A man knelt before her, backed by a Razan brother. He was weeping helplessly. Maguda’s head never moved as her eyes slanted down toward him. Her voice a sibilant whisper, questioning, probing.
“Why did ye hold back the necklace which was with the loot from Port Vendres? Tell me, Luiz.”
Always keeping his eyes averted from her, Luiz sobbed. “Madame Razan, it was nought but a cheap trinket. I knew my woman liked such things, it was worthless!”
Maguda Razan’s voice sounded reasonable. “Worthless or not, it belonged to the Razan. Where is this necklace now?”
One of the brothers held it up. It was indeed a cheap thing: small beads woven on several strands to represent a snake.
One of Maguda’s incredibly long-nailed fingers moved, pointing. “Put it on his neck, hold up his head, so I can see him.”
Fastening the necklace on Luiz, the brother seized a handful of the man’s hair and pulled his head back. Luiz found himself staring directly into the eyes of Maguda.
Her voice was like a sliver of ice sliding across oiled silk. “Look at me, gaze long at my eyes . . . long . . . long . . . long! I will not hurt thee, Luiz. The snake which ye stole from me is brightly coloured. Did ye know that such snakes are always deadly? Was it not one such snake that took the life of Egypt’s queen long long ago? Can ye feel it, thief, pulling its coils tight around thy worthless neck? Seeking out a vein. A place to sink small fangs into . . .”
Both of Maguda’s hands rose, fingers curved like claws, her voice rising to a shriek. “Thou art dead! Dead!”
Blood suffused the man’s face as he clapped a hand to the side of his throat, gurgled horribly and fell over sideways. His legs kicked convulsively, and his back arched. Then he went limp. Lifeless.
Maguda’s voice rang out, flat and callous. “Take yon necklace off him, give it to his woman!”
The brother reached out, then hesitated. Her tone turned to one of contempt. “It won’t bite thee, ’tis only a cheap necklace. Take it off!”
Gingerly the brother obeyed. Maguda watched him scathingly. “See his neck, there’s not a mark on it. Imagination, ’tis all it was, yon fool died because of his own stupid imagination!”
Her brother took the necklace and slunk off, murmuring under his breath. “Imagination, and those eyes of yours, sister, that’s what the man died from!”
Much to his surprise, her voice followed him, echoing around the cavern and its surrounding passages. “Aye, thou art right, brother, but beware, mine ears are as sharp as mine eyes. Nothing escapes Maguda Razan!” He broke into a run, dashing past the eldest of his brothers, who was on his way to see Maguda.
She watched the man enter her cavern, noting the flicker of fear in his eyes as he skirted the spot where the dead thief lay. Her voice halted the eldest brother even before he reached the throne. “Tell me of thy visit to Veron market fair. What news of Comte Bregon? Think hard and speak true, Rawth!”
The eldest brother of the Razan, Rawth, made his report. “I never saw the old man, they say he never leaves the house.”
Maguda let out a hiss of exasperation. “I know that, but did any come or go from there, new faces, strangers?”
Rawth shook his head. “Only some young ’uns, who were arrested for not paying their toll and for unlicenced trading.”
Maguda’s fingernails rattled as she smote the throne arm. “Tell me of them! Didst thou not hear me say I want to hear all?”
Rawth had not heard his sister say any such thing, but he was not prepared to argue—he had seen what happened to any who contradicted Maguda. “I saw three of them being led off by the guards. They are probably in the dungeons now. Two of them were boys, one about fourteen summers, light-haired, blue-eyed, the other about the same age, handsome, Spanish-looking. The girl looked older than the boys, but not by much—she was of gypsy blood, I think. A pleasant singer she was, I heard her sing. She was on the house steps, drumming up trade for the Spanish boy to make likenesses of folk.”
He stood silent as Maguda mused aloud. “A facemaker, eh? What of the other boy, the blue-eyed one?”
Rawth shrugged. “Oh, him, he did little but stand around with his dog—”
Maguda interrupted her brother. “Dog? Ye said nothing of a dog. What manner of animal was it, tell me!”
Rawth described Ned. “Of the breed they call Labrador. A big creature, black ’twas. Why do ye ask?”
She silenced him with a wave of her hand. “A black dog, that could be an omen. Send watchers to wait outside the wall of Veron until these young ones are released. I need to know more about them, which direction they go in. Leave me now, I need to be alone, to think.”
When Rawth had departed, Maguda took up a staff and rose from her throne. Leaning heavily on the staff, she visited each of the stone idols around the cavern’s edge, throwing coloured incense upon the fires at the feet of the statues and muttering to herself as the smoke billowed up to thicken beneath the high ceiling. After a while she went back to the throne. Using a human skull on the seat beside her as a centrepiece, Maguda Razan cast bones, pebbles and striped stone fragments over the grisly crown of the skull. Watching which way they fell, she chanted in a high, singsong voice,
“Earth and water, wind and fire,
Speak to me as I desire.
Take mine eyes beyond this place,
Show to me each stranger’s face.
Spirits of the deep and dark,
This Razan hath served thee true,
Open up their hearts to me,
Say what secrets I may see,
I who bind my life to you!”
She sat awhile, contemplating the skull and its surrounding jumble of rocks and bone, her eyes closed, swaying slightly. Then Maguda Razan emitted a low moan, building up into a shriek like that of a stricken animal. It echoed round the bowels of the mountain and its caves, bringing Razan tribal members, both male and female. They halted at the cavern entrance, watching fearfully as Maguda arose from the steps where she had fallen from her throne. There was vexation and rage in her voice as she screeched at them.
“Go, all of ye! Seek out those who were imprisoned at Veron. Capture them, the two boys, one dark, one fair, the girl and the black dog. Bring them back here to me, I command ye!”
Staggering back up to the throne, she seated herself, waiting until the clatter of departing feet retreated into silence. Petulance and ill temper showed in her sneer. Unable to bear looking upon her equipment of sorcery, Maguda swept it away. Skull, stones and bones tumbled down the stairs. Landing upright, the skull lay grinning sightlessly up at her. Maguda spat at it. Her vision had been thwarted. She had been granted a glimpse of the Flying Dutchman—but only a glimpse. The sight of evil she delighted revelling in had been cut short. The fair-skinned boy, he who owned the black dog—she would see all of the Dutchman in his eyes. Maguda Razan quivered with anticipation. She would bring the boy under her power when she had him alone, and then . . . then.
Rain began falling from an overcast sky on the afternoon of the fair’s end. Folk began packing up stalls and wares to leave early before a downpour set in. Hidden beneath hooded cloaks and equipped with packs of food, Ben and his friends stood at the grilled gate by the tunnel door.
Comte Vincente Bregon gave Ned a final pat, and kissed Karay’s cheek and embraced the two boys. “Go now, young friends, this rain will provide cover for you. Garath, take them as far as the gates—you know what to do. Nobody must know you were my guests and not prisoners. Let us hope when we meet again the sun will be shining and we will be smiling. May the Lord protect and keep you from harm!”
Not many people lingered to see them marched to the gates by the good blacksmith, though the few who were witness to the scene saw Garath crack his whip over the heads of the freed prisoners and warn them sternly, “Gypsies, thieves, be off with you! Thank your lucky stars my master was in a lenient mood. Go on, get out of Veron! If you are ever seen within the walls again, you will be tied to a
cart and whipped all the way to the Spanish border!”
Ned barked as Garath cracked the whip several times, then the big black dog hurried out of the village in the wake of his companions.
Ben squinted his eyes against the increasing rain as he looked toward the mountains. “We’d best cut off southeast through the forested slopes. It’ll give us some protection from this weather!”
Thunder rumbled in the distance as they squelched off across the grassy slopes outside the walls of Veron. Dominic looked back at the remainder of the market traders setting off in other ways to go to their homes.
Karay called out to him, “Come on, Facemaker, keep up! Don’t be lagging behind!”
As he caught up with the others, the girl gave him a scathing glance. “What were you gaping at those bumpkins for—fresh faces to sketch? You might as well draw pictures of turnips as of those tight-fisted clods!”
Dominic noticed that Ned was watching the departing traders, too. “You’d do well to take a lesson from Ned and me. Take a peek at those folk yourself, see how many are watching us, and then tell me: How many of them are ordinary people, and how many are Razan spies, watching which way we’re headed?”
Ned passed Ben a thought. “Wide awake, mate, that’s me and Dominic. Bet you never thought of that!”
Ben answered his friend’s message aloud. “Good thinking, Dominic. Perhaps we’d best go another way, just to mislead them.”
On Ben’s advice, they cut off at a tangent that led away from the forested mountain foothills. It was late afternoon before the coast was clear. Lightning flashes lit the gloomy landscape, and thunder boomed closer, as Karay halted at a swollen stream that threaded its way out of the woods and the high country.
“I don’t know if we’d leave much trail in the rain, but no one would be able to track us through running water. Let’s wade through this stream, up into the woods.”
The three friends went knee-deep in the icy cold waters, holding hands to stay upright.
Ned followed, grumbling thoughtfully. “Huh, rained on from above and soaked from below. I’ve seen better days for trekking. At least the rain forests in South America were warm. What d’you say, mate?”
Ben gripped the black Labrador’s collar, assisting him. “Aye, nice muddy rivers full of snakes, with all manner of insects biting and stinging and tickling. Piranha fish, too, oh for the good old days. Would you trade them for this?”
Ned looked mournfully up at his friend. “Point taken!”
At twilight, hauling themselves gratefully out of the stream, they entered the trees. Karay sat down and examined her feet. “Just look at these toes, they’re blue and numb from the cold, and wrinkled like raisins!”
Dominic chuckled. “Well, it was your idea. Up you come m’lady, let’s find somewhere warm and dry. Steady on, Ned, d’you have to shake yourself all over us?”
Ned actually winked at Ben. “Bet you wish you could dry yourself like this. Us hairy old dogs have an advantage over you pale, thin-skinned humans. Superior breeding, y’know.”
Ben tweaked his dog’s ear. “Oh, I see, then I don’t suppose a superior creature like you will bother sitting around a warm fire—built by us measly humans of course?”
Apart from the constant spatter of rainfall on the treetop canopy, the forest was silent and depressingly gloomy, thickly carpeted in loam and pine needles. Hardly any rain penetrated the arboreal thickness. It was Ned who found a good spot to make camp for the night. He bounded off through the trees and returned with his tongue lolling as he passed on the message to Ben. “Haha, at least we’ll be dry until morning, I’ve found a great place! Follow me, oh weakly fellow, I’ll show you. Oh, and if you humans make a fire, I may do you the honour of sitting by it.”
It was a deep cleft in a big rocky outcrop. Ben patted his dog affectionately. “Well done, mate. It’s practically a cave!”
Dominic found some dry, dead pine needles, and setting flint to the steel of his knife, he coaxed a fire into life by blowing gently on the tinder. He peered at the rock walls. “Artists were here long before us. Look!”
Crude representations of dancing people were drawn upon the rough rock walls in black, red and ochre, stick-legged men, women and children dancing around what appeared to be a fire.
Karay piled dead wood on the flames, commenting, “I saw a cave like this once, in the D’Aubrac Mountains. A gypsy woman said the drawings were more than a thousand years old, done by tribes who were shepherds and charcoal burners. They used to live in places like these.”
As evidence they found a heap of charcoal at the cave’s narrow end. Ben and Karay piled it on the fire. It gave out a good heat and glow once it began burning. Dominic spread their cloaks on nearby rocks to dry out. Warmth seeped through their bodies, steam rising from their hair. Ben opened one of the sacks and doled out bread, smoked ham and cheese, and also a flask of pale wine laced with water.
As they ate, Dominic pointed to the wall drawings in the flickering glow. “See how the shadows play across those pictures—you’d think the people were actually dancing!”
A noise at the entrance caused Ned to stiffen, and his hackles rose as he growled. Ben passed him an urgent thought. “What is it, Ned, what’s out there?”
Glowering toward the entrance and baring his teeth, Ned replied. “A wild boar. The scent of our food must have attracted it. Maybe it lives here now, who knows? I’ll chase it!”
Karay whispered to Ben. “Something’s upsetting Ned!”
Ben caught a glimpse of narrow, savage eyes at the entrance. “I think it’s a wild boar, Ned’ll send him on his way.”
“No, keep hold of him!” Dominic hissed. “Have you seen the tusks on those things? That boar would injure a dog badly. Better leave it to me.”
He chose a thick burning pine branch from the fire and dashed toward the entrance, shouting, “Yaaaah! Gerroutofit!”
The boar grunted and snorted, half turning. When Dominic was quite close to the beast, he lashed out, striking it several hard blows with the flaming brand. The boar squealed and ran off, leaving behind an acrid smell of burnt hair. Dominic flung the blazing wood after it, still shouting. “Yaaaah! That’ll give you a hot bottom! Go on, leave us alone!”
Karay looked at him with a new respect. “That was a brave thing to do. I’d run a mile from a wild boar!”
The facemaker shrugged. “What I did was what the villagers used to do when the old boar wandered into our settlement in Sabada.”
Ned remained awake on watch that night, wary that the boar would return. Sometime after midnight, the rain ceased. Inside the cave, the fire sank to glowing embers. Ben was awakened by his dog’s quiet whimpers in the oppressive silence. He stroked the Labrador’s flank. “Are you alright, mate?”
Ned licked the boy’s hand. “I must have dozed off for a while, Ben. I could swear I saw the faces of Vanderdecken and his crew out there among the trees, watching us.”
The boy scratched the soft fur under his dog’s chin. “It’s just tiredness, Ned. Have a sleep. I’ll keep watch. Though I’m sure Vanderdecken couldn’t follow us here—he’s bound to the seas by heaven’s curse. But I know what you mean, I was having a few dreams like that myself before you woke me. Go on, take a nap, try to dream of more pleasant things.”
Ned settled his chin on his front paws, letting his eyes close. “Just as you say, Ben, but I don’t like this area, and I feel there’s more to come before we find the Razan. Oh, there’s no use trying to think different, mate. Don’t forget, I can read your thoughts, and they tell me you’re thinking the same thing. You’re scared—me too! We both are. These forests and mountains—there’s an eerie feel about them. It’s like something we’ve never come across.”
Ben watched the black Labrador as sleep overcame him. He knew, with an awful sense of foreboding, that Ned was right.
20
DAWN’S FIRST FEEBLE LIGHT CREPT into the cave as Ned lay on guard near the entrance. The black Labrador wa
s in a peculiar state of semi-wakefulness, with snatches of dream still hovering about his mind. A voice that he knew was the angel’s recited distantly to him.
“ ’Tis thou who must show the way,
when visions of evil arise.
Others may see what ye cannot,
So be guided by thine own eyes.”
Another voice chimed in. “Who’s that? Come forward and be recognised!”
Ned woke immediately, knowing that the second voice was no dream. Thankfully, it was far enough away for only a dog to hear. Ben, Karay and Dominic were still asleep. Ned slipped out to investigate as yet another voice reached his ears.
“Put up your club, ’tis only me—Cutpurse the clown!”
Shuffling through the undergrowth on his stomach, Ned moved noiselessly forward until he found the source of the voices.
A group of ten men, clad in gypsy rags, all well armed with clubs, knives and muskets, were watching a man emerge from the trees. With the group were a ferocious-looking mastiff dog and a brown bear, both wearing spiked collars and long iron-chain leashes to restrain them. Ned’s gaze settled on the fellow who was joining them. It was the fat rogue who had imprisoned Karay. He limped miserably out of the tree cover, leaning heavily on a homemade crutch. The leader of the band, a mean-faced villain with a marked squint, sneered mockingly at the newcomer. “Hah, what happened to you, Cutpurse?”
Wincing as he laid aside his crutch, he leaned against a tree and related his tale bitterly. “I thought I’d struck lucky last week. I captured a young girl—a singer she was, with a good voice. But she had us both taken by the constables, for stealin’. We broke out o’ prison together an’ stole a cart. Then d’ye know what the young hussy did? She stole the cart an’ ran away from me!”
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