The Silver Blade (Bk. 2)

by Sally Gardner

  Now there were fewer than twenty minutes to the moment when the drums would begin to roll and the curtain would rise on a terrified Basco.

  Citizeness Manou, who guarded the stage door, entered the theatre manager’s office. She was an unprepossessing sight, with the pipe she had taken to smoking attached to her bottom lip, wrapping her in a fog of wispy smoke in which she wheezed and puffed continuously.

  ‘Are they back?’ said Têtu, spinning around.

  ‘No,’ she puffed. ‘Here, this came for Yann.’ She handed Têtu a letter. ‘Thought it might be important.’

  ‘No sign of him? Nothing, nothing at all?’ asked Citizen Aulard.

  ‘No, unless he has become invisible. Nothing would get past me. Just the letter.’ She left, her shoes echoing loudly on the wooden stairs.

  ‘That’s another thing,’ said Citizen Aulard. ‘These letters. If they fell into the wrong hands, you know what that would mean.’

  ‘Death,’ said Têtu helpfully.

  ‘Mort bleu, as if we didn’t have enough to worry about. I thought you’d spoken to Yann. No good will come of this infatuation. The world may have gone insane, but it still clings tightly to its prejudices.’

  They were interrupted again, this time by Harlequin’s leading lady, Colombine, dressed in full costume and holding her mask.

  ‘Are we going on stage or not? The cast are downstairs and they don’t know what’s happening. Is there any news of Yann?’

  Colombine was a pretty girl with a sharp, foxy face. She could have been a fine actress if she had not been so in love with herself, and with making sure that everyone in the company felt the same way about her. Only one person had not succumbed to her charms, and that was Yann. And nothing attracted her more than a man who refused to see what she had to offer.

  ‘I mean I can’t do this show single-handed, and I can’t act with a lump of wood.’

  Basco entered dressed as Harlequin, looking as if he were about to go to the guillotine.

  Colombine sighed, ‘Give me strength.’ Putting her hands on her hips, she said, ‘Well, it looks like we’ll all be laying down our lives if Yann don’t show up.’

  The tears had started to fall down Harlequin’s cheeks. Citizen Aulard handed him his handkerchief as once more the door opened.

  ‘What?’ shouted Citizen Aulard. ‘Does no one knock in this building? Is my room just a thoroughfare?’

  ‘Sorry, chief,’ said Pantalon, one of the oldest members of the company, an actor who would have retired if it were not for the fact that most young men were in the army.

  ‘It’s a full house, chief, I’m pretty sure I saw Robespierre in the audience. I mean, this isn’t going well, is it?’

  ‘No!’ shouted Citizen Aulard.

  ‘That’s what we were thinking. I was wondering if running away and hiding might be the answer.’

  ‘No,’ said Têtu.

  ‘Thought as much,’ said Pantalon.

  He looked at Basco. ‘Oh, no, chief, you ain’t really going to put him on stage?’

  ‘Vive la Révolution!’

  Everyone jumped to attention. Everyone except Têtu.

  ‘Iago, not now,’ said Citizen Aulard, looking angrily at the parrot. ‘I’d like to know whose little joke it was to teach my parrot that.’

  There was silence.

  ‘Well, that’s that then,’ said Pantalon. ‘I mean, we are in for it.’

  ‘Oh, get out the lot of you,’ said Citizen Aulard, ‘and Basco, pull yourself together. Curtain up in ten minutes.’

  Once the actors had gone Citizen Aulard sat down with a bump in his chair.

  ‘Vive la Révolution!’

  ‘Mort bleu! Mort bleu!’ said Citizen Aulard, leaping to his feet again. ‘Will you stop saying that!’ He threw a book at the parrot, who flew to sit on Têtu’s head in indignation.

  ‘My friend,’ said Têtu, ‘Best we keep our nerve. All is not lost.’

  ‘Not quite. In ten minutes, yes.’

  The musicians started to play, the actors took their places. The curtain rose, the drums rolled, cueing Harlequin’s entrance.

  ‘Remember,’ said Têtu to Basco, ‘stay where I can see you.’

  Basco had sweat pouring off him and was looking wobbly.

  ‘No, no, no, you don’t faint in my theatre,’ said Citizen Aulard, snapping his fingers in Basco’s face. ‘That isn’t allowed.’

  Basco bent his head, his hands on his knees, his face pea green. The drums rolled again for Harlequin to enter.

  ‘I can’t,’ moaned Basco. ‘I can’t do it. Forgive me. Anything but this. Death is preferable.’

  ‘And death it will be for all of us if you don’t get your backside on that stage!’ shouted Citizen Aulard.

  The audience, sensing something was wrong, began clapping and whistling and shouting for Harlequin.

  Citizen Aulard was about to stop the show when a large hand grabbed him from behind.

  ‘No need to worry, guv,’ a familiar voice said. ‘It’s covered.’

  Têtu and Citizen Aulard spun round, open-mouthed, to see Didier standing there and beside him, Yann, already dressed as Harlequin. ‘Sorry, it took longer than we thought,’ said Didier, as Yann, putting on his mask, made his entrance to howls of delight.

  Chapter Seven

  Later, after the show, Yann sat in his dressing room among the clutter of clothes, wigs and make-up. He was exhausted. Didier, unlike him, had been able to go straight to bed. Yann had had to keep going. He was dozing when he was woken by Citizen Aulard and Têtu, Iago perched on the dwarf’s shoulder.

  ‘That was very close. Too close,’ said Citizen Aulard. ‘Basco nearly had a heart attack and as for Iago, he thought he was meat for coq au vin. What went wrong?’

  ‘The weather, the road, not taking horses, not having enough safe houses. Shall I continue?’ Yann sighed. ‘Please, I’m tired. Can we talk about this tomorrow?’

  Citizen Aulard patted him on the shoulder. ‘Of course,’ he said, turning to leave. He glanced back into the dressing room to see the dwarf sitting close to Yann and, not for the first time, felt like a foreigner in their private world.

  Têtu waited for the door to close, waited for Yann to take off his make-up, waited until he had changed back into his clothes. When he had waited long enough, he took from his coat a bottle of wine, cheese, bread and boiled eggs, an apple, some nuts and two slices of cake. Yann couldn’t help but smile, remembering how, when he was little, it was one of Têtu’s great tricks to conjure food from thin air.

  Finally, he produced two glasses and a knife.

  ‘You must be hungry.’ He spoke in Romany. It was Yann’s mother tongue, the language they always spoke when they were alone together, the language of their souls.

  Yann laughed. ‘Têtu, I’m pleased to see you.’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like that parrot,’ said Yann. Iago was perching now like some exotic hat on the dwarf’s head.

  ‘He has a very good nature and I had overlooked the fact that he is a remarkably wise bird.’

  Iago, as if on cue, flew to sit on top of the mirror, a better vantage point from which to observe the conversation.

  ‘Well, what on earth delayed you for so long?’

  ‘Vive la évolution!’ squawked the parrot.

  Têtu shrugged. ‘I’ve started to teach him a few useful words,’ he said by way of explanation.

  Yann tipped back his chair and laughed.

  ‘What really happened?’ asked Têtu.

  ‘The weather,’ said Yann, his face serious. ‘An attempted burglary at the château and a butcher having a heart attack.’

  Têtu listened carefully to all Yann had to say - and all he didn’t mention.

  ‘Mr Tull is involved in the business of exporting stolen furniture to England, a very profitable little industry apparently.’

  ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘No,’ said Yann, running his hands through
his thick black hair. ‘There’s no doubt it’s getting harder to get people out. The National Guard is on the alert. They seem to be everywhere, and people are so frightened they’re willing to sell their grandmothers, or anything else they might own, to avoid being arrested.’

  ‘I believe it will get worse,’ replied Têtu. His face was grave. ‘Yannick,’ he asked, ‘do you have your talisman?’

  ‘How do you know about that?’ asked Yann, wondering why he was ever surprised by all Têtu knew.

  ‘Because I saw it around your neck a long time ago and I realise I have been fooling myself, imagining that you still have it.’

  ‘I gave it to Sido,’ said Yann. ‘She needed it more than I do.’

  Têtu got off his chair and started to walk up and down the dressing room.

  ‘Stop it, Têtu,’ said Yann. ‘It is up to me what I do with it.’

  Têtu looked worried, more worried than Yann thought the situation demanded, and for a moment he felt a jolt as if he had missed something, though what, he wasn’t sure.

  ‘Tobias Cooper gave you the talisman.’

  ‘Yes, how do you know that?’

  ‘It is irrelevant, it is nothing. I know. It is the bora bora, the shell of the shells. The emblem of light, a charm against evil, an agent of great luck - and you gave it away?’

  ‘I didn’t give it away to anyone, I gave it to Sido. That makes all the difference.’

  ‘You gave it to someone who is not of our blood, who will no doubt discard it as a trifle, a pretty bauble to be lost.’

  ‘No,’ said Yann, ‘you don’t know her. I do, and I know she would never let it go.’

  ‘Yann, you need it. You are the one in danger, not Sido. It will protect you from the darkness.’

  ‘Then she and the shell are my talismans. They will bring me good luck. Together they make me even stronger.’

  Têtu sat down and let out a sigh. ‘So much is wasted on the young,’ he said. ‘This will only break your heart . . . my advice is to get the shell back and try to forget all about her.’

  ‘No, Têtu, that is not how it is. With deep respect, this is nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Do you think for a moment that the Laxtons would be glad to know of your feelings for her?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Yann. ‘That is between Sido and me.’

  ‘What’s between you? Some letters and the sea. Yann, this will never work! The Laxtons may hold radical views, but do you think they would relish the idea of their long-lost niece marrying a gypsy? She may not have a dowry, but I tell you this, she has a title that is over five hundred years old and that in itself is worth a fortune.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ he said, knowing full well that Têtu’s reasoning was sound. ‘The Laxtons treated me like a son.’

  ‘You’re blind!’ interrupted Têtu. ‘Can’t you see this is madness? This is their niece we are talking about.’

  ‘I love her,’ said Yann flatly. ‘What does anything else matter?’

  ‘Yannick, let it go, I beg of you! Find another girl, someone who is—’

  ‘What, Têtu?’ said Yann angrily, ‘Someone who is . . . more of my class, more of my breeding?’

  ‘Yes, a gypsy, why not?’

  ‘Tell me about when you met my mother.’

  ‘No, Yannick, no.’

  ‘Yes, it is the same. You have always loved Anis. Do you think I don’t know that? Why didn’t you find someone else when she died?’

  ‘It’s different,’ said Têtu, for once at a loss as to what to say.

  ‘I don’t believe that, neither do you. I am like you, Têtu, we were made to love only once. Even if I can never be with Sido, I will love no one else.’

  Both were silent. Words hung between them. Yann had learned how to hide his thoughts from Têtu. He could feel the dwarf’s frustration.

  ‘You are your own man. I have to let it go, I see that,’ said Têtu. He rose to leave.

  ‘Wait,’ said Yann. ‘There is something. That first day of the September Massacre - when Kalliovski was torn to pieces by the mob.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You said something that I have been thinking about a lot lately. You said that day the devil went walking, looking for one irredeemable soul to blow his fiery life into.’

  Têtu nodded. ‘It’s an old gypsy tale.’

  ‘Do you think he did go walking?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Têtu, sitting down again.

  ‘There is a story on the streets,’ replied Yann.

  ‘Which one? You hear all sorts of tales in the cafés of Paris. Shall I tell you one I hear quite often? About a corrupt corporal who found a silver blade from a toy guillotine hanging over his head? Shall I carry on?’

  ‘No,’ said Yann, refusing to catch his eye.

  ‘I hope you are never stupid enough to do that again.’

  ‘I told you it was a joke, nothing more. I thought he would keep quiet.’

  ‘Hmm. In my bitter experience corrupt corporals tend never to keep quiet. The name has stuck like mud, and the odd thing is that every time someone escapes and no one can work out the rhyme or reason of it, they say it is the Silver Blade.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. No, the story I’m talking about is the mysterious figure who is seen with his black dog in the Place de la Revolution. Some say he is real, others that he is a ghost. Some say he is the spirit of the Terror. Have you heard this story?’

  ‘Yes,’ Têtu said. His face remained motionless. What could he tell Yann? That he lived in dread of Kalliovski’s resurrection and the power that would come with it?

  ‘Didier was sure we were followed from Paris by a wolf,’ said Yann. ‘I saw its shadow. I felt it belonged to the darkness.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There were no threads of light, and it made me wonder: if the devil went walking, and took Kalliovski, what would have happened to Balthazar?’

  ‘A good question. One I need to think about.’ Têtu moved towards the door. He clicked his fingers, and Iago flew and landed once more on his shoulder.

  ‘One other thing,’ said Yann. ‘I heard Anis’s voice. I’m sure she was warning me.’

  Tetu said nothing. He wanted this conversation to be over. It brought back memories of Anis. Her loss was a hole in his heart that time had forgotten to mend.

  He said, more briskly than he meant, ‘You need your talisman. Good night.’

  Yann watched him leave and then turned to the mirror, where he saw propped against it a letter from Sido.

  He broke the seal and read:Those simple words “I love you” are the most precious gems I have ever been given.

  I have not dared to believe that you could care for me or that your feelings could match mine. I felt it would be my secret, that I would never have the courage to tell you that I loved you with all my being.

  When I arrived in London all those months ago I had never experienced a loss quite like that of being parted from you. Only in your shell did I find comfort. I would lay it on the palm of my hand and see it almost shimmer as I asked it if you were safe. It has a voice, soft, like a gentle wave lapping at the seashore; it always sings the same song: ‘He must love you so much to have given away such a talisman, he must love you so much . . . . A lullaby to soothe my troubled heart.

  What would I have done without your letters? Don’t think I don’t know what danger they put you in, but I have counted the days between them, been frustrated beyond belief when there wasn’t anything from you and even my dear postman would look sad. Poor Mr Trippen, I think if he could have conjured a letter from thin air he would have done so.

  There is no one else. Goodness knows what you have heard. It is true that my uncle and aunt have introduced me into society. I can tell you this: all I ever meet is empty-headed or vain young men. I feel like an automaton dressed up and wheeled out. My fault, I fear, for once again I have retreated into silence. There are no words I want to share with anyone but you.

  Here my sou
l is imprisoned. Only you can set it free.

  You have been with me in everything. And you will always be with me. You are my beginning, you will be my end; in the middle lies our future. I am with you in spirit, as I feel your spirit is with me. I will wait, Yann. You and only you have the key to my soul.