CHAPTER THIRTEEN

In which Emily and Co. travel to London Bridge and learn some bad news about Beezle.

Emily felt as though she had been dozing for only a few minutes before someone roughly shook her awake. She squinted into the lantern light to find Christopher Wren peering down at her, his face lined with worry.

“Is it midnight already?” she asked, struggling into a sitting position.

“Nearly. But that’s not why I woke you. It’s your brother, I’m afraid.”

“Will?” Emily looked around the cellar. Jack was a dark shape curled up on the floor, but she couldn’t see Will anywhere. Or Katerina, for that matter. “Where is he?”

“That’s the problem. He’s gone. And so has the girl.”

“Gone?” Emily quickly stood up, wondering if Wren was playing a prank on her. “He can’t be gone.”

Jack stirred and sat up. He looked around blearily. “What’s going on?” he asked, stifling a yawn.

“Will’s gone, Jack. And so has Katerina.”

Jack sprang to his feet and scanned the room. “If she’s done anything to him, I’ll kill her!”

“Maybe he’s upstairs?” said Emily hopefully.

Wren shook his head. “I’ve searched the entire house. Plus …” Wren hesitated. “He’s taken Cavanagh’s diary.”

It was at that moment that Emily realized what Will had done. She locked gazes with Jack and saw him arrive at the same conclusion.

“He’s gone to look for the Raven King,” said Emily flatly.

“It would appear so,” agreed Wren.

Emily could scarcely believe it. After all they had been through, after everything that had happened. For him to just … leave like that. It felt as though he had simply walked out of her life forever without even saying good-bye. That was how betrayed Emily felt. Didn’t he realize how important all this was? It had nothing to do with his needing to prove himself. It was about saving lives. For him to just … go off on his own like this was so incredibly irresponsible that Emily struggled to take it in.

“Maybe he’s outside. Speaking to Corrigan,” suggested Jack, although there was no real conviction in his voice.

They checked anyway. The street was silent and empty. Very empty.

There was no sign of the piskie either.

“Corrigan?” she called out, but there was no answer.

“You think Katerina and Corrigan have gone with him?” asked Jack.

“They must have.”

“Do you think they planned this?” asked Wren.

Emily shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. Corrigan would have told me if he thought we should look for the Raven King. I think Will tried to slip away and Corrigan saw him.”

“Then why didn’t he tell us? And what about Katerina?” Emily shrugged. “I don’t know.” Well, at least it meant that Will wasn’t alone. That he was with people who knew their way around, who knew the ins and outs of fey London.

“We have to go after him,” Jack said. “Maybe there’s time—”

“No,” said Emily heavily.

Wren and Jack stared at her.

“But he may not have gone far.”

Emily shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. He made his choice. We carry on with our plan. We look for Merlin.”

“But Snow—”

“No, Jack. We don’t have time to run around searching for Will. And what if we do find him? What do we do? Tie him to a piece of rope and pull him along after us? He’s my brother, and I love him, but he’s made his choice. Let him look for the Raven King. Corrigan and Katerina will watch over him.”

“And who’s going to watch over them?” asked Jack.

Emily didn’t answer.

“So what is our plan?” asked Wren.

“Same as before,” said Emily. “We go to London Bridge.”

In Emily’s time London Bridge was exactly that. A bridge people used to get from one side of the River Thames to the other.

But here it was rather different.

Here, the bridge was an extension of London. Shops and houses had been built along the massive structure as if it were a city street, the buildings on the edges actually hanging out over the fiercely churning river, held up by wooden struts that had been hammered against the bridge supports. A narrow lane about two meters across was all that was left for pedestrians and carts that wanted to actually cross the river, and even that was allowed grudgingly by those who lived on the bridge. The path was more like a tunnel cutting through the businesses and homes, a slowly eroding walkway that was being swallowed by structures the same way a forest path was gradually swallowed up by trees and weeds. It seemed to Emily that another bridge would soon have to be built so that those who actually wanted to cross the river would have a means of doing so.

All the while, as Emily, Christopher Wren, and Jack made their way toward the bridge, she wondered if she had made the right decision. Maybe they should have gone looking for William. Maybe she should have listened to what he had to say about the Raven King. Was he right? Were they following the wrong course, searching for Merlin?

She searched inside herself, trying to see past the guilt, the anger, the confusion of conflicting emotions she felt when she thought about her brother.

Had she done the right thing?

After her parents had vanished, one of the first things Emily realized was that being an adult meant making hard decisions that no one else would make. But she was constantly terrified that she was making the wrong choices. Emily was well aware she was only twelve years old. That there was every possibility she was doing everything wrong. But she knew that if she let that thought take hold, it would mean the end of both her and William, so she fought it off with bossiness and bluster. It was the only way she could keep the fear at bay.

Emily stared up at the massive gates that led onto the bridge. She was feeling a lot of fear right now, but she still felt that her decision had been the correct one.

William would have to find his own path.

The gates were locked tight for the night. Emily could just make out small, roundish shapes mounted on spikes at the very top of the gates. She had an uneasy feeling that she knew what they were, but it was too dark to see for sure. Now, what was the word Corrigan had said would gain them entry? Annabalish? No, that wasn’t it. It sounded like a name of some kind. Anna Cru? That wasn’t it. It was longer. Ansible Cru. That was it.

“Ansible Cru,” she said loudly.

For a moment nothing happened. Emily wondered if she had maybe got the words wrong, but then a red glow shone from above the gate. To be more precise, the glow came from inside one of the roundish shapes mounted on spikes. Emily’s suspicions had been right. They were human skulls. The red glow shone through the empty eye sockets and nose hole, pulsing like a heartbeat, growing stronger and stronger, brighter and brighter, lighting the other skulls and the metal gates with a lurid, fiery glow.

Emily, Jack, and Wren took a fearful step backward, wondering what Emily’s words had summoned.

Then came a fit of coughing, which the red light kept pace with, growing frantically brighter, then subsiding, brighter, then subsiding, with each hacking splutter.

The coughing stopped, and the light died with it.

Emily glanced uncertainly at the others, but before they could do anything, the glow flared up again, and a tiny creature flew from one of the skull’s eye sockets and landed with a grunt on a ledge just above her head. It took Emily a moment to realize that the creature was a fairy, because he looked nothing like the ones she had seen when Corrigan had taken her beneath London. This faerie was male, he was old, and he was fat. He was wearing a leather jerkin that was too small for his body. His hairy stomach bulged out from beneath the stained material. The red glow coming from his rather tattered wings was sickly, pulsing with his heaving breath.

“Sorry,” he said in a rough, gravelly voice. He pounded himself in the chest. “Heartburn. Can’t seem to shift it. Think it’s all the snails.” He looked at Emily, then glanced over her shoulder at the others. He closed one eye and leaned forward, squinting at them. “You’re humes,” he said.

“If by ‘humes’ you mean humans, then yes, we are,” said Emily.

“Then what you want? You can’t come here. Get out. Go away.”

“No. I knew the password, didn’t I? You have to let us in.”

“We’ll see about that. Where’d you hear it, anyways?”

“Corrigan told me. He’s a friend.”

“Corrigan? The piskie? The thief? The vagabond? The gambler?”

“Uh … possibly.” Emily thought about it for a second. “Actually, that sounds about right. Yes.”

“Why’d he give you the password?”

“He wants us to get something for him. From Beezle.”

“That a fact. From Beezle, eh?”

“Yes, now are you going to let us in?”

The faerie peered over Emily’s shoulder. “What’s wrong with him?”

Emily turned around to find that Wren had crept forward and was staring at the faerie with a look of rapt fascination on his face. He reached out a trembling hand toward the suddenly nervous creature.

“What’s he doin’? Get off. No touching.” The faerie flapped his wings and lifted into the air, his weight causing him to rise incredibly slowly. He glared suspiciously at Wren.

Emily slapped the man’s hand down from where he was trying to reach up to the faerie, his finger held out as if trying to catch a bird.

Wren snapped out of his reverie. “Oh. So sorry. Got a bit distracted by …” He looked up at the faerie again. “Fascinating,” he said. “Absolutely fascinating.”

“Are you going to let us in or not?” demanded Jack.

The faerie flew higher. He didn’t answer until he was perched on top of the skull again. “Aye, I suppose so,” he said. “But you’d better keep an eye on the tall one. Tell him not to prod anyone.”

Wren bowed. “Of course. My most humblest apologies, good sir.”

“Well … fine. Just don’t let it happen again.”

There was a deep grinding sound, and a second, round door opened within the gates of London Bridge, a door that hadn’t been there a moment ago. Light and sounds spilled out: the hubbub of voices, raucous cries, the music of fiddles and flutes, laughter, shouting, crying. Emily could see figures moving on the other side of the door, figures that were not visible on the London Bridge she could see through the iron bars of the gates.

Emily stepped forward. The others followed, and the small door slammed shut behind them. Emily glanced over her shoulder and saw a fey creature about the same size as her turning a heavy brass wheel that moved a series of cogs and gears, locking the door tight. Once she had finished, the fey stepped back. The wheels and gears and cogs flared white then vanished, leaving behind a blank wall.

The bridge extended before them, and like the real version, it was lined with shops and buildings. But that was where the similarity ended. On the real London Bridge, there was some semblance of order, but here it seemed that every shop and house had simply been dropped from the sky and then left wherever it landed. Structures were piled haphazardly one atop the other, stilts and poles used to stop them from falling over. Emily was sure she could see some of them swaying in the warm night breeze. The buildings were painted every conceivable color. Red, purple, bright green, faded yellow. Everything combined to give the bridge the vibrancy of a carnival.

Fey of all descriptions went about their business: tall, short, fat, thin, flying, or crawling. Three huge, shaggy men lumbered out of a building ahead of Emily, and judging by their raucous laughter and unsteady walking, Emily assumed the building was an inn. The door opened as another fey entered, and Emily was surprised to see a group of human men and women playing music. All but one had their eyes closed as if asleep, and the one who was awake looked desperately afraid as he played his fiddle, his eyes darting around as if searching for escape.

The bridge reminded Emily of market day back home, when the wives bought the food for the coming week and the afternoon was coming to an end. All the serious business was taken care of, and now was the time for the fun to start. Except, knowing what she now knew about the fey, she thought there probably never was any serious business. That the bridge always felt as it did now, barely restrained, overcrowded, too noisy, and very confusing.

“So where do we find this Beezle fellow?” asked Wren, unable to take his eyes off the scene before him.

“I’m not sure,” Emily replied. “I suppose we could ask?”

But who? Who could they ask? Emily didn’t trust the fey. They were sneaky and conniving, so she had no idea who would offer them genuine help and who would hinder them simply because they thought it a funny joke.

She took a step forward, only to feel a firm hand grab her and stop her from moving. It was Wren. He was staring down at her feet. Emily followed his gaze to find what looked like a family of tiny fey with snail shells on their backs crossing in front of her. One of the tiny fey shook his fist at Emily.

Emily carefully lowered her foot to the side of the tiny creature. “Sorry,” she said.

The fey cast a disgusted look at her, then moved slowly on.

They set off again, this time Emily being more careful where she trod. They moved off to the side of the thoroughfare so they could get a look inside the shops as they walked.

The problem was, Emily had no idea what kind of shop Beezle owned. She didn’t even have a clue what type of fey Beezle was. He could have been one of those creatures she had nearly squashed.

Emily stopped walking. “This is ridiculous. We’ll have to just ask someone.” If they didn’t, they’d be wandering around the bridge all night. She looked around. They had stopped next to a bookshop. That would do, surely? If any fey shop was going to be harmless, then surely a bookshop would be the one?

Emily pushed open the door. A bell jingled as she entered into a musty, dimly lit interior. She peered into the shadowy interior of the shop, but there didn’t seem to be anyone around. She was just about to leave when what had to be the untidiest, most unruly head of hair Emily had ever seen popped up from behind the counter. About half a yard below this bird’s nest a face appeared, blinking owlishly from behind thick, round spectacles.

There was a moment of silence while she turned her magnified eyes onto each of them. Then her face broke into a huge smile, revealing overlarge, but perfectly formed teeth. “Good eventide to you all. And welcome to Bansho and Co., purveyors of ethereal books, dream texts, and various other knicks and knacks. ‘Even if it hasn’t been written, I can most likely still get hold of it for you.’ That’s my motto. Although it needs some work. Not very catchy, is it? I’m Bansho, by the way. In case that wasn’t clear.”

“We’re not really after a book,” began Emily apologetically.

“Sorry,” said Wren. “Can I just clarify something? Did you say you can get books that haven’t been written yet?”

“Oh, yessir. We pluck them from the dream space. One of our best lines of business.” Bansho picked up a leather-bound book from the counter. “Take this one, fer instance. Won’t be written for almost four hundred years. Got a collector after this one.”

Emily tried to catch a glimpse of the title. Preludes and … but she couldn’t see the rest, as the fey had put the book down again and picked up another. This time Emily could see it clearly: The Hound of the Baskervilles, by Arthur Conan Doyle.

Wren stepped forward, his hands eagerly outstretched.

“Mr. Wren,” said Emily. “We are here for another reason.”

Wren stopped and forced his hands down to his sides. “Of course. I’m so sorry.” But he couldn’t help casting a sad look at the shelves of books that surrounded them.

“We’re actually looking for someone called Beezle,” said Emily.

Bansho’s face creased into a frown. “Oh, no, no. No, you don’t want to look for him. Oh, no.”

“Uh, I’m afraid we do,” Emily said.

Bansho shook her head. “Oh, no. No, no, no. You don’t want him. Trust me. Think of someone else. Anyone. I’ll help you with someone else.”

“We really need to find Beezle,” pressed Emily.

“No. You don’t. Trust me on this.”

“Is there any reason why we shouldn’t be looking for this Beezle?” asked Jack.

“He’s a crook,” said the fey promptly. “And he’s not nice.”

“Be that as it may, I’m afraid we still need to see him,” Emily said.

“Oh. That’s a shame. And nothing I say will change your mind?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Bansho sighed. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. What time is it?”

Emily stared for a moment, then shook her head in puzzlement. “Sometime after midnight?”

“Then you’ll find Beezle at the Regent. It’s a theater about halfway down the bridge. You can’t miss it.”

“Theater? Is he an actor?” Jack asked.

“Actor? Oh, bless you, no. The Regent is where we hold our trials. The guards arrested Beezle yesterday. He’s facing charges of theft, forgery, lying, bamboozling, sneakiness, staying up too late, and all-round naughtiness. Reckon he’ll be put to death this time.”

“Put to death?” said Jack. “That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it? From what I’ve seen, nearly all you fey are guilty of those charges.”

Bansho smiled brightly. “Bless you, young sir, and you’ve hit a nail on the proverbial head there. But Beezle is even more guilty than most.”

“How so?” asked Emily.

“He tried to bamboozle the Queen.”

Silence lay like a shroud over Bishopsgate Street. It was as if the heat of the day had leeched all life from the stones and bones of the city, leaving behind a desiccated husk. A hint of what used to be.

Two red eyes lit up the darkness at the end of the street. They were joined a moment later by another pair and then another. They blinked and wavered, shifting as the owners looked this way and that, sniffing the air, searching for a scent.

The Crimson Knight followed his hounds, waiting for the sign he knew would eventually come. They had already been to the college. The trail there had been confused, both old and new trails crossing over each other. But the hounds had finally fixed upon a scent they recognized, leading him here.

The hounds stopped before a small house. A low growl crawled from their throats, low and menacing.

A fresh trail.

The Crimson Knight issued a sharp command, then followed after the hounds as they loped along the street.

The ravens kept pace above him, a burst of white through the night sky.