At Marcia’s appearance a brief glimmer of hope flashed across Jakey’s face. Linda leaped into action. Yelling foul Silent words, she lunged at Marcia, dragging with her Jakey, who was still in her Grasp.
Marcia easily sidestepped the attack. “Now, now, Linda, there is no need to swear,” she said. (Like all Wizards, Marcia could lip-read). “If you behave nicely and take your Grasp off this boy I might, possibly, Reverse the Silent for you.”
We don’t need your help, you stupid cow! Linda’s mouth opened and closed Silently. We’ve got a much more powerful Wizard than you.
So there with knobs on! Veronica yelled Silently.
“That would be the powerful Wizard who is hiding in the doorway, too scared to show himself, would it?” Marcia asked coolly.
DomDaniel decided to leave before things got worse. He slunk out of the doorway and headed along Fore Street to look for Simon, who he had sent on ahead to find “a decent horse, Heap, to get us home.”
Marcia watched the departing Darke shape with a feeling of relief—Septimus was safe. She turned to Linda and told her, “I’ll give you three seconds to take your Grasp off the boy. If you do not, I shall Remove it. The Wizard code requires me to warn you that a forced Remove may lead to some personal damage.”
You pigging purple cow! Linda yelled Silently.
“One second, two seconds, three se—”
Linda dropped her Grasp.
Jakey Fry gaped at Marcia in astonishment—the Wizard woman had rescued him. Tears of gratitude pricked the inside of his eyelids. Thank you, he mouthed, forgetting he was Silent.
“You are very welcome,” said Marcia.
Linda gave Marcia a sharp nudge in the ribs. What about your promise, then? she asked, pointing to her mouth.
“I promised nothing,” said Marcia.
Yes, you did, you lying old bat! yelled Linda.
Marcia turned her back on the witch and said to Jakey Fry, “Let’s get you talking again, shall we?”
Linda positioned herself very close to Marcia, waiting for her to work her way through the Silent Reverse.
Marcia finished with, “What’s done is done, by all or one, I now set you free.” She threw a small ball of light in the air, it whizzed around Jakey’s head, touched him on the mouth and Jakey laughed out loud—it tickled. Quick as a flash, Linda’s hand snatched the ball out of the air and touched her own mouth with it. “Got it!” she crowed. “Not as clever as you thought, are you?”
Marcia said nothing. The Witch Mother grabbed the ball from Linda; a fight to be next erupted between Daphne and Veronica, and Marcia hurried Jakey away. As they disappeared around the corner, a barrage of swearing erupted behind them.
Septimus was waiting anxiously. At the sight of Marcia with Jakey he broke into a broad grin. “Hey, are you okay?” he asked Jakey.
“Yeah,” Jakey muttered. And then, in case the Wizard woman decided to take him prisoner for herself, he took off along The Shambles at top speed.
Marcia and Septimus watched the spindly figure of Jakey Fry hurtle away from them. They saw him skid to a halt outside one of the more decrepit lodging houses, throw himself against the front door and disappear inside.
Jakey raced up to the room he called home to find—to his relief—that his father was not there. From the window he watched his purple rescuer and the boy who had asked if he was okay coming along the street. As they passed under his window the Wizard woman looked up and smiled at him—and suddenly Jakey realized who she was. A smile spread over his face. He couldn’t be as rubbish as his father kept telling him he was. He must be worth something if the ExtraOrdinary Wizard from the Castle had bothered to set him—Jakey Fry, lowly ship’s rat—free.
13
TRUTH
Heading for home, the witches hurried along Fore Street and caught up with DomDaniel and the Darke Toad.
“Give me the Darke Toad and then push off, you old bag of bones,” the Witch Mother said to DomDaniel.
DomDaniel and the other witches looked shocked. The Witch Mother looked horrified. “Did I just say that?” she asked.
“Yes, you smelly old haddock, you did,” said the normally timid Daphne.
“Daphne!” said Linda. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”
“And mine,” said Veronica. She laughed. “Witch Mother, you look like a cracked old teacup with that stupid white stuff on your face.”
“Or the fungus under the sink.” Daphne giggled.
The witches stared at one another in horror—they were all saying exactly what they were thinking.
The sound of hooves clip-clopping toward them heralded Simon’s return. He was leading a big, beautiful black horse, which he had found in a tiny, filthy and unlocked stable. Simon, who still had some scruples, had left a crown (the standard price for a horse) plus a silver sixpence for the saddle and bridle.
DomDaniel looked at the horse approvingly. “Very nice,” he said. “Time to go. I’ll take the horse, Heap. You’ll be walking.”
“Not for long, you slimy old basket.” The Witch Mother laughed.
“What did you say?” demanded DomDaniel.
“You heard,” snapped the Witch Mother. “Hand over the Darke Toad, you weasel-eyed stoat face.”
DomDaniel was used to the Witch Mother being rude to him. It had once been something he had liked about her, but now he thought she was going a bit far. “I have not forgotten that the Darke Toad was part of our bargain, Pamela,” he said stiffly. He bent down very slowly—he hated the way he could feel skin and fat slipping over his bones—and picked up the toad.
The Witch Mother looked longingly at the Darke Toad as it sat gulping and blinking on DomDaniel’s very squishy palm.
“Give it to me,” she said. “Hurry up!”
DomDaniel frowned—he would have liked to refuse but a Darke bargain must be kept. Grumpily, he dropped the toad into the Witch Mother’s outstretched hand.
“Say the words,” snapped the Witch Mother.
“Say the words, please,” DomDaniel said peevishly.
“Oh, get on with it, fatso,” snapped the Witch Mother.
DomDaniel looked very annoyed. If he hadn’t suddenly felt unpleasantly itchy he would have said something equally rude in return. But all he wanted to do was get away from the witches and have a good scratch. “Madam, I assign to you all rights to this Darke Toad. May its Darkenesse follow you for all your days. So be it. Ooof.” DomDaniel could stand it no longer. He found a particularly itchy spot on his stomach and gave it a surreptitious scratch.
The Witch Mother cradled the Darke Toad in her hands. “Toady-woady,” she cooed.
“I’ll be off now,” said DomDaniel. He felt as though his skin were crawling with ants.
“Good riddance, you smelly old slime bucket,” returned the Witch Mother. “Come on, girls. Home. Oh, and Daphne, give Heap the wheelbarrow.”
“Why?” asked Daphne.
“Because those Clothed Bones won’t last much longer. Ha ha!”
DomDaniel could bear the itching no more. “What”—scratch—“do you”—scratch-scritch-scratch—“mean?”
The Witch Mother laughed. “You vain old lump of gristle, don’t you realize? We’re rubbish at stuff like that. There’s no way we could make a spell that powerful permanent, not even with Cowan blood. In fact, I am amazed it has lasted as long as it has. Ha!” She poked DomDaniel in the chest and her finger sank deep into his robe. “Eurgh, that is not nice.”
DomDaniel stared down at the hole in his chest. He looked up at the Witch Mother in shock as, like a crumpling balloon, his cloak caved in and the remains of the witches’ Clothing Bones spell evaporated. DomDaniel emitted a long, low groan, his legs folded out from under him and he collapsed into a heap on the road.
“You tricked me!” his—still Clothed—head screamed.
“Yes, we did. Serves you right, you smarmy little snake,” said the Witch Mother.
Linda was astonished. “You tell
him, Witch Mother. I must say, I’m impressed. You’re not as utterly pathetic as you look.”
The Witch Mother pointedly ignored Linda. She turned to Veronica and Daphne and said, “Unlike Linda. Who is as completely vile as she looks.”
Daphne and Veronica laughed with delight. “Yeah. Vile!” they chorused.
Linda was speechless with fury.
The Witch Mother chuckled—she was back in control of her Coven. She held up the Darke Toad and smiled. A lump of white makeup fell onto DomDaniel’s head, once more atop a pile of bones. The Witch Mother stared down at the head. “No one will mess with us now,” she said. “Not even you.”
DomDaniel hurled the worst Darke swear words possible at the departing Coven, but they took no notice as they followed the Witch Mother up the street, a line of mismatched chicks trailing after their mother hen.
With gritted teeth Simon picked up the bones and put them into the wheelbarrow, carefully balancing the head on top while DomDaniel swore at him. Simon patted the horse’s nose and wondered whether he should let him go. He decided to leave the decision to the horse.
“Thunder,” he whispered—for that had been the name scrawled over the stable door—“you can follow me if you want to. It’s a long way, but I’ll look after you, I promise.” The horse pawed at the ground and sniffed the early morning air. The sun would soon rise, and he wanted to be off and away from the dark and cramped stable.
As the night sky began to lighten, Fore Street echoed to the clip-clop, clip-clop of Thunder’s hooves and the plaintive eek-eek, eek-eek of a squeaky wheel as Simon pushed the wheelbarrow and its contents along the pavement. At the end of Fore Street the wheel fell off the barrow and DomDaniel’s head rolled onto the street. “Put me on the horse, you dithering idiot,” it snarled.
Simon had had enough insults for the night. “All right,” he said. “I will.” In one seamless, angry movement, he threw off his cloak, caught the head and the UnClothed bones up into it, bundled them up into a ball and slung it onto the horse. Then he swung himself into the saddle and rode off toward the dawn, heading along the track that wound through the dunes and would take him across the Sheeplands, up into the Badlands and back to the dark, dank Observatory.
From its new home on the doorknocker of the Port Witch Coven, the Darke Toad blinked and watched them go.
Septimus and Marcia emerged from Fishguts Twist onto the deserted harbor front. A somber atmosphere hung over the harbor, and a few people were sitting mournfully on the harbor wall, staring at the dark water, thick with wreckage. The Harbor Master’s house was a blaze of lights as the surviving sailors bunked down for what remained of the night.
Marcia closed the thick oak door of the Customs House with a quiet thunk. She and Septimus headed across the entrance hall and up the wide stone stairs to the guest quarters.
“It was very nice of you to reverse the witches’ Silent,” said Septimus as Marcia Lit a nightlight and gave it to Septimus to take into his room.
“Not as nice as you might think,” Marcia said, smiling.
“Oh?”
“It had a twenty-four-hour Think Speak on it.”
Septimus laughed. “You mean they will have to say exactly what they are thinking for the next twenty-four hours?”
“They will indeed,” said Marcia. “That will make life rather interesting, I should imagine. Now, Septimus, off to bed. That’s enough excitement for one night.”
Septimus yawned. He reckoned Marcia was right. “Good night,” he said. And then, “That boy … why did he run away from us? We were only trying to help him.”
“I seem to remember another boy who wanted to run away, not so long ago,” said Marcia. “It took him a while to realize that I wanted to help too.”
“What boy?” asked Septimus. And then he realized that Marcia meant him. “Oh,” he said. “I see.”
“Good night, Septimus,” said Marcia, smiling. “Sleep well.”
“I will,” said Septimus.
EXCERPT FROM FYRE
The Magykal series by Angie Sage concludes with Fyre—more funny and fantastical adventures reuniting the entire Septimus Heap cast, and with one last powerful incantation:
May Magyk be with you,
May you soar high in Flyte.
May Physik guide you and
Queste be your goal.
May Syren not find you,
May Darke be behind you,
May you always have Fyre in your soul.
Read on for a sneak peek at Fyre, the stunning finale to the Septimus Heap series!
1
WHAT LIES BENEATH
In the Vaults of the Manuscriptorium, The Live Plan of What Lies Beneath was unrolled on a large table. Lit by a bright lantern that hung above the table, the large and fragile sheet of opalescent Magykal paper lay weighted down by standard Manuscriptorium paperweights—squares of lead backed with blue felt. The Live Plan of What Lies Beneath was a map of all the Ice Tunnels that ran below the Castle—apart from the section that traveled out to the Isles of Syren. As its name suggested, the Live Plan was a little more than just a plan. Magykally, it showed what was happening in the Ice Tunnels at that very moment.
Gathered around it were the new Chief Hermetic Scribe, O. Beetle Beetle; Romilly Badger, the Inspection Clerk; and Partridge, the new Scribe of Maps. If you had walked into the Vaults at that moment it would not have been clear who actually was the Chief Hermetic Scribe. Beetle’s long blue-and-gold coat of office had been banished to a nearby hook because its gold-banded sleeves scratched the delicate Live Plan and he was wearing his comfortable old Admiral’s jacket, which kept out the chill of the Vaults. With his dark hair flopping forward over his eyes, Beetle looked very much at home as he leaned over the Live Plan, concentrating hard.
Suddenly Romilly—a slight girl with light brown hair and what Partridge thought was a cute, goofy smile—squeaked with excitement. A faint luminous splodge was moving along a wide tunnel below the Palace.
“Well spotted,” said Beetle. “Ice Wraiths are not easy to see. I reckon that’s Moaning Hilda.”
“There’s another one!” Romilly was on a roll. “Ooh … and look, what’s that?” Her finger stabbed at a tiny shadow near the old Great Chamber of Alchemie and Physik.
Partridge was impressed. There was a minuscule blip at the end of Romilly’s finger. “Is that an Ice Wraith too?” he asked.
Beetle peered closer. “No, it’s too shadowy. And slow. Look—it is hardly moving at all compared to Moaning Hilda, who is way over there now. And it is too well defined; you can see it actually has a shape.”
Romilly was puzzled. “Like a person, you mean?”
“Yes,” said Beetle. “Just like a—bother!”
“It’s gone,” said Romilly sadly. “That’s a shame. It can’t have been a person then, can it? Someone can’t suddenly disappear. It must have been a ghost.”
Beetle shook his head; it was too solid for a ghost. But the Live Plan was telling him that all the Ice Tunnel hatches remained Sealed, so there was nowhere the person could have gone. Only a ghost could disappear from the middle of an Ice Tunnel like that.
“Weird,” he said. “I could have sworn that was human.”
It was human—a human named Marcellus Pye.
Marcellus Pye, recently reinstated Castle Alchemist, had just dropped down through a hatch at the bottom of an unmapped shaft, which went close enough to an Ice Tunnel to show on the Live Plan. As soon as he was through the hatch Marcellus knew he was safe—the Live Plan did not show anything lower than this level.
A pole with foot-bars led down from the hatch and Marcellus climbed down it with his eyes closed. He reached a flimsy metal platform and stood, not daring to open his eyes, not believing that after nearly five hundred years he was back in the Chamber of Fyre.
However, Marcellus did not need to open his eyes to know where he was. A familiar metallic sweetness that found its way to the back of his tongue told him he was back home
, and brought with it a flood of memories—the tear that had run up from the base of the Cauldron, the sharp crack of the splitting Fyre rods and the heat of the Fyre as it spun out of control. Swarms of Drummins working ceaselessly, trying to contain the damage. The smell of burning rock as the flames spread beneath the Castle, setting the old timber houses alight. The panic, the fear as the Castle threatened to become a raging inferno. Marcellus remembered it all. He prepared himself for a scene of terrible devastation, took a deep breath and decided to open his eyes on the count of three.
One … two … three!
A jolt of surprise ran through him—it was as if nothing had happened. Marcellus had expected black soot to cover everything, but there was none—quite the reverse. Illuminated by the neatly placed Fyre Globes, which still burned with their everlasting flames, the metal platform shone. Marcellus picked up a Fyre Globe, cupping it in his hands. Marcellus smiled. The flame inside the ball licked against the glass where his hands touched it, like a faithful dog welcoming its owner home. He replaced the ball beside his foot and his smile faded. He was indeed home, but he was home alone. No Drummin could have survived.
Marcellus knew that he must now look over the edge of the dizzyingly high platform on which he was standing. This was when he would know the worst. As he gingerly walked forward, he felt the whole structure perform a slight shimmy. A feeling of panic shot up through his feet—Marcellus knew exactly how far he had to fall.
Nervously he peered over the edge.
Far below lay the great Fyre Cauldron, its mouth a perfect circle of blackness ringed by a necklace of Fyre Globes. Marcellus was immensely relieved—the Fyre Cauldron was intact. He stared down into the depths, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the dark.
Soon he began to make out more details. He saw the metal tracery that was embedded in the rock and covered the cavern like a huge spider’s web gleaming with a dull silver shine. He saw the peppering of dark circles in the rock that marked the entrance to the hundreds, maybe thousands, of Drummin burrows. He saw the familiar patterns of Fyre Globes that marked out paths of the walkways strung across the cavern hundreds of feet below and, best of all, he could now see inside the Cauldron the graphite glitter of one hundred and thirty nine stars—the ends of the Fyre rods that stood upright like fat little pens in an inkpot.