by Conrad Mason
No, Cyrus. Please, no. They couldn’t afford to humiliate this idiot, however much he deserved it. Newton risked a glance upwards at the Duke of Garran. The other men on the balcony were still laughing, joking and sipping from wine glasses, while the Duke stood silent and still, watching, giving nothing away.
Down on the platform, Lucky Leo scowled and staggered upright, rearranging his grip on the hilt. Probably the worst swordsman ever to handle that blade.
Newton caught Derringer’s eye and mouthed at him. Make it last. They’d been over this several times. It needed to seem like a real fight, so Lucky Leo could keep as much dignity as possible when he lost. Derringer gritted his teeth, but nodded. His next attack was a wide, slashing move. Nowhere near his best. Perfect. The first clatter of steel rang out as Leo deflected it.
That seemed to break the spell of silence on the crowd. They began to cheer, to talk amongst themselves, to shout out warnings and encouragement. The fighters moved around the platform, blades flashing as they fought.
Within less than a minute, Leo was tiring. Newton could see it in his podgy red face, glistening with sweat, and in the way he moved – cautious, plodding steps as he looked in vain for an opening. Derringer’s lip curled in a sneer. If he was trying to hide his contempt, he wasn’t trying hard enough. He began to bounce on his feet, showing off how much energy he had left.
Newton looked up again, and froze. The lords of the League were still there, drinking and laughing. But the Duke of Garran was gone. His skin prickled, and he glanced around the seating. Where was the Duke? And what in Thalin’s name would make him stop watching the fight?
A surge of noise came from the crowd, and Newton’s attention was drawn back to the platform. Derringer had made his move. A feint to the right, drawing Leo’s eyes away from his own sword. And in the same instant, one, two steps in, close as sweethearts, and a twist of Leo’s arm.
Lucky Leo yelped like a child as his blade flashed, and then the blade was no longer his, and Derringer stepped away, both swords pointed at his opponent’s face, his own plastered with a grin that made Newton feel sick.
And suddenly there was a third figure on the fighting platform, streaking like a bolt of lightning from the shadows beside the wooden stands. A figure dressed in white.
The Duke?
No. Someone slimmer, taller, her long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. Moving so fast it might almost have been magic. Knowing her, it might well be.
There was a whistle of sharp metal moving fast, a wet thunk, and Derringer howled. Blood spattered the wooden platform as the elf’s two swords clattered away. Lucky Leo backed off, face pale, as Derringer staggered, clutching his hand. Standing in between them was the figure in white, poised like a stone seraph. Major Turnbull’s own blade dangled at her side, dripping, and her foot was placed firmly on the Sword of Corin.
Newton stood, fingers working fast, slotting together the three lengths of black lacquered wood that formed the Banshee. He twirled it as he stepped forward, sending panicked trainers scurrying away from him.
Come on, then. He’d beaten Turnbull before, and he could beat her again.
A soft click to his left, alarmingly close to his ear.
‘You stay where you are,’ said a quiet voice.
He turned to see the Duke of Garran right beside him, watching him with those cold, colourless eyes and pointing an ornate silver-and-gold-chased pistol at his head.
Newton knew that pistol. He had seen the Duke use it before, on board the Justice.
It was the pistol that had killed Old Jon.
Rage flooded through him, burning him up.
‘No,’ said the Duke, still icy calm. ‘I said, stay where you—’
Too late. Newton had shrugged off his cloak and swung the Banshee with all his strength. It wasn’t anything Tori the hobgoblin had taught him. Control, the hobgoblin had always said. Control is everything. Tori’s moves were precise and focused.
This was anything but.
The Banshee cracked into the Duke’s face with a sound like a hammer driven hard into a slab of meat.
BANG!
The Duke’s pistol flashed as it went off, and the few trainers still on the benches bolted, howling in fright. The baying of the crowd turned frantic, desperate.
It took Newton a few moments to realize that the shot had gone wide, and that he was still alive. The Duke bent over, the pistol dangling limply from one hand, the other held against his face. Time seemed frozen for an instant, until the Duke’s pale eyes found Newton once again, peering between his plump fingers. There was no pain in them. No anger.
He was smiling.
‘Oh dear,’ said the Duke.
Someone barrelled into Newton from behind, two arms like tree trunks grappling him into a crushing embrace. An ogre’s arms – they were much too big and powerful to be a human’s. Newton squirmed to free himself, but it was hopeless. The ogre’s hands found the Banshee, tore it away from him like a mother taking her baby’s rattle. The giant thumbs flexed against the middle of the staff.
‘No,’ growled Newton. ‘Do that and I’ll—’
There was a sharp snap as the Banshee broke in two, and the hands discarded the weapon like two bits of damp firewood.
Newton clamped his teeth together hard to stifle the cry rising in his throat.
The Duke of Garran straightened, still smiling, still watching Newton. His hand came away from his face, and Newton saw a red mark forming on his cheek. A trickle of blood. The Banshee had glanced off, raking his face but causing no real damage.
‘What in all the Old World is going on?’ roared a voice from the fighting platform, rising above the panicked wails of the crowd. Newton saw that the Earl of Brindenheim had drawn his sword. His whiskers quivered with fury and confusion, as he stepped in front of his cowering son.
Major Turnbull had sheathed her own blade and retrieved the Sword of Corin.
Derringer hovered, his hand still dripping red splashes onto the platform, his eyes flicking from Turnbull to Newton, unsure what to do next.
The Duke of Garran spat out a gobbet of blood and a broken tooth, and dabbed at his lips with a handkerchief. He was examining Newton with amused fascination, like a schoolboy observing an ant through the glass wall of a jar.
An ant he’s about to crush.
‘So you came.’ His voice was thick with blood. ‘All the way from Port Fayt, across the Ebony Ocean, to Azurmouth. How brave. How foolish.’
He waved his pistol, and the arms that held Newton tightly in place shoved him down onto his knees. Looking up, Newton saw the ogre he’d seen on the balcony earlier that day. He was still dressed in League livery. His shaven head was sheened with sweat, and his eyes were empty of all emotion.
‘I need only give the word, and he will crush your skull,’ said the Duke softly. He dropped the bloodstained handkerchief, letting it flutter to rest on the platform. ‘I will not do it. But rest assured, by the time I am finished with you, Captain Newton, you will wish I had.’
Chapter Sixteen
The cat led the way, striding much faster now, casting quick glances in every direction. They twisted and turned through the corridors, heading deeper and deeper into the House of Light.
Every inch of it looked the same. White marble floors, white ceilings and white walls covered in mirrors. But still the cat seemed to know exactly where they were going. Joseph realized suddenly that even with the shapeshifters’ disguises there would be no excuse for bringing a mongrel boy here, out of the cells. He swallowed hard.
Once or twice he heard the distant noise of a cheering crowd, and the clash of steel. The Contest of Blades, he remembered. Of course. The shapeshifters had chosen the perfect night for their game.
The cat stopped at the end of a corridor, in front of white double doors. Above was a moulded wooden shield emblazoned with a winged sword. Two words were carved beneath it: Corin’s Hall.
‘Where is he?’ said the horse. ‘He shou
ld be here by now.’
‘He’ll be here,’ said the cat.
Footsteps came echoing towards them from a nearby corridor, and a figure turned the corner. It was a whitecoat, big and broad-shouldered, moving with an easy grace. He swept off his hat, revealing sandy-coloured hair and some strange mark on his forehead. Joseph winced as he realized what it was – a blazing sun, etched out in white scar lines.
The spider’s hand fell on Joseph’s shoulder, holding him in place. ‘His name is Hoake. He’s a friend.’
A friend of whose?
‘You took your time,’ said the horse.
‘My apologies. It was the contest,’ said the butcher, in a low voice. ‘I had to throw the fight just to be here. Some filthy elf.’ He looked around, checking they were alone, and Joseph caught a whiff of something strong and unpleasant on his breath. Firewater. Up close he saw that the man’s eyes were red-rimmed and glassy.
‘Next year, perhaps,’ sneered the cat. ‘If the drink doesn’t get you first.’
Hoake grunted and pulled a ring of keys from his pocket. ‘This bit you’ll have to do yourselves. I won’t risk being found out.’
The spider’s voice came suddenly from beside Joseph’s ear, making him jump. ‘Have you ever seen a man die before?’
‘Keep him out of it,’ said the cat, waving a hand at Joseph. ‘We’ll do the rest.’
The whitecoat thrust a key into a lock, turned it with a clunk and stepped back as the horse kicked the doors wide open.
Joseph was thrust through, stumbling, into an enormous hall. The cat and the horse were already ahead of him, moving fast. Joseph saw dark red wallpaper covered with paintings, saw a statue in the middle, spouting water into a stone pool surrounding it. Saw the two whitecoats beside it, whose confusion was turning rapidly into aggression. Sabres flashed from scabbards.
‘What in Corin’s name are you—?’
And then the shapeshifters were on them. A pair of muskets were propped up against the stone pool, and the cat kicked them over the edge, splashing harmlessly into the water. The horse launched himself at the nearest whitecoat, smashing his shoulder into the man’s belly and falling with him into the pool in a great crash of spray that spattered the marble all around.
Something blurred at the edge of Joseph’s vision and he turned to see a third butcher charging at him from the shadows at the corner of the hall. Before he could react, the spider stepped past him, grabbed hold of the whitecoat’s sword arm and twisted it in a way arms aren’t meant to be twisted. The man yelped and groaned. Blood spurted onto the floor. The spider stood back as her opponent sank to his knees, his sword thrust through his own chest.
Just like that, it was over. The horse was rising, dripping, from the water, his opponent motionless as the fountain continued to play. The cat was dabbing at his jacket where a few spots of blood had appeared. The whitecoat he’d been fighting was flat on his back with no obvious wound, but it was clear that he wasn’t getting up again.
The waters of the fountain were clouded with red.
The scarred whitecoat came through the door, closing it quietly behind him. ‘All done here?’ he asked. The spider nodded.
‘I thought there’d be more,’ said the horse, cracking his knuckles.
Joseph felt ill, and he tried to distract himself by looking around the room. Now he had time to take it all in, he saw that the paintings and the statue in the centre were all of one man. Tall and muscular with long, shaggy dark hair, craggy features and piercing blue eyes. In the painting nearest Joseph he was bare-chested, standing on a rock and pointing with a sword as he shouted to the men below – an army of metal-clad humans, cheering and jostling to follow him into battle. In another he was fighting off a horde of trolls, all black-skinned and red-eyed. He gripped one by the throat, while his sword clashed with his opponent’s cleaver.
Joseph would have recognized that sword, even if he hadn’t already guessed who this figure was: Corin the Bold – the greatest warrior who had ever lived.
Almost every painting showed some battle or another; only in the central statue was Corin at rest, standing with his feet apart, hands placed gently on the pommel of his sword and smiling, as though at a job well done. It took Joseph a moment to notice the stone body of a goblin sprawled at the great hero’s feet, its face twisted in a grimace of death. The fountain’s streams were gushing from its many wounds.
‘So …’ said the cat. He had just finished cleaning his jacket and turned his yellow eyes on the one living whitecoat. ‘Where is our prize, Hoake?’
‘It’s here, just like you were told it would be.’
‘Show us,’ said the horse.
‘Show us now,’ said the spider.
Hoake crossed the marble floor to a painting of Corin receiving the surrender of an elf lord on top of a mountain, their armour battered and blood-stained. The whitecoat reached for the frame, feeling along it until there was a soft click.
From the far corner of the room came a creaking sound, and Joseph turned to see that part of the wall had swung open to reveal a room beyond. A secret room, small and dark.
‘You’ll find it in there,’ said Hoake. ‘That’s our side of the bargain. Now I’ll take what was promised in return. I trust you weren’t planning to cheat him again.’
Him … Who was ‘him’? All of a sudden Joseph remembered being in the attic, hearing the voices in the room below. The cat, the horse … and the third voice. Their visitor.
Him. A chill ran down his spine.
Joseph felt the spider’s hands on his shoulders again, but this time they dug in hard. He winced and tried to squirm away. It was no good – the spider had him in her grip. They were all looking at him now. Why? He hadn’t done anything. He had nothing to do with this.
His eyes met those of the cat, and he saw something there that he hadn’t noticed before. Anger. Fury.
Triumph.
The horse grabbed hold of Joseph and the world pitched as he was turned upside down and shaken like a salt cellar.
‘No! What are you—?’
The wooden spoon fell clattering onto the marble.
‘There,’ said the horse, as he turned Joseph the right way up. ‘All yours.’
Joseph snatched the spoon, but before he could scramble away the whitecoat was there, sword drawn and held up hard against Joseph’s throat. He took the spoon and twisted it out of Joseph’s grip.
‘What do you want with me?’ said Joseph desperately. ‘Let me go!’
The horse shook his head sadly.
‘Let you go?’ said the cat. His voice was full of venom. ‘Have you forgotten what you did to me? How you dumped me in the sea, then locked me in a cage so small I could barely move? And you think we should let you go?’
‘I … I don’t …’
Too late, Joseph realized what an idiot he’d been. To come here, to the House of Light, trusting a shape-shifter who hated him. He should have fought, kicking and screaming, not to come. He tried now, lashing out at Hoake and kicking blindly, but the butcher was far too strong and just caught him in a grip even tighter than before.
‘What are you going to do with me?’
The cat smiled coldly. ‘That is for our mutual friend to decide. Now, Hoake. We have delivered you both the boy and the wooden spoon, as promised. We will take what we came for, and be on our way.’
‘There’s a lantern by the fountain,’ said Hoake. He hauled Joseph back to the double doors and swung them open.
‘Wait,’ hissed the spider.
Lantern light fell on the secret room now. A tiny, cramped cave of bare stonework and cobwebs, and in the centre of it a small podium. Empty. The shapeshifters were glaring at Hoake.
‘Where is it?’ said the cat. His voice had lost all trace of calm. ‘Where is the Sword of Corin?’
Hoake shrugged as he pushed Joseph out of the hall. ‘He promised you I’d get you in, and I’ve done that. It’s no business of ours if your prize isn’t there any
more.’ He slammed the double doors and locked them, leaving the shapeshifters trapped inside. Then he cupped his hands and shouted down the corridor. ‘Help! Help!’
There was a distant answering call, and a thunder of footsteps.
‘Who is it?’ asked Joseph. ‘Who are you working for?’
He knew the answer even before the words left Hoake’s lips. Three little words.
All through the House of Light, as he was hustled along mirrored corridors, down winding stairs and out into the darkness, even as he was gagged and bundled into a waiting carriage, Joseph wasn’t thinking about the cat, or the wooden spoon, or the Sword of Corin.
Those three words ran through his head, over and over.
Jeb the Snitch.
Chapter Seventeen
‘Just a few more minutes,’ said Tabs. ‘Please. I have a feeling.’
‘I have a feeling too,’ said Paddy, peering into a mirror and adjusting an enormous purple wig. ‘I have a feeling I look fantastic.’
Frank snorted. ‘Fat-tastic more like. Come on, Tabs. We don’t want Newt to get back to the Academy and find us missing. We can try again tomorrow.’
Tabitha rolled her eyes. It might have earned her a friendly punch under normal circumstances, but fortunately she was crouched behind a mountain of wigs, and it was so dark the trolls probably wouldn’t have seen anyway.
They’d been waiting in the wig shop for two hours now. At first they’d barged through the door, pistols and cutlasses at the ready. But there was no shapeshifter and no Joseph. Instead they’d found a set of bare rooms, a few mattresses, a locked strong box that no amount of levering would open and a large wardrobe of different outfits, everything from beggars’ rags to merchant finery. That was it.
Apart from the wigs. Hundreds and hundreds of wigs, every colour of the rainbow. There was even a tiny cabinet of fairy wigs, with a set of tweezers for fittings.
Still, they’d waited. Perhaps Joseph and the shapeshifter were out somewhere. Perhaps they would come back. So they’d taken up position, hiding among the wigs and waiting for the door to open.
