Archibald Lox and the Forgotten Crypt

by Darren Shan

  I smile with awe. I wouldn’t be able to do what Kojo does. I think it would prove beyond the means of almost anyone.

  “We’ll ask others to visit you as well,” Hugo says. “I’ll start with Ghita. She’s a princess. I’m sure she’ll be happy to pay you a call. You’ll like her.”

  “That sounds great,” Kojo beams.

  “What about Pitina and Farkas?” Inez asks.

  Hugo pulls a face.

  “I don’t like them any more than you do,” she says, “but Kojo’s neutral, so I just thought I’d mention it.”

  “Please send them to me,” Kojo says. “It doesn’t matter whether they’re Merged or SubMerged. I enjoy the company of any royal... with one exception.”

  Inez raises an eyebrow at Hugo.

  “I’ll think about it,” he grunts. “The thing is, we’d forgotten the Crypt. I’ve never heard anyone mention it. If I share news of its existence with Pitina and Farkas, word will spread among the Families.”

  “That would be a good thing,” Kojo says.

  “Maybe,” Hugo grunts, “but there are forces still loyal to Old Man Reap. They might try to shut down access again, to respect his wishes.” He considers it some more, then shrugs. “The Crypt’s been a secret for five hundred years, so there’s no need to rush. I’ll tell Ghita, so she can visit you in the near future, then we’ll discuss it further when Inez, Archie and I are done with our other business. If we decide to tell the rest of the royals, we’ll look for more Crypt boreholes too, and ask Archie to fix the locks and open them. How does that sound?”

  Kojo smiles. “Well, you’re a king, so of course I have to say it sounds wonderful.”

  We laugh, then head for the cylinder. The gropsters will be setting off for the Tourney soon, and Hugo has to be there with his teammates.

  “One last thing,” I mutter on a whim, just before we return through the borehole. “You said the Departed passed on a message a hundred years ago. Can you tell us what it was?”

  “Oh yes,” Inez says brightly. “We’ve never heard from the Departed. What did they say?”

  “Sire?” Kojo says, looking to Hugo for clearance.

  “I’m sure it’s fine to tell them,” Hugo smiles.

  “It was an odd message,” Kojo says. “It was short, but let me make sure I get it right...”

  Kojo closes his eyes and concentrates. We wait patiently, wondering what might have moved the Departed to reach out from their spheres to speak to us here.

  Kojo finally nods and opens his eyes. “I’m not sure who he was or why they were worried about him, but they said, ‘Beware the locksmith called Stefan.’” He looks at us quizzically. “I don’t suppose you’ve any idea what that might have been about, do you?”

  SIX — THE BOATS

  21

  It’s the big day. The gropsters have assembled and will soon be setting forth in search of glory. Thirty players, carrying the hopes and dreams of the realm’s sports fans on their shoulders.

  We’ve gathered on either side of a bridge across a river of blood. Large crowds are grouped around us, and marshals patrol the river banks, shepherding people clear of the edges — if a person makes any kind of contact with the blood, they’ll dissolve in seconds.

  The players are dressed in blue robes with nine large, white stars stitched onto their backs. Everyone in the backroom team – coaches, medics, those in charge of kit and equipment, and others – is clad in blue trousers and shirts, with lots of half-moons dotted around them.

  Thousands of people have come to see us off. They cheer every time they catch sight of someone in blue, make the greet, slap our backs, wish us luck. It’s not just the players — the rest of us are hailed too.

  “What’s your job?” a small boy asks when he spots me through the legs of the adults and darts across.

  “I’m with the medics,” I say shyly, finding the hero-worship hard to take.

  “Cool,” the boy gushes. “If I break my arm, will you heal it?”

  Before I can answer, he raises his arm and I realise he intends to slam it on the ground in an effort to snap some bones.

  “Wait!” I stop him, and fumble in the large rucksack that I’m carrying. I find a bandage and slice off a length, then wrap it round the boy’s wrist.

  “Amazing,” the boy sighs, then hurries away to show the bandage to his friends.

  “That was a damn poor knot, Lox,” someone growls, and I turn to find Baba Jen glowering up at me.

  “I was only trying to stop him snapping his arm,” I tell her.

  “You should have let him break it,” she says. “He’d have learnt a valuable lesson. But if you’re going to waste any more of our supplies on bright-eyed little brats, I want to see you tying the knots properly.”

  “Whatever you say, boss,” I mutter.

  Baba Jen storms off to harass somebody else.

  Bands are playing, fire breathers are swallowing flames and spitting them out, acrobats are throwing one another up into the air. There are even thesps, performing skits in which they mock the other teams (especially the team from Ruby) and predict landslide victories for the men and women in blue. I keep an eye out for Dermot and his troupe – it would be nice to catch up – but if they’re here, I don’t spot them.

  As the departure time looms, the coaches round up the players and backroom team and gather them in two groups, one on either side of the river. I can see Hugo nearby, but Inez and Cal must be on the far side.

  People in the crowd buzz with excitement as a retinue from the palace approaches. Pitina and Ghita are at the forefront, and everyone cranes their neck, trying to get a glimpse of the royals. Both are dressed in stunning blue gowns, stars and crescents sewn into them. Pitina’s wearing blue glasses, and has dyed strands of her usually grey hair the same colour, while Ghita has painted her eyelashes blue and daubed a couple of white stars on her cheeks.

  As the royals and their aides approach the river, a borehole shimmers to life above the crimson liquid and a boat appears, followed by five others. These half a dozen vessels are the team fleet. I expected them to be decorated for the occasion, but they’re as plain as they always are, made of logs tied together with ropes, no cabins, masts or anything else, more large rafts than real boats.

  Guided by its robed, barefooted steer, the lead boat pulls in close to the bank (without touching it — the boats never make contact with land) and Pitina and Ghita step onto it. The steer allows the boat to drift back out to the middle of the river, then signals for it to stop. Pitina looks round, smiling, and raises a hand. Everyone falls silent.

  “It warms my heart to see so many of you here,” the queen says, and even though she speaks softly, her voice carries through the crowd — there must be a deviser somewhere nearby, amplifying it.

  “With this sort of support, our brave players are bound to return as champions,” Ghita adds, and there’s a huge roar of approval.

  “I hope you’re right,” Pitina chuckles when the noise abates, “but win or lose, I’m sure they’ll do us proud, that they’ll play with passion and guile, but also with respect for their opponents.” People grumble, but the queen ignores the murmurs. “I know some of you plan to travel to Topaz to watch the matches or cheer from outside the stadium if you can’t get a ticket.”

  Lots of people laugh. One man shouts, “I can’t go, but I’m going to cheer so hard that they’ll hear me from here!” There’s more laughter.

  “You’ll have a wonderful time,” Pitina says, “but please bear in mind that you’re ambassadors for our realm, and treat everyone the way you’d treat an old friend.”

  There’s more grumbling. Pitina lets the angry babbling noise rise, then waves a hand to stop it.

  “It’s been a long time since the last Tourney,” she says. “We all know how chaotic the competitions had become, players killing players, supporters killing supporters. We lost track of what it should be — a chance for people from the various realms to gather and celebrate
our existence, share stories and experiences, learn and grow, and be more than we are when there are barriers between us.”

  Not even a whisper disturbs the silence now. We’re gazing at the queen, rapt.

  “You’ve all had life cruelly snatched away from you in the Born,” she continues. “You’ve all experienced first-hand where hatred and violence lead, so I know you all understand the true value of peace and harmony.”

  “How can there be harmony if the SubMerged plot to kill our royals?” a woman cries, and there are lots of supporting calls.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ghita smirks, and the mood lightens. She shares a smile with Pitina, then they hold hands. “I have more to complain about than most, and Pitina knows I’m unhappy about what happened ahead of the vote last year, but the Tourney isn’t the place to air our grievances. It’s a chance for us to prove to our enemies that we can be better than them. If we do that, it might make them reflect, and maybe they can become better people too.”

  Pitina’s smile looks strained now. She’s SubMerged, and wants to unite her realm with Ruby. It can’t be easy, listening to Ghita take a subtle dig at her allies, but she maintains her composure and says, “Every Family sends at least one member to the Tourney, to represent the realm.”

  “Hugo!” several people roar, expecting him to be unveiled, as his love of grop is well known.

  Pitina shares a rueful look with Ghita. “Hugo should be going,” she says, “but he’s at large in the Born and can’t be disturbed.”

  Given the delicate nature of his mission, Hugo kept his involvement with the gropsters a secret from Pitina and Farkas, in case they accidentally (or intentionally) betrayed him to their SubMerged contacts.

  “I was going to travel anyway,” Pitina says, “so in Hugo’s absence, I’ll be your sole representative. I hope you’re not too disappointed?”

  There are massive cheers. Regardless of the fact that she’s SubMerged, Pitina’s their queen and they love her.

  “Thank you,” Pitina says when the cheers die away. “That means a lot.” She’s either a great actress or she truly means it, because there’s not a hint of deception in her features. “I’ll do whatever I can to encourage our team, and if I can pry any tactical secrets from members of the other Families, I certainly will.”

  There’s more laughter, and a few people shout, “Even if they’re from Ruby?”

  “Especially if they’re from Ruby,” the queen grins. “I’m a Sapphirite first and foremost, and I haven’t forgotten that they’ve beaten us more times in Tourneys than we’ve beaten them. It’s time we start settling that score.”

  The cheers this time are almost deafening. Pitina tries to silence the crowd again, but it’s impossible, so she laughs, then starts chanting, “Grop! Grop! Grop!”

  The people close to the banks hear her and repeat it. “Grop! Grop! Grop!”

  The cry is taken up by others, and spreads through the crowd like wildfire, until everyone’s shouting at the top of their lungs, and it’s as if it’s the only word in the sphere. “Grop! Grop! Grop! Grop! GROP!”

  22

  The boats pull in close to the banks and the players start to board. I spot Cal – he stands taller than just about everyone else – and wave to him, but he doesn’t see me. People are cheering and singing, and I learn from a couple of people close to me that they’re old songs that date back to a time before the war, when the Tourney was a regular feature of life in the Merge.

  I see Tieren boarding with Franz and the captain of the team, and smile as I recall how scared she was when Cal threatened to rip off her head. She must have overcome her fears, because she made the final thirty. I’m pleased for her, and hope she does well. (And holds on to her head!)

  The captain’s a woman called Olivia. She’s a hummingbird, one of the players who shoots from open play, and she’s something of a legend. Condors usually score the most points in games, from penalties, but Olivia’s often the highest scorer when she plays, and has maintained her ranking as maybe the best hummingbird in any of the realms for more than two hundred years.

  Olivia’s a tall, thin woman, with tight brown hair that’s been shaved away on the left side of her head to highlight the fact that she’s missing an ear. It was ripped off in an especially violent game in Ruby long ago. She could have had it restored, but she’s proud of the injury, and left it as it was in memory of the occasion.

  I thought the captain would be one of the bigger, scarier players, but when I asked Cal, he shivered and said that on a grop pitch, Olivia scared him more than anyone else he’d ever played with. “You feel that if you make a mistake, she’ll rip out your heart and use it as a grop in the next phase of play.”

  “Is that a good thing in a captain?” I asked uncertainly.

  “It’s the best thing of all,” he said firmly.

  Once the players have boarded, it’s the turn of the backroom team. There are more of us, so we take our time, no pushing or jostling, everyone aware of the need to be cautious this close to the bank of the river of blood.

  As I’m waiting to move, idly studying the crowd, a small boy with a backpack way too large for him slips into the line beside me. He’s dressed in clothes that are a close match for mine, but not exactly the same. The material’s rougher and a slightly different shade of blue, while the shirt’s a touch too long in the arms and the trousers only barely cover his shins.

  “Are you alright?” I ask, concerned that the boy will collapse beneath the weight of his bag.

  “Shut up,” the boy growls.

  “Charming,” I huff, eyeing him frostily. I can’t see his face, as he has his head turned away from me and is keeping his chin low. “What’s your name?”

  “None of your business,” he says.

  “What are your duties?” I press. “Whose squad are you on?”

  “I’ll be on the stamp-your-face-into-the-mud squad if you don’t keep your mouth shut,” the boy snaps.

  “I’m calling Baba Jen,” I tell him. “That isn’t official team gear, and I bet that bag isn’t packed with authorised equipment.”

  I start to move away, worried that he might be a SubMerged agent sent to sink a boat, but then the boy grabs my arm and hisses, “Archie, stop, don’t give me away.”

  “How do you know my name?” I frown.

  “The same way you know mine,” the boy says, and reveals a flash of his face.

  “Pol?” I gasp.

  “Louder,” Pol sneers. “Someone at the back of the crowd didn’t hear you.”

  Pol’s a vine rat. The rats are children who live inside the vines and obey their own rules. He helped Inez and me sneak into Canadu when we were trying to get there for the vote last year.

  “What’s going on?” I whisper, shuffling forward as the line starts moving again.

  “I’m sneaking aboard,” Pol says smugly. “You’ll help me if anyone questions my presence, tell them I’m one of the team.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Because you owe me,” he says. “Or have you forgotten?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I say. “Why do you want to come onto the boat? There are no vines on it.”

  “Very observant of you,” Pol says, then laughs. “I’m going to Topaz.”

  “What for?” I ask.

  “A foreign exchange programme,” Pol says.

  “You’re going to be a foreign exchange student?” I ask sceptically.

  “What’s so strange about that?” he counters.

  “Well... I mean... what are you going to study? Languages? Business?”

  “Don’t be dense,” Pol growls. “I’ll study vining.”

  “Vining,” I echo, as if I know what he means.

  “It was common in the old days,” Pol says as we draw closer to the bank. “Rats crossed realms every time there was a Tourney, always on the boats with the teams. I don’t know if rats will come from the other realms – it’s been a long time and we don�
�t keep in touch, they might have forgotten the tradition – but the rats of Cornan have long memories, so a few of us volunteered, and I was chosen. If I make it, I’ll hook up with the rats in Topaz and send one of them back at the end of the Tourney.”

  “Send one back?” I frown. “Does that mean you’ll stay there?”

  “Until the next Tourney, yeah,” Pol says. “That’s how it works. I’ll live among the Topazers and learn. Rats do things differently in every realm, so you can always pick up new tricks. When there’s another Tourney, I’ll travel to that realm with the Topaz team, then sneak back home with the Sapphirites when it’s over. We don’t use boreholes. It’s the boats or bust.”

  “What if they don’t have another Tourney?” I ask.

  Pol grimaces. “It’s a risk, but if I get stuck there, I’ll just have to learn to love the cold.”

  I want to ask more questions, but we’ve come to the boat and there’s a man with a moon-shaped face waiting for us. He’s holding a list and checking names. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him before. He was working with a giant when I came to Cornan with the thesps last year, directing newcomers, telling them where to camp. He was extremely officious, and doesn’t seem to have mellowed any.

  “Names?” he sniffs.

  “Archibald Lox,” I tell him, and he studies his list, before mentally ticking off my name.

  “Yours?” he says to Pol.

  Pol doesn’t answer. He hasn’t thought this through. I’m not sure how rats boarded in the past, but they probably didn’t approach the boats as openly as Pol has, or else officials like Moon Face are a new thing.

  “Name?” Moon Face snaps impatiently.

  “Arlo,” I tell him, offering the name of someone on my squad, who I saw on the other side of the river.

  “Why doesn’t he answer for himself?” Moon Face asks suspiciously.