Garth Nix - Grim Tuesday

Arthur slipped off his comfortable, arch-supported, computer-designed sneakers and put on the straw-stuffed wooden clogs. They felt loose and extremely uncomfortable. When he stood up he couldn’t take a step without his heels lifting out.

“I can’t even walk in these,” he protested.

“All the indentured Denizens wear them,” said the Lieutenant Keeper. “You cannot risk being given away by your footwear. Now, for the smog. It contains minute particles of Nothing, so it wears down Denizens and will almost certainly slay a mortal. Which hand did you hold the First Key in most?”

“The right,” said Arthur.

“Then you must put two fingers from your right hand up your nostrils and your thumb in your mouth while you inhale and recite this small spell: First Key, grant this boon to me, that the air I breathe be pure and safe, and keep from me all harm and scathe .”

“What?”

The Lieutenant Keeper repeated his instructions and added, “You may need to repeat this spell as it too will be worn down by the smog, and the residual powers of the Key will fade from your flesh. Do not stay overlong in the Far Reaches, particularly the Pit.”

“I won’t if I can help it,” muttered Arthur. “I guess I can always get out up the Improbable Stair if I really have to.”

The Lieutenant Keeper shook his head.

“You mean I can’t use the Stair?” asked Arthur. He knew the Stair was risky, but at least it had been an option. Like a parachute or a fire escape. Some faint hope of escape from disaster.

“You would never reach a favourable destination,” said the Lieutenant Keeper. “Not without a Key, or a well-practised guide.”

“Great,” said Arthur dolefully. He carefully put his fingers in his nostrils and his thumb in his mouth. It was difficult to say the spell around his thumb, but possible. He felt a tingling in his nose and throat as he said the words, and at the end of the spell let out an enormous sneeze that rocked him back on his heels.

“Good!” declared the Lieutenant Keeper as he quickly consulted his watch again. “Now we must return you to your destination. I have done all I can, Arthur Penhaligon, and more than I should. Be brave and take appropriate risks, and you shall prevail.”

“But what… please tell someone where I’ve gone—”

Before Arthur could say any more, the Lieutenant Keeper snapped a salute, turned on his heel to get behind Arthur and gave him a very hefty push. Arthur, arms cartwheeling, went straight through the strange liquid barrier and once more fell on his hands and knees on the cold stone floor. His left clog came off and clattered away, and his hood fell down over his face.

As Arthur struggled with his hood, a bright light shone on him. Arthur looked up and shielded his eyes from a lantern held high by a short, broad figure. The light was shrouded and blurred by the smoke, so for a second Arthur thought he was looking at some sort of pig-man; then he realised it was the thrusting visor of a helmet. The fellow also wore a bronze breastplate over a long leather coat and had a broad, curved sword thrust naked through his belt. More peculiarly, he had what looked like a miniature steam-engine in a harness on his back, that was sending a steady flow of smoke up behind his neck and small bursts of steam from out behind his elbows.

That one small engine couldn’t possibly be the cause of the thick smoke behind the looming figure. It was like a fog, so heavy that Arthur could only make out fuzzy lights and occasional blurry shapes moving in its midst. Noise was also muffled. Arthur could hear a distant roar, as if there was a crowd somewhere, but he couldn’t see it, and there was also a kind of metallic thumping noise that sounded like machinery.

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