Dragonborn Read online

  “He’s safe enough out of the way down there,” the professor used to say. Duddle sometimes said it was time for a new person to take over the stores, that Vengeabil probably had a load of old junk down there and it should be made more efficient. Recently, Smedge had started to say that it needed to be cleared out, that Old Vegetables wasn’t up to the job anymore. Perhaps he should be made an assistant in the sheds where the maintenance workers lived and worked. It would be a big demotion, but the College had to move with the times.

  “I wonder,” Frosty had begun to say, “if we ought to take Vengeabil out of the stores and put him in the sheds. It would be easier for him. He needs a rest, and the stores would work better with someone else in charge.” Frosty was very good at forgetting that someone else had suggested something. He liked to think it was his own idea, when, in truth, he never really had any ideas of his own at all. He took the shape of the last person who sat on him.

  But Vengeabil knew what they said. Vengeabil knew more than most people thought.

  “Sam,” he said to Tamrin.

  They walked past the first part of the stores, where all the uniforms and everyday things were piled high, down the corridor and around a corner. There was a heavy velvet curtain across the passageway. Anyone who tried to look behind it would see only a wall, but when Vengeabil pushed it to one side, it revealed a further passageway, wide and clean and fresh and light. It was sealed with a hiding spell, a very powerful one. Tamrin followed him, letting the curtain fall behind her.

  Many doors led off from this passage. They took one on the left, letting themselves into a big kitchen. There were baskets of fruit and fresh vegetables, bowls of flowers, and racks of bottles and jars. A scent of fresh bread floated from the oven, and Vengeabil took out a large crusty loaf and laid it on a metal rack to cool.

  Tamrin helped herself to a glass of fresh lemonade from a jug on a marble slab.

  “What about him?” she said.

  “You tell me.”

  “All right,” she said. “It’s him.”

  “Does he know?”

  “No. No idea at all.”

  Vengeabil cut a slice of cheese and chewed thoughtfully. He sprinkled crumbly fragments onto the floor, and seven honey-colored mice scampered from nowhere, snatched them up, and scampered back. Vengeabil smiled after them.

  “He’s not safe here. He’ll have to get out soon,” he said. “Before Frastfil realizes.”

  Tamrin finished her drink and wiped her mouth with her sleeve.

  “Where will he go?”

  “It doesn’t really matter,” said Vengeabil. “He’ll just have to keep going until it starts to make sense to him.”

  “When will that be?”

  Vengeabil pulled a small cupboard away from the wall and opened the door to a pantry.

  “What kind of wood?” he said. “It must be right.” He sorted through a pile of lengths of timber, rough-hewn and dusty. “Willow?” He handed one to Tamrin.

  “I’m not sure. Give me something else.”

  He found an elm branch and one of ash. Closing the door and pushing the little cupboard back, he watched Tamrin as she tried each stave in turn.

  “Willow has strong meaning for him,” she said. “But it’s not him. Someone else. I think the ash.”

  “Take your time.”

  Tamrin banged the elm branch on the red tiled floor. It rang like a deep bell, warm and confident. She did the same with the ash. It boomed like a fretful sea hurling itself with anger and pain against the rocks. Doubt and concentration carved themselves on her face.

  “This one.”

  She handed him the ash.

  Vengeabil took it sadly.

  “You are right,” he said. “Help me to do it.”

  It took them four hours, more. When they were done, the ragged branch of ash was smooth and almost straight. The bark shone. The end curved a little. It was as tall as Tamrin.

  “You can’t go,” said Vengeabil.

  “I know,” she said. “I hate this place.”

  “You never knew what it was like here before.”

  This was an old conversation between them. One they would have many times again.

  “Why do things get bad?” she asked.

  “So they can get better again. Give it to him when I tell you it’s time.”

  The sky was a shoal of kites

  swimming fast and free. Starback slipped among them, invisible in such a number. He threaded his way through their strings and swam with them. Fishes and dragonflies, triangles and boxes, birds and butterflies and banners. He wasn’t the only dragon, but he was the only one not anchored to the ground with a cord.

  Axestone had arranged a festival of flying and the whole village was there, holding tight to their kites and yelling with pleasure.

  Through it all, Axestone wove a finding spell, using the air magic to discover a way to follow Sam. Starback found the wizard’s kite and breathed smoke on it. He felt the jolt that Axestone felt through the twisted cord. The wizard had felt the magic clench and fasten. It was an easy trick for Starback. Axestone’s magic was very like Flaxfield’s.

  Starback smiled a dragon smile and set off to find Sandage.

  Soon they would all be traveling toward each other. Away from Sam.

  Tim found Sam

  in the corridor leading from the dining hall. He grinned and gave Sam a soft punch on the shoulder.

  “Ready for Duddle?” he said.

  “I’m not allowed back in class,” said Sam.

  Tim whistled.

  “That’s not fair. Why not?”

  “Dr. Duddle said he won’t teach me.”

  Tim made a face. Little copies of Duddle poured out of his mouth and fell to the floor, their arms flailing helplessly as they fell. They made a little popping noise when they landed and disintegrated. Sam laughed.

  “Complain to Frosty,” said Tim.

  “Shh.”

  “What?”

  “It’s all right,” said Sam, in a loud voice. “I don’t mind.”

  “Old Frosty will make Duddle take you back. He’s a bit of an old fool, but …”

  Sam blew a little puff of air toward Tim, who, to his surprise, found himself singing the College song.

  “Good,” said Frastfil, drawing up behind him. “Well done, Tom. Teaching Cartouche our song.”

  “I thought he ought to know it, sir,” said Tim, giving Sam a grateful look. “And I’m Tim.”

  “Of course you are. I’m going to have to take him away from you, I’m afraid,” said Frosty. “We’re on our way to the library. Off you go to your lessons, Tom. Follow me,” he beckoned to Sam and set off down the long corridor.

  “No one ever uses the library anymore,” said Tim.

  Sam shrugged.

  “I’ve got to work there till Duddle will take me back,” he said.

  “I’ll come up later,” said Tim.

  “Thanks.”

  “Come along, boy,” Frosty’s voice echoed back to him. Sam trotted off, curious to see what a library looked like.

  The library was upstairs. Sam found Professor Frastfil rattling the door handle and frowning.

  “It seems to be locked,” he said. “I don’t know why. It shouldn’t be. There’s nothing in there.”

  “Are there lots of valuable books?” asked Sam, putting his hand to the door.

  “Oh, yes. Yes indeed. The library is one of the treasures of the College. A very precious place.”

  “Don’t you have a key?”

  “I used it. Look.”

  The key was in the keyhole.

  Sam could feel that the door had a locking spell. The key was useless.

  “Is there something else locking it?” he asked.

  “Ah. Very good. Well done. Yes.”

  Frosty jingled the coins in his trouser pocket.

  “It must have a spell on it,” he said. “Let me see. Um, yes. I know.”

  Frastfil mumbled some words and wav
ed his hand over the lock. He rattled the handle again. The door was locked as tight as ever. Sam moved a discreet hand over the hinge, then drew a line with his finger toward the handle. The door swung open, nearly taking Frastfil with it, head over kneecap.

  “Got it!” He grinned at Sam. “See? That’s what magic can do for you. Take that lesson to heart and use your time here to learn.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Frastfil looked around.

  “There’s a librarian,” he said. “Somewhere …”

  He stepped through the door. Sam followed. The boy’s eyes lifted and fell, looked left to right. He gasped. Bookshelves soared up as far as he could see, thirty, forty floors of them. Far more than the building could possibly hold. Yet the room was small, circular, only fifteen paces from side to side. An iron staircase led up to the next floor, and an iron gallery ran around the edge of the room, allowing access to the books on that level, then another staircase, another gallery, and another, and another, and another, until Sam lost count.

  “Yes?”

  Vengeabil stepped out from behind a bookcase. He held a book in one hand, his finger marking the page he was on. He scowled at them both.

  “Oh, Vegeta—I mean, Vengeabil,” said Frastfil. “You’re here?”

  “As you can see.”

  “Yes, of course you are. I’m looking for the librarian. You know, the old man, I can’t seem to remember his name.”

  “Jackbones.”

  “That’s it. Jackbones. Of course. Is he here?”

  “You gave him the sack,” said Vengeabil.

  “Did I? Why did I do that?”

  “I expect you had your reasons. I look after the library now,” said Vengeabil. “What can I do for you?”

  “Do you? The library? As well as the stores? Oh, well. Who appointed you?”

  “I did.”

  Frastfil jingled the coins louder than ever.

  “Oh dear,” he said. “Can you do that?”

  “Do you want to use the library?”

  “This boy here does.”

  “Then it’s a good thing someone’s looking after it, isn’t it?”

  Frastfil jiggled from one foot to the other. He felt around in his pocket and produced a sheet of paper, which he handed to Vengeabil.

  “Dr. Duddle has given this boy some work to do, to catch up. Please can you make sure he finds the right books and gets on with it?”

  “I know just what to do,” said Vengeabil. “Thank you for calling in, Professor. Good-bye.”

  Frastfil was out of the library before he quite knew how it had happened. The door shut behind him. He put his hand to it, to give Sam a last warning to work hard, but when he tried, the door was locked again. He frowned, jingled his change, and walked away, beaming.

  Sam waited for Vengeabil to tell him what to do.

  “What do you want to do?” the man asked.

  “Professor Frastfil gave you the work I’ve been assigned,” said Sam.

  “Oh, yes. So he did.”

  Vengeabil tore the paper into little pieces and threw them into a wicker basket.

  “So,” he said. “What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I’ll just leave you alone until you do know,” said Vengeabil. Then he went back to wherever it was he had appeared from. Sam moved over to see. There was a desk with a rubber stamp and an ink pad on it. Behind that, to one side of a bookcase, was a small door that Vengeabil must have disappeared through. He turned and faced the library again.

  For just a moment he was frightened, afraid that he would be in trouble for not doing the work he had been given; then, looking at the library, he forgot all about the fear and just smiled.

  He wanted to look at a book, but he wanted to take his time. He didn’t want to choose the wrong one. He closed his eyes, raised his arm, pointed his finger, and moved the arm from one side to the other and back again. When he was satisfied, he stopped, opened his eyes, peered along the line of his finger, and found a book. It was small, green with gold letters, and sat at about the level of his head when he stood up. He kept his eyes on it, crossed the floor, and put his hand out to take it from the shelf.

  It wasn’t a book. Nothing was. The whole shelf was made of wood, carved and painted to look like books. Sam stroked his fingers over it to the end of the shelf. The next bookcase along had real books on it. The shelves above and below his book were wooden carvings as well. Putting his hand on the book, he felt that the section was a door. He pushed, and used a small unlocking spell. The door moved, opening smoothly, silently. He stepped through into a small, square room with a low ceiling; the walls, like the other part of the library, were all books on shelves. An iron hoop suspended from the ceiling lit the room with six candles. There was a table with two chairs, a ladder to reach the high shelves, and two armchairs, not close to each other. A candle burned on the table next to an inkwell, a pile of paper, and a tray of pens.

  Sam left the room and closed the door. He went and sat on the iron stair.

  “Vengeabil,” he called out.

  The man appeared, before Sam could draw breath for a second summons.

  “Yes?”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Very well,” said Vengeabil, and he left.

  Sam thought he might go back into the small room and find a book and sit at the desk, or even in an armchair.

  He pushed the green book again, stepped through, and closed the door behind him.

  “Yes?” said the man sitting at the table.

  He was thin, small, and had a savage mouth.

  “Oh, sorry,” said Sam. “I’ll go.”

  “As you wish.”

  Something about his mouth was wrong. It was wide and had more teeth than it should have, as though the man’s greatgrandfather had been a shark.

  The man carried on writing. Sam pulled on the door. It wouldn’t open. He made a stronger spell. It still wouldn’t move. He was locked in the small room with the man.

  Tamrin hated being

  corrected. Vengeabil looked at Tamrin’s notes and pointed a finger at the paper.

  “That should be ‘breadcrumbs,’” he said, “not ‘pig vomit.’ ”

  “Sorry,” said Tamrin. She drew a neat line through the word and changed it. “That would make a big difference.”

  Vengeabil smiled.

  “It’s not like you to make mistakes,” he said.

  “No.”

  “You may as well stop now. You’re not concentrating.”

  The room was very like the one Sam had found. It was not so tidy. As well as the table, there was a small desk and a couple of extra chairs. It was more like a schoolroom. Tamrin had the desk, Vengeabil the table. Both were covered with papers and books and other bits and pieces.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “He found the first room straight away.”

  “I knew he would.”

  “He’s in there with Kafranc now.”

  “Oh,” said Tamrin. “That’s frightening.”

  “Yes.”

  Tamrin chewed the end of the wooden pen. She had ink on her fingers and a smudge on her cheek.

  “What was the library like?”

  “When?”

  “Before.”

  “Before Frastfil?”

  “Yes.”

  Vengeabil perched on the edge of his table and folded his arms.

  “You should have seen it then,” he said. “It was a market garden of magic. Everything you could want grew here. And it was tended and cared for, nurtured and nourished. Busy, but never loud; full of life, but never out of order. Look at it now.”

  “Was that when Jackbones was in charge?”

  “Jackbones was a man to meet,” said Vengeabil.

  “Tell me about him.”

  Vengeabil smiled.

  “He was the sort of wizard who made ma
gic look so easy, so elegant, so …” He searched for a word. “So perfect. As though there was nothing else.”

  Tamrin pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around them, her chin on her knees.

  “I wish I’d met him,” she said.

  “You never know.”

  “It’s too late now. He’s gone.”

  Vengeabil flapped his hand and the air around his finger ends turned an angry red and black.

  “Why did Frastfil sack him?”

  “He didn’t. Not really. I just said that to annoy him.”

  “You said I should never tell lies.”

  “And I was right. And I shouldn’t have said what I did. And mark my words, it will come back to hurt me one day. Anyway. He wasn’t fired. He left. Forced out.”

  Vengeabil stood up and paced the small room.

  “He loved this library. He loved the College. Then Frastfil came and changed everything.”

  “When was that?”

  “You should have seen the College then,” said Vengeabil.

  Sam tried the best unlocking spell he had, and the door was still shut fast.

  “Where did you come from?” asked Sam.

  “What do you mean?” The man put down his pen and stared at Sam.

  “I was here a minute ago. The room was empty.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I didn’t see you.”

  The man stood up and slammed his hand on the table. His mouth gaped, and the teeth glistened.

  “Say that again,” he said.

  Sam squared up to him, his fists clenched, ready.

  “I didn’t see you.”

  “You said it,” said the man, “you really said it.”

  His face crumpled up and Sam thought he was crying. He howled and stamped his foot. He fumbled in his sleeve and drew out a big red handkerchief. He wiped his eyes with it, blew his nose with a very loud sound, and wiped his eyes again. He shook the handkerchief and a cabbage fell out and rolled over to Sam’s feet. Sam looked down; the cabbage grew short, thick legs and waddled back to the man, who picked it up, held it in his hands like a pigeon, and threw it up into the air, where it exploded into a shower of rose petals that fluttered down, settled on the carpet and his shoulders and in his hair.