P
ravuil hung back as they approached the clock and then stopped altogether.
“I’ll wait here if you don’t mind, my lord,” he said. He kept his head bowed and he avoided Arthur’s gaze. “The Old One can be a little bit tetchy. Though of course he won’t be to you, Master.”
Arthur looked at him suspiciously. Pravuil hadn’t been afraid to go quite a bit closer before. What was he up to?
“What does ‘a little bit tetchy’ mean?” he asked. “What will he do?”
“That’s really quite difficult to say…”
“Well, what sort of things does he do? And what doesn’t he like?”
“Well, last time I went up to the clock he threatened to pull my head off and kick it over the rim of the pit. I’d never find it if he did that. I’d be worse off than Bareneck.”
“But why?” asked Arthur. “He was quite friendly to me, once he knew who I was.”
“You’re a mortal, and you carry the Lesser Key,” said Pravuil. “It’s the Denizens of the House the Old One doesn’t like. He said he particularly didn’t like me for some reason. I can’t think why. So I’ll just wait here, shall I?”
“Do whatever you like,” said Arthur. He thought Pravuil was up to something, but he didn’t have time to argue with him, and there was no point trying to drag him closer. “Just remember you swore to serve me, Sir Pravuil.”
“Oh, yes, a chap couldn’t forget that!” said Pravuil brightly, but still he didn’t look Arthur in the eye. “I stand by my words. Good luck, my lord. Sir.”
Arthur nodded and began to cross the open ground between the coal pyramids and the clock. He could see the Old One now. The giant was crouched in his thinking position, near the numeral two. His chains were still quite tight, and it was clear he couldn’t move beyond the first quarter of the clock.
Arthur walked slowly towards him. He was glad to see that the doors on the clock were shut, though he only had Pravuil’s word for it that the horrid puppet things had gone back inside.
The Old One looked up as Arthur stepped up and onto the clock face. His eyes were red, but they were there. If it weren’t for the splashes of dried blood upon his cheeks Arthur would have doubted that the giant’s eyes had been the targets of the woodsman’s ax and the woman’s corkscrew.
“Greetings, Old One.”
The Old One inclined his head in what might be a very restrained greeting. But he did not speak, nor did he smile or show any other sign of welcome. Arthur started to feel nervous. He remembered the feel of the chain around his neck, and he wondered if his own head could be reattached if it was severed from his body by the Old One. Somehow he doubted it.
“I’ve come back to see if you’ve decided to help me or not,” Arthur announced as he took several more slow steps towards the Old One. “You said you wouldn’t need that much time to think about it. Then the things came out of the doors—”
“Yes,” growled the Old One. “I deliberated too long and almost gave you to them. If you had stayed another second on the clock, they would have taken your eyes.”
“They came out and took somebody’s,” said Arthur, restraining his anger. “Why didn’t you wake me earlier?”
“I wished to test myself, to see if I could let a sleeping boy pay terribly for my night’s rest,” rumbled the Old One. “At the last, I could not. I am pleased that this is so. You have earned some answers, Arthur. Ask me three questions, and no more, and I shall answer.”
Arthur almost asked the Old One why only three questions, but bit his lip just in time. That would have counted as a question for sure, and then he’d only have two left. He had to think carefully about this.
“You may begin,” said the Old One, breaking Arthur’s train of thought. “I will give you two minutes, by the hand of this clock.”
“Two minutes!” exclaimed Arthur. He thought furiously, then gabbled out, “How can I use the Improbable Stair to get to Monday’s Dayroom from here?”
“The Improbable Stair exists everywhere there is somewhere to exist,” said the Old One. “You must imagine a stair where there is not one, a stair made of whatever you can see, be it a grass-stem broken in three places or a peculiar step-shaped cloud. Then you must jump towards the first step of the stair, making sure you have the Key in your hand. If you believe it is there, it will be—at least it will be for the wielder of the Lesser Key.
“Once upon the stair, you must keep going until you arrive where you want to be. The Improbable Stair has many landings, and upon each landing you may need to find the Stair again. If you do not find the continuation of the Stair quickly, you will be stuck wherever and whenever you have stopped. The Stair winds through all the Secondary Realms, through both time and space, and also through the House, so you must be wary. It is possible to end up somewhere you particularly do not wish to be. It is even likely, for that is part of the Stair’s nature. It takes strength of will as well as power to get to where you really want to, using the Stair. You must also beware of other travelers, particularly Nithlings who sometimes manage to find their way onto the Stair.”
The long hand of the clock moved, rattling the Old One’s chain. A whole minute gone!
“What…how do I use the powers of the Lesser Key?” asked Arthur. He held up the Key as he spoke, and its light flared briefly, though it was washed out by the strange blue glow of the Old One’s chains.
“The powers of the Lesser Key are numerous,” intoned the Old One. “In the hands of its rightful wielder it may do almost anything that is asked of it, though it is generally weaker in the House than in the Secondary Realms, and it may be opposed by both Art and Power. In general it may be used to lock, unlock, bind, unbind, open, close, animate, petrify, illuminate, darken, translate, befuddle, and to perform small diversions or redirections of Time. It will protect you to some degree from both physical and psychic harm, though as you are mortal, there are close limits on this power. As to how you might use it, you know already. Ask or direct, and if it is within its powers, the Key will work as you require. You have thirty seconds left.”
Arthur looked at the minute hand. It had moved again, halfway to the next mark. But he was sure he hadn’t used ninety seconds already! In a panic, he tried to think of a good question, one that might attract a better answer than the last two. Something more direct, more straightforward.
“What is happening back at home? My home?”
“I cannot tell you that,” replied the Old One. “The Secondary Realms are forbidden to me and many, many years have passed since I last looked upon anything that happens there. You may ask another question.”
“Who can I trust?” Arthur blurted out.
“Those who wish you well,” said the Old One. “Not those who wish to use you well. Be a player, not a pawn. And that is three questions and all your time.”
He raised his hand and waved Arthur away.
“That’s not really an answer. I meant who in particular can I trust?” said Arthur. He refused to back off, though the Old One again gestured for him to go. “Like the Will or Monday’s Dusk.”
The Old One climbed to his feet, the chains rattling. He made a loop with one chain and flicked it idly in the air. Still Arthur didn’t move. He stood there, looking up at the giant, the Key in his hand.
It’s just like standing up to a bully,
he told himself, though he felt very shaky inside.
It has to be done.
“You must decide who to trust yourself,” said the Old One. He started to wave Arthur off again, then paused.
“But I will tell you one more thing without a question, Arthur Penhaligon. A mortal who wields the Key will become its tool as much as it is his. It will change you, in blood and bone, remaking you in the image of its maker. The Key does not befit a mortal bearer. In time, it will remake its wielder. Think carefully about that, Arthur. To wield power is never without cost. As you can see here. Now go!”
He roared the last two words and jumped forward, swinging his chain. Arthur ducked the flailing links and sprinted off the clock, his heart pounding.
When he got to the edge of the coal pyramids, Pravuil was nowhere in sight. Looking back, Arthur saw the Old One sitting back down, once again resting his elbow on his knee and his head on his fist. Thinking.
Something Arthur would need to do himself, though his uppermost thought was to use the Improbable Stair to get out of this freezing, dusty pit. But it wasn’t as simple as that. Should he risk the Stair when there might be another way out? Where should he go? Straight to Monday’s Dayroom, to try to get the Hour Hand? What about the Will and Suzy Blue? And Monday’s Dusk?
Monday’s Dusk…Arthur suddenly wondered if Pravuil had some means to communicate with Dusk. What exactly had Dusk told Pravuil to do, besides help Arthur and give him a cup of tea?
“Pravuil!”
Arthur’s shout echoed around the pyramids of coal, but there was no answer out of the darkness, nor from the blue-lit region around the clock.
“Pravuil! Come here!”
Again there was no answer.
So much for swearing loyalty
, thought Arthur. He looked around and wondered if he could remember how to find Pravuil’s camp. He could really do with a hot cup of something, even if the Coal-Collator wasn’t there to answer questions. But without having left markers, he knew it was useless. He’d just wander around in the dark, a moving patch of light that would only stumble on the camp by blind good luck.
“Pravuil!”
Silence returned as the echoes died away. But as
Arthur took a breath to shout again, he heard something. A faint noise that was hard to pinpoint. It grew louder as Arthur used the Key to stick the coal together and climbed up a pyramid. The light from the Key spread out as he got higher up, but he still couldn’t see anything.
Then he recognized the noise and looked up. It was the beating of wings. Someone…something…was coming straight down towards him!
Arthur jumped out of the way as a flapping shape zoomed over his head. As he hit the ground, he heard it crash into one of the pyramids, sending pieces of coal flying everywhere. Whoever it was clearly didn’t know how to fly properly.
Before whoever it was could recover, Arthur rushed over, the Key held ready to strike. He didn’t think it was Dusk, because the wings had looked white as they streaked past, and somehow he didn’t think Dusk or Noon or Dawn would have a problem with their wings.
“That was a facer, and no mistake!” declared a familiar voice. Arthur stared down at a blackened shape that was crawling out of a pile of coal. “No one told me the ground could come up as fast as that!”
“Suzy Blue!” declared Arthur. He smiled, put the Key through his belt, and bent down to help her up. “What…how did you get here?”
“The Will took over a careless Third Secretary in Charge of Ceiling Maintenance and got me his wings,” said Suzy. She stood up shakily and brushed herself off, sending coal dust billowing all around. Her wings were still attached, though they were quite bent at the top. They looked as if they weren’t very white to start with, but now there were only glimpses of white beneath the black dust. “Sent me down to find you. Wouldn’t come itself. Said it couldn’t go near some old geezer. Lucky I aimed at the right light. What’s that blue glow over yonder?”
“The old geezer,” said Arthur. “I’d stay away if I were you. So Noon did let you go?”
“Sort of,” said Suzy. “Least, we gave ’em the slip to start with. It ain’t half cold down here. You’d better read this message, then we can clear out.”
She reached inside her grimy waistcoat and pulled out an envelope of thick buff paper, sealed with a large blob of wax that was imprinted with what looked like a frog’s handprint.
Arthur tore it open. For a moment he couldn’t work out where the letter was. Then he realized that the writing was on the inside of the envelope. It was like an old-fashioned aerogram. The letter itself had been folded into an envelope.
The letter was written with beautiful penmanship, in faintly glowing green ink.
To Arthur, Rightful Heir to the Keys to the Kingdom and Master of the Lower House, the Middle House, the Upper House, the Far Reaches, the Great Maze, the Incomparable Gardens, the Border Sea, and those Infinite Territories beyond the House commonly called the Secondary Realms…
Greetings from your faithful servant, Paragraphs Three to Seven of the Will of Our Supreme Creator, Ultimate Architect of All, conveyed to you by the hand of Miss Suzy Turquoise Blue, Ink-Filler, etc. etc.
Sir, I trust this finds you well, and in good time to warn you that on no account must you approach the giant chained to the clock in the region you unfortunately and temporarily occupy. Called by some the Old One, he is extremely dangerous. I repeat, do not approach him or venture near the clock!
I regret your temporary incarceration, but assure you that our plans, though temporarily set back, are still in motion. Our next step, may I suggest, is for you to come at once to Monday’s Antechamber, as I fear that his actual Dayroom is now defended more carefully and will need close examination before we can proceed.
How to get from your dank cellar to Monday’s Antechamber? I had thought of procuring additional wings for Suzy to bring you, but their use is difficult and I feared an accident. Better and more fitting that you use the Improbable Stair.
“I can’t get these stupid flappers off,” interrupted Suzy. Arthur stopped reading a description and explanation of how to use the Improbable Stair that was almost identical to the one given to him by the Old One, as if it came out of the same book and both the Will and the giant had memorized it. Suzy was trying to reach over her own shoulder and was struggling with a wing.
“Do you want me to help?” he asked.
“No!” exclaimed Suzy. “They feel like they’ve grown into my back.”
“That’s what mine felt like,” said Arthur. “But they fell off and turned back into paper just before I hit the ground here.”
“Paper wings? They’re just temporary, small magic,” said Suzy scornfully. “These are real top-class wings, permanent ones. I’ve seen ‘em put on and off and shrunk up and down. There must be a trick to it.”