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Septimus shook away the memories of the fun he and Beetle had had and turned his thoughts to his destination. A network of tunnels, which Septimus knew from his own Time as the Ice Tunnels, linked all the old buildings of the Castle. In this Time the tunnels were still free of ice and were used by the Alchemists and Wizards to move around the Castle on their business, unseen and unremarked upon. Septimus traveled through one every day to get from Marcellus's house to his workplace at the Great Chamber. Recently he had been sent to the Palace to deliver some solid-gold bowls as a gift to the Queen—an apology for something that Marcellus had done wrong. It was this trip that had given Septimus the beginnings of his plan and it was to the Palace tunnels that he was heading now, except this time he was going aboveground, for he had no wish to bump into any nosy Alchemie scribes or Marcellus himself.
The last Winter Faire was in full swing at the end of the Way, just in front of the Palace Gate. Great streams of smoke rose from dozens of braziers cooking chestnuts, corn on the cob, thick winter soup, sausages and potatoes. Septimus pushed his way through the strange-smelling crowds, refusing offers of “best crunchy pig's ear, Apprentice,” or “tasty hoof pie, who will buy my tasty hoof pie?” Trying to ignore the strains of the hurdy-gurdy playing what he supposed was festive music, Septimus wrenched himself free from a particularly insistent fortuneteller who offered to “reveal thy true Destiny for one groat, young Master—for who knoweth what Life doth have in store for us?” Who knoweth indeed? thought Septimus grimly, as he shrugged away the clutching hand.
Septimus sidestepped a pair of identical twin stilt-walkers, ducked under a tightrope and narrowly avoided being hit by a large piece of wood from an overenthusiastic participant in a Whack-the-Rat stall. One final squeeze past two fat ladies throwing crayfish and rice into a large vat of boiling water and Septimus was out of the crowds. Quickly he turned off down The Twitten, an alleyway that led to Snake Slipway. Soon he was ringing the doorbell of the house that he still thought of as Weasal Van Klampff's.
As Septimus waited to be let in, he remembered all the times that Marcia had sent him to the very same place to pick up the various pieces for her ShadowSafe. If he closed his eyes, he could easily imagine himself there, with the raucous insults of the boys on the pier echoing in his ears. Septimus never thought that he would long to hear the sound of Hey! Caterpillar Boy!
A small boy wearing the neat uniform of a house servant opened the door. He looked surprised to see Septimus, who usually came up through the tunnel, but he smiled and bowed to the Alchemie Apprentice. “Prithee, step inside, Septimus Heap,” said the boy, who had earnest gray eyes and freckles, and whose sandy-colored hair sported the usual pudding-basin haircut that all the children had. Septimus had resolutely refused it, insisting on letting his curls grow ever longer and more tangled by the day.
The boy looked at Septimus expectantly, waiting to escort Septimus where he wanted to go. Septimus sighed; this was not part of his plan. He had forgotten about young Hugo Tenderfoot, who had an irritating tendency to follow him around like a lost puppy. Septimus was forced to say something. He cleared his throat and said,
“Thanks very much, Hugo. You can go now.”
“Prithee?” The boy's eyes widened, partly in surprise at hearing Septimus speak, but mainly because, although he did not quite understand what Septimus had said, he felt as if he should.
Septimus made an effort at what he thought of as Old Speak. “Um. Prithee, Hugo, begone.”
“Bigoon?”
Septimus was saved from further efforts by the tinkling of a bell upstairs, which Hugo, after giving Septimus a small bow, ran off to answer.
Quickly Septimus walked to the back of the house and took the creaky steps down to the cellars, where he took the familiar tunnel that led out of the farthest end, along which he had first followed Una Brakket to the Laboratory. The tunnel was well swept and brightly lit with burning rushlights, unlike in Una's Time, but apart from that, it looked just the same. Septimus ignored the door to the Laboratory, which Marcellus used for the more delicate experiments, and took the side tunnel that he used every morning to get to work.
He soon reached the familiar trapdoor—but where was the ladder? Septimus knelt and opened the trapdoor. It looked like a long drop. He hunted around for the ladder, but he could find no sign of it. There was nothing else to do—he would have to jump. Septimus hesitated, trying to judge how far he would have to fall if he dangled full-length from the trapdoor. He told himself that if Simon could do it while wearing a pair of ice skates, then he could easily do it without.
In the tunnel, the sound of voices drew near and Septimus stepped back from the trapdoor. He watched a group of chattering Palace servants pass by below him. They were wearing the old-fashioned Palace uniform that he had seen on some of the ghosts in his own Time. The sight of the servants disappearing around the corner suddenly made up his mind, for it would be much easier to get into the Palace unnoticed in the middle of a gaggle of servants. Quickly Septimus slipped through the trapdoor. After dangling uncertainly for a few moments, he realized the reason why the floor of the tunnel seemed so far away—it actually was far away, for it was no longer covered in a thick layer of ice. But Septimus was committed now. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and let go.
“Oof!”
The jarring from the drop took his breath away, and as Septimus lay winded on the tunnel floor he saw Hugo's worried face peering down at him through the trapdoor.
A moment later Hugo had unclipped the ladder from where it hung from the ceiling and pushed it down to Septimus.
“ 'Tis far to fall, Apprentice,” said Hugo, scrambling down. “I beg a thousand pardons for leaving the trap unsecured. Prithee, give me your hand.” Hugo hauled Septimus to his feet.
“Where was the ladder?” asked Septimus.
“Prithee? I pray you, Apprentice, ascend with care.”
Septimus sighed. “Hugo,” he said, “I don't want to ascend with care. Now buzz off.”
“Buzzoff?”
“Yes, buzz off. Go away. Scram. Oh ... begone with you!”
Hugo's face fell. He understood “begone with you.” It was something his elder brother said regularly. And his two elder sisters. And his cousins who lived around the corner.
“Oh, come on then, if you want to,” Septimus relented, realizing that if Hugo went back, he would very soon be telling everyone that the Alchemie Apprentice had gone off into the tunnels alone. Septimus had a feeling that Marcellus might get suspicious.
Hugo looked at Septimus quizzically. “Want to?” he said, copying Septimus's accent.
“Want ... to. I ... want to!”
“Well, come on then,” Septimus told him, impatient to catch up with the Palace servants whose chatter was fast fading away.
Hugo trotted after him. “Buzzoff.'” said the boy, running behind Septimus like a small bee. “Buzzoff, buzzoff, buzzoff!”
Septimus half ran, half walked beneath the rushlights that lined the wide brick tunnel that branched off toward the Palace. The small bee running behind kept pace with him and apart from the occasional “buzzoff,” did not make any attempt at conversation. As the voices of the Palace servants became clearer, Septimus concentrated on maintaining some distance from them while still keeping them in sight, for as they approached the Palace, numerous small turns appeared and the tunnel began to resemble a rabbit warren.
After a few minutes, the servants took one of the small tunnels and Septimus was just in time to see them disappear through a narrow red door. He turned to Hugo.
“You ought to get back now,” he said, and then, seeing Hugo's puzzled look, he said,
“Prithee, begone. I pray you do not disclose our journey, for I go about the Master's secret affairs.”
Hugo put his head to one side like a parrot wondering whether it was worth repeating what he had just said. “Buzz-off?” he asked.
“Yes, buzz off. Hop to it. Go on, shoo!”
Hugo got the message. His face fell and he set off dejectedly back along the tunnel.
Septimus felt a stab of remorse. No one else had shown the remotest interest in being with him ever since he had been stuck in this dump of a Time. “Oh, come on then,”
he called out.
Hugo's face lit up. “Not buzzoff?”
“No,” sighed Septimus, “not buzzoff.”
