Septimus Heap, Book Six_ Darke - Angie Sage [156]
Marcia broke into a broad grin. She had instantly regretted her words about the Pick, thinking that if the old method remained, then whoever was Picked would not have total authority. But now all was well. The Pick had reverted to the true method and all that remained was for Romilly to take the pen from the Pot.
“Scribe Romilly, place the Pot on the carpet,” said Marcia.
Hands shaking, Romilly put the pot down. It stood tall, its ancient dark blue enamel pitted and worn.
“Scribe Romilly, place your hand in the Pot and draw out the pen.”
Romilly took a deep breath. She didn’t want to put her hand in the Pot—she could not get out of her head thoughts of large, hairy spiders lurking inside—but she bravely reached into the cold, dark space.
“How many pens are there?” Marcia whispered.
“One,” Romilly whispered back.
Marcia felt relieved. The Pot had worked.
“Scribe Romilly, take out the pen and show it to the scribes.”
Romilly took out a beautiful black onyx pen with a swirling jade green inlay.
“Scribe Romilly, read the name scribed upon the pen.”
Romilly peered at the pen. The convoluted swirls made it very difficult to tell what the name actually was.
“A candle, someone please,” said Marcia.
Partridge grabbed the candle and held it up so that Romilly could read the letters. Foxy saw the pen clearly for the first time and the blood drained from his face. The next moment there was a crash. Foxy had fainted.
Marcia had a bad feeling. Foxy had recognized the pen—surely the new Chief Hermetic Scribe could not be Foxy? Surely not.
Forgetting the formal language of the Pick, Marcia said urgently, “Romilly—whose pen is it?”
“It says . . .” Romilly squinted hard. “Oh! I see. It says Beetle!”
A loud cheer broke out from all the scribes.
Foxy had a tiny room in a grubby part of the Ramblings and he’d invited Beetle, summarily evicted from his room in Larry’s Dead Languages, to sleep on his floor until he found somewhere to live.
When Foxy burst in, red-faced from running all the way from the Manuscriptorium, Beetle was busy scraping some burned soup off the bottom of the pan. He hadn’t known it was possible to burn soup—there was more to cooking than he had realized.
“Wotcha, Foxo,” he said, a little preoccupied. “So who’s the next boss, then?”
“You!” yelled Foxy.
“Barnaby Ewe? Oh well, could be worse. I think I’ve killed your saucepan. Really sorry.”
Foxy rushed over to the tiny sink and grabbed the pan out of Beetle’s hands. “No, you dingbat—it’s you. You! Beetle, you are Chief Hermetic Scribe!”
“Foxy, don’t kid around,” Beetle said, irritated. “Give me that pan. I was cleaning it.”
“Bother the stupid pan. Beetle it is you. Your pen was Picked. It was, Beetle. I swear it.”
Beetle stared at Foxy, pan scourer dripping in his hand. “But it can’t have been. How could it get into the Pot?”
“I put it in. Remember when you got fired and you wouldn’t take your pen? Well, I kept it. And that’s why I kept it. There are no rules to say you have to be a serving scribe to go into the Pot. I looked it up specially. All that matters is your pen goes in. So that’s what I did. I put it in.”
Beetle was dumbfounded. “But why?”
“Because you deserve to be Chief Hermetic Scribe. Because, Beet, you are the best. And because you saved the Manuscriptorium. You risked your life to do that. Who else could be Chief now? No one, Beet, that’s who. No one but you.”
Beetle shook his head. Things like this did not happen.
“Come on, Beet. Marcia’s sent me to fetch you for your Induction. She’s got the Cryptic Codex ready. And the Seals of Office. Everyone’s waiting for you. Come on.”
“Ah . . .” Slowly Beetle was beginning to believe Foxy. He was aware that he had just crossed over one of those rare watersheds. His life a few minutes ago bore no resemblance to his life now. It was a total turnaround. He felt stunned.
“Beetle . . . are you all right?” Foxy was beginning to be concerned.
Beetle nodded and