T here was something about Marcia Overstrand that always seemed to fill the space she was in - and then some. Beetle instinctively stepped back to give the ExtraOrdinary Wizard more room.
"What on earth is this awful din?" Marcia shouted.
"She's not here," replied Beetle, who thought Marcia had asked, "Where on earth is the awful Djinn?"
"What?"
Beetle glanced desperately at the clock - had Jillie Djinn only been gone for such a short time? "Back in thirty minutes!" he yelled.
Marcia was beginning to get the feeling that she had stepped into the middle of one of the new-style plays that Septimus had taken her to see in the small Theater in The Ramblings. "And what have you got growing out of your ears?" she asked.
Beetle suddenly remembered his earplugs and pulled them out with a faint pop. "Sorry," he said, raising his voice above the Alarm, which chose that very moment to stop.
"No need to shout," said Marcia.
"No. Er, sorry," Beetle stammered. "Can I help you, Madam Marcia? I'm, um, in charge until Miss Djinn gets back."
"Oh, good." Marcia smiled as if relieved, which surprised Beetle.
"Been a bit of a morning," he said. He tried unsuccessfully to smooth down his thick black hair, which always stuck out at odd angles when he got flustered.
"So I see," said Marcia. "Well, it happens to us all."
"Does it?" said Beetle, surprised.
"All the time." Marcia sighed. "Now, Beetle, unfortunately I need to go down to the Vaults."
Feeling tremendously relieved that Marcia was taking things so well, Beetle led the ExtraOrdinary Wizard into the Manuscriptorium. As they stepped through the door there was a flash of green light.
A huddle of scribes leaped back with a shout and then craned forward to see the results of their Erase Spell. A loud shriek came from the middle of the huddle. "Argh, my feet! Look at my feet!"
A collection of gasps rose from the group.
"I told you that spell was moldy but you wouldn't listen."
"Hey, those are big toadstools!"
"Yeah, massive."
"Now your feet look like they smell, Partridge."
A loud laugh come from the group; then one of the scribes noticed Marcia standing behind them. He nudged the scribe next to him and seconds later an embarrassed silence fell.
"Good morning, Scribes," said Marcia.
"Good morning, Madam Overstrand," the scribes chorused like good schoolchildren.
"Having trouble?" asked Marcia with a smile.
The scribes nodded sheepishly.
Beetle was amazed at Marcia's good temper. He did not realize that Marcia was particularly fond of him ever since he had helped her with a difficult episode in her life not long before, which had involved an aggressive bunch of bones. Beetle watched admiringly as Marcia, with a flick of her fingers and a flash of Magykal purple light, wiped out the impressive crop of toadstools that had sprung up from Partridge's feet and burst through his boots in a spectacular array of red, orange and lurid yellow. Leaving Partridge gazing at his boots, which now had a random selection of holes dotted over them, Marcia Erased the spilled ink, ReFilled the ink bottles and Restored Jillie Djinn's calculations.
Amid the chorus of grateful "thank-yous" from the scribes - particularly from Partridge - Marcia stepped over the recumbent form of Foxy. Beetle showed her through a concealed door in the bookshelves that lined the Manuscriptorium, then he followed Marcia into a candle-lit, winding passage. The passage was long and sloped steeply downward until it came to a flight of stone steps. At the foot of these was a huge studded iron door - and the belligerent Ghost of the Vaults.
The Ghost of the Vaults was one of the Ancients - ghosts over five hundred years old - who inhabited the older parts of the Castle. But unlike all the other Ancients, he was not particularly faded and his voice was still strong. He had a hectoring manner and was one of the most unpleasant ghosts in the Castle. The Ghost of the Vaults refused to tell anyone his name, although his old-fashioned Chief Hermetic Scribe robes were somewhat of a giveaway. Marcia was well aware who he was and Beetle had figured it out too - the ghost was the very first Chief Scribe ever to hold office, Tertius Fume. But although Beetle had searched for information about Tertius Fume, he had found nothing - except a snippet hidden in a damp old tome that he had rescued from propping up the rotten end of a bookshelf in a Manuscriptorium storeroom. The book, which Beetle guessed was part of an old series for children, was called:
One Hundred and One Questions
You Have Always Wanted to Ask About: HOTEP-RA!
(Our Castle's very first ExtraOrdinary Wizard)
Deluxe edition with answers
Although the last few pages of answers were eaten away by mold, Beetle had found out a lot of things he hadn't known. One of the questions was: Did Hotep-Ra have a best friend?
The answer intrigued Beetle: Yes, he did!! (The book was much given to exclamation marks.) But, boys and girls, he was not a good friend. He was an old friend who came to visit from far away, and his name was Tertius Fume. At first Hotep-Ra was pleased to see him. They had lots of fun!
Hotep-Ra gave his best friend a house to live in on Wizard Way. Tertius Fume was very clever and soon his house became the Manuscriptorium! But although Hotep-Ra's best friend was clever, he was not nice! (Remember, boys and girls, that it is much better to be nice than clever.) Soon Tertius Fume was doing bad things that Hotep-Ra did not know about and so he came to a Bad End!
That was the only place Beetle had seen Tertius Fume's name actually written down - apart from heading the list of all the Chief Hermetic Scribes inscribed on the honor board in the front office. It was as if everything about him had been expunged.
Tertius Fume glared at Marcia and Beetle as they came down the steps. He was not a pleasant-looking ghost. His deep black eyes were narrow slits in his pale face, which sported a long gray goatee. The ghost's thin white lips were drawn back into a mocking snarl and moved, Beetle realized, even when he was not talking. It looked as if he were chewing the cud.
"Password..." said Tertius Fume. His deep, hollow-sounding voice echoed off the damp stone walls and made the hairs on the back of Beetle's neck stand up. The ghost gave him the creeps.
Marcia sighed as if expecting trouble. "Tentacle," she said.
"No."
"Stop messing around," said Marcia. "Of course it is."
"Why?" Tertius Fume leaned back against the door, folded his arms and regarded Marcia with a superior air. Beetle, who was not a violent boy, felt like giving him a good kick.
"I have not the faintest idea why," said Marcia irritably, "but that is not the point. One doesn't have to know why; a password just is. Now let us through. Tentacle. Tent-a-cle."
"No. I've changed it."
"You can't change a password without clearing it first with the Password Committee, of which I am Chairwoman. And you haven't. Tentacle it was and Tentacle it remains."
But the great iron door to the Vaults stayed firmly closed. Tertius Fume looked at Marcia with an amused expression and started examining his ghostly fingernails as if Marcia was no longer of any consequence at all. Beetle began to think that there was some truth in the old story that Tertius Fume had been assassinated by a group of disaffected scribes.
"Very well," said Marcia. "You leave me no choice but to OverRide the password. Stand back, Beetle."
"Ah. Just testing," said Tertius Fume a little hurriedly. "You've passed. In you go now, and don't mess anything up."
"Idiot," said Marcia under her breath.
Beetle took a couple of lamps from the rack outside the door and lit them. Marcia gave the door a bad-tempered shove. It creaked open and the smell of damp earth and musty paper wafted into the stairwell. Inside the Vaults, Marcia locked the door and did an Alarm on it. If Tertius Fume was going to sidle up and eavesdrop she wanted some warning.
Marcia was still seething about the ghost. "He doesn't like women, that's his trouble," she told Beetle.
"He never did that with Alther, but ever since I took over he's done that every time. Every time. It drives me crazy."
"We just call him Old Goat-Face," said Beetle.
"Do you?" Marcia laughed. "Well, I don't suppose he would like that. Now, Beetle, I would like The Live Plan of What Lies Beneath, please."
"Oh, right." Beetle sounded surprised. "Um, let me get you a seat." Beetle placed the lamps on a great lump of a table that looked as though it was carved out of stone, and rubbed the dust off the seat of the old chair beside it with the end of his sleeve. Marcia sneezed. She sat down and wrapped her purple cloak tightly around her against the damp air of the Vaults. "Oh, and Beetle - could you bring the most recent ExtraOrdinary Apprentice Urn?"
"No problem. I'll be back in a sec."
Marcia watched the flame from his lamp guttering in the drafts that blew through the ancient ventilation system, as Beetle disappeared into the farthest reaches of the Vaults. Beetle knew his way around the Vaults with his eyes closed - something that he had actually done for his Intermediate Manuscriptorium Management Exam - and he was back quickly with his arms clasped around a huge lapis lazuli blue and gold urn. The lamp hung from a spare finger and on top of the urn a long cylinder wrapped in cloth was balanced precariously.
Extremely carefully, Beetle set the urn and the cylinder down on the table, and he placed his lamp beside it. In the light of the flame the lapis lazuli gleamed a beautiful deep dark blue and the streaks of gold that ran through it shone with a warm glow.
"Would you like to take these up to the Hermetic Chamber?" Beetle asked Marcia.
"No, thank you, Beetle," Marcia replied. "I have no wish to go to the Chamber. In fact I am glad that Miss Djinn is not here. I would like to speak to you in confidence."
"Me?" gasped Beetle.
"Indeed. In your capacity as Inspection Clerk. And because I trust you."
"Oh. Thank you." Beetle flushed.
"Of course I trust your Chief Hermetic Scribe implicitly," Marcia said. "But she does have a tendency to complicate matters, if you know what I mean?"
Beetle nodded. He knew exactly what Marcia meant.
"Would you take out the Plan, please?"
Beetle unwound the discolored cloth from the long silver tube. The end of the tube was sealed with purple wax, which was stamped with the imprint of the Akhu Amulet. The amulet, which hung around Marcia's neck, had been the symbol and source of the power of the ExtraOrdinary Wizards since Hotep-Ra himself.
From her ExtraOrdinary Wizard gold and platinum belt, Marcia unclipped what appeared to be a long silver lozenge. She muttered something under her breath and, like the claws of a cat unsheathing, a shiny, slightly curved silver blade silently shot out. Beetle watched, fascinated, as Marcia ran the razor-sharp blade around the wax on the end of the tube so that it parted like butter. She drew out a thick roll of paper and unrolled it. From a shelf under the table Beetle took four ornate gold paperweights with silver handles and placed one on each corner.
Marcia took out the tiny spectacles that she used for close work. She perused the complex diagram, running her finger along the path of the Ice Tunnels, muttering to herself. Beetle had politely stepped away but Marcia beckoned him over. "You know the two tunnel ghosts - the brothers who were trapped in the Emergency Freeze and have been looking for a way out ever since?"
"Eldred and Alfred Stone?"
"That's them. Well, apparently they have found a way out. Alther - you know the ghost of Alther Mella? You're too young to remember but he was our last ExtraOrdinary Wizard." Beetle nodded. He had met Alther many times recently while Septimus had been learning to use the Flyte Charm. "Well, Alther saw them a couple of nights ago."
"Actually," said Beetle, "now I think about it, I haven't seen them in the tunnels for some time."
"Really? This is not good news, Beetle. Not good news at all...aha. Now come and have a look.
There is something going on here." Marcia stabbed a long finger at a fuzzy area on what appeared to be a tangle of worms, snaking and folding in and out of one another.
Beetle had never seen a Live Plan before. As he looked he was sure he saw something on the edge of the Plan move.
"Did you see that?" gasped Marcia. "It moved."
"It's doing it again," said Beetle. "I think it's the hatch under old Weasal's place."
"I thought you'd know what you were looking at," said Marcia. "Beetle, I need you to go and check this out. Urgently. That hatch and this fuzzy bit here...wherever that is."
Beetle whistled between his teeth. "That's under the old Alchemie Chamber."
Marcia frowned. "I think," she said, "that it might be a good idea if you take Septimus with you.
There's safety in numbers. I'll send him over. You do understand that this is highly confidential, don't you?"
Beetle nodded.
"I particularly do not want the Ghost of the Vaults to know. He is not to be trusted. You know who he is, I suppose?"
"Tertius Fume?"
"Quite. I thought you would have figured it out. Septimus did too." Marcia smiled fondly. "Very well, you can put the Plan away now. It's not good to have it out in the light for too long."
Beetle began rolling up the Plan. "Do you still want the Apprentice Urn?" he asked.
Marcia snapped out of her thoughts. "Oh! I'd quite forgotten. Yes, please, Beetle."
Marcia unsealed the urn and plunged her arm deep inside. She drew out a roll of vellum tied with purple and green ribbons and sealed with purple sealing wax, which also bore the imprint of the Akhu Amulet. Marcia checked the signature written along the length of the roll. Septimus's young, wobbly writing was unmistakable, but Marcia was amazed how it had changed in such a short time. Now, Septimus's signature was sprawling and confident - if a little overcomplicated. Satisfied that she had the right urn, Marcia replaced the roll of indentures. She took out from her ExtraOrdinary Wizard belt a beautiful tiny gold and silver arrow. For a moment she held it in her palm and both she and Beetle gazed at it.
"Sep's Flyte Charm," breathed Beetle.
"Half right, Beetle," corrected Marcia. "It is the Flyte Charm but it does not belong to Septimus. The Flyte Charm is one of the Ancient Charms; it belongs to no one." With that she dropped the Charm into the depths of the urn.
"Oh!" said Beetle. "Um...did you mean to do that?"
"I most certainly did," said Marcia. "Septimus needs to settle down and get on with his work.
Recently he has been rushing around all over the place - which is, I understand, one of the effects of having the Flyte Charm. People become unsettled, always wanting to be off. Of course, he says he's been seeing his mother, but Sarah tells me she hasn't seen him for ages and I believe her. The Flyte Charm can stay here until he is old enough to handle it. It is not a toy. You may reseal now, Beetle."
One of the skills Beetle had learned in the Manuscriptorium was when to say nothing. He could tell that right then was just such a moment. He took the candle from his lamp and set it under a small tripod with a tiny brass saucepan perched upon it. From a drawer in the table he took out a knife and a great chunk of purple sealing wax, then he began to shave off some wax, allowing the shavings to drop into the pan. Marcia and Beetle watched the wax slowly melt into a dark purple puddle. Very carefully, Beetle poured half the wax over the end of the Plan and the other half so that it covered the ridge between the top of the urn and its gold stopper. When the wax was nearly set Marcia took off the Akhu Amulet and pressed it deep into the wax, leaving the unmistakable dragon imprint on the seals.
Marcia watched Beetle disappear into the depths of the Vaults. Somewhere surprisingly distant, she heard the faint scrape of lapis lazuli against stone as Beetle pushed the urn back into its place on a dark shelf far away from prying eyes, then the click of the lock as Beetle laid The Live Plan of What Lies Beneath back in its ebony chest.
"A successful visit?" said Tertius Fume grumpily as they left the Vaults. "I do hope you found nothing too Alarming?"
"I knew he'd try to listen," Marcia spluttered indignantly as she followed Beetle back along the zigzag passage. "Serves him right. I put a Sting in the Alarm."
Beetle chuckled. You don't mess with Marcia, he thought.
