Bookweirdest (11 page)

The weasel knights marched forward two steps and formed two ranks across the open doorway. The first soldiers kneeled and planted their halberds in the ground. The second ones stood behind them, their weapons at shoulder height.

Norman raised his empty hands to show that he was unarmed.

“What’s going on?” he called out, his voice cracking. “I’m not doing anything.”

There was no answer from the phalanx of armed weasels. It suddenly became very quiet. The only sound was the clank and scrape of plate armour as the knights shifted and swayed. Maybe, Norman thought, they are as scared as I am at this point. People always say that about animals—that they are more afraid of you than you are of them—but did it apply when they were covered in metal and armed to the teeth?

“Where is Lady Esme?” he asked, a little more bravely.

“Come out into the courtyard!” a voice bellowed. Norman couldn’t tell who had spoken. The knights stepped back, leaving a path for him to the courtyard, but their weapons stayed drawn and pointed.

“I gave myself up willingly. I came here to clear my name. King Malcolm will be furious if you hurt me.”

“Bonnie Prince Malcolm is a scoundrel, not a king!” the voice shouted. It was coming from the parapets out in the courtyard.

“That’s not what the Mustelid treaty map says!” Norman fired back. Despite the blades pointed in his direction, he stepped into the doorway to see who he was arguing with.

The knights shifted and growled, but they held their ranks.

High on the walls above the courtyard stood a large weasel surrounded by archers. He was big, but not fighting big; there were rolls of fat around his neck, and his big belly rested against the walls of the parapet as he sneered down at Norman. On his head he wore a crown that was too small for him. This had to be Guillaume, the weasel usurper.

“Search him,” Guillaume ordered.

Four weasels inched nervously towards Norman. Two grabbed his knapsack, and two began to climb the legs of his jeans.

“Hey!” Norman yelled, lifting a foot to shake off a harasser. Then he saw the archers on the parapets raise their bows. “Lady Esme will not stand for this!” he yelled, submitting to the search.

Two weasels checked his pockets, removing and returning the blank pieces of paper he’d stashed in his jeans. The other two rifled through the canvas knapsack, casting its contents onto the cobblestones.

“Some sort of monster, eh? Needs his little bunny maiden to protect him!” Guillaume mocked. “Where’s the map?” he demanded. “Does he have the map on him?”

The weasels who had frisked him shook their heads.

“Where is it, beast?” Guillaume growled. “Where is this map you say you have?”

“Where’s Malcolm?” Norman countered. “Take me to Malcolm and we’ll both bring you the map. We’ll show everyone who’s the rightful king here!”

“There is only one rightful king, and that is me!” Guillaume said, snarling.

Norman bit his lip. Until he actually had the map, it didn’t do any good to provoke Guillaume. He wasn’t here to fight the weasels. He was here to find Malcolm.

“I don’t want to argue with you. I just want to talk to Malcolm. If you let me see Malcolm, we can explain everything.”

Guillaume bared a yellow tooth and growled a sickly, hissing growl. “I don’t need an ugly giant to explain anything to me. This is
my
castle,
my
kingdom. You are
my
prisoner, and you’ll keep that foul gaping mouth shut.” He shook his paw like a fist, then clutched the stone walls of the parapet as if he wished he could crush them. “You don’t have any treaty map. You’ve got nothing,” he spat. “You’re a desperate little traitor. We’ll have our trial for treason instead of theft. Your mincing little rabbit dupe can argue all she wants, but we’re having an execution too!”

Norman glanced down towards the weasel knights, who were now slowly closing in around his feet.

“Take him away!” the tyrant ordered.

Norman stared defiantly for a moment, but one halberd poke at his ankle was enough to get him moving.

The guards marched him out of the courtyard and into the forest, half the squad leading the way, the other half behind prodding him forward. He trudged along despondently. There wasn’t anything he could do. In an open field he might be able to make a break for it, but in the thick forest around Lochwarren Castle he wouldn’t get more than a few feet.

The narrow trail descended towards the shore of the loch. As the castle receded into the distance, fear began to grip him. They could be taking him anywhere. He stared at the closed visors of his captors and wondered what their orders were. Guillaume had said there would be a trial, but Norman wouldn’t put it past the sneaky weasel to skip straight to the execution.

He did his best to make conversation, to remind them that he was a friend to the Mustelids, but nobody answered him. Not a single head turned when he pointed out the spot where he’d first seen Lochwarren Castle and reminded them of the miracle shot that had brought down the first wolf. Inside their steel helmets the weasel knights were silent. A chill ran through Norman, and it wasn’t just the cold wind coming from the loch.

The trail ended at a dock at the edge of the loch. Just this morning, he’d looked down at the lake and felt hopeful about seeing his friend again. Now the sun was low in the sky above the mountains, casting a long streak of silver across the lake, and he was further from Malcolm than ever. If he was going to make a break for it, it would have to be now. But the rowboat tied up at the dock was far too small to carry him, and the water looked cold and uninviting.

Norman wasn’t a great swimmer, but he could probably out-swim the weasels, especially if they had to remove their armour before jumping in the water. But where would he go? How far would he get? His kept his best escape route in his back pocket. To reassure himself, he patted the back pocket of his jeans and felt the outline of the tiny pen and the few sheets of paper. If he dove in the lake now, he’d wreck the paper.

The weasel squadron brought him to a halt at the edge of the water and turned him to face the cliff. When he saw the cast-iron portcullis that barred the cave opening, he realized where he was: this was the dock from which Duncan and Cuilean had escaped so many years ago.

“Get in there,” a gruff voice ordered. The gate creaked as it was raised.

Norman hesitated for a moment. Even with his paper and pencil in his back pocket, he didn’t like the idea of being locked in a cave. Another poke from a halberd got him moving once again.

The cave was large enough that he didn’t have to duck to enter. The walls were smooth, carved from the rock by wind and water. At the back of the cavern, a set of stairs had been chiselled into the rock. The stairs climbed halfway up the wall to a tiny stoat-sized door in the rock face.

This was one end of a tunnel that led all the way to the castle.

Lochwarren Castle fell to the wolves at the very beginning of
The Brothers of Lochwarren
. Malcolm’s grandfather was king then. Bodyguards had whisked Malcolm’s uncle and father down this tunnel and to this cave, where boats waited to take them to safety. The wolves overran Lochwarren, but the two princes slipped away. Years later, Cuilean and Duncan would return to reclaim their kingdom and make Malcolm king.

It was strange to be here where it all began. The portcullis might be slamming closed behind him, but Norman felt strangely calm, as if he knew he was in the right place.

He hardly bothered with the mocking jibes of the guards.

“Whatever happened to that lumbering oaf of a giant who came to save the stoats?” one guffawed.

“Run off, I think,” another answered, chuckling to himself inside his helmet. “Like his friend the boy king. Just goes to show, you can’t trust a stoat … or his pet human. They’ll bolt on you as soon as you turn your eye.”

Norman took the tiny rabbit-made quill from his pocket and rolled it between his fingers. You don’t know how right you are, he thought to himself.

It was only when he sat down to actually write something that he realized what a jam he was in. He could write himself out of the cave, but to where? Where was he supposed to go?

There was no point going back home as long as Uncle Kit was messing with reality at the Shrubberies, and he didn’t want to return to Willowbraid without Esme. He could imagine the reception he’d get there if he came back alone. His face was probably already on another wanted poster.

In his back pocket he had Ambrose’s second copy of the Lochwarren description. That might work, but it would only bring him back to where he’d started that morning—in the meadow on the other side of the lake, looking down at this very cave. He’d never actually tried this, using the bookweird to move from place to place inside the same book. It wasn’t predictable at the best of times, and he had no way of knowing whether this would work.

No, the place he really needed to get to was San Savino. He needed to rescue Jerome—and Malcolm’s treaty map—before the library burned down. Norman was just delaying things. He’d wanted Malcolm with him, because he always felt braver with the feisty stoat at his side. But there was no delaying anymore. He had to write himself into
The Secret in the Library
.

Norman held the quill and squinted at the paper through the pink air of the highland sunset. In a moment the sun would drop behind the mountains and it would be too late. Perhaps it was already too late. He wouldn’t admit to himself that he was afraid to go back to the burning fortress in the desert.

It was a dangerous book, perhaps the most dangerous one he’d ever been in. Black John of Nantes was prepared to burn down an entire desert fortress to get his revenge. It terrified Norman, but that was exactly why he had to go back. It was about more than the treaty map. If Jerome died in that fire, it would be because of him.

He cursed under his breath and vowed for the eighth or ninth time in his life to give up the bookweird for good once this was sorted out. The bookweird always did this to you: no matter how you tried to fix things, you always ended up breaking something else.

By the time he’d finished scolding himself, it truly was night. The sun had descended behind the mountains and the cave was in complete darkness. Norman was angry with himself for putting it off. He was angry with himself for feeling relieved that he didn’t have to go just yet. But he promised himself he would act quickly in the morning. He’d stay up all night if he had to, and at first light, he’d write himself a good description of Jerome’s library and have it for breakfast. He could sleep after breakfast and wake up ready to rescue Jerome and the map.

It should have been easy to stay awake. There was plenty to worry about, and the stone floor of the cave was anything but comfortable. He did manage to stay up long enough to see the moon rise above the mountains, but not much longer than that. Even the guards were still awake when Norman dropped off.

T
he voice that woke him seemed to come from nowhere, a whisper that echoed around the cave. There might be someone hiding in one of the dark crevices of the cave. There might be someone whispering right in his ear.

“Wha?” he asked groggily. Norman was used to waking up in strange places, but the darkness of the cave was more disorienting than most.

He’d heard a voice, but he hadn’t heard what it said. He wasn’t even sure whether he’d really heard it or simply dreamt it.

“I said that this is one of your more unusual rescues,” the voice said cheerfully.

Immediately Norman was completely awake.

“Malcolm?”

“Keep it down, Strong Arm,” the voice replied. “Those lazy weasel guards will sleep through almost anything, but your din could wake the dead.”

Norman’s eyes adjusted to the darkness a little. High up on the wall at the back of the cave, a light flickered. He scrambled to his feet and stepped towards it.

There it was, not much higher than his head: the little portal in the rock above the stone staircase. Barred by a rusted iron door,
it was the ancient escape route of princes. Behind those iron bars, a torch illuminated the familiar sharp-toothed grin of a stoat prince he knew well.

“Malcolm! What are you doing here?” Norman whispered, pressing his face to the bars to see his friend at long last.

Malcolm nodded, rubbing his sleek forehead against the tip of Norman’s nose through the bars.

“I can’t believe you’re safe.” Norman’s voice cracked as he struggled to contain his excitement and relief. “Guillaume told us you were gone, abdicated.”

“Why would you believe anything that traitor told you?” Malcolm asked.

Norman didn’t bother to answer the question. “Can you get out of there? Do you have a key?”

“I was hoping you’d brought one,” the stoat said hopefully.

Norman stepped back and gave the bars a long look. “Stand back. Let me try something.”

Reaching up, he wrapped his fingers around the iron bars. Bracing his feet, he took a deep breath and summoned all his strength, then pulled. The hinges began to creak and screech. Dust fell down into his eyes, making them sting and blink, but it did not stop him pulling. He closed his eyes and strained against the bars. His arms felt like they were going to come out of their sockets, but Norman would not give up.