by Jenny Nimmo
“How could the cloak just disappear, Gabe?” asked Lysander. “I mean, a priceless thing like that? A thing of inestimable value? The Red King’s very own cloak?” As Lysander spoke he began to throw his arms about in a kind of frenzy. “I mean, don’t you keep it LOCKED UP?”
“Of course we do.” Deeply offended, Gabriel’s face was now bright red. “We are the guardians of that cloak. I suppose you don’t think we deserve the honor? We treasure it; we guard it with our lives.”
“Where did you keep it, Gabriel?” Emma asked softly.
“In a chest under my parents’ bed. Sometimes, when I’m feeling a bit down, my father lets me put it on. He knows it comforts me. You understand my endowment, don’t you?” Gabriel looked at Charlie and Charlie nodded. “Well, that cloak is the only thing I have ever been able to wear that once belonged to someone else. Last weekend I was depressed. I asked Dad if I could put the cloak on, just for a few minutes. He refused. When I begged him, he said, ‘It’s gone, Gabriel. Disappeared. We don’t have the cloak anymore.’“
The others stared at Gabriel in dismay.
“So it was stolen,” Lysander said grimly.
For the first time Charlie wondered if the knight on the bridge had been trying to save them, after all. And what of the sword? Could Mrs. Kettle have been mistaken? Perhaps the knight who came to her door was not one of the trusted. Perhaps he had learned of their secret language and used it to obtain a magical sword, a sword that might be used against the very people who were most in need of his help.
Charlie got to his feet. “We’ve got to warn Mrs. Kettle. I’m going there right now, before she hands over that sword to a … an impostor.”
“Charlie, wait,” said Lysander. “Just because the cloak was taken, it doesn’t necessarily follow that the knight is an impostor.”
“Doesn’t mean he ISN’T, either.” Charlie pushed back his chair.
The next moment, Charlie was grabbed by a strong, hairy hand. “Charlie, my boy,” said Mr. Onimous. “Don’t go yet. I meant to tell you before. I’ve REMEMBERED.”
“Brace yourself!” croaked Homer.
Lysander put a hand over Homer’s beak. “What have you remembered, Mr. Onimous?”
“Where it was — the passage under the castle. Where the wolf boy might be kept.” Mr. Onimous beamed at them all, so pleased with himself for having remembered such vital information. “My great-grandma worked at Bloor’s you know, just a cleaner, but a very inquisitive one. She found a trapdoor at the back of the stage. She opened it and climbed down, into a dark room with old clothes hanging in cupboards. She wanted to go farther, but her lantern went out and she was a tiny bit scared, so she came up. Later, she asked the other staff about it. There was an old man, a footman or some such, who’d been born in 1799 — imagine — and he said, ‘Ah, yes, there’s a passage leading off that room, and it goes down and down and down, into the deep, dark earth. And there’s an old, old story that says once, long, long, long ago, that passage carried on and on and on, all the way to the river.”
“We’ve been in that room!” said Olivia, her voice cracking with excitement. “But it was so dark at the back we didn’t go too far in.”
Mr. Onimous lost his smile. “There’s a good chance they’re keeping that poor lad down there.” He looked at Charlie. “But I’m not saying you should go there, kids, no, not at all. I wouldn’t like to think my words had set you on a dangerous, maybe deadly path.”
It was too late for Mr. Onimous to take back his words. Once spoken, they had an immediate effect on Charlie. He was already bound on that dangerous and deadly path.
Charlie’s intention was to get to the Kettle Shop as soon as possible, but there were those in the city who were determined to stop him. Maimed and scarred as he was, Manfred Bloor still exerted a terrible power over some of the endowed children. Joshua Tilpin was one of his most fervent admirers, and he was more than willing to help Manfred take his revenge on Charlie.
Manfred knew that the Flame cats were responsible for his dreadful injuries, but they had been acting in Charlie’s defense, so it was Charlie who must be punished. Besides, there was the matter of Asa. Manfred hadn’t given up on the Wilderness Wolf, as everyone was calling him. A few more weeks in the dark, Manfred figured, and Asa would be his again: a savage creature of destruction who would do Manfred’s bidding without question — unless Charlie Bone found the beast boy and released him.
Charlie was aware that certain dangers lurked in the city, but he had no idea where they were, and it took him several minutes to realize he was running in the opposite direction from the one he intended. By then it was too late for him to do anything about it.
Charlie had stopped running. He was descending a flight of narrow wooden steps that led down into an alley of impenetrable darkness. “What am I doing here?” he asked himself. “I was going to the Kettle Shop. How did this happen?” He tried to turn and climb back into the light, but he seemed to be stuck fast on the steps. The only way he could move was downward.
“Well, I won’t go!” Charlie shouted into the darkness. “I’ll stay here all night if I have to.”
The steps shuddered. Charlie put his hand against the wall and, to his horror, found it sliding away beneath his fingers. The steps were moving farther and farther away from the light. As they speeded up, Charlie was thrown forward. He landed with a thump on cold hard stone. His legs felt like lead; it was useless to move them. He felt as though all the breath in his body had been knocked out of him, and he didn’t have the strength even to cry out.
Fear had caused Charlie to close his eyes. Slowly, he opened them. There was a light a few meters ahead. It came from a large, ancient-looking lantern standing on the ground. Above the light three faces were illuminated, unsmiling faces lined with hard shadows. Joshua Tilpin and the Branko twins.
Dazed as he was, it didn’t take Charlie more than a second to realize that the combined energy of Joshua’s magnetism and the twins’ telekinesis had drawn him down into this sinister alley. Their power was stronger now than it had been before, and pitted together, they created an almost irresistible force.
Somehow, Charlie managed to drag a voice out of his aching body. “What do you want?”
“We certainly don’t want you,” one of the twins answered with a brittle laugh.
“You’ve got to make a promise,” said the other twin whose voice was deeper and more aggressive.
“A promise?” groaned Charlie.
It was Joshua’s turn to speak; in a hard, expressionless voice he said, “You’re to give up this foolish quest to find Asa Pike.”
“And if I don’t?” Charlie muttered through chattering teeth.
“No ifs,” said the twins in unison. “You WILL give it up.”
There was a scraping noise high above Charlie. He turned his head just in time to see a large lump of stone dislodge itself from the high wall beside him. Charlie shrank back; covering his head with his hands, he waited for the inevitable blow to his skull.
The stone never reached him. A violent gust of wind swept down the alley; caught in midair, the stone was flung off-course and came crashing down beside Joshua Tilpin. There was a high-pitched scream as Joshua was lifted off his feet and carried away. The twins, clinging to each other, suffered the same fate. Charlie could hear their feet hitting the walls of the alley as they tumbled through the air, wailing like banshees.
There was a deafening crack of thunder and a cloud of black dust whirled overhead. The screams of the airborne children blended into a pitiful, endless wail that was gradually drowned by the crackle of thunder and the steady patter of raindrops on the ground.
Charlie drew himself into a miserable huddle and waited for the storm to pass.
It takes considerable energy to rouse such savage weather and the perpetrator was left feeling a little tired. He would rather let the storm die slowly than bring it to a sudden conclusion.
When Charlie finally summoned up the cour
age to lift his head, he noticed that the lantern, though covered in dust, still burned. Someone had brought it closer to him. He saw two long legs encased in a pair of damp blue jeans. Dreading an even worse attack than the one he had already suffered, Charlie’s eyes traveled nervously upward. He saw a thick navy jacket, a gray scarf, and above the scarf, a smiling face topped by a shock of blond, spiky hair.
“Charlie!” said Tancred.
“Tancred,” breathed Charlie, “is it really you?”
“Of course it is. Are you OK, Charlie?”
“Well, I’m not dead.” Charlie attempted to get to his feet but needed Tancred’s arm to steady him.
“How did you know I was here?” asked Charlie.
“Followed your moth,” said Tancred. “I knew it was her immediately. She was in quite a state, fluttering around my head, butting my cheek; she actually bit my chin when she thought I wasn’t going fast enough. As soon as I saw the great drop where the steps should have been, I knew something pretty nasty was going on.”
Charlie looked back. The steps lay in a broken heap, well below the level of the road.
“Had to jump down.” Tancred examined a splinter in his thumb. “We’ll never get out that way.”
“The twins,” Charlie murmured, “they’re so … so strong now, and so coldhearted. And Joshua …”
“They’ll be out of it for a bit.” Tancred grinned. “Come on, Charlie. Let’s get you home.”
The candle in the lantern finally burnt out, and the two boys inched their way forward while the white moth flew ahead, lighting their way. Charlie was half expecting to stumble over a body, but there was no sign of Joshua or the twins.
“They’ll be lying in a field somewhere,” said Tancred. “I made sure the wind was strong enough to carry them out of the city.”
Charlie marveled at Tancred’s incredible endowment. “I wish I could do something useful,” he muttered.
Tancred patted him on the back. “You’re always doing something useful, Charlie. I feel ashamed to tell you the truth. Tracy Morsell kind of blew me off course for a while.” He watched the bright moth hover, as she waited for them to catch up with her, and he laughed. “Do you know, that moth made me see the light?”
“How?”
“Tracy gave me an ultimatum. ‘Follow that stupid moth and you’re dumped, Tancred Torsson,’ she said. I saw her for what she was, Charlie. A manipulative airhead.”
“She’s very pretty,” said Charlie, trying to excuse Tancred’s temporary defection. “So I can understand your … your …”
“Obsession? Oh yes, she’s very pretty,” Tancred said sourly.
They emerged, at last, into a road of shops and lights, and Charlie began to feel he was part of the real world again. “How do we get to Piminy Street from here?” he said.
Tancred looked surprised. “What do you want to go there for?”
It was time Tancred knew what had been going on, so as they made their way across the city, Charlie filled him in. It was the sword that really grabbed Tancred’s attention, just as it had with Lysander.
“A sword?” Tancred’s blue eyes lit up. “Wow! And you think this Red Knight is an impostor because he stole the king’s cloak?”
“I don’t know for sure, Tanc. I just feel I’ve got to warn Mrs. Kettle.”
“I can’t wait to see this kettle shop and meet the woman who’s a blacksmith.” Tancred dashed off and Charlie had to run to keep up with him.
The thunderstorm had sent almost all the citizens indoors. The children in the Pets’ Café, having decided that Charlie would, inevitably, have run back to Filbert Street, gathered up their pets and made their way home. Benjamin had a hard time separating Runner Bean and Chattypatra, but Mr. Onimous managed to persuade the dogs with a doggy bag of beef treats for Runner Bean to carry home, and a bowl of ice cream for Chattypatra behind the counter.
The remains of the storm lingered above Charlie and Tancred as they hurried along Piminy Street. Tancred explained that he couldn’t help it. “But the weather is a protection, Charlie,” he said. “Can’t you feel it?”
Charlie could certainly feel something. He sensed a deepening conflict on Piminy Street, almost as though battle lines had been drawn up. How many magicians had lived here? Who, among them, had been true to the name of the Red King, and who had used magic against their neighbors?
When they reached the Stone Shop, Tancred peered into the window. He shrugged himself deeper into his winter coat. “Think of it, Charlie. An army of moving stone. Who could defeat that?”
Charlie had no answer.
Outside the fish shop, Tancred hesitated again. He looked up at the window above the badly painted sign. Charlie had told him what Emma had seen, but Tancred would have stopped anyway. Here, he sensed, was an enemy he was born to oppose. He had no way of knowing that he and Dagbert shared the same stormy ancestor: Petrello, bringer of storms, fogs, and drowning tides.
Charlie watched the sign swaying and creaking in the wind. He tugged Tancred’s arm. “Let’s go, Tanc. I want to get to Mrs. Kettle.”
“It’s not even a shop,” Tancred remarked. “They’ve got nothing to sell, whoever they are. But I can smell fish, all right.” He stepped back from the window, holding his nose.
Charlie couldn’t delay his visit any longer; he ran up to the Kettle Shop and began to rap on the door. Tancred joined him and they waited a few seconds before Charlie rapped again, using the kettle-shaped knocker with some force.
“Goodness me, Charlie Bone, what brings you here again? I’m very busy.” Mrs. Kettle stood in the doorway with her arms folded across her chest. She was wearing oil-stained coveralls and her face was streaked with soot. She didn’t look inclined to let anyone in.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Kettle,” Charlie said in a rush, “but something has happened, something that you should know about.”
Mrs. Kettle leaned forward and looked furtively up and down the street. “You’d better come in. We don’t want the whole street to know our business. And who’s this you’ve brought along?”
“My name’s Tancred Torsson,” said Tancred, stepping into the shop. “I’m responsible for a little storm that might have breezed past your door just now.”
“Little storm? It was a ruddy hurricane. You’ve certainly got your uses, my dear. I’m Katya Kettle. Pleased to meet you.” She shook Tancred’s arm so enthusiastically, he had to clutch his shoulder, fearing his arm might come out of its socket.
As they followed Mrs. Kettle into her back room, they were aware of soft plopping and tapping noises coming from every side of them. Looking around, they saw the lid of a blue kettle lift into the air and drop back again. The same thing happened with a copper kettle, and then a small iron one.
“What’s going on, Mrs. Kettle?” asked Charlie.
“What do you think, Charlie, my dear? The amount of energy in this street is enough to blow my roof off.” Mrs. Kettle dropped into a chair and dabbed her shining forehead with an oil-stained rag.
“My storms don’t usually have that effect,” said Tancred, sitting beside the large blacksmith.
“Your storm!” She gave Tancred a wry half-smile. “That was only part of it. Wickedness is growing in this city, my boys. It’s blossoming like a deadly giant flower, and it all stems from that wretched youth, Manfred Bloor. His hatred is so potent it will overwhelm us unless something is done about it.”
“Does anyone know about the sword you’re making?” asked Tancred, glancing at the large trembling kettle that Charlie had gone to examine.
Mrs. Kettle gave a shrug. “Who knows? They’re aware of what I do. No one could fail to notice the sparks and hammering coming from the back of my little shop, but soon the knight will have his sword and then we’ll see …”
Charlie swung around. “Mrs. Kettle! I don’t think you should give that sword to the Red Knight.”
“Whatever makes you say that?” Mrs. Kettle asked, looking genuinely astonished.
&n
bsp; Charlie struggled to put his doubts into words. “The knight on the bridge was wearing a red cloak and … and Gabriel Silk, whose family keeps the Red King’s cloak, well, he says that someone has stolen it — the king’s cloak, I mean.”
“Charlie Bone!” The blacksmith glared at him so indignantly he shrank against the kettle-laden table. “Stolen indeed! Borrowed, or reclaimed maybe, but never stolen. What made you say such a thing?”
“I don’t know.” Charlie looked away from her stern, copper-colored eyes. “But a sword like that, Mrs. Kettle, it’s going to be unbeatable, isn’t it? And in the wrong hands, it could be very dangerous.”
“It will have to be dangerous, you silly boy. Feromel’s words were in my head when I forged that sword. It was his magic that shaped the steel beneath my hammer. He was with me every step of the way.”
“But suppose the knight is an impostor?”
The big woman stared at him in disbelief. “Do you think I wouldn’t know?”
“No,” said Charlie weakly. “I suppose not.”
Mrs. Kettle stood up and wiped her face again. “Well, if that’s all you came to tell me, you’re wasting my time. I’ve work to do, as you very well know.”
Behind Charlie, the big iron kettle gave a loud steamy whistle. The heavy lid shot into the air and then fell to the floor with a loud clang. Charlie was about to pick it up when he noticed the moon shining in the dark liquid that filled the kettle. He looked closer and the moon swam out of vision, only to be replaced by a circle of leaping flames.
“Don’t look!” a voice commanded, but Charlie’s gaze was held by the changing images inside the kettle. Now he could see a man beside a fire, feeding the flames with twigs. I’m traveling, thought Charlie, but it’s not the time. I mustn’t travel … not into that!
He could hear voices urgently warning him. There were distant footsteps, a hand reaching out, but the fingers that gripped his shoulder were as light as dust.
Now began the whirling, gliding, tumbling through space that Charlie had come to relish and to dread. The first few seconds of travel were always the worst, when he lost his foothold on the world he knew and fell into the unknown.
