Garth Nix was born in 1963 in Melbourne, Australia. A full-time writer since 2001, he has previously worked as a literary agent, marketing consultant, book editor, book publicist, book sales representative, bookseller, and as a part-time soldier in the Australian Army Reserve. Garth’s novels include the award-winning fantasies Sabriel, Lirael and Abhorsen and the YA SF novel Shade’s Children. His fantasy books for children include The Ragwitch; the six books of The Seventh Tower sequence; and the seven books of The Keys to the Kingdom series. His books have appeared on the bestseller lists of The New York Times, Publishers Weekly, The Guardian, The Sunday Times and The Australian. His work has been translated into 38 languages. He lives in a Sydney beach suburb with his wife and two children.

  To Hold the Bridge:

  An Old Kingdom Story

  Garth Nix

  Morghan stood under the arch of the aqueduct and watched the main gate of the Bridge Company’s legation, across the way. The tall, twin leaves of the gate were open, so he could see into the courtyard, and the front of the grand house beyond. There was great bustle and activity going on, with nine long wagons being loaded, and a tenth having a new iron-bound wheel shipped. People were dashing about in all directions, panting as they wheeled laden wheelbarrows, singing as they rolled barrels, and arguing over the order in which to load all manner of boxes, bales, sacks, chests, hides, tents and even a very large and over-stuffed chair of mahogany and scarlet cloth that was being carefully strapped atop one of the wagons and covered with a purpose-made canvas hood.

  The name of the company was carved into the stone above the gate: ‘The Worshipful Company of the Greenwash & Field Market Bridge’. That same name was written on the outside of the old and many-times folded paper that Morghan held in his hand. The paper, like the company, was much older than the young man. He had seen only twenty years, but the paper was a share certificate in an enterprise that had been founded in his great-grandfather’s time, some eighty-seven years ago.

  The Bridge Company, as it was universally called, there being no other of equal significance, had been formed to do exactly as its full name suggested: to build a bridge, specifically one that would cross the Greenwash, that wide and treacherous river that marked the Old Kingdom’s northern border. The bridge would eventually facilitate travel to the Field Market, a trading fair that by long-held custom took place at the turn of each season on a designated square mile of steppe some sixty leagues north of the river. There, merchants from the Old Kingdom would meet with traders from the nomadic tribes of both the closer steppe and the wild lands beyond the Rift, which lay still farther to the north and west.

  Despite the eighty-seven years, the bridge was still incomplete. During that time the company had constructed a heavy, cable-drawn ferry; a small castle on the northern bank; a fortified bastion in the middle of the river, and the piers, cutwaters and other foundation work of the actual bridge. Only the previous summer a narrow planked way had been laid down for the company’s workers and staff to cross on foot, but the full paved decking for the heavy wagons of the merchants was still at least a year or two away. Consequently, the only way to safely carry loads of trade goods across the river was by the ferry. The ferry, of course, was also a monopoly of the Company, as per the licence it had obtained from the Queen at its founding.

  The ferry, and the control it gave over the northern trade, was the foundation of the company’s wealth, nearly all of which was reinvested in the bridge which would one day enormously expand the northern trade and repay the investment a hundred-fold. It was this future that made the old, dirty and many-times folded share certificate Morghan held in his hand so valuable.

  At least, he had often been told it was very valuable, and he hoped that this was true, since it was the sole item of worth that his recently dead, feckless and generally disastrous parents had left him. The only doubt about its value was that they had left the share certificate to him, rather than selling it themselves, as they had sold all other items of worth that had been handed down from his grandmother’s estate.

  There was only one way to find out. The grim and cheerless notary who had wound up his parents’ estate had told him the share could not be freely sold or transferred without first being offered back to the company, in person, at Bridge House in Navis. Of more interest to Morghan, the notary had also informed him that the share made him eligible to join the company as a cadet, who one day might even rise to the exalted position of Bridgemaster. Then, true to his miserable nature, the clerk had added that very few cadets were taken on, and those only after most rigorous testing which none but the best-educated youngster might hope to pass. The implication was clear that he did not think Morghan would have much of a chance.

  But it was a chance, no matter how slim. So here Morghan was in Navis, after a rough and literally sickening three-day sea voyage from Belisaere, a passage that had cost him the single gold noble he possessed. It had been the gift of one of his mother’s lovers when he was fourteen, not freely given but offered to buy his silence. The weight of the unfamiliar gold coin in his hand had so shocked him that the man was gone before he could give it back, or tell him that he had no need to bribe him. He had learned young not to speak of anything his parents did, whether singly or together.

  One of the gate guards was looking at him, Morghan noted, and not in a friendly way. He tried to smile inoffensively, but he knew it just made him look even more suspicious. The guard rested his hand on the hilt of his sword and swaggered across the road. After a moment’s hesitation, Morghan stepped out from the shadow under the aqueduct and went to meet him. He kept his own hand well clear of the sword at his side. It was only a practice weapon anyway, blunt and dull, not much more than a metal club. That was why Emaun had let him take it from the Academy armoury; it had already been written off for replacement in the new term.

  ‘What are you up to?’ demanded the guard. His eyes flickered up and down Morghan, taking in the cheap sword but also the Charter Mark, clear on his forehead. The guard had the mark too, though this didn’t necessarily mean he was schooled in Charter Magic as Morghan was — at least to some degree. Not that he could do any magic, even if the guard decided he was some sort of threat and attacked him. There were probably a dozen or more proper Charter Mages within earshot, and many more around the town. They would note any sudden display of magic and come to investigate. A penniless trespasser would not be accorded much consideration, he was sure, and misuse of magic — Charter or Free — was a serious offence everywhere in the Old Kingdom.

  ‘I … I want to see the Bridgemaster,’ said Morghan. He held out his share certificate, so the guard could see the seal, the crazed wax roundel bearing the symbol of the half-made bridge arching over the wild river.

  ‘Bridgemistress, you mean, till tomorrow,’ said the guard, but his hand left his sword-hilt. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Morghan.’

  ‘In from the ship this morning? From Belisaere?’

  Morghan shrugged. ‘Most recently.’

  ‘And what’s your business with the Bridgemistress?’

  ‘I’m a shareholder,’ said Morghan. He lifted the certificate again.

  The guard glanced at the paper, and then at Morghan. He didn’t have to say anything for Morghan to know that he was looking at the young man’s frayed doublet that showed no blazon of house or service. His shirt had too few laces, and his sleeves were of very different colours, and not in a fashionable way. Even his boots, once of very high quality, did not quite match, the left boot being noticeably longer and more pointed in the toe. Both had been his father’s, but not at the same time.

  ‘You’d better see her, then,’ said the guard amiably, which was not the reaction Morghan had been expecting.

  ‘T-thank you,’ he stammered. ‘I …’

  He waved his hand, unable to say that he’d been expecting to be kicked to the roadside.

  ‘Don’t thank me yet,’ said the guard. ‘If you have real business here, that’s one thing. If you don’t, you’ll get worse from the Bridgemistress than you’d ever get from me. Go on in, across the court, up the stairs.’

  Morghan nodded and walked on, past the other three guards at the gate, into the courtyard. He wove his way through all the activity, ducking aside or stepping back as required, trying to keep out of the way. It was difficult, for there were at least a hundred people hard at work. As he weaved his way through and heard snatches of conversation, Morghan caught on that the entire caravan was leaving soon, that he had arrived just in time to catch the seasonal changing of the work crew on the bridge. This was the winter expedition, near to setting off, and when it arrived the autumn crew would return to Navis and refit for the spring.

  There was as much bustle inside the house as out. Morghan walked gingerly through the open front door into a high-vaulted atrium dominated by a broad stair. The room, though very large, was entirely full of clerks, papers, maps and plans. A long table stretched some forty feet from the rear wall, and was heaped with stacks of ledgers, books, map cases and rolled parchments tied with many different-coloured ribbons.

  There were several people sitting on the steps, with their papers, books, inkwells and quills piled around them so widely that Morghan had to tread most carefully.

  At the top landing, another guard waited patiently for Morghan to step over an abacus that was precariously perched next to a clerk stretched out asleep on the second-last stair.

  Though she was at least six inches shorter than him, wore only a linen shirt and breeches r ather than a mail hauberk like the gate guards, and had a long dagger at her side instead of a sword, Morghan knew that he would not last a second if he was foolish enough to try to fight this woman. The dark skin of her hands and wiry forearms was covered in small white scars, testament to a score or more years of fighting, but more telling than that was the look in her bright blue eyes. They were fierce, the gaze of a well-fed hawk that has a pigeon carelessly held, and though it can’t be bothered right now, could disembowel that prey in an instant. She also bore a Charter Mark on her forehead, and Morghan instinctively knew that she would be a Charter Mage. A real, trained Mage, not someone like him who had only a smattering of knowledge and power.

  ‘Pause there, young master,’ she said, and held up one hand.

  Morghan stopped below the topmost step, so that their eyes were almost level. The woman pointed two fingers towards the Charter Mark on his forehead, and waited.

  Morghan nodded and raised his hand to touch the woman’s own Mark at the same time she laid her fingers on his brow. He felt the familiar, warm flash pass through his hand, and the swarm of Charter symbols came close behind, a great endless sea of marks rising up to him as he fell into it and was connected with the entirety of the world … and then they were gone as he let his hand fall and the woman stepped back to allow him up the final step, both their connections to the Charter having proven true, neither one corrupted or faked.

  ‘It pays to be cautious,’ she said. ‘Though it is some forty years since Bridgemaster Jark was assassinated by a Free Magic construct.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Morghan. He wanted to ask why anyone would want to assassinate a Bridgemaster, but it didn’t seem like the moment.

  ‘Really,’ said the woman drily. ‘What is your name and your business here?’

  ‘I am Morghan, and … uh … I wish to see the Bridgemistress.’

  ‘So you are,’ said the woman impatiently. ‘I am Amiel, Winter Bridgemistress of the Greenwash Bridge Company.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Morghan. He looked down at the share certificate, unfolded it and proffered it to Amiel. ‘I … I … uh … inherited a share in the company from my parents …’

  Amiel took the paper, flicked it fully open, and glanced across the elegantly printed lines, the handwritten number and the gold-flecked seal. Then she leaned forward and prodded the sleeping clerk on the top step. ‘Famagus! Wake up!’

  The clerk, an elderly man, grunted and slowly sat up.

  ‘I told you everything has been done, to the last annotation,’ he complained. ‘A nap is the least I deserve!’

  ‘I need you to look up a share,’ said Amiel. ‘Number Four Hundred and Twenty-One, in the name of Sabela of Nerrym Cross.’

  ‘My grandmother—’ said Morghan.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Famagus interrupted. He groaned again as he stood up, and tottered down several steps to pick up a very large and thick ledger that was bound in mottled hide, reinforced with bronze studs and corner-guards. He opened this expertly at almost the right place, turned two pages, and ran his index finger along the lines recorded there.

  ‘Share Four Hundred and Twenty-One, dividends anticipated for the next seven years, the maximum permitted, paid to one Hirghan, son of Sabela—’

  ‘My father—’

  ‘Care of the Three Coins, an inn in Belisaere,’ concluded Famagus. He shut the ledger with a snap, put it down and yawned widely.

  ‘This share is essentially worthless,’ said Amiel. ‘Your father borrowed from the company against it, and it cannot be redeemed or sold until that sum is repaid.’

  Morghan’s hand shook as he took the paper back. He sucked in an urgent breath, and just managed to stutter out what he had come to say.

  ‘I-I don’t want money … I want to join the company.’

  Amiel looked him up and down. Though her gaze was neutral, neither scornful nor encouraging, Morghan blinked uneasily, knowing that what she saw was not promising. He was tall and thin and did not look strong, though in fact he had the same wiry strength and constitution that had allowed his father to take far longer to drink himself to death than should otherwise have been the case. His dark eyes came from his mother, though not her beauty, and he had nothing of the selfishness and cruel disregard for others that had been the strongest characteristic of both his parents.

  ‘You want to enrol as a cadet in the company?’ asked Amiel. ‘The indenture is five years, and there’s no pay in that time. Board, lodging and equipment, that’s all.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Morghan. It was precisely the certainty of food and a roof over his head that he sought. ‘I know.’

  The Bridgemistress looked at him with those fierce blue eyes. Morghan met her gaze, though he found it very difficult. Somehow he knew that if he looked away, whatever slim chance he had would be gone.

  ‘Very well,’ said Amiel slowly. ‘We’d best see if you are suitable. It is no small thing to be a cadet of the company. Come.’

  She led the way across the landing into a roomy chamber that had tall windows overlooking the front courtyard. There was a desk against one wall, with several neatly organised stacks of paper arranged on its surface, lined up behind an ink-stained green blotter that had a half-written letter secured upon it by a bronze paperweight in the shape of a nine-arched bridge. A bookshelf occupied the opposite wall, the top shelf taken by a case of swords and the lower shelves occupied by at least a hundred volumes of various sizes and bindings.

  ‘Do you have any knowledge of the art mathematica?’ asked Amiel. She ushered Morghan into the room, and went to the bookshelf to take down a small volume.

  ‘Yes, milady,’ answered Morghan. ‘I have studied at the Academy of Magister Emaun in Belisaere for the past Six years.’

  ‘You have a letter attesting to your studies with the Magister?’ asked Amiel.

  Morghan wet his lips.

  ‘N-no, milady. I was not a paying pupil. I-I worked in the kitchens and yard for the Magister, from dawn to noon, and attended lessons thereafter.’

  He did not mention that the Magister’s lessons had been erratic and depended much on his whim. Morghan had learned more by himself than he had ever been taught, but at least working for the Academy had gained him access to the Magister’s library. He had worked more regularly and longer hours at the Three Coins, where his parents were sometimes guests and always debtors. He knew stables and cellar better than any school room. He had also learned more at the inn than from the academy. Hrymkir the innkeeper was an educated and well-travelled man, and, as a former guardsman, both an experienced fighter and a minor Charter Mage. He had passed much of his knowledge on to Morghan, in return for his work as stablehand, potboy and occasional cook. The lessons were all the pay Morghan ever saw, though his labour supposedly helped to reduce his parents’ debt.

  ‘Then we shall see what you have learned,’ said Amiel. She flicked through the pages of the book and placed it open on the desk, next to a writing case and a sheaf of paper off-cuts, intended for informal notes or jottings. ‘Prepare your paper, cut a new pen, and answer the mathematical problems set out on these two pages. You may have until the noon bell to finish.’

  Morghan glanced out the casement window at the sun, which was already rather high. Noon could not be far off. He took off his sword-belt and leaned the weapon against the desk, hilt ready to hand, before he sat down on the polished, high-backed chair and leant over the desk to focus on the open book. His hand shook as he drew the volume closer. But the shaking eased as Morghan read, and he found that he readily understood the problems. They were not particularly difficult, but there were eleven questions, addressing various matters of practical geometry, calculation and mathematical logic, though all in practical settings, concerned with the wages of artisans and labourers, the cost and quantity of goods, the time required for works and so on. All the questions required a lengthy series of workings to arrive at the correct solution or solutions.

  Morghan was halfway through question six when the great bell in the tower above the town’s citadel boomed out, its deep voice sounding to him like the roar of one of the disgruntled customers at the Three Coins upon discovering their ale had been watered beyond even their low expectations.

 

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