The Silver Blade (Bk. 2)

by Sally Gardner

  Yann had not been expecting anyone else at the theatre apart from Anselm. He walked on to the stage to find him with a pistol in his hand and a knife in his belt, his eyes flickering. Then he saw Mr Tull twisting Citizen Aulard’s arm up his back and holding a gun to his head.

  ‘If you do any of your magic tricks,’ said Anselm, ‘Mr Tull here will kill him. I mean it.’

  ‘What is it you want with me?’ asked Yann.

  ‘What do you think? I want what’s mine, to know how the threads of light work. You see,’ said Anselm, coming closer, ‘Count Kalliovski meant me to have the gift of the threads of light. He promised as much. It doesn’t belong to you. Do you know why?’

  Yann said nothing.

  ‘Well, then, I’ll tell you. Because I know I’m his son. He didn’t realise it, but I know. I heard voices, they told me it was so. They are telling me now. I am his rightful son and heir, not you.’

  ‘Hold on a mo,’ said Mr Tull, ‘what are you rambling on about? He didn’t have a son.’

  ‘Shut up, Tull, I ain’t speaking to you.’

  ‘I was born with the gift,’ said Yann slowly, all the time thinking how to get Citizen Aulard out of this alive. ‘My magic belongs to the light.’

  ‘I’m getting very angry,’ said Anselm, ‘aren’t I, Mr Tull? He isn’t hearing what I’m saying, is he?’

  ‘That’s right,’ replied the old rogue, his eyes glued to his worrying erstwhile protégé.

  Yann looked at Citizen Aulard and said calmly, ‘I’m glad to see they released you.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, I should have—’

  ‘Shut your mouths,’ said Anselm. ‘Come on. Unless you tell me the secret of your magic, I’ll kill him.’

  ‘Let him go.’

  Anselm burst out laughing. ‘Got you now, haven’t I?’ He pulled back the trigger and pointed his weapon straight at Citizen Aulard’s heart. ‘His death will be your fault.’

  Mr Tull, seeing what Anselm was about to do, yelled, ‘Wait a minute - I’m holding him!’

  ‘Well, don’t,’ shouted Anselm.

  At that moment, as Mr Tull let go of Citizen Aulard, Iago flew on to the stage, straight at the startled Anselm. His pistol went off.

  Yann saw the smoke, and for a fraction of a second relived the nightmare that had haunted him since boyhood, the moment the old magician Topolain had failed to catch the bullet. He concentrated all his powers and reached with his mind’s eye for the missile.

  Yann looked at his hand. It was covered in blood, but he had caught the bullet.

  Citizen Aulard stumbled into the darkness backstage. As Anselm reloaded, Yann threw out the threads of light to catch the pistol, missing his target as Anselm darted up the stairs to the fly tower. There among the ropes and lanterns he looked down on the stage, took aim at Yann and fired. To his astonishment, his second bullet found its mark in Mr Tull’s shoulder.

  Yann followed Anselm up the fly tower. He flicked out the threads of light and, lifting him off his feet, hung him like a pendulum above the stage.

  Mr Tull rose unsteadily, murder glittering in his eyes. He had had enough, more than enough of Anselm Loup. Seeing him hovering there, he knew what he was going to do.

  ‘Get me down, Tull,’ shouted Anselm.

  Mr Tull pulled back the trigger and fired his pistol at Anselm’s rotten heart.

  Every citizen in Paris would be able to tell you exactly where they were on the day of Robespierre’s execution. Paris was in a holiday mood, the streets hummed with people, there was an air of excitement. The Terror was ending and France stood at the dawn of a new era.

  The two lovers, oblivious to everything but each other, walked, hand in hand, against the tide of the crowd.

  At the Jardin du Luxembourg they strolled along a winding gravel path.

  ‘Without the Revolution,’ said Yann, as they sat under a grove of chestnut trees, ‘we would never have been together and I wouldn’t be able to ask you this. Will you marry me?’

  Sido, her blue eyes shining, said, ‘With all my heart, yes.’

  ‘Even if your aunt and uncle don’t give their consent?’

  ‘Yes. As long as you promise me we won’t have an ordinary life, and that whatever we do, we’ll do it together.’

  He laughed and, wrapping her in his arms, kissed her. ‘It will be filled with adventures. This is the just the beginning, I promise.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Henry Laxton sat in his study in Queen Square, having just finished reading the letters that had arrived that morning from Paris. Leaning back in his chair, he looked out of the study window at the sun-dappled leaves of the oak tree in the garden and remembered the day he had first seen Yann. Who would have thought then . . . ? Oh, well. Life is a strange affair.

  Among the letters, one had finally arrived from The Travellers Arms. It was not, as the writer, a Mr Suter, reported, the cleanest of inns. Hence he believed that the letter he had found might have gone undiscovered for longer still, if it hadn’t been for the fact that he had taken a room at the inn to recover from the effects of seasickness. Seeing the painting of the galleon upon a wild sea, he had turned the picture to face the wall. In doing so he dislodged Sido’s letter. Being an honest man, Mr Suter had posted it, and he hoped that whatever the letter had to say, it hadn’t arrived too late to be of use.

  It contained a hurried and frightened note from Sido. A few weeks ago this note would have brought Henry comfort, but now the circumstances were well known to him and his wife. Poor Juliette had suffered badly, and her condition had not improved when she heard that her niece had no intention of returning to London before her wedding. A wedding that Juliette still believed to be ill-advised.

  Now Cordell’s letter outlined the situation perfectly. Regardless of any objections her aunt might have, Yann and Sido were to be married, and there would be another revolution if anyone tried stop them. He added that in his humble opinion Sido could do no better.

  Were it not for Yann there would be many Frenchmen and women from all walks of life who would not be alive today.

  He is a young man with a future, and I hope we can persuade him to employ his extraordinary talents and bravery on our behalf in the years to come.

  To the matter of Mr Tull, Kalliovski’s agent in London and Paris: he was arrested for the murder of Anselm Loup and sent to the guillotine four days after Robespierre, convicted as an English spy.

  The next letter was from Yann.

  Dear Mr Laxton,

  I know very well that I am not the one Mrs Laxton would have desired for her niece and perhaps you too would have wanted someone better.

  I have loved Sido since I first saw her all those years ago in the Marquis de Villeduval’s chateau. I loved her before I knew what love was.

  I know in my heart that I am a ghost child of my mother’s one true love. His spirit is in me. My father, the father who raised me and deserves the name, is an extraordinary man named Têtu. I have so much for which to thank him: for the courage he has given me, the love that has surrounded me, and a feeling of home without the inconvenience of four walls.

  I promise to look after Sido, to honour her, to love her. She is my soul, she is my life. We will walk together always.

  Fortune smiles kindly on us. I pray that you will too.

  Your blessing on our marriage would mean a great deal to us both.

  It was a very humble and truthful letter and had moved Henry deeply.

  The last one had again been from Sido.

  My dear aunt and uncle,

  I am sure by now you have been told that I am well and happier than I have ever been. Yann, I know, has written to ask for your blessing and I hope with all my heart that you will be able to give it.

  No doubt, Aunt, you are upset, and wish I was marrying someone of my own rank, but the man I am betrothed to is of noble birth. He was born to be King of the Gypsies.

  We will go to America to start our married life, to begin again. I tru
ly believe this is for the best. Têtu is coming with us, as is Monsieur Aulard, with a view to opening a theatre for magic.

  Always your affectionate niece,

  Sido

  Henry was greatly relieved. In his heart of hearts he knew the young lovers would do well. Putting down his glasses, he looked up to see that tea was being served in the garden and felt somewhat sheepish. If he had been honest with Juliette, and told her Yann hadn’t gone back to Paris to be an actor, if he had told her who the Silver Blade was, would she have fewer objections to the marriage?

  Vane came into the room. ‘Mrs Laxton is asking that you join her, sir.’

  Henry stood up and, walking out into the garden, prepared to tell his wife an extraordinary story.

  Epilogue

  I was on a mellow September afternoon, as the mist once more clung like a lady’s mantle to the earth and the air was filled with the smell of a passing summer, that the wedding of Yann Margoza and Sidonie de Villeduval took place in Normandy at the château of the Duchesse de Bourcy.

  The long table in the dining room had been laid with the best silver and plate, and the candelabras lit so that the chamber had the quality of sun-filled honey as the guests filtered in.

  Henry Laxton had chartered a private boat from Brighton to bring over Juliette, Mr Trippen, the Duc de Bourcy and his two sons. It had been an emotional reunion for everyone, each for different reasons.

  Juliette, who had decided to put aside all her objections to the marriage, found herself humbled by the change in her niece and bewildered by her beauty.

  Cordell had arranged for the actors from the Circus of Follies to be brought from Paris. Monsieur Aulard, sitting next to Têtu, was excited by the future. In two days’ time, he, Têtu, and Monsieur and Madame Margoza would be sailing for New York. Oh, he thought, how the world has tumbled upside down to land on its feet again.

  Didier was sitting with Dufort and the monkey, the Viscount, who was remarkably well behaved and well dressed. Basco was in his element talking to Juliette. Têtu, silently observing the proceedings, could see in the flickering light of the candles that the spirits were watching them. Anis, with Manouche by her side, was there to give her blessing.

  The champagne flowed and, as the great doors opened and the little collection of musicans began to play, everyone stood, glasses raised.

  ‘To Monsieur and Madame Margoza!’

  Yann saw the threads of light spinning around them, all silvery, diamond, ruby bright, and knew that shadows were but passing clouds. Putting his hands to Sido’s face he kissed her.

  She said softly, ‘We are birds . . .’

  Yann smiled. ‘We are the children of the Revolution, we are free.’

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank Judith Elliott for her help in finishing the first draft. Thanks too, to the wonderful Jacky Bateman, who puts up with the vilest spelling mistakes and still manages to laugh, for her long-suffering patience during the many rewrites. There are, as she says, three ghost books from which this one has emerged.

  My grateful thanks to Fiona Kennedy who helped shape the novel, pulling all the strands of the story together and weaving a better book; to Lauri Hornik at Dial Books for her continuing support; to my agent Rosemary Sandberg; and last but not least to the girl I met on a school visit who shyly asked, ‘Please Miss, when will you write more romance - like Mr Rochester in Jane Eyre?’

  I hope I understood the question. This book is my answer.

  SG.