"Madam Marcia has asked me to take you straight to the Palace at once. She will be meeting you there. Witches' robes are not appropriate attire and I suggest you take them off right away."

Hildegarde's att.i.tude annoyed Jenna. "No," she said. "These robes are mine and I'm wearing them."

Marissa grinned. She could get to like Jenna.

Chapter 18.

The Emissary

The tide of Ordinary Wizards flowed to a halt outside a small, dimly lit storefront about a hundred yards down Wizard Way, on the right-hand side. A sign above the shop announced it to be NUMBER THIRTEEN, MAGYKAL Ma.n.u.sCRIPTO-RIUM AND SPELL CHECKERS INCORPORATED.

Beetle stepped out of the protective pool of Wizards and looked up at his old, once loved, workplace. The windows were misted with the breath of twenty-one scribes toiling away inside, and through the strip of cloudy gla.s.s above the teetering piles of books and ma.n.u.scripts he could see a yellow glow of light. But it was a gloomy window for the Longest Night-no wasteful candle displays were allowed under Jillie Djinn's regime.

Beetle felt sorry for the scribes working while Wizard Way was abuzz, but he was pleased they were still there. He had been worried that they might have left early that night, as they always had done in his time as Front Office Clerk and General Dogsbody. But Jillie Djinn's grip on the Ma.n.u.scriptorium had tightened since Beetle left. She did not believe in leaving early-especially to have fun.

Two Wizards, sisters Pascalle and Thomasinn Thyme, stepped forward. "We are happy to be your escort, Mr. Beetle, if you need one."

Beetle thought he could use all the help he could get. "Thank you," he said. He took a deep breath and pushed open the door. There was a loud ping and the door counter clicked over to the next number. The Front Office was a shambles and it made Beetle feel sad. The large desk, which he had kept so neat and organized, was a disgusting mess of papers and half-eaten sweets, the floor was unswept and sticky underfoot and there was a distinct smell of something small and furry having died under one of the many untended stacks of papers.

Beetle's gaze traveled around the dingy room, taking in the flimsy half-wood, half-gla.s.s panel that separated the Front Office from the Ma.n.u.scriptorium itself, the ancient grayish paint peeling off the walls and the festoons of cobwebs looping down from the ceiling. He wondered if perhaps he hadn't noticed how run down it all was when he had worked there. But one thing he knew he would have noticed was the state of the small, reinforced door behind the desk that led to the Wild Book and Charm Store-it was nailed shut, with two thick planks across it. Beetle wondered how anyone managed to get in to clean. He presumed they didn't. The state of the Wild Book and Charm Store did not bear thinking about.

Suddenly the half-gla.s.s door that led into the Ma.n.u.scrip-torium flew open and the Chief Hermetic Scribe bustled out. She carried a large handkerchief on which, Beetle noticed, in addition to the letters CHS, her collection of qualifications were carefully embroidered around the edge in different colors. So that's what Jillie Djinn did in her long evenings alone in her rooms at the top of the Ma.n.u.scriptorium, thought Beetle.

Jillie Djinn blinked in surprise at the sight of Beetle flanked by two Wizards.

"Yes?" she snapped.

Beetle had been clutching the Emissary scroll tightly, waiting for this very moment. Quickly he twice-tapped the scroll and held it at arm's length. With a faint buzz a flicker of purple ran around the edges of the scroll, a waft of heat hit him, and suddenly he was holding the full-size version. It felt surprisingly thin and delicate (because in Magyk matter can neither be created nor destroyed), but Beetle thought that only added to its air of mystery and importance. He caught Jillie Djinn's gaze and saw she was, for a moment, impressed-then her default expression of mild irritation quickly rea.s.serted itself.

Beetle was determined to be scrupulously polite. "Good evening, Chief Hermetic Scribe," he said. "I am here as Emissary of the ExtraOrdinary Wizard."

"So I see," Jillie Djinn replied coolly. "And what does she want now?"

Getting into his official role with some relish, Beetle began to read from the words busily arranging themselves on the scroll.

"Please be informed that a Castle Call Out is in progress. The presence of all Indentured Scribes is Called for with immediate effect," he proclaimed.

Jillie Djinn went straight to major annoyance.

"You can tell the ExtraOrdinary Wizard that important work is in progress here," she snapped. "Ma.n.u.scriptorium scribes will not drop everything and rush off on the whim of the ExtraOrdinary Wizard." From one of her many pockets she took out a small timepiece and squinted at it. "They will be available when the Ma.n.u.scriptorium closes in two hours, forty-two minutes and thirty-five seconds precisely."

Marcia Overstrand's Emissary was having none of it. He tried-not entirely successfully-to suppress a smile as the exact words he needed scrolled up before him. Savoring the moment, Beetle slowly read them out.

"Please be advised that Call Out Conditions state that Ma.n.u.scriptorium scribes will be available as and when required. Failure to provide them on demand will invalidate your Terms of Office."

Jillie Djinn sneezed into her overqualified handkerchief. "Why are they required?" she demanded in an indignant splutter.

The words on the Emissary scroll continued to roll up, all gaining Beetle's approval-he could not have put it better himself.

"Please be informed that I am not at liberty to divulge that information. Any questions or complaints relating to this matter may be addressed in writing to the Wizard Tower once the Call Out is stood down. You will receive an answer within seven days. I now require you to make your scribes available immediately. So be it."

Jillie Djinn spun on her heel and flounced off into the Ma.n.u.scriptorium, slamming the flimsy door behind her. Beetle glanced at his two escorts, who looked taken aback.

"We'd heard she was difficult," whispered Pascalle.

"But we didn't know she was that bad," finished Thomasinn.

"She's gotten worse," said Beetle. "Much worse."

From behind the part.i.tion Beetle heard a sudden burst of excited chatter, followed by the thudding of twenty-one pairs of boots as the scribes jumped down from their desks.

Above the hubbub came Jillie Djinn's squawk, "No, Mr. Fox, this is not time off. You will all stay two hours, thirty-nine minutes and seven seconds later tomorrow."

The door to the front office burst open and Foxy emerged at the head of the scribes. At the sight of Beetle he looked startled.

"Hey, Beet. I'd make yourself scarce. We're on a Call Out practice and you-know-who is in a foul temper."

"I know." Beetle grinned, waving his scroll at Foxy. "I've just told her."

Foxy gave a low whistle. He grinned too. "Wish I'd thought of that. So we've got the Longest Night off after all. Thanks, Beet!"

"No, Foxy. This is for real. You are on a Call Out."

"And you're running it? I'm impressed."

"I'm just the messenger, Foxo." With a flourish, Beetle twice-tapped the end of the scroll and popped the Reduced-and now very cold-version safely into his pocket. He raised his voice. "Outside please, everyone, and join the Ordinaries. We are to make our way to the Palace Gate, where we will a.s.semble and await further instructions. Once outside, please be quiet-this is a silent Call Out. Fast as you can please-ouch! Partridge, mind where you're putting your fat feet, will you?"

"Nice to see you too, Beetle." Partridge grinned as he and Romilly Badger squeezed by in the crush of eager scribes. The excitement of the Call Out was infectious, and no one seemed to mind that they would have to work late the next day. Beetle counted the scribes out until it was just himself and Foxy left in the Front Office.

"D'you want Miss Djinn too?" asked Foxy warily. "I can go and get her if you do."

"Thanks, Foxo, but Marcia said she'd rather not."

"Yeah. Quite understand," said Foxy. "Look, I gotta go and Lock the Charm cupboard. Part of the job. Not that I got any Charms to Lock up, but it doesn't look good if I don't."

Beetle glanced outside. The crowd of Wizards, Apprentices and scribes were waiting, looking expectantly at him. "Be quick," he said.

Foxy nodded and scooted off. A minute later, Foxy was back, beckoning frantically to Beetle.

"Beetle-he's here. Again."

"Who's here?"

"Who do you think? Daniel Dingbat Hunter."

"Merrin?"

"Yeah. Whateverhecallshimself. Him."

Beetle asked his two Wizard escorts to take the waiting Wizards and scribes down to the Palace. "I'll catch up with you as soon as I can," he promised. "Okay," he said to Foxy. "Quick. Show me."

Very quietly Foxy pushed open the door into the Ma.n.u.scriptorium and pointed inside. Beetle peered in. All he could see were the ranks of tall, empty desks, each under its own pool of dim yellow light. Of Merrin there was no sign-or, indeed, of Jillie Djinn.

"I can't see him," Beetle whispered.

Foxy looked over Beetle's shoulder. "Shoot. I did see him. I know I did. He's probably in the Hermetic Chamber."

Beetle was indignant. "He shouldn't go in there."

"Try telling Miss Djinn that-he goes wherever he wants," said Foxy gloomily as he quietly closed the door. "He's up to something, Beet."

Beetle nodded. That was most certainly true.

"Little toad," said Foxy.

The little toad was indeed up to something. He was, as Foxy had suspected, in the Hermetic Chamber.

Merrin was waiting-and he didn't like it. To pa.s.s the time he was eating a long licorice bootlace pulled from the secret siege drawer of the large round table in the middle of the Hermetic Chamber. The drawer was now crammed with a stash of sticky licorice, while its rightful contents languished in the garbage bin in the yard.

Merrin was pleased with his afternoon's work. He was getting good at this Darke stuff, he thought. He'd used a Darke Screen and had walked out of the Palace right under Sarah Heap's nose, which had been fun, especially when he had deliberately trodden on her foot. And now, because Jillie Djinn had been snappy with him, he'd fixed that too. She wouldn't ever do that again, thought Merrin, as he smirked into the ancient Gla.s.s propped up against the wall.

Merrin peered into the darkness of the Gla.s.s and behind him he saw the reflection of the Chief Hermetic Scribe, sitting hunched over the table. He tried out a few more expressions in the Gla.s.s, tapped his feet impatiently and wandered over to the Abacus, where he began clicking the beads endlessly back and forth in such an irritating way that anyone else but the cowed Jillie Djinn would have yelled at him to stop it right now!

Merrin sighed loudly. He was bored and there were not even any scribes to annoy. He toyed with the idea of going down to the bas.e.m.e.nt and smashing a few things, but the Conservation Scribe scared him. He wished the Things would hurry up. What was taking them so long? All they had to do was bring the stupid Darke Domaine with them-what was so difficult about that? He kicked the wall impatiently. Stupid Things.

Leaving Jillie Djinn staring into s.p.a.ce, Merrin wandered out along the seven-cornered pa.s.sageway and surveyed the dark and empty Ma.n.u.scriptorium. It was oddly spooky without the scribes. He wouldn't be spending any time in this dump, he thought, but it would suit the Things nicely. It would keep them out of his way too, and he could hang out wherever he wanted. And do whatever he liked. So there.

Chapter 19.

The SafeChamber

As Beetle resumed his place at head of the Call Out, the person who should have been leading it was immured in the bas.e.m.e.nt of a house on Snake Slipway. Not far above him, a loud knocking on the front door by a breathless Wizard went unheard.

Septimus was listening to Marcellus Pye discussing the dangers of, and defenses against, the Darke. Time was ticking on. Very slowly. So far there had been at least an hour's worth of dangers, if not more.

Alchemist and Apprentice were sitting inside a tunnel-like, windowless chamber. The atmosphere was oppressive; the air was fuggy with candle wax fumes, and a faint taint of lingering Darke made Septimus edgy. Unlike Marcellus Pye, who sat opposite him in a comfortable tall-backed chair, Septimus was perched uncomfortably on a b.u.mpy stone bench. Between them was a small table, thick with candle grease, on which yet another burning candle added its contribution.

Marcellus, however, looked at ease. He was in his secret SafeChamber with his Apprentice, instructing him in the defense of the Darke, and that-as far as he was concerned-was how things should be. A SafeChamber was something every self-respecting alchemist always possessed, but never admitted to. In what Marcellus now called "his first life" as an alchemist, five hundred years in the past, he had installed his SafeChamber between two adjoining rooms in the bas.e.m.e.nt of his house. It occupied the s.p.a.ce so cleverly that none of the subsequent inhabitants had ever noticed the few feet lost from each room.

Marcellus had constructed the chamber himself-he had had no other choice. In the days of the Castle alchemists, one of the drawbacks of the profession had been that it was impossible to get a builder. Once a builder knew that a job was for an alchemist, he would suddenly become very busy, or fall off a ladder and "break a leg," or have to go away to a distant relative's sickbed. Whatever the excuse, he would certainly never be seen again. The reason for this was that the perils of working for an alchemist had become legend among Castle builders, pa.s.sed down from Master to Apprentice: "Never work for an alchemist, lad," (or la.s.s, but usually lad). "As soon as the job's done, you'll surely be found floating facedown in the Moat to keep the secrets of what you've just built. However much gold they offer you, it just isn't worth it. Believe me." Although this wasn't true for all alchemists, it has to be said that there was some basis for this belief.

Marcellus Pye possessed many talents but building was not one of them. The outside of the chamber was pa.s.sable because Marcellus had covered his rough brickwork by putting up great sheets of wooden paneling in both the affected rooms. However, the inside of the chamber was a mess. Marcellus had not realized how hard it was to build walls that went up straight-and stayed that way-so the walls grew closer and closer together, almost meeting at the top. Once he had installed the false wall behind which he kept his most arcane treasures, the SafeChamber was no more than a claustrophobic corridor.

Septimus was almost lulled into a trance by the flickering of a mult.i.tude of candles perched in the various nooks and crannies provided by Marcellus Pye's unusual approach to bricklaying. The chamber was streaked black with the soot from their flames, and thick rivulets of wax ran down the walls, glistening in the yellow light. The only thing that kept Septimus from drifting off was the way the bricks in the wall pressed their sharp corners into him as though they were jabbing at him with angry fingers. Every now and then he would wriggle uncomfortably and lean against another, slightly different, pointy bit.

"Stop fidgeting and pay attention, Apprentice," said Marcellus Pye sternly from his comfortable chair. "Your life may-indeed, it most probably will-depend upon it."

Septimus suppressed a sigh.

At last Marcellus got down to the reason that Septimus had come to see him. "You will, I presume, be attempting to retrieve Alther Mella's ghost from the Darke Halls tonight?"

"Yes. Yes . . . I'm going to the Darke Halls. At midnight." As he said the words Septimus felt a thrill of excitement mixed with fear. Suddenly it all began to feel very real.

"And you will seek to enter the Darke Halls through the Dungeon Number One Portal?"

"Yes, I will. Isn't that the only place where you can get in?" Septimus asked.

Marcellus Pye looked quizzical. "Not at all," he said. "But it is the only place you can get to in time for midnight tonight. There are other Portals, some of them extremely effective for matters like this, where you might find your timing is less important. However, none are in the Castle."

Leaving Septimus to wonder why Marcia hadn't told him about these other, possibly more effective Portals, Marcellus took the candle from the table and got up from his chair with a small groan. Looking like the old man he really was, the alchemist shuffled along the length of the chamber to the false wall at the end, which was, Septimus noticed, paneled like the room outside. Marcellus pressed his hand onto one of the panels, slid it to one side and reached into the s.p.a.ce behind. Septimus heard the clink of gla.s.s on gla.s.s, the rattle of small dried things in a metal box, the thud of a book, then a relieved, "Got it!"

As Marcellus shuffled back, Septimus very nearly leaped to his feet and ran for it. The light from his candle threw dramatic shadows onto the alchemist's face, and as he advanced toward Septimus, hand outstretched, Marcellus looked exactly as he had when Septimus had first seen him-a five-hundred-year-old man grabbing at him, pulling him through a gla.s.s into a secret world below the Castle. It was not a good moment. It unsettled Septimus more than anything else had in the tense buildup to his Darke Week.

Unaware of the effect he had had, Marcellus Pye resumed his place next to Septimus. He looked pleased. "Apprentice, I have in my hand something that will give you safe pa.s.sage through the Portal and into the Darke."

He unclasped his fist to reveal a small, dented tinderbox. Septimus felt horribly disappointed. What was Marcellus thinking? He owned his own tinderbox and it was a lot better looking than that one. And it probably worked better too-Septimus prided himself on being able to get a fire going in fifteen seconds. He and Beetle had had a fire-start compet.i.tion not long ago and he had won best of five.

Marcellus handed him the tinderbox. "Open it," he said.

Septimus did as he was asked. Inside were the usual components of a tinderbox-a small, p.r.o.nged wheel, a flint, some thin strips of cloth infused with the Castle's well-known, highly flammable wax and some dried moss.

Septimus had had enough. Marcia's parting shot came back to him: "Alchemie stuff is nothing but smoke and mirrors, Septimus. All talk and no do. None of their stuff ever did work. It was complete rubbish."

Septimus got to his feet. Marcia was right-as usual. He had to get out of the oppressive little chamber dripping with candle wax, fusty with Darke secrets. He longed to be part of the everyday Castle world once more. He wanted to run through the streets, breathe the cold fresh air, see the myriad of Castle lights twinkling in the windows, watch people as they promenaded back and forth admiring-or not-their neighbors' lights. But more than anything, he wanted to be with people who weren't fussy five-hundred-year-old alchemists who thought you were still their Apprentice.