Sabriel

  “The family?”

  “All dead and past the Final Gate, save one, who should be. You know who I mean.”

  For a moment, this news seemed to return Touchstone to his wooden state. He sat frozen, only the slight movement of his chest showing continued life. Then tears started in his eyes, and his head slowly fell to meet his upturned hands.

  Mogget watched without sympathy, till the young man’s back ceased its heaving and the harsh in-drawn gasps between sobs became calmer.

  “There’s no point crying over it,” the cat said harshly. “Plenty of people have died trying to put the matter to rights. Four Abhorsens have fallen in this century alone, trying to deal with the Dead, the broken stones and the—the original problem. My current Abhorsen certainly isn’t lying around crying her eyes out. Make yourself useful and help her.”

  “Can I?” asked Touchstone bleakly, wiping his face with the blanket.

  “Why not?” snorted Mogget. “Get dressed, for a start. There are some things aboard here for you as well. Swords and suchlike.”

  “But I’m not fit to wield royal—”

  “Just do as you’re told,” Mogget said firmly. “Think of yourself as Abhorsen’s sworn sword-hand, if it makes you feel better, though in this present era, you’ll find common sense is more important than honor.”

  “Very well,” Touchstone muttered, humbly. He stood up and put on the underclothes and shirt, but couldn’t get the trousers past his heavily muscled thighs.

  “There’s a kilt and leggings in one of the chests back here,” Mogget said, after watching Touchstone hopping around on one leg, the other trapped in too-tight leather.

  Touchstone nodded, divested himself of the trousers, and clambered up through the hole, taking care to keep as far away from Mogget as possible. Halfway up, he paused, arms braced on either side of the gap.

  “You won’t tell her?” he asked.

  “Tell who? Tell what?”

  “Abhorsen. Please, I’ll do all I can to help. But it wasn’t intentional. My part, I mean. Please, don’t tell her—”

  “Spare me the pleadings,” said Mogget, in a disgusted tone. “I can’t tell her. You can’t tell her. The corruption is wide and the spell rather indiscriminatory. Hurry up—she’ll be back soon. I’ll tell you the rest of our current saga while you dress.”

  Sabriel returned from the spring feeling healthier, cleaner and happier. She’d slept well and the morning’s ablutions had cleared off the blood. The bruises, swellings and sunburn had all responded well to her herbal treatments. All in all, she felt about eighty percent normal, rather than ten percent functional, and she was looking forward to having some company at breakfast other than the sardonic Mogget. Not that he didn’t have his uses, such as guarding unconscious or sleeping humans. He’d also assured her that he had tested the Charter mark on the figurehead-man, finding him to be unsullied by Free Magic, or necromancy.

  She’d expected the man to still be asleep, so she felt a faint frisson of surprise and suspense when she saw a figure standing by the ship’s bow, facing the other way. For a second, her hand twitched to her sword, then she saw Mogget nearby, precariously draped on the ship’s rail.

  She approached nervously, her curiosity tempered by the need to be wary of strangers. He looked different dressed. Older and somewhat intimidating, particularly since he seemed to have scorned her plain clothing for a kilt of gold-striped red, with matching leggings of red-striped gold, disappearing into turned-down thigh boots of russet doeskin. He was wearing her shirt, though, and preparing to put on a red leather jerkin. It had detachable, lace-up sleeves, which seemed to be giving him some problems. Two swords lay in three-quarter scabbards near his feet, stabbing points shining four inches out of the leather. A wide belt with the appropriate hooks already encircled his waist.

  “Curse these laces,” he said, when she was about ten paces away. A nice voice, quite deep, but currently frustrated and peaking with temper.

  “Good morning,” said Sabriel.

  He whirled around, dropping the sleeves, almost ducking to his swords, before recovering to transform the motion into a bow, culminating in a descent to one knee.

  “Good morning, milady,” he said huskily, head bowed, carefully not meeting her gaze. She saw that he’d found some earrings, large gold hoops clumsily pushed through pierced lobes, for they were bloodied. Apart from them, all she could see was the top of his curly-haired head.

  “I’m not ‘milady,’” said Sabriel, wondering which of Miss Prionte’s etiquette principles applied to this situation. “My name is Sabriel.”

  “Sabriel? But you are the Abhorsen,” the man said slowly. He didn’t sound overly bright, Sabriel thought, with sinking expectations. Perhaps there would be very little conversation at breakfast after all.

  “No, my father is the Abhorsen,” she said, with a stern look at Mogget, warning him not to interfere. “I’m a sort of stand-in. It’s a bit complicated, so I’ll explain later. What’s your name?”

  He hesitated, then mumbled, “I can’t remember, milady. Please, call me . . . call me Touchstone.”

  “Touchstone?” asked Sabriel. That sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it for a moment. “Touchstone? But that’s a jester’s name, a fool’s name. Why call you that?”

  “That’s what I am,” he said dully, without inflection.

  “Well, I have to call you something,” Sabriel continued. “Touchstone. You know, there is the tradition of a wise fool, so perhaps it’s not so bad. I guess you think you’re a fool because you’ve been imprisoned as a figurehead—and in Death, of course.”

  “In Death!” exclaimed Touchstone. He looked up and his grey eyes met Sabriel’s. Surprisingly, he had a clear, intelligent gaze. Perhaps there is some hope for him after all, she thought, as she explained: “Your spirit was somehow preserved just beyond the border of Death, and your body preserved as the wooden figurehead. Both necromantic and Free Magic would have been involved. Very powerful magic, on both counts. I am curious as to why it was used on you.”

  Touchstone looked away again, and Sabriel sensed a certain shiftiness, or embarrassment. She guessed that the forthcoming explanation would be a half-truth, at best.

  “I don’t remember very well,” he said, slowly. “Though things are coming back. I am . . . I was . . . a guardsman. The Royal Guard. There was some sort of attack upon the Queen . . .an ambush in the—at the bottom of the stairs. I remember fighting, with blade and Charter Magic—we were all Charter Mages, all the guard. I thought we were safe, but there was treachery . . . then . . . I was here. I don’t know how.”

  Sabriel listened carefully, wondering how much of what he said was true. It was likely that his memory was impaired, but he possibly was a royal guard. Perhaps he had cast a diamond of protection . . . that could have been why his enemies could only imprison him, rather than kill. But, surely they could have waited till it failed. Why the bizarre method of imprisonment? And, most importantly, how did the figurehead manage to get placed in this most protected of places?

  She filed all these questions for later investigation, for another thought had struck her. If he really was a royal guard, the Queen he had guarded must have been dead and gone for at least two hundred years and, with her, everyone and everything he knew.

  “You have been a prisoner for a long time,” she said gently, uncertain about how to break the news. “Have you . . . I mean did you . . . well, what I mean is it’s been a very long time—”

  “Two hundred years,” whispered Touchstone. “Your minion told me.”

  “Your family . . .”

  “I have none,” he said. His expression was set, as immobile as the carved wood of the previous day. Carefully, he reached over and drew one of his swords, offering it to Sabriel hilt-first.

  “I would serve you, milady, to fight against the enemies of the Kingdom.”

  Sabriel didn’t take the sword, though his plea made her reflexively reach out. But a mome
nt’s thought closed her open palm, and her arm fell back to her side. She looked at Mogget, who was watching the proceedings with unabashed interest.

  “What have you told him, Mogget?” she asked, suspicion wreathing her words.

  “The state of the Kingdom, generally speaking,” replied the cat. “Recent events. Our descent here, more or less. Your duty as Abhorsen to remedy the situation.”

  “The Mordicant? Shadow Hands? Gore crows? The Dead Adept, whoever it may be?”

  “Not specifically,” said Mogget, cheerfully. “I thought he could presume as much.”

  “As you see,” Sabriel said, rather angrily, “my ‘minion’ has not been totally honest with you. I was raised across the Wall, in Ancelstierre, so I have very little idea about what is going on. I have huge gaps in my knowledge of the Old Kingdom, including everything from geography to history to Charter Magic. I face some dire enemies, probably under the overall direction of one of the Greater Dead, a necromantic adept. And I’m not out to save the Kingdom, just to find my father, the real Abhorsen. So I don’t want to take your oath or service or anything like that, particularly as we’ve only just met. I am happy for you to accompany us to the nearest approximation of civilization, but I have no idea what I will be doing after that. And, please remember that my name is Sabriel. Not milady. Not Abhorsen. Now, I think it’s time for breakfast.”

  With that, she stalked over to her pack, and started getting out some oatmeal and a small cooking pot.

  Touchstone stared after her for a moment, then picked himself up, attached his swords, put on the sleeveless jerkin, tied the sleeves to his belt and wandered off to the nearest clump of trees.

  Mogget followed him there, and watched him pick up dead branches and sticks for a fire.

  “She really did grow up in Ancelstierre,” said the cat. “She doesn’t realize refusing your oath is an insult. And it’s true enough about her ignorance. That’s one of the reasons she needs your help.”

  “I can’t remember much,” said Touchstone, snapping a branch in half with considerable ferocity. “Except my most recent past. Everything else is like a dream. I’m not sure if it’s real or not, learned or imagined. And I wasn’t insulted. My oath isn’t worth much.”

  “But you’ll help her,” said Mogget. It wasn’t a question.

  “No,” said Touchstone. “Help is for equals. I’ll serve her. That’s all I’m good for.”

  As Sabriel feared, there was little conversation over breakfast. Mogget went off in search of his own, and Sabriel and Touchstone were hindered by the sole cooking pot and single spoon, so they took it in turns to eat half the porridge. Even allowing for this difficulty, Touchstone was uncommunicative. Sabriel started asking a lot of questions, but as his standard response was, “I’m sorry, I can’t remember,” she soon gave up.

  “I don’t suppose you can remember how to get out of this sinkhole, either,” she asked in exasperation, after a particularly long stretch of silence. Even to her, this sounded like a prefect addressing a miscreant twelve-year-old.

  “No, I’m sorry . . .” Touchstone began automatically, then he paused, and the corner of his mouth quirked up with a momentary spasm of pleasure. “Wait! Yes—I do remember! There’s a hidden stair, to the north of King Janeurl’s ship . . . oh, I can’t remember which one that is . . .”

  “There’s only four ships near the northern rim,” Sabriel mused. “It won’t be too hard to find. How’s your memory for other geography? The Kingdom, for instance?”

  “I’m not sure,” replied Touchstone, guardedly, bowing his head again. Sabriel looked at him and took a deep breath to calm the eel-like writhings of anger that were slowly getting bigger and bigger inside her. She could excuse his faulty memory—after all, that was due to magical incarceration. But the servile manner that went with it seemed to be an affectation. He was like a bad actor playing the butler—or rather, a non-actor trying to impersonate a butler as best he could. But why?

  “Mogget drew me a map,” she said, talking as much to calm herself as for any real communication. “But, as he apparently has only left Abhorsen’s House for a few weekends over the last thousand years, even two-hundred-year-old memories . . .”

  Sabriel paused, and bit her lip, suddenly aware that her annoyance with him had made her spiteful. He looked up as she stopped speaking, but no reaction showed on his face. He might as well still be carved from wood.

  “What I mean is,” Sabriel continued carefully, “it would be very helpful if you could advise me on the best route to Belisaere, and the important landmarks and locations on the way.”

  She got the map out of the special pocket in the pack and removed the protective oilskin. Touchstone took one end as she unrolled it, and weighted his two corners with stones, while Sabriel secured hers with the telescope case.

  “I think we’re about here,” she said, tracing her finger from Abhorsen’s House, following the Paperwing’s flight from there to a point a little north of the Ratterlin river delta.

  “No,” said Touchstone, sounding decisive for the first time, his finger stabbing the map an inch to the north of Sabriel’s own. “This is Holehallow, here. It’s only ten leagues from the coast and at the same latitude as Mount Anarson.”

  “Good!” exclaimed Sabriel, smiling, her anger slipping from her. “You do remember. Now, what’s the best route to Belisaere, and how long will it take?”

  “I don’t know the current conditions, mi . . . Sabriel,” Touchstone replied. His voice grew softer, more subdued. “From what Mogget says, the Kingdom is in a state of anarchy. Towns and villages may no longer exist. There will be bandits, the Dead, Free Magic unbound, fell creatures . . .”

  “Ignoring all that,” Sabriel asked, “which way did you normally go?”

  “From Nestowe, the fishing village here,” Touchstone said, pointing at the coast to the east of Holehallow. “We’d ride north along the Shoreway, changing horses at post houses. Four days to Callibe, a rest day there. Then the interior road up through Oncet Pass, six days all told to Aunden. A rest day in Aunden, then four days to Orchyre. From there, it would be a day’s ferry passage, or two days’ riding, to the Westgate of Belisaere.”

  “Even without the rest days, that’d be eighteen days’ riding, at least six weeks’ walking. That’s too long. Is there any other way?”

  “A ship, or boat, from Nestowe,” interrupted Mogget, stalking up behind Sabriel, to place his paw firmly on the map. “If we can find one and if either of you can sail it.”

  chapter xv

  The stair was to the north of the middle ship of the four. Concealed by both magic and artifice, it seemed to be little more than a particularly wet patch of the damp limestone that formed the sinkhole wall, but you could walk right through it, for it was really an open door with steps winding up behind.

  They decided to take these steps the next morning, after another day of rest. Sabriel was eager to move on, for she felt that her father’s peril could only be increasing, but she was realistic enough to assess her own need for recovery time. Touchstone, too, probably needed a rest, she thought. She’d tried to coax more information out of him while they’d searched for the steps, but he was clearly reluctant to even open his mouth, and when he did, Sabriel found his humble apologies ever more irritating. After the door was found she gave up altogether, and sat in the grass near the spring, reading her father’s books on Charter Magic. The Book of the Dead stayed wrapped in oilskin. Even then, she felt its presence, brooding in her pack . . .

  Touchstone stayed at the opposite end of the ship, near the bow, performing a series of fencing exercises with his twin swords, and some stretches and minor acrobatics. Mogget watched him from the undergrowth, green eyes glittering, as if intent on a mouse.

  Lunch was a culinary and conversational failure. Dried beef strips, garnished with watercress from the fringes of the spring, and monosyllabic responses from Touchstone. He even went back to “milady,” despite Sabriel’s repeated r
equests to use her name. Mogget didn’t help by calling her Abhorsen. After lunch, everyone went back to their respective activities. Sabriel to her book, Touchstone to his exercises and Mogget to his watching.

  Dinner was not something anyone had looked forward to. Sabriel tried talking to Mogget, but he seemed to be infected with Touchstone’s reticence, though not with his servility. As soon as they’d eaten, everyone left the raked-together coals of the campfire—Touchstone to the west, Mogget north and Sabriel east—and went to sleep on as comfortable a stretch of ground as could be discovered.

  Sabriel woke once in the night. Without getting up, she saw that the fire had been rekindled and Touchstone sat beside it, staring into the flames, his eyes reflecting the capering, gold-red light. His face looked drawn, almost ill.

  “Are you all right?” Sabriel asked quietly, propping herself up on one elbow.

  Touchstone started, rocked back on his heels, and almost fell over. For once, he didn’t sound like a sulky servant.

  “Not really. I remember what I would not, and forget what I should not. Forgive me.”

  Sabriel didn’t answer. He had spoken the last two words to the fire, not to her.

  “Please, go back to sleep, milady,” Touchstone continued, slipping back to his servile role. “I will wake you in the morning.”

  Sabriel opened her mouth to say something scathing about the arrogance of pretended humility, then shut it, and subsided back under her blanket. Just concentrate on rescuing Father, she told herself. That is the one important thing. Rescue Abhorsen. Don’t worry about Touchstone’s problems, or Mogget’s curious nature. Rescue Abhorsen. Rescue Abhorsen. Rescue Abhors . . . rescue . . .

  “Wake up!” Mogget said, right in her ear. She rolled over, ignoring him, but he leapt across her head and repeated it in her other ear. “Wake up!”

  “I’m awake,” grumbled Sabriel. She sat up with the blanket wrapped around her, feeling the pre-dawn chill on her face and hands. It was still extremely dark, save for the uneven light of the fire and the faintest brushings of dawn light above the sinkhole. Touchstone was already making the porridge. He’d also washed, and shaved—using a dagger from the look of the nicks and cuts on his chin and neck.