Starborn Page 7

  Smith tossed it back to him.

  “I don’t see how I can help you, then.”

  Tadpole caught it, and let it dangle from his fingers. “You tell me what it is,” he said.

  “We both tell. All right?”

  “All right.”

  “You say first.”

  “He told me it was a dragon’s tooth,” said Tadpole. “Is it?”

  Smith waited. He looked at the tooth again.

  “Not Up Top,” he said.

  He watched the disappointment cross Tadpole’s face.

  “But who knows what it is in the Deep World?” said Smith.

  “What?”

  “It may be a dragon’s tooth down there.”

  “That’s not possible. Things are what they are,” said Tadpole.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “No?”

  “Things are what people think they are. That’s not the same. And things are different in different places.”

  Tadpole pushed the tooth across the table, away from him.

  “Don’t do that,” said Dorwin.

  “It’s junk.”

  She took the tooth and hung it around Tadpole’s neck.

  “It was a gift, well-given, by a trusted friend,” she said. “That’s better than a dragon’s tooth.”

  “Now,” said Smith, “are you ready to tell us what happened, in Flaxfield’s house?”

  Tadpole felt himself grow dizzy at the memory. He wanted to go to sleep. If he told Smith, he would be sharing a secret, and that would help the big man, if he was Tadpole’s enemy, if this was all a trap.

  He tried to remember the exact words of the guide to Up Top.

  “All right,” he said. “It was like this.”

  Once Tadpole had started

  to tell Smith and Dorwin his story he found that they were surprisingly good listeners. He had expected interruptions and questions. None came. The big man paid close attention to all that Tadpole said. He frowned sometimes. He smiled when Tadpole told them about hiding in the tree and the argument with Sam and Tamrin.

  “They’re so odd,” said Tadpole. “I don’t see how two people can be one person.”

  Smith didn’t answer, so Tadpole carried on with the story.

  Dorwin went pale when she heard about Axestone falling under the attacks of the kravvins. She cried when Tadpole said that he thought Flaxfold had been killed.

  “I don’t know, though. Not for sure,” he said. “I’ve never seen anyone die.”

  He found that he didn’t have words that could describe how he felt when he saw Smedge smile.

  “How can a smile be worse than an angry face?” he asked.

  He told them everything that had happened since he had stepped out into the daylight Up Top. Right through to the moment he walked into the inn parlour and saw Dorwin.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Everything. And there’s so much I don’t understand, so many questions.”

  Neither Smith nor Dorwin spoke.

  “I want to know about Flaxfold. Who she is. And Sam and Tamrin. And where the dragon fits in. And the other wizards, the grown-up ones. Why aren’t they in charge? And what’s Smedge? He looked like a decent sort of boy, and then he was all sorts of horrible animals and then just slime. And another thing: Ash. What’s her part in this?”

  He beat his fists on the table and confronted their stares.

  “You know, don’t you? Don’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Smith. “I think I have a pretty good answer to all of the questions.”

  “Tell me, then.”

  “No.”

  Tadpole stared at him.

  “What?”

  “I said, no.”

  “I told you everything. Everything that happened. You promised me you’d tell me things.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You did.”

  “No. You thought I said that. What I said was that I would help you.”

  Tadpole banged his fists again.

  “Answering questions will help me. I need to know all about things. I don’t know what anything is. Not Up Top. It’s all strange and new to me.”

  Smith didn’t seem to mind that Tadpole was shouting at him. He answered again, as calmly as before.

  “I don’t think so. No. I don’t. But I will help you. In my own way.”

  “What way’s that? Doing nothing? I trusted you.”

  “And you were right to do so.”

  Smith pushed his chair back and stood up. “Come to the forge with me,” he said.

  “No. I’m leaving.”

  “You’ll like the forge.”

  Dorwin smiled at Tadpole. “Where will you go, if you leave?” she asked.

  Tadpole waved his arms. “Anywhere. Nowhere. I don’t know.”

  “Will you go back to the Deep World?”

  He hesitated. “No. Not yet. I want to help.”

  Smith came around the table and put his arm across Tadpole’s shoulders. It felt good. For the first time, nearly, since arriving Up Top, Tadpole felt as though someone could look after him.

  “Come and see the forge. You’ll get ideas there. You’ll know what to do next, where to go. I promise.”

  Tadpole allowed Smith to lead him out and to the forge.

  Tadpole saw the forge and the furnace and he stopped in the doorway and stared.

  “It’s roffle fire,” he said.

  “In you go,” said Smith.

  Tadpole approached the furnace with a look of wonder. He held his hands out to the fire. The coals burned with a low intensity. The heat was sleeping.

  “It is, isn’t it? Roffle fire?”

  “Well, if you don’t know, I don’t know who does.”

  Tadpole hesitated. He put his hands closer. He scooped them together and rubbed them on his face, like a thirsty man scooping water from a spring.

  He didn’t turn around to look at Smith. “Do all blacksmiths use roffle fire?”

  “No. Not all.”

  “How many?”

  “It’s the best fire there is,” said Smith. “Gives the truest metal, the sharpest steel.”

  Tadpole didn’t want to move away from the glow of the coals.

  “It’s like being home,” he said. “I can smell the Deep World. How did you get the roffle fire?”

  Smith stood next to him and rested his hand on Tadpole’s shoulder.

  “I’ve never been to the Deep World,” he said. “All these years, working with roffle fire. All these years, with I don’t know how many roffle workers here. Lads, just like you, learning the trade. All that time, and I’ve never been to the Deep World.”

  “Would you like to?”

  “Very much.”

  “Why don’t you? People did, in the old days. You could.”

  “You take me there,” said Smith. “When all this is over, take me and show me your world.”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps.”

  “See? It’s not as easy as you think, is it?”

  “No. I mean, you’d be very welcome.”

  Smith squeezed his shoulder. “Never mind. Let’s talk about other things. First off, have you got a weapon?”

  This was an embarrassing question. Delver’s knife was still tucked into Tadpole’s belt. If the dragon tooth was a fake, how poor would the knife be? And the scruffy shield?

  “No. No, I haven’t.”

  Smith led him to a closed cupboard, fastened with a lock on a sturdy hasp. He unlocked and opened it.

  “Oh,” said Tadpole.

  “What do you think?”

  Tadpole surveyed the weapons, arranged on narrow shelves and supports, like spice jars and ladles and spoons in an ordered kitchen.

  Swords and daggers, an axe and three maces. Tadpole touched his fingers to a short blade, halfway between an Up Top sword and a knife, perfect for a roffle. There was a weapon that looked like something for harvesting, with a curved blade. Shields and mail. It was a war chest.

&nb
sp; Smith grimaced. “I don’t usually make these things. But we’ve been expecting trouble.”

  “It’s arrived,” said Tadpole.

  “And so have you,” said Smith. “That’s not a coincidence. When you walked through that door from Flaxfield’s study, you walked into a war.”

  “I walked away from one,” said Tadpole. “I left them to die.”

  “You did as you were told. That was the right thing, then. Now, you have to make up your own mind. Do you want a weapon?”

  Tadpole reached out and took the short sword. He didn’t know how to hold it.

  “Be careful.”

  He turned to answer Smith, swinging the sword as he did so. The blade flashed in the forgelight. Smith stepped back, just in time to avoid the edge of the blade slashing his face.

  “Sorry.” Tadpole let his arm fall to his side, and the sword nearly cut through his thigh.

  “Are you sure you want that?”

  Tadpole raised his hand, slowly, very slowly, watching where the sword went.

  “I’d feel safer if I had a sword,” he said.

  “Would you? Would other people be safe? And would you take your fingers off?”

  “I’d learn. I’d get used to it.”

  “I know. I’m not saying you won’t. You’ll need some practice, though, before you go. I can teach you some things.”

  “I don’t even know where I’m going yet.”

  “You will.”

  The sword was already growing heavy and Tadpole looked for somewhere to rest it. He didn’t want to put it back into the cupboard, for fear of never having it again. He pushed his cloak aside, as though to fix the sword into his belt.

  “What’s that?” asked Smith.

  Tadpole tried to hide Delver’s knife under the cloak.

  “Oh, it’s just a bit of junk. I can leave it here. Make room for the sword.”

  “May I see?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “All the same.”

  Smith was persistent. Tadpole handed him the sword and felt bereaved when it was replaced in the cupboard. He gave Smith the knife. It looked so old and shabby and clumsy after the elegance of the sword.

  Smith took it over to the forge and examined it in the light of the fire. The blade seemed to ripple in response to the pulsing coals.

  “This is a good knife,” said Smith.

  Tadpole watched him weigh it in his hands, test the edge of the blade with his thumb. Just a touch brought a small line of blood to the surface.

  “Sharp. Balanced. A well-shaped handle. Tempered to perfection.”

  Tadpole was looking at the knife as though he had never seen it before. He remembered how much he had liked it on first taking it in his hand. Remembered how ashamed he became of Delver’s gifts when the tooth was mocked.

  “Where did you get this?” asked Smith. His face was hard. His voice had taken on a different tone. Tadpole felt himself to be accused.

  “I didn’t steal it.”

  “I didn’t say you did. But someone came by this in a strange way. Where did you get it?”

  “The friend gave it to me.”

  “The dragon-tooth friend?”

  “Yes.”

  Smith’s face relaxed. He laughed. “Your friend seems to have had a habit of picking things up,” he said. “Perhaps he put it into his roffle pack by mistake and forgot to give it back.”

  Tadpole couldn’t accept this excuse. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I think he meant to have it.”

  “I think he did.” Smith handed it back to him. “And now it’s yours.”

  The knife felt so good in his hand. The sword had been extra to him, an unpredictable extension of his arm. The knife felt like part of his hand.

  “Is it all right to have it?” said Tadpole. “Should I try to give it back to its owner?”

  Smith worked the bellows and the embers gushed out fire.

  “It must have been a long time ago,” he said. “Perhaps the real owner’s dead now. Best you should keep it. You never know when you might need something like that.”

  “What about the sword?”

  “Best leave that where it is, eh?”

  Tadpole cast a longing look at the open cupboard, the range of weapons. He put the knife back into his belt.

  “A knife isn’t much of a weapon,” he said.

  “Depends on the knife. Depends on who uses it. Depends on the enemy.”

  A shadow fell across the floor and Dorwin appeared in the doorway.

  “I’ve packed you a meal,” she said. “For the journey.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “That’s up to you,” said Smith. “Here.” He led Tadpole to the door. “I don’t know who’s alive and who’s dead,” he said. “But Waterburn lives at the college, that way.” He pointed. “December, she lives among the miners, and you’ll find her if you go that way.” He moved his arm and pointed again. “And, if you follow that road, you’ll come to Boolat and the castle.”

  “What’s there?”

  “Ash is there,” said Dorwin.

  “And someone’s got to kill her,” said Smith. “Before she kills us all, and magic makes slaves of the rest.”

  “Will a knife kill her?”

  “No. Not even a good knife like yours.”

  “I liked December,” said Tadpole.

  “That way.”

  “And I liked Waterburn, as well. What about Sam and Tamrin? Where are they?”

  “Best leave them to themselves.”

  “And Smedge? Where’s he?”

  “If we knew that,” said Smith, “we’d be better able to defeat him.”

  “What is he?”

  “You’ll meet him again one day. Ask him yourself.”

  Tadpole didn’t move. Within his sight there were six roffle holes. He could go through any one of them and be home in no time.

  Smith looked at the roads.

  “You want answers to your questions, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think that if you know all about it, you’ll be able to work it out, make a better choice. Well, you won’t. For some reason, you’ve come into this war from the Deep World. You’ve got new eyes, new thoughts. You need to learn about this as you go along. You know Ash is the enemy. She’s the cause of all this. You know Smedge is her agent. I’ll tell you this one thing more. Long, long ago, Flaxfield and December and some others sealed Ash up in the Castle of Boolat. She’s been struggling to get out all this time. She made the monsters you’ve seen. She’s breaking down the spell from the outside. Soon, she’ll be free, unless we stop her.”

  Tadpole shuffled to make his roffle pack comfortable.

  “I’ve heard about the college,” he said. “I’ll go that way.”

  “I’ll walk the first part with you,” said Dorwin. “Then I have other things to do.”

  Canterstock College, huge, grey and grim,

  rose up above the roofs of the town. Tadpole had to stop and stare and look in his roffle pack for the guide to Up Top. He sat down with his back against a large rock and looked again at the page about the college.

  THE COLLEGE FOR WIZARDS

  Canterstock College is one of the most beautiful buildings in the whole of Up Top.

  The stone glows in the sun. Think of honey. Think of the soft folds of sand on a warm shore. Think of the finest cloth, dyed to look like yellow iris in blue water. Think of the sky at sunrise. None of these is as warm, as golden, as lovely as your first sight of the stone of Canterstock College.

  With spires and turrets, arched windows and wide, welcoming doors, it is a palace of learning. Kings have been proud to live in less lovely houses.

  The teachers there are gentle and wise. They show the pupils the right ways of magic and turn them aside from thinking of how to use it for their own gain.

  Pupils are admitted when they are very young. Only those who keep the baby-magic magic which so many are born with but which so many of
them lose.

  The college principal is a leader, a friend, a ruler and a servant. She directs and encourages. Her own knowledge and experience are the besetting virtues of the whole college.

  Sometimes, a pupil is expelled. Never for not paying attention or for not being clever enough. The world needs village wizards who can make a good-enough spell, just as it needs village carpenters who can make a rough table, but not a throne for a king. No, pupils are only expelled when they show that they do not know how to use their magic for others, not for themselves.

  The corridors are bright with the glow of floating globes.

  The rooms are wide and spacious.

  The laboratories are home to every herb and substance. Fire and ice, smoke and scent, feathers and fish, diamonds and dung, all are needed for the uncovering of new spells and the weaving of old ones. There are pupils who, having entered the laboratories as children, never leave them. They love the place so much that they spend all of their lives there, learning and teaching, discovering and, sometimes, hiding things away that are better not shared.

  The hall is a place of laughter and talk and food and friendship.

  The gardens, contained within the walls of glowing stone, are bigger than the vastest deserts, with endless paths and trackless groves.

  But the heart of the college, its brain, its blood, its muscles and its strength, is the library.

  The great wizards do not attend the college. They are apprenticed, but the college is the nursery of many good men and women, wizards who are as needful to a town or village as is a doctor, or a baker, a midwife or a teacher.

  To enter Canterstock College is to walk into joy and wisdom, life and learning.

  “It can’t be the right place,” he said. “I’ve taken a wrong turn.”

  Except that there hadn’t been another turn. The way had led him, without choice, straight here. No other road had led off. And, only a few hours ago, he had passed a roadside stone post which said, Canterstock and College 3 miles.

  The town crouched round the huge building as though cowering beneath its contempt. Tadpole shouldered his pack and walked on. If it wasn’t Canterstock at least it would be a place to stop and eat. And someone would be able to direct him to the right road.

  Two guards crossed their pikes and barred his way as he approached the gate of the town. He stepped back. They confronted him with unfriendly faces. Perhaps they weren’t guards? They wore no uniform, just the working clothes of labourers. And they were dirty, but he supposed soldiers might be dirty as well.