The Dark Flight Down

by Marcus Sedgwick

  This latest candidate was a youngish man, with thin hair and roaming eyes. Maxim, however, was fretting not about him, but about the boy in the dungeon. Maxim was convinced that Boy had to know about the book. His spies had told him that it had been rediscovered, and Maxim knew that Valerian had been looking for it. If he had found it, then it stood to reason that his boy had to know its current whereabouts.

  Maxim now quite rightly believed the book would be the only way to find a solution to his predicament. There had to be some way out of the dilemma Frederick had placed him in, yet it managed to elude him despite his best efforts.

  The emperor wanted immortality, and nothing would stop his relentless search for it. Any day the neurotic, decrepit ruler might decide he’d had enough of his current right-hand man.

  As things stood, their relationship suited Maxim. He commanded respect, or at least fear, throughout the palace, and had luxurious chambers in which to live. But things could not stay that way forever, and Maxim’s schemes were going slightly awry.

  For the moment, it worked well enough to help Frederick on his mad quest, until such time as Maxim had his plans in place; to keep his position and power whether the emperor was alive or not. But he was not ready for that yet, not by a long way. He saw that maybe the book was the answer to his problems, one way or another.

  “You say you can divine the future?” Frederick asked. He didn’t do it directly, but spoke through Maxim.

  Maxim repeated the emperor’s question, and the man eagerly nodded.

  “Oh yes,” he said. “Oh yes!”

  “Very well,” said Frederick to Maxim. “See what he can do.”

  “The emperor wishes to see an example of your skill,” Maxim said.

  “Very well. Of course!” the man said, looking a little nervous. He began to rummage in his bag and pulled out a tray and some cups.

  “I will ask one of you,” he said, speaking very quickly, ‘to hide this ball beneath one of the cups and—”

  “Enough,” said the emperor quietly.

  Maxim stepped forward.

  “Stop!” he said to the man. “We have enough prestidigitators already. We are seeking genuine clairvoyant ability. You will have to do better than this. Let me show you.”

  Maxim called to the back of the court.

  “Wolfram! Come here!”

  A murmur spread through the room as the crowds parted to let a strange-looking man walk forward to the dais where Frederick sat. He was dressed very plainly, and wore a cap with brown feathers poking out of it. He mumbled to himself as he walked. He was one of the seers of the court, whose occupation was to scry the future for Frederick. This particular seer must have been reasonably good, for he had been in court for several years. The less accurate tended to vanish, quickly.

  “Sire?” he said, without emotion.

  Frederick nodded at Maxim.

  Maxim turned back to the applicant.

  “You say you can foretell the future. So tell us. What is going to happen to you in the next five minutes?”

  The man dropped his bag, and wiped his forehead.

  “I . . . I don’t . . . ,” he began, then steadied himself. “I mean, I think I will be happy to accept your generous offer of a position in your command.”

  He forced a wide smile.

  Maxim turned to the seer.

  “Seer?” he asked.

  For the first time a glimmer of emotion showed on Wolfram’s face. He shut his eyes and a frown developed. He opened his eyes, now moist, but it was a flat, almost disembodied, voice that spoke to Maxim.

  “He will die.”

  That was all. He turned and shambled back into the crowd.

  “Ha!” said Frederick. “Correct! He is correct!”

  The man began to protest.

  “You can’t do that. He can’t . . . It’s a set-up! You can’t just kill me. . . .”

  He stepped forward and pulled a knife from inside his tunic. Instantly, without fuss, two guards closed in on him and slew him where he stood.

  “Silly man,” said Frederick. “Oh, do take him away. Don’t just stand there! He’s bleeding on my carpets.”

  Maxim sighed. It was a scene he had seen too often to find amusing anymore.

  His thoughts turned back to the strange boy in the dungeon.

  10

  As soon as the blind jailer left, Boy wasted no time.

  He’d come back with more slop, and more oil for the lamp, having finally smelt that it had gone out.

  He was in no particular hurry as he lowered the lamp on its long chain from the center of the ceiling, and poured more oil into its base.

  Boy saw a scratch of sparks away in the center of the dungeon and the lamp was lit.

  The jailer hoisted it back to the ceiling, brought Boy his food and once more took a second bowl somewhere else.

  Now he was gone, and Boy took out his lockpick and set himself free again. He headed straight toward the dungeon’s far wall, in the direction the jailer had taken.

  When Boy was a little less than halfway across, having averted his eyes from the hideous machines in the center of the room, he heard singing again. It was still faint, but now with the weak light from the lamp, Boy knew he was awake, and not merely imagining it.

  He passed the center of the chamber and the oil lamp, and once he had, the blackness began to grow again. He waited to see if his eyes would get used to the deepening gloom, and after a moment, went on.

  The singing grew louder. It was a man’s voice but it was high and wavering.

  “Hello?” Boy called.

  Nothing, except the singing. Now he could make out some of the words, and without consciously realizing it, they felt familiar to him.

  “Surely you won’t run,

  When your boat is ready to sail.

  Surely you will stand

  And face the gentle rain?”

  Then he saw something. A pinprick of light, so tiny at first he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t his eyes playing a trick on him. As he stepped toward it, however, the light grew in size. It was still small, but it was bright, and shone like a jewel through the deepness of the dark in the dungeon.

  He moved closer and came to a row of cells that he had not seen before. They were like his own, set into the wall in a row of four or five.

  Beyond them lay the light, and now Boy saw it was a window cut through the solid rock, very small, just wider than a couple of hands. It was divided in four by a sturdy iron cross, so not even Boy would have been able to get more than a few fingers through its gaps.

  He went closer, and still the singing continued.

  “In the morning you should think

  You might not last unto the night,

  In the evening you should think

  You might not last unto the morn.

  So dance, my dears, dance,

  Before you take the dark flight down.”

  “Hello?” Boy said. He knew this had to be where the jailer was taking the other bowl of food.

  “Hello?” He tried again.

  Still nothing. He had to go closer.

  He realized he was breathing light and fast, taking short uneven gulps of air. To compensate, his heart began to beat faster too, trying to get enough air into his body. He was arm’s length from the window now. It was slightly above his head, and as he approached, he put out a trembling hand to the grille. He stood on tiptoe to peer inside, and a warm orange light like fire spilled across his face. He had been holding his breath, but what he saw on the other side of the window took that breath clean away.

  It was a room, of decent proportions, but not vast by any means. It had a low ceiling, unlike the high domed one of the dungeon, and was obviously some antechamber that had been carved from the rock. It was clearly still part of the dungeon, but there any similarity to that foul grimy place ended.

  The room was beautiful. Light came from two oil lamps, one on a small table, the other hanging from the ceiling. Thick rugs lay on
the floor, hiding the bare rock beneath. It was exquisitely furnished. There was a writing desk with an upholstered chair, a small but ornate bed covered in sumptuous sheets and plump pillows, red and gold. There were two wardrobes and a chest of drawers, again all of the finest quality. A small mirror with an enormously intricate gold frame hung on one wall, above a washstand with a fine porcelain bowl and a jug to match. There was even a small fireplace, with a chimney that must have been bored right through the bedrock all the way up to the palace and eventually away to the cold City air, for the room was completely free of smoke and the fire was drawing well.

  Boy’s eyes widened in wonder, and then he saw him.

  The man who had been singing.

  He was sitting in a low armchair, by the fire. Boy tried to speak again, and the words caught in his mouth.

  But he had been seen.

  “Don’t ask me for food. I ate it all. You can’t have mine.”

  Boy was still too stunned to speak.

  The man went back to his singing. Boy struggled to think what to say, what to ask, but he was distracted by the song. He knew it. He knew it, but could not remember where from.

  “Who are you?”

  It was a simple question, but the man seemed confused.

  He looked up at Boy, then into the fire. He did not reply.

  “I’m Boy,” said Boy. “My name . . . is Boy. Who are you?”

  The man looked back at Boy. He was old, quite tall, and had probably even been strong once upon a time. He wore a short gray pointed beard, and his features were fine, though his eyes seemed dead.

  “Me?” he asked. “Me? I . . . can’t remember.”

  He stopped, looked around again.

  Boy stuttered another question.

  “Wh-What are you doing down here?”

  As soon as it was uttered, he realized his question was foolish, and asked another.

  “Are you in charge here? Do you look after the prisoners?”

  The man started to laugh, softly at first, and then more and more loudly.

  “Prisoners?” he said. “What prisoners? I am the only one down here now.”

  Boy shook himself. His feet were aching from standing on tiptoe at the small window. He looked around, to see if there was a door that led into the chamber, but could see nothing. He tried to pull himself up with his fingers again to make it easier.

  “How long?” asked Boy. “When did they put you down here?”

  The man blinked at Boy.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Boy felt a shuddering fear take hold of him. The man couldn’t remember his own name, and Boy couldn’t understand how you could forget your name, if you were lucky enough to have one. Unless it had been a long time since anyone had used it. Boy’s question about time had thrown the man too. Just how long had he been moldering in the dungeon?

  But something didn’t make sense. If this man was a prisoner, why was he living in luxury? Why the fine clothes and furnishings? If it was a prison, it was a strange, gilded cage.

  “Why are you down here?” Boy asked.

  “Too long ago,” said the man, obliquely.

  Now he asked Boy a question.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “I’m called Boy and I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “I haven’t seen anyone else here in a long time,” the man said. “They don’t keep prisoners anymore. They have other uses for them. . . .”

  “What do you mean?” Boy asked.

  “It’s been a long time since they’ve had anyone here. They don’t usually bother waiting . . . just take them straight to it. I expect they’ll be taking you down soon, though.”

  “What do you mean? What is it?”

  “You don’t know?” asked the man. “You don’t know?”

  He stopped, and in the silence Boy could hear himself struggling to breathe.

  “You don’t know?” the man repeated. “Then I fear for you. But maybe it’s best you don’t know what’s going to happen.”

  “What is it?” asked Boy, urgently. “Tell me!”

  Boy pressed his face against the iron cross in the little window.

  “Please!” he begged. “What is it? What is it? An animal?”

  “No!” said the man. “Not an animal. It’s a thing. A living thing, but they call it the Phantom.”

  And Boy now knew it was the thing from his nightmares, the thing lurking at the foot of the dark flight down. The Phantom.

  “He’s coming to take the bowl away,” the man said casually. “He’d better not find you here!”

  Confused, Boy said nothing.

  “The jailer’s coming. For the bowl.”

  He nodded at the table, where the empty bowl lay.

  “Get away from the window!” he whispered.

  As he did so, Boy saw a door on the far wall of the chamber open; the only way into this room was from the corridor outside.

  He ducked down, out of sight, and realized that if the jailer had come for the man’s empty bowl he would be coming for Boy’s next.

  He crouched low and sprinted as quietly as he could back to his own cell, determined to visit the man again as soon as he could.

  Boy was alone again. Thoughts whirled through his mind. Thoughts of the days he’d spent with Valerian, dark days before the end, of the trip to the Trumpet, where a man had been slain, and of Willow finding Korp’s body in the secret room in the theater. A victim of the Phantom.

  The Phantom, which had been terrorizing the City for years.

  The Phantom, in whose domain Boy now found himself trapped.

  11

  Far up above the dark catacomb in which Boy lay, the snow still fell on the City, a flake here and there sparkling in the flickering torchlight that spilled over the palace walls.

  Down in the dungeons, Boy waited, and as soon as the jailer had gone, he stole across toward the shining window.

  The man had not moved, but remained in his armchair, staring into the fire.

  Boy felt awkward, as if he was spying, but he had already been noticed.

  “You again? You’re still here? I thought he might have taken you away.”

  Boy tried to ignore the implication of his words.

  “What you said about the Phantom,” he said, “how do you know about it? How do you know it’s the same thing that’s been killing in the City?”

  The man looked up.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “I’ve been thinking and I’ve remembered something.”

  “What?” Boy asked, patiently.

  “I’ve remembered my name.”

  “That’s good,” said Boy. “What is it?”

  “Bedrich,” the man said. “At least, I think so.”

  Boy sighed.

  “Well,” he said, “perhaps I can call you that anyway.”

  The man thought about this for a while.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, that’s a good idea. Or was it Gustav . . . ?”

  “Bedrich sounds fine to me,” said Boy quickly, then smiled. “I’ll call you that.”

  Bedrich nodded, nearly smiling.

  “So tell me. Tell me about the Phantom.”

  The half smile disappeared from Bedrich’s face immediately.

  “Why do you want to know?” he asked.

  “I don’t know . . . ,” Boy said.

  This was true, he realized. He hadn’t actually stopped to think about it.

  “But it killed someone I knew. Someone I worked for, in a way. The director of the theater where I worked with . . .”

  He stopped again. There was no point telling this poor old man all his stories.

  “So how do you know about it?”

  “I look after it,” Bedrich said simply.

  Boy was too shocked to speak.

  “I am the doctor. I am the palace doctor, you see.”

  “That can’t be,” said Boy. “I mean . . .”

  “No,” said Bedrich, hold
ing up one hand. He rose from his chair and came over to the window. He inspected Boy’s face closely, as if that would tell him something.

  “I am the doctor, Frederick’s doctor. Or rather, I was once. Now I only have one patient. The Phantom. They keep me down here for that alone. I sedate it. I try to stop it from the worst of its excesses. It’s been getting harder and harder recently. I try my best, but I am not always successful.

  “When I am not successful, then it needs blood. And that is why I fear for you. Though why you are not dead already, I do not know.”

  “But what is it?” Boy asked.

  Bedrich stepped back from the window. He looked around furtively, melodramatically, though there was no one to hear him other than Boy in this subterranean prison.

  “I cannot tell you.”

  “You mean you can’t, or you won’t?” Boy pressed, but Bedrich would say no more.

  He turned and went back to his chair by the fire.

  “Please,” said Boy. “Please tell me some more.”

  “I’m tired,” Bedrich said. “Leave me alone.”

  The old man snuffled quietly to himself for some time, and then fell asleep.

  Boy had no choice but to return to his cell, where he curled into a ball on the hard floor and closed his eyes.

  But sleep would not come. In a way he was glad, for he sensed it would bring no relief from the nightmare he was living.

  12

  Next time a meal was brought, the rumble in his belly told Boy it had to be another whole day. Something else came with the food.

  “You’ve got company,” said the jailer as he rattled a key in the cell next to Boy.

  Boy was amazed to see Bedrich being led into the cell. The door was shut behind him.

  “No point me walking over to two sides of the place to feed you, is there?” said the jailer.

  Boy looked at Bedrich. He was grateful for the company, but there was something not quite right with the jailer’s explanation of why they had been put together.