The Grave Robber's Apprentice

by Allan Stratton

  “Vagabondi!” Signora Pandolini gathered her children close.

  “They were last seen fleeing down a mountain in a coffin,” the captain said. “A coffin like the one in the reeds by your campsite.”

  “It was here when we arrived,” Pandolini said. “Perhaps they fell in the water and drowned?”

  “Or perhaps they hide among you,” the captain replied. “Show us your brats. If any boy is found with the mark of an eagle on his shoulder or any girl with golden locks, they shall die at once, and the rest of you after.”

  The soldiers examined the Pandolini children. Their hair was as dark as a raven; their skin as clear as olive oil. The captain glanced at the bear cage. “Do these monsters really dance?”

  “Do witches fly on broomsticks?” Pandolini snapped his fingers. “Bruno! Balthazar! Bianca!” The bears rose on their hind legs and performed a bored minuet.

  “What other acts do you have?”

  “We juggle, tumble, and swallow swords,” Pandolini said proudly. “We also perform with marionettes!”

  “Hmm. The archduke loves puppets,” the captain said. “Within days, he’ll be at the palace, in need of amusement. Entertain him and you shall be rewarded.”

  The Pandolinis exchanged glances.

  “We are honored,” Pandolini said. “Yet another time, perhaps. At the moment, we’re headed to Poland.”

  The soldiers cocked their muskets.

  “At the moment,” the captain said, “you’re headed to the palace.”

  Chapter 33

  To the Palace

  The captain placed the circus under the guard of three soldiers and left with the rest of his men to hunt for Hans and Angela downstream. The soldiers harnessed the bears, put the Pandolinis in the cage, and steered the wagon around the great forest, traveling west till the tree line made a grand diagonal south to the capital.

  On the first night, while the soldiers erected their tent, Maria, Giuseppe, and the Etceteras swung from the cage bars. Under cover of movement and shadow, Hans and Angela emerged from the crawl space in colorful costume rags; Signora Pandolini’s jet-black fortune-teller’s wig was secured over Angela’s blond curls.

  “Assomigliate a noi,” Giuseppe said excitedly.

  “Our son says you look just like him and the others.” Pandolini smiled.

  Maria batted her eyes at Hans. “Sei molto bello.”

  Hans flushed. “Thank you, I think?”

  Angela gave Maria the evil eye—and Hans an elbow in the ribs.

  “It’s terrible for you to be trapped by your enemy,” Pandolini said.

  “Not at all,” Angela replied. “We’re on a quest to rescue my parents from the archduke’s palace. How better to get inside than disguised as entertainers?”

  “Angela’s right,” Hans agreed. “The terrible thing is how we endanger your family. We shouldn’t have let you hide us.”

  Signora Pandolini flicked her hand. “Shush. Who knows the future? Do the best you can and never regret a kindness. To live a coward is not to live at all.”

  “Besides,” Pandolini said, “you won’t be discovered. People see what they expect: Expect to see kerchiefs turn into doves, and you shall. Expect to see monsters in shadows, there they’ll be. Expect a simple band of children, that’s all that will appear.” He winked. “Who’d dream that those with a price on their head would break into a bear cage guarded by the archduke’s troops?”

  The next day, as the circus cage lumbered to the palace, the Pandolini children taught their guests a little Italian. Soon, Hans and Angela knew how to say please and thank you, the parts of the face, and the lyrics to six folk songs. The soldiers paid no heed, too worried about warlock-monsters lurking in the trees.

  Midday, the Pandolinis had a siesta, and Hans and Angela memorized their maps. To shield them from view, they put them at the bottom of a nest of straw and lay on either side. “The memorial pillar to Archduke Fredrick has its foundations in the catacombs,” Hans observed.

  Angela nodded. “It’s so massive it would have to. Otherwise it would’ve collapsed the excavation under it.”

  Hans ran a finger along the underground lagoon at the far end of the dungeon and the red markings on the upper palace floors. He counted the rooms in each corridor. “Why do you think Father said the archduchy’s future depends on me?”

  “Hermits always say strange things,” Angela shrugged. “At least in books,” she quickly corrected. “There’s nothing strange about your father. Peter is wonderful. He loves you, too, unlike that old grave robber.”

  “Don’t be mean about my other papa,” Hans said. “He raised me as well as he could.”

  “To rob graves.”

  A guard rattled the bars. “What’s going on?”

  Angela rolled over on the maps. “Buongiorno,” she chirped.

  Hans waved. “Prego e grazie.”

  The guard peered through the bars. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Pandolini roused. “It means my children are idioti!”

  Angela agreed, spouting the first Italian folk lyric she could remember.

  “Naso, occhi, bocca,” Hans nodded, naming off parts of the face.

  Pandolini pretended to smack Hans on the side of the head.

  “Hit him again,” the guard laughed. Pandolini obliged. “Circus ragamuffins,” the guard sneered, and returned to his comrades.

  Pandolini patted Hans and Angela warmly. “Piccoli pappagalli.” He smiled. “You’ll soon be warbling like Venetians.”

  The third day passed as the second, Hans and Angela learning Italian and memorizing maps. But at dusk, all study ceased; they’d reached the edge of the capital.

  Through fingers of fog, Hans and Angela saw the forest on their left. On their right, clapboard houses clustered on a web of dirt roads that skirted a steep, rocky hill. A stone tower rose from its peak; howls echoed through its small, barred windows.

  “What is that place?” Pandolini asked.

  “The asylum,” a soldier said.

  A breeze stirred the dank air with the reek of the grave. Signora Pandolini fanned herself with a tarot card.

  “The dumping grounds,” said another guard, his nose pressed into his arm. “Doctors dissect the madmen when they die, then toss them on the dung heaps.”

  They entered the city. Angela remembered the sooty oil lamps along the ghostly maze of narrow streets and, now, the grand public square with its magnificent buildings. “The cathedral,” she murmured to Hans. “Between it and the palace, the memorial pillar with the marble coffins for Fredrick, his wife, and infant son.”

  Hans peered up at the gargoyled spires, turrets, and parapets of the palace. “It’s exactly as Father drew it,” he whispered. Angela nodded.

  The wagon stopped. The guards lined up their prisoners. The palace doors swung wide. Inside, the vaulted entry hall was alive with servants in dark velvet livery. The Spoon emerged, conferred with the guards, and strode to Pandolini. “I am the chief steward,” he announced with a click of his heels. “His Royal Highness is secluded with the lord high chancellor. You will entertain them tomorrow night.”

  “Ciao e buonasera!” Pandolini beamed. At times like this it was best to appear simple.

  The Spoon ordered the bear cage to the courtyard next to the laundry room and directed the company to sleep by the washtubs. Angela feared he’d recognize her, but Pandolini was right: the Spoon expected no more than urchins in colorful rags, and that’s all he saw.

  The Pandolinis kissed their children, cuddled in a heap around them. “Buona notte,” they whispered to Hans and Angela. In minutes, they were snoring a duet.

  Angela nudged Hans. “Now’s our chance. Do you remember the route from the laundry to the dungeon?”

  “Of course. The map showed a hall from here to the kitchen and storage areas. Beyond is the circular ramp that’ll take us down into hell.”

  “That’s right,” Angela said. “Let’s go.”

  Cha
pter 34

  The Secret Passageway

  Hans and Angela crept out of the darkened laundry. They pressed themselves against the wall of the corridor and slid to the kitchen entrance.

  Three vats, six spits, an enormous stove, and a stack of firewood ran down one side of the kitchen. An oak counter and cupboards, interrupted by a spiral staircase, ran down the other. At the far end, a lamp lit the entrance to the storage areas. An elderly cook rocked on a stool beside it, faced away toward a slop trough, peeling potatoes.

  “How do we get past her?” Angela whispered.

  Hans nodded to the spiral staircase. “We can go up to the banquet hall, cross over, and take stairs down on the other side.”

  “Good plan.”

  They edged silently through the kitchen. As they reached the staircase, the cook loosed a great sneeze. She turned around, rubbing her eyes.

  Hans and Angela ran up the stairs. Past the first spiral, the light dimmed. Past the second it disappeared. They touched the outer wall and slowly made their way to a landing. There was a short walkway to a wall of velvet curtains. Light shone through the slit where they’d been pulled together.

  “This is it,” Angela whispered. “The banquet hall’s beyond.”

  Hans and Angela peered through the draperies. A stern-faced woman was adjusting chairs. “That’s the housekeeper who poured me a bath,” Angela gasped. “I’ll bet she poured the milk that drowned Georgina, too.”

  Hans frowned. “With her here, we’ll have to cross above.”

  The housekeeper looked at the curtains. “Who’s there?” She marched toward them. “I said, who’s there?”

  Hans and Angela ran back to the spiral staircase and scrambled up into the dark, the housekeeper in pursuit. Eight spirals later they burst into a torchlit corridor. They turned left and ran past a series of doors flanked by suits of armor. As the housekeeper entered the hall, they dived between sets of decorative chain mail coats and leggings.

  There was a strange silence, save for the housekeeper’s labored breathing. “It’s you, isn’t it, Georgina? You’ve come back,” she said at last. Her voice was full of fear and regret. “Or is it you, Isabella? Or you, Clara? Or maybe it’s all of you I hear, walking these halls, haunting these stairs and parapets. Leave me alone. Please. It wasn’t my doing.” Her whimpers disappeared down the staircase.

  Angela shivered. “Hans, I’ve been in this hallway. It’s where Arnulf locked me when I was first here. But the spirals have spun me around so much I’m not sure which way we’re facing. We could be crossing the banquet hall or going in the opposite direction.”

  Hans paused. “With the housekeeper down those stairs, we can’t go back the way we came. We can’t stay here, either. Anyone could come around a corner and see us.” He wet his lips. “According to the map, there’s a hidden passageway behind the rooms. But how do we find it?”

  Angela thought of the nighttime visit of the last archduchess. “The paintings! The entrances are behind the paintings!” She opened the door to a pitch-black room. “Grab a torch.”

  Hans took a torch from a sconce in the corridor and followed Angela into the room. On one wall there was a depiction of the devil swallowing lost souls. Angela ran her hands behind the frame. She felt a catch and pressed it. Nothing happened. After a flurry of fingers, she found a second catch. She pressed them both. The painting swung open.

  Angela peered through the holes in the devil’s eyes. “This is how Arnulf spies on his guests.”

  Hans wasn’t listening. He was headed back to the corridor.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Returning this torch. If it’s missing, it’ll draw attention. Besides, its light would shine through the peepholes and give us away.”

  “How will we keep from getting lost?” Angela panicked.

  “We’ll count our steps. If we’re lucky, we’ll find stairs leading down to the storage area. If not, we’ll retrace our steps.”

  In a moment, he returned and shut the door. Angela found his hand in the dark, drew him into the secret passageway, and closed the painting. They inched forward, hands held high to protect their heads from support beams.

  After two hundred steps, the corridor forked in two. They turned left. A few steps more and Hans stubbed his toe. “We’ve reached stairs,” he said, “but they go up not down.”

  Ahead, two dots of light pierced the inky black: peepholes. The sickly sweet smell of camphor, mandrake, and rotting flesh drifted through the holes. Hans and Angela heard a familiar voice on the other side.

  “Lord High Chancellor,” Arnulf said. “I need council from the land of the dead.”

  Chapter 35

  The Three Prophecies

  Hans and Angela crept up to the peepholes, hearts pounding.

  A fog of incense billowed from five upturned skulls hanging from the ceiling. Alcoves filled with animal entrails surrounded a sacrificial stone.

  Archduke Arnulf, draped in a hooded robe, knelt in a hexagon outlined with candles. The Necromancer stood behind him, stroking a goat head. His eye sockets were fitted with a pair of glass palace doorknobs. They sparkled in the candlelight—two glittering balls of madness.

  Hans and Angela looked on in horror.

  “What would you know from the land of the dead?” the Necromancer asked in a singsong voice.

  The vein at Arnulf’s temple throbbed. “Shall I ever be rid of the boy and the girl?”

  “Yes, to be sure.”

  “But they’ve escaped again.”

  “Not for long.” The Necromancer nuzzled the goat head. “The hermitage is destroyed. There’s nowhere for them to hide. Soon the great forest will have been combed as thoroughly as a coronation wig—and they shall be ours.”

  “The girl’s parents will pay,” Arnulf muttered. “I thought they’d be destroyed when I gave them a dinner tray bearing a roasted heart and their daughter’s jewels. Instead, they mocked me: ‘If our Angela were truly dead, you’d have presented us with her head.’”

  “They’ll fall in time, Excellency. None can long withstand the lunatic asylum.”

  Angela gripped Hans’ hand: Her parents weren’t in the palace after all; they were caged with madmen in the terrible stone tower at the city’s edge.

  “Then there’s the boy,” Arnulf said. “The grave robber’s apprentice. He should have died with his father.”

  “But Excellency, the grave robber’s alive in the dungeon.”

  Hans’ ears perked up.

  “No, I don’t mean the grave robber,” Arnulf exclaimed. “I mean the father that the boy was born to: my elder brother, Archduke Fredrick.”

  Hans nearly choked. My father—Peter the Hermit—is Archduke Fredrick?

  The Necromancer scratched his chin with a goat horn. “The world thinks Fredrick and his son were killed by pirates.”

  “A fetching tale,” Arnulf said, “but surely you know the truth from wandering my dreams.”

  “Indeed I do,” the Necromancer lied.

  Arnulf rocked on his knees, his mind bedeviled. “I bribed the ship’s captain and mate to slay Fredrick and his baby at sea. As planned, when the ship returned, they reported a deadly attack by pirates. I executed them on the spot to bury the truth forever.”

  “Then what have you to fear?” the Necromancer soothed.

  “The boy. He’s heir to the throne.”

  “Why? Even if he knew his history, who’d believe a grave robber’s apprentice? The past is a graveyard of secrets, where truth lies buried in legend.”

  “Still, sleep escapes me.” Arnulf beat his head on the floor. “I need the spirits’ counsel: Need I fear the boy?”

  The Necromancer cradled the goat head and droned incantations as he waltzed around the room, the glass doorknobs in his sockets spinning shards of light. He stopped in front of Arnulf and placed a speck of woodland fungus on the archduke’s tongue.

  Arnulf was overcome by visions. He rolled between the candles. “I see a leg
ion of my enemies! A swarm of rats running off with my crown.”

  “Take heart.” The Necromancer took entrails from an alcove and slopped them on the floor. He ran his fingers over the intestines. “Hear the prophecy of the spirits: You shall reign till the great forest marches on the capital!”

  “A forest march?” Arnulf convulsed in joy. “Impossible! I see my enemies quake before me.”

  The Necromancer threw the guts a second time. He felt the liver and spleen. “A second time, the spirits prophesy: You shall reign till an eagle rises from stone.”

  “An eagle rise from stone? Again, impossible. My enemies flee.”

  The Necromancer sniffed the kidneys. “A third and final time, the spirits prophesy: You shall reign till your severed hands sail over a sea of bones.”

  Arnulf howled in triumph. “This is the best of all!” He patted the golden reliquary hanging from his neck. “My severed hands shall never move again. Nor have I ever seen a sea of bones, nor shall ever sail upon one.”

  The Necromancer smiled. “Sleep well, Excellency. Tomorrow messengers shall spread these prophecies about the land. None will dare challenge the word of the spirit world.”

  Arnulf swept his greasy locks from his forehead. “Thank you, O wise Lord High Chancellor. You shall have treasure anon.” He strode from the room.

  The Necromancer placed the guts and goat head on the sacrificial stone and went to follow. Hans and Angela gaped at each other in the dark.

  “Archduke Fredrick is your father,” Angela whispered in awe. “Hans, you’re a prince—the heir to the throne. No wonder the archduchy’s future rests in you.”

  “Forget about me,” Hans said. “What about your parents?”

  “What about them indeed?” came a voice as dead as leaves in winter.

  Hans and Angela turned to the peepholes. Two glittering doorknobs peered at them from the other side.

  “I missed your scents in the incense,” the Necromancer cooed. “Did you miss mine?”

  Hans and Angela screamed. They tripped down the stairs and stumbled to the turn, the Necromancer’s laugh echoing after them. “You’ll never escape these walls, my pretties. You’re trapped!”