by Alex English
Alfred spotted her watching and grinned as she ducked back into the corridor.
‘I think that’s enough for today, Your Highness,’ he said to the panting, pink-faced Horace.
‘Thank Lockfort that’s over.’ Horace threw down his sword and gasped in relief. ‘I mean, thank you, Alfred.’
As Horace returned to the castle, Echo grabbed his arm and dragged him to a dusty alcove. ‘Have you got it?’ she said.
Horace looked over his shoulder. He nodded reluctantly and took out a browned scroll of parchment, creased with age.
‘Thanks.’ She took it from him and slipped it up one voluminous sleeve. ‘See you later.’
‘Wait! What about my book?’
‘I’ll give it to you after.’
‘After what?’
Echo shook her sleeve at him. ‘After I’ve been to the dungeons.’
Horace’s mouth gaped. ‘But Echo, you can’t go there.’
‘No such thing as can’t.’
‘But you’ll get into trouble!’
Echo’s tummy tightened, but she hid her nervousness behind a shrug. ‘I’m still in trouble from when you told on me. A little more won’t hurt.’ She took the map from her sleeve and studied it. ‘Where’s the entrance?’
Horace shrugged miserably. ‘The plan only shows the layout of the dungeons. It doesn’t show how to get in there.’
Echo sighed. ‘Don’t you have any ideas?’
‘Father goes through the grand entrance to the catacombs. But you’d never get in that way. That’s just for ceremonial expulsions.’
‘What?’
‘When people are expelled from the city. Father sends them out into the Barren to perish.’
To perish? Echo’s mouth dropped open in horror. ‘To die? He really does that?’
‘Only sometimes,’ Horace continued. ‘It’s just for the very worst ones though. Like Mickermus Britch when he questioned Father’s cutlery spending.’
‘He was expelled for asking a question?’
Horace shrugged. ‘It was treason. Father is the king. And he deserves nice spoons. Anyway, he hasn’t expelled anyone for years. Mostly he just leaves them in the dungeons.’
Echo’s thoughts turned back to the professor. Being trapped in the dungeons must be ten times worse than being trapped in the castle. She put her hand to her shoulder to stroke Gilbert’s scales and the little lizard nudged her cheek.
Echo thought out loud. ‘How do the servants get down there?’
Horace frowned. ‘This can’t really be for homework. What are you up to?’
‘Someone has to feed those prisoners,’ said Echo. ‘And they don’t go through the ceremonial entrance.’
Gilbert hopped from one foot to another and chirruped.
‘Yes!’ Excitement bubbled in Echo’s stomach. ‘The kitchens, that’s it!’ She slapped a confused-looking Horace on the shoulder. ‘Gotta run!’
CHAPTER FIVE
Echo raced through the endless corridors, ducking into an alcove behind a bronze statue of a bear to avoid Greengrass, one of the more irritable castle footmen. She’d made it all the way to the western wing before Horace caught up with her.
He ran up, panting, and grabbed her arm. ‘You can’t go, Echo. I’m not letting you.’
‘It’s not up to you.’ She shook him off, almost knocking over a vase painted with the face of King Valbert the Third. Were all of Horace’s ancestors this annoying? They certainly looked it.
‘I’m Crown Prince, and you’re just a ward. You have to do what I say.’
Echo rolled her eyes and set off again. ‘Oh really.’
Horace hurried after her. ‘Well, I’m coming with you then.’
She turned to face him. ‘You? Why?’
‘It’s my father’s plan. If it’s lost, he’ll know I took it. I’m not good at lying like you are.’
Echo put her hands on her hips, not sure whether to be insulted or flattered. After last time, in the library, she didn’t want him to tag along. But Horace was taught a lot of things about castle life that she wasn’t and he might know something useful.
‘Fine, I suppose you can come. But, if you tell on me again, I’ll throw your book in the moat.’
‘I won’t,’ said Horace, looking glum. ‘Prince’s honour.’
‘Come on then.’
They made their way to the ballroom and Echo eased open the door to reveal a vast, gleaming space of pink-and-white marble columns, blond-wood panelling and an impossibly high ceiling hung with hundreds of mirrored chandeliers. The sunlight that came in from the tall arched windows reflected off the glass droplets, sending shimmering shadows dancing across the floor.
Horace followed her in, wringing his hands. ‘Are you sure this is the way?’
‘Yes!’ Echo strode to the far wall, her footsteps ringing off the gleaming parquet, and ran her hands over the giltencrusted panels. ‘Now, where’s it gone?’
Gilbert ran down her arm from his perch on her shoulder and sniffed the air, then pointed his snout to the right, as if to say, Here.
Echo pushed and the whole panel swung open to reveal a dingy staircase leading downwards. She glanced back at Horace. ‘Still coming?’
‘Are you sure someone won’t catch us?’ Horace’s voice wobbled.
‘They only use the servants’ stairs during mealtimes.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘From exploring! Gilbert and I have been here hundreds of times. One day I was so bored I crept in and laced Miss Brittle’s posset with white pepper, right under the pastry chef’s nose. And another time I found a whole almond tart and sneaked it out under my pinafore.’
Gilbert’s tongue flicked out at the mention of almonds.
Horace hesitated in the doorway.
‘Come on, before somebody sees us!’ Echo pulled him inside by the shirtsleeve and eased the door shut behind them. She set off down the stairs.
‘I suppose you found that horrid old trout head down here too,’ grumbled Horace from behind her.
‘I don’t know anything about a trout head.’ Echo grinned to herself as she remembered the gleam of its cold, wet eye.
‘The one that was in my bed on April Fool’s!’
‘No, still no idea. And keep your voice down.’
The narrow staircase twisted and turned as they descended towards the warmth of the kitchens. At the bottom of the stairs, Echo put her finger to her lips. Even Gilbert held his breath. She pointed to the jumble of grease-stained white jackets and caps on a counter outside the door.
‘Child sizes are there. Stick some trousers on,’ she whispered.
Horace screwed up his nose. ‘But they’ll ruin my new moleskin breeches!’
‘You won’t look like a kitchen boy in moleskin!’
‘But I’m not a . . . Wait a minute! I thought we were going to ask someone here about the dungeons.’
Echo rolled her eyes. ‘And have them tell Miss Brittle? We need to disguise ourselves and blend in.’
‘But they’ll recognize my face.’
‘No they won’t. They’re all too busy preparing for the Gate Opening. Anyway, people see what they expect to see. And no one expects to see a prince in scullery-boy clothes.’
‘I think I might go back . . .’
‘Don’t be such a lubberwort! Don’t you ever want an adventure?’
Gilbert nudged her ear as footsteps echoed on the stairs above them, and flashed his crest.
‘You said there wouldn’t be anyone on the stairs!’ Horace’s eyes widened.
‘Quick!’ Echo threw a bundle of clothes at him. She yanked a jacket on over her bodice, placing Gilbert carefully in the pocket, then pulled on a pair of grease-spattered scullery trousers and shoved her skirts inside. The footsteps grew louder.
‘Keep your head down and follow me.’ Echo twisted her hair into a tight coil and jammed on a cap. She pushed open the door and burst into the heat and clatter of the kitchens.
&nb
sp; Scullery boys scuttled hither and thither across the room, where great copper pots boiled and steamed on the fire pits and enormous, ruddy-faced chefs bellowed orders. The air was thick with the smell of roast meat, smoke and sweat. Echo grinned. It was a place where things happened.
‘I just know someone’ll recognize me,’ whimpered Horace from behind her.
‘Don’t look anyone in the eye and, if someone gives you an order, do it. And keep an eye out for where they cook the prisoners’ food.’
‘Oi, you two! Stop slacking! Take these to the pot wash.’ A chef called Bartleby, with tiny, pig-like eyes, shoved a heap of food-encrusted pans at Horace and he staggered backwards under the weight. Echo kept her eyes on the floor and pulled a tangled handful of curls down over her face. Bartleby had caught her in the peach store once before and given her a hiding.
‘Y-yes, sir.’ Horace righted himself and wobbled away.
‘To the pot wash!’ bellowed the chef.
Horace turned. ‘Which way is that again? I seem to have forgotten.’
The chef squinted at him. ‘You look familiar. Don’t I know you?’
‘He’s new,’ said Echo, keeping the peak of her cap low and grabbing some of the pans from Horace. ‘It’s this way. Come on, er –’ she grasped for a name – ‘Bob.’ She strode off across the kitchen, head down.
Horace followed. ‘How did you know which way to go?’ he panted.
‘I told you, I’ve been here before,’ said Echo. ‘And, anyway, all the boys with empty pans are going this way.’ She nodded as another scullery boy, carrying a stack of filthy pots, emerged from a row of stoves ahead of them. She followed him.
Everywhere Echo looked there was food. She passed a glistening hog roasting on the fire, fat spitting into the flames and sending up sparks. In the pastry section, great ham-handed chefs slapped and pummelled mounds of white dough, while others stirred bowls of quince aspic and poured the thick, shining liquid into jelly moulds. Knives flashed and whisks clattered. In one corner, she spied a chef plucking the feathers from an enormous swan and, in another, two chefs assembling a towering honey cake. She’d have to make sure she got a slice of that at the Gate Opening dinner.
‘Mind your backs!’ yelled a scullery boy.
Echo clung on to the greasy pans and swerved to avoid a procession of boys rolling barrels of mead. At the far end of the kitchen, she saw the pot wash – a vast copper tub of water surrounded by piles of dirty pans. A single scrawny boy, about Echo’s age, scrubbed and sloshed furiously.
‘Not more!’ he gasped, as yet another chef arrived with an armful of grimy meat cleavers.
Echo saw her opportunity. She shoved her load down. ‘We’ll help you with that, One-Eye,’ she said.
The boy turned to face them and Horace recoiled in fright. One of his eyes was completely missing, the skin patched together with stitches so large Martha would definitely not have approved. ‘Echo!’ he said in delight. ‘You’re back!’ He looked at Horace. ‘Who’s yer friend?’
‘This is Bob,’ she said.
Horace put his pots down and gulped as he glanced nervously between the boy’s face and the tub.
‘Thanks,’ said the boy. ‘I’m One-Eye,’ he said to Horace. ‘On account of the . . .’ He gestured at his face.
‘Listen, we need to get to the dungeons,’ Echo said. ‘Can you help us?’
‘Course! I still owe you for the seed cake.’ One-Eye smiled. ‘I have to warn you though – it ain’t nice down there.’
‘We don’t care about that.’
‘Echo, I’m really not sure about this,’ said Horace. ‘I want to go back.’
‘There’s no time now.’ Echo glanced hastily over her shoulder. To her horror, Bartleby was striding across the kitchens towards them, a furious look on his face. ‘There’s no way back – we have to go on.’
‘Quick, follow me.’ One-Eye wiped his hands on his trousers and set off across the kitchen, with Echo pulling a reluctant Horace close behind.
They came to a smaller cooking area where vats of steaming porridge bubbled unattended.
‘Get in,’ said One-Eye, gesturing to a huge wooden barrel strapped with iron bands. ‘They’ll take that down to the dungeons when they do the next run.’
Echo scrambled inside and Horace peered in after her. ‘In there?’ he said.
‘Yep.’ One-Eye gave Horace a shove from behind and he tumbled in on top of Echo with a squeal.
One-Eye leaned in and grinned. ‘Good luck, Echo. Don’t get yerself lost down there.’ He slammed on the lid of the barrel and everything went black.
CHAPTER SIX
Echo crouched next to Horace in the darkness, hugging her knees to her chest. Gilbert squirmed in her pocket. Through the wooden shell of the barrel she could hear the clamour of raised voices and the muffled clang of pans and ladles outside. Would someone guess they were in here? Echo’s stomach flipped with fear. She’d been down into the kitchens hundreds of times before, but even she had never dared enter the dungeons. There were stories of rats, and ghosts, and worse, and she couldn’t imagine what King Alfons would do if he found out.
But he wouldn’t find out, she told herself. They’d be fine as long as she kept her nerve. And anyway she wasn’t about to show Horace she was scared. She thought of the professor. Was he scared down here too?
Suddenly they pitched to the left and Echo was flung sideways on to Horace, who let out a muffled squawk.
‘Shh!’ she said, finding his sweaty palm and giving it a squeeze. She couldn’t let him give them away, not when they’d got this far. The professor needed their help!
The barrel rolled and pitched again, then shuddered as it came to rest. Echo heard the squeak of wheels and her stomach lurched at the strange sensation of downward movement. A few moments later, there was the thud of a door opening and closing. Then the barrel rocked. They were on the move again.
‘If one of the scullery boys opens this, we’re toast!’ whispered Horace.
‘I know the scullery boys,’ Echo whispered back, ‘and most of them owe me at least one favour. Stop worrying.’
Let’s just hope it is a scullery boy, she thought, with a shiver. Not a dungeon keeper, or worse . . .
When the barrel finally came to a halt, Echo spotted a small oval of yellow light in the side of the wood, knelt forward and pressed her eye to the hole. Flickering torches lit rough stone walls pitted with grey-green lichen. A tingle of fear ran down her spine as she saw a man in black disappear down the corridor. But there was no turning back now. She waited until he was out of sight before pressing her palms to the barrel lid and heaving at it.
‘I think we’re here,’ she said. ‘Help me push the lid off, would you?’
Horace wriggled next to her and Echo felt him put his weight against the lid too. Her muscles strained and something loosened. They continued to push and, with a pop, the lid shot off, landing on the flagstones with a clatter.
Echo waited for a few moments before daring to peer out of the top of the barrel, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the torchlight. They were really here. She swallowed.
‘What can you see?’ came Horace’s petrified whisper.
Echo gathered herself. She had to stay focused if she and Horace were going to get out of here without getting caught. ‘It’s clear.’ She gripped the top of the barrel and sprang over the lip to the floor.
Horace scrambled after her, catching his boot on his saggy scullery trousers and landing with an ungainly thud on the flagstones. ‘Ugh.’ He wiped one slimy hand on his trousers and wrinkled his nose in disgust. He looked around. ‘I really don’t like this, Echo.’
‘Neither do I, but we’re here now,’ Echo said, trying to sound confident. Gilbert emerged from her pocket and draped himself in his favourite place round her neck.
‘What do you think?’ She showed the little lizard the dungeon plan.
‘What . . . why are you showing him? Don’t tell me he can read maps now?’ Horace
spluttered.
‘It’s worth a try,’ said Echo.
But Gilbert cocked his head to one side, looked at the map, then curled his tail into a question mark, as if to say, Who knows?
‘Come on, let’s try this way.’ Echo picked a path and crept into the damp darkness.
‘But Echo, where are we going?’ Horace trailed after her. ‘What is this homework anyway?’
Echo ignored his complaints and kept going, shivering despite the hot, moist air pressing down on her. The torches cast strange shadows on the flagstones and strangled wails reverberated down the corridors. Every so often, a drip of slimy water landed on her head and slid down the back of her neck, but she pressed onwards.
Soon they came to the prisoners’ quarters, where they passed cell after cell with thick bars of rusted iron. Inside, men with wild beards and wilder eyes lurked in the shadows.
‘Brought me some porridge, boy?’ A bald-headed man with three stumps of teeth in his red gums lurched at them out of the darkness and rattled the bars. He made a grab for Horace’s sleeve.
Horace yelped and leaped backwards, knocking into Echo, who almost screamed in fright and dropped the dungeon plan in a puddle.
‘Don’t be such a pudding heart!’ said Echo, half to Horace and half to herself. She fished the plan out and wiped it on her trousers. Horace had to be the worst possible exploring companion – his nervousness was catching. Why had she ever let him come?
Gilbert tightened his claws on her shoulder and cocked his head.
‘What is it?’ she whispered.
Up ahead someone was singing a melancholy song.
Horace wrapped his arms round himself. ‘You’ve seen the dungeons now. Please can we go.’
‘Shhh,’ said Echo. She crept forward, her heart pounding in her ears, until she was close enough to make out the words.
‘Oh, I sailed like a whale on the silvery sea,
And I danced with a puzzle fish under a tree,
And I sang to the moon and she sang back to me,
By the light of the silvery, silvery sea . . .’
Puzzle fish! Echo grinned in relief. It had to be the professor. She followed the singing and, as she rounded the last stone column, let out a gasp of delight at the sight of Professor Daggerwing, slightly bedraggled and with his hair in even more of a wild ginger halo than before, sitting cross-legged in a cell.
