by Jeff Kamen
A few minutes later, he’d noticed the brittle clap of hooves.
‘They’re here!’ he’d yelled towards the hallway, and soon Kol had come stamping up the basement steps with Paget chasing behind, crying, ‘Girl? Quickly, girl! Be down here this instant!’
By the time the carriage had reached them, looming on its clattering iron wheels, drawn by the same dark horses of the morning, they were waiting together on the kerb, the front door locked and all lamps out within. A carriage whose chassis was finished in a black lacquer coating that was so deeply polished that, although it shone like a mirror, it had seemed to suck in all the remaining light from the street and from the darkening sky around. And as it had turned, slowing, the horses swinging their stormy heads, he’d noticed shutters closing along the street. He’d seen a man bring his son inside, slamming the door. An old woman leaning from an upper window ducking away.
Upon bringing the beasts to a halt, the driver had indicated that the luggage was to go on the roof, and both he and Tilde had stood back a little as Paget said, ‘See to it, Kol,’ then motioned for them both to step inside. Seconds later, the carriage had pulled away.
~O~
‘We’re here,’ Kol muttered, peering through the slats. The carriage was trundling smoothly over gravel. Moments later it swung in an arc, then stopped smartly. Kol climbed outside, shutting the door behind him.
Moth took Tilde’s hand. ‘Tillie?’ he whispered, for she was looking away. As she turned her head, he noticed she’d been crying.
‘What’s wrong? What’s wrong, Tillie?’
‘Tell me we’ll find him,’ she whispered. ‘Promise me. Promise me we’ll find him again.’
‘We’ll find him,’ he said. ‘We’ll find him together.’
‘He’s alive. I just know it. I know he’s alive.’
He nodded, feeling tearful himself now. He’d made Paget swear to look after her following the escape, to make sure she’d not be left behind, and Paget had given his word. He wanted so much to explain the plan to her, to account for all the scheming she must have witnessed, but knew the risk was too great — that everything might unravel at a misplaced word. ‘Yes, he’s alive,’ he whispered, ‘he is, he is,’ and in saying this, he meant it as much as he’d ever meant anything.
‘I knew it,’ she wept, clinging as he held her, her slender shoulders quaking. ‘Promise me. Promise me.’
‘I promise you,’ he whispered, feeling her warmth, kissing her newly washed hair, ‘I promise you he’s alive,’ and assured her that all they need do was hold their nerve and dance.
Suddenly Kol wrenched the door open. ‘Out,’ he said, looking about shiftily.
He went first, leading Tilde down into a large torchlit courtyard of raked stones. Immediately they were surrounded by darkly clad servants, whose main focus appeared to be on claiming the luggage. He turned in wonder as they jostled him, staring at his surroundings. So different in life to the layout shuddering in his mind, born of endless scheming conversations; so different in every way ...
The courtyard was enclosed by the walls of a great mansion house, each wing of which was topped by a domed roof that sat upon it like a dollop of cream. The pale facades were incised by niches and balconies from which hung trailing plants, and in the windows damask-tinted lamps burned softly. Potted trees stood all around. Pillars with florid crowns upheld the porticos.
‘Mark me. If I should spy the malhandling of so much as a bag, so much as a stray girdle or griddle ...’
The courtyard’s centrepiece was a fountain that glittered as though with jewels of fire cast by the lights of the house. He gripped Tilde’s hand. He’d never seen a building like it; known anything like it at all. The opulence. The sense of power the place emitted. As though anything was possible there. He turned and turned again, photographing the images with his mind, overlaying them with the routes and exits already printed there — exits their lives would soon depend upon. Wondering all the while within which quarter his father stood prisoner, a man whose life was squandered daily in jail, enduring torture perhaps, the casual slaps and curses of guards who despised him. ‘I’m here,’ he whispered, and had to wipe his eyes to see.
‘Mr Kol, if you please,’ Paget called from the throng, and Kol headed away with the servants escorting them, carrying the luggage on their heads and guiding the dancers along with little nods and gestures. Together they formed a train that passed around the fountain and then cut across to a sweep of marble steps that led up to double doors of banded wood and picked brass. The doors opened at their approach, and they were ushered inside by another team of servants, all alike in their silent gesturing, all darkly clad in drapes and slippers and gloves.
The luxury continued inside. It was staggering. The lobby was laid out with thick rugs and lit by lanterns on hanging chains. An aroma of wax and burnt spices drifted in the air as they were taken up a winding stairwell to the floor above.
Moth was still gazing around himself in wonder, trying to match the dimensions before him to the ones screaming in his head, struggling not to be seduced into distraction by the texture and elegance of what, he had to remind himself, was no more than a prisoncamp — and yet as they climbed the stairs, his eye was struck by the large gilt-framed paintings on the walls, the majority featuring the hunt or battle scenes. Some were images of wrecks at sea, while elsewhere were portraits of grave-looking, unsmiling children. Upstairs, they were guided along a highly-polished corridor. The passage gave into large duskily-lit rooms on both sides, and was lined with plinths upon which stood busts and figurines whose reflections in the floor stared back at them like the faces of the drowned. On they went, the darkly-clad servants swarming everywhere, some padding ahead with the bags.
It was into one of these siderooms that they were ushered next. They were brought chairs to rest in and given guidance as to how to use the facilities. ‘Ten minutes,’ Paget said pointedly, indicating that Kol should remain mindful of the time, and then he left with the servants and the door was shut and locked. Moth turned to Tilde, who went to the huge double bed at the room’s centre and flopped on it and lay staring up at the ceiling. ‘Ah, how are we doing, Kol?’ he said anxiously, but the squat man was on his way into the bathroom. Soon there was the sound of him whistling as he pissed and no other sound at all.
Chewing his lip, he went to the tall window and peered through the drapes. Looking down at the courtyard, he watched a carriage that he assumed was their own being driven towards a coach house. He swallowed with difficulty. There in a torchlit haze he saw other carriages standing in dark rows, with several black horses being led away. Draped servants were raking the stones around the fountain so that all stood pristine in its readiness.
Its readiness. He looked down. His hands were shaking. Ten more minutes; less than that. Soon he would see him, meet him, be with him again.
He wondered what they would say to each other. Would they be forced to remain silent until they were clear? And would his father even know who he was — his own road-weary son? And would he even dare to identify himself — here, in a place where who knew what reach and contacts the master had to employ should anything go wrong? And what if they were followed?
‘Kol?’ he croaked, ‘I ... I just wondered if you’d brought the pipe? I think I need something. I think I ...’
Kol made a grunting noise. ‘We’ll see,’ he muttered, adjusting his trousers as he entered the bedroom.
‘Wh-what does that mean?’
‘It means we’ll see.’
‘But I … I need it, Kol.’
‘Yes,’ said Tilde, sitting up blearily, ‘we need it.’
Before long, thick gouts of smoke hung in the air, a grey backdrop to the room with its pushed-back bed and furniture as they began their stretches, both he and Tilde keen to warm up and exercise before their summons. Although her face was still pale, although she still appeared to be withdrawn, he noticed with relief that her dancing had not been affected: if an
ything, he thought, there was more thrust in her work than usual. There seemed to be more urgency about her now, signs perhaps of a rekindled ambition.
After a short break for water, they were walking through a manoeuvre they felt they’d not had time to truly perfect before, when the door swung open and Paget appeared. He was clad in a suit of dark motley, with a black bicorn hat perched on his dirty thatch of hair and his feet clad in long black slippers. As he surveyed the smoky room, it fell silent. He stood there beaming, twitching. Then he quietly rattled his tambourine and closed the door.
He came forward, tilting his head as he studied the room’s occupants. ‘You look tired, children,’ he said edgily. His gaze travelled from Moth to Tilde, then to Kol, who stood shifting from foot to foot, then back to Moth. ‘Am I right in this, child? Or will in fact and indeed your sharpness match the very judgements required at this time as the Aeon fast approaches?’
‘It … it’s been a long day, Paget, but I think we’ll —’
‘What, boy? What?’
‘I ... I said —’
‘Will all this pass you by and will you live only in night, as did those who spoke falsely of the Fraternity in years now spent? Is this your plan, boy? I ask you now and in good faith to answer me. Is there anything I should know of — any little thing — or do we continue as agreed towards our victory?’ He took another step forward, glaring coldly above his smile. ‘Which is it, child? Hmm? Which is it to be?’
Moth swallowed, feeling the lamp-tinged walls lean away from him, then slowly right themselves. ‘No, Paget,’ he whispered.
Paget raised his head, his eyes revealed to be ringed with some kind of black pigment. As if he was peering from behind cut-out holes in a portrait, or as if he stood behind himself observing detachedly a scene he was not involved in; and yet involved he was, for with darkening features, he said with a certain menace, ‘No what, child?’
‘I mean no, nothing’s a problem. We’re fine. We … we just want to get going. Don’t we?’
Paget studied him a moment, then swung his head towards Tilde, who nodded, then he swung it back again, this time beaming proudly. ‘Mosht excellent!’ he declared, shivering his tambourine at them. ‘Understand merely that the dance asks you to be available to it, my dear children, to be artless and meticulous, to throw up thine limbs and be welcoming without need of seeing. And remember, no matter what trifle the eye will lead you to, you must be cousin to it, and all times be most leaping. Now, to the Great Occasion!’
~O~
At the foot of the passage the servants led them stealthily through a sidedoor that opened into the darkened half of a great flickering hall. The group entered in silence, Moth staring, jumping, flexing his hands in surges of adrenalin.
At the far end of the hall was a roaring fireplace. To one side of it stood a great iron rack of timber; on the other, sitting back from the heat, was an audience of perhaps fifty people or more, seated in crescent rows. They were watching as a juggler, silhouetted against the fire, tossed flaming objects into the air. A bronze mandala or gong hung above the fireplace like a deeply embellished sun. Crossed weapons were hung on the walls, and spaced between them, glaring outwardly, were the stuffed heads of animals. ‘Keep moving,’ Kol hissed, prompting the dancers forward, and they set off towards the glow. As they crept along, Moth could not help but glance aside at the unlit bookcases and cabinets, at the chairs and sofas arranged in tasteful groupings. Above them in all quarters the branched glint of hanging chandeliers. ‘We’re here,’ he whispered nervously to Tilde, ‘we’re inside ... we’ve made it.’ He turned to her with a smile, hoping to encourage her, or take courage himself, but she was staring straight ahead.
As they continued, he turned to whisper to Paget on occasion, asking to know where the Cage had been put, wanting to confirm his father’s whereabouts, the timings of their exit. His voice took on a pleading tone, but on these subjects all Paget would say was that the plans they’d laid were coming to fruition, and that yet more servants had defected since the Cage’s arrival.
‘Paget, I need to know,’ he hissed. ‘Where exactly is my father being kept?’
‘Child, you know I dare not repeat that. Not now, of all times.’
‘Okay, but what you said ... this room, it’s different ... where are you going to be standing?’
‘Hush, child, for pity’s sake.’
‘But I need t—’
‘Very well. At the end there, by the fire, the chairs.’
‘But ... but how are you going to get out?’
‘Doors, child,’ Paget snapped, his teeth glinting, ‘yonder doors. They’re hidden in the wall.’
Moth stared at him. ‘But I thought we ... sh-should we follow you, then?’
‘Child, what are you thinking of? Forbid the very notion. The servants will guide you back here, and you must follow the way we came in, as planned. Remember — it is the least guarded stairwell in the house.’
‘And the carriage? I saw them moving it. Is ... is it the same driver?’
‘The signs are that it will be a friend, a dear friend, that is all we need know. As soon as you see the Cage depart, you must tell your driver to follow. Do nothing else. Am I understood?’
‘Yes, but what if —’
‘Child, for the last time, burden yourself not with these arrangements, they are mine to fulfil. All your focus must be on the dance now. Do this, and do it well, and your reward will come. Now be brave, my boy, and employ those fine talents of yours. And pray be silent.’
Moth nodded, and on impulse gave Paget a wink, at which he beamed broadly.
Then they were out of the gloom and within the fire’s warm aura, heading towards the side of the room away from the audience. The juggler was now visible to them as a youth clad in tight black clothing, tossing burning batons in a flickering wheel.
As the hall brightened around them, he continued to glance about uncertainly. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see there, but of all things, a juggler was the least likely. He thought about this, sweating as he watched the batons twirl, and then it struck him that the audience must easily be diverted, something he took comfort from. Nevertheless, he found himself drawing from his jacket his faithful knife and sliding it inside the waistband of his undergarment.
‘Keep to the wall, damn it,’ Paget hissed, indicating that they were not to distract the audience in any way, and as the juggler continued with his act, the party moved along the firelight’s edge towards a series of standing screens, behind which were mirrors and a clothes rail and a small dressing table. They hurried across to this simple backstage area to keep themselves from sight, and while the dancers took the seats available, Kol began to oversee the costume arrangements, ensuring they were properly hung and placed within easy reach. The servants acted nimbly and without sound. Moth turned again to look for Paget, hoping for some last words of advice or wishes of good luck, but he had vanished back into the shadows.
‘Just sit,’ Kol muttered, and reluctantly he did so, reaching for some water. His heart was pounding and he felt sick from his throat down. He turned to Tilde again, hoping that they might talk at last, find some means of calming each other’s nerves, but she was sitting woodenly. Frowning, he was about to check on her when he noticed Kol whispering with the servants. Seizing his chance, he parted a couple of slats in the screen and peered through them.
The audience members were seated in rows of divans and scroll-ended lounging chairs. They were clad in loose wraps and drapes and many were reclining, showing no sign of animation other than the glitter of their eyes. He watched them uneasily, noticing a few exchanging glances, yawning as they stretched out a hand or foot. A horrid doubt was beginning to flood through him, and he had to fight to control it. Not what he’d expected, this; not at all. Had Paget in some way fashioned events so as to trap the enemy within the chamber? Was that it? Was this them — all of them? Was he planning to lure them into complacency, then involve the Cage someh
ow in their capture or destruction? He squinted. Only their teeth and eyes and the faint patter of their applause offered any indication of their mood. The juggler stepped about lightly, tossing and catching his flaming batons. Tensing, he noticed less than half the audience were even watching, and instead were picking at dishes of food being held out by the servants in attendance. He turned back, pale, relieved to find that Kol hadn’t noticed him, and as a servant came to his side with a selection of paints for his use, he focussed his mind on his own contribution to their plans and picked carefully through the garish assortment.
Soon afterwards applause arose, and it seemed that the introductory act was over. With a couple of the servants departing from them, he got up with a nod to Kol and began some stretches, straining to listen. At the same time, Tilde rose slowly from the dressing table, sipping water. He went to speak to her, then thought better of it. Leave her be, he thought, leave her to concentrate. A minute or two of silence followed, during which he heard the fire being fed, then Paget’s voice arose, greeted with light applause that continued for some time.
‘Ladiesh and gentlemen,’ he announced, then seemed to cough. ‘Distinguished guests, friends great, friends new and friends historical …’
He bent over and held his ankles on a slow count. Another servant crept away as Paget spoke, while Kol stood shifting his feet. Then as Paget’s speech came to an end, Kol raised a hand and directed Tilde to take to the stage.
Moth watched her closely, struggling not to panic. She tidied her short fringe, and as she turned to leave he wished her good luck, trying and failing to catch her eye as she paused to check her necklace fastening. Then, with a swish of her lightweight dress, she ran out from behind the endmost screen with her hands twirling and her head up, and went stepping like a pony into the firelight.
‘Is she all right?’ he hissed to Kol, but Kol said nothing, just stood with his eyes skittering as the applause grew.
The tambourine shivered, and to his delight the applause continued. He could see her clearly in his mind, see every move as she made it, and knew that the dance had begun well. He stretched again, testing his hamstrings, going over the room’s layout, their exit away, wondering in which part of the building the staff were beginning their revolt.
