Scepter of the Ancients

  “I really couldn’t say,” Fedgewick answered, his paltry excuse for a smile failing miserably under the glares he was getting from Fergus and Beryl. “But I’m sure he’ll be along soon.”

  Fergus frowned, narrowing his beady eyes as much as was possible. “How are you sure?”

  Fedgewick faltered, unable to offer a reason, and then the door opened and the man in the tan overcoat entered the room.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, closing the door behind him. “It was unavoidable, I’m afraid.”

  Everyone in the room stared at him, stared at the scarf and the gloves and the sunglasses and the wild fuzzy hair. It was a glorious day outside, certainly not the kind of weather to be wrapped up like that. Stephanie looked closer at the hair. From this range, it didn’t even look real.

  The lawyer cleared his throat. “Um, you are Skulduggery Pleasant?”

  “At your service,” the man said. Stephanie could listen to that voice all day. Her mother, uncertain as she was, had smiled her greetings, but her father was looking at him with an expression of wariness she had never seen on his face before. After a moment, the expression left him and he nodded politely and looked back to Mr. Fedgewick. Fergus and Beryl were still staring.

  “Do you have something wrong with your face?” Beryl asked.

  Mr. Fedgewick cleared his throat again. “Okay, then, let’s get down to business, now that we’re all here. Excellent. Good. This, of course, being the last will and testament of Gordon Edgley, last revised almost one year ago. Gordon has been a client of mine for the past twenty years, and in that time, I got to know him well, so let me pass on to you, his family and—and friend, my deepest, deepest—”

  “Yes yes yes,” Fergus interrupted, waving his hand in the air. “Can we just skip this part? We’re already running behind schedule. Let’s go to the part where we get stuff. Who gets the house? And who gets the villa?”

  “Who gets the fortune?” Beryl asked, leaning forward in her seat.

  “The royalties,” Fergus said. “Who gets the royalties from the books?”

  Stephanie glanced at Skulduggery Pleasant from the corner of her eye. He was standing back against the wall, hands in his pockets, looking at the lawyer. Well, he seemed to be looking at the lawyer; with those sunglasses, he could have been looking anywhere. She returned her gaze to Mr. Fedgewick as he picked up a page from his desk and read from it.

  “‘To my brother Fergus, and his beautiful wife, Beryl,’” he read, and Stephanie did her best to hide a grin, “‘I leave my car, and my boat, and a gift.’”

  Fergus and Beryl blinked. “His car?” Fergus said. “His boat? Why would he leave me his boat?”

  “You hate the water,” Beryl said, anger rising in her voice. “You get seasick.”

  “I do get seasick,” Fergus snapped, “and he knew that!”

  “And we already have a car,” Beryl said.

  “And we already have a car!” Fergus repeated.

  Beryl was sitting so far up on her chair that she was almost on the desk. “This gift,” she said, her voice low and threatening, “is it the fortune?”

  Mr. Fedgewick coughed nervously and took a small box from his desk drawer and slid it toward them. They looked at this box. They looked some more. They both reached for it at the same time, and Stephanie watched them slap at each other’s hands until Beryl snatched it off the desk and tore the lid open.

  “What is it?” Fergus asked in a small voice. “Is it a key to a safety-deposit box? Is it, is it an account number? Is it … what is it? Wife, what is it?”

  All color had drained from Beryl’s face, and her hands were shaking. She blinked hard to keep the tears away; then she turned the box for everyone to see, and everyone saw a brooch, about the size of a drinks coaster, nestled on a plush cushion. Fergus stared at it.

  “It doesn’t even have any jewels on it,” Beryl said, her voice strangled. Fergus opened his mouth wide like a startled fish, and turned to Mr. Fedgewick.

  “What else do we get?” he asked, panicking.

  Mr. Fedgewick tried another smile. “Your, uh, your brother’s love?”

  Stephanie heard a high-pitched whine, and it took her a moment to realize it was coming from Beryl. Mr. Fedgewick returned his attention to the will, trying to ignore the horrified looks he was getting from Fergus and his wife.

  “‘To my good friend and guide Skulduggery Pleasant, I leave the following advice: Your path is your own, and I have no wish to sway you, but sometimes the greatest enemy we can face is ourselves, and the greatest battle is against the darkness within. There is a storm coming, and sometimes the key to safe harbor is hidden from us, and sometimes it is right before our eyes.’”

  Stephanie joined in with everyone else as they stared at Mr. Pleasant. She had known there was something different about him, had known it the first moment she saw him—there was something exotic, something mysterious, something dangerous. For his part, his head dipped lower, and that was the only reaction he gave. He offered no explanations as to what Gordon’s message meant.

  Fergus patted his wife’s knee. “See, Beryl? A car, a boat, a brooch; it’s not that bad. He could have given us some stupid advice.”

  “Oh shut up, would you?” Beryl snarled, and Fergus recoiled in his chair.

  Mr. Fedgewick read on. “‘To my other brother, Desmond, the lucky one of the family: I leave to you your wife; I think you might like her.’” Stephanie saw her parents clasp each other’s hands and smile sadly. “‘So now that you’ve successfully stolen my girlfriend, maybe you’d like to take her to my villa in France, which I am also leaving to you.’”

  “They get the villa?” Beryl cried, jumping to her feet.

  “Beryl,” Fergus said, “please …”

  “Do you know how much that villa is worth?” Beryl continued, looking like she might lunge at Stephanie’s parents. “We get a brooch, they get a villa? There are only three of them! We’ve got Carol and Crystal! We have more! We could do with the extra space! Why do they deserve the villa?” She thrust the box toward them. “Swap!”

  “Mrs. Edgley, please retake your seat or we shall be unable to continue,” Mr. Fedgewick said, and eventually, after much bug-eyed glaring, Beryl sat down.

  “Thank you,” Mr. Fedgewick said, looking like he had had quite enough excitement for one day. He licked his lips, adjusted his glasses, and peered again at the will. “‘If there is one regret that I have had in my life, it is that I never fathered any children. There are times, when I look at what Fergus and Beryl have produced, when I consider myself fortunate, but there are also times when it breaks my heart. And so, finally, to my niece Stephanie.’”

  Stephanie’s eyes widened. What? She was getting something? Leaving the villa to her parents wasn’t enough for Gordon?

  Fedgewick continued reading. “‘The world is bigger than you know, and scarier than you might imagine. The only currency worth anything is being true to yourself, and the only goal worth seeking is finding out who you truly are.’”

  She could feel Fergus and Beryl glaring at her, and she did her best to ignore them.

  “‘Make your parents proud, and make them glad to have you living under their roof, because I leave to you my property and possessions, my assets and my royalties, to be inherited on the day you turn eighteen. I’d just like to take this opportunity to say that, in my own way, I love you all, even those I don’t particularly like. That’s you, Beryl.’”

  Mr. Fedgewick took off his spectacles and looked up.

  Stephanie became aware that everyone was staring at her, and she hadn’t a clue what she was supposed to say. Fergus was again doing his startled-fish impression, and Beryl was pointing one long, bony finger at her, trying to speak but failing. Her parents were looking at her in stunned surprise. Only Skulduggery Pleasant moved, walking behind her and gently touching her arm.

  “Congratulations,” he said, and moved on toward the door. As soon as it clicked shut behind him,
Beryl found her voice.

  “Her?” she screamed. “Her?”

  Three

  LITTLE GIRL, ALL ALONE

  THAT AFTERNOON STEPHANIE and her mother made the fifteen-minute drive from Haggard to Gordon’s estate. Her mum opened the front door and stepped back.

  “Owner of the house goes first,” she said with a little smile and a bow, and Stephanie stepped inside. She wasn’t thinking of this house as her property; the idea was too big, too silly. Even if her parents were, technically, the custodians until she turned eighteen, how could she own a house? How many other twelve-year-olds owned houses?

  No, it was too silly an idea. Too far-fetched. Too crazy. Exactly the kind of thing that Gordon would have thought made perfect sense.

  The house was big and quiet and empty as they walked through it. Everything seemed new to her now, and Stephanie found herself reacting differently to the furniture and carpets and paintings. Did she like it? Did she agree with this color, or that fabric? One thing that had to be said for Gordon: He had a good eye. Stephanie’s mother said there was very little she would change if she had to. Some of the paintings were a little too unnerving for her taste, maybe, but on the whole the furnishings were elegant and understated, exuding a class that befitted a house of this stature.

  They hadn’t decided what they were going to do. Any decision to do with this house was left up to Stephanie, but her parents still had the villa to consider. Owning three houses between them seemed a bit much. Her father had suggested selling the villa, but her mother hated the thought of letting go of a place so idyllic.

  They had also talked about Stephanie’s education, and she knew that conversation was far from over. The moment they had left Mr. Fedgewick’s office, they warned her not to let all this go to her head. Recent events, they had said, should not mean she could stop studying, stop planning for college. She needed to be independent, they said; she needed to make it on her own.

  Stephanie let them talk, and nodded occasionally and muttered an agreement where an agreement was appropriate. She didn’t bother to explain that she knew she needed college, knew she needed to find her own way in the world, because if she didn’t, she’d never escape Haggard. She wasn’t about to throw her future away simply because she was going to come into some money.

  She and her mother spent so long looking around the ground floor that by the time they got to the bottom of the stairs, it was already five o’clock. With their exploring done for the day, they locked up and walked toward the car. A first few drops of rain splattered against the windshield as they got in. Stephanie clicked her seat belt closed, and her mother turned the key in the ignition.

  The car spluttered a bit, groaned a little, and then shut up altogether. Her mother looked at her.

  “Uh-oh.”

  They both got out and went around to the front and opened the hood.

  “Well,” her mother said, looking at the engine, “at least that’s still there.”

  “Do you know anything about engines?” Stephanie asked.

  “That’s why I have a husband, so I don’t have to. Engines and shelves, that’s why men were invented.”

  Stephanie made a mental note to learn about engines before she turned eighteen. She wasn’t too fussed about the shelves.

  Her mum dug her mobile phone out of her bag and called Stephanie’s dad, but he was busy on-site and there was no way he could get to them before nightfall. They went back inside and her mother called for a mechanic, and they spent three quarters of an hour waiting for him to arrive. The sky was gray and angry, and the rain was falling hard by the time the truck appeared around the corner. It splashed through puddles on its way up the long drive, and Stephanie’s mum pulled her jacket over her head and ran out to meet it. Stephanie could see a great big dog in the cab of the truck, looking on as the mechanic got out to examine their car. After a few minutes, her mother ran back inside, thoroughly drenched.

  “He can’t fix it here,” she said, wringing out her jacket on the porch, “so he’s going to tow it to the garage. It shouldn’t take too long to fix.”

  “Will there be room for both of us in the truck?”

  “You can sit on my knee.”

  “Mum!”

  “Or I can sit on your knee; whatever works.”

  “Can I stay here?”

  Her mother looked at her. “Alone?”

  “Please? You just said it won’t take long, and I’d like to have another look around.”

  “I don’t know, Steph …”

  “Please? I’ve stayed on my own before. I won’t break anything, I swear.”

  Her mother laughed. “Okay, fine. I shouldn’t be any more than an hour, all right? An hour and a half at the most.” Her mother gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Call me if you need anything.”

  She ran back outside and jumped into the cab, next to the dog, who proceeded to slobber all over her face. Stephanie watched their car being towed off into the distance, and then it vanished from sight.

  She did a little more exploring, now that she was on her own. She climbed the stairs and went straight to Gordon’s study.

  His publisher, Seamus T. Steepe of Arc Light Books, had phoned them earlier that day, passing on his condolences and inquiring about the state of Gordon’s last book. Her mother had told him that they’d find out if Gordon had completed it, and if he had, they’d send it on. Mr. Steepe was very keen to get the book on the shelves, certain that it would crash onto the bestseller list and stay there for a long time. “Dead writers sell,” he had said, like he approved of Gordon’s clever marketing ploy.

  Stephanie opened a desk drawer and found the manuscript in a neat stack. She pulled it out carefully and laid it on the desktop, careful not to smudge the paper. The first page held the title, nothing more, in bold lettering:

  And the Darkness Rained upon Them

  The manuscript was thick and heavy, like all of Gordon’s books. She’d read most of them and, the odd splash of pretension aside, had quite enjoyed his work. His stories tended to be about people who could do astonishing and wonderful things, and the strange and terrible events that invariably led up to their bizarre and horrible deaths. She noticed the way he would set up a strong and noble hero and, over the course of the book, systematically subject his hero to brutal punishment in a bid to strip away all his arrogance and certainty, so that by the end he was humbled and had learned a great lesson. And then Gordon killed him off, usually in the most undignified way possible. Stephanie could almost hear Gordon laughing with mischievous glee as she read.

  She lifted the title page and carefully laid it facedown on the desk beside the manuscript. She started reading. She didn’t mean to spend long at it, but soon she was devouring every word, oblivious to the creaking old house and the rain outside.

  Her mobile phone rang, making her jump. She had been reading for two hours. She thumbed the answer button and held it to her ear.

  “Hi, sweetie,” came her mother’s voice. “Everything okay?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “Just reading.”

  “You’re not reading one of Gordon’s books, are you? Steph, he writes about horrible monsters and scary stuff and bad people doing worse things. It’ll give you nightmares.”

  “No, Mum, I’m … I’m reading the dictionary.”

  Even the brief silence from the other end of the phone was skeptical. “The dictionary?” her mother said. “Really?”

  “Yeah,” Stephanie said. “Did you know that popple is a word?”

  “You are stranger than your father, you know that?”

  “I suspected. … So is the car fixed yet?”

  “No, and that’s why I’m calling. They can’t get it going, and the road up to you is flooded. I’m going to get a taxi up as far as it’ll go, and then I’ll see if I can find some way around on foot. It’s going to be another two hours, at least.”

  Stephanie sensed an opportunity. Ever since she was a child, she had much preferr
ed her own company to the company of others, and it occurred to her that she had never spent a whole night without her parents nearby. A small taste of freedom, and it almost tingled on her tongue.

  “Mum, it’s fine, you don’t have to. I’m okay here.”

  “There’s no way I’m leaving you in a strange house by yourself.”

  “It’s not a strange house; it’s Gordon’s, and it’s fine. There’s no point in you trying to get here tonight; it’s lashing rain.”

  “Sweetie, it won’t take me long.”

  “It’ll take you ages. Where’s it flooded?”

  Her mother paused. “At the bridge.”

  “The bridge? And you want to walk from the bridge to here?”

  “If I speed walk—”

  “Mum, don’t be silly. Get Dad to pick you up.”

  “Sweetheart, are you sure?”

  “I like it here, really. Okay?”

  “Well, okay,” her mother said reluctantly. “I’ll be over first thing in the morning to pick you up, all right? And I saw some food in the cupboards, so if you’re hungry, you can make yourself something.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  “Call us if you need anything, or if you just want some company.”

  “I will. Night, Mum.”

  “I love you.”

  “I know.”

  Stephanie hung up and grinned. She slipped the phone back into her jacket and put her feet up on the desk, relaxing in the chair, and went back to reading.

  When she looked up again, she was surprised to find that it was almost midnight and the rain had stopped. If she were home right now, she’d be in bed. She blinked, her eyes sore, and stood up from the desk and went downstairs to the kitchen. For all his wealth and success and extravagant tastes, Stephanie was thankful that when it came to food, Gordon was a pretty standard guy. The bread was stale and the fruit was a bit too ripe, but there were biscuits and there was cereal, and the milk in the fridge was still good for one more day. She made herself a snack and wandered into the living room, where she flicked on the TV. She sat on the couch and was just getting comfy when the house phone rang.