The Specter Key (10 page)

The man nodded slowly.

“The same Mr. Rat,” Bran went on, “who tried to sell magic papers on Twoo’s Day?”

Mr. Rat blinked. He did it again and about two dozen more times, as if the marching beat in his head had skipped and he now had to get it back on track.

“I can’t really remember,” he said. “’Tis all muddied up.”

“You probably don’t want to remember it either,” Bran consoled him.

“Yes, yes…” Mr. Rat repeated, as if recalling some wistful memory. His face twisted up. They rode in silence for a bit, and Bran quietly plotted various ways of escape if Mr. Rat jumped at him.

“And it was such a useful invention, too,” Mr. Rat lamented after a while.

“Well, you’re out and about,” Bran said. “So they must not have thought you were much of a threat.”
Or they were too afraid to keep you,
he considered silently.

But Mr. Rat shook his head. “Nah,” he said. “There’s a whole lot more magic in this town than they know of, and I ain’t the deepest threat. None too harsh on Mr. Rat. I was let go after some community service, and now I’s heading off to Yarrow for a job at the subways.”

Bran nodded, unsure of what to say. He felt a bit uncomfortable when Mr. Rat mentioned the magic in the town, but he was certain enough that Mr. Rat was not hinting at anything. The bus came to a stop just in time.

“Fifth and Main Street,” the electronic voice said from the ceiling.

Bran looked about—he hadn’t realized how close the bus had brought him to home. Two passengers got on at the front of the bus, so he stood and headed out the back door, thinking he could stop by Highland’s Books and maybe use the telephone. The streets had already darkened. As he walked back to the corner and the main road, the streetlamps seemed to follow him, flickering on one by one as he went. It was coincidence, but it warmed him inside, as if the lamps were in some way trying to comfort his heavy steps.

The sidewalk was deserted, with most people heading off to parties or to the grand celebration in Givvyng Park, where the mayor would ring the Watling Bell and light off some fireworks. Much more interesting than anything the Wilomases might concoct. And the longer Bran stayed away from the house, the later it would be for him to get into trouble. As he walked, he felt intensely lonely. He’d grown so used to Nim in only a day that not having her with him felt like he was missing a piece of himself. The streets seemed far colder and far emptier than usual, but he trudged on and tried not to think about Nim back in the music box.

Several cars turned at the corner ahead on Fourth Street. Bran realized with a start that Mr. Cringan and Astara were having a Fridd’s Day party of their own. He had completely forgotten about it. He started toward the street with renewed vigor, only to glance down and realize that he was not dressed in yellow, but in fact was dirty and covered in tree sap, dust, and bits of sticks. No way could he show up to the party.

Still, he cut in at Third Street and took the alley around the back, hoping he might get to at least pull Astara aside for a minute and say hello, and maybe take a sip of the Friddspunch, since all the running had left him frightfully thirsty. The back door to the bookstore was unlocked, so he just went through.

He could hear the loud sounds of revelry. There was rock music playing from in the main part of the store, and people were laughing and shouting at each other. A pang of wistfulness shot through him; he wished he could be a part of it. There were long tables in the back warehouse of the store on which were ice chests and plates and extra cups.

“Bran?” Astara’s voice called. She was already there, holding an empty tray with plastic silverware and plates piled on it, about to put it into a huge garbage can.

“Happy Fridd’s Day,” Bran said, hastily brushing off as many of the sticks as he could from his clothes. Astara dumped all the trash and rushed over to him.

“So you got away after all!” she said, sounding thrilled, even as he went on brushing the mess onto the floor. She was dressed in light jeans and a clean yellow shirt, and had gotten her hair done in curls. She looked different; Bran had only ever seen her when she was working or on an errand—or when they were running from people who desperately wanted to kill them.

“Yeah, I, um, barely managed to escape,” Bran stammered, partly because he didn’t know what to tell her anymore and partly because he felt embarrassed about how he looked.

“Well, that’s good,” she said. “Feel like joining in? Mr. Cringan’s about to start some of his horrible karaoke.”

“Actually,” Bran began. “Well…I don’t know.”

Astara seemed to have picked up that something was not entirely right, so she set the tray onto the table. “Just want to talk?”

It always struck Bran the way Astara seemed to be able to read his mind, so much that sometimes he doubted she was a Netora at all, but really a Comsar in disguise. Still, he shrugged.

“Not really,” he said.

“How about somewhere else?” she suggested.

“No, I don’t want you to leave the party.” Bran shook his head.

“I told you, Mr. Cringan is about to do karaoke,” Astara replied dryly, placing the lid onto the garbage can. “Let’s go to Givvyng Park, and we’ll see the fireworks before it’s too late.”

Bran almost smiled. On Bolton Road, he would never have been allowed to simply leave and head off to the park without running errands along the way. But with Astara he felt as if he had some power in the strength of the two of them, and he no longer feared what was going to happen when he got home. So he agreed, and she smiled, and they started out the back door in the direction of Givvyng Park.

A View from the Water Tower

Astara knew enough about Bran not to talk about what was troubling him. There was a chilly wind, but the park was not far away. There was a large and bustling crowd already, with a stage set up in the middle of the grass and people gathered all around it. Mayor Demark was on the stage, giving a roaring speech about patriotism and Duncelander spirit, and at the end of each sentence the crowd would shout in approval and ring bells and shake yellow maracas.

The crowd was vastly different from the sort Bran was accustomed to with the Wilomases and the wealthy people they tried to impress: there were people with children, some carrying cotton candy and ice cream. It struck Bran how odd it was that a group of Duncelanders could seem so happy and yet innately harbor such a deep loathing toward those outside their walls. Seeing the cheerful and smiling faces almost made Bran feel as if each of them was wearing a mask, covering up some dark secret. These same happy neighbors might turn on him in an instant if they knew who he was.

Every person was wearing something that was yellow: jackets or shirts or shoes, even a few with yellow pants. Bran felt uncomfortable and out of place again. Astara looked about for some place to sit with a good view.

“It doesn’t have to be close,” Bran said. “We can see the fireworks and miss hearing the mayor’s speech at the same time.”

“The concert,” Astara said. “There’s going to be a concert after he speaks, from Hillins Frugal. We came all this way, so we might as well enjoy it.”

“Sheesh,” Bran said. “So we’ll suffer through the speech. But we won’t be able to see, look at the size of the crowd.”

Astara pointed off to the right. “How about up there?” Her finger was tilted upward at a dangerously high angle.

“Beside the water tower?” Bran asked hopefully.

“No, on top of it, you gat,” she said.

He laughed. She did not.

“Wait…” he began, but she had grabbed his arm, pulling him and ignoring his protests.

There was a sea of tall grass surrounding the tower, nearly up to their knees, waving in the wind as they brushed through. The tower was a small one compared to most, no longer in use and its fence long gone—but the city thought it too expensive to take down the rusty metal monstrosity. At one time, it had been a frequent spot for rowdy teenage boys from Droselmeyer High School. They would test out their manliness by climbing to the top and doing various stupid things, like jumping jacks during a tornado or leaping off with a garbage-bag parachute. However, after Bingo Rondle had fallen and broken eighty bones the summer before, kids had pretty much avoided it.

Astara did not seem anxious at all, and Bran wasn’t about to let her go on without him. He wasn’t afraid of heights, but as they stood at the bottom of the water tower and when he looked up, he couldn’t help but feel dizzy.

“H-how do we even get to the top?” he asked.

“There’s a ladder,” she said, gesturing to its obvious spot.

“There’s not one for the lower part,” Bran pointed out. The company who had built the water tower had been smart and chopped the ladder off above where most people’s heads would have reached; the local teenagers usually brought their own ladder.

She still looked at him as if he were stupid. “Come on, Bran. It isn’t that hard.” She turned her back to him, and then leapt into the air—far higher than any normal human.

Bran spun around to make sure no one was watching. “Astara!” he hissed at her, but she didn’t seem to care and had already started scrambling up without him. So he took a deep breath and jumped; the powers came naturally to him as if he used them all the time. He shot upward and grabbed hold of the rungs. They rattled with his impact, and when he realized just how high he had jumped he clung to them tightly.

“Come on, Bran,” Astara insisted. He huffed and started to clamber up, trying not to look down as he rose higher. The ground slowly got farther away, until he reached the top and swung over the edge. Encircling the perimeter of the tower was a thin walkway with bars—but even with the bars, Bran felt his heart beating faster, and he clung to the railing.

“Over here,” Astara called.

The wind was cold on his face. The mesh flooring rattled below him as he made his way around, and he saw that Astara was already sitting with her back against the tower.

“You’re late, he’s just finishing,” she said with a grin.

“Oh no,” Bran said with fake regret. “I feel horrible missing it.”

She shook her head at him, and he slid down next to her. Their shoes hung out over the edge of the tower, and he heard the crowds below give a rousing cheer as the mayor finished. The mayor traded places with a set of four band members with guitars, all dressed in yellow suits with yellow ties, who started to play a rocked-out version of “Here Comes the Yellow Squid,” a traditional Fridd’s Day classic.

But even with the loud music far below, all felt silent on the tower. Complete darkness had set in, so that the only lights on their faces came from those of the party below. Even though it was cold, everything was still and serene.

“Nim’s not here,” Astara said, not looking at him. She had finally noticed—or else she hadn’t said anything before on purpose.

“Nim went back to the man who owns her,” Bran replied after a while of silence. Astara continued to stare down at the concert as the lights began to flash with the guitar rhythm.

“Why did you let her go?” Astara asked. Bran didn’t know how to reply.

“Because,” he said, “the man who owns her is my father.”

And that was all. That was the only reason he knew. Thomas was his father. And by revealing that, Thomas had disarmed Bran of every weapon and defense he had.

So Bran told Astara how it had happened. She said nothing as he spoke. He almost felt as if his eyes should get teary thinking about it, but the cold wind on his face and the bitterness in his heart left no room for crying.

Bran fell silent. The song changed below and then changed again—and still, Astara didn’t speak. It wasn’t until the fourth song that she did.

“It will all work out,” she said.

Bran didn’t feel so sure. “What about the box?” he said. “We still haven’t gotten anywhere with it.”

“So let’s bury it,” Astara said, taking Bran by surprise.

“Bury it?” he repeated. She nodded.

“Why do we really need it?” she said, her eyes still staring down at the musicians. “I mean, really. Problems started again the moment you found that in the vault.”

Bran took a deep breath. She was right. She finally turned to meet his gaze.

“Do you really want to go on forever trying to win a war that people have fought for thousands of years against this dark magic?” she said. “They’ll go on fighting until they get what they want.”

Bran was left open-mouthed. He didn’t know how to respond.

“So we’re fifteen now,” Astara said. “Is it really right for us to get into this war—to find out who these Specters are, why they want you? How do we know they’re not just tricking you? Do we really want to be involved in the war that ended your mother’s life?” She shook her head. “I say we bury it now and try to go on and forget about it. Next time, they might not leave any bookstore left to rebuild.”

Bran sat there for a while, letting the emptiness creep over them once more. He was shocked to hear those words come from Astara of all people. It wasn’t like her to give up. Bran could hear that she was afraid, perhaps not even for herself, but for what might happen to him.

“I can’t give it up,” he said. “This might go on forever, but we’ve still got to fight, because if nobody fights, then we all will lose.” He let out a deep breath. “It’s because of what happened to my mother I’ve got to do it. Because I believe what I read on that paper, and I may very well be their only remaining hope. It’s my duty to help them—because of my mother.”

They were strong words, and held a resounding depth.

Astara seemed to accept this. She leaned back and closed her eyes, letting the sounds below take over again. The band ended their last song, and the announcer said that the fireworks display would begin soon, at the stroke of midnight, after the mayor rang the Watling Bell. A crew began to wheel the ancient bell onto the stage. It was inscribed with many great and epic scenes of the history of Dunce, most of which were concocted tales about grand victories and battles against gnomes and mages.

“I just don’t want them to hurt you, Bran.” Astara broke the silence.

“Hurt me?” Bran said. “How would they do that?”

“I don’t know.” Astara shook her head. “They almost had us a few times. Or have you already forgotten all about that trouble you caused?” She punched him on the arm, and he faked being hurt, falling to the side before coming back up again and lightly knocking her back. She laughed quietly.

Bran felt better seeing her smiling again. “Come on, Astara,” he said. “You know that, together, we can’t be taken down by just a bunch of guys with guns.”

“But what if they do get to you again?” Astara asked, unable to hide her fear.

“We made it out all right,” Bran said.

“But what about now?” Astara asked. “Your father’s suddenly here? This strange box? I just have such a bad feeling inside, like something horrible is going to happen.”

“Look,” Bran said, “we’ve saved each other before. We can do it again if things get bad.”

Astara let his words sink in, and they seemed to comfort her.

“I just don’t want you to think for one second,” she said, “that if they get you again that I’m not going after you. Because I will, even if you don’t want me to.”

Her voice was grave and resolute. Bran wanted to argue with her but found he couldn’t bring himself to speak. Behind her eyes, there was not only a fierceness but sadness as well.

“I’m going to be all right,” Bran said, trying to smile again. “On the other hand, if you’re so concerned about me dying, maybe we shouldn’t make climbing water towers a habit?”

She mustered a faint grin at that, and then they heard the mayor on the loudspeakers.

“May I have your attention, please,” the mayor bellowed. “Fridd’s Day is about to begin. On my ringing of the Watling Bell, the great day will have officially started! Countdown begin…now!”

The crowd started counting down from eleven, as was tradition. When they reached zero, the mayor lifted the gigantic paddle and gave the bell an enormous whack, which sent him spinning and caused the floor of the stage to shake. The bell was so loud it rang high up onto the top of the water tower, and everyone cheered and screamed with joy—and the fireworks exploded, sending up a storm of yellows and golds.

“You know,” Astara shouted over the noise, “I might want to have another go at that box.”

Bran looked at her with horror. She was grinning though.

“Not with magic,” she said. “Maybe if we hang around it we’ll figure something out.”

“How about tonight?” he shouted.

Astara seemed all right with the idea. She stood up with the fireworks still blazing and, before Bran could stop her, swung herself over the edge of the tower.

Bran gasped and jumped to the edge, his heart nearly stopping. She stumbled a step on the landing but caught her balance.

“I hate how you do that,” he hissed, trying to make himself breathe. Astara started to wave her hands, beckoning him down.

“Here goes my death,” he said and swung himself over the railing. In a second, his arm was twisted so that he was forced to let go, otherwise he might have just dangled there. He plummeted through the air, the wind beating at him, pushing his hair all around as he flew. He felt weightless, like he was falling from the highest diving board at the city pool. The ground came closer and closer, and just as he neared the grass, magic slowed his movement, bringing air between him and the ground. He landed heavily on both feet, tumbling forward onto his knees.

“Ooh, that hurt,” he said.

“You baby.” Astara laughed. He grumbled and got to his feet shakily, and she finally offered him a hand. Starting around the tower, Bran instinctively glanced to where he normally parked his bike. It wasn’t there.

“My bike…” he said. “I left it in front of the Nigels.” The police might track it back to him! But a moment after, his mind was put at ease. “Oh.” He remembered with a grin. “It’s still got Sewey’s name carved on it.”