Peter and the Sword of Mercy

by Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson

  The lead figure went to the cathedral’s massive door and raised his right arm, reaching toward the wrought-iron ring. The cloth of his robe slid down, revealing something barely recognizable as a hand—a mass of scar tissue, shaped like the gnarled root of a long-dead tree.

  The woman reached out, restraining the leader’s arm.

  “Not here,” she said.

  The leader jerked his arm away.

  “Do not touch me!” he spat, his heavily accented voice a dry rasp.

  “But…”

  “No!” said the leader. “You must never touch me!”

  “I’m sorry,” said the woman. “But we don’t go in here.”

  “Is this not the cathedral?”

  “The old cathedral was torn down a century before this one was built. It is the museum we want, around back. That’s where we’ll find the curator.”

  “And he will know where it is?” rasped the leader.

  “He knows as much as anyone.”

  The leader turned toward the woman. She fought the impulse to look away from his face, which was as hideously scarred as his hand, the shiny purplish skin drawn tight to the skull, hairless except for a few random tufts. A lone yellow eye glared from a deep socket; where the other eye would have been was only a hole. There was no nose; the mouth was a lipless cavern that could not fully close and thus revealed jagged teeth in a permanent mirthless grin.

  He was called the Skeleton. It was said he had once been handsome.

  “Take me to him,” he rasped.

  The woman led the three around the cathedral. The museum entrance was a modest door at the back, with a sign displaying its hours. At the moment it was closed.

  “I was afraid of this,” said the woman. “We’re quite late in the day.”

  The Skeleton’s clawlike hand reappeared. He grasped the brass door-knocker and rapped it hard once, twice, thrice.

  The door creaked as it opened. An elderly woman looked out, her eyes peering into the Skeleton’s hood. Seeing his face, she screamed and tried to close the door. But one of the large men had anticipated this; his hand was already on the door, pushing it open. The woman, still screaming, backed away.

  The four figures, led by the Skeleton, moved quickly inside and closed the door. The elderly woman, seeing that her screams were useless, retreated into the cluttered museum.

  From a back room, a frail voice called out to her, speaking in the Walloon dialect used in this part of Belgium. The curator appeared. He looked as old as time itself—hair as white as salt, and skin so wrinkled that he seemed to be wearing someone else’s body. His eyes, though, were an alert and piercing blue. The man glanced at his colleague, then studied all four hooded intruders. He showed no sign of fear.

  “May I help you?” he said in accented English. “We’ve just closed for the night.”

  The Skeleton turned to his companion.

  “Tell him,” he rasped.

  The female intruder stepped forward and pulled off her hood. She shook her hair, which fell past her shoulders in a glossy red cascade. Her jade green eyes sparkled in the candlelight.

  “My name,” she said, “is Scarlet Johns. My employer”—she bowed toward the Skeleton—“has come a great distance in search of something. I believe you know where it is.”

  “And what might that be?” said the old man.

  “The tip of Curtana.”

  The old man blinked, which was apparently as close as he came to showing surprise.

  “And why do you think I might know where it is?” he said. “I am just a curator.”

  Johns smiled. “You are a direct descendant of Gerard of Groesbeeck,” she said.

  The old man blinked again. “I am impressed,” he said.

  “You’ve spent a lifetime searching for the tip,” Johns continued. “As did your father before you.”

  “And his before him,” said the old man. “And so on, back a thousand years to the day the sword was broken. In all that time, nobody has found the tip of Curtana. What makes you think I would know where it is?”

  “If anyone does,” said Johns, “it is you.”

  The curator studied her. His eyes flicked over the other three figures, lingering for a moment on the Skeleton, then back to Johns.

  “And if I did know something,” he said, “why would I tell you?”

  The Skeleton stepped forward. “Because I want you to,” he said.

  For a moment the room was silent. Then the curator, his ice blue eyes on the Skeleton, said, “I don’t care who you are. I will not betray my ancestors. Do what you want; you will get nothing from me.”

  Because of the severe damage to his face, the Skeleton was not physically capable of showing pleasure. But he was pleased with the curator’s answer.

  “You are a brave man,” he said. With a swift motion he pulled back his hood, revealing his grotesque skull. The old woman whimpered. The curator struggled not to flinch as the Skeleton moved closer.

  “But in my experience,” said the Skeleton, “bravery is no match for properly applied pain.” He leaned close, his lone yellow eye burning in his monstrous face. “And nobody,” he rasped, “has more experience with pain than I do.”

  CHAPTER 3

  THE VISITOR

  THE DOORBELL RANG, AND Mrs. George Darling sighed. She had just sat down for her first relaxing moment after a long and busy day. She put down the newspaper—another awful story about somebody disappearing in the Underground—and rose from her chair.

  “Who is it?” shouted a high-pitched voice from upstairs, followed by a clatter of descending footsteps, followed by the appearance of her two sons, John and Michael.

  “Who is it?” repeated Michael, who was three and, as always, was holding his stuffed bear.

  “How would she know?” said John, who was seven and therefore knew a great deal more than Michael about everything. “She hasn’t opened the door yet, you ninny.”

  “Mum!” cried Michael. “John called me a—”

  “I heard what he called you,” said Mrs. Darling, glaring at John as she reached the front door, “and I will discuss it with him later. But right now you will both behave.” She opened the door, and her frown turned instantly to a smile at the sight of the tall figure standing there.

  “James!” she said. “What a wonderful surprise! Do come in!”

  “Are you sure?” James said. “I know it’s late, but…”

  “Nonsense!” she said, taking his arm and pulling him into the foyer. “John, Michael,” she said. “This is Mr. Smith.”

  Michael eyed James warily. “Who are you?” he said.

  “Michael Darling, that is a rude question,” said Mrs. Darling. “Mr. Smith is a very dear friend to your father and me. And we are delighted to see him at any hour, especially after…James, how long has it been?”

  “Years, I’m afraid, Molly,” said James.

  “Molly?” said John. He giggled.

  She turned to her son. “It’s the name I went by when I was a girl.”

  James blushed. “I’m sorry!” he said. “I didn’t realize …”

  “There’s no need to apologize,” said Molly. “It’s just that George considers Molly a childish nickname. These days he prefers to call me by my given name, Mary. But that would sound odd coming from you. Please, call me Molly.”

  “Molly!” said John, giggling again.

  “Are you a barrister?” asked Michael. “Our father is a barrister. He wears a wig. But he’s not a lady.”

  “Michael!” said Molly.

  “Well, are you a barrister?” repeated Michael.

  “No,” said James, with a glance toward Molly. “I work for Scotland Yard.” He saluted the boys. “Inspector Smith, at your service.”

  “An inspector from Scotland Yard!” said John, delighted. He peered up at James through his round eyeglasses. “Are you looking for a murderer?” he said.

  James grinned. “Not at the moment, no. But I am on a top secret assignment.
”

  “Really!” said John.

  “Yes. I’m looking for children who skip their baths.”

  “Oh,” said John, disappointed.

  “I’ve had my bath!” said Michael. “Yesterday, I think.”

  James was about to say something more when a third child descended the stairs—a girl of eleven, with long brown hair and a face that might be called delicate, except for the boldness in her startlingly green eyes.

  “My goodness,” said James. “Is that…”

  “Yes,” said Molly. “That’s Wendy. I imagine she was just a baby when you saw her last. Wendy, this is Mr. Smith.”

  “How do you do?” said Wendy, offering a curtsy.

  “Please forgive my staring,” said James. “But you look so much like your mother when I first met her.”

  “What was she like?” said Wendy, with a disarmingly frank look that James had seen many times on her mother’s face. “Was she an obedient child?”

  “Obedient?” said James, barely stifling a laugh.

  “Wendy!” said Molly. “Mr. Smith did not come here to discuss my childhood behavior. Now, you three go upstairs. Wendy, please put your brothers to bed, and then yourself. I’ll be up to tuck everyone in after Mr. Smith and I have talked.”

  Reluctantly, the children obeyed. James, watching them climb the stairs, said, “They’re fine children, Molly. I can see you in Wendy, and George in the boys.”

  “And mischief in all three,” sighed Molly.

  “And how is George?” said James.

  “He’s doing well,” said Molly. “Very busy with his career. He’s at some sort of dreadful law banquet tonight, as he often is.” She paused. “But you didn’t come to ask about George, did you, James?”

  “No,” admitted James, giving Molly a somber look. “Something’s come up.”

  “I’ll make tea,” said Molly.

  A few minutes later they were in the sitting room, cups in hand. James took a sip, swallowed, and began.

  “Are you familiar with Baron von Schatten?”

  Molly frowned. “The German? Yes. George and I saw him briefly at an embassy dinner. Odd man. Wearing darkened glasses, indoors? And at night?”

  “The glasses are far from the only odd thing about him,” said James.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Molly, this is a man who, only a few years ago, had no connection whatsoever with the royal family. He appeared as if from nowhere, and somehow managed to ingratiate himself with Prince Albert Edward. The prince’s staff and advisers were wary of von Schatten, of course, but the prince seemed oddly tolerant of him. Almost deferential.”

  James took another sip of tea.

  “Then, one by one,” he continued, “those same staff and advisers suffered misfortunes—illnesses, injuries, even two deaths. All of these incidents appeared to be either natural or purely accidental. But each one removed another barrier between von Schatten and the prince, so that when the prince became king, von Schatten was his most trusted—in fact his only—adviser. It is now almost impossible for anyone else, including his family, to get close to him. For all intents and purposes, von Schatten is, next to the king, the most powerful man in England.”

  “I had no idea,” said Molly.

  “Very few people do,” said James.

  “How do you know all this?” said Molly.

  “Six months ago,” said James, “I was given an unusual assignment: to take a menial position on the palace staff, without revealing my identity as an inspector. My instructions were to find out as much as I could about von Schatten and his relationship to the king.”

  “Spying on the king?” said Molly.

  “I questioned it myself,” said James. “But Chief Superintendent Blake told me that the orders came from the highest levels of government. They’re worried about von Schatten’s influence, Molly. Very worried. And they have good reason to be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  James, leaning forward, lowered his voice. “Molly,” he said, “do you know what von Schatten’s profession was, before he came to England?”

  Molly shook her head.

  “He was an archaeologist,” said James. “Quite a well-known one, in fact. But his career ended suddenly ten years ago, when he had a serious accident. It’s the reason he must always wear those dark glasses. Or so he says.”

  “What sort of accident?”

  “Von Schatten is vague about the details,” said James. “But it happened at an archaeological site in the North African desert. Von Schatten was exploring the ruins of a temple—a temple that had stood for thousands of years, only to collapse twenty-three years ago in a mysterious explosion.”

  Molly went pale. “Rundoon,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” said James. “Rundoon. Von Schatten was exploring the Jackal.”

  “But it was destroyed!” said Molly. “The rocket…”

  “The temple was severely damaged, yes,” said James. “Obliterated, in fact, aboveground. But there was a crater, and at the bottom of that crater a hole, a sort of cave in the sand. Von Schatten went down there. He went alone—the guides would not go within a mile of that cursed place. He was gone for several days. When he finally came out, he claimed to have fallen and hit his head and lost consciousness for a time. He had no visible injuries. But he was…changed.”

  “How so?” said Molly.

  “For one thing, he could no longer stand sunlight. That can happen temporarily, of course, after days in total darkness. But the affliction stayed with von Schatten. He is never seen outside, and his eyes are always hidden behind those impenetrably dark glasses. But there was more: his personality had changed. Before, he had been outgoing; now he was reserved, sullen—an utterly different person. His family, his colleagues, said it was as if”—James lowered his voice—“as if someone else were inhabiting his body.”

  For a moment, the two just stared at each other. Then Molly shook her head.

  “It can’t be,” she said, her own voice a whisper. “After all this time…It just can’t be.”

  “I wish you were right,” said James. “But after what I learned at the palace …”

  He leaned forward, his eyes boring into Molly’s.

  “Molly,” he said. “I think it’s him.”

  “And that,” said Wendy, “is why the moon changes its shape.”

  “Because an elephant is eating it?” scoffed John. “That’s silly!”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s your bedtime story,” said Wendy, rising from the rocking chair at the end of the boys’ beds.

  “That’s the worst bedtime story ever,” said John.

  “Well, it’s the one you get tonight,” said Wendy. It was true; she usually told a much longer story. But tonight she was more interested in what was going on downstairs.

  “How does the moon come back?” said Michael.

  “I don’t know, said Wendy impatiently. “Perhaps the elephant spits it back out.”

  “But then it wouldn’t be round!” said John. “There would be just pieces of moon, covered with elephant spit.”

  “Good night,” said Wendy, going to the bedroom door.

  “But what does the elephant stand on?” said Michael.

  “I said good night,” said Wendy, closing the door behind her, leaving the two boys to complain to each other about the declining quality of bedtime stories.

  Wendy walked to her own bedroom, paused, then continued down the hallway to the top of the stairs. She listened for a moment, then descended on quiet bare feet to the staircase landing. Now she could hear her mother and Mr. Smith talking. She couldn’t make out the words, but her mother’s tone was clear: she was upset about something.

  Wendy frowned. Her mother was not easily upset. What was this mysterious Mr. Smith telling her? What had brought him here at this hour?

  On tiptoe, Wendy started down the stairs.

  Molly was shaking her head. “I thought this was over,” she said.

>   “We all did,” said James.

  “After Rundoon,” said Molly, “when years and years passed, and there were no more starstuff falls…Father was convinced—all the Starcatchers were—that the Others had finally been defeated, along with that awful creature …” She stopped, not wanting to say the name.

  “Ombra,” said James.

  Molly flinched, remembering the dark, shifting shape that caused her and her family so much torment and terror. “Yes,” she whispered. “Ombra.”

  “But what if he survived?” said James.

  “No,” said Molly. “He was on the rocket. It was destroyed in the explosion.”

  “Yes. But remember that Peter escaped that rocket. And so did his shadow. Perhaps Ombra did, too, somehow.”

  “And you think he now controls von Schatten? That he has taken his shadow?”

  “No,” said James. “That’s the curious thing. Von Schatten casts a shadow.”

  “But wasn’t that how Ombra controlled people? By taking their shadows?”

  “It was,” said James. “He did it to me, once.” James shuddered at the memory. “But this is something different. I think something happened to Ombra in the explosion, something that weakened him, left him unable to function on his own. I think he stayed down there, deep in the hole in the sand, in the dark, waiting. And when von Schatten came along, Ombra somehow…inhabited him, and now controls him.”

  “But how can you know that?”

  “I watched him in the palace, Molly. I got close to him only once; he keeps the palace staff at a distance, dealing with them through his assistant, an unpleasant man named Simon Revile. But I was able to observe von Schatten from a distance a number of times. He is always close to the king, and makes physical contact with him often.”

  “He touches the king?”

  “It’s very subtle—an elbow brushing an elbow, a hand resting for a moment on a shoulder. But once you know to look for it, you see it often. And each time, the king responds. Again, it’s subtle—a flutter of the eyelids, a slight twitch of the head. But it’s there, Molly; it’s definitely there. I think this contact is how Ombra, through von Schatten, is controlling the king.”