B eetle, Front Office and Inspection Clerk at Number Thirteen Wizard Way, home of the Magykal Manuscriptorium and Spell Checkers Incorporated, was not having a good day. It was a blustery, rainy Monday morning and Jillie Djinn, the Chief Hermetic Scribe, had left him in charge. At first Beetle had been thrilled. It was a real honor, since Miss Jillie Djinn chose her deputies carefully, even if it was only for an hour, and she usually gave the job to the most senior scribe. But that morning she had fixed Beetle with her disconcerting stare - which always made him wonder what he had done wrong - and said, "Beetle, you're in charge. Anyone comes about the job, fill out the form and I'll see them this afternoon. Back in an hour. No earlier. No later." Then, with a rustle of her dark blue silk robes Miss Djinn had bustled out of the door and was gone.
Beetle had closed the door against the wind and whistled a long low note. Resisting the urge to run amok yelling, "It's mine, all mine!" he had contented himself with peering into the Manuscriptorium itself and checking that all seemed well. It did. Twenty scribes - one short of the usual number - sat perched at their high desks under twenty dim pools of light, their pens scratching away, copying out various spells, formulas, charms, enchantments, indentures, diatribes, licences, permits, proxies and anything else that was needed by the Wizards - or indeed anyone in the Castle who had a few silver pennies to spare.
Beetle celebrated his temporary promotion by sitting on his swivel chair and spinning around and around in circles - which was not allowed - while practicing his I'm-in-charge look. For five heady minutes everything had been wonderful - and then it all went wrong.
Beetle was amazed at how much trouble could cram itself into such a short space of time. It began when a tall, thin boy dressed in a shabby black tunic and travel-stained cloak came into the front office, made Jillie Djinn's new - and extremely irritating - Daily Customer Counter click over to number three and demanded to see the Chief Hermetic Scribe.
"She's out," said Beetle snappily, deciding he did not like the look of the boy at all. "I'm in charge."
The boy looked Beetle up and down and sniggered. "Oh, yeah," he said. "I don't think."
"Obviously not," replied Beetle, surprised to hear himself sounding remarkably like Marcia Overstrand for a moment. Remembering, a little late, that a member of the Manuscriptorium must be civil at all times, Beetle hurriedly asked, "Well, um, can I help you?"
"I doubt it." The boy shrugged.
Beetle took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then he said, "I'm sure I can do something if you tell me what you want."
"I want that scribe's job," the boy replied.
Beetle was shocked. "The scribe's job?" he asked.
"Yeah," said the boy. He grinned, pleased at the effect he had had. "Like I said, the scribe's job."
"But - but do you have any qualifications?" Beetle stammered.
In reply, the boy leaned forward and clicked his finger and thumb in Beetle's face. A flicker of black flame appeared from the tip of his thumb. "That's my qualification," the boy said.
Beetle sat down in his chair with a bump. He'd heard about Darke tricks, although he'd never actually seen one before. It had not escaped his notice that the boy was wearing what he assumed to be a cheap copy of the fabled Two-Faced Darke Ring. The boy was obviously one of those weird kids who thought that if they dressed in black and bought pretend Darke trinkets from Gothyk Grotto in The Ramblings, they were the next Apprentice to old DomDaniel.
Beetle blamed Jillie Djinn. She had, much to his disapproval, put a notice up on the door to the Manuscriptorium a few weeks ago, seeking a new scribe. Beetle had objected, saying it would be an invitation to all kinds of weird people to apply. But Miss Djinn had insisted.
To Beetle's relief, up until that moment no one had applied for the job. He had been busy trying to persuade the notoriously stingy Miss Djinn to pay for an advertisement in The Scribes and Scriveners Journal. That morning he had, in fact, left a copy of their special-offer reduced rates on her desk. But now it looked as if his worst fears had come true.
With a sigh, Beetle got out the standard Manuscriptorium job application form, licked the end of his pencil and asked, "Name?"
"Septimus Heap," said the boy.
"Don't be stupid," said Beetle.
"No one calls me stupid!" the boy shouted. "No one. Got that?"
"Okay, okay," said Beetle. "But you are not Septimus Heap."
"How do you know?" the boy said with a sneer.
"Because I know Septimus Heap. And he's not you. No way."
The boy's dark eyes flashed angrily. "Well, that's where you're wrong. I know who I am. You don't.
So where it says 'name' on your little form you can write down 'Septimus Heap.'"
"No."
Beetle and the boy stared each other down. The boy looked away first. "Yeah, well," he said. "I was called that. Once."
Beetle decided to humor the boy in case he suddenly lost it - not that Beetle was concerned about coming off worse in a fight. Although the boy was a little taller than him, he was thin and had a weak look about him, whereas Beetle was sturdy and powerfully built. But Beetle did not want the front office trashed, particularly while he was in charge. "So what are you called now?" he asked quietly.