Bookweirdest (10 page)

Norman nearly choked on his bread roll. “The dirty liars. Malcolm never ran away from anything!”

Esme shrugged. “That’s just what I heard. One of them told me, ‘Once a river thief always a river thief’—whatever that means.”

“Malcolm was raised by his father among the River Raiders of the marshlands,” Norman replied angrily. “It’s where he learned to fight. It’s where he learned to be king.”

Esme did not look convinced. “So you don’t think he would have fled?”

“Not in a million years,” Norman said with conviction.

“Then where do you think he is?”

Norman didn’t answer for a long time. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Where
was
Malcolm? When he didn’t make it to England, Norman just assumed that he’d been sent back home too. But it could be a lot worse. Malcolm could already be in
The Secret in the Library
. If Uncle Kit was behind it, he could be anywhere, in just about any book.

“We’d better go talk to Cuilean,” Norman concluded. “If Malcolm is around here, Cuilean will know where he’s hiding.”

He stood up to head down the trail, but Esme did not move.

“Not so fast. You can’t just walk into town.”

“Don’t worry,” he assured her, “they know me. I’m a hero here.”

“Oh, they know you, all right, but I don’t know about the hero part.” She reached into her cloak and removed a yellowed piece of paper. It was torn at the corners, as if it had been ripped from a post.

Norman unfolded the paper to reveal pictures of a fearsome-looking giant and a sinister fox drawn in dark, menacing ink. Above them in big red letters was the word “Wanted.” Below, the poster said: “Norman, aka Strong Arm, and Abbot Reynard the Fox are wanted for the theft of priceless artefacts from the Royal Treasury of the Mustelids, by order of Guillaume Long Tail.”

Esme took the paper back from him. “It’s not a very good likeness,” she said, “but the blood dripping from the teeth is a nice touch.”

Norman frowned. This wasn’t really the sort of reputation he thought he’d left behind in Undergrowth.

“I didn’t steal anything, just so you know.”

“Oh, I know. You’ve proven yourself to be very trustworthy,” Esme replied sarcastically. “What is it you’re supposed to have stolen?”

“It’s the Mustelid treaty map. It gave the stoats undisputed reign over the Highlands.”

“So where is it?”

“It’s hidden in a library … for safekeeping.” He didn’t bother to explain that his own mother had hidden it there, or that she’d done so trying to keep
him
safe. “Malcolm and I need to get it and bring it back.”

Esme furrowed her brow a little. She knew there was much to
the story of Malcolm and Norman that he hadn’t told her. She held up the poster again. “Is this fox fellow a friend of yours?”

“He’s my uncle,” Norman admitted reluctantly.

Esme raised her rabbit eyebrows comically. “Don’t tell my father that. Foxes aren’t very popular in Willowbraid.”

“He’s not very popular with me either.” Discouraged, Norman sat down again against the tree. He felt his eyes starting to sting and placed his head in his hands to cover his embarrassment. It was just so frustrating. Every time he seemed to be getting somewhere, he hit a new roadblock. It had felt so good that morning, waking up beside the lake. Coming to Lochwarren was like coming home. He had imagined that Malcolm would be here waiting for him, and that they’d finally be able to get back to Jerome and the library. He’d expected to be welcomed by friends. To find out that he was an outlaw was a cruel blow.

He just sat there for a long time with his head in his hands. The tears didn’t come, but that was about the only thing that didn’t go wrong for him.

Esme finally interrupted him. “Is this Malcolm really your friend?”

Norman nodded. “Just about my only friend.”

“I should take offence to that,” she said softly.

Norman managed a smile back.

“If you trust me,” Esme said, coming closer, “I have a plan.”

T
he news of Norman’s approach travelled fast through the market of Lower Warren. It was difficult to miss the giant human boy descending from the forest path towards the village. Such a massive creature could not easily conceal itself or move stealthily, and at any rate, it made no attempt. Its giant feet slapped the ground like felled trees. Those who had seen the giant’s shoe on display at the castle and had pronounced it a fake now admitted that it was actually smaller than the real thing. If possible, the human had grown since its last appearance.

The shout went up around the village, and messengers were sent to the castle. “Norman Strong Arm is here. They’re bringing in Norman Strong Arm!”

The giant was met at the village gates by a squad of weasels, but the warriors lowered their lances when they saw that he was coming peacefully, and that the hard work of subduing the fugitive had already been done. They followed the giant cautiously as he made his way through the village up towards the castle. A captain of the guard led them through the centre of Lower Warren, shouting orders to the others, trying his best to make it look like he was responsible for the capture, but the crowds that lined the road could easily see who was in charge.

High on Norman’s shoulders sat a small brown rabbit. In her hands she held the canvas straps of some complicated harness that had been strung around the giant’s chest and shoulders. She did not look afraid at all. She looked absolutely fearless as she guided the human through town. No one could guess how she had managed to do it, but no one questioned the power she held over the beast. The fearsome giant they had heard so much about came placidly through town. He did not roar. He did not bellow. He did not gnash his teeth. Whatever the little rabbit had done to rein in the famously savage creature, she had done it well.

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.