Outside the sun hit the narrow street in intense strips of light. A queue for bread stretched all the way round the corner. A scuffle had started by the door of the baker’s shop between two women who were fighting tooth and claw over a loaf of bread. The crowd, bored with waiting, goaded them on.
We have become a city of scavengers, thought Yann, as he slipped into a small, dark courtyard, an open mouth stinking of bad breath. A door led to wooden stairs which twisted and turned unevenly, his footsteps were the beat of a drum. The smell of animal fat, rotten vegetables, tobacco and tallow candles hung thick and sickly in the air. He heard a noise on the ground floor, a door opening and closing, an argument, a man’s voice shouting. Above him, a quieter click, the kind of noise you make when you don’t want to be heard. Someone was coming out of the keymaker’s apartment. Yann pressed himself against the wall and caught a glimpse of a face he recognised glancing over the banister. If the owner of the milky eye had any vision in it he might have seen him, despite the gloom of the stair well. He heard Milkeye start to walk down towards him.
Yann, knowing there was nowhere to conceal himself, acted quickly. Têtu always said the best place to hide is under the noses of those who want to find you.
He slumped to the floor, almost blocking the stairs, pulled his hat over his face and started muttering drunken patriotic drivel. Milkeye took no notice of him except to kick his legs aside so that he could pass, at which the drunk let out an expletive for having been so rudely disturbed. The sound of his voice spurred Milkeye to move with greater speed down the creaking steps, taking them two at a time. Yann heard the door close behind him. He waited to make sure Milkeye wasn’t coming back before going into the keymaker’s apartment.
The place had been ransacked, the key was gone. Yann stood among the wreckage feeling as if he had been punched in the chest. What a fool he had been. How many signs did he need before he acknowledged his worst fear? Now seeing Milkeye again he had no doubt: Kalliovski must still be alive. Not for the first time he wondered if luck was on his side. Perhaps Têtu was right. He needed the talisman. Ever since he’d heard the dog howling at the Duc de Bourcy’s château, he’d known the spirit of Anis was trying to warn him. Again fate was gambling with his life.
He looked up at the tobacco-stained ceiling. ‘Kalliovski, ’ he said out loud, ‘let this be between you and me, no one else. Leave Sido be.’
He left the apartment. There was nothing to be done there. He looked down the stairwell to make sure the coast was clear. At the bottom a door opened.
‘Who are you?’ said a man, reaching out to stop Yann.
‘What is it to you, citizen?’
‘Everything. I know everything that goes on in this building.’
‘Well, you don’t, citizen, otherwise you would know that Remon Quint’s apartment has been burgled.’
‘What’s happening, Brutus?’ came a female voice from inside.
‘Burgled, then? Maybe I just caught the villain who did it,’ said the man, grabbing hold of Yann’s coat.
Often Yann saw people’s minds as market stalls, all the thoughts in their heads put out on display. This shoemaker’s mind, pickled in wine, was so simple that he knew exactly what he was thinking.
‘You should take your hands off me, citizen,’ said Yann, ‘unless you want me to report you. I know you’re still making shoes for the counter-revolutionaries.’
Rats scurry away into dark places when they hear footsteps and so did the shoemaker. At the words ‘counter-revolutionaries’ he disappeared.
Chapter Thirteen
The banker Charles Cordell arrived at the theatre around midnight.
He was a tall, bespectacled man, with a broken buttress of a nose and grey eyes that looked as if they had stared at too many facts and figures, and found that nothing in life added up. In the early days of the Revolution he’d been one of its most ardent supporters, but long before the execution of Louis XVI, he realised it had become a monstrous excuse for cruelty. The clever talk, the velvet-tongued justification of such acts in the name of liberty, equality and fraternity, mattered little. The truth, as far as he was concerned, was far less palatable and altogether more basely human: vengeance, jealousy and greed.
Unlike many of his fellow Englishmen he had stayed in Paris when war with England had been declared. With a rabbit foot for good luck in his coat pocket he hadn’t been arrested yet. But he had a feeling that time was not on his side.
He and Citizen Aulard were engrossed in conversation when Yann entered the room. Cordell paused, wondering if the candlelight were playing tricks. For a moment he could have sworn that Yann had a myriad of brightly coloured threads dancing all around him.
He closed his eyes and when he looked again they had gone. There was only the room, the candlelight and Yann. But then again, he thought, many strange things happen around this young man. It was as if he weaved between two worlds: this one, bloodsoaked and ruined, and another altogether more mysterious.
‘Do you know the Silver Blade’s reputation is growing in London? You are quite a hero in émigré society,’ said Cordell.
‘That sounds worrying,’ said Têtu, close behind Yann. He was more than aware of the speculation, not only in London but in Paris, as to the identity of the Silver Blade.
‘The good thing is that no one can quite remember who you are, or for that matter what you look like. Would it be presumptuous to ask how you do that?’
‘Too much is made of it,’ answered Yann. ‘Where is Remon Quint?’
‘Basco is sitting with him,’ said Citizen Aulard. ‘Citizen Quint is quiet. Sleep is the best remedy.’
‘Did he say anything else about the key?’ asked Yann.
‘He genuinely believes that he is going to be killed the minute he hands over his masterpiece.’
‘Why?’ asked Cordell.
‘Because he was commissioned to make a key to a soul.’
‘And what on earth does that mean?’ asked Citizen Aulard. ‘Yes, you can have a key to a door, a key to a city, the keys of a kingdom, but never a key to the soul. Such a thing is impossible.’ He puffed his cheeks, letting a ‘put-put’ noise out through his mouth and exclaimed,
‘Mort bleu! You are a rational man, Mr Cordell, you don’t believe all this nonsense?’
There was silence, then Cordell asked, ‘Where is this key?’
‘He left it in his apartment,’ said Yann, ‘and it is no longer there. I saw Milkeye leaving; he’d ransacked the place. The key was commissioned by Count Kalliovski.’
The theatre manager sat down heavily in his seat. ‘No, no! He was killed in the September Massacre. Please tell me he was killed.’
An awful idea dawned on him. ‘Do you think Kalliovski and the so-called phantom who walks in the Place de la Revolution are one and the same?’
Yann didn’t reply, for Cordell’s thoughts worried him.
‘What report?’ he asked.
Cordell sighed. ‘Nothing much escapes you, does it?’
‘Forgive me, that was rude,’ said Yann, ‘but this report, whatever it is, is much on your mind.’
‘Correct. I had a spy working for me and Laxton, here in Paris, whose brief was to infiltrate a secret society believed to be operating under the city. His dispatches made intriguing reading indeed. The spy, a man by the name of Levis Artois, reported that the meetings took place in the catacombs, in a large domed cavernous room made entirely of human bones. A man known simply as the Master is the head of this organisation, a terrifying figure of demonic power.’
Cordell looked grave. ‘The last message I received from Artois was to say that he was sending me a report with further information about the Master, and the names of several of his followers, many, he indicated, working in positions of high office, in the Convention and the Committee of Public Safety. Unfortunately, the report never reached me.’
‘What happened?’ asked Citizen Aulard.
‘A body was fished out of the Seine abo
ut a week ago. There was little left to identify. He had been torn to pieces by a monstrous beast. But I suspect it was Artois.’
Têtu had been silent. Of all of them he understood the dreadful signficance of Cordell’s story.
‘Remon Quint should be escorted from Paris to London,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it would be wise to leave him at Dieppe. If he is as important to Kalliovski as we believe, the Count will have his men waiting at the ports to find him. Yann should go with him all the way to London.’
‘I suppose he could do that successfully while the theatre is being repainted,’ said Citizen Aulard.
Yann’s mind was whirling. London. He would be able to see Sido. Sido - at last.
He did his best to keep the excitement out of his voice. ‘That will work.’
‘Before we agree,’ said Cordell, ‘I have something to say and it must be said now. The situation in Paris is going to get worse. I have heard rumours that a proposal to accelerate the Terror is to be put forward to the Convention this month.’
‘That is ridiculous—’ said Citizen Aulard.
‘Please,’ interrupted Cordell. ‘I want to know if you all wish to continue with assignments, or would you rather we disbanded now?’
‘No,’ said Yann firmly. ‘We should go on. To stop now would be the coward’s way.’
‘Yannick,’ said Têtu, ‘consider Cordell’s proposal. You have helped more than enough people to escape. Now is the time to return to England, to take up your place at Cambridge.’
Yann looked at Têtu, bewildered. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, quite well. What do you think, Citizen Aulard?’
‘Have I missed something? Because I don’t understand your reasoning,’ said the theatre manager, perplexed. ‘This business has always been dangerous. If we were to close down now and vanish in the night we would be deserting many who need us. And why is Yann at more risk than before?’
‘I was just testing your commitment, that’s all.’
No, you weren’t, thought Yann. You have seen the future.
It was about one-thirty when the small meeting dispersed. Yann waited until he was alone with Têtu.
‘Is Death walking with me?’ he asked
‘I wish you knew more of the gypsy ways, I wish I had taught you better.’
‘Têtu, answer me.’
‘But did I tell you that bridges are important? They straddle two worlds and you walk with ease between them, but do you spit into the water before you cross? All gypsies know they must do that, there is a saying: “I believe that by the bridge of Cin-Vat all good deeds will be rewarded and evil deeds punished.” Whatever Kalliovski has done belongs to evil. It is a bridge too unstable to cross more than once. And I am frightened for you, Yannick, very frightened indeed.’
Tears welled in his eyes and Yann felt cold inside. He’d never seen Têtu like this.
‘It will be all right,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Next time I will remember to spit.’
He rested his hand on Têtu’s shoulder.
With a heavy heart Yann made his way to his attic home and climbed out on to the roof. He would often sit and look out over the sleeping city, at its ramshackle rooftops, its lopsided chimneypots, and church spires pointing into the night sky.
Shirkis. The Romany word for stars, birds of fire that only fly in darkness. He remembered Têtu used to sing to him when he was small.
And the moon, the lady of the heavens coming nightly, certain in her coming o’er the meadow just to feed her chickens.
And Yann thought, I am like a bird of fire. Free at last, coming to tell you I love you, Sido, I love you.
Chapter Fourteen
It was another hot evening when the curtain rose on the last performance of The Harlequinade before the theatre was to close for repainting.
Remon Quint was better than he had been, but worry had eaten at him and his eyes had a hunted look. Even Didier, who had no ability to read minds, could see that this man was close to breaking point. They sat together under the stage waiting for Yann, the keymaker locking and unlocking his fingers.
When the curtain fell, the audience was in no mood to let Harlequin go. Flowers were thrown on the stage; from the balcony a woman declared her undying love for him. The curtain was lifted again and again, until finally it rested for the last time, its velvet folds still quivering as Yann made a sprint for the door and removing his mask, rushed to join Didier and the keymaker below stage. From the minute they descended the stone stairs leading to the catacombs, Yann was filled with foreboding. The keymaker was shaking.
‘I’m not good in small spaces . . . I . . .’
‘You have to trust us,’ said Yann, but he was aware of a bad feeling that fogged his mind. As much as he tried to force it away, he knew it was not a good omen and omens were important to his gypsy soul. The keymaker looked almost wild with fright by the time they entered the catacombs.
‘I can’t do it,’ he announced. ‘I can’t stand the idea of all that earth above me. All the weight of the buildings pressing down, all the bones of the dead . . . all the worms . . . I have to go back, I have to. I’m going to be buried alive down here, I know it.’
Yann gently held his arm and, his voice a lullaby, said quietly, ‘Look at me.’
The keymaker stared at him and in those ebony eyes he found, as little Louis had before him, a stillness like calm water.
‘Do you think he’ll be all right?’ asked Didier.
‘I hope so.’
They set off, Yann in front, Didier at the rear, their lights swaying back and forth, gently illuminating the distance that lay ahead. Their plan was to reach the Chamber of Sighs then stop for a rest. Yann had named the vaulted cavern after the words painted neatly on the wall: Life is a circle of sighs. It was the first landmark he’d found in his search for a route out of the city.
They walked keeping their heads down. It was wet underfoot. The catacombs were given to weeping and this evening the tunnels wept. All that could be heard in this echo-less place was the splash of their shoes.
Yann couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was wrong. He was sure they were being followed. He turned several times to confront the darkness, convinced he heard the panting of a great beast. He shone his light back the way they had come. He could see nothing, just the same empty tunnels. Didier too looked back.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing,’ said Yann, but he sensed something evil closing in.
At the Chamber of Sighs they rested and took water and food from their knapsacks. They always carried enough oil to keep the lamps lit for eight hours, for without light they would never find their way out again. Yann had long ago explored the Chamber of Sighs, a dead end that led nowhere, but was a good place to stretch after walking hunched up for so long. There was a stone bench and here they sat in silence.
The keymaker was eating and drinking like a sleep-walker, when suddenly he let out a terrifying scream which sent a chill through Yann’s soul. On the wall opposite loomed the shadow of an enormous dog.
Remon Quint was in a frenzy. He darted into the darkness of the vaulted room with Didier and Yann in pursuit.
‘He can’t get far,’ Yann was saying, but to their amazement the keymaker disappeared. Yann was surprised to see a gap in what he had always thought was a solid wall. They found themselves in a large unmapped tunnel ablaze with the light of candles gripped in bony fingers, coated in dripping wax. There was neither hide nor hair of the keymaker.
‘Where the hell are we?’ asked Didier. ‘What do we do?’
The sound of the dog’s barking was loud and close.
‘We should split up. You go that way, I’ll go this, and I’ll meet you back here. We have to find him.’
Yann drew his knife and made a cross on the wall. As he set off down the long hall, a rush of wind blew out all the candles, even extinguishing his oil lamp. Powerless in the dark, he was trying to relight his lantern when he heard a rustle of
silk.
‘Calico and corpses.’
An icy hand touched his.
‘Sisters Macabre, is it you?’ he asked the pitch-black, endless darkness.
Something snowflake soft stroked his face. Holding his nerve, he tried once more to relight his lantern. Every time, the flame would flicker and die.
‘Damask and death.’
‘Where are you?’ he asked.
‘Where we should be.
Where you belong.’
Finally the flame took and light spilled out, and to his great relief he could see.
The Silver Blade (Bk. 2) Page 11