As Septimus walked along Wizard Way, his feet did not tread on the pale limestone that he had been used to in his own Time, but on snow-covered earth. The silver torchposts that Septimus had so often watched being lit from his bedroom window at the top of the WizardTower were still in the process of being erected in honor of the Queen's Silver Jubilee. The low, yellow stone buildings on either side of the broad avenue, although already old, had a less weathered appearance and showed fine details that Septimus had never seen before.
As he passed the Manuscriptorium at Number Thirteen Wizard Way, Septimus glanced at the window - which looked odd to him, for it was almost empty and very clean - and a wave of longing to see Beetle swept over him. What would Beetle say now? Septimus wondered. Beetle usually had something to say about everything but he thought even Beetle would be lost for words.
Septimus shook away the memories of the fun he and Beetle had had and turned his thoughts to his destination. A network of tunnels, which Septimus knew from his own Time as the Ice Tunnels, linked all the old buildings of the Castle. In this Time the tunnels were still free of ice and were used by the Alchemists and Wizards to move around the Castle on their business, unseen and unremarked upon. Septimus traveled through one every day to get from Marcellus's house to his workplace at the Great Chamber. Recently he had been sent to the Palace to deliver some solid-gold bowls as a gift to the Queen - an apology for something that Marcellus had done wrong. It was this trip that had given Septimus the beginnings of his plan and it was to the Palace tunnels that he was heading now, except this time he was going aboveground, for he had no wish to bump into any nosy Alchemie scribes or Marcellus himself.
The last Winter Faire was in full swing at the end of the Way, just in front of the Palace Gate. Great streams of smoke rose from dozens of braziers cooking chestnuts, corn on the cob, thick winter soup, sausages and potatoes. Septimus pushed his way through the strange-smelling crowds, refusing offers of "best crunchy pig's ear, Apprentice," or "tasty hoof pie, who will buy my tasty hoof pie?" Trying to ignore the strains of the hurdy-gurdy playing what he supposed was festive music, Septimus wrenched himself free from a particularly insistent fortuneteller who offered to "reveal thy true Destiny for one groat, young Master - for who knoweth what Life doth have in store for us?" Who knoweth indeed? thought Septimus grimly, as he shrugged away the clutching hand.
Septimus sidestepped a pair of identical twin stilt-walkers, ducked under a tightrope and narrowly avoided being hit by a large piece of wood from an overenthusiastic participant in a Whack-the-Rat stall. One final squeeze past two fat ladies throwing crayfish and rice into a large vat of boiling water and Septimus was out of the crowds. Quickly he turned off down The Twitten, an alleyway that led to Snake Slipway. Soon he was ringing the doorbell of the house that he still thought of as Weasal Van Klampff's.
As Septimus waited to be let in, he remembered all the times that Marcia had sent him to the very same place to pick up the various pieces for her ShadowSafe. If he closed his eyes, he could easily imagine himself there, with the raucous insults of the boys on the pier echoing in his ears. Septimus never thought that he would long to hear the sound of Hey! Caterpillar Boy!
A small boy wearing the neat uniform of a house servant opened the door. He looked surprised to see Septimus, who usually came up through the tunnel, but he smiled and bowed to the Alchemie Apprentice. "Prithee, step inside, Septimus Heap," said the boy, who had earnest gray eyes and freckles, and whose sandy-colored hair sported the usual pudding-basin haircut that all the children had. Septimus had resolutely refused it, insisting on letting his curls grow ever longer and more tangled by the day.
The boy looked at Septimus expectantly, waiting to escort Septimus where he wanted to go. Septimus sighed; this was not part of his plan. He had forgotten about young Hugo Tenderfoot, who had an irritating tendency to follow him around like a lost puppy. Septimus was forced to say something. He cleared his throat and said, "Thanks very much, Hugo. You can go now."
"Prithee?" The boy's eyes widened, partly in surprise at hearing Septimus speak, but mainly because, although he did not quite understand what Septimus had said, he felt as if he should.
Septimus made an effort at what he thought of as Old Speak. "Um. Prithee, Hugo, begone."
"Bigoon?"
Septimus was saved from further efforts by the tinkling of a bell upstairs, which Hugo, after giving Septimus a small bow, ran off to answer.
Quickly Septimus walked to the back of the house and took the creaky steps down to the cellars, where he took the familiar tunnel that led out of the farthest end, along which he had first followed Una Brakket to the Laboratory. The tunnel was well swept and brightly lit with burning rushlights, unlike in Una's Time, but apart from that, it looked just the same. Septimus ignored the door to the Laboratory, which Marcellus used for the more delicate experiments, and took the side tunnel that he used every morning to get to work.
He soon reached the familiar trapdoor - but where was the ladder? Septimus knelt and opened the trapdoor. It looked like a long drop. He hunted around for the ladder, but he could find no sign of it. There was nothing else to do - he would have to jump. Septimus hesitated, trying to judge how far he would have to fall if he dangled full-length from the trapdoor. He told himself that if Simon could do it while wearing a pair of ice skates, then he could easily do it without.
In the tunnel, the sound of voices drew near and Septimus stepped back from the trapdoor. He watched a group of chattering Palace servants pass by below him. They were wearing the old-fashioned Palace uniform that he had seen on some of the ghosts in his own Time. The sight of the servants disappearing around the corner suddenly made up his mind, for it would be much easier to get into the Palace unnoticed in the middle of a gaggle of servants. Quickly Septimus slipped through the trapdoor. After dangling uncertainly for a few moments, he realized the reason why the floor of the tunnel seemed so far away - it actually was far away, for it was no longer covered in a thick layer of ice. But Septimus was committed now. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and let go.
"Oof!"
The jarring from the drop took his breath away, and as Septimus lay winded on the tunnel floor he saw Hugo's worried face peering down at him through the trapdoor. A moment later Hugo had unclipped the ladder from where it hung from the ceiling and pushed it down to Septimus.
" 'Tis far to fall, Apprentice," said Hugo, scrambling down. "I beg a thousand pardons for leaving the trap unsecured. Prithee, give me your hand." Hugo hauled Septimus to his feet.
"Where was the ladder?" asked Septimus.
"Prithee? I pray you, Apprentice, ascend with care."
Septimus sighed. "Hugo," he said, "I don't want to ascend with care. Now buzz off."
"Buzzoff?"
"Yes, buzz off. Go away. Scram. Oh ... begone with you!"
Hugo's face fell. He understood "begone with you." It was something his elder brother said regularly. And his two elder sisters. And his cousins who lived around the corner.
"Oh, come on then, if you want to," Septimus relented, realizing that if Hugo went back, he would very soon be telling everyone that the Alchemie Apprentice had gone off into the tunnels alone. Septimus had a feeling that Marcellus might get suspicious.
Hugo looked at Septimus quizzically. "Want to?" he said, copying Septimus's accent. "Want ... to. I ... want to!"
"Well, come on then," Septimus told him, impatient to catch up with the Palace servants whose chatter was fast fading away.
Hugo trotted after him. "Buzzoff.'" said the boy, running behind Septimus like a small bee. "Buzzoff, buzzoff, buzzoff!"
Septimus half ran, half walked beneath the rushlights that lined the wide brick tunnel that branched off toward the Palace. The small bee running behind kept pace with him and apart from the occasional "buzzoff," did not make any attempt at conversation. As the voices of the Palace servants became clearer, Septimus concentrated on maintaining some distance from them while still keeping them in sight, for as they approached the Palace, numerous small turns appeared and the tunnel began to resemble a rabbit warren.
After a few minutes, the servants took one of the small tunnels and Septimus was just in time to see them disappear through a narrow red door. He turned to Hugo. "You ought to get back now," he said, and then, seeing Hugo's puzzled look, he said, "Prithee, begone. I pray you do not disclose our journey, for I go about the Master's secret affairs."
Hugo put his head to one side like a parrot wondering whether it was worth repeating what he had just said. "Buzz-off?" he asked.
"Yes, buzz off. Hop to it. Go on, shoo!"
Hugo got the message. His face fell and he set off dejectedly back along the tunnel. Septimus felt a stab of remorse. No one else had shown the remotest interest in being with him ever since he had been stuck in this dump of a Time. "Oh, come on then," he called out.
Hugo's face lit up. "Not buzzoff?"
"No," sighed Septimus, "not buzzoff."
A few minutes later Septimus and Hugo were standing in the main kitchen corridor in the middle of what appeared to be frantic preparations for a banquet. A wave of servants swept past them while the boys stood like two rocks in the middle of a fast-moving stream, watching the great stacks of plates, trays of goblets and tubs of golden knives pass by. Two servants almost bumped into them as they staggered past with a massive silver tureen between them; they were followed by a swarm of girls, each carrying two small silver bowls. From each bowl, the head of a duckling poked out.
Septimus was amazed. He was used to the Palace being a quiet and almost empty place. He had expected to be able to sneak in and find his way to the turret that housed the Queen's Room unnoticed. His plan was to follow the Queen or Princess into the Room while the invisible door was still open. He would then sneak down to the Robing Room and try to go through the Glass once more. Septimus knew it was a desperate plan with little chance of succeeding but it was worth a try. But now he could see that if the Palace was this crowded everywhere, he had no chance, especially standing out as he did in his gold-emblazoned Alchemie tunic.
In fact, Septimus's strange attire was already attracting glances. Servants were slowing their pace and staring at him, Soon a jam of people began to build in the corridor, causing a large and impatient footman, who was trying to get out of a linen cupboard just behind Septimus and Hugo, to push his way forward and barge into them. Angrily, the footman grabbed Septimus's collar. "Thou art a Stranger here," he said suspiciously.
Septimus tried to pull away, but the footman held on tight. Suddenly Hugo piped up, "Sire, we are but Messengers, come with urgent tidings for the Pastry Cooke." The footman looked at Hugo's earnest expression and let Septimus go.
"Take you the third Turning and then the second Entrance. Madame Choux may be found therein. Treadst thou softly, for she did burne four dozen Pies but one houre past." The footman winked at Septimus and Hugo, stepped into the stream of servants and was carried away.
Hugo looked at Septimus, trying to understand what he wanted to do. Hugo liked him, for Septimus was the only person he knew who did not shout at him or order him around as if he were no better than a dog. "Buzzoff?" asked Hugo as three fat women bearing great baskets of bread rolls pushed past.
Septimus shook his head and glared at the women who had all turned to stare at him. "Not buzzoff," he replied. "There is something I have to do." In Old Speak, Septimus said, "I have ... a Queste. Here, in the Palace."
Hugo understood Questes. All knights and pages had them and he didn't see any reason why an Alchemie Apprentice should not have one too. He had never heard of a Queste starting in a Palace, but anything was possible with the Alchemists. He took Septimus by the hand and pulled him into the flow of servants. Following the smells of hot water and soap suds, Hugo soon found what he was looking for: the laundry room.
Several minutes later - and two groats poorer - two new Palace servants, dressed in clean servants' attire, slipped out of the laundry room and set off, the small sandy-haired one trotting behind the taller one with tangled curly fair hair. They had gotten no farther than the corner when a large woman in a stained apron stepped out of the sauce-kitchen doorway carrying two ornate gold jugs. She thrust the jugs, which were full of hot orange sauce, into their hands, saying, "Make haste, make haste," and pushed them off to join a long line of other boys, each carrying an identical golden jug.
Hugo and Septimus had no choice. Under the eagle eye of the sauce cook, and followed by a large Palace footman carrying a crisp white cloth in case any boy might spill the sauce, they followed the line of boys up the long and winding back stairs and emerged into the gloom of the Long Walk. As they progressed slowly, the chatter and clatter of a banquet beginning in the Ballroom drifted toward them. Suddenly the great doors to the Ballroom were thrown open and a roar swept over them. The long line of boys began to file inside.
Septimus and Hugo trailed into the Ballroom at the end of the line and the footman closed the doors behind them, Open-mouthed, Hugo stared at the sight before him. He had never seen such a huge room packed full of so many people wearing such rich and exotic clothes. The hubbub was almost deafening and the rich smells of the food made the boy's head swim, for no one ever remembered to feed Hugo very much. Septimus, who was more used to such occasions - Marcia was a generous hostess at the WizardTower - was also open-mouthed but for another reason. Sitting at the top table, a familiar figure surveyed all before her and, as ever, Queen Etheldredda wore her usual expression of disapproval.
