The Wizard of London Page 9

  Nan made a face. “Don’ want no toads!” she objected. “So Oi guess Oi ain’t no witch, no matter what that Tommy Carpenter says!”

  Tommy, a recent addition to the school, had somehow made up his mind that she, Sarah, and Mem’sab were all witches. He didn’t mean it in a derogatory sense; in fact, he gave them all the utmost respect. It had something to do with things his own ayah back in India had taught him. Nan had to wonder, given whom he’d singled out for that particular accolade, if he wouldn’t be getting private lessons of his own with Mem’sab before too long. There was something just a little too knowing about the way Tommy looked at some people.

  “But Oi still wisht Oi ‘ad—had—a bird friend loike Grey.” And she sighed again. Grey reached around with her beak and gently took one of Nan’s fingers in it; Grey’s equivalent, so Nan had learned, of a hug. “Well,” she said, when Grey had let go, “Mebbe someday. Lots’ve parrots comes in with sailors.”

  “That’s right!” Sarah said warmly, letting go of Grey just long enough to give Nan a hug of her own, before changing the subject. “Nan, promise to tell me all about the Tower as soon as you get back tomorrow! I wish I could go—maybe as much as you wish you had a grey parrot of your own.”

  “ ‘Course Oi will!” Nan replied warmly. “Oi wisht you could go, too—but you know why Mem’sab said not.” She shuddered, but it was the delicious shudder of a child about to be regaled with delightfully scary ghost stories, without a chance of turning around and discovering that the story had transmuted to reality.

  For Sarah, however, the possibility was only too real that, even by daylight, that very thing would happen. It was one thing to provide the vehicle for a little child ghost who had returned only to comfort his mother. It was something else entirely to contemplate Sarah coming face-to-face with one of the many unhappy, tragic, or angry spirits said to haunt the Tower of London. Mem’sab was not willing to chance such an encounter, not until Sarah was old enough to protect herself.

  So the History class would be going to the Tower for a special tour with one of the Yeoman Warders without Sarah.

  Sarah sighed again. “I know. And I know Mem’sab is right. But I still wish I could go, too.”

  Nan laughed. “Wut! An you gettin’ ‘t’ go’t’ Sahib’s warehouse an’ pick out whatever you want, on account of missin’ the treat?”

  “Yes, but—” she made a face. “Then I have to write an essay about it to earn it!”

  “An’ we’re all writin’ essays ‘bout the Tower, so I reckon it’s even all around, ’cept we don’t get no keepsakes.” Nan ended the discussion firmly.

  “I know! I’ll pick a whole chest of Turkish Delight, then we can all have a treat, and I’ll have the chest,” Sarah said suddenly, brightening up in that way she had that made her solemn little face just fill with light.

  Grey laughed, just like a human. “Smart bird!” the parrot said, then shook herself gently, wordlessly telling Sarah to let go of her, made her ponderous way up Sarah’s shoulder and pillow, and clambered up beak-over-claw to her usual nighttime perch on the top of the brass railing of the headboard of Sarah’s bed—wrapped and padded for her benefit in yards and yards of tough hempen twine. She pulled one foot up under her chest feathers, and turned her head around to bury her beak out of sight in the feathers of her back.

  And since that was the signal it was time for them to sleep—a signal they always obeyed, since both of them half expected that Grey would tell on them if they didn’t!—Nan slid down and climbed into her own bed, turning the key on the lantern beside her to extinguish the light.

  ***

  It was a gloomy, cool autumn day that threatened rain, a day on which Nan definitely needed her mac, a garment which gave her immense satisfaction, for up until coming to the school she had relied on old newspapers or scraps of canvas to keep off the rain. Getting to the Tower was an adventure in and of itself, involving a great deal of walking and several omnibuses. When they arrived at the Tower, Nan could only stare; she’d been expecting a single building, not this fortress! Why, it was bigger than Buckingham Palace—or, at least, as big!

  Their guide was waiting for them under an archway with not one, but two nasty-looking portcullises—and the tour began immediately, for this was no mere gate, but the Middle Tower. The Yeoman Warder who took the children under his capacious wing was an especial friend of Sahib’s, and as a consequence, took them on a more painstaking tour of the Tower than the sort given to most schoolchildren. He did his best—which was a very good “best,” because he was a natural storyteller—to make the figures of history come alive for his charges, and peppered his narrative with exactly the sort of ghoulish details that schoolchildren loved to hear. Creepy, but not terrifying. Ghoulish, but not ghastly.

  Nan was very much affected by the story of poor little Jane Grey, the Nine-Days’ Queen, and of Queen Anne Boleyn, but she felt especially saddened by the story of the execution of Katherine Howard, who had been rather naughty, but had been very young and pretty, and shackled in marriage to a King who was so fat he could hardly move on his own. No wonder she went after a bit of fun on her own! And the old King should have expected it!

  They walked all over the Tower, up and down innumerable stairs, from the old Mint buildings, to the armory in the White Tower even to the Yeoman Warders’ private quarters, where their guide’s wife gave them all tea and cakes. Nan felt quite smug about that; no one else was getting tea and cakes! Most of the other visitors had to blunder about by themselves, accompanied with maps and guidebooks, or join a crowd of others being given the general tour by another of the Yeoman Warders, and dependent on their own resources for their refreshment. She tasted the heady wine of privilege for the first time in her young life, and decided that it was a fine thing.

  But the one thing that she found the most fascinating about the Tower was the ravens.

  Faintly intimidating, they flew about or stalked the lawns wherever they cared to; they had their very own Yeoman Warder to attend to them, because of the story that if they were ever to leave the Tower, it would be the end of England. But Nan found them fascinating; and kept watching them even when she should, perhaps, have been paying attention to their guide.

  Finally Nan got a chance to watch them to her heart’s content, as Mem’sab noted her fascination. “Would you like to stay here while the rest of us go view the Crown Jewels, Nan?” Mem’sab asked, with a slight smile.

  Nan nodded; going up another set of stairs along with a gaggle of other silly gawpers just to look at a lot of big sparklers that no one but the Queen ever would wear was just plain daft. She felt distinctly honored that Mem’sab trusted her to stay alone. The other pupils trailed off after their guide like a parade of kittens following their mother, while Nan remained behind in the quiet part of the Green near the off-limits area where the ravens had their perches and nesting-boxes, watching as the great black birds went about their lives, ignoring the sightseers as mere pointless interlopers.

  It seemed to her that the ravens had a great deal in common with someone like her; they were tough, no nonsense about them, willing and able to defend themselves. She even tried, once or twice, to see if she could get a sense of what they were thinking, but their minds were very busy with raven business—status in the rookery being a very complicated affair—

  Though the second time she tried, the minds of the two she was touching went very silent for a moment, and they turned to stare at her. She guessed that they didn’t like it, and stopped immediately; they went back to stalking across the lawn.

  Then she felt eyes on her from behind, and turned, slowly.

  There was a third raven behind her, staring at her.

  “ ‘Ullo,” she told him.

  “Quoark,” he said meditatively. She met his gaze with one equally unwavering, and it seemed to her that something passed between them.

  “Don’t touch him, girl.” That was one of the Yeoman Warders, hurrying up to her. “They can be
vicious brutes, when they’re so minded.”

  The “vicious brute” wasn’t interested in the Warder’s estimation of him. “Quork,” he said, making up his mind—and pushed off with his strong, black legs, making two heavy flaps of his wings that brought him up and onto Nan’s shoulder. “Awwrr,” he crooned, and as the Yeoman Warder froze, he took that formidable bill, as long as Nan’s hand and knife-edged, and gently closed it around her ear. His tongue tickled the ear, and she giggled. The Yeoman Warder paled.

  But Nan was engrossed in an entirely new sensation welling up inside her—and she guessed it was coming from the bird; it was a warmth of the heart, as if someone had just given her a welcoming hug.

  Could this be her bird friend, the one she’d wished for?

  “Want tickle?” she suggested aloud, thinking very hard about how Grey’s neck feathers felt under her fingers when she scratched the parrot.

  “Orrrr” the raven agreed, right in her ear. He released the ear and bent his head down alongside her cheek so she could reach the back of his neck. She reached up and began a satisfying scratch; she felt his beak growing warm with pleasure as he fluffed his neck feathers for her.

  The Yeoman Warder was as white as snow, a startling contrast with his blue-and-scarlet uniform.

  The Ravenmaster (who was another Yeoman Warder) came running up, puffing hard and rather out of breath, and stopped beside his fellow officer. He took several deep breaths, staring at the two of them—the raven’s eyes were closed with pure bliss as Nan’s fingers worked around his beak and very, very gently rubbed the skin around his eyes.

  “Blimey,” he breathed, staring at them. He walked, with extreme care, toward them, and reached for the bird. “Here now Neville old man, you oughter come along with me—”

  Quick as a flash, the raven went from cuddling pet to angry tyrant rousing all his feathers in anger and lashing at the outstretched hand with his beak. And it was a good thing that the outstretched hand was wearing a thick falconer’s gauntlet, because otherwise the Warder would have pulled it back bloody.

  Then as if to demonstrate that his wrath was only turned against those who would dare to separate him from Nan, the raven took that formidable beak and rubbed it against Nan’s cheek, coming within a fraction of an inch of her eyes. She, in her turn, fearlessly rubbed her cheek against his. The Warders both went very still and very white.

  “Neville, I b’lieve you’re horripilatin’ these gennelmun,” Nan said, thinking the same thing, very hard. “Would’jer come down onta me arm?”

  She held out her forearm parallel to her shoulder as the Warders held their breath.

  “Quock,” Neville said agreeably, and stepped onto her forearm. She brought him down level with her chest and as he rested his head against her, she went back to scratching him in the places where she was now getting a sense that he wanted to be scratched. He was a great deal less delicate than Grey; in fact, he enjoyed just as vigorous a scratching as any alley cat.

  “Miss,” the Ravenmaster said carefully, “I think you oughter put him down.”

  “I c’n do that,” she said truthfully, “but if ‘e don’t want to leave me, ’e’ll just be back on my shoulder in the next minute.”

  “Then—” he looked about, helplessly. The other Warder shrugged. “Miss, them ravens belongs’t’ Her Majesty, just like swans does.”

  She had to giggle at that—the idea that anyone, even the Queen, thought they could own a wild thing. “I doubt anybody’s told them,” she pointed out.

  “Rrrk,” Neville agreed, his voice muffled by the fact that his beak was against her chest.

  The Ravenmaster was sweating now, little beads standing out on his forehead. He looked to his fellow officer for help; the man only shrugged. “ ‘Ollis, you was the one what told me that Neville’s never been what you’d call a natural bird,” the first Warder said judiciously, and with the air of a man who has done his best, he slowly turned and walked off, leaving the Ravenmaster to deal with the situation himself.

  Or—perhaps—to deal with it without a witness, who might have to make a report. And what he didn’t witness, he couldn’t report—

  Nan could certainly understand that, since she’d been in similar situations now and again.

  Sweating freely now, the Ravenmaster bent down, hands carefully in sight and down at his sides. “Now, Neville,” he said quietly, addressing the raven, “I’ve always done right by you, ‘aven’t I?”

  Neville opened one eye and gave him a dubious look. “Ork,” he agreed, but with the sense that his agreement was qualified by whatever the Ravenmaster might do in the next few moments.

  “Now, you lissen to me. If you was to try an’ go with this girl, I’d haveta try an’ catch you up. You’d be mad an’ mebbe I’d get hurt, an’ you’d be in a cage.”

  Nan stiffened, fearing that Neville would react poorly to this admission, but the bird only uttered a defiant grunt, as if to say, “You’ll catch me the day you grow wings, fool!” The feathers on his head and neck rose, and Nan sensed a sullen anger within him. And the fact that she was sensing things from him could only mean that as the Warder had said, Neville was no “natural” bird.

  In fact—he was like Grey. Nan felt excitement rise in her. The fact was a tough bird like a raven suited her a great deal more than a parrot.

  But the Yeoman Warder wasn’t done. “Now, on’t‘other hand,” he continued, “If the young lady was to toss you up in th’ air when you’d got your scratch, and you was to wait over the gate till her an’ her schoolmates comes out, an’ then you was to follow her—well, I couldn’t know you was missing ‘till I counted birds on perches, could I? An’ then I couldn’t know where you’d gone, could I? An’ this young lady wouldn’t get in no trouble, would she?”

  Slowly, the feathers Neville had roused, flattened. He looked the Warder square in the eyes, as if measuring him for falsehood. And slowly, deliberately, he nodded.

  “Quok,” he said.

  “Right. Gennelmun’s agreement,” the Warder said, heaving an enormous sigh, and turning his attention at last to Nan. “Miss, I dunno what it is about you, but seems you an’ Neville has summat between you. An’ since Neville’s sire has the same summat with the Ravenmaster afore me an’ went with ‘im to Wight when ‘e retired, I reckon it runs in the family, you might say. So.”

  Nan nodded, and looked at Neville, who jerked his beak upward in a motion that told her clearly what he wanted.

  She flung her arm up to help him as he took off, and with several powerful thrusts of his wings, he took off and rowed his way up to the top of the main gate, where he ruffed up all of his feathers and uttered a disdainful croak.

  “Now, miss,” the Yeoman Warder said, straightening up. “You just happen to ‘ave a knack with birds, and I just give you a bit of a talkin’-to about how dangerous them ravens is. An’ you never heard me talkin’ to Neville. An’ if a big black bird should turn up at your school—”

  “Then I’ll be ‘avin’ an uncommon big jackdaw as a pet,” she said, staring right back at him, unblinking. “Which must’ve been summun’s pet, on account uv ‘e’s so tame.”

  “That’d be it, miss,” the Warder said, and gathering his dignity about him, left her to wait for the rest of the class to come out.

  Mem’sab, Nan was firmly convinced, knew everything. Her conviction was only strengthened by the penetrating look that her teacher gave her when she led the rest of the Harton School pupils out to collect Nan. Since the Crown Jewels were the last item on their programme, it was time to go—

  “How did you get on with the ravens, Nan?” Mem’sab asked, with just that touch of irony in her voice that said far more than the words did. Could someone have come to tell her about Neville being on Nan’s shoulder? Or was this yet another demonstration that Mem’sab knew things without anyone telling her?

  Nan fought hard to keep her accent under control. “I’m thinkin’ I got on well, Mem’sab,” she said, with a little
smile.

  Mem’sab raised an eyebrow. If there had been any doubt in Nan’s mind that her teacher might not be aware that there was something toward, it vanished at that moment.

  She raised another, when, as they made their way down the broad walk away from the Tower, a black, winged shape lofted from the gate and followed them, taking perches on any convenient object. For her part, Nan felt all knotted up with tension, for she couldn’t imagine how the great bird would be able to follow them through London traffic. It seemed that the Ravenmaster hadn’t yet got around to trimming Neville’s wing feathers, for he had them all but two, so at least he wasn’t going to be hampered by lack of wingspan. But still… how was he to get from here to the Harton School?

  They boarded a horse-drawn omnibus and—since it wasn’t raining yet—everyone ran up the little twisting staircase to the open seats on top. After all, what child cares to ride inside, when he can ride outside? They were the only passengers up there due to the chill and threatening weather, and Nan cast an anxious look back at the last place she’d seen Neville—

  He wasn’t there. Her heart fell.

  And right down out of the sky, the huge bird landed with an audible thump in the aisle between the rows of seats, just as the ‘bus started to move. He folded his wings and looked about as if he owned the place.

  “Lummy!” said one of the boys. “That’s a raven!” He started to get out of his seat.

  “No it isn’t,” Mem’sab said firmly. “And no one move except Nan.”

  When Mem’sab gave an order like that, no one would even think of moving, so as Neville walked ponderously toward her, Nan crouched down and offered her forearm to him. He hopped up on it, and she got back into her seat, turning to look expectantly at Mem’sab.

  “This is not a raven,” their teacher repeated, raking the entire school group with a stern glance. “This is an uncommonly large rook. Correct?”

  “Yes, Mem’sab!” the rest of Nan’s schoolmates chorused. Mem’sab eyed the enormous bird for a moment, her brown eyes thoughtful. Mem’sab was not a pretty woman—many people might, in fact, have characterized her as “plain,” with quiet brown hair and eyes, and a complexion more like honest brown pottery than porcelain. Her chin was too firm for beauty; her features too angular and strong. But it was Nan’s fervent hope that one day she might grow up into something like those strong features, for to her mind, Mem’sab was a decidedly handsome woman. Right now, she looked quite formidable, her eyes intent as she gazed at Neville, clearly thinking hard about something.