StarChaser

  DEDICATION

  For Milo Wishart

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Maps

  PART I The Queen’s Chamber

  The Summons

  Tea and Plots

  Fishface

  A Lozenge for a Bag of Kraan

  PART II Dust in His Eye

  Groundwork

  Charm School

  Wizard Sandwiches

  Three in the Morning

  Tracking

  PART III The Ormlet

  Last Chance

  Drammer Makken

  Languid Lizards

  The Dragon Kennel

  PART IV A Letter

  Grula Games

  Serpent’s Snook

  An Ormnap

  PART V Wolverine Ways

  Ill Met by Torchlight

  On the Run

  Patchouli

  Into the Orm Pit

  PART VI Snowstorm

  A Round Table

  A Walk upon the Walls

  PART VII A Worm Turns

  Skittles

  Party Bag

  Running Away

  Rat’s-Eye View

  Down and Up Again

  Out of the Bag

  The Rat’s Tale

  Synchronized Swimming

  PART VIII A Near Miss

  The Far Hub

  Fright and Flight

  Way Surfing

  Breathe

  Welcome

  PART IX A Proposal

  To Hire a Hawk

  To Find a Pair of Hoodwinks

  Hawk-Eyed

  Jerra’s Duty

  Hoodwinked

  Snake on the Slipway

  A Surfeit of Queens

  PART X The Next Watch

  Winded

  Homeward Bound

  Secrets

  A Dash and a Sickle

  The Metal Fish

  Tribe of Three

  Gone Fishing

  PART XI Treading the Path

  Into the Metal Fish

  A Contraption

  The Sieve

  The Pod

  The Wandering Moon

  Driffa in Charge

  The Keystone

  A Carpet of Grulas

  PART XII Bing’s String

  Revenge

  Midsummer Circle

  Two Worlds Become One

  Endings and Beginnings

  Thank You

  Back Ads

  About the Author and Illustrator

  Books by Angie Sage

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  MAPS

  PART I

  THE QUEEN’S CHAMBER

  The last echoes of the midday bells faded away. In a secret chamber deep in the heart of the Red Palace, three dusty women stood trembling before the Red Queen. The room, at the very heart of the palace, was hexagonal and dimly lit by one slit window high in the only wall that faced the central gardens. Despite its opulence, it felt like a prison.

  From her golden throne on a dais, the Queen glared at the women. “And where,” she demanded, “where is the sorcerer I sent for?”

  The women did not respond. This was not because they had no answer, but because the guard at the door had told them that if they valued their lives they must wait five seconds before replying. The Red Queen was offended by those who did not appear to think carefully about their answers.

  Conscious of the Queen’s pale blue eyes upon them, two of the women were pretending an interest in the red and gold tiles of the floor. The third, the youngest, stared ahead beneath lowered eyelashes.

  The Red Queen sized up the women. There was a large blowsy one wrapped like an untidy parcel in blue silks, who was known as the Lady and was the sister of the sorcerer the Queen required. To the left of the Lady stood her sidekick, Mitza Draddenmora Draa: a square, hatchet-faced woman with hair scraped back and a mouth like the edge of a knife. In Mitza the Red Queen recognized a kindred spirit.

  The third woman was little more than a girl. The Queen regarded her with narrowed eyes. This one she knew only by the name Marissa. She had an insolent stare and was dressed in what the Queen considered to be a most peculiar style: she wore beads woven though her hair, a leather headband, a dusty green cloak and heavy boots. She was scruffy and pretty and the Queen did not take to her at all. The Marissa girl had, she thought, the look of a witch about her.

  Marissa felt the gaze of the Red Queen upon her and risked an upward glance. Their eyes met. The Queen saw something dark and shifting beneath a layer of carefully constructed innocence. Just as the Queen was wondering whether it might be wise to chop this witch’s head off before she caused any trouble, the five-second pause was over and the Lady stammered out her answer.

  “Y-your Majesty. My brother is ill . . .” Her voice faded away under the steel-blue stare of the Red Queen.

  The Queen said nothing. She moved her gaze to a point just above the women’s heads, and once again an uncomfortable silence fell. The Queen was thinking out her strategy. She knew that she appeared to have all the advantages and those before her thought they had none, but this was not so. The women held the key to something she had been promised. The Queen wanted it—and she wanted it now. With a great feeling of longing she thought about the distant Castle the sorcerer had promised her. His descriptions of its beautiful old buildings and its biddable inhabitants longing for a strong ruler replayed in her head. Not to mention its rich surroundings that would also be hers for the taking: the verdant farmlands, the nearby forest, a wide river running to the sea and a wealthy Port. The Red Queen wanted to have that Castle so much it hurt. She was sick of the dry red dust and the heat of her city, the press of the people, the beggars crowded outside the city walls. Her subjects were surly fools who did not obey her as they should—it would be wonderful to have a new start. The Queen glanced down at the sharp dagger of sunlight that stabbed through the window slit and cast a white strip upon the red floor. She longed for the gentle green of what she now thought of as her Castle.

  However, the Red Queen was not going to admit to any longings. No one had ever given her anything just because she longed for it, and she did not expect that to begin now. She must play this game carefully to get what she wanted. Her low voice flowed menacingly around the chamber. “I did not ask about the state of the sorcerer’s health,” the Queen said. “I asked for his whereabouts. I repeat: Where is the sorcerer?”

  The sorcerer’s sister just about managed to speak. “Y-your Majesty. M-my brother is at Hospitable Gard, for which we thank you. It is only your immense kindness and hospitality that—”

  The Queen cut her short. “That is not where he is meant to be,” she snapped. “I summoned him to my presence for the midday bell. Why is he not here?”

  The woman in blue hardly dared to repeat what she had already said, but she could think of no alternative. A small, frightened voice emerged from the bundle of blue silks. “Because, Your Majesty, he . . . he is ill.”

  “No one is too ill to refuse my summons. No one.”

  The Lady glanced helplessly at her companions but they would not meet her gaze. She became flustered. “Your Majesty. I beg you. My brother cannot move. He has the most terrible . . .” Her voice failed her.

  “Terrible what?” demanded the Queen.

  “Headache.” As soon as she said the word the Lady knew she had a made a mistake. It sounded like such a pathetic excuse. There was a silence that seemed to go on forever. The Lady heard the trickle of water from the fountains in the gardens beyond and she felt as though her life were dripping away with it.

  “Headache,” the Red Queen finally repeated, as if the word was a piece of dog dirt she had found upon her shoe. “The powerful
sorcerer Oraton-Marr has a . . . headache.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said his miserable sister. And then added, “It’s really bad. Really, really bad. It’s—”

  “Silence!” the Queen barked. She continued in a low, menacing voice. “I have a way of curing headaches.” The Queen’s hand went across to her sword, which hung down from a scabbard attached to the left side of her throne. “If your brother does not respond to my next summons I will assist him with his little problem. I will make sure that he has no head to ache. Understand?”

  “Y-yes, Your Majesty,” the Lady stuttered.

  “Now—go!”

  Behind them the doors swung open and the women backed out, amazed at their reprieve. But they knew it would not last.

  THE SUMMONS

  Oraton-Marr lay prone on his bed as he had done for many weeks. Beside him sat his sister, still trembling from her audience with the Queen. “Orrie,” she whispered anxiously. “Are you feeling any better?”

  “Gerrrr . . .” was the only reply.

  His sister persisted. “Orrie, the thing is, the Queen is getting impatient. She wants her Castle. You know, the one those kids and that dragon came from. The one you promised her.” She refrained from saying the one you so stupidly promised her, which was not yours to promise anyway. The Lady had learned not to upset her brother in his present state.

  His reply was another groan.

  “She’s going to summon you again, Orrie. And if you don’t go to her I think something very bad will happen. I think . . .” The Lady paused. She hardly dared put into words what she thought would happen, but she was desperate. She had to somehow get her brother up from his sickbed. “I think she might cut off your head.”

  Oraton-Marr thought the Queen would be doing him a favor if she cut off his head. It was no use to him in its present state. It felt as though someone were driving a red-hot spike through it and nailing it to the bed. He could no more go to see the Queen than he could fly to the moon. “Good,” he said.

  It was four in the morning, in the deep, dark hours before dawn when a fearsome knocking on the door of Hospitable Gard woke the entire household. The Lady sat up in bed, her eyes wide with fear as she listened to the pounding echoing up the stairs. She got out of bed, wrapped her silk coat around her and crept down to the ground-floor atrium. There she found a wild-eyed Mitza clutching a hammer and Marissa looking artfully disheveled in a long nightdress, beneath which the Lady spotted a pair of sturdy boots, ready to flee. The three women stared at the heavy front door, which shivered under the onslaught of the pounding.

  “What shall we do?” the Lady whispered.

  Mitza tightened her grip upon her hammer. “We must answer it, my Lady,” she said. “And see what they want.”

  “But we know what they want,” said the Lady. “They want Orrie.”

  “Then they will have to have him,” Mitza said coldly.

  Suddenly the pounding ceased and a shout of “Open up in the name of the Red Queen!” came from the other side of the door.

  “We should open the door,” Marissa said. “They’ll break it down otherwise. It’s best to look helpful.”

  The Lady knew Marissa was right, but even so she had hoped for a little more resistance. “You open it, then,” she said sulkily.

  Trilling out in her most girly voice, “Hang on a mo’! It’s a bit heavy for us girls!” Marissa made a lot of noise pulling back the long bolt, then she heaved the door open, flicked back her hair and leaned languorously against the door breathing heavily, as though exhausted by her efforts.

  The three guards outside were speechless for some moments until one of them managed to mumble, “Sorry, miss.”

  The Captain of the Guard recovered his senses. Steadfastly avoiding looking at Marissa, he stepped forward brandishing a scroll with a large red seal. “I have a Royal Summons for the sorcerer Oraton-Marr,” he said.

  The Lady held out a chubby, shaking hand. “I’m his sister. I’ll give it to him,” she said.

  The Captain kept hold of the scroll. “Madam, I am ordered to deliver it to the sorcerer personally. Take me to him. At once!”

  The Lady knew there was no point in arguing. The two remaining guards watched the Lady lead the Captain up the stairs, then they turned their attention to Marissa.

  “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” the youngest one asked.

  Marissa giggled. “Same as you. Doing what I’m told.”

  “Are you some kind of maid or something?”

  “Something,” Marissa said, casually letting the top few buttons of her nightdress fall open. “What are you looking at?” she suddenly demanded.

  “Um . . . your, um . . . key,” the young guard stammered. “It looks . . . um . . . very nice,” he finished lamely.

  “Oh, this key,” Marissa said, sounding bored. She lifted up the plain iron key that she wore around her neck on a piece of green ribbon. “This is the key to the Castle. Now that is something the Queen would love to get her hands on.”

  It was all too much for the young guard, who turned bright red. “Ha! I’m sure I would too,” he said with a nervous snort.

  “Quiet!” the older guard said, cross at being left out of Marissa’s game.

  “So,” Marissa asked, “are you taking the sorcerer away?”

  “It’s not for us to say, miss,” the other guard said grumpily.

  “If he doesn’t come now, we’ll be back later,” the young guard said. “To surprise him.”

  “What a good idea.” Marissa giggled. “You are so clever. So . . . what time is best for surprising sorcerers, then?”

  The older guard stepped between them and roughly pushed the younger to one side. “Cut it out, Number Three—or there’ll be trouble.”

  The young guard cut it out. Silence fell in the atrium and they listened to the footfalls above. Soon footsteps were heard on the stairs and the Captain appeared without the summons, closely followed by the distressed Lady. “Please,” she begged, “please, surely you can see how impossible it is for him to even move from his pillow, let alone come to the Palace.”

  “I merely deliver the summons,” the Captain said gruffly. “It is not my job to comment upon the capabilities of those receiving it.” With that he strode over to the door and the two guards fell in behind him. Marissa arranged herself so that she was leaning dreamily against a pillar, and as the young one went by he whispered, “See you again at three bells tomorrow morning.” He winked. “The best time for collecting sorcerers.”

  Marissa smiled. “Can’t wait,” she said.

  And then the Queen’s Guards were gone, leaving behind a wide-open door, the rush of cold night and a long wail of despair from the Lady as she fell to the floor.

  While the Lady was being inexpertly comforted by a kneeling Mitza (gripping a hammer in one hand while with the other at arm’s length she warily patted the Lady like one would a small, snappy dog), Marissa shut the door and bolted it. Then she turned to the huddle on the floor and said, “I have a plan.”

  The Lady looked up with an expression of despair. How could Marissa possibly have a plan? She was just a silly, empty-headed girl.

  Marissa knew exactly what the Lady was thinking. That was fine by her. Let her think it. She would find out soon enough that she was wrong.

  TEA AND PLOTS

  Marissa shepherded the Lady and Mitza to the divans arranged around the edge of the atrium. She sat them down, found soft blankets to wrap around them—the Lady was shivering from shock—and told them to wait while she fetched some mint tea. Then she tiptoed away to the servants’ kitchen, hoping they did not notice her boots.

  Marissa lit the small spirit burner to heat the water, and as she snipped off the tender top leaves from the peppermint plant, she considered her course of action. Marissa had far more to gain from the sorcerer’s recovery than she would ever admit to her two companions. Before Oraton-Marr had been poisoned with a HeadBanger potion, when he was c
onvinced he was about to become the world’s most powerful sorcerer and take over the fabled Wizard Tower, he had been rather free with his promises. Not only had he promised the Red Queen the Queenship of the Castle, he had also promised Marissa that he would help her become Witch Mother of the Wendron Witches, the coven that inhabited the Forest just outside the Castle. Marissa had also extracted a promise that the coven would, for the very first time, be given a base inside the Castle. She had her eye on a nice row of houses near the Moat.

  Like the Red Queen, Marissa was reluctant to let go of the dream that Oraton-Marr had dangled before her. There was, she thought, still much to play for. Marissa enjoyed a game, and this was an exciting one with a good prize at the end of it. But she must play it carefully.

  Marissa walked softly into the atrium carrying a tray of sweet peppermint tea and saffron wafers. Trying to look humble—but not entirely succeeding—she placed the tray upon the low table in front of the divan, dropped to her knees and poured the tea. Marissa waited until both the Lady and Mitza had settled comfortably back against the cushions and then, still kneeling, she began to speak. Careful to refer to Oraton-Marr in the way he had insisted upon before the HeadBanger potion, she said, “We must do our very best to save His Highness.”

  “But what can we possibly do?” said the Lady. “There are guards on the gate.”

  “We could smuggle him out,” Mitza suggested. “Put him in a sack. They might think he was turnips.”

  The Lady looked horrified. “Orrie? Turnips? In a sack?”

  Marissa supressed a smile. She would love to put the sorcerer in a sack—and hurl him off the top of Hospitable Gard while he was in it—but she had her career to consider. “It’s simple,” Marissa said. “We must get His Highness well enough to answer the Queen’s summons—and, more important, well enough to take over the Wizard Tower.”