewhere else. He didn’t seem to be sleeping, though. He seemed, rather, to be in a kind of deep meditation.
Maximilian realised he was having both the best and worst evening of his life. The meal had been superb, and now he was hearing these divinely interesting sounds. But it was, of course, all in the company of a vampiric psychopath who probably meant to kill him. Perhaps this would also be the last evening of Maximilian’s life.
For the moment, however, Meister Lupoldus was fast asleep. Every so often he emitted a gentle snore. Maximilian didn’t want to think about his possible execution, so he let himself become entranced by the opera. Of course, most children hate opera because it is complicated and boring and you have to sit still for a long time. But we have already established that Maximilian was not like other children. And surely even the most philistine child would agree that opera is slightly better than being executed.
Twenty minutes later, it was all over.
Meister Lupoldus was awake and clapping and calling, ‘BRAVO!’
Franz looked rather dazed.
‘Now we will attend the GATHERING,’ said Meister Lupoldus.
Terrence Deer-Hart was an extremely attractive man. Or so his many fans told him in the letters they sent. The fans often sprayed their missives with perfume, and to each of them he sent back a mass-produced photograph of himself with his autograph scrawled on it by an assistant. His grown-up fans loved his abundant hair. But the last children he had met had said they thought his hair was ‘funny’. Funny. Young people were so cruel. He sighed as he ran the heated comb through his thick curls again.
He would have to remember not to swear this time. To use the word ‘flipping’ when he meant something much worse. And also not to smoke in the classroom. But really, it was just so flipping tiresome spending time with children. They were small, yes, but quite terrifying. The way they looked at you with their beady little eyes and then asked you questions about things. How much is a pint of milk? How the flip was Terrence supposed to know?
Mind you, it hadn’t been children asking him that. No. He remembered now. He’d been on the radio talking about his latest book and someone had phoned in from the Borders and suggested he was out of touch!!! Just because he had one – ONE – child playing with a set of wooden skittles and another one wearing a knitted pullover, they had called him old-fashioned!!! No one accused Laurel Wilde of being old-fashioned, with her flipping steam trains and picnic blankets and sandwiches wrapped in flipping greaseproof paper!!!
Terrence Deer-Hart only ever brought out his heated comb on very special occasions. He would not bother with it tomorrow for the children. But today he was meeting with the very most important person in his life: his publisher, Skylurian Midzhar. And he was going to convince her to put a stop to these silly school visits and finally allow him to write a book for adults, one in which he could use as many swear-words as he flipping well liked.
And perhaps this would also be the day when he told her his true feelings towards her. Surely it wouldn’t come as a surprise? And especially after all the kind things she had said recently about his hair, his skin, and of course his writing. He loved her. Yes, he thought to himself. He loved Skylurian Midzhar. But would she love him back?
8
There was no queue for the Otherworld. The last time Effie had come here it had been very crowded, and she’d had to wait for a long time before she was allowed through. But today there was no one around. Not even Festus. He must have gone through already. He’d certainly appeared to be in quite a hurry.
A woman in a floral dress was waiting with a scanning device. She was different from the woman who’d been on duty the last time Effie had come here.
‘Right,’ said the woman, scanning her. ‘M-currency is 1,003. One boon, a Ring of Strength, coming in at around a hundred pieces of dragon’s gold or twenty thousand M-currency. Next!’
‘Wait,’ said Effie. ‘Are you sure? I should have a lot more M-currency, and my ring isn’t . . .’
‘NEXT!’
A man at a desk had been writing down figures with his quill pen.
‘You’re not supposed to argue,’ he said.
‘But . . .’
‘She’s new,’ he whispered. ‘Now scram.’
‘NEXT!’
Effie hurried down the corridor and soon emerged in the Edgelands Market. The goblins who ran most of the first few stalls looked sleepy and a little bewildered. The sun was still in the process of coming up and everything looked pink and frail. The meteors had been dancing all night, more in the Otherworld sky than elsewhere, but were now becoming still. One lone meteor commenced its final fizzle into oblivion, then nothing.
The goblins left Effie completely alone. Effie hardly noticed them. She was worrying about what the woman on the door had said when she’d scanned her. She must have got it wrong because she was new. She hadn’t correctly identified Effie’s Ring of the True Hero after all. But 1,003 M-currency? That was absurd. Especially as Effie had been saving it up deliberately. She hadn’t been checking it very often, but the last time she’d been to Mrs Bottle’s Bun Shop for a cup of hot chocolate Lexy’s Aunt Octavia had told her she had had something like forty thousand. It must have been a mistake.
Effie headed straight for the book stall that had been here last time, walking past stalls both familiar and new to her. Deeper into the Otherworld no one used money for anything. But here all currencies were accepted, and most people traded in krubles or dragon’s gold. You could buy or sell magical, Otherworld objects alongside Realworld items that were rare in the Other-world. Effie walked past the usual stalls selling enchanted weapons, silk clothing and feathered hats, but was then amused to come across a stall she had never seen before that sold denim clothing and old mobile phones that people mainly used as torches.
The book stall was not where it had been last time Effie had been here, so she walked deeper into the market. She soon noticed a stall that offered something called KHARAKTER KONSULTATIONS. An unhappy-looking woman sat filing her nails and watching an old Realworld soap opera on a grainy black-and-white TV. Effie remembered Festus’s warning not to get a consultation here in the market. He needn’t have bothered to warn her. Effie would not have had a consultation with this woman for anything.
Next to the stall was the entrance to one of the indoor bazaars. Its opening had been constructed from vast swathes of purple velvet cloth. Inside was the usual jumble of interconnected tents made from expensive silks and linens, with thick Oriental carpets for their floors. Some of the spaces were tiny, some were as big as normal shops. Effie soon realised that this particular sequence of outlets had a theme. One tiny chamber contained only a single silver-coloured box. ‘Composer?’ enquired the shopkeeper, as Effie peered in. ‘You can keep your great work in here. Only four hundred pieces of dragon’s gold.’
The next chamber was larger, and was full of maps, charts, candle-la
mps and thick-looking hardbacks. Effie stepped inside to see if any of the books might be The Chosen Ones, but these were all books for adults. There was a large section on travel, but also a section on psychology, as well as a number of thick, complex-looking novels.
‘Explorer?’ said the clerk hopefully.
Effie passed a shop for alchemists containing cauldrons, Bunsen burners and bags of strange yellow rocks; the ‘Hedgewitch Emporium’, which was a vast colourful mess of different fabrics, wool, packets of dried flowers, tea-bags and books about the moon. She had not come across anything for her own kharakter yet. Did heroes not need shops? She wondered what one would sell.
She knew she should turn back and look for the book stall, but everything here was fascinating to Effie. She told herself she would just go a bit further and then turn back. The large covered market narrowed and became a dark series of twists and turns through corridors lined with the purple velvet fabric. It grew quite dark for a time, and so Effie didn’t notice the young man coming towards her at some speed.
‘Sorry!’ he said, as he careered into her.
He seemed to have come out of a chamber on the left made of yellow silks, with soft, warm lighting glowing from within.
‘That’s OK,’ said Effie.
The young man had dropped something. It was a certificate. Effie bent down to pick it up while the young man caught his breath. She couldn’t help noticing some of what it said as she handed it back. ALCHEMIST HEALER, it said on the top. There were several numbers, including one that looked more important than the others because it was written in gold. It said 6.10.
‘My parents are going to be so happy,’ he said. ‘And when I go back with this!’ He beamed. ‘They always wanted me to be a healer. I was worried that I was a mage, or worse, a galloglass mage. Galloglasses have to go and live on the island, obviously, and I was so scared I was just going to die even if I could get through. But now I can go home! Being an alchemist is nothing to be ashamed of. I can create remedies for wounded adventurers. I’m so happy!’