The Hangman's Revolution

by Eoin Colfer

  “You will die because the Blessed Colonel wishes it,” she said calmly to Otto.

  “I cannot grapple this one,” Malarkey objected. “She ain’t right in the noggin. This ain’t our way.”

  Box did not bother to respond, and there was not a man in the room so noble that he did not want these two beasts to clash—except Otto, of course—and his opinion hardly mattered now, not when there was bloody entertainment to be had.

  And as a bonus, thought Box, with the dry satisfaction of a chess master who has outmaneuvered a tricky opponent, what better way to ready my men for war than with a gladiatorial contest followed by an execution?

  Vallicose stretched out her neck and cracked her knuckles. “Are you prepared for hell, heathen?”

  This was a rhetorical question, but if Malarkey were to respond, he would admit to being far from ready. He understood suddenly the ramifications of this contest. Even if he battered this warrior woman, he would lose face with the Rams, for fighting a female for the crown was one of the embargoes he himself had introduced (fighting females at other times could not always be avoided). And if he lost to Vallicose, then he was dead anyway. It was a hopeless situation.

  Vallicose punched straight out from her shoulder, and Malarkey barely managed to step wide of the blow.

  Close. Very close. Otto felt the hiss from the attack as Vallicose’s fist sailed past his ear.

  “Ooooooh,” said the soldiers, and:

  “Zounds.”

  “What ho.”

  “A sov on the lady.”

  Perhaps the situation is not hopeless after all, he thought. There is, mayhap, a solution. A painful solution.

  Vallicose was a little overcommitted to the blow and a step off balance, and so Malarkey prodded her shoulder with a single finger, sending her tripping forward.

  “Careful, girlie,” he said. “This is a genuine fight yer in now.”

  Vallicose snorted and shook herself like a bull, then she threw back an elbow that would have nearly decapitated Malarkey if he hadn’t slapped it away with his palm.

  “I’ll give you that one, too,” said Malarkey. “Another man would be for punishing you, but I is a gent. A commodore, if you must know.”

  Yes, Malarkey was laying on the glib, but he knew a man only got so many blocks and dodges with a scrapper of this caliber; Vallicose’s skill was clear from her speed and carriage.

  If I wakes up tomorrow, I will be waking up stiff and sore, Otto thought ruefully.

  Malarkey avoided a couple more swings without once attempting to land a blow himself, but his luck ran out on the fifth assault, when Vallicose caught him with a vicious straight-fingered jab to the kidneys—there wasn’t a creature on the planet who could shrug that off with a grin. All Malarkey could do was pray that his insides were not ruptured and drop into a genuflection, giving Vallicose the perfect opportunity to follow her jab with a powerhouse sock to the jaw. Most souls would have left the body at this point, and even the great Golgoth was put flat on his back minus a tooth. He took himself a long moment to let the stars clear, then he climbed slowly to his feet.

  “A little advice, sister,” he said, his head hanging to his chest, blood dripping from his lips. “Punch from the stomach. I know that sounds like gibberish, but it’s sound counsel.”

  Vallicose danced around him. She could smell victory. This was a fine sample of the holy carnage to come this day.

  “I hope you have made your peace, heathen,” she said, and she threw out a kick that Otto managed to knock aside with his wrist.

  The mood of the crowd was a strange one. The Rams had wanted Malarkey nobbled and no mistake, but now damned if Otto wasn’t holding on to his principles in spite of the wrath being visited upon his person. He would not return fire on a woman for the crown.

  Again and again Vallicose struck, and Malarkey either dodged the blow or did not. And when he did not the savagery took its toll, and it was clear that the Ram king could not endure much more trauma.

  “Not bad,” he commented after one punch landed square on his ear, which must have stung like the devil’s brand. “From the stomach, see?”

  Box was perplexed. Why would the man sacrifice himself so? Men generally gave up their own lives for one of two reasons: love, or principle. And Box found it difficult to believe that this glorified thug loved anyone enough to lay down his life. And as for principles? They were a tool, useful for justifying extreme behavior, and it was inconceivable that Malarkey would allow his own murder in the name of principle. And yet, here it was happening before him.

  Unless.

  Unless he was not willing to see himself murdered, but injured only.

  Why? Why would he?

  Of course, of course.

  Box actually slapped his own forehead.

  Distraction.

  Box felt the cold shudder of understanding pass through him, and his eyes lifted to the ramp; he was relieved to see nothing. But then there was a movement.

  There.

  There was the boy, Riley, stealing toward his companion. This entire episode was a ruse.

  “Get the boy!” he shouted into the mass of soldiers surrounding the brawl. “Stop him.”

  But no one responded. One shout was much the same as another in this chamber of heaving humanity and violence.

  Box grabbed the megaphone and pulled the trigger.

  “Stop him, you idiots! Stop the boy.”

  It took a moment for the message to filter through, and by this time Riley was out the door at the rear of the chamber, having abandoned his creep toward Chevie.

  Box quickly revised his instruction. “To arms!” he shouted. “Positions, everyone. The Revolution begins in one minute. Forget the boy. Forget Malarkey.”

  Perhaps it was part of the ruse to divide Box’s troops, to dilute their effectiveness. There was no need for coping strategies to deal with these interlopers. Their eventual deaths would simply be absorbed into the general massacre.

  In the heart of the ruckus, Malarkey grinned.

  “Ha,” he said, and from his bent-over position he punched Vallicose once above the right knee, which turned her entire leg to rubber and collapsed her on the spot.

  “Count yerself fortunate that I am pressed for time,” he said, then ducked into the crowd, sparing one second to kick the man Peeble square in the rear end, lifting him to his tippy-toes.

  “There you go, rat,” he said, dearly wishing he could linger and watch that lippy oaf Peeble writhe in the particular agony brought on by a spot-on bum kick, but this day was not won by a long shot. Otto plucked his trampled shirt from underfoot, sighing at the scuffs mashed into its silk, then slipped through the busy throngs, following Riley’s footsteps toward the underground dock where dear Lunka was waiting in something called an amphibious craft.

  Box had a sudden premonition that the cogs of his finely tooled machination were spinning apart, and he was surprised that his ordered brain would even accommodate such things as premonitions.

  A premonition is simply a considered consequence. A possible consequence.

  Nothing had changed, he decided. The Revolution was inevitable.

  Can it fail? he wondered, scanning his mind for concrete stumbling blocks.

  No, he decided. Malarkey and Savano are but two loose cannons in a forest of automatic barrels. They will shortly be dead, and I will chastise myself for such inefficiency of thought.

  He held aloft the radio detonator.

  I will wait forty more seconds for my artillery to mount their vehicles, then blow the wall.

  First the queen would die, and then the politicians.

  How could the past prevail against the future? Impossible.

  Box counted down, visualizing his soldiers loading up, checking each other’s equipment, and so forth. Seeing in his mind’s eye Malark
ey despairing the loss of his men and the utter failure of his plan.

  Someone will casually shoot him as they pass, Box felt certain.

  Forty, said the voice in his head.

  A pity some of his men would miss the execution, but sometimes strokes must be sacrificed for the good of the greater plan.

  Time to change the world, thought Box. And he pressed the button.

  Something exploded, but it wasn’t the wall. It was close, whatever it was, but it most definitely was not the wall, which remained resolutely intact. Box’s mind did not initially connect his pressing of the red button with the nearby explosion.

  It is much more likely that the detonator is faulty and there has been some coincidental weapons malfunction in another chamber.

  Then he heard the water and realized.

  We are under attack.

  If there was one thing all good magicians knew, it was how to be invisible. Or more accurately, practically invisible. Riley was not, in fact, wearing a cap at the moment, but even if he had been, it would be woven from Irish tweed and not the magical translucent threads of Athena’s cap of invisibility. Riley could clearly be seen when someone was looking directly at him. When they were not—if there was a distraction, for example—then he was practically invisible when he wished to be so.

  When Witmeyer led Riley and Malarkey from their cell to the underground dock, they had passed the arch leading to the assembly room and overheard Box’s big troop rallying speech and seen Chevie dragged from the back room. A makeshift plan had been hurriedly cobbled together. There were three strands. Witmeyer would steal an amphibious vehicle. Malarkey would distract the crowds with a challenge, and Riley would steal the detonator.

  Yes. Riley’s target had been the detonator—and Chevie, too, if he could manage it—but the detonator came first, or she would be blown to smithereens where she hung.

  All three objectives were achieved. Malarkey took his licking in the name of queen and country. Witmeyer did not even need to steal the amphibian, as the keys were tossed to her by a trooper. And Riley crept with infinite patience across the chamber’s back wall and up the ramp, blending with the shadows until he managed to slide the receiver and detonator from the shaped charge and tuck them into his pocket. And according to the first rule of magic, which was misdirection, he retreated down the ramp with his body in the attitude of one going forward, so if spotted he would appear to be heading toward Chevie and not sliding past her.

  Standing there mere inches from his unconscious friend, Riley realized that the animal Box had etherized her and so it would be impossible to rescue her at this juncture. All he could do was tuck his skeleton key into her fist in case she should wake up. To see her in such a helpless dangle caused Riley to flinch in shock, and it was this reflexive jerk that caught Box’s eye.

  Riley realized that he had been detected, and he abandoned his stealth on the spot. He spun and ran for the doorway, hearing Box’s amplified voice rise above the general commotion.

  “Stop him, you idiots! Stop the boy.”

  Riley ran, thinking, Chevron, oh Chevie. I have abandoned you. And also, No. I have deferred your death, for Box would be blowing you to hell presently were it not for me.

  He raced on, wondering what time it was precisely.

  Surely five. Surely.

  And after five, how many minutes’ grace before Otto’s bribe to the pump-house master was down the drain?

  It did him no good to think about that now, for there were men on his heels, men with longer legs than his.

  Men were in his path, too. Ahead was an entire wedge-shaped squadron, double-timing it toward a yellow square painted on the ground. The squad leader was kneeling to examine a mortar tube and he registered Riley half a second before Riley’s foot took him in the teeth, scattering them like bowling pins. The leader’s gaping mouth acted as a boost, allowing Riley to step up and then launch himself over the heads of several confused foot soldiers. Riley could not help but laugh aloud at the unlikeliness of it all, and the giddiness of rushing adrenaline and danger converging from all quarters.

  How many stars would need to align for this fantastical plan to succeed?

  A galaxy of stars, surely.

  Impossible, surely.

  For a moment Riley saw himself as though from above as he flew through the air. He saw himself extended from fingertip to tiptoe, his head thrown back, lips stretched in a smile; and his eyes sparkled, dashed if they didn’t, and he wondered was this a true vision or wishful thinking. Then a shock rattled his frame as he hit the ground, and he was back in his own head and running like the devil was on his trail. And if this was not precisely the case, then surely these men were the devil’s minions, for their intention was to set the whole country on the road to hell.

  “To hell with all of you,” he called breathlessly, then, like a player in a stage farce, he was dodging through rows of characters all top-heavy with muscle and body armor. “The devil will turn on his own.”

  It occurred to Riley that most of these men were making no attempt to stop him, no more than they would to swat a fly buzzing around their beer. Their missions were set, ingrained in their muscles from countless dry runs; and they followed them as they would a well-worn path.

  What do they care about a running boy, Riley realized, when soon the entire capital would be fleeing from their guns?

  But he was not ignored entirely. There was a determined posse dogging his footsteps, and Riley could imagine their grins as they herded their quarry deeper into the catacombs, where he would soon be dead-ended.

  Perhaps not, thought Riley. Perhaps one chance in a million is enough.

  A shot buzzed past his ear and burrowed into the wall, reminding Riley that he was clear of the soldiers now and could be fired upon, so he darted right into a low tunnel with a curved ceiling of bedrock, and water flowing in rivulets down the walls.

  More shots cracked the stone at his feet and overhead, and Riley realized that the men were not aiming at his person. They were cat-and-mousing him for sport. He felt his breath burning in his chest and his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

  I must be close, he thought. Please, God.

  The tunnel opened to a larger chamber, which was half-full of crates that lay open, spilling straw from their bellies. Three walls were dark stone, but one was white and smooth.

  Here, thought Riley. Here.

  The light in this outlying chamber was low with just one orange blister on the ceiling casting a sunset glow on the pale wall, but it was enough if a person knew what he sought, which Riley did.

  Smack bang in the center was an off-color ring with a telltale cone of drill dust on the floor below.

  Riley thrust his hand into his pocket, wrapping his fingers around the detonator and radio receiver therein.

  Perhaps I am too far away, he thought, and he offered up a quick prayer that it was not so.

  No time for daintiness with men on his tail, so Riley poked the detonator into the plastique and twisted once.

  If that ain’t it, then it ain’t it, and I keep running until fate throws me a bone.

  But he knew that there would be no bone from fate. All his bones had been tossed already.

  “That’s far enough, boyo,” said the head man in the posse group. “I got royals to kill.”

  Riley did not stop or even slow. Either Box would press the button or he wouldn’t.

  Riley ducked into the tunnel at the other end of the chamber and kept his feet a-racing.

  “Press it!” he shouted aloud, as if he had gallons of breath to spare for yelling useless instructions. “Press it, Box!”

  And, in the distant war chamber, Box did press the red button, sending a radio signal not to his own shaped charge as he expected, but to the cylinder of plastique that Riley and Malarkey had previously planted from the sewer side. The e
xplosives blew a cart-sized hole in the reinforced wall, skewering the soldiers on Riley’s tail with steel rods, or braining them with lumps of concrete. And that would have been the whole of it had not Malarkey dropped a small fortune on the Camden pump-house manager earlier in the day to flush the sewers at five of the clock precisely. And not just the regular flush—the manager was to open the stopcocks to their limits and take himself off to the Bull and Bear Tavern for a night in his cups. The manager objected that this would near to empty the canal, and Malarkey assured him that it would do no such thing and added a fistful of sovereigns to his asking price.

  I guess it won’t do no such thing, the manager had said, swiping the coins into his poke. And now that I comes to ponder it, I have a premonition of a mighty thirst coming on me about the teatime mark.

  And even though the clocks had struck five a few minutes previously, there was still more than ample sewer flush water coming down the pipes to fill Box’s catacombs fuller than the manager’s stomach would be by closing time.

  The reinforced wall had previously deflected the flood and flush torrents from invading the catacombs, but now, with the wall ruptured, the long-thwarted waters were finally allowed ingress, and they roared inside with all the eagerness of the Greek armies entering Troy.

  Riley ran on, laughing. It was bordering on the incredible that Box should have scuppered his own plan, but there it was. First, pride; and then the fall.

  And if I don’t lift up my own two feet, the water will scupper my plans for future breathing, too.

  The blister lights overhead crackled and popped as the water invaded their electrics, and when the explosion noise cleared from his ear passages, Riley could hear shouts and roars of panicked men as they hurriedly abandoned their dreams of carnage and sought to save their own skins.