The Wizard of London (12 page)

Grey
laughed, just like a human. “Smart bird!” the parrot said, then
shook herself gently, wordlessly telling Sarah to let go of her, made her
ponderous way up Sarah’s shoulder and pillow, and clambered up
beak-over-claw to her usual nighttime perch on the top of the brass railing of
the headboard of Sarah’s bed—wrapped and padded for her benefit in
yards and yards of tough hempen twine. She pulled one foot up under her chest
feathers, and turned her head around to bury her beak out of sight in the
feathers of her back.

And
since that was the signal it was time for them to sleep—a signal they
always obeyed, since both of them half expected that Grey would tell on them if
they didn’t!—Nan slid down and climbed into her own bed, turning
the key on the lantern beside her to extinguish the light.

***

It
was a gloomy, cool autumn day that threatened rain, a day on which Nan
definitely needed her mac, a garment which gave her immense satisfaction, for
up until coming to the school she had relied on old newspapers or scraps of
canvas to keep off the rain. Getting to the Tower was an adventure in and of
itself, involving a great deal of walking and several omnibuses. When they
arrived at the Tower, Nan could only stare; she’d been expecting a single
building, not this fortress! Why, it was bigger than Buckingham
Palace—or, at least, as big!

Their
guide was waiting for them under an archway with not one, but two nasty-looking
portcullises—and the tour began immediately, for this was no mere gate,
but the Middle Tower. The Yeoman Warder who took the children under his
capacious wing was an especial friend of Sahib’s, and as a consequence,
took them on a more painstaking tour of the Tower than the sort given to most
schoolchildren. He did his best—which was a very good “best,”
because he was a natural storyteller—to make the figures of history come
alive for his charges, and peppered his narrative with exactly the sort of
ghoulish details that schoolchildren loved to hear. Creepy, but not terrifying.
Ghoulish, but not ghastly.

Nan
was very much affected by the story of poor little Jane Grey, the
Nine-Days’ Queen, and of Queen Anne Boleyn, but she felt especially
saddened by the story of the execution of Katherine Howard, who had been rather
naughty, but had been very young and pretty, and shackled in marriage to a King
who was so fat he could hardly move on his own. No wonder she went after a bit
of fun on her own! And the old King should have expected it!

They
walked all over the Tower, up and down innumerable stairs, from the old Mint
buildings, to the armory in the White Tower even to the Yeoman Warders’
private quarters, where their guide’s wife gave them all tea and cakes.
Nan felt quite smug about that; no one else was getting tea and cakes! Most of
the other visitors had to blunder about by themselves, accompanied with maps
and guidebooks, or join a crowd of others being given the general tour by
another of the Yeoman Warders, and dependent on their own resources for their
refreshment. She tasted the heady wine of privilege for the first time in her
young life, and decided that it was a fine thing.

But
the one thing that she found the most fascinating about the Tower was the
ravens.

Faintly
intimidating, they flew about or stalked the lawns wherever they cared to; they
had their very own Yeoman Warder to attend to them, because of the story that
if they were ever to leave the Tower, it would be the end of England. But Nan
found them fascinating; and kept watching them even when she should, perhaps,
have been paying attention to their guide.

Finally
Nan got a chance to watch them to her heart’s content, as Mem’sab
noted her fascination. “Would you like to stay here while the rest of us
go view the Crown Jewels, Nan?” Mem’sab asked, with a slight smile.

Nan
nodded; going up another set of stairs along with a gaggle of other silly
gawpers just to look at a lot of big sparklers that no one but the Queen ever
would wear was just plain daft. She felt distinctly honored that Mem’sab
trusted her to stay alone. The other pupils trailed off after their guide like
a parade of kittens following their mother, while Nan remained behind in the
quiet part of the Green near the off-limits area where the ravens had their
perches and nesting-boxes, watching as the great black birds went about their
lives, ignoring the sightseers as mere pointless interlopers.

It
seemed to her that the ravens had a great deal in common with someone like her;
they were tough, no nonsense about them, willing and able to defend themselves.
She even tried, once or twice, to see if she could get a sense of what they
were thinking, but their minds were very busy with raven business—status
in the rookery being a very complicated affair—

Though
the second time she tried, the minds of the two she was touching went very
silent for a moment, and they turned to stare at her. She guessed that they
didn’t like it, and stopped immediately; they went back to stalking
across the lawn.

Then
she felt eyes on her from behind, and turned, slowly.

There
was a third raven behind her, staring at her.

“
‘Ullo,” she told him.

“Quoark,”
he said meditatively. She met his gaze with one equally unwavering, and it
seemed to her that something passed between them.

“Don’t
touch him, girl.” That was one of the Yeoman Warders, hurrying up to her.
“They can be vicious brutes, when they’re so minded.”

The
“vicious brute” wasn’t interested in the Warder’s
estimation of him. “Quork,” he said, making up his mind—and
pushed off with his strong, black legs, making two heavy flaps of his wings
that brought him up and onto Nan’s shoulder. “Awwrr,” he
crooned, and as the Yeoman Warder froze, he took that formidable bill, as long
as Nan’s hand and knife-edged, and gently closed it around her ear. His
tongue tickled the ear, and she giggled. The Yeoman Warder paled.

But
Nan was engrossed in an entirely new sensation welling up inside her—and
she guessed it was coming from the bird; it was a warmth of the heart, as if
someone had just given her a welcoming hug.

Could
this be her bird friend, the one she’d wished for?

“Want
tickle?” she suggested aloud, thinking very hard about how Grey’s
neck feathers felt under her fingers when she scratched the parrot.

“Orrrr”
the raven agreed, right in her ear. He released the ear and bent his head down
alongside her cheek so she could reach the back of his neck. She reached up and
began a satisfying scratch; she felt his beak growing warm with pleasure as he
fluffed his neck feathers for her.

The
Yeoman Warder was as white as snow, a startling contrast with his
blue-and-scarlet uniform.

The
Ravenmaster (who was another Yeoman Warder) came running up, puffing hard and
rather out of breath, and stopped beside his fellow officer. He took several
deep breaths, staring at the two of them—the raven’s eyes were
closed with pure bliss as Nan’s fingers worked around his beak and very,
very gently rubbed the skin around his eyes.

“Blimey,”
he breathed, staring at them. He walked, with extreme care, toward them, and
reached for the bird. “Here now Neville old man, you oughter come along
with me—”

Quick
as a flash, the raven went from cuddling pet to angry tyrant rousing all his
feathers in anger and lashing at the outstretched hand with his beak. And it
was a good thing that the outstretched hand was wearing a thick
falconer’s gauntlet, because otherwise the Warder would have pulled it
back bloody.

Then
as if to demonstrate that his wrath was only turned against those who would
dare to separate him from Nan, the raven took that formidable beak and rubbed
it against Nan’s cheek, coming within a fraction of an inch of her eyes.
She, in her turn, fearlessly rubbed her cheek against his. The Warders both
went very still and very white.

“Neville,
I b’lieve you’re horripilatin’ these gennelmun,” Nan
said, thinking the same thing, very hard. “Would’jer come down onta
me arm?”

She
held out her forearm parallel to her shoulder as the Warders held their breath.

“Quock,”
Neville said agreeably, and stepped onto her forearm. She brought him down
level with her chest and as he rested his head against her, she went back to
scratching him in the places where she was now getting a sense that he wanted
to be scratched. He was a great deal less delicate than Grey; in fact, he
enjoyed just as vigorous a scratching as any alley cat.

“Miss,”
the Ravenmaster said carefully, “I think you oughter put him down.”

“I
c’n do that,” she said truthfully, “but if ‘e
don’t want to leave me, ’e’ll just be back on my shoulder in
the next minute.”

“Then—”
he looked about, helplessly. The other Warder shrugged. “Miss, them
ravens belongs’t’ Her Majesty, just like swans does.”

She
had to giggle at that—the idea that anyone, even the Queen, thought they
could own a wild thing. “I doubt anybody’s told them,” she
pointed out.

“Rrrk,”
Neville agreed, his voice muffled by the fact that his beak was against her
chest.

The
Ravenmaster was sweating now, little beads standing out on his forehead. He
looked to his fellow officer for help; the man only shrugged. “
‘Ollis, you was the one what told me that Neville’s never been what
you’d call a natural bird,” the first Warder said judiciously, and
with the air of a man who has done his best, he slowly turned and walked off,
leaving the Ravenmaster to deal with the situation himself.

Or—perhaps—to
deal with it without a witness, who might have to make a report. And what he
didn’t witness, he couldn’t report—

Nan
could certainly understand that, since she’d been in similar situations
now and again.

Sweating
freely now, the Ravenmaster bent down, hands carefully in sight and down at his
sides. “Now, Neville,” he said quietly, addressing the raven,
“I’ve always done right by you, ‘aven’t I?”

Neville
opened one eye and gave him a dubious look. “Ork,” he agreed, but
with the sense that his agreement was qualified by whatever the Ravenmaster
might do in the next few moments.

“Now,
you lissen to me. If you was to try an’ go with this girl, I’d
haveta try an’ catch you up. You’d be mad an’ mebbe I’d
get hurt, an’ you’d be in a cage.”

Nan
stiffened, fearing that Neville would react poorly to this admission, but the
bird only uttered a defiant grunt, as if to say, “You’ll catch me
the day you grow wings, fool!” The feathers on his head and neck rose,
and Nan sensed a sullen anger within him. And the fact that she was sensing
things from him could only mean that as the Warder had said, Neville was no
“natural” bird.

In
fact—he was like Grey. Nan felt excitement rise in her. The fact was a
tough bird like a raven suited her a great deal more than a parrot.

But
the Yeoman Warder wasn’t done. “Now, on’t‘other
hand,” he continued, “If the young lady was to toss you up in
th’ air when you’d got your scratch, and you was to wait over the
gate till her an’ her schoolmates comes out, an’ then you was to
follow her—well, I couldn’t know you was missing ‘till I
counted birds on perches, could I? An’ then I couldn’t know where
you’d gone, could I? An’ this young lady wouldn’t get in no
trouble, would she?”

Slowly,
the feathers Neville had roused, flattened. He looked the Warder square in the
eyes, as if measuring him for falsehood. And slowly, deliberately, he nodded.

“Quok,”
he said.

“Right.
Gennelmun’s agreement,” the Warder said, heaving an enormous sigh,
and turning his attention at last to Nan. “Miss, I dunno what it is about
you, but seems you an’ Neville has summat between you. An’ since
Neville’s sire has the same summat with the Ravenmaster afore me
an’ went with ‘im to Wight when ‘e retired, I reckon it runs
in the family, you might say. So.”

Nan
nodded, and looked at Neville, who jerked his beak upward in a motion that told
her clearly what he wanted.

She
flung her arm up to help him as he took off, and with several powerful thrusts
of his wings, he took off and rowed his way up to the top of the main gate,
where he ruffed up all of his feathers and uttered a disdainful croak.

“Now,
miss,” the Yeoman Warder said, straightening up. “You just happen
to ‘ave a knack with birds, and I just give you a bit of a
talkin’-to about how dangerous them ravens is. An’ you never heard
me talkin’ to Neville. An’ if a big black bird should turn up at
your school—”

“Then
I’ll be ‘avin’ an uncommon big jackdaw as a pet,” she
said, staring right back at him, unblinking. “Which must’ve been
summun’s pet, on account uv ‘e’s so tame.”

“That’d
be it, miss,” the Warder said, and gathering his dignity about him, left
her to wait for the rest of the class to come out.

Mem’sab,
Nan was firmly convinced, knew everything. Her conviction was only strengthened
by the penetrating look that her teacher gave her when she led the rest of the
Harton School pupils out to collect Nan. Since the Crown Jewels were the last
item on their programme, it was time to go—

“How
did you get on with the ravens, Nan?” Mem’sab asked, with just that
touch of irony in her voice that said far more than the words did. Could
someone have come to tell her about Neville being on Nan’s shoulder? Or
was this yet another demonstration that Mem’sab knew things without
anyone telling her?

Nan
fought hard to keep her accent under control. “I’m thinkin’ I
got on well, Mem’sab,” she said, with a little smile.

Mem’sab
raised an eyebrow. If there had been any doubt in Nan’s mind that her
teacher might not be aware that there was something toward, it vanished at that
moment.

She
raised another, when, as they made their way down the broad walk away from the
Tower, a black, winged shape lofted from the gate and followed them, taking
perches on any convenient object. For her part, Nan felt all knotted up with tension,
for she couldn’t imagine how the great bird would be able to follow them
through London traffic. It seemed that the Ravenmaster hadn’t yet got
around to trimming Neville’s wing feathers, for he had them all but two,
so at least he wasn’t going to be hampered by lack of wingspan. But
still… how was he to get from here to the Harton School?