‘Give that to me,’ he growled.
Imogen picked up the dagger and the box. She had no intention of helping the guard. He didn’t seem nice at all. As she straightened, she noticed an alleyway, barely half a metre wide, between the houses.
‘Give it to me now,’ roared the man, ‘or I’ll have you disembowelled!’
Imogen shook her head.
Giving up on the dagger, the guard turned and seized his prisoner with both hands. The woman scrambled to get free.
But Imogen could linger no longer. The second guard was coming her way. She fled with the dagger in one hand and the little black box in the other.
Imogen hurtled down the alleyway. Behind her someone was shouting. It was the other Royal Guard.
‘Stop in the name of the king!’ he yelled, but Imogen kept on running.
The alley narrowed and the walls grazed her shoulders. She shoved the box into her tunic pocket and glanced back. The guard was chasing her, but he was too broad to fit down the alley head-on. He moved sideways like a crab, with one claw extended in her direction.
Eventually, Imogen also had to turn to the side. Ahead, a vertical bar of light reduced the world to two walls and an exit. It was hard to judge the width of the gap at the end. She hoped she’d fit.
When the walls were so close that Imogen couldn’t turn her head to look behind her, the guard stopped shouting. The odd grunt told her that he was still there. She took a deep breath, feeling the walls on either side pushing back against her torso. That bar of light wasn’t far away.
Her left hand was the first thing to emerge. She wrapped her fingers round the corner of the wall, easing herself out on to the sunlit street. Her tunic snagged on the stonework and a bit of it ripped off as she tugged herself free.
The street she stood on was calm. Peaceful even. A couple walked hand in hand. A woman hung white linen from a window and a cat was cleaning itself on the opposite side of the lane.
Imogen glanced back down the dark corridor. The guard’s sweaty face was just visible. He looked like a rat stuck up the spout of a watering can. As Imogen turned to leave, she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
She checked that the little box was still in her pocket and tied the dagger to her ankle. It was good to be armed for the journey. She hoped that the woman had got away too.
As she strode away from the alley, Imogen walked with a spring in her step. She was heading towards the outskirts of Yaroslav, towards the forests, towards home.
Imogen stood at the city gates. She knew she needed to start walking now if she was serious about getting home. She didn’t fancy being in the forests after dark. Not now she knew about the skret. Not now she’d lost Marie.
If she walked quickly, she might get half an hour before she needed to turn back … or found the door. Perhaps she could use the dagger to prise it open.
There was a man leaning against the city walls, gazing out across the meadows to the forests beyond. Even though the sun hadn’t set, it was dark underneath the trees: a green-and-gold filtered twilight zone.
The man was wearing a velvet jacket and a fur-lined cap. Perhaps he knows the fastest route through the meadows, thought Imogen, and she cleared her throat, preparing her most grown-up voice. The man must have heard because he glanced her way. One of his eyes was missing.
‘Oh,’ said Imogen. That wasn’t how she’d meant to begin. She tried again. ‘Excuse me, but do you know the fastest way to the forests?’
The man raised his two eyebrows above his one eye. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But whatever you’re running away from, there’s far worse out there.’
‘I’m not running away,’ said Imogen, defiant.
‘Then why are you dressed like a boy?’ The trace of a smile crossed the man’s face.
Imogen looked down at the clothes that she’d borrowed from Miro. ‘I’m not scared of the Kolsaney Forests. I can look after myself.’ But even as the words escaped her lips, she knew it was a lie. She was tired, she hadn’t eaten since breakfast and she was terrified of the skret. Perhaps the man had a point. Perhaps it was getting late.
She rested her back against the wall and squinted up at his face. The hole where his eye ought to be was framed by half-shut lids and the skin was bunched like a segment of grapefruit.
‘Did the skret do that to your eye?’ asked Imogen.
The man shook his head.
‘What then? Something from out there? Is that why you’re afraid of the forests?’
‘It wasn’t an animal.’
‘A person?’
‘Sakra! You ask a lot of questions. Why don’t you run home to your mother?’
Imogen crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. She hated being told what to do. ‘Perhaps I will,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t be talking to strangers anyway.’
‘You’re the one asking for directions! I stand on this same spot every evening. What makes you so sure you’re not the stranger?’
Imogen opened her mouth to defend herself, but, once again, she realised the man had a point. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, unfolding her arms. ‘That was a bit rude … But why do you come here every day?’
The man sighed. ‘All right. I’ll tell you. I come to look at the forests. I used to live there, among the trees.’
‘I thought you said it’s unsafe?’
‘Who’s telling this story?’
Imogen stared at her feet. ‘You are.’
‘My home wasn’t a house. Or not what you město would call a house. I’m one of those lesni you cross the street to avoid.’
Imogen didn’t know what město or lesni were, but she sensed that the man didn’t want to be asked any more questions so she kept her mouth shut.
‘I make things from wood.’ He held up his hands as if that proved his point. ‘I make boxes that sing, wind-up ornaments, clocks and more. I made my finest timepiece for King Vadik: a clock that could read the stars. But when Vadik died, his younger brother, Drakomor, took the throne and he wanted me all to himself. Drakomor offered me a permanent position at the castle. I’d be called Chief Clockmaker, or some stupid title like that, but I didn’t want to live in that tomb. It’s unnatural. So the king took my eye.’
Imogen gasped. ‘No!’
‘It wasn’t him personally that did it. It was one of the Royal Guards, but I’ve no doubt that Drakomor was behind it … The things that man’s done … Surely the stars have a punishment in store.’
‘Miro’s uncle – I mean, King Drakomor, took your eye because you turned down a job?’
‘He didn’t want anyone else to have a clock like his. Sometimes I’m surprised that he didn’t take them both. I bet he was hoping that I’d learn my lesson – that I’d come and work for him after all.’
A group of young men carrying scythes strolled in through the city gates. They looked tired, but they talked and laughed as they passed.
‘That’s horrible,’ said Imogen. ‘That’s a horrible thing to do … But the forests are still there. You don’t have to live in Yaroslav.’
‘Ah, that’s the brilliant part,’ said the man, shaking his head. ‘Ever since King Drakomor was crowned, or around about then, the skret started playing up. Eventually, the forests became unsafe and I fled, along with my family and the other lesni. It’s ironic really. All that fuss I made about not wanting to leave home and a load of marauding skret made me do it anyway.’
He fiddled with his embroidered cuff, studying it as if the answers to his problems were stitched into his sleeve. Imogen didn’t want to believe him. It was such a shocking story. But he didn’t look like he was joking and she couldn’t think why he’d lie.
Little white moths fluttered across the fields, towards the city, and a girl with long plaits came running out of the gates. ‘Father, you’re still here!’ she cried, trotting up to the man. ‘It’s almost dark.’
‘I was just telling the tale of my star-reading clock.’
The girl rolled her eyes. ‘Not that one again! I’ve heard
it a million times.’
‘Lucky you,’ said the man. Affection shone from his face as he looked at the child and Imogen felt a flicker of sadness. Sometimes her mum looked at her in that way.
‘Right, I think I should be leaving,’ said the clockmaker, holding out his hand. Imogen shook it. His skin was as rough as bark.
‘My name’s Imogen,’ she said. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Andel and this is my daughter, Daneetsa.’ The girl gave a solemn nod.
The sun was touching the tip of the tallest mountain as Andel and Daneetsa turned to leave. They’d linked arms. They looked happy. Imogen blinked back the tears. There was no point in crying for her mum.
‘Hey, Imogen,’ called Andel. He was about to step through the gates. ‘Save your parents some worry and get yourself home. It’s too late to be running away.’
Imogen nodded and gave a half-hearted wave. But I wasn’t running from home, she thought. I was running towards it.
As the evening bells tolled, the people of Yaroslav went about their nightly ritual – locking doors, putting out fires, tucking children into bed. But Imogen was nowhere near a bed. She was crossing Kamínek Bridge with an empty stomach, a knife fastened to her ankle and a little black box in her pocket.
She had failed to find her way home. She had failed to even start looking. Andel’s story about ‘marauding skret’ had put her off the forests. As Marie would have said, she was ‘too chicken’.
The problem was that Imogen didn’t have a Plan B. She had avoided running into the skret amid the trees, but that was only postponing the inevitable. She had no intention of returning to that stab-you-in-the-back sister and stuck-up prince. They wouldn’t catch her banging on the castle door, begging for forgiveness. No way.
She climbed on to the low parapet that ran along the edge of the bridge. The statues stood beside her. The nearest was a hooded priest, with one foot sticking out from underneath his robe. His big toe had been rubbed smooth by hundreds of fingers.
Miro had told her about that statue: ‘The peasants have some funny ideas. They believe that if they touch the old man’s toe their families will be protected against evil.’ He had laughed. Clearly, his family were above such superstitions.
But there, around what was visible of the priest’s ankle, were a load of scratches. Skret claws had been at work. Imogen touched the stone toe.
She sat down on the wall next to the statue of a mighty warrior. One leg was missing, but he still looked ferocious. Then she untied the dagger from her ankle and put it next to her. Couldn’t have that falling off the side of the bridge. Holding on to the warrior’s remaining leg, she swung herself round so that her feet dangled above the slow-moving water. It was just about visible in the dark, curling round the rocks below.
‘Think, Imogen, think!’ she said out loud. There must be a safe place in Yaroslav to hide from the skret, a cubbyhole to tuck into. She walked through the city in her mind, exploring the streets she had come to know, but could think of nowhere suitable.
Perhaps, if she sat still enough, the monsters would mistake her for a statue and pass her by … but the warrior’s missing limb suggested that even basalt people weren’t safe. Imogen shivered.
She took the box out of her pocket and shook it, holding it close to her ear. It gave a faint clink. She opened the lid. There was a glint of yellow – a pair of gold rings were nestled inside. That was strange … What were the Royal Guards doing with jewellery?
Imogen put the rings on. They were both too big for her fingers, but the smaller one fitted her thumb. She thought, with more than a little bitterness, that if Marie had been there she would have let her keep one.
The first skret cry rattled out across the city. A flock of birds took off like a many-winged creature and Imogen’s self-pity vanished with them.
Fear, it turned out, trumped most emotions.
While Imogen sat on Kamínek Bridge, the other two children sat in the room at the top of the second tallest tower. Miro watched as Marie moved her food round her plate. ‘You said you liked bread dumplings.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ said Marie.
‘What do you want to do tomorrow?’ he asked. ‘I was thinking we could ride the velecours?’
Marie shrugged her shoulders.
‘Or we could play hide-and-seek, but this time in the library!’
Marie pushed her plate away. ‘Hide-and-seek is no good with two people,’ she said.
Miro didn’t understand. Why couldn’t they carry on having fun, like they had before? After all, it was Imogen’s fault that she was out there alone, not his.
A servant cleared away Miro’s plate and the fifth course arrived – jelly in all the colours of the rainbow, with whipped cream on top and fruit at the bottom.
Suddenly, the clock started chiming and both children turned to watch. The little door opened and out came a miniature heart. It was painted in intricate detail – every artery and vein accounted for, every beat in time with the second hand.
When the heart had done its turn, it rolled back inside the clock.
‘I thought Imogen would be back by now,’ said Marie.
‘Ooh, this is my favourite,’ said Miro, starting the jelly.
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘Of course, but I don’t see what I can do about it.’
‘We should go and look for her.’
‘She could be anywhere.’ Miro spooned whipped cream into his mouth. ‘She could even have left the city.’
‘But what about the skret?’ said Marie.
On cue, there was a scream from the city streets below – a wild howl that flew in through the open window and whirled round the room before dying down near the fire. Miro ran to close the curtains.
‘What about the skret?’ he said. ‘I thought you and Imogen had fallen out. I don’t see why you should waste your time being worried. She’s not your friend any more. She broke our pact.’ He came back to the table and helped himself to a slice of orange and cinnamon cake. He’d tackle that after the jelly.
‘You’ve really never had friends before, have you?’ said Marie, standing up. ‘That’s not how it works. Anyway, she’s not my friend. She’s my sister and I’ll go out to find her alone if I have to.’
Miro stared at his guest. She looked funny, with her wild red hair and the oversized, borrowed clothes, but he could see that she was serious. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘It’s too dangerous out there now, but I’ve got an idea. I’ll send Yeedarsh to look for her.’
‘Yeedarsh? You mean that old man who wanted to throw us in the dungeons?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘But he’s ancient!’
‘True, but he has a secret weapon. Something even the skret are afraid of.’
Marie studied his face. ‘What kind of secret weapon?’
Miro smiled. ‘She’s called Medveditze.’
‘Can I look now?’
Anneshka tapped the floor with her slipper, checking she had climbed the final step.
‘Not yet. Wait here one minute.’ King Drakomor’s fingers guided hers to the wall.
It was strangely warm up here, and quiet too. So quiet that Anneshka thought she could hear the drumming of her heart.
‘You asked to see the most valuable object in my collection,’ said Drakomor.
‘Yes, but do I really have to wear this blindfold?’
‘I’ve never shown this to anyone before,’ he said. ‘I want it to be special.’
A door opened and even warmer air whooshed over Anneshka’s face. Drakomor guided her forward.
‘Now?’ she asked.
‘Almost. Be patient, my love.’
‘It’s so hot in here.’
‘I’m afraid that can’t be helped.’
And then she heard it. But not with her ears. She heard it in the knotty part between her ribs: a sound-feeling that made her bones vibrate. ‘I’ve waited for long enough,’ she said and she pulled off the blindfold.<
br />
The room at the top of the tallest tower was empty, apart from a pedestal that was covered by a cloth. It was dark too, with only one torch by the door.
Anneshka walked round the room and peeped out through a window. She tapped on the glass, scaring away a pair of moths. She couldn’t see her parents’ house. At this time of night, the only thing that was clearly visible was the second tallest tower, with its candles burning bright.
Drakomor clapped his hands and Anneshka turned. Something about him reminded her of a tacky illusionist. He pulled the cloth off the pedestal with a flourish.
‘May I?’ she asked, already stepping closer.
The object on the pedestal glowed ruby red. It was the size of a man’s head, but within its polished surfaces whole galaxies seemed to swirl. It pulsed. Just a few beats per minute. Just enough to let you know it was there.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said, really meaning it.
‘Thank you. This is the crowning jewel of my collection, but you’re the first … I mean … I haven’t shown it to anyone else.’
The stone’s heat made her face prickle. She slipped off a glove and put out her hand. Stuff the colour of clotted blood and exploded stars passed under her fingers. ‘Be careful!’ said the king, reaching for her arm.
‘Don’t,’ she snapped.
Anneshka stroked the stone with her index finger. A pulse travelled up her arm, along her collarbone and down her spine. The wind outside picked up. She pushed her whole palm against the hot surface.
‘That’s enough,’ said Drakomor. ‘You’ll burn yourself.’ He leaned over her shoulder.
Outside, the wind tore through the city. Anneshka saw her face in the stone; a future-queen looked back out. Every feature was perfectly symmetrical, with suns for eyes and Milky-Way skin.
The wind careered round the tower, circling and circling and calling her name. Another pulse. She closed her eyes and the world trembled. She let go.
‘Anneshka – your hand – you’ve hurt yourself. Why did you do that?’ Drakomor cradled her hand in his, looking from her blistered skin up to her face and back to her hand again. She put the glove on.
A Clock of Stars Page 8
