by Alex Duncan
‘Over here!’
Sam and Henry turned together towards Zanga’s voice and rushed over to him on the other side of wide, flat field. Between two more ostentatious, crucifix-laden sarcophagi rested a simple, indecorous headstone. Sam knelt and brushed a hand over the rough, crumbled stonework and read out the faded inscription carved into the stone:
HERE LIES
MINIMUS UNDERFOOT
ever reflecting
R.I.P.
‘Then this is the one,’ said Sam, eager to be out of that place as quick as he could. ‘Best start digging.’ And he fell down on his knees and began scrabbling at the dirt beneath his feet.
‘Not so fast,’ said Henry, pulling him back from the grave by his shoulders. ‘Look at that inscription in the middle…ever reflecting…what do you suppose that means?’
‘Nothing of any consequence I should think,’ said Sam, about to start digging again.
‘Master Steadfast, sit still would you. Lord, it’s like training a disobedient pup with you!’
Sam, sufficiently scolded, leant back against the sarcophagus opposite and waited.
‘I haven’t seen this on the other gravestones bearing the name of Minimus Underfoot. I wonder what it means…’
He traced his finger over the words, lost in thought.
‘Perhaps it’s a riddle,’ suggested Zanga.
Henry’s eyes lit up.
‘That’s it Zanga, it is a riddle.’
‘Why would they put a riddle on the headstone?’ asked Sam.
‘I’m not sure,’ shrugged Henry. ‘Perhaps to keep people like you from getting to what’s down there.’
‘You mean this isn’t the right place?’
‘Possibly,’ admitted the old man.
‘But then what would happen if we do dig here?’
‘Truthfully,’ said Henry, stepping away from the stone. ‘I’d not like to find out. The people who put these stones around the country were not known for their sense of humour…But if that is a riddle, what does it mean?’
‘Don’t look at me, I’m terrible at riddles.’
‘Zanga?’
The big man brushed the tails of his long cloak aside and knelt down to the headstone.
‘Hmm…ever reflecting…it is indeed a strange epitaph. This word reflecting sounds like the key to me. Besides a man’s conscience, what else could be considered reflective?’
‘A sword, a mirror, a window with light shone on it, a still pool of water, any number of things,’ said Henry, scratching his stubbly cheek.
‘Then that does not help us, unless there is perhaps something reflective in the graveyard?’
‘Sounds unlikely,’ said Sam, ‘this whole place is just rows and rows of old stones.’
‘But it might be the only chance we’ve got,’ said Henry, pushing himself up. ‘I think we should spread out and look for anything that might be shiny or reflective, anything at all, whether it’s on a headstone or a tomb.’
Sam went to protest but the other two had already gone in opposite directions, leaving him quite stranded. He kicked the long grass and reluctantly chose a path of headstones behind him and wandered, quite vaguely, down through it. His eyes brushed over the names and dates on the stones. No name jumped out at him or caught his attention as in someway recognizable but he still let his eyes fall on each one, albeit briefly, before moving on, further down the paths of irregular stones, jutting out of the earth. He looked over his shoulder and saw Henry and Zanga in the distance, doing much the same as him.
‘Anything?’ he called out.
‘Nothing yet,’ Henry answered. ‘Keep looking Master Steadfast, I’m certain we’ll know what we’re looking for when we see it.’
‘You might as well say it’s bound to be in the last place we look,’ Sam grumbled to himself, taking a left and coming to another row of stones, these one were smaller than the others, barely a foot high out of the earth and more crumbled with age and the weather. As far as he could tell, all of them were either too faded, un-named or worse, entirely unmarked.
Great, thought Sam, this is sure to make it easier, I might as well just give up now and call it a night.
He brushed away the dirt and leaves from each stone as he went down the line, hoping that something might spring out at him, but there was nothing, most were just blank rocks, place-markers for the nameless dead. One stone even had a spelling mistake, he laughed. Instead of reading R.I.P. it was engraved with:
Poor fool to be remembered with a mistake like that, thought Sam as he moved on down the line. He’d gone three stones further on when he stopped and it suddenly came to him. It R.I.P. backwards, it was the reflection of it. He could hardly stop himself from jumping up and waving his arms.
‘I’ve found it!’ he yelled. ‘It’s over here. I’ve found it!’
Henry and Zanga rushed over to him and he explained it to them as quick as he could get the words out. Henry patted him heartily on the back.
‘Good job Master Steadfast. It’s the best chance we’ve got I think. I hope you’re right.’
‘Of course I’m right,’ laughed Sam, relieved that he finally been of some use. ‘I’m positive this is the place.’
‘Then you won’t mind being the one to make sure of it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, get down and start digging!’
◆◆◆
Rosie’s fatigue had been firmly pushed aside and replaced by a keen anger burning in her belly, driving her forwards through the night. The paling sky hinted at the coming morning and an end to the longest of nights, but there was still plenty to do before then.
It hadn’t taken her long to find her bearings, be clear of the forest, and make her way back into the outskirts of Hope and into the grounds of Justice Brash’s Manor House. After all, it had only been a matter of hours since she and her father had made their entrance into the town to attend the evening’s events at the theatre, hardly time to forget her way. She marvelled at how much had changed in those few hours.
Well, she concluded brusquely, if there is no one I can trust but myself, then it is down to me to put an end to this sorry business and deal with that clown who calls himself Apollo. There were enough tyrants in the Empire as it was, and one who seemed intent on nothing but voyeurism and murder was tipping the balance as far as she was concerned. And if she came across this Olkys figure as well, this beast from the other side of the door, the one who her father said had laid claim to her mother, well then, she’d just have to deal with him too. She had little patience for monsters, whichever side of the door they came from.
The Manor House was ahead. It was quite something, she thought, walking through the quiet and still grounds. The building itself was suitably modern in its style with large square rooms and straight lines of sandy brickwork and high sash windows casting stretched rectangles of orange light down onto the finely cut lawn. Brash must have been born into money, thought Rosie, trudging onward. No one could earn enough to afford such finery in one lifetime. Here was no self made man.
She successfully infiltrated the ball without a problem. With her unruly hair scrapped away from her face and tucked down below her high collar, the guards uniform was the only ticket she needed for a clean entrance. As far as she could tell, the majority of guests and guards alike were the worse for drink and merriment, it had no doubt been a ball to remember. But she knew she would need to appear as a guest and not a guard if she were to get further into the house and into the confidence of Brash or Apollo.
Making her way through the ballroom was like crawling through some den of sin. Bodies were lying over the floor and propped up in corners and slumped in chairs and on card tables and the odours of tobacco smoke, drink and sweat were heavy and clogging in the close air. She nodded to one or two of the guards on the periphery of the room, hiding her disappointment that they were still awake, and quickly left the hall down a long wide corridor.
After turning several cor
ners in the rabbit warren of well lit passages, she saw, not ten paces ahead of her, a young lady looking down at the parquet floor, as if she were searching for a mote of dust beneath her feet. Rosie eased into the shadows against the wall and closely watched the young lady.
Miss Elaine Easy, happily oblivious to Rosie’s presence, stared down at the floor, looking for the next golden star and chatting quietly away to herself.
‘Mrs Elaine Apollo,’ she giggled. ‘Oh yes, I like the sound of that, much nicer than Miss Elaine Easy. It is a fine match!’
Rosie saw that she was of similar proportions and build, though she appeared to be hobbling in her shoes, and was wearing a garish and, Rosie had to admit, shamefully scandalous dress which appeared to be made out of feathers or some such. Well, there was no one else around. She would have to do.
If there happened to be another guest walking down the same corridor at the same time they would have heard a low but definite whistle come from a dark doorway only a few paces behind Miss Easy and see the young lady, as curious as a cat, go and investigate. They would see the door open and Miss Easy step inside the darkness, quickly followed by a loud clang, much like that of a large copper cooking pan hitting a table. They would then see the body of Miss Easy fall, as gently as a fence post in a gale, onto the deck only to disappear back into the doorway, shortly followed by another young lady, quite different from Miss Easy, appear in her wake and, more importantly, in her dress and close the door quite calmly behind her. Fortunately for Rosie there had been no one else in the corridor and she brushed her hands down the front of her new dress and made her way back towards the ballroom playing with her hair.
The dress held her up as straight as a church tower and squeezed her so rigidly tight she couldn’t imagine how its previous owner could breathe in it at all. Though she admired the workmanship and skill of the delicate silk butterfly wings that seemed to make up the gown, she felt somewhat conscious of the low cut at the front of the dress. She would never normally be so brave and brazen as to show off so much of herself should she have chosen.
As for the shoes, they were so excruciatingly painful she decided to leave them behind altogether.
Back in the ballroom Rosie prodded the first footman she came to, who was snoring loudly, and stood demurely before him.
‘Dear sir, I was wondering if you could help me,’ she smiled, batting her eyelids and gently leaning in to him. ‘I was looking for the chambers of Justice Brash, he insisted that I visit him before the night was through and I can’t remember the way.’
After the footman grumbled at being woken he scratched his head and stared at Rosie, squinting in the glow of the candelabras.
‘Erm…didn’t you just ask me the way to Apollo’s chambers Miss?’
‘You…you…must have got me confused with someone else sir,’ Rosie fumbled.
‘I don’t think so Miss, beggin’ your pardon but I’d remember that dress anywhere.’
‘Impudence!’ Rosie hissed, making the poor footman jump and stand to attention. ‘I do not wish to be leered over by the staff. You will tell me the way to Brash’s chamber at once!’
‘Is it Brash’s or Apollo’s you want Miss?’ the guard spluttered, too flummoxed by half. ‘I could have sworn you was lookin’ for Apollo’s rooms but minutes ago Miss. You said he was expecting you.’
‘If that’s the case, then Apollo’s rooms it is,’ said Rosie, her heart leaping at the luck of it. ‘Which is the way?’
The footman quickly explained to her how to find the way, eager to be rid of her yet again and breathed a sigh of relief when she thanked him and left him alone. As he watched her go, enjoying the sway of her hips in the unique dress, he could have sworn that she had changed from the last time he had seen her only minutes before, but he couldn’t put his finger on it, her hair perhaps, he thought, before slumping against the wall and falling back to sleep.
Rosie, pacing down the corridor, gazed past her grubby bare feet and slowly but surely followed the golden stars.
◆◆◆
‘I’ve found something.’ Sam called up from the hole in the ground. He bent down onto his hands and, brushing the last of the dirt aside, knocked on the earth. ‘Sounds like wood.’
‘That’ll be it Master Steadfast, good job. Now find the edges and we’ll heave it up.’
It took them several more minutes to scrape away the remaining earth on top of the simple wooden coffin before it was clear and ready to be pulled up. Sam’s hands hurt and his fingers were bleeding from scratching and scrapping and digging away at the dirt, but he was grateful that the coffin had only been three feet under, down to the depth of his waist. Someone had at least been kind enough not to bury the thing six feet under, a small mercy at least.
Zanga pulled Sam out of the hole, taking his place and, single handed, lifted the box with one mighty pull out of the earth and above his head. The box came free with a sickening suck and within a moment was laying on the ground next to its small, aged, headstone.
Sam looked down at the small coffin shaking his head.
‘Grave-robber,’ he sighed. ‘There’s another crime to add to my list. Before this night began I was as clean and innocent as a whistle, with no misdemeanours or wrong doings to my name, and by the end of it…well, I might as well walk myself to the gallows.’
‘Quit your belly aching Master Steadfast,’ said Henry, ‘and pass me that rock.’
Sam passed the old man a fist sized stone and stood back as Henry swung up his arm and brought it down on top of the wood, splintering it straight down the middle. He threw the rock to one side and pried the two halves of the lid off.
All three of them knelt down in the gravel and dirt surrounding the grave and looked into the box.
Like the room Sam had found underneath the theatre, here too was a complete arsenal. Inside the box, neatly packed, was every weapon imaginable, from pistols and muskets to daggers and swords and even what looked to be a miniature cannon next to a pile of marble sized cannon balls, primed and ready to fire. Alongside the weapons strange looking instruments of war that Sam couldn’t name even if he had wanted to.
‘Lawks!’ he exclaimed. ‘This Minimus Underfoot was a helpful old toad and no mistake.’
‘That he was,’ smiled Henry, pulling out a brace of exquisitely crafted pistols and passing one to Sam.
Sam gingerly took it and marvelled at its lightness, its balance was so exact that it didn’t so much feel as though he was holding the weapon but that it extended out from his hand quite naturally.
‘Be careful with that Master Steadfast,’ said Henry. ‘Unlike your previous pistol this one is no stage prop and can be mortally dangerous.’
Zanga reached over and placed a hand on the barrel and juddered.
‘He is right Samuel Steadfast. This weapon has killed and is likely to again.’
Sam gulped and pushed the pistol down into the belt of his breeches as Henry did the same with his.
The old man was bringing out various items, placing them aside and weighing different weapons.
‘Zanga I know I haven’t asked you this,’ he began, ‘but when you escaped, Rosie told me you were coming up the hill at quite a speed. I wanted to know what you were running from.’
‘I do not know Henry Versatile,’ he answered, his expression darkening. ‘I do not know what it was. I would gladly tell you if I did.’
‘You can’t remember anything?’
Zanga gathered his thoughts before going on.
‘Oh yes, I remember. It was as if I was being run down by my worst fears. That is all I can say. It was as if my basest fears took form and were chasing me and all I could do was run, I do not know how else to describe it.’
The other two looked on quietly.
‘I felt them come closer to me and I began to see images in my minds eye, dreadful images. I saw Isabella taken from me, taken and abused and killed in the most hideous manner. I ran harder but I couldn’t get away, I couldn�
��t get away quick enough…’
He trailed off, leaving only the deathly silence of the graveyard.
‘Well at least things are looking up!’ said Sam, slapping his hands down onto his thighs. ‘I was afraid everything was going to get easy for us from now on. Where would the fun be in that?!’
‘Shush Master Steadfast, better we know what we’re up against than not,’ said Henry, staring at him.
‘In this circumstance I’d happily be ignorant of the whole thing,’ Sam said under his breath. Henry ignored him and beckoned Zanga to go on.
‘How did you get away my friend?’ he asked. ‘Rosie told me she’d seen the face of one who wasn’t so lucky as you and didn’t escape, she said they were contorted into some vile, shambling mistake of the person they once were.’
Sam’s gorge rose and he felt himself growing faint.
‘If others didn’t escape, how could you?’
‘I really could not say Henry Versatile. I ran on and...something...got hold of me right here.’ He pointed down to his ankle and Henry remembered the vivid mark that looked like nothing short of death. ‘I burst through the front door of a house, hoping to evade my fears, ran straight though the place, leaping over a fire and leaving through the back door, my legs burning like hell, and without turning around knew it…whatever it was…was no longer behind me.’
Henry rubbed his fingers down his jaw and shook his head.
‘Then who knows what Olkys has brought over from the other side of the door, I’m at a loss.’
‘Well,’ said Sam. ‘I think I speak for all of us when I say that I for one am very excited to get back to town and face those…whatever they are.’
Henry continued to ignore him and pulled out a long, finely woven, travelling cloak. When he held it up and the lining caught what little light there was in the pale sky it shone and Sam saw that it was stitched up with a thin looking chain mail. The old man swung it round his shoulders and easily slipped into it.