Septimus Heap, Book Six_ Darke - Angie Sage [59]
Unaware of the effect he had had, Marcellus Pye resumed his place next to Septimus. He looked pleased. “Apprentice, I have in my hand something that will give you safe passage through the Portal and into the Darke.”
He unclasped his fist to reveal a small, dented tinderbox. Septimus felt horribly disappointed. What was Marcellus thinking? He owned his own tinderbox and it was a lot better looking than that one. And it probably worked better too—Septimus prided himself on being able to get a fire going in fifteen seconds. He and Beetle had had a fire-start competition not long ago and he had won best of five.
Marcellus handed him the tinderbox. “Open it,” he said.
Septimus did as he was asked. Inside were the usual components of a tinderbox—a small, pronged wheel, a flint, some thin strips of cloth infused with the Castle’s well-known, highly flammable wax and some dried moss.
Septimus had had enough. Marcia’s parting shot came back to him: “Alchemie stuff is nothing but smoke and mirrors, Septimus. All talk and no do. None of their stuff ever did work. It was complete rubbish.”
Septimus got to his feet. Marcia was right—as usual. He had to get out of the oppressive little chamber dripping with candle wax, fusty with Darke secrets. He longed to be part of the everyday Castle world once more. He wanted to run through the streets, breathe the cold fresh air, see the myriad of Castle lights twinkling in the windows, watch people as they promenaded back and forth admiring—or not—their neighbors’ lights. But more than anything, he wanted to be with people who weren’t fussy five-hundred-year-old alchemists who thought you were still their Apprentice.
Marcellus had other ideas. “Sit down, Apprentice,” he said sternly. “This is important.”
Septimus remained standing. “No, it’s not. It’s an old tinderbox. That’s all. You can’t fool me.”
Marcellus Pye smiled. “It seems I already have, Apprentice. For this is not what it appears to be.”
Septimus sighed. Nothing ever was where Marcellus was concerned.
“Patience, Apprentice, patience. I know this chamber is cramped, I know it is stuffy and foul, but what I am going to show you can only be revealed here. It will not survive outside the Darke for long.” Marcellus looked up at Septimus, his expression serious. “Septimus, I cannot—I will not—let you venture defenseless into the Darke. Sit down. Please.”
With another sigh, Septimus reluctantly sat down.
“You see,” said Marcellus, picking up the tinderbox, “like all Darke Disguises, this is not what it appears to be. As you too must be when you go into the Darke.”
“I know. Masks, MindScreens, Bluffs—I’ve done all that stuff with Marcia.”
“Well, of course you have.” Marcellus sounded conciliatory. “That is no more than I would expect. But there are some things to which even the ExtraOrdinary Wizard does not have access. That’s what we alchemists are—or were—for. We kept in touch with the Darke. We went where Wizards did not dare.”
This was no more than Septimus had suspected, given Marcia’s warnings about alchemists, but this was the first time he had heard Marcellus admit to it.
Marcellus continued. “As an Alchemie Apprentice it is only right that you too should know how to work with the Darke. It is all very well the Wizards sticking their heads in the sand like one of those birds . . . oh, what are they called?”
Septimus was not sure. “Chickens?” he suggested.
Marcellus chuckled. “Chickens will do nicely. Like chickens, they peck at what is in front of them but they do not understand what it truly is. Sometimes they call it something else, like Other, or Reverse, but that does not change anything. Darke remains Darke