“That is another word for it,” said Marcellus.
“So what about the bowls—the Transubstantiate Triple?”
“Of course! I knew there was something. Apprentice, I believe you have it!” Marcellus said excitedly. He turned to Marcia. “He’s good, isn’t he?”
Septimus looked embarrassed.
“He’s not at all bad,” Marcia agreed. “Which is, of course, why I chose him to be my Apprentice.”
A look of irritation flashed across Marcellus’s features. “I can get the bowls,” Septimus said hurriedly. “They are in Jenna’s room.”
“Good,” said Marcia. “Now all we have to do is find the Ring Wizards. Before Jenna gets back.”
Marcellus was still riled. “It is impossible to find such beings if they do not want to be found, Marcia.”
“So we have to make them come to us.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” Marcellus asked.
“Bait,” Marcia said.
“Bait?” said three people and one ghost in unison.
“And what—or who—did you have in mind?” asked Marcellus.
Marcia smiled. “Merrin Meredith,” she said.
28
BAIT
“Two bacon-and-bean pies, please, Maureen,” said Septimus, out of breath. He had just managed to get to The Harbor and Dock Pie Shop before it closed.
Maureen handed over two pies. “Here, try one of our new sweet pies, apple with marshberry jam. Let me know what you think.”
“Thanks, Maureen. I will. Smells good. Do you have another one?”
“Hungry, eh? That’s what I like to see.” Maureen neatly wrapped the pies and handed them across the counter. “So, your brother—doing all right at the Castle, is he?”
Septimus did a quick mental run-through of his collection of brothers at the Castle and decided that Maureen meant Simon. “Yes. He’s doing fine, thanks.”
Maureen smiled fondly. “I’m glad. He and Lucy had some difficult times. They deserve a break. Got married too, I hear.”
“Yep. A couple of months ago,” he said, heading fast for the door.
“Lovely. Say hello to Simon and Lucy from me when you see them.”
Septimus nodded. “Will do. Thanks. See you. Bye.” Feeling bad that he hadn’t told Maureen that Simon was no more than fifty yards away, Septimus was out the door before Maureen could ask him anything else. Simon had refused to come into the pie shop with him. “I like Maureen, Sep, but she gossips. And I don’t want anyone to know I’m here, okay?”
Some ten minutes previously, Septimus and Simon had done a Transport to the harbor front—the nearest open space to where Merrin lived. As Septimus walked across the deserted Quayside, clutching the packets of hot pies, which the wind tried to snatch from his hands, he thought how strange it was to be doing Magyk with Simon. He was surprised that it actually felt good. Septimus had not expected Simon to have such good skills with Magyk; they were pretty much at a level of his own although Simon had his own slightly odd way of doing things, which came, Septimus figured, from him having taught himself—and, he suspected, not being too fussy about using Darke sources.
Septimus found Simon sitting on a bollard by the water, sheltered from the wind and out of sight of the pie shop. As they both bit into their bacon-and-bean pies they heard the clatter of the shutters of The Harbor and Dock Pie Shop as Maureen closed them for the night.
“I can’t see Merrin coming with us without a fight,” said Septimus.
“He can have a fight if he wants it,” said Simon.
“Better not, though,” said Septimus. “We don’t want the neighbors getting involved.”
“Gerk!” said Simon, his mouth full of bacon.
“Huh?”
“Just choking. At the thought of the lovely neighbors . . . but you’re right. We don’t want a scene. The last thing we want to do is to draw attention to Merrin.” Simon glanced anxiously about. “You never know where . . . they might be,” he whispered.
Septimus felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “We shouldn’t use any Magyk either. The Transports were risky enough. Magyk attracts Magyk—particularly Darke Magyk.”
“I know,” said Simon a little curtly. He didn’t like his kid brother telling him basic stuff he knew already. “So we have to scare him so much that he’s not going to try anything at all. So that he’s too scared to even speak.”
“Yeah,” said Septimus, handing Simon an apple and marshberry jam pie. “That’s what I thought too.”
Simon bit into his pie and red jam ran down from his mouth. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked.
“I guess so,” replied Septimus.
They sat in silence eating their pies, waiting. In front of them the fishing boats bobbed and clinked in the brisk wind that was blowing in off the sea. The tide was high and the harbor full of boats; all the fishermen knew that the wind was rising and the night was going to be wild. The metal fixings in the boats’ rigging clinked against the masts and the taut ropes thrummed in the wind.
“Not a good night for flying ghosts,” Simon commented, wiping his sticky hands on his robes.
“Nope,” mumbled Septimus, spraying bits of pastry into the wind. He hoped that Alther and his companion were faring well on their flight to the Port. Simon was right—ghosts found gusts of wind very difficult. Alther would complain that it was like being Passed Through by pixies with boots on. How Alther knew what being Passed Through by pixies with boots on was like, Septimus had no idea.
Septimus was stuffing sticky pie wrappers into his pocket when he saw something big and white gliding in above the masts. A moment later a massive albatross swooped down; it skidded onto the Quayside but the ungainly bird did not stop. Its huge webbed feet acted like skis as it shot across the slippery cobbles—heading straight for Septimus and Simon. They leaped up just in time to avoid its beak, which was heading like a dagger straight for their knees.
With a soft crump, the bird’s beak hit the bollard. Septimus winced—that must have hurt. The albatross then performed a most unbirdlike maneuver. It rolled onto its back, put its feet in the air and covered its beak with its wings.
“Transform!” said Septimus.
With a small pop and a flash of yellow light the bird Transformed into a willowy man wearing yellow and what appeared to be a pile of donuts of ever-decreasing size on his head. He lay on his back beside the bollard with both hands clamped over his nose. “Eurrrgh,” he groaned. “By doze. By doze.”
“That, Jim Knee, is what comes from showing off,” said Septimus, sounding uncannily like Marcia. “Where’s Alther?”
A small movement in the air answered his question.
“Here’s Alther,” said the ghost, Appearing. And then, noticing Jim Knee lying on the ground: “What’s he done now?”
“Pit der Pollard,” groaned the jinnee.
“I told you not to be an albatross,” said Alther crossly. “It was asking for trouble with this wind. You need a lot of skill to fly a bird like that. A small gull would have been quite adequate.”
Jim Knee sat up indignantly, leaving one hand on his nose. “I don’t do gulls,” he said. “Nasty creatures. They eat the most disgusting stuff. And given how hungry I am, goodness knows what some mangy gull would have picked up by now. Yuck.” He shuddered and glanced over to the pie shop. “Shame it’s closed,” he said. “I’m starving. Haven’t eaten for six months.”
Septimus felt guilty. He had woken Jim Knee up from his hibernation and not thought about feeding him anything—he really should have bought him a couple of Maureen’s pies. But Septimus had learned not to be too considerate with his jinnee. He had to keep up a tough act, even though it did not come naturally. “You can eat when you’ve done what you came for,” he said gruffly, catching a look of surprise from Simon, who was seeing a tougher side to his little brother.
Jim Knee, however, merely sighed and said, “Very well, Apprentice. What is it that you wish?”
Septimus glanced at Simon. “I’ll tell you on the way,” he said. “It’s time we got going. I have a feeling that Merrin probably goes to bed early nowadays.”