“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.
The boy did not answer right away. His black eyes, which Beetle noticed were flecked with green, flickered around like a lizard’s. It seemed to Beetle as if the boy was making up a name on the spot.
Beetle was right. Merrin needed a name fast and he wanted something special. He didn’t like being Merrin Meredith; it didn’t feel like him. Besides, it was a stupid name. Meredith was a girl’s name and he thought that Merrin was plain silly. He needed something scary. Quickly, Merrin chose the two scariest people he had known in his life—DomDaniel and the Hunter.
Beetle was getting impatient. “So what’s your name?” he asked.
“Dom—er, I mean, Daniel.”
“DomDaniel?” Beetle shook his head.
“Don’t be stupid. I said Daniel. Daniel. Got that?”
Beetle concentrated on keeping calm and said, “Daniel what?”