Garth Nix - Abhorsen Trilogy 3 - Abhorsen

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G A R T H NIX

ABHORSEN

Abhorsen

without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and

reviews. Printed in the United States of America. For information address HarperCollins

Children's Books, a division of HarperCollins Publishers, 1350 Avenue of the Americas, New

York, NY 10019. www.harperchildrens.com

Library of Congress Cataloging*in-Publication Data Nix, Garth.

Abhorsen / Garth Nix. — 1st ed. p. cm.

Summary: Abhorsen-in-Waiting Lirael and Prince Sameth, a Wallmaker, must confront and bind

the evil spirit Orannis before it can destroy all life.

ISBN 0-06-027825-0 — ISBN 0-06-027826-9 (lib. bdg.)

[1. Fantasy.] I. Title.

PZ7.N647 Ab 2003 2002003151

[Fie]—dc21 CIP

Typography by Alison Donalty 3579 10 8642

* First Edition

To Anna and Thomas Henry Nix

CONTENTS

Prologue 3

PART ONE 13

1. A House Besieged 15

2. Into the Deep 30

3. Amaranth, Rosemary, and Tears 41

4. Breakfast of Ravens 56

5. Blow Wind, Come Rain! 71

6. The Silver Hemispheres 85

7. A Last Request 9z

8. The Testing of Sameth 102,

First Interlude 117

PART TWO izi

9. A Dream of Owls and Flying Dogs 1x3

10. Prince Sameth and Hedge 130

11. Hidden in the Reeds 140

12. The Destroyer in Nicholas i5z

13. Details from the Disreputable Dog 160

14. Flight to the Wall 174

15. The Perimeter i8z

16. A Major's Decision 190

Second Interlude zoi

PART THREE 215

17. Coming Home to Ancelstierre 217

18. Chlorr of the Mask 2.36

19. A Tin of Sardines 247

20. The Beginning of the End 259

21. Deeper into Death 270

22. Junction Boxes and Southerlings 279

23. Lathal the Abomination 290

24. Mogget's Inscrutable Initiative 297

25. The Ninth Gate 305

26. Sam and the Shadow Hands 317

27. When the Lightning Stops 327

28. The Seven 335

29. The Choice of Yrael 347

Epilogue 355

PROLOGUE

Fog rose from the river, great billows of white weaving into the soot and

smoke of the city of Corvere, to become the hybrid thing that the more popular

newspapers called smog and the Times "miasmic fog." Cold, dank, and foul-

smelling, it was dangerous by any name. At its thickest, it could smother, and it

could transform the faintest hint of a cough into pneumonia.

But the unhealthiness of the fog was not its chief danger. That came from its

other primary feature. The Corvere fog was a concealer, a veil that shrouded the

city's vaunted gaslights and confused both eyes and ears. When the fog lay on

the city, all streets were dark, all echoes strange, and everywhere set for murder

and mayhem.

"The fog shows no signs of lifting," reported Darned, principal bodyguard to

King Touchstone. His voice showed his dislike of the fog even though he knew it

was only a natural phenomenon, a blend of industrial pollution and river-mist.

Back in their home, the Old Kingdom, such fogs were often created by Free

Magic sorcerers. "Also, the . . . telephone . . . is not working, and the escort is

both understrength and new. There is not one of the officers we usually have

among them. I don't think you should go, sire."

Touchstone was standing by the window, peering out through the shutters.

They'd had to shutter all the windows some days ago, when some of the crowd

outside had adopted slingshots. Before that, the demonstrators hadn't been able

to throw half bricks far enough, as the mansion that housed the Old Kingdom

Embassy was set in a walled park, and a good fifty yards back from the street.

Not for the first time, Touchstone wished that he could reach the Charter and

draw upon it for strength and magical assistance. But they were five hundred

miles south of the Wall, and the air was still and cold. Only when the wind blew

very strongly from the north could he feel even the slightest touch of his magical

heritage.

Sabriel felt the lack of the Charter even more, Touchstone knew. He glanced

at his wife. She was at her desk, as usual, writing one last letter to an old school

friend, a prominent businessman, or a member of the Ancelstierre Moot.

Promising gold, or support, or introductions, or perhaps making thinly veiled

threats of what would happen if they were stupid enough to support Corolini's

attempts to settle hundreds of thousands of Southerling refugees over the Wall,

in the Old Kingdom.

Touchstone still found it odd to see Sabriel dressed in Ancelstierran clothes,

particularly their court clothes, as she was wearing today. She should be in her

blue and silver tabard, with the bells of the Abhorsen across her chest, her sword

at her side. Not in a silver dress with a hussar's pelisse worn on one shoulder,

and a strange little pillbox hat pinned to her deep-black hair. And the small

automatic pistol in her silver mesh purse was no substitute for a sword.

Not that Touchstone felt at ease in his clothes either. An Ancelstierran shirt

with its stiff collar and tie was too constricting, and his suit offered no protection

at all. A sharp blade would slide through the double-breasted coat of superfine

wool as easily as it would through butter, and as for a bullet . . .

"Shall I convey your regrets, sire?" asked Darned.

Touchstone frowned and looked at Sabriel. She had been to school in

Ancelstierre, she understood the people and their ruling classes far better than

he did. She led their diplomatic efforts south of the Wall, as she had always

done.

"No," said Sabriel. She stood up and sealed the last letter with a sharp tap.

"The Moot sits tonight, and it is possible Corolini will present his Forced

Emigration Bill. Dawforth's bloc may just give us the votes to defeat the motion.

We must attend his garden party."

"In this fog?" asked Touchstone. "How can he have a garden party?"

"They will ignore the weather," said Sabriel. "We will all stand around, drinking

green absinthe and eating carrots cut into elegant shapes, and pretend we're

having a marvelous time."

"Carrots?"

"A fad of Dawforth's, introduced by his swami," replied Sabriel. "According to

Sulyn."

"She would know," said Touchstone, making a face—but at the prospect of

raw carrots and green absinthe, not Sulyn. She was one of the old school friends

who had been so much help to them. Sulyn, like the others at Wyverley College

twenty years ago, had seen what happened when Free Magic was stirred up and

grew strong enough to cross the Wall and run amok in Ancelstierre.

"We will go, Darned," said Sabriel. "But it would be sensible to put in place the

plan we discussed."

"I do beg your pardon, Milady Abhorsen," replied Darned. "But I'm not sure

that it will increase your safety. In fact, it may make matters worse."

"But it will be more fun," pronounced Sabriel. "Are the cars ready? I shall just

put on my coat and some boots."

Darned nodded reluctantly and left the room. Touchstone picked out a dark

overcoat from a number that were draped across the back of a chaise longue

and shrugged it on. Sabriel put on another—a man's coat—and sat down to

exchange her shoes for boots.

"Darned isn't concerned without reason," Touchstone said as he offered his

hand to Sabriel. "And the fog is very thick. If we were at home, I wouldn't doubt it

was made with malice aforethought."

"The fog is natural enough," replied Sabriel. They stood close together and

knotted each others' scarves, finishing with a soft, brushing kiss. "But I agree it

may well be used against us. Yet I am so close to forming an alliance against

Corolini. If Dawforth comes in, and the Sayres stay out of the matter—"

"Little chance of that unless we can show them we haven't made off with their

precious son and nephew," growled Touchstone, but his attention was on his

pistols. He checked both were loaded and there was a round in the chamber,

hammer down and safety on. "I wish we knew more about this guide Nicholas

hired. I am sure I have heard the name Hedge before, and not in any positive

light. If only we'd met them on the Great South Road."

"I am sure we will hear from Ellimere soon," said Sabriel as she checked her

own pistol. "Or perhaps even from Sam. We must leave that matter, at least, to

the good sense of our children and deal with what is before us."

Touchstone grimaced at the notion of his children's good sense, handed

Sabriel a grey felt hat with a black band, twin to his own, and helped her remove

the pillbox and pin her hair up underneath the replacement.

"Ready?" he asked as she belted her coat. With their hats on, collars up, and

scarves wound high, they looked indistinguishable from Darned and their other

guards. Which was precisely the idea.

There were ten bodyguards waiting outside, not including the drivers of the

two heavily armored Hedden-Hare automobiles. Sabriel and Touchstone joined

them, and the twelve huddled together for a moment. If any enemies were

watching beyond the walls, they would be hard put to make out who was who

through the fog.

Two people went into the back of each car, with the remaining eight standing

on the running boards. The drivers had kept the engines idling for some time, the

exhausts sending a steady stream of warm, lighter emissions into the fog.

At a signal from Darned, the cars started down the drive, sounding their

Klaxons. This was the signal for the guards at the gate to throw it open, and for

the Ancelstierran police outside to push the crowd apart. There was always a

crowd these days, mostly made up of Corolini's supporters: paid thugs and

agitators wearing the red armbands of Corolini's Our Country party.

Despite Damed's worries, the police did their job well, separating the throng so

that the two cars could speed through. A few bricks and stones were hurled after

them, but they missed the riding guards or bounced off the hardened glass and

armor plate. Within a minute, the crowd was left behind, just a dark, shouting

mass in the fog.

"The escort is not following," said Darned, who was riding the running board

next to the front car's driver. A detachment of mounted police had been assigned

to accompany King Touchstone and his Abhorsen Queen wherever they went in

the city, and up to now they had performed their duty to the expected standards

of the Corvere Police Corps. This time the troopers were still standing by their

horses.

"Maybe they got their orders mixed up," said the driver through her open

quarter window. But there was no conviction in her voice.

"We'd better change the route," ordered Darned. "Take Harald Street. Left up

ahead."

The cars sped past two slower automobiles, a heavily laden truck, and a horse

and wagon, braked sharply, and curved left into the broad stretch of Harald

Street. This was one of the more modern promenades, and better lit, with gas

lamps on both sides of the street at regular intervals. Even so, the fog made it

unsafe to drive faster than fifteen miles per hour.

"Something up ahead!" reported the driver. Darned looked up and swore. As

their headlights pierced the fog, he saw a great mass of people blocking the

street. He couldn't make out what was on the banners they held, but it was easy

enough to recognize it as an Our Country demonstration. To make it worse, there

were no police to keep them in check. Not one blue-helmeted officer in sight.

"Stop! Back up!" said Darned. He waved at the car behind, a double signal

that meant "Trouble!" and "Retreat!"

Both cars started to back up. As they did, the crowd ahead surged forward.

They'd been silent till then. Now they started shouting, "Foreigners out!" and "Our

Country!" The shouts were accompanied by bricks and stones, which for the

moment fell short.

"Back up!" shouted Darned again. He drew his pistol, holding it down by his

leg. "Faster!"

The rear car was almost back at the corner when the truck and the wagon

they'd passed pulled across, blocking the way.

Masked men dropped out of the backs of both vehicles, sending the fog

shivering as they ran. Men with guns.

Darned knew even before he saw the guns that this was what he had feared

all along.

An ambush.

"Out! Out!" he shouted, pointing at the armed men. "Shoot!"

Around him the other guards were opening car doors for cover. A second later

they opened fire, the deeper boom of their pistols accompanied by the sharp tap-

tap-tap of the new, compact machine rifles that were so much handier than the

Army's old Lewins. None of the guards liked guns, but they had practiced with

them constantly since coming south of the Wall.

"Not the crowd!" roared Touchstone. "Only armed targets!"

Their attackers were not so careful. They had gone under their vehicles,

behind a post box, and down on the footpath beside a low wall of flower boxes,

and were firing wildly.

Bullets richocheted off the street and the armored cars in mad, zinging

screeches. There was noise everywhere, harsh, confused sound, a mixture of

screaming and shouting combined with the constant crack and chatter of gunfire.

The crowd, so eager to rush forward only seconds before, had become a terrible,

tumbling crush of people trying to flee.

Darned rushed to a knot of guards crouched behind the engine of the rear car.

"The river," he shouted. "Go through the square and down the Warden Steps.

We have two boats there. You'll lose any pursuit in the fog."

"We can fight our way back to the Embassy!" retorted Touchstone.

"This is too well planned! The police have turned, or enough of them! You

must get out of Corvere. Out of Ancelstierre!"

"No!" shouted Sabriel. "We haven't finished—"

She was cut off as Darned violently pushed her and Touchstone over and

leaped above them. With his legendary quickness, he intercepted a large black

cylinder that was tumbling through the air, trailing smoke behind it.

A bomb.

Darned caught and threw it in one swift motion, but even he was not fast

enough.

The bomb exploded while it was still in the air. Packed with high explosive and

pieces of metal, it killed Darned instantly. The blast broke every window for half a

mile and momentarily deafened and blinded everyone within a hundred yards.

But it was the thousands of metal fragments that did the real damage, ripping

and screaming through the air, to bounce off stone or metal, or all too often to cut

through flesh.

Silence followed the explosion, save for the roar of the burning gas from the

shattered lamps. Even the fog had been thrown back by the force of the blast,

which had cleared a great circle open to the sky. Rays of weak sunshine filtered

through, to illuminate a scene of terrible destruction.

There were bodies strewn all around and under the cars, not one overcoated

guard still on his or her feet. Even the car's armored windows were broken, and

the occupants were slumped in death.

The surviving assassins waited for a few minutes before they crawled out from

behind the low wall and moved forward, laughing and congratulating one another,

their weapons cradled casually under their arms or across their shoulders with

what they imagined was debonair style.

The talk and laughter were too loud, but they didn't notice. Their senses were

battered, their minds in shock. Not only from the explosion or the terrible sights

that drew closer and more real with every step, or even with relief at being alive

in the midst of so much death and destruction.

The real shock came from the realization that it was three hundred years since

a King and a Queen had been slain on the streets of Corvere. Now it had

happened again—and they had done the deed.

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GARTHNIXABHORSENAbhorsenCopyright©2003byGarthNixAllrightsreserved.Nopartofthisbookmaybeusedorreproducedinanymannerwhatsoeverwithoutwrittenpermissionexceptinthecaseofbriefquotationsembodiedincriticalarticlesandreviews.PrintedintheUnitedStatesofAmerica.ForinformationaddressHarperCollinsChildren'sBooks...

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