The Siege (7 page)

O
tulissa was counting the bits of bone, teeth, feather, fur, and flecks picked from the owl pellets in the pelletorium and placing them onto trays in the inventorium. She had been working there for several days with Digger and two other owls. When the trays were filled, they were taken for storage in the library. But she, Digger, and the other two owls—a Barn Owl and a Whiskered Screech—were not permitted any farther than the entrance to the library. Once there, they would hand over the trays to Skench or Spoorn, the only owls allowed in the library.

Otulissa and Digger wanted to know more about this library, which was so heavily guarded. Was it just because the flecks were there and Skench and Spoorn didn’t want them stolen? But that didn’t exactly make sense. Flecks slipped away all the time from the inventorium. Otulissa
had figured this out just the night before. She had not yet been able to tell Soren. But this Barn Owl, 92-01, while on duty, had slipped some to another Barn Owl. Otulissa was sure 92-01 was an infiltrator, and she planned to watch her closely. But watching wasn’t enough. Otulissa had become a master of disguising questions as statements in order to extract information. She and Digger had planned a small dialogue between the two of them that they hoped would encourage the two other owls to contribute some information.

Digger yawned elaborately. “I could use a good leg stretch. You know, a Burrowing Owl like myself never minds a long walk. I wish that they’d allow us to go into the library, if only to exercise. What a shame it is forbidden.”

“It has always been strictly forbidden except for Skench and Spoorn,” Otulissa added, knowing perfectly well from Soren and Gylfie that this wasn’t completely true.

“Not always,” said 92-01.
Ah, it worked!
Otulissa thought at once. The statement was drawing out an answer to a question unasked. “Once there was a fracas, I am told. An owl who had betrayed Skench and Spoorn was killed, and Skench, through some strange event, was made powerless.”

“Powerless!” exclaimed Digger. “It is almost impossible to think of the Ablah General as becoming powerless.”

“Yes, almost yeep,” said 92-01. When an owl went yeep, its wings seemed to lock. It lost its instinct to fly and would suddenly plummet to the ground.

“Unthinkable,” Otulissa gasped in awe.

92-01 seemed pleased that she had so impressed this snooty owl.
What does she have to be snooty about after all?
the Barn Owl wondered.

But she was soon to find out. For it was as if Digger and Otulissa silently read each other’s minds.

All right,
Digger thought,
time for you to show off what you know, Otulissa. Gently, gently.

“Yes, almost yeep,” 92-01 continued. “It’s hard to think of, I know. But it really wasn’t yeep, mind you. It was magic.”

“Magic!” Otulissa exclaimed. “No, I don’t think it was magical at all. It was higher magnetics, probably a typical higher magnetic reaction.”

The Barn Owl blinked. It was clear to both Digger and Otulissa that she was dying to ask a question. Otulissa took pity on her and fed her just a bit more. “Yes, if Skench had been wearing diamagnetic materials, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“Wh”—92-01 clapped her beak shut on the nearly escaping question. “How interesting,” she said instead. She
looked almost in pain as she tried to contain the unasked question.

Later, after Digger and Otulissa had finished their work, they were able to talk in private on their way back to their stone pit.

“I was pretty excited for a while there with 92-01,” Otulissa was saying. “But where did it all lead? We’re no closer than before to knowing why the Barn Owl is sneaking flecks out, and what is going on in the library with the flecks. Where is she sneaking them to? How would the Pure Ones get them? We need to talk to Soren. Too bad there are no sleep marches now,” she said.

The moon had dwenked again, and it would be another two days until they could meet up with the other owls in the glaucidium when the moon-blinking process would begin again. In the meantime, they were allowed to sleep in their stone pits.

Otulissa was startled when, in the middle of a very pleasant dream of swooping through a verdant forest on the track of a plump vole, she was nudged gently by her stone pit guardian. He was a large oafish Great Gray who liked his charges to call him Cubby. In the tradition of all
the pit guardians, he was always promising Otulissa extra treats.

“Sweetie, I hate to wake you. You were sleeping so nicely. I promise I’ll have something good and fat and bloody for you when you return. But my dear, right now—and this is quite an honor”—He hunched his shoulders up as if he were just tickled to death about what he was going to say next—“Who do you think wants to see you?” Then he giggled raucously. “Oh, sshhh! Don’t tell—I let slip a question, didn’t I? Well, you won’t tell.”

Glaux, Otulissa loathed this creepy owl. “Of course, I won’t,” she answered.

“Good girl,” he whispered. “But I’ll tell you—Skench, the Ablah General.”

Otulissa blinked with surprise.

“This is quite an honor, I would say,” he continued. “Follow me.”

Otulissa followed the Great Gray through the narrow corridors and stony slots of St. Aggie’s Canyons. St. Aggie’s was a place made for walking more than flying. With its narrow corridors and endless skinny passageways, it was nearly impossible to spread one’s wings. The air always seemed dead, for nary a breeze stirred so deep in this rockbound place. And when one was required to fly, it was usually straight up from the ground with powerful wing
flaps. St. Aggie’s was a perfect prison for young owlets with undeveloped flight skills.

Skench and Spoorn’s cave perched high on a cliff. Otulissa had never been there before, but she had heard talk of it. Now Cubby led her into a wider space and began to spread his wings. His span was immense as all Great Grays, and the wafts of air shook the comparatively small Spotted Owl. Otulissa decided to take advantage of the moving air and launch herself onto its billows. It would be easier to gain altitude on these drafts than on the still, unmoving air. The two owls spiraled upward.

“This way!” the Great Gray flipped his beak over his shoulder and called to her. A pale rose-colored stone needle projected horizontally out from the cliff, piercing the air. Two Great Horned owls stood as guards. They nodded to Cubby and Otulissa as they lighted down.

What could Skench and Spoorn possibly want with me?
Otulissa wondered.
Not more about the Northern Kingdoms, and never before in their cliff cave. Every other time it had been down in one of the pits.

“Enter!” a voice commanded.

Otulissa stepped into the cave and blinked. A white, heart-shaped face seemed suspended in the dim light of the cave.

“I would like you to meet Uklah,” Skench said.
Otulissa blinked again, this time in confusion. Uklah? It was 92-01, the Barn Owl, the infiltrator.

“Uklah is her new name,” Skench continued. “When she came here, her name had been Purity. You know all that nonsense about the Pure Ones.”

Uklah snorted derisively at this. “Never heard such nonsense in my life.”

Now Otulissa was thoroughly confused. She had thought that 92-01, or Uklah, was a spy for the Pure Ones. But whose side was she on?

“I can see you’re confused, 45-72.” Spoorn tipped her head toward Otulissa, her yellow eyes set off by the unusually pale circular swirl of gray feathers across her brow.

“You thought I was a spy,” Uklah churred softly as owls do when they find something funny or amusing. “Well, I was when I originally came.”

“There are several here,” Skench added. “Oh, we know who they are. All Barn Owls. We’re very suspicious of 82-85, that Barn Owl you arrived with. All Barn Owls immediately fall under suspicion. The Pure Ones are dying to get at our flecks. They want to take over the St. Aegolius Canyons.”

Otulissa swung her head between Skench and Uklah.
What is going on here?
she wondered.
Is she or isn’t she a spy?

“But I saw Uklah sneak flecks out,” Otulissa said.

“Of course you did,” Skench answered. “She can’t have
her fellow spies think she’s become a turnfeather. Uklah feeds them just enough information, some true, some false, so they won’t become suspicious of her. The flecks she sneaks out are tucked into nests by the spy moss tenders in the hatchery, the nests with Barn Owl eggs. We retrieve them during shift changes. There are two other Barn Owls who work as double agents up there. They pull out the stolen flecks for us. So there’s no harm done.”

Otulissa was dying to ask what harm they had been expecting. But she had to guess that putting magnetic materials into nests with eggs could cause a major disturbance in the gizzards or the brains of unhatched chicks. Even though Dewlap had seized the book, she had read enough of the beginning chapters of
Fleckasia and Other Disorders of the Gizzard
to know that overexposure to flecks at certain periods in a young owl’s life was not a good thing. And Soren had told them about how that brave owl Hortense had felt that the reason she was so small for an owl of her age was due to the large deposits of flecks that run through the creeks of Ambala. Perhaps flecks in the nest would cause the Barn Owl chicks to resist moon blinking and to identify in some way with the Pure Ones.

Now Otulissa swiveled her head toward Uklah and carefully began to phrase her question as a statement. “Turnfeather to the Pure Ones,” she began slowly.

“No need for that,” Skench interrupted, sensing what Otulissa was about to do. “You can ask questions here. But not yet. We have some questions. Higher magnetics—what is it? Why, on that terrible night when those owls escaped more than a year ago, did I go yeep? It was the magic of higher magnetics.”

“No, it wasn’t magic,” Otulissa replied. “It was science. Magic and science aren’t the same thing. I don’t know anything about magic. Higher magnetics is science.”

“Tell us about it,” Spoorn urged. “What makes us feel strange when we are in our battle claws around flecks? Where do flecks get their power?”

Otulissa was debating with herself just how much she should tell them. This was different from giving them information about the Northern Kingdoms. They could do real damage with what they might find out about flecks.

Uklah stepped forward. “There was a terrible battle in the woods,” she said, “between the High Tyto, Kludd, and his brother, and owls from the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. Those owls did something to the bags of flecks that destroyed their power. What was it? We need to know.”

That was when it clicked in Otulissa’s mind. Owls like this did not need to know. They needed to be kept ignorant. She would feed them false information—just for a
little while, just long enough so she could gain their confidence and the Chaw of Chaws could escape. As far as Otulissa was concerned, their mission was accomplished. They had found out what they had come to learn. There
were
infiltrators. A few, like Uklah, were double agents, actually working for St. Aggie’s. The rulers of St. Aggie’s didn’t know much about flecks. The Pure Ones were planning to take over St. Aggie’s but because of the double agents, they might be thwarted. It was time to get out.

But first Otulissa wanted to know something. She would be crafty about how she said it. “Although flecks in the nest of unhatched eggs will disturb the chicks’ brains in a certain way, exposure for adults is quite different.”

“Oh, yes! You are smart, aren’t you! That’s how we avoid being moon blinked. Small amounts of flecks ingested lessen the effects of moon blinking considerably,” said Skench.

Just what I thought!
Otulissa then continued. “Well then, of course, you know about flux density.” The owls stared blankly at her. “You don’t know about flux density? Oh, dear. Then I should begin at the beginning…”

Otulissa never mentioned that fire can destroy the flecks’ power. She never told them that she had read that certain other objects that did not contain flecks could
temporarily gain the magnetic powers of flecks by rubbing up against one another, nor did she tell them about mu metal, which could shield one from the powers of a magnetic field. But she did talk. She talked and she talked and she talked, as only Otulissa could talk. She made up something she called the Basic Fleckasian Laws of Moss, which were complete and utter nonsense.

D
eep in the ancient forest of Silverveil, there was a crumbling ruin of a castle. High in one of its few remaining turrets, in a stone notch, a scarred, ragged-feathered owl perched. He squinted through his remaining eye at the moon rising behind fast-moving, torn clouds. A storm was brewing. He turned his bare, horrid face toward the bitter wind. The Rogue Smith of the Sil-verveil would be arriving soon with his new mask. He had threatened the silly old Snowy Owl with death before she would agree to make him the mask, and then she claimed that the ingredients for mu metal would be hard to find. Nickel was scarce in these parts. She found it, however, after his Pure Guard lieutenant Wortmore had roughed her up a bit. But Kludd did not want to think about all that right now. He wanted to think about the idea that had begun to stir in him when he lay wounded in the hollow of the Brown Fish Owl, the idea of laying siege to the Great Ga’Hoole Tree with its secrets of fire and magnetics, its
warriors and scholars. This notion had set his gizzard twitching and inflamed his brain ever since he had first thought of it. He would have no rest until he had captured the great tree.

Beneath him, he saw one of the Pure Guards spiraling up with a great Snowy Owl in its wake.

“His High Tyto!” the guard cried out. “The Rogue Smith of Silverveil has arrived.”

The Snowy Owl appeared nervous, and the mask trembled in her talons as she clutched it.

“Enter the turret,” Kludd spoke, without turning his face.

The two owls lighted down on the stone floor of the turret. The Rogue Smith of Silverveil placed the mask at Kludd’s talons.

“Finest quality mu metal?” Kludd asked.

“Yes, High Tyto.” The Snowy made an obsequious gesture.

It was common knowledge that all rogue blacksmiths were loners. They lived in caves and seldom consorted with other owls, except for matters of business—making battle claws, helms, shields, and the occasional bucket. A few acted as slipgizzles for the Great Ga’Hoole Tree. For even in their isolated states, they saw a great deal and could pick up information others might not have. Owls
often became quite talkative as they were being fitted for battle claws. The Snowy, however, had never been tempted to become a slipgizzle, not in the slightest.

Now, as she worked fitting the mask to Kludd’s hor-rendously mutilated face, she realized that this owl was different from any other owl she had ever encountered. He was absolutely silent. His silence was as dense as the metals the smith forged in her fires. But through this silence, the smith sensed some awful thing. She wished this owl would speak, would say something. She felt she had to know what this owl was planning. Snowy Owls have highly refined instincts for danger, weather, and certain kinds of celestial events. If what she sensed was true, for the first time in her life she was tempted to become a slipgizzle.

Finally, the Rogue Smith of Silverveil thought of something. She coughed once or twice. “I say, I have a new battle claw design. Some find it quite good. Light in battle, exceedingly sharp. If you would like one of your lieutenants to try them out, I would be happy to do a fitting over at my forge. No cost. You could have them on trial.”

“Light, you say?” the High Tyto asked.

“Oh, yes—quite light, and a new kind of finely notched edge. Tears flesh beautifully.” The smith could almost feel the excitement in the High Tyto’s gizzard. “You
know, of course, I learned my craft on the island of Dark Fowl,” said the Rogue Smith of Silverveil.

The High Tyto interrupted her. “Dark Fowl in the Northern Kingdoms?”

“Yes, Sir…I…I mean, High Tyto.”

“Wortmore! Get me Wortmore,” Kludd called.

The Snowy’s gizzard trembled a bit. The very owl who had been sent to rough her up was now being called to go back to her forge for a fitting.

The Rogue Smith of Silverveil tried to keep her own talons from shaking as she hammered the third metal talon on Wortmore’s left claw to a tighter curve, so it would fit perfectly.

“The High Tyto and I are exactly the same size, you know. So what fits me will fit him.” Wortmore was positively chatty now. He had even apologized for roughing up the Snowy. “But orders are orders,” he had added. And he was a bit partial to Snowies, he had whispered.

Lovely,
thought the smith. But she held her beak and managed to keep up her end of the chatter. “Now, if the High Tyto likes these, how many do you think he’ll need?”

“Well, certainly enough for the Pure Guard, and there are eighty or more in that division.”

“My goodness, that’s quite a few.”

“Oh, yes—and that’s only the Pure Guard. We’ve got many other divisions, and by the time of the Great Massing, the size of that guard will be triple.” Wortmore broke off as if trying to count.

“The Great Massing?” the Snowy asked.

“Yes, on Cape Glaux.”

Cape Glaux! There was only one reason why owls would gather on the wind-battered cape that stuck out into the most turbulent waters of the Sea of Hoolemere. That was the quickest, most direct route to the Island of Hoole. It was risky flying for most birds, except the Guardians of Ga’Hoole themselves, and maybe eagles. And that was exactly what the Rogue Smith of Silverveil realized she must do right now. She must go to those two eagles of Ambala, the ones who lived with the strange Spotted Owl called Mist. She was a bit of a slipgizzle herself, and she might know something about this massing on Cape Glaux.

As soon as Wortmore had flown off, flashing his new battle claws in the moonlight, the Rogue Smith of Silver-veil began to gather her few belongings. She had to find a new location, that was for sure. There was no way she was going to hire out to make claws for the Pure Ones. She had had a good run of it here in the ancient old forests, but she
could set up her smithy someplace else. Ambala wouldn’t be bad, especially since she was going there anyway, to find the eagles. She put her hammer, tongs, a few of the best examples of her work, and her metal box of live coals to start her fire into a sack made from the hides of red foxes that she had killed years before. She pulled tight the drawstrings and, clutching the bag in her talons, lifted into the night. She headed south by southeast, toward the corner of Ambala where the eagles roosted along with Mist.