by Conrad Mason
There was a clatter of pots and pans and raised voices up ahead. They turned a corner, went through a doorway and down wide stone steps, and at last came out into an enormous kitchen. Servants were scurrying in every direction, tasting soup, chopping vegetables or plucking birds at the long table that ran down the middle of the room. Joseph wiped his brow. It was swelteringly hot thanks to three large open fires set into one wall.
Tommy took them across the kitchen, not pausing for a moment. An elf carrying a giant platter of roast meat had to dodge out of his path, and a woman with a pan of white sauce almost spilled it in her hurry to make way.
‘Meal’s already started,’ said Tommy. His voice was thin and nasal. ‘But there’s room for a couple more serving staff. Put these on …’
He pulled costumes off some pegs and handed them to Joseph and Tabitha.
Tabitha frowned. ‘Do we have to?’
‘Yes,’ replied Tommy, in a way that made it clear there was no more to say on the matter. ‘The Boy King likes his servants dressed up. And the Boy King gets what he wants. Always.’
Slik sniggered. Joseph’s costume was a red and yellow jester suit with an enormous coxcomb on its hood. Tabitha’s was a dress sewn together from large purple and green patches with a gigantic ruff at the neck.
‘But these are ridiculous. Why do—?’
Quick as a flash, Tommy whipped a silver pistol out of a pocket and pressed it against Tabitha’s forehead, two fingers curled around the handle, the third resting on the trigger. Joseph started forward but Tommy’s other hand gripped him by the throat, squeezing until he could barely breathe.
The noise died down as the servants stopped to watch.
‘Well then, young mistress,’ said Tommy, ‘I reckon you’ll be looking ridiculous.’
Tabitha stayed silent, her eyes wide and her face pale. As quickly as it had appeared, the pistol was put away again; the fingers relaxed around Joseph’s throat. The background noise swelled up once more as he gasped and spluttered for air.
‘Come on then,’ snapped Tommy. ‘Haven’t got all night.’
They struggled into the costumes, pulling them on over their clothes. Slik made a big fuss as the dress came down over him, but Tabitha managed to keep the leash concealed.
Joseph caught a glimpse of himself in the curve of a large polished copper pan. Tabitha was right – they looked ridiculous. His costume was too big for him and the coxcomb sagged absurdly to one side. Tabitha’s dress pooled around her feet, and the colours clashed madly with her blue hair.
‘This way,’ said Tommy, and he led them to a table by the wall, crammed with dishes giving off exotic, delicious smells. There was a roasted seagull sitting on a bed of seaweed; a huge platter of rocks with oysters on top; a bowl of baby octopus. Joseph tried to ignore the rumbling in his stomach. It had been a long time since breakfast.
‘This is the third course,’ said Tommy. ‘They’re finishing the second now. So you’ll be pouring black-wine until they’re ready.’ He handed them each a large crystal decanter sloshing with dark ruby liquid.
Joseph gazed at his in awe. Blackwine. No one in a dockside tavern like his uncle’s could afford such an extravagance. Blackwine was imported from the finest vineyards in the Old World, and you could probably feed a family for a year on what this single decanter must have cost. He rearranged his grip, making sure he wasn’t going to drop it.
‘Now, most important of all: rules. You go in there and you top up anyone whose goblet is getting empty. You do whatever you’re told. You don’t take the costumes off. You don’t speak unless spoken to. You don’t, under any circumstances, look the Boy King in the eye. And whatever you do, you don’t spill any of that blackwine. Understand?’
‘Underst—’
‘Not a drop. Those decanters are worth more than your stinking lives.’ The blackwine suddenly felt even heavier than before. ‘Now scram.’
Tommy ushered them through a thick, studded metal door and slammed it shut behind them, leaving them on their own in a dingy corridor lit by lanterns dangling from the ceiling.
‘Come on then,’ said Tabitha, and she strode off without waiting to see if Joseph would follow. He hurried after her.
The corridor sloped downwards, gently at first, then more steeply. Joseph’s costume was hot and scratchy, and he couldn’t stop worrying that he might trip and drop the blackwine. Ahead of him, Tabitha stepped on the hem of her dress and cursed as she stumbled.
Their footsteps began to crunch on sand. The walls were uneven now – the wallpaper replaced by rock, as if they were inside a cave instead of a merchant’s house.
Down, down and further down. Where were they going?
Sound began to float up towards them – chatter and music. The tunnel grew lighter and the noises louder. At last they came to a corner with light flickering on the wall opposite.
‘Are you ready?’ hissed Tabitha.
‘I think so.’
There was a snort of laughter that could only have come from Slik. ‘I don’t think you are.’
‘Shut it,’ said Tabitha. ‘Just remember, any trouble and …’ She lifted her free hand and mimed squeezing it into a fist.
‘Good as gold, I’ll be.’
Tabitha readjusted her hold on the blackwine and stepped round the corner.
Joseph took a deep breath and followed.
Chapter Fourteen
SLIK WAS RIGHT. They hadn’t been ready at all.
The room that spread out before them wasn’t a room at all. Joseph had expected some kind of ornate, civilized dining hall like the one in Wyrmwood Manor. And he’d been half right. There were tables covered in starched white cloth, laden with food, silver cutlery, crystal goblets and candelabras. But that was where the similarities ended.
They were in a cavern, stretching up so high he could only just make out the tips of the stalactites hanging from the roof. Candles flickered on the tables and moonlight spilled in from a vast opening to their left, looking out onto the deep blue Ebony Ocean. The tables ran down just three sides of the cavern; in front of the great opening, a square wooden stage had been built, jutting out into the middle of the dining area, with a raised wooden platform in one corner and the ocean as its backdrop. A trio of musicians – all imps – were sitting on the platform playing a rapid dance tune on fiddle, squeezebox and drums.
Joseph gazed around the chattering guests and shivered – not just from the cold air blowing in through the mouth of the cave. These were the most villainous crooks in Port Fayt, their faces marked with scars, tattoos and piercings, their belts loaded with cutlasses, axes and pistols. Men too dangerous even for Governor Skelmerdale’s press gangs to touch. Feasting and drinking while Newt and his fleet were out at sea, trying to save Fayt from total destruction …
With a jolt, Joseph recognized someone. A lanky troll whose face was covered in white make-up. He was there when Joseph had been kept prisoner in Harry’s Shark Pit. That’s the Actor, the mad elf Harry had told him. The man runs nigh on every street gang and gambling den in the Marlinspike Quarter.
Joseph turned to the high table at the rear of the cavern. At once he spotted another familiar face: a large, grim-looking man in black wearing an eye patch and puffing on a pipe. Harry’s voice came back to him again: Lord Wren. Associate of the Boy King. Ain’t really a lord of course, my duck, but try telling him that.
Next to Lord Wren was an enormous chair, the carved wooden back of it towering over even the largest trolls in the cave. And sitting on the chair was the Boy King.
He was human, younger than Joseph, and he was stuffing his face with food. His cheeks were plump; his eyes were small, piggy, and shining with excitement. Everything he wore was gold, from his coat to his stockings. Perched on his head was the biggest tricorne hat Joseph had ever seen, sprouting an enormous golden plume. It was a cockatrice’s tail feather. Just like the ones Joseph’s father used to give his mother every year as a birthday present – only much, much b
igger.
Slik chuckled. ‘Fancy, eh? He always wears those stupid clothes. And he throws a fit if anyone touches them.’
Lord Wren leaned in to murmur something and the Boy King nodded, picking his teeth with a lobster claw. His gigantic plume swished against the back of the chair.
‘Hey!’
Joseph almost dropped his decanter in shock, and had to clutch it tighter to his chest. Those decanters are worth more than your stinking lives.
An elf had turned round and was shoving his goblet towards them.
‘More blackwine!’
‘Sorry,’ said Joseph, and he stepped forward to pour.
He and Tabitha made their way around the tables, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. Joseph tugged his jester’s hood down low. It wasn’t as though anyone was going to recognize him, but it made him feel a little safer, all the same.
A dwarf was so drunk that he insisted Joseph keep pouring up to the very brim of his goblet, then lashed out at him when he tried to take the blackwine away. An imp insisted that because Joseph was dressed as a jester he ought to tell a joke, and Joseph had to mumble that he didn’t know any and move on. It was worse than a busy day in the Legless Mermaid – at least his uncle’s tavern had some customers who weren’t criminals.
Slowly but surely, he was working his way towards the Boy King himself.
Tabitha nudged him, making him tighten his fingers around the decanter. She beckoned, and he followed her back into the shadows, away from the table.
‘You seen anything yet?’
‘Seen what?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘The mermaid, remember? We’re here to rescue her, in case you’d forgotten. It looks like there’s a tunnel entrance over there.’ She pointed to the far side of the cave, where Joseph saw a dark opening amongst the rocks. ‘That could be how the musicians come in and out. And there’s a wooden screen over there, by the stage. That must be where they get changed.’
‘Right,’ said Joseph. ‘But … I mean, Pallione’s a mermaid. She can’t walk around like the other performers.’
‘Give the boy a medal,’ said Slik. ‘He’s a genius.’ Tabitha scowled. ‘Remind me why we need this scumbag again?’
‘We can’t let him go now,’ said Joseph, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder. ‘Not in here with all the—’
Someone had got hold of his coxcomb, and before he could react he was spun round and found himself staring into Lord Wren’s one eye. The man leaned in, smelling of sweat, smoke and firewater. His patch was made out of a ducat hammered flat, Joseph noticed, and his eye was wide and bloodshot.
‘You’re supposed to be serving blackwine,’ he growled. ‘So serve it.’
Tabitha hurried back to the table. Joseph tried to do the same, but Lord Wren was still holding onto his hood.
‘I recognize you, boy.’
Joseph’s legs went weak and his heart began to pound.
‘Yes. I know you. Where do I know you from?’
‘I’m a tavern boy,’ said Joseph quickly. ‘Maybe—’
He was cut off by a roar of applause as the impish band finished their tunes, bowed and shuffled down a ramp towards the cave entrance Tabitha had pointed out. Lord Wren gave Joseph one last look, then cuffed him lightly round the head and strode back to his seat. Joseph willed his heart to slow down, without much success.
The cavern was falling silent, and Joseph saw that the Boy King had wiped his mouth with a napkin and was clambering to his feet. He stepped up on his chair, then onto the table. He struck a pose, one leg extended forward, one hand on his hip and the other up in the air, as if he was some Old World hero about to deliver a speech to his army.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Welcome to the court of the Boy King!’
Applause swelled and feet stamped, dying down instantly as the Boy King raised his hand again. Except not entirely. There was a man near the stage who kept jabbering away to his neighbour, too drunk to shut up. His friends were desperately trying to keep him quiet, but it wasn’t working.
The Boy King’s eyes narrowed and his face flushed. ‘I said, welcome to the court of the Boy King!’ His voice was a thin, reedy whine. The voice of a spoiled child who wasn’t getting his way.
The drunk man belched and giggled.
No one joined in.
The boy stamped his foot on the table, his plume quivering with fury. He flung out a hand, like a magician casting a spell.
At once, two men in blue velvet livery swooped in from the shadows, grabbed the drunk man and hauled him backwards off his chair. Even through his stupor, the man realized that something was wrong. He yelled out for help, but his friends just looked away.
A fresh burst of applause broke out, mingled with laughter, drowning the cries of the drunk man. In an instant he was gone. Joseph didn’t want to guess where, but he was sure they wouldn’t be seeing him again. According to Slik, the Boy King had once made a troll crawl around on his belly all day for referring to him as a child. Then had him crawl off a cliff.
The Boy King took up his pose again. ‘Now, where was I?’ His audience roared with laughter. ‘Oh yes. I am the Boy King. And tonight we have entertainment. Splendid, glorious entertainment!’ His eyes shone. ‘As you all know, I love theatre. And so our next performance is a dramatic display, arranged by none other than … myself!’
Spittle flew from his lips, but he seemed too excited to notice. He paused for effect, gazing around at the diners. ‘I call it’ – he threw his arms out wide, and his golden plume danced in the candlelight – ‘The Desperate Struggle for the Giant’s Knee on the High Cliffs of the Northern Wastes, a Tale of the Great Wars of the Dark Age, retold by the Lord of the Marlinspike Quarter, His August Majesty, the Boy King!’
Crashing applause echoed around the cavern. Some guests shouted out, ‘Hail the Boy King!’ and ‘Long live his majesty!’
Joseph watched, transfixed. Didn’t these people know there was a war on? A League armada bearing down on them, ready to destroy the whole town? And yet here they were, settling down to watch a play.
The Boy King began to strut back and forth along the table.
‘Once upon a time,’ he declaimed, ‘hundreds and hundreds of years ago, the brave hero Corin led his men into the Northern Wastes to fight the evil sorcerer, Zargath. Because Zargath wanted to conquer the Old World, and he had thousands of ugly, scary trolls and goblins to help him.’
Figures were trooping out of the small cave entrance. Figures dressed in leather and metal, carrying ancient-looking weapons – chipped old blades and shields painted with lurid emblems. They gathered on stage as the boy’s reedy voice rose and fell with excitement.
‘Corin marched for weeks, and even though the evil Zargath set lots of ambushes and traps for him, he kept going. Finally the wicked sorcerer had no choice. He brought his whole army out to fight, on the cliff top they call the Giant’s Knee.’
Servants wheeled a canvas screen onto the stage, behind the armoured figures. It was painted to resemble the edge of a cliff, with grass at the bottom and gulls circling in the blue sky above.
‘Behold the Giant’s Knee! Taste the salt in the air. Hear the rolling waves of the ocean, far below.’
A sound began to fill the cavern – a high, mournful song without words. It dipped and soared, giving Joseph goose bumps. He craned his neck round, trying to see where it came from.
A small cart rumbled out from behind the wooden screen, pushed by two liveried footmen, up the ramp and onto the raised section of the stage.
The audience all gasped in awe.
On top of the cart was a strange wooden construction, painted grey and hung with seaweed, which was clearly supposed to represent rocks. And sitting on top of the fake rocks was a mermaid with a long silvery tail.
Joseph caught his breath. Pallione was a shark fighter. One of the best too. He’d thought nothing of it at the time. But now, that long white hair and those bright green eyes … He had seen h
er before. Surging out of the water, raising a blood-spattered trident in victory. The mermaid who’d saved his life when he was floundering in Harry’s Shark Pit, at the mercy of Florence the bull shark.
She looked different now. Her hair was dry and combed, and she was dressed in a costume woven out of seaweed and shells. She had a pearl band holding back her hair, pearl earrings and a pearl necklace. Her eyes shone in the candlelight as she sang.
The King’s daughter.
Pallione.
Chapter Fifteen
THE FIRE CRACKLED on the beach, and the sea breeze wafted smoke and the scent of frying fish towards the watchmen.
‘Sure you don’t want to play?’ asked Frank. ‘We’ve got time for a hand or two before dinner.’
Hal made a face and shook his head.
‘Suit yourself, grumpy guts,’ said Paddy, shuffling the water-damaged cards.
The twins had made a table out of a large flat rock, and Hal had lost count of the number of games they’d played on it. Nothing seemed to dampen the Bootles’ spirits. No matter how many hands of Dead Man’s Leg they played, or Hunt the Griffin, or Red Flash, they just kept smiling and joking and dealing the cards. Hal had never been too keen on card games, and by now he was trying to decide when to snatch the deck, and if it would be better to throw it into the fire or the ocean.
He peered out beyond the smugglers cooking on the beach, over the dark water. The sun had sunk below the horizon, leaving only an orange tinge in the deep blue sky. But Hal could still make out the merfolk dipping in and out of the waves. By mid-afternoon their guard had doubled, and yet more merfolk had arrived throughout the evening. Hal had watched them in between the card games, and the fried fish, and the endless waiting.
Now the bay was cluttered with heads and flicking tails. Two mermaids streaked through the black water, playing chase. Another arced through the air, disappearing underwater again in a fountain of spray. Most were huddled in small groups signing to each other, sometimes glancing towards their captives on the island.
