Septimus Heap, Book Six_ Darke - Angie Sage [58]
Marcellus had constructed the chamber himself—he had had no other choice. In the days of the Castle alchemists, one of the drawbacks of the profession had been that it was impossible to get a builder. Once a builder knew that a job was for an alchemist, he would suddenly become very busy, or fall off a ladder and “break a leg,” or have to go away to a distant relative’s sickbed. Whatever the excuse, he would certainly never be seen again. The reason for this was that the perils of working for an alchemist had become legend among Castle builders, passed down from Master to Apprentice: “Never work for an alchemist, lad,” (or lass, but usually lad). “As soon as the job’s done, you’ll surely be found floating facedown in the Moat to keep the secrets of what you’ve just built. However much gold they offer you, it just isn’t worth it. Believe me.” Although this wasn’t true for all alchemists, it has to be said that there was some basis for this belief.
Marcellus Pye possessed many talents but building was not one of them. The outside of the chamber was passable because Marcellus had covered his rough brickwork by putting up great sheets of wooden paneling in both the affected rooms. However, the inside of the chamber was a mess. Marcellus had not realized how hard it was to build walls that went up straight—and stayed that way—so the walls grew closer and closer together, almost meeting at the top. Once he had installed the false wall behind which he kept his most arcane treasures, the SafeChamber was no more than a claustrophobic corridor.
Septimus was almost lulled into a trance by the flickering of a multitude of candles perched in the various nooks and crannies provided by Marcellus Pye’s unusual approach to bricklaying. The chamber was streaked black with the soot from their flames, and thick rivulets of wax ran down the walls, glistening in the yellow light. The only thing that kept Septimus from drifting off was the way the bricks in the wall pressed their sharp corners into him as though they were jabbing at him with angry fingers. Every now and then he would wriggle uncomfortably and lean against another, slightly different, pointy bit.
“Stop fidgeting and pay attention, Apprentice,” said Marcellus Pye sternly from his comfortable chair. “Your life may—indeed, it most probably will—depend upon it.”
Septimus suppressed a sigh.
At last Marcellus got down to the reason that Septimus had come to see him. “You will, I presume, be attempting to retrieve Alther Mella’s ghost from the Darke Halls tonight?”
“Yes. Yes . . . I’m going to the Darke Halls. At midnight.” As he said the words Septimus felt a thrill of excitement mixed with fear. Suddenly it all began to feel very real.
“And you will seek to enter the Darke Halls through the Dungeon Number One Portal?”
“Yes, I will. Isn’t that the only place where you can get in?” Septimus asked.
Marcellus Pye looked quizzical. “Not at all,” he said. “But it is the only place you can get to in time for midnight tonight. There are other Portals, some of them extremely effective for matters like this, where you might find your timing is less important. However, none are in the Castle.”
Leaving Septimus to wonder why Marcia hadn’t told him about these other, possibly more effective Portals, Marcellus took the candle from the table and got up from his chair with a small groan. Looking like the old man he really was, the alchemist shuffled along the length of the chamber to the false wall at the end, which was, Septimus noticed, paneled like the room outside. Marcellus pressed his hand onto one of the panels, slid it to one side and reached into the space behind. Septimus heard the clink of glass on glass, the rattle of small dried things in a metal box, the thud of a book, then a relieved, “Got it!”
As Marcellus shuffled back, Septimus very nearly leaped to his feet and ran for it. The light from