That feeling was fuelled by the knowledge that this was actually what was going to happen when she spoke the Free Magic spell to cross the Fifth Gate. There was no path or stair here – the spell simply made sure the waterclimb didn’t take you too far.

“You’d better hold my collar, Mistress,” said the Dog, eyeing the rising water. “The spell won’t include me otherwise.”

Lirael sheathed her sword and grabbed the Dog’s collar, her fingers feeling the warmth and comfortable familiarity of the Charter marks that made it up. She had a strange sense of déjà vu as she pushed her fingers through, as if she knew the Charter marks from somewhere else – somewhere relatively new, not just from the thousand times she had held the collar. But she had no time to follow that feeling to some conclusion.

Holding the Dog tight, Lirael spoke the words that would carry them up the waterclimb, once again feeling the heat of Free Magic through her nose and mouth. She would likely lose her voice from it eventually, she thought, but it also seemed to have cured her Ancelstierran cold. Though she might still have a cold in her real body, out in Life. She didn’t know enough about how things like that in Death would affect her in Life. Of course, if she were slain in Death, her body would die in Life as well.

The spell was slow to start and for a moment Lirael contemplated saying it again. Then she saw a sheet of water reach out of the surface of the waterclimb, moving like a strange, very thin, very wide tentacle. It crossed the gap to the ribbon path in a series of shuddering extensions and wrapped around Lirael and the Dog like a large blanket, without actually touching them. Then it began to rise up the waterclimb, moving at the same rate as the vertical current – taking Lirael and her closely gripped hound with it.

They rose steadily for several minutes, till the precinct below was lost in the fuzzy grey light. The waterclimb continued upwards – perhaps for ever – but the extension that held Lirael stopped. Then it suddenly snapped back into the face of the waterclimb – throwing its passengers out the other side.

Lirael blinked as she hurtled into what her common sense told her should be a cliff, but the back of the waterclimb no more followed common sense than the waterclimb acknowledged gravity. Somehow, it had pushed them through to the next precinct. The Sixth, a place where the river became a shallow pool and there was no current at all. But there were lots and lots of Dead.

Lirael felt them so strongly, they might have been standing next to her – and some probably were, under the water. Instantly, she let go of the collar and drew Nehima, the sword humming as it sprang from its scabbard.

The sword and the bell she held were warning enough for most of the Dead. In any case, the great majority were simply waiting here till something happened and they were forced to go on, since they lacked the will and the knowledge to go back the other way. Very few were actively struggling back towards Life.

Those that were saw the great spark of Life in Lirael and they hungered for it. Other necromancers had assuaged their hunger in the past and helped them back from the brink of the Ninth Gate – willingly or not. This one was young, and should thus be easy prey for any of the Greater Dead who chanced to be close.

There were three who were.

Lirael looked out and saw that huge shadows stalked between the apathetic lesser spirits, fires burning where once their living forms had eyes. There were three close enough to intercept her intended path – and that was three too many.

But once again The Book of the Dead had advice upon such a confrontation in the Sixth Precinct. And, as always, she had the Disreputable Dog.

As the three monstrous Greater Dead thrust their way towards her, Lirael replaced Ranna and drew Saraneth. Carefully composing herself this time, she rang it, joining her indomitable will with its deep call.

The Dead creatures hesitated as Saraneth’s strong voice echoed out across the Precinct, and they prepared to fight, to struggle against this presumptuous necromancer who thought to bend them to her will.

Then they laughed, awful laughter that sounded like a great crowd of people caught between absurdity and sorrow. For this necromancer was so incompetent that she had focused her will not upon them, but on the Lesser Dead who lay all around.

Still laughing, the Greater Dead plunged forward, greedy now, each warily eyeing the others to gauge if they were weak enough to push out of the way. For whoever reached this necromancer first would gain the delight of consuming the greater part of her life. Life and power, the only things that were of any use for the long journey out of Death.

They didn’t even notice the first few spirits who clutched at their shadowy legs or bit at their ankles, shrugging them off as a living person might ignore a few mosquito bites.

Then more and more spirits began to rise out of the water and hurl themselves at the three Greater Dead. They were forced to stop and swat these annoying Lesser Dead away, to rip them apart and rend them with their fiery jaws. Angrily, they stomped and threshed, roaring with anger now, the laughter gone.

Distracted, the Greater Dead closest to Lirael hardly noticed the Charter-spell that revealed its name to her, and it didn’t see her as she walked almost right up to where it fought against a churning mass of its lesser brethren.

But Lirael gained the creature’s full attention when a new bell rang, replacing Saraneth’s strident commands with an excitable march. This bell was Kibeth, close by the thing’s head, sounded with a dreadful tone specifically for its hearing. A tune that it couldn’t ignore, even after the bell had stopped.

“Lathal the Abomination!” commanded Lirael. “Your time has come. The Ninth Gate calls and you must go beyond it!”

Lathal screamed as Lirael spoke, a scream that carried the anguish of a thousand years. It knew that voice, for Lathal had made the long trek into Life twice in the last millennium, only to be forced back into Death by others with that same cold tone. Always, it had managed to stop itself being carried through to the ultimate gate. Now Lathal would never walk under the sun again, never drink the sweet life of the unsuspecting living. It was too close to the Ninth Gate and the compulsion was strong.

Drubas and Sonnir heard the bell, the scream and the voice, and knew that this was no foolish necromancer – it was the Abhorsen. A new one, for they knew the old and would have run from her. The sword was different too, but they would remember it in future.

Still screaming, Lathal turned and stumbled away, the Lesser Dead tearing at its legs as it staggered and tumbled through the water and constantly tried to turn back without success.

Lirael didn’t follow, because she didn’t want to be too close when it passed the Sixth Gate, in case the sudden current took her too. The other Greater Dead were moving hastily away, she noted with grim satisfaction, clubbing a path through the clinging spirits who still harassed them.

“Can I round them up, Mistress?” asked the Dog eagerly, staring after the retreating shapes of darkness with tense anticipation. “Can I?”

“No,” said Lirael firmly. “I surprised Lathal. Those two will be on their guard and would be much more dangerous together. Besides, we haven’t got time.”

As she spoke, Lathal’s scream was suddenly cut off and Lirael felt the river current suddenly spring up around her legs. She set her feet apart and stood against it, leaning back on the rock-steady Dog. The current was very strong for a few minutes, threatening to drag her under; then it subsided into nothing – and once again the waters of the Sixth Precinct were still.

Immediately, Lirael began to wade through to the point where she could summon the Sixth Gate. Unlike the other precincts, the Gate out of the Sixth Precinct wasn’t in any particular place. It would open randomly from time to time – which was a danger – or it could be opened anywhere a certain distance away from the Fifth Gate.