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A touch at his arm broke his reverie, and he turned to pick up his saddlebags and sword. Then he led the way to the gate and pushed it open. As soon as they passed through, the noise of the waterfall practically ceased, so Lirael had to listen carefully to hear even a distant roar. She could hear birds in the trees instead, and many bees buzzing past on their way to the peach blossoms. The mist also parted above and around Abhorsen’s House, for Lirael stood in sunshine, which quickly dried the spray that had fallen on her face and clothes.
There was a red-brick path ahead, bordered by a lawn and a line of shrubs with clumps of odd, stick-shaped yellow flowers. The path led to the front door of the House, which was painted a cheerful sky blue, bright against the whitewashed stone on either side of it. The House itself seemed normal enough. It was mainly one large building of three or four stories, in addition to the tower. It also had some sort of inner courtyard, too, because Lirael could see birds flying in and out. There were many windows, all quite large, and it exuded comfort and welcome. Clearly Abhorsen’s House was not a fortification, relying on means other than architecture for its defense.
Lirael raised her arms to the sun and drank in the clear air, and the faint perfume from the gardens, of flowers and fertile soil and green growing things. She suddenly felt peaceful, and strangely at home, though it was so different from the enclosed tunnels and chambers of the Glacier. Even the gardens in the vast chambers there, with their painted ceilings and Charter-mark suns, could not begin to duplicate the vastness of the blue sky and the true sun.
She exhaled slowly and was about to drop her arms when she saw a small speck high above her. A moment later it was joined by a dark cloud of many somewhat larger things. It took Lirael a few seconds to realize that the smaller speck was a bird that seemed to be diving straight at her, and the larger specks were also birds—or things that flew like birds. At the same time her Death sense twinged, and Sam cried out next to her.
“Gore Crows! They’re after a message-hawk!”
“They’re actually below it,” said the Dog, her head craned back. “It’s trying to dive through!”
They watched anxiously as the message-hawk fell, zigzagging slightly to try to avoid the Gore Crows. But there were hundreds of them, and they spread across a wide area, so the hawk had no choice but to try to smash through where they were fewest. It selected its point and closed its wings, dropping even faster, as if it were a stone thrown straight down.
“If it makes it through, they won’t dare pursue,” said Sam. “Too close to the river, and the House.”
“Go!” whispered Lirael, staring up at the hawk, willing it to go even faster. It seemed to fall for ages, and she realized it must have been very high indeed. Then all of a sudden it hit the black cloud, and there was an explosion of feathers and Gore Crows hurtling in all directions, while still more flew in. Lirael held her breath. The hawk didn’t re-appear. Still the Gore Crows flew in, till there were so many in a small area that they began to collide, and black, broken bodies began to fall.
“They got it,” said Sam slowly. Then he shouted. A small brown bird suddenly dropped out of the swirling mass of Gore Crows. This time it fell seemingly out of control, lacking the fierce direction and purpose they’d seen before. A few Gore Crows broke off to pursue it, but they had gone only a little way before they pulled up and sheered off, repelled by the force of the river and the protective magics of the House.
The hawk fell further, as if it were dead or stunned. But only forty or fifty feet above the garden, it suddenly spread its wings, breaking its fall just enough to swoop in and land at Lirael’s feet. It lay there, feathered breast panting, and the marks of the Gore Crows’ attacks obvious in its tattered plumage and bleeding head. But its yellow eyes were still lively, and it hopped easily enough onto Sam’s wrist when he bent down and offered it a place on the cuff of his shirt.
“Message for Prince Sameth,” it said, in a voice that was not any bird’s. “Message.”
“Yes, yes,” said Sam soothingly, gently stroking its feathers back into place. “I am Prince Sameth. Tell me.”
The bird cocked its head to one side and opened its beak. Lirael saw the hint of Charter marks there, and she suddenly understood that the bird carried a spell inside it, a spell that was probably cast upon it while it was still in its egg, to grow as it grew.
“Sameth, you idiot, I hope this finds you at the House,” said the message-hawk, its voice changing again. Now it seemed to be a woman. From the tone of voice and the expression on Sam’s face, Lirael guessed that it was his sister, Ellimere.
“Father and Mother are still in Ancelstierre. There is greater trouble there than they feared. Corolini is definitely under the influence of someone from the Old Kingdom, and his Our Country Party grows more influential in the Moot. More and more refugees are being moved nearer the Wall. There are also reports of Dead creatures all along the Ratterlin’s western shores. I am calling up the Trained Bands and will be marching south to Barhedrin with them and the Guard within two weeks, to try to prevent any crossings. I don’t know where you are, but Father says it is essential that you find Nicholas Sayre and return him to Ancelstierre at once, as Corolini claims we have kidnapped him to use as a hostage to influence the Chief Minister. Mother sends her love. I hope you can do something really useful for a change—”
The voice suddenly stopped, having reached the limit of the message-hawk’s rather tiny mind. The bird made a peeping sound and started to preen itself.
“Well, let’s go in and get cleaned up,” said Sam slowly, though he kept staring at the hawk as if it might speak again. “The sendings will look after you, Lirael. I guess we should talk about everything at dinner tonight?”
“Dinner!” exclaimed Lirael. “We’d better talk about it before then. It sounds like we should be off again straightaway.”
“But we only just got here—”
“Yes,” agreed Lirael. “But there’re the Southerlings, and your friend Nicholas is in danger. It may be that every hour counts.”
“Particularly since whoever controls Chlorr and the other Dead knows we’re here,” growled the Dog. “We must move quickly before we are besieged.”
Sam didn’t answer for a moment. “Okay,” he said quickly. “I’ll meet you for lunch in an hour, and we can . . . uh . . . work out what to do next.”
He stalked off ahead, his limp suddenly becoming noticeably worse, and pushed the front door open. Lirael followed more slowly, her hand loosely draped over the Dog’s back. Mogget walked next to them for a few paces, then used the Dog’s back to springboard himself onto Lirael’s shoulder. She jumped as he landed, but relaxed as she realized he had sheathed his claws. The little cat carefully draped himself around her neck and then seemed to go to sleep.
“I’m so tired,” Lirael said as they stepped over the threshold. “But we really can’t wait, can we?”
“No,” growled the Dog as she looked around the entrance hall, sniffing. There was no sign of Sam, but a sending was retreating with the message-hawk on its gloved hand, and two other sendings were waiting at the foot of the main staircase. They wore long habits of light cream, with deep cowls covering their heads, hiding their lack of faces. Only their hands were visible, pale ghostly hands made of Charter marks, which occasionally sparkled as they moved.
One came forward and bowed deeply to Lirael, then beckoned to her to follow. The other went straight to the Disreputable Dog and took her by the collar. No words were spoken, but both the Dog and Mogget seemed to gues
s the sending’s intentions. Mogget, despite appearing to be asleep, was the first to react. He leapt from Lirael’s neck and ran through a cat door under the stairs, displaying a speed and liveliness Lirael hadn’t seen before. The Dog was either less quick on the uptake or was less practiced in evading the attentions of the sendings of Abhorsen’s House.
“A bath!” she yelped in indignation. “I’m not having a bath! I swam in the river only yesterday. I don’t need a bath!”
“Yes you do,” said Lirael, wrinkling her nose. She looked at the sending and added, “Please make sure she has one. With soap. And scrubbing.”
“Can I at least have a bone afterwards?” asked the downcast Dog, looking back with pleading eyes as the sending led her away. Anyone would think she was going to prison, or worse, Lirael thought. But she couldn’t help herself running over to kiss the hound on the nose.
“Of course you can have a bone, and a big lunch as well. I’m going to have a bath, too.”
“It’s different for dogs,” said the Dog mournfully, as the sending opened a door to the inside courtyard. “We just don’t like baths!”
“I do, though,” whispered Lirael, looking down at her sweat-stained clothing and running her fingers through her dirty hair. For the first time she noticed that there was blood on her as well. The blood of innocents. “A bath and clean clothes. That’s what I need.”
The sending bowed again and led her to the stairs. Lirael followed obediently, enjoying the different creaks in each step as they climbed. For the next hour, she thought, I will forget about everything.
But even as she followed the sending, she was thinking of the Southerlings who had tried so hard to escape. Escape the pit where their fellows had been killed and forced into servitude. The pit she had seen, with Nicholas standing alone on a hill of spoil, while a necromancer and his lightning-blackened corpses labored to dig up something that Lirael was sure should never again see the light of day.
