The Magician's Land (The Magicians, #3)(53)

“Who calls the Prince of the Mud?”

The snapping turtle spoke slowly. Its voice was raspy, an old chain smoker’s. Its head was blunt and blocky and a little bit comic, kind of like a talking thumb. Its piggy eyes were set deep in nests of horny skin, which made it look angry, which Eliot was going to assume it was until it proved otherwise.

“Oh,” it said. “You.”

“Yeah, me. Pooh, you smell.”

“The smell of life.”

“The smell of farts. Got a question for you.”

“What else do you have for me? I cannot eat questions. The hunting has been poor.”

Its huge face was all hide and beak. Its neck was as thick as its head.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Sometimes Eliot wondered if Janet were a little bit sociopathic. How else could she possibly sound bored and casual in this situation? Though Eliot knew she had feelings, she just kept them in different places from most people. “We’ve got a couple of horses. Answer my question and we’ll talk.”

Eliot kept his face blank. She had to be bluffing. No way was Janet giving this thing the horses.

“I’m High King Eliot,” he said.

“He owns this shithole,” Janet said.

“I am Prince—”

“Prince of the Mud,” she cut him off. “Which Eliot owns. We know. You’re a giant turtle.”

“Your kingdom may be wide, but it is spread thin. Mine runs deep.”

It turned its head slowly from side to side, studying them with first one matte-looking eye, then the other. A jellyfish drifted past, its tentacles limply brushing the turtle’s forehead, but the leviathan didn’t appear to notice.

“Ember says Fillory is dying,” Eliot said. “What do you think? Is it true?”

“Death. Life. A fish dies. A billion mites eat it and live. In the swamp there is no difference.”

“There is to the fish,” Janet said. “You’re a shitty philosopher, so don’t try. Is Fillory dying?”

If turtles had shoulders it would have shrugged.

“Yes then. Fillory is dying. Give me horses.”

“Wait, are you serious?” Janet was pissed now. She looked like she hadn’t believed it until this moment. “It’s really ending? Well, can we stop it?”

“You cannot.”

“We can’t,” Eliot said. “But maybe there’s somebody who could?”

“I cannot say. Ask the queen.”

“I’m the queen,” Janet said. “Or I’m a queen. I’m the main queen. I’m asking you.”

“Queen of the dwarves. In the Barrens. Enough. Give me horses or let me be.”

The turtle began to sink, slowly, withdrawing its head under the shelf of its shell, barely disturbing the black water till its chin rested on the surface.

“I don’t know any dwarf queens,” Janet said. “You know any dwarf queens, Eliot?”

“Heck no. Because there aren’t any female dwarfs. They don’t exist.”

“She doesn’t exist,” Janet said to the turtle. “Try again.”

“Listen closer.”

The snapping turtle snapped. Its head shot out to maximum extension—Eliot wouldn’t have believed anything that big could move that fast. It was like a Mack truck coming straight at them. As it bit it turned its head on one side, to take them both in one movement.

Eliot reacted fast. His reaction was to crouch down and cover his face with his arms. From the relative safety of this position he felt the day grow colder around them, and he heard a crackle, which at first he took for the pier splintering in the turtle’s jaws. But the end didn’t come.

“You dare?” Janet said.

Her voice was loud now—it made the boards vibrate sympathetically under his feet. He looked up at her. She’d gone airborne, floating two feet above the pier, and her clothes were rimed with frost. She radiated cold; mist sheeted off her skin as it would off dry ice. Her arms were spread wide, and she had an axe in each hand. They were those twin staves she wore on her back, each one now topped with an axe-head of clear ice.

The turtle was trapped in mid-lunge. She’d stopped it cold; the swamp was frozen solid around it. Janet had called down winter, and the water of the Northern Marsh was solid ice as far as he could see, cracked and buckled up in waves. The turtle was stuck fast in it. It struggled, its head banging back and forth impotently.

“Jesus,” Eliot said. He stood up out of his defensive crouch. “Nice one.”

“You dare?” Janet said again, all imperious power. “Marvel that you live, Prince of Shit.”

The turtle didn’t seem surprised, just mad.

“I’ll have you,” it hissed, and it surged and strained. The ice squeaked and groaned and started to split. Janet leaned into the casting, however she was doing it, and froze the swamp harder and tighter.

“I will freeze your eyes,” she said, “and shatter them! I will split your shell and pick out the meat!”

Jesus, where did she get this stuff? The turtle strained once more and then was still, like a great ship frozen in arctic pack ice. It stared at them furiously, its eyes burning with murder. Janet let herself float down to the wooden boards.

“Fuck you,” Janet said. “You know better. Next time I’ll kill you.”