Garth Nix - Newt’s Emerald

“A barrel,” husked Harnett, as she kept on knocking with her feet. “Once a butt of brandy, judging from the odour. Rather ignominious, I feel.”

“What will happen to us?” asked Truthful quietly. She felt herself leaning back against his wide shoulders, and stiffened. Would her great-aunt’s glamour continue to hold in the current circumstances? She had a vague recollection that being touched for any length of time had a deleterious effect on most illusions . . .

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” replied Harnett. “Fortunately, I did arrange a contingency with the hackney driver and some of my friends, so there will be a rescue in due course. However, the thing with rescues is timing, and we shall just have to hope its comes sooner rather than later. How tight are your bonds?”

Truthful flexed her feet and arms, but found no movement in the rope. Nor could she strain free from Harnett, as there was a rope wound several times around both their waists.

“I can’t get free, Major.”

There was silence for a moment, then Harnett laughed, and Truthful imagined his smile flashing for a moment in the darkness.

“I think you may now safely call me Charles,” he said. “As we have become rather close.”

Truthful smiled for a moment, and almost started to laugh, before she suddenly stopped and scowled instead. How could Harnett laugh, unless he was very confident his friends would come to the rescue? She could see no happy ending, tied up in the dark, in a barrel that absolutely stank of brandy.

“I suppose you had better call me Henri,” said Truthful.

She laughed as she said it. It seemed so ridiculous that they should be learning each other’s first names while tied up inside a barrel. In fact, everything seemed rather ridiculous. Truthful stopped laughing and took in a deep, brandy-laced breath, only to discover to her mortification that her laughter had turned to tears, which she quickly stifled, ending in a series of sniffs.

“Laughter is a strong weapon against fear, Chevalier,” said Harnett. “But I think none the worse of manly tears.”

Truthful almost interrupted to ask how he felt about womanly tears, but managed not to speak. She felt very light-headed and wondered what on earth was wrong with her. Besides being trapped in a barrel, of course.

“I knew a man who wept like a baby before every battle in the Peninsula, but there were none braver,” continued Harnett.

“What happened to him?” asked Truthful.

“He was killed at Waterloo,” replied Harnett. “So many were. But we’re still alive . . . and where there’s life, there’s . . . um . . how does that go? I confess to feeling a little astray, I suppose the fumes—”

He stopped speaking suddenly as they heard footsteps approaching. The footsteps stopped near them, and they heard the cold voice of Lady Plathenden.

“Take this barrel out to the Undine,” she said. “Tell Captain Fontaine that he is to throw it overboard mid-channel, without looking inside.”

“But it isn’t sealed,” protested a male voice. Truthful recognised the sensitive, religious-minded thug. “It’ll sink. I don’t hold with drowning, ma’am, it’s an ugly way to die. Even for kittens, let alone—”

“Silence! See to it at once, and make sure Fontaine understands exactly what he is to do.”

Her footsteps receded, and the barrel suddenly lurched, leaned in balance for a moment, and then crashed on its side. Shaken, Harnett and Truthful braced their legs against the sides, and managed to stay reasonably steady as the barrel rolled, bumping over an uneven floor.

A few minutes later, they heard a heavy door open, the rush of the Thames beyond it, and the creaking of a wharf. More footsteps echoed on the stone, and they felt the barrel being lifted. The carters feet clattered out onto the wharf, there was a thud as the barrel was dropped a few inches, then they felt the tell-tale sway of a ship or boat.

“So,” said a scornful, French-accented man. “Another one of milady’s presents to Neptune? Make it fast on deck — there’s no room in the hold. And secure the pigeon loft, you fool!”

“No room at the inn,” chortled Harnett. For some reason Truthful found this incredibly funny. In an instant, they were both laughing.

“Stop that!” shouted the voice outside, his words accompanied by a strong kicking administered to the barrel.

This seemed funnier still. Truthful couldn’t stop giggling, and Harnett brayed like a donkey, and the sound of their laughter just encouraged more, and more and more until eventually the kicking stopped.

Slowly the laughter ebbed away. Truthful yawned, a huge yawn, and wriggled against the ropes.

“I think I’m ready to be rescued,” she said. “Any time now.”

There was no answer, but Truthful was not alarmed. She felt so tired. Nothing mattered except letting her eyelids continue their slow drift towards complete closure.

She let them close, and fell asleep.

Truthful woke with a start as she felt her stomach climbing up into her mouth, stopping just short in her throat. A wave of giddiness swept through her, and for a second she was disoriented, then the pain in her wrists and ankles reminded her of the ropes, and she felt Harnett’s back against her own.

“How . . . long have I been asleep?” she whispered, screwing up her eyes against the faint rays of light that were sneaking through the uncaulked lid of the barrel. She felt absolutely terrible. Her throat was parched and sandpapery, and her stomach very uneasy. “How did I fall asleep?”

“I think three or four hours, perhaps even more,” replied Harnett, in a hoarse whisper. “I’ve been asleep too. There was more than a little brandy left in the bottom of this cask, we were mazed by the fumes. But there’s a wind blowing out there now. You can feel it through the cracks, and it’s cleansed the air in here. Mind you, I’ve the devil of a hangover.”

“So have . . . I think,” said Truthful, a dull throbbing in her head coming in to join the dryness of her throat. “I’ve never had one before.”

“Bad time to start,” muttered Harnett. “I think we must already be entering the Thames Estuary, judging from the swell. They’ve got a fair wind to carry us away, too, damn their eyes.”

“And it will only strengthen over the day ahead,” said Truthful, instinctively. She could feel the nature of the wind, deep inside herself. It was steady enough now, but there was more to come.

“How can you tell . . . ah . . . you have weather magic?”

“A little,” said Truthful. “It runs in the family.”

“Could you do something to slow us down or hold us back?” asked Harnett eagerly. “I am sure my . . . my friends will be in pursuit, but time is of the essence. Could you reverse the wind, perhaps?”

“I have only a little, local power,” said Truthful regretfully. “Not enough to turn a sea-wind so firmly established.”

She could feel the strength of the breeze in her bones, but the sounds of the ship also confirmed it, the heel of the deck and the crack of canvas filling overhead.

“Do you think your friends will be able to rescue us?”

“They’ll try,” grunted Harnett, who seemed to be engaged in some form of contortionist’s exercise. “It depends on whether there was a ship at hand to be commandeered, or if the Navy could be roused to act, if the word was got out quickly enough. But we can’t depend on it, I’m afraid. I have a knife in my boot, a sghian dhbu from a Scottish friend, but I can’t reach it. My arms are wrapped right down to the wrists. What about you?”

“I’m only tied around the elbows,” replied Truthful. “If I wriggle down a bit, I can move my arms a little.”

“Good!” exclaimed Harnett. “Now, if I move my legs back towards you as far as they will go, do you think you could twist around and reach my boot-top?”

“I can try,” said Truthful determinedly. She felt Harnett twisting his legs around, and started to wriggle around herself, only to pause as there was a sudden loud snapping noise.

“Good God!” cried Harnett. “Was that the rope?”

“Ah, non,” muttered Truthful, regretting the eagerness of her wriggling, for the snap had been the sound of her corset breaking, and several buttons of her coat flying off. She looked down, but in the dim light, couldn’t see if the corset was completely broken or not. If it was, the glamour alone might not be enough to maintain her disguise. “My coat has torn.”

A little more cautiously, she continued to struggle, till her body was partially turned and her left hand fell on Harnett’s calf. Instantly, she snatched it back, a blush rising in her cheeks. What was she doing?

“Good!” said Harnett. “Now work you way down to the boot-top. The knife should come out easily enough.”

“I . . . I . . .” faltered Truthful.

Before she could say anything more, the ship plunged more dramatically than it had been, and she heard the crash of a wave breaking against the bow. A second later, spray fell against the barrel, a fine mist coming through the cracks between the staves.

This reminder of their impending drowning overcame the deeply ingrained lessons of modest behaviour. Taking a deep breath, Truthful squirmed around, her hands sliding down Harnett’s thigh, past his knee to the cool leather of his boot-top and then to the hilt of the knife. There was a brief struggle, straining every muscle in Truthful’s fingers, then it was free and in her lap. But at a cost. The remaining stays on her corset had burst, her shirt was torn across the front and under the arms and her ensorcelled moustache felt very insecure upon her upper lip.