“I hate you!” hissed Mogget in the general direction of the boat’s figurehead as the water drained away from his feet. “At least that rowboat looks dry. Why don’t we just let ourselves be captured? We’ve got only the Dog’s nose to say the captain is a construct.”

“They’re shooting at us, Mogget!” said Sam, who wasn’t entirely sure whether Mogget was joking.

“There are two other constructs on board besides the captain,” growled the Dog, whose nose was still vigorously sampling the air. She was getting bigger, Sam noticed, and fiercer-looking. Clearly she expected a fight, discounting whatever Lirael thought she was doing up at the bow.

“Got it!” exclaimed Lirael, as another flight of arrows sped towards them. This time, they splashed into the river no more than two arms’ lengths away. Sam could probably have touched the closest one.

“What?” shouted Sam. He simultaneously reached into the Charter to begin making an arrow ward. Not that it would

be much use against six archers at once. Not when he wasn’t up to his full strength.

Lirael held up a large square of black cloth and let it flap into the breeze, revealing a brilliant silver star shining in the middle of it. The wind almost tore it from her grasp, but she clutched it to her chest and began to crawl back to the mast. “Finder’s flag,” she shouted as she pulled out a halyard and started to unscrew the pin in a shackle so it could be put through an eyelet in the banner. “I’ll have it up in a minute.”

“We don’t have a minute!” screamed Sam, who could see the archers about to loose again. “Just hold it out!”

Lirael ignored him. Quickly she fitted the shackles at each end, screwing in the pins with what looked like deliberate slowness to Sam. He was about to lunge forward and grab the damned flag when Lirael suddenly let it go and pulled on the halyard—as five more arrows leapt towards them from the guardboat.

Finder reacted first, nudging the tiller over to turn the bow into the wind. Instantly, she lost speed, the sail flapping and clapping like maniacal applause. Sam ducked as she did it, and the tiller smacked him in the jaw, hard enough to make him think he’d been shot—at least for a moment. Then it swung back again, just missing him, as the boat returned to her original course.

But those few seconds of lost speed had been vital, Sam realized, as the arrows that should have struck them plunged into the water only a few feet ahead.

Then the great silver star of the Clayr billowed out from the mast, shining in the sun. Now there could be no doubt about whose boat this was, for the flag was not just a thing of cloth but, like Finder herself, was imbued with Charter Magic. Even in the darkest night, the starry banner of the Clayr would

shine. In the bright day, it was almost blinding in its brilliance. “They’ve stopped rowing,” announced the Dog cheerily, as the guardboat suddenly lost way in a confusing pick-up-sticks jumble of oars. Sam relaxed and let the beginnings of the arrow ward fade away, so he could start checking whether he’d lost any teeth.

“But two archers are still going to shoot,” the Dog continued, making Sam groan and hurriedly try to reach for the Charter marks he’d just let go.

“Yes . . . no . . . the other four are overpowering them. The captain is shouting . . . it has revealed itself!”

Sam and Lirael looked back at the guardboat. It was a mess of struggling figures, accompanied by shouting, screaming, and the clash of weapons. In the middle of it, a column of white fire suddenly appeared, with a whoosh loud enough to make the Dog’s ears crinkle back and to make the others flinch. The column roared up twelve feet or more, then slid sideways and arced over the side.

For a moment, Sam and Lirael thought it would sink and disappear, but it actually bounced off the river as if the water were springy grass. Then the column started to move towards them, and it began to transform itself into something else. Soon it was no longer a tall streak of white fire but a gigantic burning boar, complete with tusks. It ran after Finder in great splashing leaps, squealing as it ran, a sound that sent a wave of nausea through everyone who heard it.

Sam was the first to react. He picked up Lirael’s bow and sent four arrows in quick succession into the thing that was fast catching up to them. All struck it head on, but they had no effect save for a sudden flurry of sparks. The arrows turned instantly into molten metal and ash.

Sam was reaching for another arrow when Lirael thrust her hand past him, and she screamed a spell over the wind. A

golden net flew from her fingers, spreading wider and wider as it crossed the intervening water. It met the boar-thing as it jumped, wrapping it in ropes of yellow red fire that dampened the thing’s white-hot brilliance. Boar and net came plunging down, and both disappeared under the surface of the river, cutting off the terrible squealing. As the waters of the Ratterlin closed over the boar, an enormous plume of steam shot up for at least a hundred feet. When it subsided, there was no sign of either net or Free Magic creature, save for many small pieces of what looked like long-decayed meat, morsels that even the ravenous seagulls overhead chose to avoid.

“Thank you,” said Sam, after it became clear that nothing more was going to come from the guardboat or out of the depths. He knew the net-spell Lirael had used but hadn’t thought it would work against something that looked so powerful.

“Mogget suggested it,” said Lirael, who was clearly surprised both by that and by the fact that the spell had worked so well.

“While that kind of construct can move across running water, it is destroyed by total immersion,” explained Mogget. “Slowing it for even a moment was enough.”

He looked slyly at the Dog, and added, “So you see that this hound is not the only one who knows of such things. Now I really must have a little nap. I trust that some fish will be forthcoming when I wake?”

Sam nodded wearily, though he had no idea how he was going to catch any. He almost patted Mogget, as Lirael so often did the Dog. But something in the cat’s green eyes made him pull his hand back before the motion was really begun.

“Sorry I didn’t think of the flag earlier,” said Lirael as they sped on. The spell-wind had lessened, but it still blew quite strongly at their backs. “There’s a whole pile of stuff there I looked at for only a second when we first left the Glacier.”

“I’m glad you remembered it when you did,” said Sam, his words slightly muffled as he tested the operation of his jaw. It seemed to be only bruised, and he still had all his teeth. “And this wind will come in handy. We should get to the House by tomorrow morning.”

“Abhorsen’s House,” Lirael said thoughtfully. “It’s built on an island, isn’t it? Just before the waterfall where the Ratterlin goes over the Long Cliffs?”

“Yes,” replied Sam, thinking of that raging cascade and how grateful he was going to be to have its protection. Then it occurred to him that far from thinking of the waterfall as safety, Lirael was probably wondering how they would reach the House without going over the mighty falls and down to certain destruction.

“Don’t worry about the waterfall,” he explained. “There’s a sort of channel behind the island, where the current isn’t as strong. It goes back almost a league, so as long as you enter it at the right point and stay in it, there’s no problem. The Wallmakers made it. They built the House, too. It’s brilliant work—the channel, I mean. I tried to make a model of it once, using the waterfall and pools on the second terrace at home. The Palace. But I couldn’t spell the current to split. . . .” He stopped talking as he realized Lirael wasn’t listening. She had an abstract expression on her face, and her eyes were focused over his shoulder, into the distance.

“I didn’t realize I was that boring,” he said with an annoyed smile. Sam wasn’t used to pretty girls ignoring him. And Lirael was pretty, he suddenly realized, potentially even beautiful. He hadn’t noticed before.

Lirael started, blinked, and said, “Sorry. I’m not used to . . . People don’t talk to me much back home.”

“You know, you’d look a lot better without that scarf,”

said Sam. She really was attractive, though something about her face unsettled him. Where had he seen her? Perhaps she looked like one of the girls Ellimere had forced on him back in Belisaere. “You know, you remind me of someone. I don’t suppose I could have met one of your sisters or something, could I? I don’t remember ever seeing any dark-haired Clayr, though.”

“I don’t have any sisters,” replied Lirael absently. “Only cousins. Lots and lots of cousins. And an aunt.”

“You could change into one of my sister’s dresses at the House. It’d give you a chance to get out of that waistcoat,” said Sam. “Do you mind if I ask how old you are, Lirael?” Lirael looked at him, puzzled at the question, till she saw the glint in his eye. She knew that look from the Lower Refectory. She looked away and pulled up her scarf, trying to think of something to say. If only Sam could have just stayed like the Dog, she thought. A comforting friend, without the complication of romantic interest. There had to be something she could do to completely discourage him, short of throwing up or otherwise making herself totally unattractive.

“I’m thirty-five,” she said at last.

“Thirty-five!” exclaimed Sam, “I mean, I beg your pardon. You don’t look . . . you seem much younger—”

“Ointments,” said the Dog, sporting a wicked, one-sided grin that only Lirael could see. “Unguents. Oils from the North. Spells of seeming. My mistress works hard to keep her youth, Prince.”

“Oh,” said Sam, leaning back against the stern rail. Surreptitiously he looked at Lirael again, trying to see some lines he’d missed or something. But she really didn’t look a day older than Ellimere. And she certainly didn’t act like a much older woman. She wasn’t all that confident or outgoing, for a start. Perhaps it was because she was a librarian, Sam thought, as he tried to make out what he thought was probably a very shapely form under the baggy waistcoat.

“Enough of that talk, Dog!” commanded Lirael, turning her head to hide her own smile from Sam. “Make yourself useful and keep an eye out for danger. I’m going to make myself useful by weaving a Charter-skin.”

“Aye, aye, Mistress,” growled the Dog. “I will keep watch.” The hound stretched and yawned, then jumped to the bow, sitting down right in the path of the spray, her mouth wide open and tongue lolling. How she stayed upright and steady was a mystery, Lirael thought, though she had the unpleasant notion that the Dog might have grown suckers on her bottom. “Mad. Absolutely mad,” said Mogget, as he watched the Dog get drenched. The cat had resumed his post near the mast and was once again licking himself dry. “But then, she always was.”

“I heard that!” barked the Dog, without looking back.

“Of course you did,” said Mogget, sighing, and he licked away at his collar. He looked up at Lirael, his green eyes twinkling with wickedness, and added, “I don’t suppose I could trouble you to take off my collar so I can get properly dry?” Lirael shook her head.

“Well, I suppose if the village idiot here wouldn’t do it, there was no chance you would,” grumbled Mogget, inclining his head at Sameth. “It’s enough to make me wish I’d volunteered in the first place. Then I wouldn’t be forced out all the time on these barbaric boat trips.”

“What didn’t you volunteer for?” asked Lirael curiously.

But the little cat only smiled. A smile that had rather too much of the carnivorous hunter in it, Lirael thought. Then he twitched his head, Ranna tinkled, and he was asleep, sprawled out in the noonday sun.

“Be careful with Mogget,” Sam warned, as Lirael succumbed to the temptation to scratch the cat’s furry white belly. “He’s nearly killed my mother in his unbound form. Three times, in fact, during the time she’s been the Abhorsen.”

Lirael pulled her hand back just as Mogget opened one eye and made an—apparently playful—swipe with one clawextended paw.

“Go back to sleep,” said the Dog from the bow, without looking around. She certainly seemed confident that Mogget would obey.

Mogget winked at Lirael, holding her gaze for a moment.

Then that one sharp green eye closed, and he really did seem to fall asleep, Ranna tinkling at his neck.

“Well,” Lirael said. “Time to make a Charter-skin.”

“Do you mind if I watch?” asked Sam eagerly. “I’ve read about Charter-skins, but I thought the art was lost. Even Mother doesn’t know how to make one. What shapes do you know?”

“I can make an ice otter, a russet bear, or a barking owl,” replied Lirael, relieved to see that the spasm of romantic interest that had gripped Sam had passed. “You can watch if you like, but I don’t know what you’ll see. They’re basically just very long and complex chains of Charter marks and joiningspells—and you have to hold them in your head all at the same time. So I won’t be able to talk or explain or anything. And it will probably take me until sunset. Then I have to fold it exactly right so it can be used later.”

“Fascinating,” said Sam. “Have you tried putting the completed spell into an object? So that the whole chain of Marks is there, ready to be pulled out when you need it, but it hasn’t actually been cast?”

“No,” replied Lirael. “I didn’t know that it was possible.”

“Well, it’s difficult,” explained Sam eagerly. “It’s sort of like repairing a Charter Stone. I mean, you have to use some of your own blood to prepare whatever is going to hold the spell. Royal blood, that is, though Clayr or Abhorsen blood should work equally well. You need to be very careful, of course, because if you get it wrong . . . Anyway, let’s see your Charter-skin first. What is it going to be?”