Lady Friday (7 page)

“Look at each sleeper,” instructed Harrison. “They need to be lying on their backs. If they’re not faceup, turn them so they are.”

“Why?” asked Leaf. She walked over to the door and tried the handle, but it was locked.

“Just do it!” squeaked Harrison. He hurried to the table and picked up a silver spoon with a very long handle and a bottle with a checkered pattern in the glass. It was full of a sludgy fluid the color of dead grass.

“I’m not doing anything unless you tell me why,” said Leaf. There was one other door, down the far end. She started to walk towards it.

“She’ll punish both of us if they’re not ready,” said Harrison. He moved to the closest sleeper—a woman—and poured a measure of the brown-green fluid into the spoon, which he then expertly slipped into the woman’s mouth. She swallowed and then immediately shivered and sat up, without opening her eyes.

Harrison quickly poured the mixture into two more sleepers, then had to set the bottle and spoon down to turn over the third, who was sleeping on his side. As he poured another spoonful, he spoke.

“The mixture raises them from a very deep, coma-like sleep to a higher level, where they can be given commands and move. When they’re ready, I will order them to walk out that door, which leads to the crater.”

“This door?” asked Leaf, who had been about to open it.

“Yes,” said Harrison. “You can’t escape, you know. There’s nowhere to go. Even if you could leave the mountain, the plants would get you. You have no idea how horrible—”

“Yes I do,” said Leaf. “How often do those seedpods get in?”

“Give me a hand and I’ll try to answer your questions,” grunted Harrison. He was turning another sleeper, a very large and heavy man.

Leaf looked at him, then at the sleepers, and shook her head.

“I’m not helping you help Lady Friday kill these people,” she said. “Or whatever it is she does.”

“That’s what you say now,” said Harrison. “I tried that too, when I first came here. But if you want to eat and drink and have somewhere safe to sleep, you’ll soon change your tune.”

Leaf didn’t answer. She’d forgotten they weren’t in the House and so would actually need sustenance. In fact, just the mention of eating and drinking made her feel suddenly thirsty. But it wasn’t enough to get her to help out Harrison. She’d have to be a lot thirstier to help someone prepare a whole bunch of innocent people to get killed ... or worse.

Instead she tried to think of a plan. She couldn’t count on the Mariner’s help. If he came at all it would probably be too late.

I have to find Aunt Mango,
she thought.
Then I have to hide us both away and get in contact with Arthur or Suzy. But what can I do for everyone else? I have to try to do something. Maybe I should try to find a telephone to the House first ....

“Right, they’re ready,” said Harrison. He went back to the table and picked up a small silver cone, which Leaf had assumed was a funnel. But he used it as a loudhailer, bringing it up to his mouth to speak in the narrow end.

“Sit up!” he called, and the silver cone changed his voice so that he sounded like Lady Friday when she had called the sleepers from their beds before, though this call was weaker and softer. Once again Leaf felt the words reverberate inside her head, but the compulsion was easy to ignore this time.

To the sleepers it was a command and, as one, they all immediately sat up.

“Slide off the bed and stand up!”

Leaf could only imagine what came next.

 
“We are in the Foil Mill of the Guild of Gilding and Illumination, on the Flat of the Middle House,” said Elibazeth in a distracted tone, as if she were answering a child’s question while concentrating on something else.

“Right,” said Arthur. He gestured for her to continue, but Elibazeth offered no more information, instead looking with a critical eye at the Denizens scooping gold.

“I need to know more than that,” Arthur continued, shouting louder. The constant beat of the hammers was really getting to him. “What’s the ‘Flat of the Middle House’ and is there a map I can look at? I need to get to Lady Friday’s Scriptorium, wherever that is—and I need to get there fast.”

“I am very busy, Lord Arthur,” replied Elibazeth. She turned to look down at him. “The gilders at Letterer’s Lark and at the Aspect use more than four thousand hands of foil a day and I am the responsible guild officer—”

“The quicker you answer my questions, the quicker you can go back to your normal work,” said Arthur coldly.

“If the Nithlings let you. Now, do you have a map of the Middle House?”

“Oh, very well,” said Elibazeth. “Come into my office.”

She walked towards the stacks of golden ingots. Arthur followed her, swallowing an angry complaint. No matter how many times he had to deal with Denizens, their single-mindedness about their jobs and their general lack of common sense when faced with things out of their ordinary experience always irritated him.

Elibazeth led Arthur down a very narrow lane between walls of golden bricks that ended at a wooden-framed door with a frosted window that had had M ster
Foil_r
written on it in flaking gold letters.

Though its walls were still gold ingots, the office behind the door had a wood-paneled ceiling, was large and comfortable, and, most important to Arthur, it was much quieter. The sound of the hammers was only a distant vibration that he could feel more than hear.

Elibazeth went and sat behind the red leather-topped mahogany desk and began to rummage in the drawers. Arthur stood, ignoring both the simple wooden chair that faced the desk and the worn leather chaise lounge with the diamond-pattern rug over it.

“Here we are,” said Elibazeth. She used her forearm to push the various documents on the desk to one side, then unfolded a small map in the cleared area.

Arthur bent over it and frowned. All he could see were disconnected, meaningless squiggles. Elibazeth frowned too, and rapped the paper with her knuckles. The squiggles quickly organized themselves to show a three-dimensional drawing of the side of a mountain whose steep slopes were interrupted by three wide plateaus.

“This is the Middle House,” continued the Denizen, waving her hand over the whole mountainside. She pointed to the lowest and widest plateau, and the map obediently zoomed in, changed the perspective to an aerial view, and revealed several named locations, marked by dots of gold. “This is the Flat, where we are now. It falls under the jurisdiction of the Guild of Gilding and Illumination and its principle places of work are the Foil Mill here, the Hall of Excellent Aspect here, Letterer’s Lark, and Ribboner’s Redoubt here. Our place of repose is the town of Aurianburg, which you can see lies equidistant from the workshops.”

“What’s this line that goes up the mountainside from here to the next flat bit and the top one?” Arthur asked. He pointed and the map switched views again, back to the three-dimensional cross-section. “A road?”

“It is the Extremely Grand Canal,” said Elibazeth. “It is used to move records between the three guilds and the storage lake, prior to their completion and removal to the Lower House to be archived.”

“But it goes up the mountainside,” said Arthur. “Does the water flow uphill?”

“The canal moves textually charged water,” said Elibazeth, with a bored sigh. “It is divided into regular currents that move up and down at various speeds. Anything with writing or type on it will be taken by the current. We do not have a lot to do with the canal here. Our foil is taken overland by hand to Letterer’s Lark, and smaller quantities—”

“Right, right,” interrupted Arthur. He didn’t want to know about where the foil went. “What is the next flat level called? And where is Lady Friday’s Scriptorium?”

“The next plateau is called the Middle of the Middle,” sniffed Elibazeth. “It is the domain of the Guild of Illustration and Augmentation, and a nastier bunch you’ll never meet, unless you go up to the Top Shelf, where the so-called High Guild of Binding and Restoration laze about. I understand that Lady Friday’s Scriptorium is actually beyond that, on the mountain peak, but as to the truth of that, I cannot say. Now can I get back to my work?”

“Is there any way to go directly to the Top Shelf?” asked Arthur.

“Normally you could take an elevator,” said Elibazeth. “Though why you would, I don’t know. But the elevators aren’t working. I expect they’re broken, like the weather. Now I must really insist—”

“Just a few more questions,” said Arthur. “Is it possible for people ... or Denizens ... to travel on the canal? And have you ever heard anything about a Part of the Architect’s Will being hidden in the Middle House?”

“Questions about the nature and workings of the canal are best put to the Paper Pushers who work the canal. I know nothing about the Architect’s Will, other than that a particularly fine gold foil was made for it some eleven thousand years ago. We still have a sample here. I can show you, as the Rightful Heir, though we do not normally reveal it to outsiders. It is of note for several reasons—”

“No, that’s okay,” said Arthur hurriedly. But Elibazeth had already pressed a corner of the desk, revealing a small secret drawer. She slid in her hand and drew out a tiny crystal prism, no larger than her little finger, and handed it to the boy. Arthur took it with some puzzlement.

“Where’s the foil?” he asked.

“Hold it to the light,” said Elibazeth.

Arthur turned the prism so that it caught the light and saw that there was a tiny speck of gold suspended in the very middle of the prism.

“She came and made it Herself,” said Elibazeth reverently. “The Architect. She gave us that leftover piece.”

“Did you see the actual Will?” asked Arthur curiously. “The document, I mean. Did the Architect gild the letters here?”

“No, She took the foil away,” said Elibazeth. “Now, if I may have that back—”

Arthur slowly shook his head. He was interested in the foil now, because he had remembered something Dr. Scamandros had talked about once: how things that had once been together but then separated could be sorcerously linked, that one could affect the other. Perhaps this speck of foil could be used to track the parts of the Will that had been gilded by the Architect. Not that he knew how to do that, but if he could get in touch with Scamandros ...

“I think I might be able to use it,” he said.

“But it is the guild’s most important treasure!” protested Elibazeth. “Surely—”

“I might need it!” snapped Arthur. It felt surprisingly good to snap at the Denizen, his display of anger lessening some of the tension that had built up inside him. Though it also felt a bit wrong. It was bad behavior, and his mother would definitely not approve. But he had to make the

Denizens cooperate, and surely his mother would understand; after all, she was in danger and he had to do whatever it took to rescue her.

Arthur tried to stop thinking about his mother.

I have to focus,
he thought.
I can’t waste time thinking about unnecessary things. I have a mission and I’ll carry it out, just like I was taught at Fort Transformation. Forget about anything but the mission.

“I’m also going to need some warmer clothes. Have you got any warm coats?”

“No,” said Elibazeth. “We are warmed by our gold. If there is nothing else you wish to learn ... or
take ...
Lord Arthur, I must insist on returning to work.”

“What about wings?” Arthur didn’t want to try flying through snow and cloud, but the weather might improve. A good pair of wings might get him quickly up to the Scriptorium. “Have you got any?”

“We have no wings at all,” said Elibazeth firmly.

She got up from behind the desk and walked out. Arthur followed her, his mind still occupied with trying to work out what to do. Since flying was apparently out, the canal seemed the best option for getting higher up the mountain, but he would freeze without better clothes. There was also the likelihood of attack by the Nithlings and other enemies. It would be best to keep moving, to avoid a direct confrontation.

“Hey, Elibazeth!” he called out as they entered the gold-pouring chamber and the noise and heat assailed him once more. “Where can I find some Paper Pushers? And have you got any spare leather aprons?”

Elibazeth turned back with a frown. “The Paper Pushers maintain a wharf a half parsang west of the mill,” she said, pointing in a direction that Arthur quickly revised from what he had been calling south. “Aprons are for approved guild members only—”

“I need two,” interrupted Arthur. He figured he could wear one in front and one behind, kind of like a cloak. The aprons were thick leather—they’d insulate him and keep the snow off. They might provide enough protection to save him from hypothermia without having to resort to the powers of the Key.

“I suppose in your case we must make an exception,” said Elibazeth. She clapped her hands, a surprisingly sharp sound that cut through the bass rumble of the hammers. A Denizen returning from unloading ingots ran over, listened to her instruction, then ran off to fetch several thick leather aprons for Arthur.

“Now, I really must get on,” said Elibazeth. She bowed her head and stalked over to the pool of gold, going far closer to the molten metal than Arthur would be able to without sorcerous protection.

Arthur took his aprons and walked quickly back to the door. He was almost there when it opened and Jugguth rushed in. He saw Arthur, slid to a halt, and saluted.

“They’re coming, sir! From the south!”

“How many? How far away?” Arthur slid the apron over his head and did up the ties, then put the other one on backwards and tied it at the front. Because they were made for Denizens, they came down almost to his ankles—it looked a bit like he was wearing a leather dress, but Arthur didn’t care.

“Three, sir!”

“Three!? Only three Fetchers?”

“No, no, not Fetchers, sir. I don’t know what they are. Two are your size, and one is about twice as big and much wider. They have on uniforms, sir.”

“What color uniforms?” Arthur asked quickly.

“Pale yellow coats, a fair bit of white in the pigment,” said Jugguth. “With big black fuzzy hats. One has a long spear.”

“New Nithling uniforms,” said Arthur. “One of the Piper’s near-Denizens with two Piper’s children ... I wonder ... Anyway, how far away are they?”

“They’ll be outside by now,” said Jugguth. “I watched them for a long time to make sure I knew what I was looking at. You can take a look through the mail slot if you like.”

Arthur sighed.

So much for a quick getaway before any enemies arrive,
he thought.

“I’ll take a look,” he said. “You go back up and watch out for anyone else, and this time, come and tell me as soon as you see something.”

“Yes, sir!” shouted Jugguth. He saluted and spun around so fast that he lost his balance and almost cannoned into Arthur, who had to step back. The Denizen spun around twice more before stopping himself and running back through the doorway. Arthur waited for him to go through and shut the door, then moved the handle to gain entry to the portico and went through himself.

Someone was knocking on the outer door. A polite
rata-tat-tat,
not the smashing blows of a weapon.

“Hello, anyone home?” asked someone outside. The voice echoed through the mail slot.

Arthur frowned and cocked his head to one side. The speaker sounded familiar, though he couldn’t quite place it, with the echo. He walked forward, careful to stay out of line with the mail slot, which he noted was open. He didn’t want to be stuck by a spear through that gap.

But he could be seen, and there was a sharp intake of breath on the other side of the door.

“Arthur?” asked the voice. “Arthur!?”

“Suzy!”

Arthur took a step, ready to open the door, then stopped himself. It sounded like Suzy, but he couldn’t be sure. Even if it was her, she might have been sorcerously forced to obey the Piper and would treat Arthur as an enemy. jugguth had described New Nithling uniforms and one of the three outside must be one of the Piper’s soldiers.

There was a muffled exchange beyond the door, then another voice sounded through the mail slot.

“Ray ... I mean, Arthur ... it’s me, Fred. Can you let us in? It’s freezing out here.”

Fred and Suzy,
thought Arthur.
With a New Nithling soldier.

“Stand back!” Arthur called out. He waited till he heard footsteps crunching in the snow, then he gingerly crouched down a foot or so away from the mail slot and looked out ... hoping for the best and expecting the worst.