Septimus Heap, Book One_ Magyk - Angie Sage [164]
Snorri was having some trouble following Sally’s rapid stream of words. “Yorgon?” she asked, catching the end of the sentence.
Sally nodded. “As good as,” she said. “Not dead exactly but they reckon it’s only a matter of time. You feel fine for a while, then you get a red rash spreading up from the bite, feel dizzy and bang—next thing you know you’re flat out on the floor and away with the fairies.”
“Fairies?” asked Snorri.
“Yes,” said Sally, springing to her feet at the welcome sight of a customer.
The customer was a tall woman with short spiky hair. She held her cloak close around her. Snorri could see little of the woman’s face, but there was an angry look to the way she stood. A murmured conversation ensued between her and Sally, then the woman left as swiftly as she had come.
Smiling, Sally rejoined Snorri at her seat overlooking the river. “Well, it’s an ill wind that blows no one good,” she said, much to Snorri’s bemusement. “That was Geraldine who just came in. Strange woman, reminds me of someone, though I can’t think who. Anyway, she asked if the RatStranglers can meet up here before they go out, er, rat strangling.”
“Ratstrang-gling?” asked Snorri.
“Well, rat catching. They reckon if they get rid of all the rats, they’ll get rid of the Sickenesse, too. Makes sense to me. Anyway, I’m very pleased. A load of hungry and thirsty rat catchers is just what the café could do with right now.”
No one else came into the café after the spiky Geraldine left, and soon Sally started noisily putting up the benches on the tables and began to mop the floor. Snorri took the hint and bade Sally good night.
“Good night, dear,” said Sally cheerily. “Don’t hang around outside now, will you?”
Snorri had no intention of hanging around. She ran back to the Alfrún and was very glad to see the NightUllr prowling the deck. Leaving Ullr on guard, Snorri retreated to her cabin, barred the hatch and kept the oil lamp burning all night.
EXCERPT FROM
SEPTIMUS HEAP
BOOK FOUR
Queste
PROLOGUE:
NICKO AND SNORRI
It is the weekly market on Wizard Way. A girl and a boy have stopped at a pickled herring stall. The boy has fair hair, twisted and braided in the style that sailors will be wearing sometime in the distant future. His green eyes have a serious, almost sad expression, and he is trying to persuade the girl to let him buy her some herring.
The girl, too, has fair hair, but hers is almost white. It is straight and long, held in place with a leather headband, the kind worn by Northern Traders. Her pale blue eyes look at the boy. “No,” she tells him. “I cannot eat it. It will remind me too much of home.”
“But you love herring,” he says.
The stallholder is an elderly woman with pale blue eyes like the girl. She has not sold a single herring all morning and she is determined not to let a chance of a sale go by. “If you love herring, you must try this,” she tells the girl. “This is done the proper way. It’s how herring should be pickled.” She cuts a piece, sticks a small pointy wooden stick into it and hands it to the girl.
“Go on, Snorri,” says the boy, almost pleading. “Try it. Please.”
Snorri smiles. “All right, Nicko. For you, I will try it.”
“It is good?” asks the stallholder.
“It is good, Old Mother,” says Snorri. “Very good.”
Nicko is thinking. He is thinking that the stallholder speaks like Snorri. She has the same lilting accent and she does not have the Old Speak patterns that he and Snorri have become used to in the few months they have already spent in this Time. “Excuse me,” he says. “Where are you from?”
A wistful look comes into the old woman’s eyes. “You would not understand,” she tells him.
Nicko persists. “But you are not from here,” he says.