‘Stop staring at everything,’ Mr Tull said tartly. ‘Look at the floor if you’re going to look anywhere.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I say so, and because there are eyes behind them there walls.’
Anselm spun round, examining everything with even more relish than before.
‘Are you trying to show me up or what?’ said Mr Tull through gritted teeth. ‘Just stare at your bleeding shoes.’
A door opened and into the room came a man who looked as if his skin had been patched together. He had one white fish-eye, a dead pupil staring through what looked like a film of rancid milk. His good eye, green and eager, surveyed the room. He was taller than Mr Tull and in the pecking order of thugs there was no doubt who was the superior. Mr Tull seemed almost sheepish as he introduced Milkeye to Anselm.
Milkeye, ignoring the boy, said, ‘My master will see you now.’
Anselm followed Mr Tull. Milkeye stopped him, his hand held out like a barricade.
‘Not you, you stay.’
Anselm, seeing he had no alternative, waited until Milkeye returned and led him down a corridor ablaze with candles. Each was held in a skeleton hand which had been gold-leafed and decked in jewels so that light was caught in the brilliance of the gems and reflected across the walls in radiant sparks of colour. A way off he could hear water.
‘Where’s that coming from?’ he asked.
‘You don’t speak. You don’t ask questions. You do what you’re told,’ said Milkeye, pushing open a heavy iron door for Anselm to slip through. ‘Now you wait until you’re called for.’
There was a finality, like being locked in a prison cell, to the closing of the door. For a moment Anselm was disorientated. When his eyes adjusted, he could see walls covered in a mosaic of human bones, the design punctuated by skulls, their eye sockets inlaid with a myriad mirrors, so that he was surrounded by fragments of his own mindless image. It had a giddying effect.
When a similar door at the opposite end of the room swung open apparently of its own accord, to Anselm this was an invitation to investigate. Curiosity, the killer of cats, drove him ever onwards, regardless of the words above the threshold: The point of no return. The door led to a gallery beyond which he could hear voices. Slowly he slid snake-like across the wooden gantry floor towards the carved banisters. From there he looked down into a vast domed hall, its walls made from human bones stacked like logs, bare and yellowed. The ceiling blazed with a multitude of chandeliers made out of bones, lit with hundreds of candles. The floor was laid with slabs of stone, dipping slightly towards the centre where there appeared to be a small hole like a navel, stained brownish red.
Figures stood waiting, dressed in cloaks and masks. A chair hovered just off the ground, as if suspended on invisible wires.
Anselm lay welded to the spot as he heard boots click-clack across the stone floor below. A man faced the assembly, his back to the gantry. The gathering bowed deeply. He was immaculately dressed in black with red kid gloves, and wore no cloak or mask. Instinctively Anselm knew it was Count Kalliovski. The man turned and looked up as if he were aware of another’s presence.
Now Anselm could see him clearly and he shuddered as he remembered once, long ago when he was still a child, having been taken to see the waxworks in a passage off the rue St-Jacques. This man looked as if he belonged more to the waxy, embalmed dead than the living.
‘I am the Terror incarnate, the engine of fear, I am your end and your beginning. Your salvation lies in my power, as does your damnation. You are my inner circle. If anyone here betrays me they will never escape my wrath.’
The hall was graveyard silent.
‘I, the bringer of darkness, will soon possess the power of light. That day I will rise from the ashes, a phoenix, to reign supreme.’
He walked to the chair and sat down. ‘To the business in hand. Bring forth the Seven Sisters Macabre.’
Anselm was hypnotised. Seven beautifully dressed women glided into the chamber. They were youthful and elegant, their faces hidden from him. They too bowed before Kalliovski; then one by one they began to leave the ground to be suspended in mid air, just as his father had been. Slowly they spun and now he saw why they had been given their name. They were hideous apparitions, ghastly harpies.
The chair in which Kalliovski was sitting rose higher.
‘I am the Master,’ he said.
The Seven Sisters Macabre began to chant.
‘Calico and corpses.’
‘We have a traitor among us,’ Kalliovski said.
‘Damask and death.’
‘All of you know the penalty for betrayal.’
‘Velvet and violence,’ hissed the Sisters Macabre.
‘I call on Balthazar to reveal the spy in our midst.’
‘Brocade and blood!’ Their voices reached a crescendo.
There was a rustling of fabric as the cloaked and masked figures pushed further into the bones of the wall as if hoping they might disappear.
The silence that now took hold of the chamber had a sound, just as wine has a smell. It was the high-pitched scream of terror. And then suddenly Anselm heard the howl of a beast and a shadow, liquid as molten iron, flashed past.
Anselm felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. He buried his head in his arms, imagining the great black dog was coming for him. He was certain this was the same beast he’d seen at the Duc de Bourcy’s estate, that the diabolical creature had followed him here and would smell him out.
Through screwed-up eyes he saw the beast sniff its way around the room before singling out one of the cloaked and masked figures. The poor man started to shake and his teeth chattered in fear. The hound leaped at him, pulling the mask from his face. The victim’s screams were without echo, as if the walls were greedily swallowing the sound of misery; his cries for mercy lost in dead men’s bones. He was torn to shreds like a rag doll, the floor ran red. The beast licked it clean, then with a deep growl turned and vanished from the chamber.
Kalliovski’s voice made Anselm jump.
‘Those foolish enough to speak about our activities will, like Levis Artois, find their lives cut short. Anyone here who feels the necessity to discuss what is said within these walls will go the same way.’
Anselm felt his insides turn to water as he was hoisted to his feet.
Milkeye said nothing as he led him away.
Kalliovski’s living quarters were even more spectacular than the previous chambers. They had the luxury of windows, and Anselm almost forgot they were so far underground that there would be nothing to see. Yet through the windows were vistas of gardens, of gravel drives which looked real until he realised they had been painted, while an artificial sun shone into the chamber. He even recognised some of the furniture he and Mr Tull had taken from noble houses, now put to great effect.
As Anselm waited with Milkeye, Count Kalliovski entered the room followed by Mr Tull. The Count’s waistcoat was embroidered with silver skulls and close up he was even more intimidating. Anselm stared transfixed. This man acted not in the rage of the moment like his father used to. He killed in cold blood.
Count Kalliovski stood, lost in thought, his back towards Anselm.
‘Tell me, do you believe the Governor of the Universe created the world?’
The question was one to which Anselm had never given much thought, and he wasn’t sure if he was expected to answer. He looked beseechingly at Mr Tull, who stared resolutely at his shoes.
Kalliovski turned to look at him. ‘Well?’
Mr Tull nudged Anselm.
‘Yes,’ said Anselm uncertainly.
‘I don’t,’ replied Kalliovski. ‘I don’t believe the Governor of the Universe had anything to do with it. It is purely by the power of chance that the world is here at all. What say you to that?’
Anselm was out of his depth. He had never been involved in this sort of conversation. If it was a test he felt certain he was going to fail.
‘All I know about r
eligion comes from my mother and she believes in God and all the saints. She believes in purgatory and hell.’ He added, more to himself than anyone else, ‘She thinks that’s where I’m going.’
‘And if I told you there are no such places,’ asserted Count Kalliovski, ‘that it is the Church’s plot against the people, nothing more, what would you say?’
Anselm thought, that’s what Pa believed. He was all for getting rid of the Church. He said if the Revolution hadn’t banned it, he might not have been as free with his pig-killing knife and would have worried more about what might happen to him when he was dead.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know, but if it is by chance that the world is here, as you say, then maybe there’s a good chance that hell exists too.’
To Anselm’s great relief Count Kalliovski’s reply had a hint of laughter in it, though his face remained waxwork smooth.
‘You have potential,’ he said. ‘Would you like to work for me?’
‘Yes,’ said Anselm. His puppy-like enthusiasm made Mr Tull wince.
‘When do I start?’
Kalliovski glanced at him.
Anselm felt something push down on his shoulders, an invisible force. His legs gave way under the pressure and he found himself on his knees.
‘You will do what I say, or you will be killed, do you understand?’
Kalliovski inclined his hand in its red kid glove, a sign that Anselm was dismissed. Milkeye helped him up and took him from the chamber, leaving only Mr Tull.
From the window the artificial glow of golden afternoon light flooded into the room and the reassuring sound of bird song could be heard from the cages hidden behind the painted flats.
‘A nightingale,’ said Kalliovski.
Mr Tull had been dreading this meeting. He had told himself repeatedly that if his master took Anselm on he would speak out. He was determined to ask if he might be allowed to retire.
‘Now tell me about Sido de Villeduval.’
Mr Tull, hands behind his back, feet squarely apart, started. ‘The Laxtons live in Queen Square, in Blooms-bury. The house is well-staffed and is a meeting place for many of the émigrés newly—’
‘That interests me little. Tell me of the Marquise Sido.’
‘She is well cared for by her aunt and uncle. They are keen that she should master English and to that end she has lessons with a Mr Trippen, an actor. She is taken to his house in Maiden Lane by sedan chair twice a week and is always accompanied by two servants. This same Mr Trippen taught Yann Margoza.’
Mr Tull, somewhat relieved that his other little enterprise appeared to be undiscovered and feeling braver, said, ‘I wonder if after this business I might be able to retire. It’s just that...’
He didn’t finish what he had to say, for Kalliovski’s look of pure rage was enough to silence him.
‘Once you work for me there is no retirement other than your own demise. You will await further instructions. When the time is right you will bring Sido de Villeduval here. Until then you are dismissed.’
Back in the shop, Mr Tull, feeling the weight of hell upon his shoulders, said to Milkeye, ‘Balthazar seems even bigger than when I last saw him.’
Milkeye turned his one good eye on Tull. ‘Our master knows what you do. He knows that you and the butcher and his boy had a very profitable sideline, don’t think he doesn’t.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Mr Tull, an icy sweat breaking out on his forehead.
Milkeye laughed. ‘You’re walking on the edge, my friend. One false move and you will be Balthazar’s next feast.’
Mr Tull had the decidedly uncomfortable feeling that his bones might already have been reserved for the design of a chandelier or mirror.
Milkeye followed him on to the street where Mr Tull breathed in the night air.
‘Do you know why he still wants Sido de Villeduval?’ he asked.
‘If I were you I wouldn’t want to know. I’ll tell you this much: she’s not all my master is after.’ A slow smile spread over his face. The effect was even more gruesome than usual. ‘The Marquise de Villeduval is only one part of his plan.’
‘What do you mean?’ said Mr Tull, feeling a shudder run down his spine.
Milkeye leaned forward, towering over him. ‘This is much harder to come by - some say impossible, but such an indifferent word has never stopped the Count. He wants a key to a soul.’
Mr Tull looked down the rue des Couteaux with a longing to be gone from this madness and never return.
He thrust his shaking hands deep into his pockets. As he walked away he stumbled on a soft, unlikely thought. Under his breath he said, ‘Heaven help her. Heaven help all of us.’
Chapter Eleven
The leather box containing the key sat waiting on Remon Quint’s workbench. Even looking at it made his stomach churn. He regretted his lack of courage. He should have spoken out when he had the chance, told the man with the waxwork face and the poppy-red gloves that what he desired was impossible, that no man on earth had the power to make a key to a soul. Speak the truth and shame the devil! But he hadn’t. Instead he had listened, believing at first this was merely a rich man’s foible. After all, he’d worked with enough clients whose wealth was beyond the realms of most men’s understanding.
Usually flattery persuaded them to see that what they had purchased was unique, yet he had the feeling that this man was in deadly earnest. Flattery would never satisfy his desire. He wanted a key to a soul and nothing else would do.
The keymaker looked around his shabby apartment: a bedchamber, a workroom and a small anteroom. These poky, lopsided chambers were all he could afford now. It was stiflingly hot; the smell of rubbish and rotten meat wafted through his open window. Today there was no breeze, just an unbearable, claustrophobic, sticky heat that made everyone irritable. Below he could hear the cobbler and his wife bickering. He went to the cupboard and took out a half-empty bottle and a stale loaf, poured himself a glass of wine, carefully replaced the cork, broke off a piece of bread and said grace, as he always did. For all his new-found poverty, he remained a pious man. He took a sip of the wine and grimaced. It was sour.
Before the Revolution, when the power of prayer was believed in, his prayers had been answered. He had owned a shop in the fashionable rue du Labon district, had a fine carriage and servants, wore elegant clothes and wigs and was known for his hospitality. And he could boast that he had dined with the King of Keymakers, Louis XVI, whose obsession was labyrinthine locks. Oh, how he had picked his brains to know their secret. Those were golden days.
He had entertained, held supper parties. When, with the dessert, he would bring out a mahogany toy guillotine, fashionable at the time, his guests delighted in taking turns to put little dolls under the knife and watch the miniature executions. The streams of red fluid that burst from them were merely perfume, to be caught on the handkerchiefs of giggling ladies.
How foolish to think nothing would change. Now everything was lost, ankle deep in blood.
The row between the cobbler and his wife had spilled into the courtyard. A man yelled at them from an upstairs window to shut up, otherwise they’d be for it.
Only a fool wouldn’t know what was meant by that remark, thought the keymaker. In this dog-eat-dog world everyone was food for the Tribunal, the tumbril and the guillotine. No man’s neck was safe.
The keymaker knew he was doomed. Maybe it would be best if he were arrested and taken to prison. His life was hanging by a thread, like a child’s tooth. One yank and it would be gone. At least in prison, he thought, there would be old friends to reminisce with, and he would be free at last to say what was on his mind. It would make no difference. The guillotine would be waiting to embrace him whether he kept quiet or not. Instead here he was, at liberty, but lonely and wretched, plagued by voices in his head. This was Death’s waiting room. Every time he heard a tread on the steps up to his apartment he told himself it was the Grim Reaper.
&nbs
p; If only he’d had the wit to leave after the fall of the Bastille as so many of his clients had done, conveniently forgetting to pay their bills. But he hadn’t had the foresight to see what a revolution was capable of doing. He had agreed with those who were in favour of a constitutional monarchy. Once that was in place, the keymaker was sure it would be business as usual. In a time of such political upheaval, instead of keeping an eye on events, he had buried himself in his work and refused to read the signs. He couldn’t bring himself to believe that Paris could fall so low.
The toy guillotine had turned out to be no laughing matter. Its life-size version had sliced the heads off his most valuable customers, the Convention confiscating their property so there was no possibility of claiming the monies he was owed.
The Silver Blade (Bk. 2) Page 9