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  The store-room door was unlocked, and Abanazer entered, holding a walking-stick and an electric torch, looking even more sour of face than before.

  “If you’re still in here,” he said, in a sour mutter, “don’t even think of making a run for it. I’ve called the police on you, that’s what I’ve done.” A rummage in a drawer produced the half-filled bottle of whisky, and then a tiny black bottle. Abanazer poured several drops from the little bottle into the larger, then he pocketed the tiny bottle. “My brooch, and mine alone,” he muttered, and followed it with a barked, “Just coming, Tom!”

  He glared around the dark room, staring past Bod, then he left the store-room, carrying the whisky in front of him. He locked the door behind him.

  “Here you go,” came Abanazer Bolger’s voice through the door. “Give us your glass then Tom. Nice drop of Scotch, put hairs on your chest. Say when.”

  Silence. “Cheap muck. Aren’t you drinking?”

  “That sloe gin’s gone to my innards. Give it a minute for my stomach to settle…” Then, “Here—Tom! What have you done with my brooch?”

  “Your brooch is it now? Whoa—what did you…you put something in my drink, you little grub!”

  “What if I did? I could read on your face what you was planning, Tom Hustings. Thief.”

  And then there was shouting, and several crashes, and loud bangs, as if heavy items of furniture were being overturned…

  …then silence.

  Liza said, “Quickly now. Let’s get you out of here.”

  “But the door’s locked.” He looked at her. “Is there something you can do?”

  “Me? I don’t have any magics will get you out of a locked room, boy.”

  Bod crouched and peered out through the keyhole. It was blocked; the key sat in the keyhole. Bod thought, then he smiled momentarily, and it lit his face like the flash of a light-bulb. He pulled a crumpled sheet of newspaper from a packing case, flattened it out as best he could, then pushed it underneath the door, leaving only a corner on his side of the doorway.

  “What are you playing at?” asked Liza impatiently.

  “I need something like a pencil. Only thinner…” he said. “Here we go.” And he took a thin paint-brush from the top of the desk and pushed the brushless end into the lock, jiggled it, and pushed some more.

  There was a muffled clunk as the key was pushed out, as it dropped from the lock onto the newspaper. Bod pulled the paper back under the door, now with the key sitting on it.

  Liza laughed, delighted. “That’s wit, young man,” she said. “That’s wisdom.”

  Bod put the key in the lock, turned it, and pushed open the store-room door.

  There were two men on the floor in the middle of the crowded antique shop. Furniture had indeed fallen; the place was a chaos of wrecked clocks and chairs, and in the midst of it the bulk of Tom Hustings lay, fallen on the smaller figure of Abanazer Bolger. Neither of them was moving.

  “Are they dead?” asked Bod.

  “No such luck,” said Liza.

  On the floor beside the men was a brooch of glittering silver; a crimson-orange-banded stone, held in place with claws and with snake-heads, and the expression on the snake-heads was one of triumph and avarice and satisfaction.

  Bod dropped the brooch into his pocket, where it sat beside the heavy glass paper-weight, the paint-brush, and the little pot of paint.

  LIGHTNING illuminated the cobbled street.

  Bod hurried through the rain through the Old Town, always heading up the hill toward the graveyard. The grey day had become an early night while he was inside the store-room, and it came as no surprise to him when a familiar shadow swirled beneath the street-lamps. Bod hesitated, and a flutter of night-black velvet resolved itself into a man-shape.

  Silas stood in front of him, arms folded. He strode forward impatiently.

  “Well?” he said.

  Bod said, “I’m sorry, Silas.”

  “I’m disappointed in you, Bod,” Silas said, and he shook his head. “I’ve been looking for you since I woke. You have the smell of trouble all around you. And you know you’re not allowed to go out here, into the living world.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” There was rain on the boy’s face, running down like tears.

  “First of all, we need to get you back to safety.” Silas reached down and enfolded the living child inside his cloak, and Bod felt the ground fall away beneath him.

  “Silas,” he said.

  Silas did not answer.

  “I was a bit scared,” he said. “But I knew you’d come and get me if it got too bad. And Liza was there. She helped a lot.”

  “Liza?” Silas’s voice was sharp.

  “The witch. From the Potter’s Field.”

  “And you say she helped you?”

  “Yes. She especially helped me with my Fading. I think I can do it now.”

  Silas grunted. “You can tell me all about it when we’re home.” And Bod was quiet until they landed beside the church. They went inside, into the empty hall, as the rain redoubled, splashing up from the puddles that covered the ground.

  “Tell me everything,” he said.

  Bod told him everything he could remember about the day. And at the end, Silas shook his head, slowly, thoughtfully.

  “Am I in trouble?” asked Bod.

  “Nobody Owens,” said Silas, “you are indeed in trouble. However, I believe I shall leave it to your foster-parents to administer whatever discipline and reproach they believe to be needed.”

  And then, in the manner of his kind, Silas was gone.

  Bod pulled the jacket up over his head and clambered up the slippery paths to the top of the hill, to the Frobisher vault, and then he went down, and down, and still further down.

  He dropped the brooch beside the goblet and the knife.

  “Here you go,” he said. “All polished up. Looking pretty.”

  IT COMES BACK, said the Sleer, with satisfaction in its smoke-tendril voice. IT ALWAYS COMES BACK.

  THE night had been long, but it was almost dawn.

  Bod was walking, sleepily and a little gingerly, past the final resting-place of Harrison Westwood, Baker of this Parish, and his wives, Marion and Joan, to the Potter’s Field. Mr. and Mrs. Owens had died several hundred years before it had been decided that beating children was wrong, and Mr. Owens had, regretfully, that night, done what he saw as his duty, and Bod’s bottom stung like anything. Still, the look of worry on Mrs. Owens’s face had hurt Bod worse than any beating could have done.

  He reached the iron railings that bounded the Potter’s Field and slipped between them.

  “Hullo?” he called. There was no answer. Not even an extra shadow in the hawthorn bush. “I hope I didn’t get you into trouble, too,” he said.

  Nothing.

  He had replaced the jeans in the gardener’s hut—he was more comfortable in just his grey winding-sheet—but he had kept the jacket. He liked having the pockets.

  When he had gone to the shed to return the jeans, he had taken a small hand-scythe from the wall where it hung, and with it he attacked the nettle-patch in the Potter’s Field, sending the nettles flying, slashing and gutting them till there was nothing but stinging stubble on the ground.

  From his pocket he took the large glass paper-weight, its insides a multitude of bright colours, along with the paint-pot and the paint-brush.

  He dipped the brush into the paint and carefully painted, in brown paint, on the surface of the paper-weight, the letters

  E H

  and beneath them he wrote

  WE DON’T FORGET

  It was almost daylight. Bedtime soon, and it would not be wise for him to be late to bed for some time to come.

  He put the paper-weight down on the ground that had once been a nettle patch, placed it in the place that he estimated her head would have been, and, pausing only to look at his handiwork for a moment, went through the railings and made his way, rather less gingerly, back up the hill.


  “Not bad,” said a pert voice from the Potter’s Field, behind him. “Not bad at all.”

  But when he turned to look, there was nobody there.

  Holly and Iron

  GARTH NIX

  Here’s a spooky, suspenseful, and exciting adventure set in a time when two worlds and two races, and two ancient systems of magic, have collided, one pitched in a deadly battle against the other—with some surprising results.

  Australian writer Garth Nix has worked as a book publicist, editor, marketing consultant, public relations man, and literary agent while also writing books, including the bestselling Old Kingdom series, which consists of Sabriel, Lirael: Daughter of the Clayr, Abhorsen, and The Creature in the Case. His other books include the Seventh Tower series, consisting of The Fall, Castle, Aenir, Above the Veil, Into Battle, and The Violet Keystone; the Keys to the Kingdom series, consisting of Mister Monday, Grim Tuesday, Drowned Wednesday, Sir Thursday, Lady Friday and two more titles yet to be published; as well as stand-alone novels such as The Ragwitch and Shade’s Children. His most recent book is the collection Across the Wall: A Tale of Abhorsen and Other Stories. Born in Melbourne, he grew up in Canberra and now lives in Sydney, Australia.

  “SIX men-at-arms, all mounted,” reported Jack. He paused to spit out some nutshells, a remnant of his transition from squirrel-shape to human form, before he added, “Three in front of the litter, three behind.”

  “And the litter-bearers?” asked Merewyn. She didn’t look at Jack as he put his clothes back on, her sharp blue eyes intent on the party that was making its way along the old Roman road that cut straight through the valley, only a hundred yards below their hiding-place high on the densely wooded slope.

  “Slaves,” said Jack. “Our folk, from the look of them. They all wear braided holly-charms on their ankles. So there is no ironmaster hiding amongst them.”

  “An ironmaster can stand holly for a short time, longer if it is not against his skin,” corrected Merewyn. “Or they might make false holly from paper or painted wood. You’re absolutely sure?”

  Jack nodded. He was a big man, six feet tall and very broad in the shoulder. Even in his smallest squirrel-form, he was almost two feet tall, and he could also shape himself as a large boar or bear. Even so, he was a head shorter and fifty pounds lighter than his younger brother, known as Doublejack, who stood silently by, awaiting Merewyn’s instructions. Doublejack would probably take the shape of a cralle dog—a huge beast the size of a pony—if they were to attack the Norman in the litter and his guards.

  Jack and Doublejack were the only shape-shifters in Merewyn’s band. It was a very rare talent, not often used as shifters needed to eat a huge amount of fresh meat upon returning to their human form, something not easily obtained. Even now, Jack was eyeing the freshly dressed deer hanging by its hind leg from a nearby branch. Going down in size made him less hungry than going up, but he would still eat a haunch or two, leaving the rest for Doublejack to gorge on later.

  “Six men-at-arms,” mused Merewyn aloud. “A curious number. Why only six? Everyone knows we’re in these woods. They look sun-dark too, maybe pullani mercenaries…not household troops, which is also curious. And there is something strange about that litter. I cannot truly say I sense it, but I suspect some Norman magic is at work. Something of cold iron…yet I cannot be sure…Robin?”

  Robin shook her head impatiently, indicating she felt no Norman magic at work. She did not want to feel any, so she did not focus her full concentration on the litter.

  “Do we attack or not?” asked Robin impatiently.

  Like the men and her half-sister Merewyn, Robin was dressed in a heavy woollen tunic over leather-booted hose, but apart from the clothes neither she nor Merewyn tried to disguise their femininity. Both had long hair, braided back and pinned with silver and amber, offering some protection against Norman magic workings and helpful for their own Inglish magic.

  Silver and amber looked perfectly normal against Merewyn’s blonde hair. She was all Inglish, tall and muscular, a fair-faced warrior woman who could wrestle down a stag and stab it in the neck, or send a cloth-yard shaft from her longbow two hundred yards through a Norman man-at-arms, brigantine and all.

  Robin, to her eternal embarrassment and shame, looked more Norman than Inglish herself. She was shorter and stockier than her sister, dark-haired and grey-eyed, and always very brown from their outdoor life. She took after her mother, her father’s second wife. The one he had stolen from her Norman father, unwittingly setting in train not only his own death but also the loss of his kingdom to that selfsame Norman, and the chain of events that led to his two daughters lurking in the fringe of trees above a valley, the elder leading a band of what could variously be described as bandits, rebels, or the last remnants of the army of the true King of Ingland.

  “I am uneasy,” said Merewyn. She looked up at the sky. The sun was still a full disc, but low and near the western hills. Two ravens circled overhead, black shapes against the darkening sky. “We will lose the light very soon, and we do not know who is in the litter.”

  “Only six guards,” said Robin. “It can’t be any one important…or dangerous.”

  “It could be someone confident enough to need no larger escort,” said Merewyn. “An ironmaster hiding his charms and devices until the last.”

  “Let’s attack before it is dark,” urged Robin. “We haven’t had a chance like this for weeks.”

  Merewyn didn’t answer. Robin frowned, then tugged at her sister’s sleeve.

  “This’ll be the third Norman we’ve let go if you don’t give the order! What’s wrong with you?”

  “There is nothing wrong, Robin,” said Merewyn softly. “Knowing when not to attack is as important to a leader as being up front swinging a sword.”

  “That’s not leading!” snapped Robin. “This is leading!”

  She snatched the horn from Merewyn’s shoulder and, before her sister could stop her, blew a ringing peal that echoed across the valley. That done, she darted forward, drawing her sword as she ran.

  The horn blast set the well-prepared ambush in motion. The heavy reverberation of axes on wood sounded ahead of the Norman’s party. A few seconds later, a great tree came twisting down across the path, testament to the wood-cutters’ skill in keeping it balanced all afternoon on the thinnest spire of uncut trunk.

  As the tree crashed, archers stepped out from their hiding places on the edge of the cleared area on the side of the path and began to shoot at the guards’ horses. The guards responded by charging the archers, bellowing oaths and cursing. Unusually, the litter-bearers didn’t simply run away, toppling the litter, but set it down carefully before sprinting off between the trees.

  Robin ran on the heels of a shaggy, slavering dog that stood higher than her shoulder. Merewyn and Jack came behind her, with a dozen of their band, all armed with swords, spears, or bill-hooks. They were the blocking force, to prevent an escape back along the path, as the fallen tree prevented any escape the other way.

  But there was no attempt to flee. One of the guards was dead on the ground, killed instantly by an arrow that found a chink in his mail coif. Two more were trapped under dead or dying horses. The remaining three had realised the impossibility of riding down archers hiding in the forest fringe and had turned back.

  “Surrender!” called Robin. She was out of breath from the mad charge down the slope and had to repeat the call. “Surrender!”

  The three men-at-arms looked at the archers, who were once again stepping out of the green shadows, at the huge cralle dog that chose that moment to howl, and at the fifteen armed bandits approaching.

  “You will die if you try to charge through,” said Merewyn loudly, correctly observing the intention announced by the tensing of the men’s arms and the flick of their horses’ heads. “We will give quarter.”

  Two of the men-at-arms looked at the third, who nodded and threw down his sword. His companions did likewise. Then they dismounte
d and stood by their horses’ heads, casting dark looks at Robin and Merewyn and nervous glances at Doublejack, who was sniffing around the litter.

  Merewyn made a signal, and the archers moved closer, arrows still nocked and ready to loose. Six of her men raced forward and threw the men-at-arms to the ground, binding their hands as they also removed their daggers, boot-knives, and, in the case of the leader, a tiny knife scabbarded in the back of his gauntlet.

  “Who is in the litter?” asked Robin. There had been no movement from it, not even the twitch of a curtain pulled aside. Doublejack was still sidling around it, his huge nose wrinkled much as a human forehead might frown in thought.

  “An old Norman merchant,” said one of the men-at-arms, the one the others had looked to. He had the faded, crescent scar of a slave tattoo on his cheek. “Going to the baths at Aquae Sulis.”

  “Not until he’s paid his toll, he’s not,” said Robin. She strode over to the litter, hacked off the knots that held the curtain to the frame, pulled the rich but travel-stained velvet drapes aside, and trampled them under her heels.

  There was a man inside the litter, sitting upright, wrapped in a thick cloak of blue felt, the hood pulled up and forward, so his face was shadowed. He had a chess-table set before him, of dark mahogany and ivory. There was a game in progress, though no one sat opposite him, slate-grey pieces in movement against softer, smaller ones of cherry-wood.

  “You are our prisoner,” said Robin. She extended her sword-arm, the point hovering a few inches from the man’s hooded face. “And we will want a suitable ransom. What is your name?”

  Instead of answering, the man lifted one of the slate-grey knights from the chess-board. Robin had only a moment to register that all the grey pieces were knights before she suddenly felt her sword twist violently out of her hand and hurtle up and behind her, almost impaling Doublejack.