The Lives of Christopher Chant (19 page)

Tacroy ran to a cupboard under the staircase and came back with an armful of queer candles in star-shaped holders. He showed Christopher and the Goddess where to put them and what words to say. Then he had Christopher stand back and conjure all the candles to flame. Tacroy was, Christopher realized, among other things, a fully trained magician. As the candles flared up, Throgmorten’s tail twitched scornfully.

“The cat’s right,” Tacroy said. “This would stop most people, but with the amount of dragons’ blood your uncle has stored away, he could break through any time he wants.”

“Then we’ll catch him when he does,” Christopher said. He knew what he would do himself, if he knew Throgmorten was lying in wait, and he was fairly sure Uncle Ralph would do the same. He suspected their minds worked the same way. If he was right, it would take Uncle Ralph a little time to get ready.

By this time, quite a crowd of people had come into the hall through the big front door, where they were standing clutching their caps and awkwardly brushing earth off their boots. Christopher went to stand a little way up the staircase, looking down on the long, limp remains of Gabriel de Witt and everyone’s faces, anxious and depressed, lit half by greenish daylight from the stained dome and half by the flames of the strange candles. He knew just what needed saying. And he was surprised to find he was enjoying himself hugely.

He shouted, “Hands up everyone who can do magic.”

Most of the gardeners’ hands went up and so did a couple of the stable lads’. When he looked at the indoor people, he saw the butler’s hand was up and one of the cooks’. There was the bootboy who had worked the scoreboard and three of the maids, one of whom was Erica. Tacroy’s hand was up and so was the Goddess’s. Everyone else was looking at the floor, dismally.

Christopher shouted, “Now hands up anyone who can do woodwork or metalwork.”

Quite a number of the dismal people put their hands up, looking surprised. Dr. Simonson was one, Flavian was another. All the stable people had their hands up, and the gardeners too. Good. Now all they needed was encouragement.

“Right,” said Christopher. “We’ve got two things to do. We’ve got to keep my uncle out of here until we’re ready to catch him. And we’ve got to get Gabriel de Witt back.”

The second thing made everyone murmur with surprise, and then with hope. Christopher knew he had been right to say it, even though he was not sure it could be done—and as far as his own feelings went, Gabriel could stay in eight limp pieces for the rest of both their lives. He found he was enjoying himself more than ever.

“That’s what I said,” he said. “My uncle didn’t kill Gabriel. He just scattered all his lives. We’ll have to find them and put them together. But first—” He looked at the greened glass of the dome and the chandelier that hung from it on its long chain. “I want a birdcage-thing made, big enough to cover the pentacle, and hung from there, so that it can be triggered by a spell to come down over anything that tries to get through.” He pointed to Dr. Simonson. “You’re in charge of making it. Collect everyone who can do woodwork and metalwork, but make sure some of them can do magic too. I want it reinforced with spells to stop anyone breaking out of it.”

Dr. Simonson’s beard began to jut in a proud, responsible way. He gave a slightly mocking bow. “It shall be done.”

Christopher supposed he deserved that. The way he was behaving would have had the Last Governess accusing him of having a swelled head. But then he was beginning to suspect that he worked best when he was feeling bumptious. He was annoyed with the Last Governess for stopping him realizing this before.

“But before anyone starts on the birdcage,” he said, “the spells around the grounds need reinforcing, or my uncle will try to bring the Wraith organization in that way. I want everyone except Ta—Mordecai and the G—Millie to go all around the fences and walls and hedges casting every spell they can think of that will keep people out.”

That made a mixed murmur. Gardeners and housemaids looked at one another doubtfully. One of the gardeners’ hands went up. “Mr. McLintock, Head Gardener,” he announced himself. “I’m not questioning your wisdom, lad—just wishing to explain that our specialty is growing things, green fingers, and the like, and not any too much to do with defense.”

“But you can grow cactuses and bushes with long spines and ten-foot nettles and so on, can’t you?” Christopher said.

Mr. McLintock nodded, with a pawky sort of grin. “Aye. Thistles, too, and poison ivy.”

This emboldened the cook to put his hand up.
“Je suis chef de cuisine,”
he said. “A cook only. My magic is with the good food.”

“I bet you can reverse it,” said Christopher. “Go and poison the walls. Or if you can’t, hang rotten steaks and mouldy soufflés on them.”

“Not since my student days have I—” the cook began indignantly. But this seemed to bring back memories to him. A wistful look came over his face, which was followed by a gleeful grin. “I will try,” he said.

Now Erica’s hand was up. “If you please,” she said, “me and Sally and Bertha can only really do
little
things—charms and sendings and the like.”

“Well go and do them—as many as you can,” Christopher said. “A wall is built brick by brick after all.” That expression pleased him. He caught the Goddess’s eye. “If you can’t think what charms to work, consult my assistant, Millie. She’s full of ideas.”

The Goddess grinned. So did the bootboy. From the look on his face, he was full of appall-ing notions which he could hardly wait to try. Christopher watched the bootboy troop out with the gardeners, the cook and the maids, and rather envied him.

He beckoned Flavian over. “Flavian, there’s still loads of magic I don’t know. Would you mind standing by to teach me things as they come up?”

“Well, I—” Flavian gave an embarrassed sideways look at Tacroy leaning on the banisters below Christopher. “Mordecai could do that just as well.”

“Yes, but I’m going to need him to go into trances and look for Gabriel’s lives,” said Chris-topher.

“Are you indeed?” said Tacroy. “And Gabriel’s going to burst into tears of joy when he sees me, isn’t he?”

“I’ll go with you,” said Christopher.

“Quite like old times,” said Tacroy. “Gabriel’s going to burst into tears when he sees you, too. What it is to be loved!” His eyes flickered over at Miss Rosalie. “If only I had my young lady who plays the harp now—”

“Don’t be absurd, Mordecai,” said Miss Rosalie. “You shall have everything you need. What do you want the rest of us to do, Christopher? Mr. Wilkinson and I are no good at woodwork, and nor are Beryl and Yolande.”

“You can act as advisers,” said Christopher.

T
HE NEXT TWENTY-FOUR HOURS
were the busiest Christopher had ever spent. They held a council-of-war in Gabriel’s twilight office, where Christopher discovered that some of the dark panels rolled back to connect it with the rooms on either side. Christopher had the desks and the typewriting machines shoved to the walls and turned the whole space into one big operations room. It was much lighter like that, and became more and more crowded and busy as the various plans were set up.

There were, everyone told Christopher, many different ways of divining whether a living person was present in a world. Mr. Wilkinson had whole lists of methods. It was agreed that they try to use these to narrow down Tacroy’s search for Gabriel. One of every kind was set up, but since nobody was sure if Gabriel’s separated lives quite counted as alive, they all had to be set to maximum strength, and it turned out that, apart from Christopher, only the Goddess had strong enough magic to activate them and tune them from Series to Series. But anyone could watch them. The room was soon full of tense helpers staring into globes, mirrors, pools of mercury or ink, and spare sheets coated with liquid crystal, while the Goddess was kept busy adjusting the various spells and making a chart, in her foreign writing, of the readings from all the devices.

Miss Rosalie insisted that the council-of-war should also decide how to tell the Ministry what was going on, but that never did get decided, because Christopher kept getting called away. First, Dr. Simonson called him down to the hall to explain how they planned to make the birdcage. Dr. Simonson was taking it much more seriously than Christopher expected. “It’s highly unorthodox,” he said, “but who cares so long as it catches our man?”

Christopher was halfway upstairs again when the butler came to tell Christopher that they had done all they could think of to defend the grounds, and would Master Christopher come and see? So Christopher went—and marveled. The main gates, and the other smaller ones, were hung with curses and dripping poison. Brambles with six-inch thorns had been grown along the walls, while the hedges put Christopher in mind of Sleeping Beauty’s castle, so high and thick with thorns, nettles and poison weeds were they. Ten-foot thistles and giant cactus guarded the fences, and every single weak place had been booby-trapped by the bootboy. He demonstrated, using his pet ferret, how anything that stepped here would become a caterpillar; or here would sink into bottomless sewage; or here would be seized by giant lobster claws; or here—anyway, he had made nineteen booby traps, each one nastier than the last. Christopher ran back to the Castle thinking that if they did manage to get Gabriel back, he would have to ask him to promote the bootboy. He was too good to waste on boots.

Back in the operations room, he had a set of magic mirrors set up, each focused on a different part of the defenses, so that they would know at once if anyone tried to attack. Flavian was just showing him how to activate the spells painted on the backs of the mirrors, when it was the housekeeper’s turn to interrupt. “Master Christopher, this Castle isn’t supplied to stand a siege. How am I to get the butcher and the baker and the milk through? There’s a lot of mouths to feed here.”

Christopher had to make a list of when the deliveries arrived, so that he and the Goddess could conjure them through at the right moment. The Goddess pinned it up beside the mirror-watch rota, the divining charts, the duty rota, the patrol rota—the wall was getting covered with lists.

In the midst of all this, two ladies called Yolande and Beryl (whom Christopher still could not tell apart) sat themselves down at the typewriters and started to clatter away. “We may not be sorceresses any longer,” said Beryl (unless she was Yolande), “but that doesn’t stop us trying to keep the usual business running. We can deal with urgent inquiries or advice at least.”

Shortly they were calling Christopher away, too. “The trouble is,” Yolande (unless her name was Beryl) confessed, “Gabriel usually signs all the letters. We don’t think you should forge his signature, but we wondered if you simply wrote Chrestomanci—?”

“Before you conjure the mailbag down to the Post Office for us,” Beryl (or maybe Yolande) added.

They showed Christopher how to set the sign of a nine-lifed enchanter on the word
Chrestomanci,
to protect it from being used against him in witchcraft. Christopher had great fun developing a dashing style of signature, sizzling with the enchanter’s mark that kept it safe even from Uncle Ralph. It occurred to him then that he was enjoying himself more than he ever had done in his life. Papa had been right. He really was cut out to be the next Chrestomanci. But suppose he hadn’t been? Christopher thought, making another sizzling signature. It was simply luck that he was. Well then, he thought, something could have been done about it. There had been no need at all to feel trapped.

Someone called him from the other end of the room then. “I think I’ve got much the most restful job,” Tacroy laughed up at him from the couch in the middle, where he was preparing to go into his first trance. They had agreed that Tacroy should try a whole lot of short trances, to cover as many worlds as possible. And Miss Rosalie had agreed to play the harp for him, despite not having any magic. She was sitting on the end of the couch. As Christopher passed, Tacroy shut his eyes and Miss Rosalie struck a sweet rippling chord. Tacroy’s eyes shot open. “For crying out loud, woman! Are you trying to clog my spirit in toffee or something? Don’t you know any
reasonable
music?”

“As I remember, you always object to anything I play!” Miss Rosalie retorted. “So I shall play something
I
like, regardless!”

“I hate your taste in music!” Tacroy snarled.

“Calm down, or you won’t go into a trance. I don’t want to have sore fingers for nothing!” Miss Rosalie snapped.

They reminded Christopher of something—of someone. He looked back on his way over to the pool of ink where Flavian was beckoning. Tacroy and Miss Rosalie were staring at each other, both making sure the other knew their feelings were deeply hurt. Who have I seen look like that before? Christopher wondered. Underneath, he could tell, Tacroy and Miss Rosalie were longing to stop being rude to one another, but both too proud to make the first move. Who was that like?

As Christopher bent over the pool of ink, he got it. Papa and Mama! They had been exactly the same!

When the pool of ink was showing World C in Series Eight, Christopher went back past Miss Rosalie staring stormily ahead and playing a jig, to where Yolande and Beryl were typing. “Can I send someone an official letter of my own?” he asked.

“Just dictate,” Yolande (or possibly Beryl) said, with her fingers on the keys.

Christopher gave her Dr. Pawson’s address. “Dear Sir,” he said, in the way all the letters he had signed went. “This office would be obliged if you would divine the whereabouts of Mr. Cosimo Chant, last heard of in Japan, and forward his address to Mrs. Miranda Chant, last heard of liv-ing in Kensington.” Blushing a bit, he asked, “Will that do?”

“For Dr. Pawson,” Beryl (or perhaps Yolande) said, “you have to add, ‘The customary fee will be forwarded.’ Dr. Pawson never works without a fee. I’ll put the request through Accounts for you. Mr. Wilkinson needs you at the quicksilver bowl now.”

While Christopher rushed back across the room, the Goddess remembered that Proudfoot the kitten would be starving by then. He conjured her from the tower room, scarf, bottle and all. One of the helpers ran for milk. It took a while. Proudfoot, impatient with the delay, opened eyes like two chips of sapphire and glared blearily around. “Mi-i-i-i-ilk!” she demanded from an astonishingly wide pink mouth.

Even when an ordinary kitten opens its eyes for the first time, it is a remarkable moment. Since Proudfoot was an Asheth Temple cat, the effect was startling. She suddenly had a personality at least as strong as Throgmorten’s, except that it seemed to be just the opposite. She was passed from hand to hand for people to take turns at cooing over her and feeding her. Flavian was so besotted with her that he would not let go of her until Tacroy came out of his trance, very dejected because he had not been able to sense Gabriel in any of the three worlds he had visited. Flavian gave him Proudfoot to cheer him up. Tacroy put her under his chin and purred at her, but Miss Rosalie took her away in order to give Tacroy a strong cup of tea instead, and then spent the next half hour doting on Proudfoot herself.

All this devotion seemed to Christopher to be unfair to Throgmorten. He went out on the stairs to see if Throgmorten was all right, where he paused for a moment, struck with how different it all was. The green from the dragons’ blood was fading, but there was still quite a greenish tinge in the light from the dome. Under it, Dr. Simonson, Frederick Parkinson, and a crowd of helpers were sawing, hammering, and welding in their shirt-sleeves. The hall was littered with timber, tools, and metal rods, and more helpers were constantly bringing further wood and tools in through the open front door. Various people sat on the stairs drinking cups of tea while they waited to take a turn in front of the divining spells. If someone had told Christopher a week ago that Chrestomanci Castle would look like a rather disorderly workshop, he would never have believed him, he thought.

The candles were still burning, flaring sideways in the draft from the front door, and there in the blackened pentacle Throgmorten sat like a statue, staring fiercely at his Uncle Ralph mousehole. Christopher was glad to see that he was surrounded by all that a cat could desire. An earth-tray, a bowl of milk, saucers of fish, a plate of meat and a chicken wing had been carefully pushed between the candle-holders to the edges of the star. But Throgmorten was ignoring it all.

It was clear no one had liked to disturb Gabriel’s life. It was still lying on the floor where Uncle Ralph had thrown it, limp and transparent. Someone had carefully fenced it off with black rope tied around four chairs from the library. Christopher stared down at it. No wonder Tacroy couldn’t find anything and none of the divining spells showed anything, if all the lives were like this, he was thinking, when one of the gardeners ran in through the front door and waved at him urgently.

“Can you come and look?” he panted. “We don’t know if it’s the Wraith or not. There’s hundreds of them, all around the grounds in fancy-dress-like!”

“I’ll look in the mirrors,” Christopher called back. He raced back into the operations room to the magic mirrors. The one trained on the main gate was giving a perfect view of the peculiar soldiers staring through the bars. They wore short tunics and silver masks and they were all carrying spears. Christopher’s stomach jumped nastily at the sight. He turned around and looked at the Goddess. She was white.

“It’s the Arm of Asheth,” she whispered. “They’ve found me.”

“I’ll go and make sure they can’t get in,” Christopher said. He ran back down the stairs and through the hall and then out into the grounds with the gardener. On the lawn, Mr. McLintock was lining up all the rest of the outside workers and making sure each of them had a billhook or a sharp hoe.

“I’m not letting any of those heathen bodies into
my
gardens,” he said.

“Yes, but those spears are deadly. You’ll have to keep everyone out of throwing range,” Christopher said. He felt a sharp stabbing pain in his chest just at the thought.

He went around the grounds with Mr. McLintock, as near as they dared to the fences and walls. The soldiers of the Arm of Asheth were just standing outside, as if the spells were keeping them out, but to be on the safe side, Christopher doubled the strength of each one as he came to it. The distant glimpses he got of silver masks and spear points made him feel ill.

As he turned and hurried back to the Castle, he realized that he was not enjoying himself any longer. He felt weak and young and anxious. Uncle Ralph was one thing, but he knew he just did not know how to deal with the Arm of Asheth. If only Gabriel was here! he found himself thinking. Gabriel knew all about the Temple of Asheth. Probably he could have sent the soldiers away with one cool, dry word. And then, Christopher thought, he’d punish me for hiding the Goddess here when he told me not to, but even that would be worth it.

He went back through the hall, where the birdcage was only a pile of sawed wood and three bent rods. He knew it would be nothing like ready by the night, and Uncle Ralph was bound to try to come back tonight. Past Gabriel’s limp fenced-off life he went, and up the stairs into the operations room, to find Tacroy coming out of another trance shaking his head dismally. The Goddess was white and trembling and everyone else was exasperated because none of the various shadows and flickers in the divining spells seemed to be anything to do with Gabriel.

“I think I’d better conjure out a telegram to the Ministry to send in the army,” Christopher said dejectedly.

“You’ll do no such thing!” snapped Miss Rosalie. She made Christopher and the Goddess sit beside Tacroy on the couch and made them all drink the hot, sweet tea that Erica had just brought in. “Now listen, Christopher,” she said. “If you let the Ministry know what’s happened to Gabriel, they’ll insist on sending some adult enchanter to take over, and he won’t be the slightest good because his magic won’t be as strong as yours. You’re the only nine-lifed enchanter left. We need you to put Gabriel back together when we find him. You’re the only one who can. And it’s not as if the Arm of Asheth can get into the grounds, is it?”

“No—I doubled the spells,” Christopher said.

“Good,” said Miss Rosalie. “Then we’re no worse off than we were. I didn’t argue all this through with Dr. Simonson just to have
you
let me down, Christopher! We’ll find Gabriel before long and then everything will be all right, you’ll see.”

“Mother Proudfoot always says the darkest hour is before the dawn,” the Goddess put in. But she did not say it as if she believed it.

As if to prove Mother Proudfoot right, Christopher was just finishing his tea when Flavian cried out, “Oh, I understand now!” Flavian was sitting at the big dark desk trying to make sense of all the shadows and flickers showing up on the divining spells. All the people sitting slumped around the operations room sat up and looked at him hopefully. “It’s taking Gabriel’s lives a long time to settle,” Flavian said. “There are clear signs of one drifting about Series Nine, and another in Series Two, but neither of them have come down into a world yet. I think we may find that the rest of them are still floating about the World Edge if we retune all the spells.”