“Ah. Thank you, Your Maj, but I think better on my feet,” he said. “Now, my proposition is that if you would be so good as to let me reopen the East Gate Lookout Tower and reinstitute the much missed Official Castle Message Rat Service, I would be honored to offer you the first year’s subscription at premium discount rates—”
“The Palace always got it free before,” said Jenna.
“Really? Well free for the first year, then. I would also throw in your own personal bodyguard rat and priority service at all times.”
“Fine,” said Jenna. “Go ahead.”
Stanley sat down on the book. “You sure?” he asked.
“Yes. We could use the Message Rat Service; it’s really missed. But where you’ll find the rats I don’t know. They’ve all disappeared. You’re the first one I’ve seen in a long time.”
Stanley jumped to his feet and saluted again—a habit he had recently picked up from an old ship’s rat in the Port. “No problem,” he said. “It takes a rat to find a rat. I’ll keep you informed, Your Maj. Your bodyguard will be dispatched ASAP ohcrumbsyou’vegotacat.” From underneath Jenna’s bed a small, scraggy orange cat had emerged. Although the cat was not much bigger than Stanley, there was a steely glint in its blue eyes that the rat did not like the look of. Not one bit. Stanley, who never forgot a cat, was sure he had seen it somewhere before.
“Oh, well, yes. I’m taking care of him for someone. Calm, Ullr,” said Jenna, noticing the cat was getting reading to pounce.
“I’ll have to rescind the bodyguard offer,” said Stanley, backing away. “Not with a cat in residence. Can’t put my staff at risk.”
Jenna picked up Ullr and held him tight. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Ullr’s the best bodyguard I could wish for.”
Stanley eyed the cat. “Bit on the small side for a bodyguard, isn’t it?” he asked. Ullr unsheathed his claws and tried to wriggle out of Jenna’s grasp. Stanley backed away hurriedly. “I’ll be off, then, Your Maj. And thank you. Good-bye.”
Jenna jumped up and let Stanley out of the door. “It’s okay, Sir Hereward,” she told the ghost who was about to aim another swipe at the rat. “He’s a friend.”
Stanley scampered along the corridor, leaped nimbly down the sweeping Palace stairs and, head held high, walked out of the main Palace door with Jenna’s words ringing in his ears. He was a friend. A friend of Royalty.
If Dawnie could see him now.
7
IN CHARGE
B eetle, Front Office and Inspection Clerk at Number Thirteen Wizard Way, home of the Magykal Manuscriptorium and Spell Checkers Incorporated, was not having a good day. It was a blustery, rainy Monday morning and Jillie Djinn, the Chief Hermetic Scribe, had left him in charge. At first Beetle had been thrilled. It was a real honor, since Miss Jillie Djinn chose her deputies carefully, even if it was only for an hour, and she usually gave the job to the most senior scribe.
But that morning she had fixed Beetle with her disconcerting stare—which always made him wonder what he had done wrong—and said, “Beetle, you’re in charge. Anyone comes about the job, fill out the form and I’ll see them this afternoon. Back in an hour. No earlier. No later.” Then, with a rustle of her dark blue silk robes Miss Djinn had bustled out of the door and was gone.
Beetle had closed the door against the wind and whistled a long low note. Resisting the urge to run amok yelling, “It’s mine, all mine!” he had contented himself with peering into the Manuscriptorium itself and checking that all seemed well. It did. Twenty scribes—one short of the usual number—sat perched at their high desks under twenty dim pools of light, their pens scratching away, copying out various spells, formulas, charms, enchantments, indentures, diatribes, licences, permits, proxies and anything else that was needed by the Wizards—or indeed anyone in the Castle who had a few silver pennies to spare.
Beetle celebrated his temporary promotion by sitting on his swivel chair and spinning around and around in circles—which was not allowed—while practicing his I’m-in-charge look. For five heady minutes everything had been wonderful—and then it all went wrong.
Beetle was amazed at how much trouble could cram itself into such a short space of time. It began when a tall, thin boy dressed in a shabby black tunic and travel-stained cloak came into the front office, made Jillie Djinn’s new—and extremely irritating—Daily Customer Counter click over to number three and demanded to see the Chief Hermetic Scribe.
“She’s out,” said Beetle snappily, deciding he did not like the look of the boy at all. “I’m in charge.”
The boy looked Beetle up and down and sniggered. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I don’t think.”
“Obviously not,” replied Beetle, surprised to hear himself sounding remarkably like Marcia Overstrand for a moment.
Remembering, a little late, that a member of the Manuscriptorium must be civil at all times, Beetle hurriedly asked,
“Well, um, can I help you?”
“I doubt it.” The boy shrugged.
Beetle took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then he said, “I’m sure I can do something if you tell me what you want.”
“I want that scribe’s job,” the boy replied.
Beetle was shocked. “The scribe’s job?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said the boy. He grinned, pleased at the effect he had had. “Like I said, the scribe’s job.”
“But—but do you have any qualifications?” Beetle stammered.
In reply, the boy leaned forward and clicked his finger and thumb in Beetle’s face. A flicker of black flame appeared from the tip of his thumb. “That’s my qualification,” the boy said.
Beetle sat down in his chair with a bump. He’d heard about Darke tricks, although he’d never actually seen one before.
It had not escaped his notice that the boy was wearing what he assumed to be a cheap copy of the fabled Two-Faced Darke
Ring. The boy was obviously one of those weird kids who thought that if they dressed in black and bought pretend Darke trinkets from Gothyk Grotto in The Ramblings, they were the next Apprentice to old DomDaniel.
Beetle blamed Jillie Djinn. She had, much to his disapproval, put a notice up on the door to the Manuscriptorium a few weeks ago, seeking a new scribe. Beetle had objected, saying it would be an invitation to all kinds of weird people to apply. But Miss Djinn had insisted.