The Empty Grave

by Jonathan Stroud

  We got up from behind the sacks. In the midst of the swirling silver-gray smoke, the dummy’s head hung swinging from the chain. Her body was gone.

  “Good old Esmeralda,” Lockwood said. “Fell in action. We should get upstairs.”

  Up the iron staircase, around and around. A bullet cracked against the metal tread beneath my feet, sending out a brief, bright spark. We burst into the kitchen. Holly and Kipps were standing side by side across the fragments of the fallen garden door. Two men in black clothes were attempting to get in. They had clubs, which they were swiping frantically left and right. Kipps and Holly swung their rapiers in furious, complex arcs, driving the men back, slicing gouges in the bludgeons, holding the line.

  A familiar face appeared in the dark behind the men. I caught a flash of pink cheeks, of blue and bulging eyes. “Out of the way, you idiots,” Sir Rupert Gale said. “I’ll deal with them.”

  At once Lockwood was there beside Kipps and Holly. “Fall back,” he shouted. “Get upstairs.” Footsteps sounded behind us on the iron staircase. I took my final flare and lobbed it at the doorway, sending Sir Rupert leaping back into the garden. Even as the explosion sounded, we were already out in the hall and swinging around to climb the stairs.

  On the landing, I could feel the pulsations of the gate beyond the bedroom door. George sat calmly in his chair. He had been fixing up makeshift spears, using broom and mop handles and some knives from the kitchen. He nodded at us as we piled up alongside him. “Sounds a bit warm down there.”

  “It is.” One side of Lockwood’s coat was black and steaming, presumably from his fight with the Limbless. His pale face was ablaze with energy. “You all right, George?” he asked. “Weapons ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Carpet ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Sir Rupert Gale’s here.”

  George nodded. “Knew he’d want to get in on the act.”

  There were loud thuds; boots on stairs; shouted commands echoing in the depths of the house. Then, rising above it all, a cry of rage in the kitchen.

  Holly jumped. “What’s that?”

  George rose slowly from his chair. “Looks like Sir Rupert just found the little cartoon of him I drew on the kitchen table. Well, when I say little, I mean filling the entire Thinking Cloth. It’s amazing how perfectly that cloth accommodates a picture of a man bending over. I only just found space for my accompanying message.”

  “Which was…?” Lockwood was readying one of the spears at the top of the stairs.

  He told us.

  “Gosh,” Holly said. “I’m not surprised he’s a bit cross.”

  “What’s particularly good,” George said, “is that Winkman’s men will have seen it, too. That,” he added, “is what is known as psychological warfare. It’ll destabilize Sir Rupert, make him mad and reckless.”

  “That’s good, is it?”

  A red face materialized at the bottom of the staircase. Lockwood hurled the spear; the face jerked back at the last instant and the point embedded itself in the floor.

  “Yup,” said George. “Watch out, here they come again.”

  One of Winkman’s men had peeped out fleetingly at the bottom of the staircase, then darted across into the library. A moment later the barrel of a gun appeared around the corner. Three shots were fired. We ducked back as plaster fell from holes in the ceiling above our heads. At the same moment, a swift, athletic shape took the opportunity to bound halfway up the stairs. A familiar voice came calling. “Oh, Lockwood…” it said. “Where are you?”

  Lockwood spoke quickly. “I’m going to buy us some time. The rest of you get into Jessica’s room, put on the cloaks. You too, Lucy.” Even without looking, he knew that I would disobey him. He drew his sword, stepped over to the top of the stairs.

  They opened the bedroom door behind me; at once a psychic tumult beat against my mind. I heard the shrieks of ghosts inside the circle. For an instant I remembered the skull, shut in a cupboard down in the kitchen. I shook the thought away. The others were slipping into the room, Kipps supporting the slowly moving George. But I hung back, watching as Sir Rupert Gale clambered into view. Aside from a peppering of magnesium salt, he had entirely evaded my flare downstairs. He wore his usual green tweed suit and a cerise shirt; his face was eager and smiling.

  Lockwood waited at the top, his hair down over his eyes, his rapier ready. He was trying to look relaxed, but I could see that he was breathing hard.

  “Anthony John Lockwood!” Sir Rupert said. “Do you realize you’ve managed to put Winkman and four of his men out of action so far? Shockingly unfriendly, I call it. Where’s your hospitality?”

  Lockwood wiped his lick of hair aside. “Come up,” he said, “and I’ll give you a little more.”

  Sir Rupert chuckled. “You know,” he said, “for months I’ve been wondering where this encounter would take place. I must say I had high hopes. On some castle battlements, perhaps. Or in a palace garden…” As he spoke, he jumped forward. He ducked under Lockwood’s first blow, and met the second with an easy twist of his rapier. “But this mean little staircase?” he said. “In this cramped and dreary squat? It’s a trifle disappointing.”

  Lockwood cocked his head to one side. He struck out again, parried, guarded his legs against repeated side-cuts and low jabs. “Are you insulting my house?”

  Sir Rupert’s eyes twinkled. “Well…the dreadful sofas, those ethnic cushions, that ineradicable smell of toast…It’s all so frightfully homely. It’s just I’d hoped for a more glamorous location, that’s all.”

  He moved up another step. Lockwood edged back from the lip of the stairs. Their arms were moving too fast to see now; the swords blurred and moved, melding in the air. The clash of blades became a continuous burr, a wall of sound. A thin red line appeared on Sir Rupert’s cheek; one of Lockwood’s hands was suddenly bleeding.

  “I’m sorry to hear that Portland Row disappoints you,” Lockwood said. He flashed his gaze toward me, where I stood at the door to the room. I gave a signal to show him that the others were ready, to urge him to come on. “And you’re right about the furniture,” he added. “It is shabby. Sadly, the floor coverings aren’t much better.”

  He sprang to the side, bent down, and pulled sharply on the carpet at the top of the stairs. George had loosened it earlier, so that nothing held it tight to the steps. The whole thing came free, wrenched upward in a tight diagonal. Sir Rupert’s boots were pulled from under him; he was thrown backward. With a cry he vanished down the stairs, over and over, rolling head over heels. There was a complicated series of bumps as he disappeared from view.

  A moment later Lockwood was ushering me through the door into the bedroom. We slammed it shut and thrust the bolts home. The cold power of the gate behind us thrummed against our skin. Ghosts screamed out our names.

  Lockwood turned to look at us all. He brushed his hair back with his wounded hand, leaving a trace of blood on his face. “Well,” he said, smiling, “that settles it. Now we’ve got to go through.”

  It would be nice to say that locking ourselves behind a good strong door gave us a brief sense of respite, but that wasn’t really true. Yes, a house full of murderers was bad. Sadly, being shut in a small room with a spirit gate didn’t have much to recommend it, either.

  The good news was that our construction of the gate had worked. Everything had gone according to plan. Our superstrong iron circle had held firm, and was fully withstanding the spectral energies now raging inside it. With the coming of darkness, as Lockwood had predicted, the ghosts had emerged from their Sources. Unable to escape the circle, they whirled furiously around and around, radiating hideous cold and psychic dread. My body shrank from the force of it. My head rang with their cries.

  There were so many spirits trapped there, so many squeezed into such a tight space, that it was impossible to make them out clearly. The column of air above the circle was thick with their movement; with faint shadows writhing and plungi
ng, figures of billowing black smoke flowing in and out of existence; screaming faces pressed against the invisible barrier that penned them in. The light in the column was hazy and faint. You couldn’t see the bed clearly or the objects on the floor; you couldn’t see the far side of the room. As for the chain we’d suspended across the circle between the posts, ice shimmered on its links as it disappeared into the haze. The ghosts kept clear of it, loathing its iron. That chain was our way through.

  Lockwood seized his silver cloak from the floor, while I took up the cape of feathers that had already survived two trips through a gate just like this. The others were waiting for us, dressed and ready. Kipps wore his bird-of-paradise cape and his trusty goggles; George, his cloak of silver scales. Holly was doing up the belt on her animal-pelt combo. They all had silver gloves from the Orpheus Society, too. It was the same menagerie as before, but now that we were about to use them, the humor in those outfits was gone. The deathly pull of the spirit gate hung over us all. Our faces were stiff with fear.

  Behind me, someone tried the handle of the door. A bullet was fired into the wood, but the iron layer on our side prevented it from penetrating.

  “Don’t forget your gloves, Lucy,” Lockwood said. He put his on.

  “How are you feeling, George?” I asked. “Up for this?”

  He nodded, gave me a weak smile.

  “Right,” Lockwood said. “Everyone listen. Gale being here has changed things slightly. He might not be as frightened of this circle as Winkman’s men will be….But I don’t see that we have any choice. If we stay in here, we’ll be cut to pieces. Go through, and we’ll survive.”

  Behind us, the ghosts howled. Something struck against the door: wood splintered, iron cracked.

  Lockwood scowled. “The ax again. We need to get moving. This was my idea, so I need to go through first. Then George. Holly, can you go after George, make sure he’s okay? Then Quill. Lucy, that means you’re last—if that’s all right with you?”

  “Of course it is,” I said.

  The ax didn’t hang around for us; it chopped at the door.

  “Remember what Lucy and I told you,” Lockwood went on. “Keep firm hold of the chain and walk straight across. The chain and your cloaks will keep the ghosts at bay. They’ll rage and shout, but they won’t touch you. You can just ignore them.”

  “Fat chance of that,” Kipps said. He was staring at the circle from under his feathery hood.

  “When we get to the Other Side,” Lockwood said, “it’ll be like this room, only different. Darker. Quiet. No enemies. We’ll be safe.” He smiled, took hold of the chain. “It’s just a few yards away. I’ll see you there.”

  Something decisive happened to the door. You could hear the wood being ripped apart, the iron strips screaming as hands tore at them. Suddenly it was obvious we wouldn’t have enough time. Lockwood hesitated, looked back in doubt.

  Holly stepped forward. “No, you need to guard our backs, Lockwood. Let me go first. George—you follow me.”

  She held out her hand for George; limping, he joined her at the chain. Lockwood stepped back, nodding his gratitude. He drew his sword and faced the door.

  I gave George a thumbs-up. “Cheer up,” I said. “You’ve been dying to do this!” To be fair, it wasn’t the best choice of words. “See you in a minute,” I added heartily. He looked numb with terror; he didn’t answer me.

  George and Holly set off along the iron chain, going steadily, hand over hand. Two small cloaked figures, edging closer and closer to the iron circle, to where the chain entered the haze of ghostly light and disappeared.

  A particularly loud crash came from the door. It was in pieces now. Two or three men were struggling to pull them clear. You could see the panic on their faces, their hesitation as they saw the gate. But Sir Rupert was there, too. Face bloodied, teeth bared, he drove them on. I pulled my rapier from my belt, went to stand with Lockwood, side by side.

  The screams of the ghosts grew suddenly loud. I looked back toward the gate. Holly and George were gone. The chain swung in little rhythmic movements, crisp and definite, like someone was still progressing along it, somewhere inside the circle. The shapes trapped in the column of hazy light whirled in a frenzy of eagerness and—I hoped—disappointment. As I watched, the chain stopped moving. It slowed, hung still.

  “It’s worked!” I said. “They’re through. Quill, you’re up next.”

  Kipps nodded, which sent the long feathers of his hood bobbing madly. He looked like a drab and mournful chicken about to walk a gangplank into a cooking pot. He grasped the chain and shuffled hesitantly toward the circle.

  Something scrabbled at the hole in the broken door. Sir Rupert Gale launched himself through. He landed awkwardly, avoided my twirling blow, and struck me aside with a lash of the fist. I fell into Lockwood, catching him off-balance. As we stumbled together, Sir Rupert drew back his sword to get a quick thrust in.

  Something flashed past me like a vengeful chicken, striking left and right with a rapier. Sir Rupert was driven back against the door. He seemed stunned; it was all he could do to parry the blows. Maybe it was Kipps’s sheer weirdness that contributed to his shock—the bulging goggles, the bird-of-paradise feathers jerking above his head, the pink plumage swinging wildly with every sword-swipe. You couldn’t blame him. Kipps was enough to put anybody off.

  Sir Rupert’s skills remained. He began to exert himself. Kipps’s momentum slowed, he backed away….But now Lockwood and I were beside him. For an instant it was three against one, the air alive with clinking metal. Someone slashed with a knife at Lockwood through the broken door. He dodged, spun around, and struck at Sir Rupert’s head. Sir Rupert ducked under Lockwood’s blow and thrust at Kipps’s midriff beneath his cloak. Kipps cried out in pain. I cut down with my sword, slicing into Sir Rupert’s wrist. He swore and jumped back, holding his arm.

  That was our cue to get out of there. Kipps, Lockwood, and I leaped away and across the room. We grabbed the guide-chain and bundled ourselves along it, Kipps first, then me, then Lockwood. We plunged forward, almost falling over each other, through the blast of cold, toward the swirling column of spectral air. We went so fast we outstripped fear; without pause, without thought, we stepped over the iron barrier and entered the psychic chaos of the gate.

  We were right on top of the exposed Sources, and their occupants were very near. Unholy voices screamed and whispered in my ears, using languages I didn’t understand. Pulsing figures stood on either side, keeping clear of the iron chain that stretched away before us, over the bed and into dimness. They watched us, clustering as closely as they dared.

  Ice crusted on the links of the iron chain; freezing air beat against my face. Ahead of me, Kipps was stumbling, slowing. This made sense; it was his first time. “Ignore it all!” I shouted. “Keep walking! Follow the chain, and don’t let go!”

  We reached the bed. It was covered in ice, which cracked as we clambered over it. Not just the ice—the mattress itself was cracking, solid and frozen. Crawling things with broken backs skittered under it on hands and knees, like sharks glimpsed through the glass bottom of a boat. When we jumped down on the far side, they darted clear of our swirling cloaks and rose behind us, calling out our names.

  We paid no heed. Another couple of steps and we were out over the loop of iron chains again and into absolute silence on the far side of the room.

  How quiet it was suddenly, and how cold.

  Not only had the psychic hubbub stilled, but you couldn’t hear anything else, either—not the shouting of Sir Rupert or Winkman’s men, or the smashing of the door. The air was dead and motionless, lit by a soft gray half-light that made everything seem flat and dull. We were still in the bedroom, but it being a bedroom on the Other Side, things were different here. The wall, which was very close to us, was cracked and pockmarked. Frost glittered at our feet. Out of the window we could see a jet-black sky.

  “Move away from the chain,” Lockwood said. His voice sounded s
mall and hollow in the strange, dead air. Kipps and I backed away. The post beside us was caked with ice. The suspended chain hung still, stretching back into the haze of the circle. Ghosts still swirled there, but now they made no sound. Lockwood and I stood with our swords ready, looking back the way we had come.

  We watched the gate. No one came through.

  “Thank God,” I breathed. “I thought he’d follow us.”

  “It would have killed him without a cape,” Lockwood said. “But I wouldn’t have put it past him trying.”

  We moved slowly, carefully around the edge of the circle to the opposite side of the room. Holly and George were waiting for us there, two huddled, hooded shapes, their breath pluming white and fast. Beyond them, the door to the landing was a black, bare opening filled with mist. No one stood there. No Sir Rupert, none of Winkman’s men. We were in another version of 35 Portland Row, and here we were alone.

  “What happened?” George said. His whisper echoed through the emptiness. “You took forever. I thought they’d got you.”

  “No, we’re good,” Lockwood said. “We’ve made it. Well done, everyone.” He lowered his rapier, expelled a long breath of bright, white frost. “You all right, George? How are you feeling?”

  “Bruised, battered, scared out of my wits, and, since we’re now on the Other Side, also technically dead. Apart from that, tip-top.”

  “Excellent. Good to hear. What about you, Quill?”

  Kipps’s face was pale beneath his goggles and the feathery cape, but his voice was strong enough. “Fine.”

  “I thought Gale caught you there at the end.”

  “He did. It’s okay. There’s a bit of pain, but it’s not a problem. I feel fine.”