Fyre (40 page)

It was here, in the depths below the Marram Marshes, that Jim Knee caught up with his quarry. He heard them first—the sound of their labored breathing and their groans as they tripped, the splash as they fell, and their cries as they were forced to their feet or sent hurtling into yet another rock. Jim Knee slowed his pace—the last thing he wanted was to mow Edmund and Ernold down like a steamroller—and now he kept his distance, matching them step for step. And even though pity had no place in a scorpion brain, in the deep Jim Knee part of its thoughts, pity is what the scorpion felt.

On the far side of Deppen Ditch, the strange procession began the upward climb. The air began to feel fresher and the scorpion noticed that ahead of it, the desperate gasping for breath had eased a little. With its pincers waving in excitement at the change of air, the scorpion scrambled up the now-sandy floor as the tunnel dried out and leveled off below the fields. The going was faster now and the scorpion clattered happily on, pausing only when the two Heaps stopped for a moment to gulp in a downdraft of fresh air, like parched men swallowing water.

Edmund and Ernold had stopped beneath the first farmstead after Deppen Ditch. Named Smugglers’ Rest, it was here, clambering up a ladder through a shaft known as the Bail Out, that those who had braved the Bolt would emerge gasping for fresh air and the sight of the wide sky. Even now, air still poured into the tunnel from the ventilation shaft—a large chimney—around which the farmhouse was built.

The Heaps were not allowed long to drink the air, but from Smugglers’ Rest onward their path was easier. Smugglers’ Bolt now became a shallow tunnel, running no more than six to eight feet below the orchards and fields of the Farmlands. In the past, it had had numerous exit points into farmhouses along its route to the Castle. Most farmers had indulged in a little bit of smuggling when duty on brandy, lace and sweet wine from the Far Countries was astronomically high. In those days it had been well known in the Castle that, if you wanted to buy good wine at a reasonable price, then a lonely farmhouse on the winding road to the Port was your best bet. And if the farmer declared that it was her own homemade wine, you would be well advised not to comment on the surprising lack of a vineyard—or indeed the weather to grow the grapes.

The exits to the farmhouses had also served as ventilation points for the tunnel, and its closeness to the surface had allowed many other ventilation shafts to be driven down through the soil—camouflaged by drinking troughs, sheep shelters, cow barns and all manner of farm equipment. While these were maintained, the tunnel had been so well ventilated that it was said that in springtime you could smell the apple blossom in the Bolt.

But not anymore. Some two hundred years earlier, the Port duty rate had been drastically reduced and the whole smuggling business had stopped overnight. Smugglers’ Bolt quickly fell into disuse. Over the following years many ventilation shafts had filled up with soil, or simply collapsed, but the tunnel—solid as the rock it ran through—had stayed as it was.

And now there was no scent of apple blossom for Edmund and Ernold as they staggered on toward the Castle, just the thick smell of soil and the unkindness of rock.

In Smugglers’ Rest, Daisy Pike sat up and nudged her husband awake. “Mooman,” she said. “There’s someone downstairs. Go and have a look.”

“Why me?” asked Mooman.

“Why not?” said Daisy.

Mooman was no good at arguing. He sighed, got out of bed and tiptoed down the stairs, avoiding the creaky one. At the foot of the stairs his legs felt weird and he had to sit down on the bottom step. A magnificent ghost in ExtraOrdinary Wizard robes was pacing to and fro in their front parlor. Mooman had never seen a ghost before—not a ghost of a human, anyway. He had seen plenty of cow ghosts, of course; all his much-loved old cows still grazed in their fields and came to greet him. But he had never seen a human. Until now.

As Mooman stared in amazement, the ghost stopped pacing and appeared to be deciding something. Mooman thought it looked like it was something really important. Then, clearly having made a decision, the ghost hurried across the room to the huge stone chimney that came up through the middle of the farmhouse. It positioned its feet carefully, stood up poker-straight with its arms by its sides and slowly began to sink through the rug. Mooman wondered where the ghost was going—and then he remembered what lay beneath: an old trapdoor that he had hammered shut years ago and covered with a rug after Daisy had complained about “nasty, smelly drafts” coming up from it. Mooman watched until all that was visible of the ghost was his rather distinguished head resting on the rug like a stray football. Then it, too, sank and disappeared.

Mooman shook himself and went back upstairs to find Daisy sitting terrified, bolt upright in bed with the sheets pulled up around her.

“Why were you so long?” she whispered. “I thought something awful had happened. I thought you were dead or something.”

Mooman got back into bed and discovered that he was trembling. “N-no,” he said. “It’s not me what’s dead. It’s him.”

Daisy’s eyes widened in horror. “Who?”

“That ancestor of mine. That ExtraOrdinary Wizard. It were his ghost.”

“Not
Julius Pike
?” asked Daisy.

“Yeah,” said Mooman. “The very same. Amazin’ when you think about it. Me bein’ descended from him.” He grinned at Daisy, showing the gap where his two front teeth should have been. “Maybe I got some
Magyk
in me—eh?”

“No, Mooman, you most definitely do
not
,” Daisy told him.

Mooman blew out the candle and settled back under the covers. “I wonder what he was doin’ down there. He looked in a right state. Hope he doesn’t start playin’ up and chucking things around.”

Daisy yawned. “He’ll be all right. They’re good ghosts to have, the old ExtraOrdinaries. Nice and civilized. Now go to sleep, Mooman. It’ll be time to milk the cows before you know it.”

The ghost of Julius Pike sank down through the Bail Out—an oak-lined shaft with a ladder propped up inside. Smugglers’ Bolt held no terrors for Julius Pike. He had, as a boy, “Run the Bolt” many times, and he remembered it well.

Julius had enjoyed growing up in a farmhouse at the center of so much activity. The farmhouse was isolated—bounded by the Marram Marshes, the river and its extensive lands, which contained orchards, sheep and a small herd of dairy cows (but not a single grapevine), but to the young Julius it had felt like the center of the universe. Julius was the youngest of five much older brothers, who all worked on the farm, and he was a solitary child. He would sit by the big ventilation chimney, reading quietly, but also
Listening
for footsteps—and often the rumble of trolleys—coming along the tunnel not very far below. He would open the trapdoor beside the chimney and wait, hoping that someone interesting would emerge. And usually someone did.

However mad or bad the person was, whatever crime they had committed in the Port or were planning to do in the Castle, they were unfailingly polite and grateful to Julius’s mother, Martha Pike. She would sit them down by the kitchen fire and feed them a hot drink and a mutton pie, no questions asked. In return they would give her a little “merchandise” and tell the young Julius stories of their adventures, keeping the inquisitive child amused for hours. It was a Wizard— indulging in a little part-time smuggling—who had first awakened Julius’s interest in
Magyk
and who had told him what his mother already knew—that he had a
Magykal
gift. And so, at the age of fourteen, Julius Pike had left the farmhouse for an Apprenticeship at the Wizard Tower and had, for the first time, traveled to the Castle overland. But when he was homesick he would—like Tallula Crum’s little scullion-boy—Bolt home to see the orchards and eat a mutton pie.

And now he was back in the Bolt once more. The ghost hurried along, heading toward the Castle. He felt quite disturbed by the trail he was following. It was
Darke
and full of what his mother used to call Bad Intentions.

A ghost can move a great deal faster than two exhausted human beings and it was not long before Julius Pike heard the pitiful moans of Edmund and Ernold. The ghost hung back and
Listened
.

It was then Julius realized that he was not the only one following them. Beneath the malevolence of the Ring Wizards and the despair of the Heaps, he caught a whisper of something else: the presence of an ancient entity. As the ghost wafted along, slowed by the pace of the two failing humans in front of him, Julius pondered what the entity could be. There was a strange sound to it, a rhythmic rattle, which intrigued him. It sounded oddly insectlike and yet there was something old and wise and human about it. It puzzled Julius for some time as he followed the twists and turns of the tunnels and the gasps and groans of the Heaps. It took the ghost a few miles to figure out that the mysterious entity must be a
Transformed
jinnee. Julius felt relieved. Even as a ghost he did not relish the thought of being alone in such close confinement with two evil beings. It was good to have some company.

And so, through the night, not far below the Farmlands, the strange procession made its way slowly and painfully along Smugglers’ Bolt, heading toward the next exit—Number Sixty-Seven Wizard Way.

Back at the Port, Jenna, Simon and Nicko stood shivering on the harborside, watching Septimus do his
Transport
back to the Wizard Tower—the sooner Marcia knew what had happened, the better. As the purple fuzz of
Magyk
dispersed into the night air and Septimus was gone, Nicko hurried them off to Workman’s Quay, where Jannit’s supply boat was moored. Soon they were heading out into the night. Nicko had been right: it was a bumpy ride. The wind against the tide threw up waves and the boat reared up and down as it crashed its way into the mouth of the river where the tide and current met.

Nicko stood at the helm, smiling broadly. He loved the excitement of sending the boat through the wild water—something that he did not do often enough, now that he was Senior Apprentice at the boatyard and was so often overseeing work and enviously watching the new Apprentice, sad little Eustace Bott, head off on yet another errand to the Port. Nicko’s two passengers were less thrilled with the journey. Jenna and Simon sat in the cuddy, wrapped in damp blankets that smelled of tar, and tried to get some sleep.

It was going to be a long night.

35

S
PRUNG

A
t the top of the
Wizard Tower, Septimus was back safe from his
Transport
and asleep in his bed. Marcia, however, was wide-awake. She had just finished sending out a practice
Alert
to the entire Castle and was now touring her new
LookOuts
checking on the result. Judging by the huge number of candles that had rapidly appeared in the majority of upstairs windows, the practice had been a great success.

The
Alert
was a new safety measure. Shocked by the casualties caused by the
Darke Domaine
, Marcia had been determined that no Castle inhabitant would ever again be caught unawares by
Darke Magyk
. To this end she had set up an intricate system of
Alerts
in every building. Of course not everyone had accepted the presence of a
Lert
in their home or business—Larry in Number Sixty-Seven Wizard Way being one of those who didn’t—but most were only too glad.

Marcia watched the lighted windows grow dark once more and retreated to her kitchen to instruct the coffeepot. While she was waiting for the coffee to brew, she picked up an unopened envelope banded with red and gold. It was, she knew, from Milo. Marcia stared at the envelope while the coffee- pot made its usual happy spluttering sounds. “Huh,” she muttered at the envelope. “More pathetic excuses.” The coffee began to bubble up; Marcia leaned over to the cooker and set fire to the envelope and whatever lay within.

Marcia had just poured the coffee when she heard a knock at the big purple door. That night, the door was under instructions to admit any senior Wizard Tower Wizard, and Marcia heard it swing open. She braced herself for Jillie Djinn’s stare and strode through the sitting room to see who was there.

It was Dandra Draa. Marcia was pleased; she liked Dandra and right then she could do with some company. The Sick Bay Wizard was hovering uncertainly, unsure whether to come in. “I have something important, Madam Marcia,” she said.

“Oh, please, just call me Marcia,” said Marcia.

To both Marcia and Dandra’s shock, the ghost of Jillie Djinn chose that moment to speak for the first time. Her high, wavering voice poured into the room, a brittle stream of noise.
“Call me Marcia . . . oh, please, call me. Oh, Marcia, call me, please.”

Dandra emitted a small shriek.

“Drat!” said Marcia. “I’d hoped for at least a couple more months’ silence.”