The Dark Flight Down (6 page)

4

Boy struggled, but four pairs of hands held him firmly, so firmly that there was no chance of escape.

He spat the handkerchief from his mouth.

“You can’t do this!” he yelled as he tried to kick out at the men carrying him. “I’ve done nothing! You can’t do this!”

The men did not reply, but one of them struck Boy across the back of his head with an open hand.

“Little brat!” he said, to his companions.

They were hurrying down a narrow dark passage, the rough-cut stone floor sloping away before them.

“Would be easier just to chuck him down there,” one of them muttered.

“Where?”

“You know where I mean.”

“And save some other poor soul,” said another voice.

“You heard what he said,” said the second voice. “Put him in the river and get back to work.”

There was no more talk after that.

The men renewed their pace; Boy doubled his efforts to break free and was cuffed around the head again, and punched in the ribs this time too. Now he heard the sound of water rushing past somewhere nearby.

“Right, then, let’s be done with it.”

Boy knew they were standing by an underground quay. He could hear and smell the running water, and knew he was once more at the edge of the subterranean water-world of canals and catacombs through which he had been relentlessly pursued by Valerian in the Dead Days before the end of the year. So there was at least one connection from the palace to that cold, damp hidden city beneath the City itself.

“Right!” shouted one of the men. “On three . . .”

Boy had given up trying to plead, but tried to wriggle and kick harder than ever. He was helpless, and he knew that as soon as he hit the water he would sink like a stone.

“One!” the man shouted.

“Two!”

There was another shout from behind them.

“Hold!”

Boy already recognized that commanding voice: Maxim.

Two of the men hesitated. The third had already begun to swing Boy’s knees out, and lost his grip. Boy’s bottom half sank under the water. The two holding him by the shoulders nearly overbalanced and followed him into the water.

Maxim ran over to the men. With his help, Boy was easily retrieved from the under-river.

The men stood back from where Boy now lay on the quayside.

“Sire?” one of them said, looking up at Maxim.

Boy could sense the basis of the relationship between the men and Maxim. It was something he knew well from life with Valerian: fear.

Valerian. Boy now knew who Maxim had reminded him of when he had first seen him in the ballroom. They shared the same strange mix of desperation and frightening power.

Maxim surveyed the scene before him. He wrung the sleeve of his robe, which had dipped into the water.

“The emperor may not think he needs the boy,” he said, “but I do. Leave him with me.”

The men shuffled away a step or two, heading back for the steps to the palace.

“Very good, sire,” said one.

Boy rolled over and managed to get to his knees. He looked up at Maxim.

“Oh,” Maxim said, as they went. “One more thing. Forget what happened here. If anyone asks, you threw the boy in the river as you were told. I’ll see to him from now.”

Boy, soaked from the waist down, dripped onto the stone flags and shivered, finding no comfort at all in Maxim’s words.

5

Boy’s body lay asleep one hundred and fifty feet below the shiny bright marble floor of the court, but his mind was elsewhere. In feverish dreaming he made his way along a stone corridor, crumbling and night black. He thought he would stop at the top of the flight of stone steps he had been expecting, but with alarm found that he had already begun to go down them, step by steep step.

Unable to stop, his feet moved by themselves, drawing him deeper down toward the thing waiting for him. For he knew without question that something lived at the foot of the dark flight of stairs, something that could take his life from him.

The stairs were narrow, their treads not even wide enough for him to get the whole of his foot on each one, and they were so sickeningly steep as to make his head reel.

He looked round and could no longer see the entrance at the top of the stairs. Panicking, he turned and missed his footing. He slipped forward, tipping headlong down the awful staircase, plummeting toward the thing.

He screamed.

He woke.

6

Boy had no idea how long he’d been in the cell.

After Maxim had saved him from being drowned in the under-river, he’d been dragged by his neck down unfathomable passages to a high-vaulted chamber somewhere deep beneath the palace. Around its walls were a series of cells, constructed from iron bars on three sides, and whose backs were the stone wall of the dungeon itself. The bars ran right up to the roof, so there was no way to climb over them.

Boy could see at least three cells on either side of him, and a similar row on the far side of the chamber, which was lit by a smoky oil lamp hanging on a vast chain that dangled from the center of the ceiling.

Maxim had swung the door of his cell shut and clanked a key in its lock.

“I’ll be back” was all he had said, and he left.

Boy had not been searched by any of his captors, and still had his lockpick in his pocket.

Having waited a good while after Maxim had left, Boy looked about him. As far as he could see in the half-light, there was no one in any of the other cells, but once or twice he wondered if he had heard something on the other side of the room.

He rummaged around in the lock and soon flicked the tumblers into their right positions. The lock turned and Boy once more paused and looked about. Still nothing. He tiptoed out of his cell, and moved to the center of the chamber, underneath the oil lamp.

In the darkness, Boy could not see all of the dungeon at once. He could just make out groups of cells against the walls, and in the space in the middle he saw a simple fireplace with a stand for a pot or cauldron to be hung above it. In the middle of the room there was also a table of sorts, and a chair, more like a wooden throne. Boy went closer. The table and chair reminded him for a moment of some of the bits of equipment Valerian had used in their stage act, but then he realized what they were. A chair with locks on the arms, a table with a ratchet at the end.

Boy decided not to wait any longer.

The floor of the dungeon sloped slightly up at one side, and in the wall on the highest side was the door through which Maxim had left.

Boy made for the door quickly, and tried the handle. It was locked, of course, and there was no keyhole on the inside.

Boy’s heart began to pound, and he shook the handle violently. It was no use. He sat down on the floor with his back to the door, trying to decide what to do.

He sat still, thinking about how he might escape at first, but as he failed to find any solution other thoughts came to mind. He thought of Willow, of where she was and what she was doing. He wondered what she might be thinking after he had not turned up by the fountain.

His brooding was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. He got up and as quickly as he could skipped back to his cell, locking the door behind him. If he was going to be stuck, then he reasoned it was a good idea not to let his captors know he could pick locks, and that he could at least get out of the inner cell. Just as Boy hid the lockpick in his pocket once more, the far door banged open.

Boy was surprised and also somewhat relieved to see that it was not Maxim who entered the room, but a small, crooked man, bald, in shabby clothes. That at least meant that one other person knew where Boy was, that his life was not solely dependent on Maxim’s interests in him.

The man carried a tray on which were two bowls. He came over to Boy’s cell, and put the tray on the floor. Only now could Boy see that the man was blind. His eyes were open but stared blankly, focusing on nothing. Boy wondered how he was able to move across the chamber to the one cell where Boy was without hesitating. It must mean he had done it many, many times before.

The blind jailer picked one of the bowls up and slid it between the bars.

“There you go,” he said. “Make it last.”

Boy looked in the wooden bowl and saw a slop of gray sludge. There was no spoon.

The man got to his feet and picked up the tray once more, taking the other bowl with it.

“Wait!” Boy cried. “Don’t go! Tell me what’s going on! What are they going to do with me?”

The man didn’t stop.

“I’ve no idea,” he said as he went. “I just bring the food.”

“Wait! Please come back!” Boy called, but the jailer was already away on the far side of the chamber, and paid Boy no more attention.

He got up, and paced around the cell, trying not to think about anything other than how to get out of the foul hole in which he found himself.

After a while he stopped, having failed to come up with anything, though it occurred to him that there was something significant he had learnt.

He had learnt that there was someone in one of the other cells—the second bowl of food must have been for another prisoner.

Boy looked at his own food.

He determined to eat it, then go to find out who else was locked up in the dungeon, but he had taken no more than a mouthful before the oil lamp began to flicker and die.

Very soon it gave up the ghost entirely, and Boy finished his food in darkness. Unable to see, he dared not venture out, and lay down.

Some time later, he heard, or at least thought he heard, a sound. The sound of someone singing. It was so faint that he couldn’t be sure he wasn’t imagining it, and very soon he could hear nothing more at all, though he strained to do so.

Since then he had heard nothing else, nor seen anything else. With no stimulus to his senses, all that lay before his eyes was a ghost image—the image of a stone staircase dropping down to the dark unknown.

7

For two days Willow had hung around near the palace walls, trying to find some way into the vast complex of buildings. Despite its size, the palace had relatively few entrances, to make its defense easier. In fact the palace had never been attacked by any invading force or local uprising. Long before, when the power of the empire still existed, its strength had been so great that no army would have ever dared to invade. These days, the empire was long gone, the palace was a strange curiosity to most people, and though it still governed the City in name, most decisions were taken by various guilds, leagues and organizations. The City and the palace largely ignored each other.

Still, due to the paranoia and vanity of a succession of peculiar emperors, each dottier than the last, the palace retained notions that it was a castle, and as a result, ingress to and egress from it were strictly controlled. Despite its current state of decline, the reputation of the palace as a seat of influence, wealth and great learning remained alluring to travelers across the entire continent.

Willow had run away from the orphanage without even collecting a week’s pay. For the first time in her life she was out on the streets, and had already started to learn what it must have been like for Boy all those years. Hunger had taken the edge off her sharp sense of right and wrong, and she had stolen some bread from a street merchant. As soon as she had eaten it, however, she felt guilty, and vowed she would pay the man back three times over when she could.

Now she sat on a stone bollard across the street from one of the main entrances to the palace, the East Gate. Like the only other main entrance, the North Gate, this way into the palace was heavily guarded, and fortified. Willow had watched for hours to see if there was some chink in the armor that might offer her a chance to get inside, but she had seen none. Every trader or visitor had to present themselves at a grilled window, and explain the purpose of their visit. Many of them seemed to wave a paper document or similar at the guard inside before the heavy iron spiked portcullis was raised to allow them in.

There was no way in through the East Gate unless you had official business. It was exactly the same at the North Gate, Willow knew, because she had spent several hours there the day before doing just the same thing.

She sat disconsolately on her bollard, getting colder by the minute. It was late afternoon, and the snow fell incessantly. It had been days since anyone had seen the sun, and the City was grinding to a halt. Willow had heard two merchants muttering that there would be food shortages soon if the snow went on. They seemed solemn for a moment, then laughed about putting their prices up as supplies became scarcer.

Willow got up and began to walk around the palace again. There was a cobbled street that ran right around its base. It was called the Planting, because on either side the street was lined with lime trees. In the summer they provided beautiful rustling shade from the sun; in the winter they were bare, stripped things that pointed fingers rudely at the sky.

Willow had walked nearly a mile and was close to the North Gate once more. As she gazed at its impenetrable face yet again, she noticed something.

Keeping herself alert to all the comings and goings, she watched one particular man. He was carrying a large bag on his shoulders, and after a lengthy conversation with two of the guards, was let in through the outer gates.

Willow ran forward, and was in time to see the man being escorted by another guard up the sloping road that led to the inner gates.

Suddenly she heard footsteps close in behind her, and before she could turn felt her arms grabbed from behind.

She wrenched herself free and spun around.

“You!” she cried.

In front of her stood Kepler, scowling.

“Willow,” he said. “Why am I not surprised to see you here?”

8

On the third day Maxim paid Boy a visit.

He stood outside the cell in which Boy had been moldering, by turns sleeping and waking, ravaged by hunger.

“You, boy,” he said. “What’s your name?”

Boy wondered what he meant. Maxim stared at him, fixing him to the spot. Boy looked back at him. He was tall, perhaps as tall as Valerian, but he was bigger, heavier. His face was somewhat round, giving way to the passing years maybe, but it was nevertheless striking, with strong eyes and nose. He had no hair, which made his large ears even more pronounced. He had the devil’s own deep voice.

“Answer me, you insolent boy!” he barked at Boy. “What is your name?”

Now Boy understood. Of course, the man in front of him didn’t know he was called Boy.

“Boy,” Boy said.

“Don’t try to be clever with me,” Maxim threatened, “or my patience may run out quicker than you would like.”

“I’m not. Boy’s my name.”

Maxim paused.

“You . . .”

“I don’t have a name,” Boy said helpfully.

“You must have a name,” Maxim said. “What do people call you?”

“Boy. They call me Boy. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I grew up on the streets. No one knows who my parents are.”

“How touching,” said Maxim unkindly. “Very well. I shall call you Boy too. Listen to me, Boy. You are going to help me. I need information. And you’re going to give it to me. If you tell me what I need to know, I will reward you by letting you go free from here. Back to the streets. If you fail me, you’ll die down here.”

Boy took a step back, despite the bars between them.

“What . . . ,” he said, “what you want me to do? I don’t know anything.”

“Yes, you do. Yes,” Maxim said. “You were until recently the famulus of the magician, Valerian. Correct?”

Boy did not answer.

“Correct?” Maxim shouted.

“Yes,” said Boy. “Yes, I was.”

“Then you must have been privy to his dealings. I know you assisted him in his work, both on- and offstage. Don’t look surprised. You think I don’t have men out in the City? I have spies everywhere and I know much about Valerian. For example, I know he was more than just a stage conjuror. Correct?”

Boy nodded.

“Yes, but I never really knew—”

“Be quiet, Boy,” Maxim said harshly. “Wait until I ask you to think. Now, I know you know about his magical skills, and I also know he was looking for something shortly before his death. A book. You know about that?”

Boy went cold.

“No,” he said. “I don’t know about any book.”

Maxim stepped right up to the bars of the cell.

“You’re lying. Don’t lie to me, Boy, or I will get someone down here to hurt you. Tell me about the book.”

Just to hear mention of the book was enough to put a chill in Boy’s heart. He had seen what it had done to Valerian and Kepler, he knew of its deceitful power. And yet he wanted it too.

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Boy, backing away across the cell. His heels suddenly hit the back wall and he jumped. “I mean,” he said, “I know a little about his tricks, and I know he had lots of books, but I don’t know anything about them. I can’t read very well, you see.”

“Be quiet!” Maxim said. “Don’t play games with me! I know you know about one particular book, one very special book. Where is it? Did Valerian find it before he died? Tell me!”

Boy shook his head, and hoped his voice wasn’t shaking too badly.

“I don’t know,” he cried, “I really don’t. I know about his tricks and some of the equipment, but I don’t know about a special book.”

Maxim turned away, scowling. Boy held his breath, wondering if he’d been convincing enough. His mind was racing, as he frantically tried to work out whether Maxim could know about the book, and if so, from whom. And, more crucially, what he wanted it for.

Maxim turned back to him.

“That’s enough for now,” he said. He gave no sign betraying whether he believed Boy’s story. “I’ll be back soon. And you will be more forthcoming next time. I promise you that. I have plenty of need for blood down here, Boy, so think about what you do, and don’t, know. Think very carefully.”

He moved off, still glowering at Boy, and then turned on his heel and spun away through the door.