“For what?” moaned Jo.
“For becoming a reliable and effective Message Rat, that’s for what, Josephine.”
This was met by a barrage of groans. However, the ratlets made no further protests. They were tired, scared and relieved to have Stanley back safe. Led by him they trooped along to the space in the wall and, reverting to babyhood, they fell into a rat pile—exactly as they had been when Stanley had found them—and resigned themselves to an uncomfortable night. When Stanley was sure they were settled he said, very reluctantly, “There’s something I have to do. I won’t be long. Stay there and don’t move an inch.”
“We won’t,” they chorused sleepily.
Stanley set off along the Outside Path toward Jannit Maarten’s boatyard, muttering grumpily to himself.
“You really should know better by now, Stanley. Do not mess with Wizards. Or Princesses. Not even just one Princess. One Princess is as bad as at least half a dozen Wizards. Every time you get involved with a Princess or a Wizard—especially the Heaps—you end up on some wild goose chase in the middle of the night when you could be tucked up nice and warm in your bed. When will you ever learn?”
Stanley scurried along the Outside Path. Soon he was having second, third and fourth thoughts about the wisdom of his journey.
“What are you doing, you stupid rat? You don’t have to go off and find yet another no-good Heap. You never actually said you would, did you? In fact, you didn’t actually have a chance to say anything, did you, Stanley? And why was that? Because if you just cast your mind back, mouse-brain, that no-good Heap’s own mother tried to kill you. Have you forgotten already? And in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s freezing cold, this path is a death trap, goodness knows what is going on in the Castle and you really shouldn’t leave the ratlets outside on their own; aren’t they just as important as a bunch of troublesome Wizards ohmysaintedauntiedoriswhatisthat?”
A roar—wild and rough-edged—broke through the silence. This time it was close. Too close. In fact, it sounded as though it was right above him. Stanley shrank back against the wall and looked up. There was nothing to see but the deep, dark night sky, scattered with a few clouded stars. The Castle Walls reared up high behind him and above them, Stanley knew, were the tall, thin houses that backed onto the Moat. But without even a glimmer of light the rat could see nothing.
As Stanley waited, wondering if it was safe to move, he realized that he could see something. On the still surface of the Moat, just around the next bend, a faint reflection of light caught his keen rat eye. It was, he figured, coming from the very place he was heading: Jannit Maarten’s Boatyard. The glimmer of light raised Stanley’s spirits considerably. He decided to carry on with his mission—even if it did involve a no-good Heap.
A few minutes later Stanley leaped lightly down from the Outside Path and ran across the boatyard, dodging between the tangle of boat clutter that inhabited Jannit’s yard, heading for the wonderful sight of a lighted window. Granted it belonged to the Port barge and was, strictly speaking, a lighted porthole, but Stanley didn’t care. Light was light, and where there was light there was life.
The hatch to the cabin-with-the-porthole was locked and barred but that did not deter a Message Rat. Stanley bounded onto the cabin roof, found the air vent—an open tube shaped like an umbrella handle—and dived in.
Nicko had never heard Jannit Maarten scream before. It was actually more of a loud squeak—short, sharp and very high-pitched. It didn’t sound like it had come from Jannit at all.
“Rat, rat!” she yelled. She leaped to her feet, picked up a nearby wrench—there was always a wrench near Jannit—and smashed it down. Stanley’s split-second reactions were severely tested. He leaped aside just in time and, waving his arms in the air, he squeaked, “Message Rat!”
Wrench raised for another swipe, Jannit stared at the rat that had suddenly landed in the middle of the table, only just missing the lighted candle. Stanley watched the wrench with particular interest. Everyone else around the table watched Stanley.
Jannit Maarten—wiry, with a wind-browned face like a walnut and iron-gray hair in a sailor’s pigtail—was a woman who looked like she meant business. Very slowly she put the wrench down. Stanley, who had been holding his breath, exhaled with relief. He looked up at the expectant faces surrounding him and began to enjoy the moment. This was what Message Ratting was all about—the drama, the excitement, the attention, the power.
Stanley surveyed his audience with the commanding, confident eye of a rat that knows it will not, for the next few minutes at least, be swiped at with a wrench. He looked at the recipient of his message, Nicko Heap, just to check it was really him. It was. He’d recognize Nicko’s tiny sailor’s plaits woven into his straw-colored hair anywhere. And those Heap bright green eyes too. Next to him was Rupert Gringe, his short hair shining carroty in the candlelight, and for once he was not scowling. In fact, Rupert actually had a smile on his face while he looked at the slightly plump young woman sitting close beside him. Stanley knew her, all right. She was the skipper of the Port barge. She had red hair too, a good deal more of it than Rupert Gringe. And she too had a smile, and in the candlelight she even looked quite friendly, although Stanley was not convinced. The last time he’d seen her she’s hurled a rotten tomato at him. Better than a wrench, though . . .
Nicko cut through the rat’s musings. “Who’s it for then?” he said.
“What?”
“The message. Who is it for?”
“Ahem.” Stanley cleared his throat and stood up on his back legs. “Please note that due to the current, er . . . situation . . . and circumstances pertaining thereto, this is not delivered in Standard Message Form. Therefore no responsibility can be accepted for the accuracy or otherwise of this message. A fee is not payable but a box for contributions toward the new drains at the East Gate Lookout Tower may be found at the Message Rat Office door. Please note that no money is kept in the box overnight.”
“Is that it?” asked Nicko. “You came to tell us about the drains?”
“What drains?” said Stanley, whose mouth so often ran ahead of his thoughts. And then, when his thoughts caught up, he said rather snappily, “No, of course I didn’t.”
“I know which rat you are,” said Nicko suddenly. “You’re Stanley, aren’t you?”
“Why do you say that?” asked Stanley suspiciously.
Nicko just grinned. “Thought so. So, Stanley, who is the message for?”
“Nicko Heap,” Stanley replied, feeling slightly offended, although he was not sure why.
“Me?” Nicko seemed surprised.
“If that is you, yes.”
“Of course it’s me. What’s the message?”
Stanley took a deep breath. “Find Nicko—Nicko Heap, at Jannit’s boatyard. Tell him what’s happening. Tell him where we are. Please.”
Nicko went pale. “Who sent it?”
Stanley sat down on a pile of papers. “Well, I wouldn’t go running messages like this for just anyone, you know—especially given the present, er . . . situation. However, I do consider that I am, to some extent at least, not a mere messenger but operating in the capacity of a personal representative of—oof!”
Nicko’s finger jabbed the rat’s ample stomach. “Ouch! That hurt,” protested Stanley. “There is no need for violence, you know. I only came here out of the goodness of my heart.”
Nicko leaned across the table and stared eyeball to eyeball with the rat. “Stanley,” he said, “if you don’t tell me who sent the message right now I shall personally throttle you. Got that?”
“Yep. Okey dokey. Got that.”
“So who sent it?”
“The Princess.”
“Jenna.”
“Yes. Princess Jenna.”
Nicko looked at his companions, the light from the single candle in the center of the table throwing glancing shadows across their worried faces. For a few minutes Stanley’s antics had distracted them from what was
happening outside—but no longer. Now all their worries for their families and friends in the Castle came flooding back.
“Okay,” said Nicko slowly. “So . . . tell me. Where is Jenna? Who is ‘we’? Are they safe? When did she send the message? How did you—”
It was Stanley’s turn to interrupt. “Look,” he said wearily. “It’s been a long day. I’ve seen some nasty stuff. I’ll tell you about it, but a cup of tea and biscuit first would work wonders.”
Maggie went to get up but Rupert stopped her. “You’ve had a long day too,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
Silence fell, broken only by the gentle hiss of the little stove—and the sudden, terrifying roar of something outside, deep in the Darkenesse.
Chapter 37
Brothers
The night wore on in the room behind the Big Red Door, its occupants sleeping fitfully on the odd assortment of cushions and rugs. They were rudely awoken twice by Thunder—who was not named just for the stormy color of his coat—but after protests and much fanning of the air, everyone managed finally to drift off once again.
Jenna had appropriated her old box bed in the cupboard, which still had the rough, threadbare blankets of her childhood. They were very different from the heirlooms of fine linen and soft furs that covered her four-poster bed in the Palace, but Jenna loved her old blankets and box bed as much as she ever did. She kneeled on the bed and peered out the tiny window for some minutes, looking up at the stars and down at the river far below, just as she had always done before she went to sleep. But the combination of the Dark of the Moon—which she sleepily remembered Aunt Zelda explaining to her one night on the Marram Marshes—with the thick, snowy clouds that covered most of the stars meant she could not see much at all. Her cupboard was colder than she remembered but before long Jenna too was asleep, curled up on the bed (which she had to be, because the bed was too short for her now), covered in the rough blankets, her fine fur-lined Princess cloak and her newly acquired Witch cloak. It was an odd combination but it kept her warm.
Septimus and Marcellus took turns through the night watching the door—two hours watching, two hours sleeping. When at about four in the morning the Darke Fog rolled down There and Back Again Row and pushed against the Big Red Door, Septimus was on watch. He woke Marcellus and together, on tenderhooks, they watched the door. The door tightened its hinges and long minutes passed, but the Darke Domaine did not get in.
The reason for this was not only Septimus’s Magyk; it was also the Big Red Door itself. Benjamin Heap had suffused the Big Red Door with Magykal SafeScreens of his own before he gave it to his son, Silas. It was his way of ensuring that his son and grandchildren would be protected after he had gone. Benjamin’s SafeScreens could not stop anything or anyone who had been invited in (like the midwife who had stolen Septimus) but they were pretty good at stopping anything that the Heaps had not invited over the threshold. Benjamin had never told Silas this, for he did not want his son to think that he doubted his Magykal powers—even though he did. But Sarah Heap had guessed long ago.
And so the Darke Domaine began its unrelenting onslaught—just as it was doing in the three other places in the Castle that had protected themselves: the Wizard Tower, the Hermetic Chamber—and Igor’s own secret SafeChamber in Gothyk Grotto, which, in addition to Igor, contained Marissa, Matt and Marcus. But those behind the Big Red Door were safe for the moment. And when the light of the rising sun began to shine through the dusty mullioned window, Septimus and Marcellus relaxed their guard and fell asleep beside the glowing embers of the fire.
Sarah Heap woke with the sun as she always did. She stirred awkwardly, her neck stiff from the night spent on a threadbare rug with only a rocklike cushion for a pillow. She got up and walked stiffly over to the fire, stepping over Marcellus, and gently placing a pillow beneath Septimus’s head. Then she added some logs to the embers and stood, arms wrapped around herself, watching the flames begin to wake. Silently she thanked Silas for all the stores he had laid in: logs neatly stacked under Jenna’s bed, blankets, rugs and cushions, two cupboards full of jars of preserved fruit and vegetables, a whole box of dried WizStix, which would become strips of tasty dried fish or meat when reconstituted with the correct Spell (the tiny, sticklike Charm for which Silas had thoughtfully left tucked beside them). Plus, Silas had mended the loo. This had been the bane of Sarah’s life when the Heap family had lived there. Plumbing was not one of the Ramblings’ strong points and the lavatories—little more than huts perched precariously on the outside walls—were always messing up. But now, at long last, Silas had fixed it. All this, along with a late-night discovery of a WaterGnome hidden in the back of the cupboard, made Sarah think of Silas with wistful affection. She longed to thank him and apologize for all the times she had complained about him disappearing without saying where he was going. But most of all, she wished Silas knew that she was safe.
Sarah got out the WaterGnome and stood it on top of the cupboard where she had found it. She smiled; she could see why Silas had hidden it—it was one of the rude ones. But none the worse for that, Sarah thought, as the Gnome provided a stream of water for the kettle. Water was the thing she had been most worried about—hence the risky trip to the Well Hall. But now, thanks to Silas, they had a reliable supply.
Sarah hung the kettle over the fire and sat to watch it boil, remembering how she used to do this every morning. She had loved those rare moments to herself when all was quiet and peaceful. Of course when the children were very little she often had one or two of them sitting sleepily at her feet, but they were always quiet—and once they were older none of them ever woke up until she banged on the breakfast porridge pan. Sarah remembered how she would take the kettle off the fire just before it began to whistle, brew herself a cup of herb tea and sit quietly watching the sleeping forms strewn around the floor—just as she was doing now. Except, she thought wryly, as Thunder made his presence known in his own special way, she wouldn’t have been staring at a fresh pile of horse poop.
Sarah got the shovel, opened the window and launched the steaming pile into the air. She leaned out and breathed in the sharp, fresh morning air, which was dusted with a scent of snow and river mud. Happy memories of MidWinter Feast days with Silas and the children came flooding back—along with a memory of one much less happy day fourteen years ago. She turned and looked at the sleeping form of her youngest son and thought that, whatever happened, he had now at last spent a night in the room he should have grown up in.
Sarah watched the pale, wintry sun edging up above the distant hills, shining weakly through the bare branches of the trees on the opposite side of the river. She sighed. It was good to see daylight once more—but who knew what the day would bring?
It brought another fight between Septimus and Simon.
Septimus and Marcellus had retreated to a quiet corner by Silas’s bookshelves and were looking through his old Magyk books, searching for anything written about Darke Domaines. They found nothing of use. Most of Silas’s books were common textbooks or cheap versions of more arcane books with pages missing—always the pages that promised something interesting.
Septimus, however, had just found a small pamphlet hidden inside an ink-spattered copy of Year III Magyk: Advanced Bothers when Simon wandered across to see if any of his old favorites were still on the shelves. He glanced down and saw the title of the pamphlet: The Darke Power of the Two-Faced Ring.
A dangerous and deeply flawed device, historically used by Darke Wizards and their acolytes, Septimus read. Traditionally worn on the left thumb. Once put on, the ring will travel in only one way and so cannot be removed except over the base of the thumb. The faces are thought to represent those of the two Wizards who created it. Each Wizard desired to possess the Ring and they fought to the death over it. (See this author’s pamphlet on the formation of the Bottomless Whirlpool. Only six groats from Wywald’s Witchery). After this the Ring passed from Wizard to Wizard, wreaking havoc. It is thought to have been instrume
ntal in the Slime Plague at the Port, the horrific Night River Serpent attacks at the Ramblings and very possibly the Darke Pit over which the Municipal rubbish dump was eventually built. The Two-Faced Ring possesses Incremental Power—each wearer attains the Darke power of all the previous wearers. This power reaches its full potential only after it has been worn for thirteen lunar months. Although many say that the Two-Faced Ring is still in existence, the author does not believe this to be the case. It has not been heard of for many hundreds of years now, and the likelihood is that is has been irretrievably lost.
“Interesting,” said Simon, reading over Septimus’s shoulder. “But not entirely accurate.”
Septimus’s reply was short and to the point. “Go away,” he said.
“Ahem.” Marcellus coughed ineffectively.
“I am only trying to help,” said Simon. “We all want to find a way to get rid of this Darke Domaine.”
“We do,” said Septimus, looking pointedly at Marcellus. “I’m not so sure about you.”
Simon sighed, which annoyed Septimus. “Look, I don’t do that stuff anymore. I really and truly don’t.”
“Ha!” said Septimus scornfully.
“Now, now, Apprentice. Remember what you promised your mother.”
Septimus ignored Marcellus.
“You just don’t get it, do you?” Simon sounded exasperated. “I made a mistake. Okay, it was a really bad mistake, but I am doing my best to put things right. I don’t know what more I can do. And right now I could be really useful. I know more about this . . . stuff than both of you put together.”
“I’ll bet you do,” snapped Septimus.
“Apprentice, I do think you should calm down and—”
Simon exploded. “You think just because you’re Marcia’s precious little Apprentice you know it all but you don’t.”
“Don’t patronize me,” said Septimus.
“Boys!” Suddenly Sarah was there. “Boys, what did I tell you?”