by Alex Duncan
‘Master Steadfast,’ said Henry, ‘Sam. All you’re to do is find that room, that room where all those like Zanga are being held. You were down there only a few hours ago and you’re bound to remember the way once you get down there again.’
Sam went to protest, but this time stopped short. He knew he had no other choice but to trust the old man, even if that meant going in the opposite direction to the one he wanted.
‘Once you find the place, I want you to use this.’
He handed Sam a key that had at least a hundred tiny teeth on its end, all on springs so that they could move up and down freely.
‘It’s a key that can open nearly any lock. I’ve used one just like this plenty of times and it’s never let me down. I want you to use it on those prisoners, release their chains and set them free.’
Sam nodded solemnly and carefully pocketed the key.
‘This might also come in handy,’ said the old man, passing Sam what looked to be a cross between an oil lamp and a sea captains telescope.
‘If you light the taper at the bottom and pull this switch,’ he pulled a small lever, which in turn lifted a hinge at the front showing the bare, glass tube inside, ‘it will give off a beam of light that can last for hours down there where it’s darkest.’
Sam nodded again and pushed the ingenious torch into the inside pocket of his black frock coat.
‘Off you go then Master Mystery,’ said Henry, patting him on his back. ‘And good luck to you.’
Sam silently shook their hands and went to leave, his mouth as dry as a bone.
‘Oh and Sam, if you need to, don’t be afraid to run.’
‘I don’t think you need to worry about that sir!’
And with that he was gone, leaving Henry and Zanga alone in the yard.
‘What about me Henry Versatile? What am I to do?’ asked Zanga, accepting a grappling hook and rope that the old man passed his way.
‘You’re coming with me.’
‘You do not think it would be wiser that I go with Samuel Steadfast, he is young and, dare I say it, a little timid.’
‘He’s braver than he gives himself credit for, he’ll be more than fine without you or I slowing him down.’
‘And where are we to go?’
‘Over the wall Zanga, that’s where,’ said Henry, looking up to the sky. ‘The moon has nearly sunk. We must hurry. Oh I nearly forgot, there’s one more thing I need.’ And he reached into the coffin and pulled out a long, varnished stick with a brass handle carved into the head of a roaring dragon.
‘What is that?’ asked Zanga.
Henry gave a sly grin.
‘It’s my new walking stick.’
◆◆◆
Rosie had spent a good half an hour scampering through the vast house, following golden star after golden star, sometimes taking minutes to find the next one, inlaid in a wall fixture or hidden near a painting, ascending three flights of stairs and down corridors until one star was positioned directly in front of a set of garishly decorated heavy oak doors lined in a frame adorned with gold leaf. This must be the place, she thought, checking her dress and brushing her hair away from her face.
‘Stay calm Rosie,’ she whispered, reaching for the doorknocker carved into the shape of a wreath of olive leaves. ‘Get them both and then we’ll finish this business.’
She knocked on the door twice and stood back, looking as teasing and as pleasant she could. An excitable clatter came from behind the door, dishes being dropped, glasses placed, quick footsteps and the two doors swung open from the centre.
Rosie caught her breath as, against her expectations and the words of the footman, not Apollo, but Ambrose Brash stood before her, his messy blonde hair catching the candlelight from his chambers and a glowing, white grin on his face. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned nearly down to his waist, showing the unblemished, smooth skin of his strong chest, and a floor length silk robe of black and gold draped over his broad shoulders. Rosie couldn’t help but blush at the sight of so magnificent a man, as devilish as he was.
Brash stepped forward with all the grace of a dancer, flashing his most devious grin.
‘Miss Easzzzz…’ he began, his voice immediately drifting to nothing as he took in the sight before him and realized that the woman standing there was not Miss Elaine Easy but another. Then as he leered over her shape and beauty, her dark, curly locks and full, serious mouth, his eyes sparkled and lit up with a renewed vigour and delight as recognition dawned in his mind.
‘Miss Simply! Well I’ll be blessed!’ he said, stepping into her and lifting her hand up to his mouth to kiss. ‘Miss Lizzie Simply, do you know I’ve been looking all over the ball for you this night and found only boring young ladies too wrapped up in themselves to notice a poor wretch like me. You have made my night with your very presence, truly you have!’ And he kissed her hand, softly and passionately.
Rosie shook herself, trying to remember that this man, this most handsome man, was more than likely entangled in this affair and was her only lead to Apollo. But he was dashed good-looking, she thought again, gazing into his blue eyes.
‘I thought it best Ambrose,’ she said, winking at Brash as she spoke his Christian name with a familiarity uncommon to most modern ladies. ‘I knew in my heart that you would be disappointed, much like I was not to see you. I had so enjoyed meeting you in the street and was longing for us to bump into one another again,’ she laughed. ‘But alas, that was not to be and I was devastated that I missed out on the chance to waltz with the great Justice Brash. And then I thought, and I sincerely hope I was not mistaken, that a drink wouldn’t be out of the question?’
Brash’s smile lit up even more and he gestured to the open doors and the rooms beyond.
‘A night-cap sounds like heaven. Please, come in.’
Rosie stepped past him, over the threshold, and into the brightly lit room. Perhaps this man wasn’t involved in Apollo’s schemes, perhaps he was innocent of the whole thing, only along for the ride, she thought, feeling that peculiar flutter in her stomach as she brushed past him. No, control yourself Rosie, she told herself, he could still be a fox in sheep’s clothing.
The first room was as well proportioned as she had come to expect from the house, large with high ceilings where two ornate chandeliers hung, shining their light down onto them. A sizable fire roared in the grate on the far wall lending the whole room sweltering warmth. Paintings of great battles hung from the walls around them, as well as several portraits of Brash in various moods and scenes, and more statues, some no bigger than her hand and some as big as she was tall, stood around her, again of the man himself, posing like some Grecian god.
In the centre of the room was a bed that was at least the size of any other person’s entire room. It was four posted, covered with silk sheets and pillows, all edged with golden brocade, and Rosie noticed, to her horror, that above the bed, the ceiling as it were, was mirrored. Vanity, it seemed, knew no bounds in Ambrose Brash.
The man strutted behind her and around his domain with such an air of laconic self-confidence it was as if he owned the very world and, in spite of her better judgement, Rosie still found his abominable assurance almost hypnotic.
She watched him saunter gently past her and over to a bust of his face, which he tilted back revealing a collection of crystal decanters with a variety of coloured liquids swilling inside them. He chose one and poured a small amount into a tumbler and then chose another and did the same. Both looked to be amber drinks, only shades apart, and when Brash offered her one, she graciously accepted it.
‘This is the concoction of a close friend of mine,’ he said, smiling yet more. ‘It has a sweet nose and a most uplifting finish, in honour of Oberon’s flower my friend has called it love-in-idleness.’
Rosie thanked him and brought the glass up to her nose, but its perfume was too sweet for her tastes. She preferred something bitter. Love-in-idleness indeed, she thought, knowing exactly what the drink wou
ld do to her. He was obviously up to something if he was trying such tricks with young ladies, the scoundrel.
She gently put the glass on the side table and moved in to Brash with all the intent of a snake. She knew she had to make him as pliable as she could before he would spill his secrets. Then she could ask anything of him, anything at all.
‘My thirst has passed for the time being,’ she giggled. ‘What I was really after was that dance.’
‘But there is no music my sweet?’
‘Now when did that stop anyone with a little imagination?’
Brash raised an eyebrow and lifted up his arms for her to take. Rosie smiled and moved in to him, pressing herself quite openly into Brash’s chest as they began to dance, in silence, about the room. He was a fine mover, she thought, as they waltzed across the shining floor to their own rhythm, and their eyes never wavered from each other’s promising stare. Such a pity he was a villain.
Through the statues and tables and candelabras they twisted and turned in their dance, at times Brash leading and at times Rosie being more forceful and taking the lead herself, which seemed only to excite the man even more. Faster and faster they went, Brash’s eyes never moving from hers, until Rosie was as sure as she could be that his attention wouldn’t falter, then, with all the speed of a cat pouncing on a moth, she lifted one glass from a table, concealing it behind her back, and placing it next to the other, while at the same time swapping that glass over as well.
Brash didn’t seem to notice a thing, too concerned with her favours, and as he urged himself closer still into Rosie, pressing himself boldly into her, she slyly slipped out of his hold and twirled back to the small table, swooping up the tumbler she had switched and downed the drink in one swift gulp.
Brash laughed and picking up his drink, or what he at least thought was his drink, joined her and downed the contents of his glass in one, throwing the glass into the fire, where it smashed in the flames.
‘Oh Miss Simply, Lizzie, I believe you and I are going to have oodles of…of…oodles…of...’
His glowing smile slipped quite naturally from his face, falling into a frown and his eyes glazed over with all the abruptness of a man being given ill news. Rosie coughed on the strong liquor, walked over to him and waved her hand in front of his eyes. Nothing. She then tapped his on the shoulder. Nothing. She then kicked him in the shins. Still nothing.
She laughed and clapped her hands together, relieved that she hadn’t taken a sip of his potion, as she looked him up and down.
‘A great shame though,’ she admitted out loud. ‘I think you were right. We could have had oodles of fun.’
Brash’s glazed eyes turned towards her and he went to speak, his voice having lost all its pleasing timbre now sounded far off and bodiless.
‘I am yours to command, for a while at least. What would you like me to do?’
Rosie leant over and whispered in his ear.
‘I’d like you to show me exactly what’s going on round here Ambrose, then I’d like you to take me to Apollo, and then, if I have cause enough, to take me to the thing known as Olkys.’
There was no look of struggle in Brash’s eyes, no indecision and no fight. He walked across the room in a steady, mechanical gait, to where a long portrait of himself stood on a hillside above some unknown idyll hung and slid the painting aside. Rosie saw that the frame rolled on a set of casters on the floor and on the ceiling, and as the painting moved aside it opened up an entrance to a steep spiral stairwell leading back down the side of the grand house.
‘This way,’ said Brash, in his droning, flat voice, and led the way. ‘What you wish to see is down here.’
Rosie, looking back into the room one last time, and through the bay windows at the coming morning, shrugged her shoulders and followed Brash down the twisting stairs and back into the dark once more.
◆◆◆
Doing as instructed, Zanga threw the grappling hook lightly over the wall where it landed with a gentle thunk. Henry pulled on the rope until the hook retreated and was jammed quite securely between two rocks at the top of the wall and gestured for Zanga to ascend the rope first.
Zanga’s mind was in a spin. He was in free fall, a puppet with his strings cut. Though, if he was honest, it was rather exhilarating. This was a new joy for him, ignorance, the unknown and the future. Each moment was unexpected and fresh, as any expectation and knowledge of what was to come had been blown away.
Perhaps this is what it feels like on this side of the door, he thought, putting one hand over the other, his feet pressed into the stones, pulling himself slowly upwards. Perhaps on this side of the door you were free from a written future, free to form your life into what you wished. Free to live without boundaries or borders or rules.
But he was getting carried away with himself and as he reached the top he balanced on the lip of the wall and looked down to Henry beneath him.
‘May I offer you a hand Henry Versatile?’ he whispered down to the old man.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ answered Henry. ‘I may look beyond my years, but there’s still plenty of meat left in this pie.’
‘I am afraid I do not know what you mean.’
‘Never mind.’ Henry whispered, beginning his ascent. The rope cut into his hands and his back ached and his thighs burnt and his feet slipped, tumbling him into the face of the wall, but he managed to reach the top and Zanga was waiting for him to pull him up onto the lip and join him.
The sight over the wall in the dull greyish blue light was just as Henry remembered it from before, the dead, dry earth, the remains of the broken mills in the distance, the faint metallic smell in the air and the folk wandering aimlessly about, shambling and empty. It was just the same and just as chilling.
They dropped down into the clearing and kept in the shadows, still dark enough to remain invisible in the few hours left before dawn.
‘What now Henry Versatile?’ asked Zanga.
‘You mean you don’t know?’ countered Henry.
‘I told you. Everything has changed. You changed what was meant to happen and have in turn upset the balance of what I saw happening. I am as much in the dark as you now. Literally. It is all very complicated.’
‘Yes, you said that.’
‘So are you going to tell me what we are doing in this most unpleasant of places?’
‘All right, all right, I’ve never been one to plan too far ahead. We’ve first got to find a way inside somehow and then…’ he stopped short and fell down onto his haunches. Zanga was quick to follow him and they crouched down together in silence.
‘Do you hear that?’ said Henry, listening intently. ‘What is that?’
Zanga kept still and concentrated on the quiet distance.
‘I do not hear anything Henry Versatile.’
‘Listen. There…is that…is that music?’
The two men stood and walked as far into the courtyard as they could whilst still remaining in the shadows and soon they both heard it, not so loud that it dulled the senses, but more definite than before. Henry had been right, it was music, or some close relative more like, for it was the most discordant and sorrowful tune either of them had ever heard. Its sombre, abomination of a melody could surely inspire nothing other than feelings of misery.
‘That is without a doubt the foulest thing I’ve ever heard,’ hissed Henry.
‘You are right Henry Versatile. It offends my ears…Look!’
Zanga pointed out into the middle of the clearing where, illuminated by what little light there was, sat, open for all to see, a short gentleman dressed in the tattered rags of what used to be fine clothes, blindfolded and with black, bloodied bandages over each hand. The man sat, rocking back and forth on a small stool which was propped up next to what looked to be a harpsichord, or at least what remained of a harpsichord that could still create some sort of sound. The man on the stool chuckled wildly and drummed on the keys with all the pleasure of a crocodile taunting its prey.
<
br /> The two men looked on at the strange and mesmerizing scene and listened, feeling their hope drain away with the melancholic sounds coming from the instrument.
‘It’s there to keep us quiet,’ said a voice from behind them.
Henry was the first to turn but there was no one there. He took a step forwards, towards the direction of the voice, and his foot hit something. He glanced downwards and saw that the voice had come from beneath him, from the ground. Lying there in the dusty, lifeless ground was a badly beaten man hidden in the dark. Henry pushed his cane beneath his arm and leant down to him.
‘What do you mean my friend?’ he asked, taking the stranger by the shaking hand.
‘I mean it’s there so we can’t think. It’s there so we do what we’re told and don’t cause a fuss. I’ve been here barely more than a day but I can tell these things. They want to keep us quiet, keep us in our place.’
‘Barely more than a day…here, I know you my friend!’ Henry realized and he took hold of the man’s face and turned it towards him. ‘I’ve seen you, I spoke to you in the…in the Crossroads tavern in the town, and you spoke to me. Do you remember? Your name is…Ezekiel, isn’t it?’
The man nodded. He was twitching and there was a cold sheen of sweat across his pale unshaven face and he stank of unwashed clothes and drink.
‘Ezekiel, we have to get inside. Can you help us?’
The man shook his head and grimaced.
‘Did you listen to nothing I said to you old man? I told you to get out and leave this place well alone, as quick as your legs could carry you, but did you listen? Apparently not. It’s too late for me, but you can still get out and save yourself…’
‘It doesn’t have to be that way.’
Ezekiel looked up into Zanga’s face.
‘You’re one of them aren’t you? One of those who can see things before they happen.’ He reached up and grabbed Zanga by the arm. ‘Please tell me, how do I die? Do I die here? Is this my end?’