Syren (15 page)

“Yeah. When do you want to go?”

“As soon as Spit Fyre wakes up. This ship is really getting to me. And if Jen wants to stay on her ship, she can. And so can Nicko and Snorri too.”

“Jenna might not want to stay,” said Beetle hopefully. “You never know. She might really want to fly back on Spit Fyre.”

Septimus shrugged. “Whatever,” he said.

Spit Fyre slept on. By the evening Septimus had given up any hope of getting away that day and had resigned himself to another night on the
Cerys
. He and Beetle stood leaning over the gunnels, watching the twilight come creeping in. Everywhere pinpoints of lights were beginning to shine as lamps were lit on the ships and the shops and eating houses on the quayside began to open for the evening’s trade. The sounds of the day’s work were quieting. The
thud
s and
thump
s of cargo being shifted had ceased, and the shouts of the dockhands had dulled to a quiet chatter as they made ready to go home. Something was on Septimus’s mind.

“I promised Marcia I’d be back by midnight tonight,” he said. “But I won’t be. It’s the first thing I promised her as Senior Apprentice, and I’ve broken my promise.”

“It’s tough at the top,” Beetle said with a grin.

“Oh, do stop it, Beetle,” Septimus snapped.

“Steady on, Sep. Look, I reckon you’ve earned those purple stripes and then some—okay?”

“Okay.”

“Anyway, it’s not midnight yet,” said Beetle, bringing out his precious timepiece. “And it won’t be midnight at the Castle for ages yet.”

“It makes no difference. I still won’t get back in time.”

“Well, tell her you’ve been delayed. She’ll understand.”

“How can I possibly do that before midnight?”

“Easy,” said Beetle. “Send a pigeon.”

“What?”

“Send a Trading Post pigeon. Everyone does it. They’re really fast, especially if you use the express service.”

“I suppose that will have to do,” said Septimus. “The thing is, Marcia trusts me now. I don’t want to let her down.”

“Yeah, I know. Come on, I’ll show you the Pigeon Post Office.”

T
he Pigeon Post Office
was a long, low stone building that formed the boundary between Harbors Twelve and Thirteen. On the ground floor was the actual Post Office and above it were the pigeon lofts, home to hundreds of carrier pigeons. Two large lamps—with pigeons on the top—flanked the wide double doors that led into the office itself. Its long white roof shone in the light of the newly lit lamps and, as he and Beetle got closer, Septimus realized that the whiteness of the roof was because it was thick with pigeon droppings. It did not
smell great. They ducked inside and only just avoided what was known in the Trading Post as “pigeon shoulder” (considered marginally better than “pigeon head”).

The Post Office was quietly busy. A line of businesslike white lamps hissed softly overhead, reminding Beetle of Ephaniah Grebe’s basement. Along the length of the office were seven counters with signs reading
SEND, RECEIVE, LATE, LOST, FOUND, SPOILED
and
COMPLAINTS
, all of which had one or two people waiting—apart from
COMPLAINTS
, which had a long line.

Septimus and Beetle made their way to
SEND
. They waited patiently behind a young sailor, who was soon done, and less patiently behind an elderly man, who spent a long time writing his message and then argued at length over the cost. He eventually wandered off grumbling and joined the line at
COMPLAINTS
.

At last they stepped forward to the counter. Wordlessly the tight-lipped clerk—a gray and dusty man with what looked suspiciously like a bad case of pigeon head—handed them a form and a pencil. Beetle made a request and then, very carefully, Septimus filled in the form:

He circled
EXPRESS
and handed in the form.

The clerk checked the form and frowned. He stabbed a grumpy finger at the box that read
SENDER
. Septimus had
signed his name with his usual illegible flourish. “What’s that?” he asked.

“My name,” replied Septimus.

The clerk sighed. “Well, that’s a start, I suppose. So where are the actual
letters
, then?”

“Do you want me to write it again?” asked Septimus, trying to keep his patience.

“
I’ll
do it,” snapped the clerk.

“Okay.”

“So what is it?”

“What is what?”

The clerk sighed once more and said, very slowly, “Your
name
, sonny. What is it? I need to know so that I can write it down, see?”

Septimus was not surprised that there was a long line at the
COMPLAINTS
counter. “Septimus Heap,” he said.

Laboriously the clerk got out a glue pot and stuck a piece of paper on top of the offending signature. He got Septimus to spell out his name three times and made a good deal of fuss writing it down. At last he finished and tossed the message into a box marked
Sealing and Dispatch
. A general sigh of relief accompanied Septimus paying the postage and
at last leaving the counter.

“Hey, you! Septimus Heap!” a voice called out. Septimus spun around and saw the clerk at the
RECEIVE
counter beckoning to him. “I got a message for you.”

“Me?” Septimus went up to the counter.

The clerk at the
RECEIVE
counter, a former sea captain with a bushy white beard, was a distinct improvement on the clerk at the
SEND
counter. He smiled. “You
are
Septimus Heap, aren’t you?”

Septimus nodded, puzzled. “Yes, but I’m not expecting any messages.”

“Well, ain’t it your lucky day, then?” said the clerk, and handed Septimus a small envelope with his name printed on it in the distinctive Pigeon Post type. “Sign ’ere please,” said the clerk, and pushed a piece of paper across to Septimus. Somewhat self-consciously, Septimus signed his name and pushed the paper back to the clerk, who made no comment.

“Thank you,” said Septimus.

“You’re welcome,” said the clerk with a smile. “We’re open until midnight if you want to send a reply. Next please.”

Septimus and Beetle stopped under a lantern a safe distance away from the Pigeon Post Office. After glancing
up to check that there were no pigeons roosting above, Septimus opened the envelope, which was stamped in red with the words
PPO NON STANDARD MESSAGE SAFETY ENVELOPE
. He drew out a scrappy piece of paper and, as he read, a look of bafflement spread across his face.

“What does it say?” asked Beetle.

“I don’t understand…it’s a recipe for cabbage soup.”

“Turn it over,” said Beetle. “There’s writing on the other side.”

“Oh. Oh…it’s from Aunt Zelda. But how does she know…”

“What does she say?”

“‘Dear Septimus, enclosed are the instructions for your SafeCharm. I forgot to give them to Barney Pot. Do not hesitate to use it if you need to. It will be loyal and true. Best love, Aunt Zelda xxx.’ Oh bother. Bother, bother,
bother
.”

“Bother
what
, Sep?” asked Beetle.

“The SafeCharm. A little kid called Barney Pot tried to give it to me, but I wouldn’t take it. There was no way I was going to take a so-called SafeCharm from a stranger, not after taking the Questing Stone by mistake from someone I thought I actually knew.”

“But it wasn’t from a stranger, it was from Aunt Zelda,” Beetle observed irritatingly.

“I know that
now
, Beetle,” Septimus snapped. “But I didn’t know that
then
. Barney didn’t say it was from Aunt Zelda; he just said it was from a lady. Could have been anyone.”

“Oh. Well, I’m sure it doesn’t matter, Sep. I don’t see that you’ll need it.”

“Yeah, I s’pose…but Aunt Zelda obviously thought I did need it. Dunno why.”

Beetle was silent as they negotiated their way back to the
Cerys
. As they neared the tall ship, which was now ablaze with lanterns, he said, “So what exactly are these instructions, Sep?”

Septimus shrugged. “What does it matter? I haven’t got the SafeCharm anyway.”

Beetle—who was fascinated by Charms of all descriptions and had hoped one day to be the Charm Specialist at the Manuscriptorium—thought it did matter. At his insistence, Septimus unfolded another piece of paper covered in Aunt Zelda’s most careful writing—the kind that she had used for Wolf Boy’s instructions. As Septimus read it his expression changed to one of amazement.

“What does it say, Sep?” asked Beetle impatiently.

“Oh, crumbs…it says, ‘Septimus, use this well and it will be your loyal servant for evermore. Instructions as follows:

• 1. Unseal bottle in well-ventilated area, preferably large open space.
  
• 2. If unsealing outside, ensure area is sheltered from the wind.
  
• 3. Once jinnee is out of—’”
  

“Jinnee—ohmygoodness!” gasped Beetle. “She’s gone and sent you a live SafeCharm. I don’t
believe
it.”

Septimus was silent. He read the rest of the instructions to himself with a horrible feeling of regret.

“A
jinnee
—I can’t believe you turned that down,” Beetle was saying. “Oh, wow, what an opportunity.”

“Well, it’s too late now,” snapped Septimus. He refolded the instructions and put them carefully into his Apprentice belt.

Beetle carried on regardless. “I’ve always thought how
brilliant
it would be to have a jinnee at your beck and call,” he said. “And
no one
has them anymore, Sep, they are so
incredibly
rare. Most of ’em have been let out and no one knows how to put ’em back in nowadays—except other jinn, of course, and they’re not saying. Phew…fancy passing up a chance for that.”

Septimus had had enough. He turned on Beetle. “Look, just
shut up
about it, will you, Beetle? Okay, I didn’t take it and, okay, maybe that was stupid, but I didn’t and that is the end of it.”

“Hey, calm down, Sep. I never said it was stupid. But look…maybe…”

“Maybe
what
?”

“Maybe you should send Aunt Zelda a message to say you never got it. She ought to get it back from Barney as soon as she can. I mean, supposing
he
opens it?”

Septimus shrugged irritably.

“It’s important, Sep,” Beetle persisted. “If Aunt Zelda meant it for you, she would have Awakened it by telling it a whole load of stuff about you—all about your family, about how you look, how wonderful you are and how the jinnee would be privileged to serve you for the rest of its days blah blah blah. I’ve seen a written copy of an Awakening and it’s like a real legal contract, and if the other half of the contract isn’t there then the jinnee will consider itself Released. So if this kid Barney Pot gets curious and lets the jinnee out, there’s going to be big trouble. The jinnee will be free to cause havoc—and you can bet it will, too. The only person who can have any
hope of controlling it is the one who Awakened it.”

“Aunt Zelda,” said Septimus.

“Yep. You have to tell her, Sep.”

Septimus and Beetle had reached the
Cerys
. The immaculately uniformed sailor bowed as Septimus stepped onto the gangplank. The sailor bowed once more as he stepped straight off.

“Okay.” Septimus sighed. “You’re right. We’ll go send a message. And if that clerk tries to be funny again I shall—”

Beetle put his arm in Septimus’s. “Yeah,” he said. “I shall too.”

W
hile Septimus and Beetle were
running the pigeon gauntlet once more, Jenna was perched not unlike a pigeon herself. She was sitting, confidently swinging her feet, on the lowest yardarm of the fore mast while she watched the loading of Milo’s long-awaited cargo. Suspended from the arm of a gantry, a massive, battered ebony chest bound with iron bands was swinging and twisting as it made its slow descent into the cargo hold.

Milo Banda stood at the edge of the hold, arms folded, the sun catching the gold edging on his long red tunic. His dark curly hair fell to his shoulders and was held in place by yet more gold—a broad headband that Milo thought gave him authority (it certainly gave him red marks on his forehead when he took it off at night). Right then, Milo Banda looked like a man who had succeeded and was proud of it.

Far below Milo’s sandaled feet, the cargo hold opened into the depths of the
Cerys
. It was lit by six torches dipped in tar, each one carried by an anxious deckhand guiding the precious chest into place. The hold itself was no more than half full. It contained the usual mixture of strange objects destined for the Palace and some things that Milo intended to sell in the Port—bales of woolen cloth, a selection of pearl necklaces from the Islands of the Shallow Seas, a stack of reindeer skins from the Lands of the Long Nights and ten crates containing assorted dishware, boots, cotton tunics and mousetraps procured at knock-down prices from one of the shadier Trading Post midnight auctions.

For Sarah Heap there was a case of silver goblets, which Milo thought would be a great improvement on the rough pottery ones that she insisted on using. There were also the objects
intended to liven up (as Milo put it) the Long Walk. Among these were a pair of painted statues that he had bought at a good price from some Traders from the Lands of the Singing Sands—accompanied by the usual ghastly ornate tourist jars of so-called singing sand, which had a habit of remaining silent once bottled. There was also a collection of bizarre pictures made from seashells and a family of stuffed giant sea snakes, which Milo (overly optimistically, as it turned out) envisaged hanging from the Long Walk ceiling.

Milo was pleased with these acquisitions, but they were not the reason the
Cerys
had sat in her prime berth in Harbor Twelve for so many expensive weeks. The reason for that was now being very carefully lowered past Milo’s watchful gaze and disappearing into the torchlit depths. Milo smiled as, guided by the deckhands, the chest settled into its allotted place, fitting perfectly.

Milo beckoned to Jenna, still perched high on her vantage point. As practiced as though she were a sailor herself, Jenna swung herself off the yardarm, slid down a rope and landed lightly on the deck. Milo watched her with a smile, remembering the day her mother had insisted on climbing the vine up the Palace wall, all the way up to the roof, just
to collect a tennis ball, and then slid down, taking most of the leaves with her. She had landed laughing, covered in twigs and scratches—and had
still
won the game. Jenna was so like Cerys, he thought. Every day he spent with Jenna, he remembered more about her mother, though sometimes Milo wished he didn’t—there was only so much remembering that he could manage.

Jenna joined him, and Milo shook off his thoughts. He jumped onto the ladder and led the way down into the hold. Jenna followed, the air becoming cold and damp as she descended into the depths of the
Cerys
toward the flickering light of the torch flames and the buzz of excitement that surrounded the new acquisition. It was a surprisingly long way down; Jenna had not realized just how much of the ship lay beneath the waterline. At last she joined Milo at the foot of the ladder and, accompanied by a deckhand holding a torch to light their way, he ushered her over to the chest.

Jenna hung back. There was an odd atmosphere around the chest, and she wasn’t sure that she liked it very much.

Milo smiled. “You can touch it, it won’t bite,” he said.

Warily Jenna stepped up to the chest and touched it. The ancient wood was as cold and hard as metal. It was dented and
scratched and had a deep brown-black shine that reflected the light from the torch flames and gave it an odd appearance of movement. The iron straps around it were pitted with rust and notches and the chest looked as though it had seen some troubled times. Jenna stood on tiptoe and could just about manage to see the top of the chest, where a large square of gold was inset into the wood. Three lines of hieroglyphs were etched into the gold.

“Those look interesting,” said Jenna. “What do they say?”

“Oh, don’t bother about those old things,” said Milo dismissively. He turned to the deckhands. “Leave us,” he said.

The deckhands saluted briefly and left.

Milo waited until the last man had climbed off the top of the ladder, then he turned to Jenna with a gleam of triumph in his eyes. Jenna knew Milo well enough by now to sense that he was building up to a speech. She suppressed a sigh.

“Well,” said Milo, “this is quite a moment. Ever since I met your mother I have searched for this—”

“My mother?” asked Jenna, wondering why Sarah Heap had told Milo to go looking for a battered old chest, until she remembered that Milo was talking about Queen Cerys, whom
Sarah Heap called her “first mother.”

“Yes, your dear,
dear
mother. Oh, Jenna, how like her you are. You know, your mother used to look at me with the very same expression you have now, particularly when I was telling her all my wonderful plans. But now my plans have at last borne fruit, and we have that very fruit—er, chest—safe in the
Cerys
. And even better, my Princess is here too, at the very moment of its arrival. A wonderfully good omen, would you not say?” After his many years at sea, Milo had acquired a certain amount of seafarer’s superstition.

Jenna, who did not think much of omens, did not reply.

Milo put his hands on the lid of the chest and smiled down at Jenna. “I think we should open it, don’t you?”

Jenna nodded uncertainly. Although she was very curious to see what was in the chest, she could not shake off her feeling of unease in its presence.

Milo hardly waited for Jenna’s agreement. Taking his knot spike from his belt, he began to ease the ancient, hardened leather straps that held the iron bands together out of their thick brass buckles. The first band sprang off with a clang and made Jenna jump; the second fell off onto Milo’s foot.

“Oof,” Milo gasped. Gritting his teeth he took hold of the lid and slowly heaved it open until it came to rest, pulling against two retaining straps.

“Look inside,” he said proudly. “All this is yours.”

Jenna stood on tiptoe and peered in. “Oh,” she said.

“You should not be disappointed,” said Milo. “This is a greater treasure than you can possibly imagine.”

Jenna doubted that was possible—she could imagine an awful lot of treasure if she put her mind to it. Bemused, she looked into the chest—what was Milo making such a fuss about? All she could see was bare worm-eaten wood—not even lined with silver, as many treasure chests were—containing ranks of tiny battered and scratched lead tubes resting in neatly stacked wooden trays. Each tube was sealed with wax and had a small squiggle inscribed into it. They were arranged in neat squares in batches of twelve and each set had the same squiggle. It was remarkably orderly but hardly the mass of jewels and coins that Jenna had been expecting.

“You’re not impressed?” asked Milo, sounding a little disappointed.

Jenna tried to think of something positive to say. “Well,
there
are
a lot of them. And, er, I’m sure it was really difficult to find so many.”

“You have no idea quite how difficult,” said Milo, gazing into the chest, enthralled. “But it will be worth it, you wait and see.” He turned to Jenna, his eyes shining. “Now your future as Queen is secure. Oh, if only I had found it in time for your dear mother….”

Jenna looked at the chest, wondering if she was missing something.

“So is there something special underneath these, er, tube thingies?” she asked.

Milo looked a little irritated. “Are these not special enough?”

“But what
are
they? What is so amazing about them?” asked Jenna.

“I hope you never need to find out,” said Milo, closing the lid reverentially.

A feeling of annoyance welled up inside Jenna. She wished Milo wouldn’t be so mysterious. It seemed to her that he never said anything in a straightforward way. He offered glimpses but always held something back—kept her wondering, wanting to know a little bit more. Talking to
him felt like trying to catch shadows.

Milo busied himself securing the straps around the chest. “When we return to the Castle, I shall take this straight to the Palace and place it in the Throne Room.”

“The
Throne Room
? But I don’t want—”

“Jenna, I insist. And I do not want you to tell
anyone
what is in this chest. This must be our secret. No one is to know.”

“Milo, I am not keeping any secrets from Marcia,” said Jenna.

“Oh, of course we shall tell Marcia,” said Milo. “In fact, we shall need her to accompany us to the Vaults in the Manuscriptorium, where I shall be collecting the final, er, piece of this consignment. But I do not wish anyone on board or here in the Trading Post to know. I am not the only person who has been searching for this—but I
am
the one who has got it, and that is the way I intend it to stay. You understand, don’t you?”

“I understand,” said Jenna, a little reluctantly. She decided that, whatever Milo said, she would tell Septimus as well as Marcia.

“Good. Now, let us secure the chest for its voyage home.” Milo raised his voice. “Deckhands to the hold!”

Ten minutes later the smell of hot tar filled the air. Jenna was back on deck, watching the doors to the hold being lowered. One by one they settled into place, the strips of teak on the doors lining up perfectly with those on the deck. Milo checked that all was secure, and then he signaled to a young deckhand who was melting a small pan of tar over a flame. The deckhand took the pot from the flame and brought it over to Milo.

Jenna watched Milo fish around in a pocket in his tunic and, a little surreptitiously, take out a small black phial.

“Keep the pan steady, Jem,” Milo told the deckhand. “I’m going to add this to the tar. Whatever you do, don’t breathe in.”

Concerned, the deckhand looked at Milo. “What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing you’ve ever come across,” said Milo. “Well, I hope not anyway. Wouldn’t want our medic messing with
this
. Jenna, stand well back, please.”

Jenna stepped away. She watched Milo quickly take out the phial’s cork and tip the contents into the tar. A small cloud of black vapor arose; Jem turned his face away and coughed.

“Heat it to boiling,” said Milo, “then pour it on as usual and seal the hold.”

“Aye, sir,” Jem said, and returned the pot to the flame.

Milo joined Jenna.

“What was that stuff?” she asked.

“Oh, merely a little something I got from the Darke Deli on Harbor Thirteen. Just to keep our treasure safe until the Port. I don’t want
anyone
getting in that hold,” Milo replied.

“Oh, right,” said Jenna. She did not believe for a moment that Milo was messing with Darke stuff, and it annoyed her that he thought she would. Silently, she stood and watched Jem take the tar pan off the flame and very carefully walk around the edges of the doors to the hold, pouring a thin stream of glistening black tar into the gap between them and the deck. Soon all that marked the entrance to the hold were two inset brass rings and a thin line of tar.

To Jenna’s irritation, Milo placed his arm around her shoulders and walked her along the deck on the opposite side from the harbor, away from the small admiring crowd that always gathered to stare at the
Cerys
. “I know you think I am a neglectful father,” he said. “It is true, maybe I am, but
this
is what I have been looking for,
this
is why I have been away so much. And soon, safe passage and fair winds permitting, it shall be safe in the Palace—and so will you.”

Jenna looked at Milo. “But I still don’t understand. What is so special about it?”

“You will find out
When the Time Is Right
,” said Milo.

Blissfully unaware that his daughter longed to yell, “Why don’t you ever answer my questions
properly
?” Milo continued, “Come, Jenna, let us go below. I think some celebrations are in order.”

Jenna fought back the urge to kick him.

While Milo ushered Jenna below, Jem was looking doubtfully at the black residue stuck to the bottom of the pan. After some consideration, he tossed the pan over the side of the ship. Jem had not always been a lowly deckhand. He had once been Apprenticed to a famed Physician in the Lands of the Long Nights, until the Physician’s daughter had fallen for his crooked smile and dark curly hair, and life had become a little too complicated for Jem’s liking. Jem had left his Apprenticeship early, but he had learned enough to know that Darke Sealants were not the kind of things you wanted on board a ship. He stepped carefully over the thin streak of
tar that delineated the line of the cargo hatch doors and went below to the sick bay, where he wrote out a notice for the crew informing them not to step on the cargo hatch door seals.