PathFinder

  “What?” Simon looked dumbstruck.

  “You remember one month after William disappeared I went missing?”

  “All night,” said Simon. “I’m hardly going to forget that, Lu.”

  “Well, I figured that William had gone at the dark of the moon, and maybe that meant something. I thought that maybe if I went back to that place at the next dark of the moon I would see something. I didn’t tell you because I knew you thought I was crazy to think like that. But that’s what I did. I went back to the filled-in archway.”

  “You went on the Outside Path at the dark of the moon?” Simon was aghast. “Lu, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because you would have stopped me. Or made me think I was silly. Or something. Anyway, I had marked the archway with white chalk so I found it easily in the dark. I leaned back against the stones that filled it in and waited.” Lucy shivered. “I was so scared. And then . . . and then it happened.” She stopped and took a deep breath. The atmosphere in the little room was tense.

  “Suddenly there was nothing behind me and I fell back into an empty space. I picked myself up and realized I was in a tunnel—a tunnel that would lead me to William. I ran into it and all at once I felt like I was falling down and down and down. It seemed to go on forever—well, long enough for me to think that at least now I knew what had happened to William. He had fallen through some kind of hole and now I had too. Just as I understood that I wasn’t actually falling—it felt more like something was pulling me along—I was out, hurtling into a big, round cellar with lots more arches, and I ran straight into something big, blue and squashy.”

  “The Lady!” said Ferdie.

  “Yes. And I was so pleased to see her. You see, I thought that she was looking after our William. I thought that he had somehow fallen through to this place and that now I would see him again and I could bring him home and I . . .” Lucy choked back a sob. “How stupid can you be?” she asked bitterly.

  Simon was staring at his wife in amazement. “Why?” he asked. “Why is that stupid?”

  “Because, Si, this spiteful, vicious, cruel person has stolen our William, just like she has stolen others. She uses children to get hold of their parents, sometimes their whole village. She uses Garmin to collect people and then she sends them away to serve some tyrant in some horrible place somewhere, I have no idea where. And she doesn’t care about anyone.” Lucy turned to Ferdie. “Except she quite likes you, I think.”

  “I hate her,” Ferdie growled, not wanting to be seen as having anything to do with the Lady.

  Simon was on his feet again. “Take me through that archway, Lu. I’ll show her she can’t mess with us. I’ll—”

  “Sit down, Si. It’s not that simple.”

  Simon sat down. Lucy was in charge now.

  “Si, this is the bit I am not proud of. You see, the Lady told me that she would get William back if . . . if I helped her.”

  “Help her do what, Lu?” Simon looked like he dreaded the answer.

  “Well. Um. You see . . . the place I fell into is like some kind of transit post. She calls it a Hub. It’s somewhere in a fortress in the middle of a forest, I have no idea where. The Lady uses the Garmin to snatch people who live in out-of-the-way places so that no one notices they’ve gone for a while. Then she sends the people away through these arches. It’s awful.”

  Simon was staring at Lucy in horror. “And you were helping her?”

  “I was trying not to, Si. I helped quite a few people escape too, but yes, I suppose I was helping her. Si, I had to. It was our only hope of seeing William again.” Lucy hid her head in her hands and her voice shook. She looked up, her eyes full of tears. “Last night the Lady sent a whole village away—a whole village, Si. But it still wasn’t enough for her. She had twenty more people to find, she said. And she told me I had to get them for her. From here, from our Castle. And if I didn’t, then William would be . . .” Lucy was unable to finish.

  “What did you say?” Simon asked quietly.

  “I told her I would do it, but I needed time,” Lucy whispered. “But she didn’t give me any time.”

  “How long did she give you?” Simon asked.

  “One day.” Lucy burst into tears. “One measly day.”

  SLEEPLESS

  In the attic of Lucy and Simon’s house, Ferdie and Oskar could not sleep. They gazed out of the little window into the night, amazed at the place they had come to. An autumn mist had come in, but they could still see the gap in the ancient Castle Wall where the slipway ran down to the Moat—wide, still and dark. On the other side of the street was a row of tall, narrow houses—the one directly in front still had its windows ablaze with lighted candles—and beyond that they saw rooftops disappearing into the mist, with lights in people’s windows flickering through the darkness.

  Ferdie and Oskar were fascinated. They had never seen so many houses before, never dreamed that they could be crammed so close together. They watched the lights glistening in the nighttime mist and tried to imagine all the thousands of people so close by. But one thing they did not imagine was that no more than half a mile away was Tod, lying in her bunk on the Adventurer, also finding it hard to sleep—because the Adventurer was catching the early-morning tide and Nicko and Snorri were taking her home.

  The mist grew thicker and a chill began to seep through the window. Ferdie and Oskar were about to retreat to the warmth of the quilts piled onto the beds that Lucy had made up for them, when they heard a door open and close on the landing below and heavy footsteps going down the stairs. A few seconds later came the muffled thud of the front door slamming, and their windowpanes shook. They peered down into the street below. Simon Heap was standing outside, and surrounding him was a faint purple glow.

  “Look, Oskie,” Ferdie whispered excitedly. “He’s doing Magyk!” But before Oskar could see anything, Simon was striding away, his short dark cloak wrapped around him, heading rapidly up the street and into the mist.

  Ferdie and Oskar were burrowed deep beneath their quilts, when ten minutes later, a group of Garmin came loping up from the slipway, their white, flat heads turning from side to side. They did not hear the click-clicker-clicks as the creatures walked along the street, heading straight for Simon and Lucy’s front door. They did not see them stop and sniff the air, their yellow eyes glinting in the light from the house opposite. And they did not feel them nudge the front door and then go staggering back as Simon’s Magykal Armed Bar sent a shock wave of terror through them.

  As the Garmin ran off, heading into the Castle, somewhere in the house Oskar and Ferdie heard the soft sound of Lucy Heap sobbing.

  THE RAT OFFICE

  One of the lights that Oskar and Ferdie had seen beyond the rooftops belonged to the East Gate Lookout Tower, home to the Castle’s Message Rat service. Behind a scruffy wooden door with a brass plate declaring it to be the Official Confidential Registered Rat Office were three rats, two of whom were working late to the background music of snoring from the third. One rat was writing out a list of messages to be sent the next day. Most of these were birthday or anniversary messages, which the rat found extremely tedious. She transcribed the very last message—Happy Birthday Binkie-Boo Twenty-One Again Ha-Ha From Guess Who—and slammed it down onto a tall pile of message cards, color-coded green for Castle delivery.

  “Done!” she said.

  Mo—or Morris, to give the other rat his full name—threw down his pen with relief. He had been adding up the message money, which he hated. “What a day, Flo,” he said.

  “Florence,” the other rat said severely. “I am Florence at work.”

  “Well, we’re not at work, are we?” Morris pointed out. “You just said we were done.”

  “We are still in the office, Morris, and that means we are on duty.”

  A loud snort came from the third rat in the office, a rotund elderly rat asleep in a rocking chair. “See?” said Florence. “Da agrees with me.” She raised her voice. “Don’t you, Da?” br />
  Another snort came in reply. Florence and Morris looked at the elderly rat in amused affection. He was slumped back in his rocking chair, his hands folded over his plump tummy, his mouth open in a little whistling O with his two long front teeth just touching his lower lip.

  “It seems a shame to wake him,” said Florence.

  Morris nodded. “Yeah. I’ll get his rug and cover him up.”

  “And his pillow,” said Florence.

  They tucked the old rat into his chair, propped his head up against his favorite pillow and headed for the stairs to the living quarters above the office.

  Tiiiiiiiiiiiiing! Tiiiiiiiiiiiiing! Tiiiiiiiiiiiiing!

  “Argh!” yelled Florence. She stared in dismay at a line of bells behind the desk, one of which was swinging wildly.

  “Crumbs,” gasped Morris, reading the lighted square above the bell. “It’s the Palace.”

  Tiiiiiiiiiiiiing! Tiiiiiiiiiiiiing! Tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing!

  “Waassermarrer?” The old rat sat bolt upright in his chair. He looked puzzled for a few moments while he worked out where he was and then he threw off his rug. “Answer it, Florence,” he said. “Immediate dispatch. We mustn’t keep Her Majesty waiting.”

  “Yes, Da.” Florence hurried across to a panel of different-colored buttons below the bells and quickly pressed the green one. A panel below the button lit up. It said: Message received. Rat dispatched immediately. ETA three minutes.

  “Right,” the old rat said. “I’m off.”

  Both Florence and Morris looked aghast. “But you can’t,” they chorused.

  “Yes, I can,” said the rat. “As senior rat I must go. The Queen will expect me to, due to the fact I am a friend of royalty.”

  Florence and Morris exchanged exasperated glances. “But what about your Bumblefoot?” said Morris.

  “Bother the Bumblefoot,” said the old rat. “Florence, press the twenty-minute delay.”

  Florence pressed an orange button. The panel below shone with the message, Apologies. Rat delayed due to unforeseen circumstances. ETA twenty minutes.

  From the little window in the room above the office, Florence and Morris watched their adoptive father, Stanley, scuttle off.

  “Perhaps I ought to go after him,” said Morris. “And check he’s okay.”

  “I think,” said Florence, “that would be a really good idea.”

  Morris hurried off into the misty night and soon saw the old rat’s bulky shape lolloping along in front of him. Stanley suffered from Bumblefoot in both feet, and after a fast start to show off to the watchers in the window, he had slowed to a painful hobble as soon as he thought he was out of sight. Morris slowed his pace to match that of the old rat, and set about shadowing him. All he wanted to do was see Stanley to the Palace and back safely.

  Morris followed Stanley along the path on the top of the Castle Wall, which was the quickest way for a rat—or anyone else with a good head for heights—to get to the Palace, and before long they came to the steps that led down to Snake Slipway. Morris waited for the old rat to ease his way down and quickly followed after him. Stanley weaved through the upturned paddleboats on the hard standing on the front of Rupert Gringe’s boatyard and headed up Snake Slipway into the brightly lit street beyond.

  It was here that Morris, a sensitive rat, began to feel uneasy. The glowing purple Armed Bar on the door of the Deputy Alchemist’s house spooked him, but it wasn’t just that. Morris could smell something vile—a foul mixture of snake, slime and dead dog. It made the young rat want to throw up. But in front of him Stanley, who had almost lost his sense of smell, carried on regardless.

  The old rat was now tottering toward the mouth of the rat-run—an ancient drainpipe—that ran beneath the Palace gardens and would take him directly into the Palace itself. He was very nearly there when Morris saw a nightmare ahead. Coming out of the darkness were three white shapes, even bigger than a human, walking almost upright on long, horselike legs, with wide, white snakeheads. Morris’s little rat heart began to beat even faster than usual as he watched Stanley hobbling toward the creatures, clearly not having seen them. If only Stanley would speed up just a little, Morris thought. All he had to do was get inside the rat-run and he would be safe.

  The lead Garmin stopped and looked down at Stanley. Morris held his breath—surely a fat, elderly rat pottering along the street was not worth bothering about? He watched the Garmin’s bright yellow eyes follow Stanley’s unsteady progress, its head to one side as if deciding what to do.

  Morris could watch no longer. He broke cover. Hurtling toward Stanley across the street, he saw the yellow eyes of the three Garmin latch on to him. “Run, Dadso, run!” Morris squealed high and shrill in rat-squeak. Stanley looked around, puzzled. He saw Morris racing toward him and then, at last, he saw the terrifying white shapes above. He saw the red open mouth of the nearest snakehead; he saw its long black tongue flick out, dripping thick saliva onto Morris’s shiny young coat, and then he saw its head dart down to snap up its victim.

  Stanley forgot his Bumblefoot, forgot his creaking joints and his aching back and he leaped into the air, squealing, biting, kicking, punching out at the monstrous snakehead that was heading for his son. And somehow, Stanley got it right. His clenched paw hit the pale spot between the Garmin’s slitlike nostrils and the creature reeled back in silent pain. Stanley grabbed hold of the scruff of Morris’s neck, pushed him into the mouth of the drainpipe and kept right on pushing (much helped by the slime covering Morris’s coat) until he was certain they were out of reach of any questing snake tongue or stabbing claws.

  The two rats lay exhausted and trembling in the drainpipe. After some minutes Morris croaked, “Thanks, Dadso.”

  “’S’all right, son,” mumbled Stanley. He got to his feet with a groan. “Right,” he said. “Let’s get going. Mustn’t keep Her Maj waiting. What is it I always say?”

  “I dunno. Er . . . Pass the biscuits?”

  “No, son. Nothing stops a Message Rat.”

  MESSAGE RECEIVED

  Stanley and Morris emerged beneath the washbasin in one of the Palace cloakrooms off the Long Walk. With some difficulty, Stanley squeezed out through a hole gnawed in the bottom of the door and Morris easily followed. Stanley hobbled and Morris walked alongside him, and together they progressed down the Long Walk, Morris wide-eyed, staring at all the treasures glittering in the light of fat candles placed in the alcoves. The young rat had never been inside the Palace and he felt quite overawed. Eventually Stanley took a left turn and Morris followed him into a tall entrance hall with a grand staircase winding up to a gallery above. To their left was a line of little red and gold chairs ranged along the wall beside the old wooden Palace doors, and Stanley limped across to these. Above the chair nearest the doors was a brass sign, which read: Reserved for Message Rat. Beside it was a small set of steps. Wearily, Stanley climbed the steps and plonked himself down on the chair.

  “Ring the bell, Morris,” Stanley said, pointing to a long red-cord bellpull beside the chair. “Just to let Her Maj know we’re here.”

  Morris saw the Queen come hurrying around the corner, red robes flying. With her came a young man, who the rat recognized as Simon Heap, the Deputy Castle Alchemist. Morris scuttled under the chair. He watched the Queen’s sensible brown boots run across the checkered floor and stop right beside him, the heavy gold hem of her dress brushing against his tail.

  On the chair above, Stanley struggled to sit up. “Message Rat reporting for duty, Your Majesty,” he wheezed.

  “About time,” Jenna said crossly. “Stanley, where have you been?”

  “So sorry, Your Maj. Had a bit of trouble,” Stanley replied weakly.

  Jenna’s expression softened. “Stanley, you don’t look well,” she said. “Not well at all.”

  “Possibly not,” Stanley agreed. Now he had got to his destination, he felt like a wet rag.

  From beneath the chair Morris was shocked at how weak his father sound
ed. He knew what he had to do. He scampered up the steps—much to Jenna’s surprise—and jumped onto the Message Rat chair. Then he stood up on his hind legs, took a deep breath and began to squeak, “Your Majesty, I am the Deputy Message Rat on this mission. I am a Chartered Confidential Rat and I am at your service. Please state your message, its destination and recipient.”

  Jenna and Simon scrutinized the young rat. Despite its strange appearance—it was covered in strings of sticky white stuff—they could tell that it was squeaking in a purposeful way.

  “Tell it the Speeke,” said Simon.

  Jenna nodded. She looked Morris in the eye and said, “Speeke, Rattus Rattus.”

  At the sound of the Speeke, a swarm of goose bumps ran over Morris, sending the hairs on the scruff of his neck standing up on end. He took a big breath and repeated what he had squeaked. This time the Queen understood.

  “Your destination is the Wizard Tower,” she told him. “The recipient of your message is the ExtraOrdinary Wizard, Septimus Heap. Message begins: Septimus, Activate the Castle Alert. Extreme danger. Please be present for Queen’s Crisis Council at the Palace at six tomorrow morning. Jenna.”

  Morris’s jaw dropped. He caught Stanley’s disapproving glance and shut his mouth at once—a Message Rat must show no reaction to a message, whatever its content. He waited until he was sure the Queen had finished and then said, “Message received and understood, Your Majesty.”

  Stanley watched Morris hop down and scurry away into the Long Walk. He felt proud of his ratlet—but frightened for him too. He struggled to his painful feet and the next thing he knew, he had been scooped up and cradled in the Queen’s arms. “But you, Stanley,” she told him firmly, “are not going anywhere. I will make you up a bed by the fire.” Stanley closed his eyes in utter bliss. If he died now, he thought, he would be happy.

  “I’ll be off now,” Simon said.