Authors: Diana Wynne Jones
Conrad's Fate
For Stella
Excerpt from
Howl's Moving Castle
Chapter One: In Which Sophie Talks to Hats
Excerpt from
The Merlin Conspiracy
Excerpt from
Dark Lord of Derkholm
When I was small, I always thought Stallery
Mansion was some kind of fairy-tale castle. I could see it from my bedroom window, high in the mountains above Stallchester, flashing with glass and gold when the sun struck it. When I got to the place at last, it wasn't exactly like a fairy tale.
Stallchester, where we had our shop, is quite high in the mountains, too. There are a lot of mountains here in Series Seven, and Stallchester is in the English Alps. Most people thought this was the reason why you could only receive television at one end of the town, but my uncle told me it was Stallery doing it.
“It's the protections they put round the place to stop anyone investigating them,” he said. “The magic blanks out the signal.”
My Uncle Alfred was a magician in his spare time, so he knew this sort of thing. Most of the time he made a living for us all by keeping the bookshop at the cathedral end of town. He was a skinny, worrity little man with a bald patch under his curls, and he was my mother's half brother. It always seemed a great burden to him, having to look after me and my mother and my sister, Anthea. He rushed about muttering, “And how do I find the
money
, Conrad, with the book trade so slow!”
The bookshop was in our name, tooâit said
GRANT AND TESDINIC
in faded gold letters over the bow windows and the dark green doorâbut Uncle Alfred explained that it belonged to him now. He and my father had started the shop together. Then, just after I was born and a little before he died, my father had needed a lot of money suddenly, Uncle Alfred told me, and he sold his half of the bookshop to Uncle Alfred. Then my father died, and Uncle Alfred had to support us.
“And so he should do,” my mother said in her vague way. “We're the only family he's got.”
My sister, Anthea, said she wanted to know what my father had needed the money for, but she never could find out. Uncle Alfred said he didn't know. “And you never get any sense out of Mother,” Anthea said to me. “She just says things like âLife is always a lottery' and âYour father was usually hard up'âso all I can think is that it must have been gambling debts. The casino's only just up the road, after all.”
I rather liked the idea of my father gambling half a bookshop away. I used to like taking risks myself. When I was eight, I borrowed some skis and went down all the steepest and iciest ski runs, and in the summer I went rock climbing. I felt I was really following in my father's footsteps. Unfortunately, someone saw me halfway up Stall Crag and told my uncle.
“Ah, no, Conrad,” he said, wagging a worried, wrinkled finger at me. “I can't have you taking these risks.”
“My dad did,” I said, “betting all that money.”
“He
lost
it,” said my uncle, “and that's a different matter. I never knew much about his affairs, but I have an ideaâa very shrewd ideaâthat he was robbed by those crooked aristocrats up at Stallery.”
“What?” I said. “You mean Count Rudolf came with a gun and held him up?”
My uncle laughed and rubbed my head. “Nothing so dramatic, Con. They do things quietly and mannerly up at Stallery. They pull the possibilities like gentlemen.”
“How do you mean?” I said.
“I'll explain when you're old enough to understand the magic of high finance,” my uncle replied. “Meanwhile ⦔ His face went all withered and serious. “Meanwhile, you can't afford to go risking your neck on Stall Crag, you really can't, Con, not with the bad karma you carry.”
“What's karma?” I asked.
“That's another thing I'll explain when you're older,” my uncle said. “Just don't let me catch you going rock climbing again, that's all.”
I sighed. Karma was obviously something very heavy, I thought, if it stopped you climbing rocks. I went to ask my sister, Anthea, about it. Anthea is nearly ten years older than me, and she was very learned even then. She was sitting over a line of open books on the kitchen table, with her long black hair trailing over the page she was writing notes on. “Don't bother me now, Con,” she said without looking up.
She's growing up just like Mum! I thought. “But I need to know what karma is.”
“Karma?” Anthea looked up. She has huge dark eyes. She opened them wide to stare at me, wonderingly. “Karma's sort of like Fate, except it's to do with what you did in a former life. Suppose that in a life you had before this one you did something bad, or
didn't
do something good, then Fate is supposed to catch up with you in
this
life, unless you put it right by being extra good, of course. Understand?”
“Yes,” I said, though I didn't really. “
Do
people live more than once, then?”
“The magicians say you do,” Anthea answered. “I'm not sure I believe it myself. I mean, how can you
check
that you had a life before this one? Where did you hear about karma?”
Not wanting to tell her about Stall Crag, I said vaguely, “Oh, I read it somewhere. And what's pulling the possibilities? That's another thing I read.”
“It's something that would take
ages
to explain, and I haven't time,” Anthea said, bending over her notes again. “You don't seem to understand that I'm working for an exam that could change my entire life!”
“When are you going to get lunch, then?” I asked.
“Isn't that just my life in a
nutshell
!” Anthea burst out. “I do all the work round here
and
help in the shop twice a week, and nobody even
considers
that I might want to do something different! Go away!”
You didn't mess with Anthea when she got this fierce. I went away and tried to ask Mum instead. I might have known that would be no good.
Mum has this little bare room with creaking floorboards half a floor down from my bedroom, with nothing in it much except dust and stacks of paper. She sits there at a wobbly table, hammering away at her old typewriter, writing books and magazine articles about women's rights. Uncle Alfred had all sorts of smooth new computers down in the back room where Miss Silex works, and he was always on at Mum to change to one as well. But nothing will persuade Mum to change. She says her old machine is much more reliable. This is true. The shop computers went down at least once a weekâthis, Uncle Alfred said, was because of the activities up at Stalleryâbut the sound of Mum's typewriter is a constant hammering, through all four floors of the house.
She looked up as I came in and pushed back a swatch of dark gray hair. Old photos show her looking rather like Anthea, except that her eyes are a light yellow-brown, like mine, but you would never think her anything like Anthea now. She is sort of faded, and she always wears what Anthea calls “that horrible mustard-colored suit” and forgets to do her hair. I like that. She's always the same, like the cathedral, and she always looks over her glasses at me the same way. “Is lunch ready?” she asked me.
“No,” I said. “Anthea's not even started it.”
“Then come back when it's ready,” she said, bending to look at the paper sticking up from her typewriter.
“I'll go when you tell me what pulling the possibilities means,” I said.
“Don't bother me with things like that,” she said, winding the paper up so that she could read her latest line. “Ask your uncle. It's only some sort of magicians' stuff. What do you think of âdisempowered broodmares' as a description? Good, eh?”
“Great,” I said. Mum's books are full of things like that. I'm never sure what they mean. That time I thought a disempowered broodmare was some sort of weak nightmare, and I went away thinking of all her other books, called things like
Exploited for Dreams
and
Disabled Eunuchs
. Uncle Alfred had a whole table of them down in the shop. One of my jobs was to dust them, but he almost never sold any, no matter how enticingly I piled them up.
I did lots of jobs in the shop, unpacking books, arranging them, dusting them, and cleaning the floor on the days Mrs. Potts's nerves wouldn't let her come. Mrs. Potts's nerves were always bad on the days after she had tried to tidy Uncle Alfred's workroom. The shop, and the whole house, used to echo then with shouts of “I told you just the
floor
, woman! You've
ruined
that experiment!
And
you're lucky not to be a goldfish! Touch it again and you'll
be
a goldfish!”
But Mrs. Potts, at least once a month, just could not resist stacking everything in neat piles and dusting the chalk marks off the workbench. Then Uncle Alfred would rush up the stairs shouting and the next day Mrs. Potts's nerves kept her at home and I would have to clean the shop floor. As a reward for this, I was allowed to read any books I wanted from the children's shelves.
To be brutally frank with youâwhich is Uncle Alfred's favorite phraseâthis reward meant nothing to me until about the time I heard about karma and Fate and started wondering what pulling the possibilities meant. Up to then I preferred doing risky things. Or I mostly wanted to go and see friends in the part of town where televisions worked. Reading was even harder work than cleaning the floor. But suddenly one day I discovered the Peter Jenkins books. You
must
know them:
Peter Jenkins and the Thin Teacher, Peter Jenkins and the Headmaster's Secret
, and all the others. They're great. Our shop had a whole row of them, at least twenty, and I set out to read them all.