“I think I’ll find some breakfast,” she said.
“Good idea,” Helios replied vaguely, as he hurried off. “Get some food while you can.”
Georgette walked out of the tent. Nobody stopped her. Once she was out, she kept walking.
It took her some time to find the exit. The Undercroft was more crowded than it had been the night before, but now it wasn’t like a party at all. At one stall a short, stout man was telling a story to a group of small children. At another, she saw people tending to the wounded: a man with a bleeding hand, a boy with a broken arm, an old woman with a whiplash across her eyes. Clearly there was trouble in the city of Clarel.
At last she found the tunnel that led to the river. There were two people guarding the entrance and she halted, wondering what to say to them. It wasn’t completely clear if she was a prisoner in the Undercroft. She observed them for a while, trying to see what protocol she should follow, and realized they were only questioning people who entered the Undercroft. They didn’t seem to be too worried about who was leaving.
She took a deep breath, and then sauntered casually towards them.
“Take care out there,” said one of the guards. “We’re hearing bad reports.”
“I will,” said Georgette, nodding pleasantly as she entered the tunnel.
It seemed almost no time at all before she was standing by the edge of the river, blinking in the sunshine. She scrambled up to the street and walked until the Undercroft entrance was out of sight. She searched along the river for the Furrier’s Bridge. That must be it, over there.
She breathed in and out, trying to stop the trembling in her legs. She didn’t know whether she was more frightened or excited.
Excited, she thought. That’s what I am.
Princess Georgette was out in the city of Clarel. And for the first time in her whole life, she was out by herself.
Chapter Forty
A TERSE NOTE FROM THE PALACE ABOUT THE disappearance of the Princess arrived just after Cardinal Lamir’s breakfast. He threw his plate across the dining room and swept to his office in a state of frigid rage. The sight of Milan Ariosto waiting for him in the corridor did nothing to abate it.
Ariosto was paler than usual and his expression was wary. He took note of the Cardinal’s blackened eye but had no visible reaction. Of course Ariosto would know that a witch had escaped their clutches and, worse, knocked the Cardinal out. Normally he would have betrayed at least a twitch of secret amusement.
“Well?” Lamir snapped, as he locked the chamber door behind them. “Out with it. I know already that it’s not good tidings.”
“Yes, my lord.” Ariosto nervously licked his lips, another bad sign. “It seems that your translator has gone missing.”
“My translator?” For a second the Cardinal didn’t know who Ariosto meant.
“Sibelius d’Artan, my lord.”
“What do you mean, he’s gone missing? He gave you the slip? I told you to keep him under surveillance.”
“We did as you ordered, my lord. We had a guard outside his chamber here, and of course all the usual security in the office. There is no sign of him anywhere this morning.”
“You mean that he’s vanished into thin air?”
“It seems so, my lord.”
“But the man’s a fool. How could he possibly have got past the assassins?”
“I agree that he’s a fool, my lord.” Ariosto licked his lips again. His mouth was very dry. “Nevertheless, he is certainly absent.”
There was a long, pregnant silence. Ariosto stared at his shoes, awaiting the Cardinal’s punishment. There was no point defending himself. Losing track of a surveillance target was unforgivable. It had never happened before under Ariosto’s command. Not once.
The Cardinal drew in a long, audible breath, and then spoke in an alarmingly even tone. “Tell me exactly what you know,” he said.
“Yes, my lord.” Ariosto’s voice was drained of all expression. “D’Artan was last seen when an orderly brought him a late supper at a quarter to midnight. All seemed normal. This morning at the prime bell the lamp was still burning. The guard assumed that he was working, or that he had perhaps fallen asleep. By the terce bell, he began to be worried. He knocked on the door to see if d’Artan wanted to break his fast, and received no response. He then entered the room and found it empty.”
“Who was the guard?”
Ariosto decided to evade the answer. “One of my best men.”
“And the document d’Artan was investigating?”
“There is no sign of it either, my lord.”
Ariosto could feel the Cardinal containing his rage.
“So. How did this d’Artan escape?”
“We presume he left by way of the window. It was found open.”
“I thought I told you to put d’Artan in an office that offered no chance of climbing out.”
“He was in one of the fifth-floor chambers. Even an assassin would be seriously challenged to climb down.”
“Are there bars on the window?”
Ariosto swallowed. “No, my lord. They didn’t appear to be necessary.”
“And you checked the ground below?”
“Naturally we considered that he might have taken his own life,” said Ariosto. “There is no sign of a corpse, nor of any violence.”
“Then it is definitely witchcraft. Again! In the centre of the Office for Witchcraft Extermination!”
There was a long silence. Ariosto could feel the pressure building in the room. Shadows coalesced in the corners as if demonic shapes were forming there. He could almost hear them shifting in the darkness, slavering, unsheathing their claws. His throat tightened, but he couldn’t tell if that was the Cardinal’s doing or his own fear.
He was ten years old again, back in the orphanage.
The worst thing that could happen to an orphan was to be called to the Cardinal’s office on Visiting Day. Orphans who committed the worst transgressions were put on the List. Every week there would be three or four terrified boys standing in the corridor outside the office, waiting for judgment. Some boys never came out of that room, and nobody ever knew what happened to them.
Ariosto had only been in that queue once. Once was more than enough. It occurred to him, as he stood with downcast eyes in front of the Cardinal, that his whole life had been formed around his desire never to stand in that corridor again. And yet, here he was…
“Let me summarize for you. In the past few hours there have been three incidents. A witch has escaped our custody. Princess Georgette has vanished from the palace. And now it seems one of the office staff, working on a high-level investigation, has also inexplicably disappeared?”
Ariosto blinked. The Princess had run away? After days spent guarding King Oswald, he didn’t really blame her. Impossible though it seemed at the present moment, Oswald was even more unpleasant than the Cardinal.
“I understand that the situation is deeply serious, my lord.”
“Good.” For a moment the Cardinal’s tension was audible in his voice. “You realize that the kingdom is under the most serious attack in living memory? The smallest slip now, in such a time of crisis, is unforgivable.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I am disappointed, Milan,” said the Cardinal softly. His voice was thick oil filling Ariosto’s ears. “I am very, very disappointed. You seem to be losing your edge.”
“I am ashamed, my lord—”
An invisible pressure, fast as a whiplash. Ariosto cried out. He was cast face down onto the floor, his cheek pressed into the stone flags, his arms pinned, his legs. It was as if a hundredweight of rocks pushed down on every inch of his body. He couldn’t move; he couldn’t breathe. Every second it grew heavier. He could feel his ribs cracking. He only had space for a single thought: he was going to die.
Just as he was about to black out, the pressure lifted. His starved lungs made a whistling noise as the air rushed back in. He lay there for a measureless
time, unable to feel anything except an incredulous relief that the weight had gone.
“Get up.”
The Cardinal’s voice was absolutely cold.
Ariosto found to his surprise that he could move. He lifted himself onto his knees, and then to his feet. He was shaking all over, and he almost fell again because of his dizziness.
“I will spare you, for now,” said the Cardinal. “But this is your final chance.”
Ariosto nodded. He was still unable to speak.
“I want you to find d’Artan. I want you especially to find the documents he absconded with. I want you to do this within the next day and night.”
Ariosto nodded again.
“I expect both are concealed in the Weavers’ Quarter. I expect the raids to be thorough and executed with speed and efficiency.”
“Yes, my lord. The raids are progressing well…”
“I have my own reports, fool. Get your disgusting presence out of my chamber.”
Ariosto bowed and walked backwards out of the room, bent over as if he were leaving the presence of a king. He closed the door softly behind him and straightened up slowly. He didn’t care that one of the office guards was staring at him with a mixture of fear and mockery. Right now Ariosto was beyond pride. He hurt viciously all over, from the hairs on his head to his toenails.
He felt astonished that he was still alive. He walked to his office, feeling the surprise ebb away. In its place was a liberating clarity. Without realizing it, he had been afraid his whole life. And now, for the first time he could remember, he wasn’t afraid.
The worst the Cardinal could do was to kill him. Well, this time Lamir had made a mistake. Ariosto was alive. And every living cell inside him vibrated with hatred.
Chapter Forty-one
PIP WAS ALMOST TOO TIRED TO BE AMAZED, BUT EVEN so, the Undercroft took him aback. The past few days had been a series of successive shocks, but somehow the Undercroft was the biggest. It was as if he had looked up at the sky and discovered a populous city hanging just over his head, only to be told that it had been there all his life.
“All these people live in Clarel?” he said. “And they’re all witches?”
“I think there are people here now who aren’t witches,” said Oni, looking around. “But just because you don’t know about something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”
“I know, but so many…?”
“Imagine having to hide for your whole life in case someone decided to burn you to death. That’s why.”
Pip was silenced by the edge in her voice, but El took Oni’s hand.
“That’s awful,” she said. “I’m sorry you couldn’t even tell me.”
“I know,” said Oni. “But I couldn’t.”
“But now it doesn’t matter?”
Oni shrugged. “Things are changing,” she said. “Though maybe they’re changing for the worse.”
It was almost lunchtime. They had snatched a few hours’ sleep, but it wasn’t enough: Pip could feel tiredness dragging at his shoulders. More than anything he wanted to go back to sleep, but not just because he was still tired. Clovis was inside his head, and he wouldn’t shut up. It was driving him up the wall.
We’re friends now, aren’t we? Clovis had said, when they had been vomited back out of the Rupture into Missus Orphint’s kitchen.
Yes, we’re friends, said Pip.
So, what do friends do? Do we play? Do we?
Clovis sounded very young, much younger than when they had first spoken. Like he was about three. The arrogant child prince seemed to have disappeared altogether.
We be friends, said Pip. That’s what friends do.
Oh. The disappointment in Clovis’s voice gave Pip a twinge of conscience. I thought we might do something special.
Just being friends is special, said Pip, unable to think of anything better to say. Even to his own ears it sounded like a sop. But it seemed to please Clovis. As they lay down to sleep on Missus Orphint’s pallets, he had the strangest feeling that Clovis was cuddling trustingly against him.
And then Amina had woken them and said she was taking them all to the Undercroft, even the assassin. Heironomo had given up arguing, but at this he looked frightened. Oni told him that he was lucky that Pip hadn’t left him behind in the Rupture. “Nobody’s going to turn you into a frog,” she said scornfully. “Even if you deserve it.”
Heironomo, all his braggadocio gone, didn’t answer. All he knew was that he was being taken to a place full of people with very good reasons to hate him. Neither he nor Harpin resisted when Amina shook their magical shackles and told them to follow her quick smart. They just looked resigned.
Now El was back, Pip didn’t feel angry with Clovis any more. All that rage had been replaced with an uncomfortable sense of being responsible. He didn’t like that very much; he wasn’t used to it.
Well, he had always felt a responsibility for El, but that was different. There had only ever been El and him. Now there was Clovis and him, and Clovis was inside his head. Sometimes it was a bit difficult to tell which were his thoughts, and which belonged to Clovis.
Clovis’s inconsequential chitchat ceased abruptly the moment they entered the Undercroft. Pip knew why at once: he could feel Clovis’s fear as if it was his own.
As far as Clovis was concerned, this was his worst nightmare. They were walking through a pit full of witches. If Clovis had been a puppy, he would be huddling into Pip’s ankles, shaking all over.
Nobody will hurt you here, Pip said, hoping it was true. I won’t let them. Fair’s fair. You kept your promise.
Witches are cruel, said Clovis. They say they’re going to help you and then…
The memory tore through Pip’s mind like sudden fire. A woman, not very old, brown-haired, quite plump. She looked a little like a younger version of their Missus Pledge. She was smiling, holding out a ripe apple. He was very hungry. He reached out for the apple, heard his voice thanking the kind lady.
And then, a merciless grip, and terrible pain. A knife plunging into his chest, blood splashing on his face, on her face, screams filling his ears that he knew were his own screams…
So Old Missus Pledge had lied. She hadn’t found Clovis after he had been killed by the executioners. She had killed him herself.
No wonder he’s frightened of witches, Pip thought. Imagine being able to remember your own death. And dying like that…
“You all right, Pip?” El was pulling at his elbow. “You going to be sick? You’ve gone all green.”
Pip swallowed, trying to contain his nausea. “I’m all right,” he said gruffly.
“We better catch the others up. You stopped, just like that, and…”
He shrugged El off, quickening his pace. “I said, I’m all right.”
He began dimly to perceive what it meant that Clovis had decided to trust him. If the story that Amina had told them were true, Clovis’s father had decided to devour his son’s soul. His own father. And then Old Missus Pledge had cut out his heart. While he was still alive. That same Heart that Pip still carried, almost forgotten, in his pocket.
If Pip let Clovis down too, it would be a disaster. And not just for Clovis and Pip, but for everyone else as well.
Most witches are good people, Pip said to Clovis as he hurried after Amina. Oni’s not like that. You know that, you must know that. You stopped the assassin from hurting her.
Silence.
Spectres are worse than witches. Much worse.
More silence. A growing feeling of confusion, sadness, fear.
At last Clovis spoke. Yes. No. I don’t know.
I won’t let them hurt you, said Pip again. Even if they want to. To his surprise, this time he meant it. He added, as an afterthought, They won’t want to, though. I’m sure.
He felt, rather than heard, Clovis’s response: a little leap of relief. A secret, troubled part of Pip’s mind whispered that perhaps he was being a little dishonest, that maybe the witches wouldn’t care about
Clovis. And after all, he and Clovis weren’t really friends. He really didn’t want Clovis to be hurt, but he still wasn’t sure if he actually liked him.
Chapter Forty-two
KING OSWALD – OR, MORE ACCURATELY, KING Rudolph – was an old hand at court politics. As his valet clipped his nails after morning chapel, he sniffed the air in the palace. He could tell by the itch in his bones that something was wrong. He had noticed that the Princess was absent from her usual pew in the service. At first he had accepted the explanation that she had been taken ill, but now he was beginning to wonder. Had the girl absconded? Of course nobody would dare to tell him if she had.
Patience, he said to himself. Patience…
Patience was his chief – perhaps his only – virtue. The alliance with Clarel was the first major step in a strategy that he had been working on for fifty years. Ever since the Spectres had lost power across Continentia and all the quarrelling kingdoms had banded together to declare war on Awemt, Oswald-Rudolph had been quietly rebuilding alliances. He had rewritten histories and silenced the witches. He had bided his time. And now everybody had forgotten about the Spectres, or thought that they were just a legend. The time was ripe.
In less than a year, King Oswald would be Emperor of Continentia. He might even adopt his old name again: Emperor Rudolph. It had a nice ring. And a new age would dawn. An age of endless power…
The servant finished filing his nails and bowed. Oswald waved a hand to dismiss him, still pondering deeply. He needed that princess. She had the right bloodlines. Axel was a buffoon, but a little vulgar breeding was needed now and then to bring strength to the line; otherwise it became progressively weaker and the blood magic failed.
Through her father, Georgette was the only link left to the line of King Odo of Clarel. Spectre blood on both sides would ensure that the magic took properly. There could be no more failed vessels. Every one of his sons so far had died soon after he began the procedure. He needed stronger children.
The Princess was, of course, terrified of him, but that didn’t bother Oswald. Had she run away? How was that possible? Should he pressure Axel to reveal what he was hiding? It annoyed Oswald that he was forced to dance around the petty deceptions of this primitive kingdom.
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