Bookweirdest Page 8

  Every now and then, the rabbit seemed to lean in close to the human boy’s ear and whisper some command. The human never answered, save perhaps for the occasional nod. Some of those who’d gathered that day insisted they saw him wink. The children especially were sure that he’d smiled at them in kindness, and that he was really a good giant. Their parents assured them that this was preposterous: the giant was just blinking in the harsh sunlight.

  Norman wasn’t as calm as he appeared. Esme had told him to look powerful but not menacing. Norman didn’t think he was that good an actor. He stomped and smiled, stomped and smiled, and all the while Esme was whispering in his ear. “All the tradesmen and shopkeepers are stoats, but the soldiers are long-tailed. It’s easy to see who’s in charge here. If you see anybody you know, just nod or wink. I’ll be able to find them later.”

  Norman did as he was told. There weren’t many of Malcolm’s former companions in the village that day, but those who were saw those winks and guessed what they meant. The tinker standing by the side of the road was Mackie, not the brightest of the River Raiders but as good a man in a fight as any. The farmer chewing a blade of grass under a tree just outside of town was Harald Bead Eye, a captain of the archers who’d fought at the side of Malcolm’s father, Duncan. Norman had seen him bring down two ravens with as many arrows at the ambush in the Glace Hills.

  Norman could hardly contain himself when he spied them. He wanted to thrust his arm in the air and shout at the top of his lungs, “All hail King Duncan, the hero of Tista Kirk!” and “Long live King Malcolm the Brave!” But he did what he was told and kept to the plan.

  The knapsack that they’d strung across his chest didn’t really bind him in any way. Esme had tied it in such a complicated fashion that it looked like she was guiding a horse. It wasn’t the straps that fooled people, though—it was Esme herself. She was magnificent. The stern, unconcerned look she put on her face convinced everyone that she was in charge. While the people of Lochwarren stared on in awe, stepping out of the way as the giant approached, Esme stood calmly and imperiously on his shoulders like a conquering hero.

  The troops that met them at the castle wore the polished armour and the tawny black-tipped cloaks of Guillaume Long Tail’s household guard. Their beady black eyes peered out from behind their glinting helmets, and they did not seem to blink or flinch at the sight of the outlaw human.

  Esme greeted them with her usual poise. “I am Esme Leporid, constable of the Great Cities. I have brought the human boy known as Norman Strong Arm in response to your warrant. By order of Prince Leopold of Santander, I hold him in custody until trial.”

  She held up the scroll that she and Norman had composed that morning. She had excellent rabbit penmanship, and between them, she and Norman had done a good job of counterfeiting the court language of the Great Cities, but they hoped that the long-tails didn’t inspect it too closely.

  “By the same order, I request an audience with Prince Cuilean. I have messages to him from Leopold. It is Leopold’s desire that Prince Cuilean act as legal counsel to the human captive. When is the trial scheduled?”

  A small weasel in orange-and-black livery stepped forward and gave them a little bow. “Milady Ambassador”—he sounded flustered and out of breath—“King Guillaume was not expecting you.”

  “Never mind,” she replied breezily. “Take me to Cuilean, and prepare lodgings for two squads of Santandarian Guards. They stopped in the lowlands to clean up some wolf stragglers. They should be here tomorrow.”

  The little weasel gulped. He seemed to struggle for a response.

  “Guillaume has ordered that Prince Cuilean not be disturbed. He is not well.”

  “Sick?” Norman asked, unable to contain his concern. The crowd surrounding him gasped at the sound of the giant beast, and the squad of household guards seemed to flinch. “Is he all right? Does King Malcolm know?”

  The weasel steward was too shocked to reply.

  Esme wasn’t to be put off so quickly. “I am a trained herbalist. I was sent here for this very reason.” She patted the pocket of her cloak.

  The steward’s little black eyes shifted from side to side as if he was searching for a response. “Very well,” he said finally. “Come along.”

  He led them through the inner court and into the Great Hall through the huge doors normally reserved for wheeling food carts into the castle for feasts. They were the only doors that Norman could fit through. The guards followed, slamming the doors closed behind them ominously.

  Norman freed himself surreptitiously from the straps of his knapsack and surveyed the Great Hall. Last time he was here, he was celebrating the victory at Tista Kirk and the crowning of King Malcolm, but the room was sombre today. There were no decorations, no trays of food, no revelling soldiers. Esme stared up at the high walls and rafters of what was the largest room she had ever seen. Norman’s own sneaker was still there, up on the wall for all to marvel at. He wanted to tell Esme all about that celebration, so she could imagine for herself what it was like to be part of it, but the emptiness of the room made them both quiet.

  A messenger appeared and whispered something in the steward’s ear. He nodded and turned to address Esme.

  “Cuilean can see you for a moment now, Ambassador Esme.” He cast a wary eye towards Norman. “But, uh”—the master of ceremonial greetings struggled for the right way to address the human boy—“Sir Strong Arm, I am afraid this room is the only one that can accommodate you. You will have to wait here.”

  The steward held out an arm to point Esme in the direction of Cuilean’s rooms. She hesitated for a moment, casting a glance towards Norman.

  “I’ll be okay,” he told her, not at all confidently. “These are my old stomping grounds.”

  She nodded silently and then reluctantly followed the steward out of the hall. Norman thought how lucky he was that she had stowed away in his backpack. He’d never have got into Lochwarren Keep without her.

  The moment she’d left the room, the guards took up their posts by the courtyard door, and Norman suddenly wondered whether he should be so pleased with himself. He had faith in Esme, but being cooped up in there made him nervous. He needed to find Malcolm and resume their search for the map.

  He scanned the faces of the guards. They watched him without looking him in the eye.

  “Did any of you fight at Tista Kirk?” he asked. He knew they hadn’t—the weasels had not come to help the stoats fight the wolves for their kingdom—but their silence made him nervous.

  That silence was soon broken. Norman heard an order given outside in the courtyard, followed by the clang of metal on the cobblestones. The doors to the Great Hall flung open, letting sunlight pour in and sending Norman staggering back into the shade. More weasel soldiers. For a moment they were only silhouettes in the doorway, dark forms surrounded by bright blue sky, but as Norman’s eyes adjusted, he could see that they had come in their heaviest armour. Covered in steel from head to foot, they looked and moved more like robots than weasels, their limbs rising slowly and clanking down in unison. There was nothing to indicate that these steel machines encased tiny woodland creatures. Even their eyes were hidden by heavy visors. In his arms, each soldier carried a long halberd. Norman eyed the pointed spikes and took another step backwards into the hall.

  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 yo
u 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.