The Silver Blade (Bk. 2)

by Sally Gardner

  Only the executioner was free to examine his killing machine. Yann let go of the threads and the blade fell, too quickly for the executioner to remove his hand and in horror he stared at the stump, screaming in agony as his blood spurted over the knitting women.

  In the chaos that followed, the prisoners clambered down the carts and ran to freedom. Some of the mob who tried to stop them found themselves pulled out of the crowd as if caught on a giant’s fishing line, to be left hanging from the top of the guillotine like dead crows.

  The mob was terrified. The old hags by the scaffold saw their knitting unravel. Hats flew off heads; swords fell out of their sheaths. The crowd began to disperse hurriedly. Was the Supreme Being sitting in judgement on them?

  Rejoining Basco, Didier said, ‘We’d best get Yann and be gone.’

  Yann was so drunk with exhaustion that Didier had to prop him up.

  ‘Is he all right?’ said Basco.

  ‘Yes. It takes its toll, working the threads of light,’ said Didier, setting off towards the Circus of Follies.

  ‘Not that way,’ said Basco, ‘Yann told me we should go to the house of a Citizen Dufort.’

  ‘Dufort?’ said Didier. ‘Well, I never.’

  ‘Têtu and Signorina Sido are there already,’ said Basco.

  It didn’t take them all that long to find the house, well hidden behind a rusty gate in a deserted street. If they hadn’t known better, they would have thought that it had been long abandoned.

  Têtu came out to greet them, followed by Dufort, who took them into the kitchen where a meal was already laid and waiting.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ said Dufort to Didier.

  ‘I didn’t imagine . . .’ He stopped. ‘You’re a good man, Dufort.’

  ‘Tell us what happened,’ said Têtu.

  Didier started to relate the story.

  Yann was beginning to feel more like himself. ‘Têtu,’ he asked, ‘where is Sido?’

  ‘Upstairs, sleeping.’

  Yann left the merry party to go and find her.

  The house was strangely preserved, wrapped up in huge dustsheets as if at any moment it would be brought back to life by tall-wigged, corseted women and elegant men.

  Yann, uncertain of which way to go, spied a monkey in a wig and wearing full court dress. It jumped on to the shrouded furniture and sped towards him screeching, its teeth glimmering white, then stopped abruptly and banged on one of the doors in the corridor before running off.

  As Yann watched it go, the door opened and there stood Sido. She threw her arms around him.

  ‘Oh, thank goodness, you are safe.’

  Whatever he had planned to say, to do, was lost the moment he saw her. He held her like a starving man and kissed her, not knowing how long it was since he had been this hungry, thinking it must have been years. He could feel her, feel her hunger as great as his. He knew then that there was an element beyond himself; a river, and he was weightless in its warm waters. He longed to understand its tides; pulled by its urgency, he was aware of the wave breaking, his whole being lost, drowning as it emerged breathless in another soul, knowing that this was the pull of the tide, this was the flow and the ebb, this was what love could do, transport you until you reached the sea, where the waves rise higher still, waiting, white-tipped and rolling. He was there and she was there and this was theirs and theirs alone, as if they were one, washed gently up on a longed-for distant shore, a land that would take a lifetime of togetherness to explore.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Early next morning Anselm arrived in the rue de la Culture Ste-Catherine. Colombine had hoped never to see him again, after what had happened at the Conciergerie. He had been released along with the other actors, but everyone knew who was responsible for betraying Yann. Colombine had told Anselm that their marriage was over. Every one of the company had felt wretched and Colombine, returning home, was disgusted with herself for being duped into turning traitor. Now here he was again with a mad, demonic glint in his eyes. His clothes were torn, his neckcloth filthy, he stank of drink.

  She wanted to slam the door in his face, but he barged past her.

  ‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’ he said. ‘I’ve brought a friend with me, Mr Tull.’

  Colombine took one look at the dishevelled figure and recoiled.

  ‘Don’t he look a picture?’ said Anselm, rummaging around to see if there was anything to drink. Finding a half-finished bottle, he tipped it down his throat so fast that wine dripped from his chin on to his waistcoat.

  He went to kiss Colombine. His breath reeked of rotten fish.

  Colombine pushed him away. ‘Get off me. I think you should leave and take that man with you.’

  ‘That’s not very nice. That’s no way to treat me, is it, Mr Tull? And she’s hurt your feelings, hasn’t she?’

  ‘Come on, Anselm, let’s get out of here. Has she got any money?’

  ‘You heard him. Have you?’

  ‘No. I have nothing. Just leave, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘You and me are in this together.’

  ‘Get off me.’

  ‘Oh no, Mr Tull. She’s cross with her Anselm. What shall we do with her?’

  ‘Get out, both of you.’

  Anselm slapped her across the face. ‘Now, that’s not nice.’ He pushed her up against the wall. ‘Have you seen Yann Margoza?’

  ‘He’s in prison, awaiting trial, that’s what I heard.’

  ‘I wish that were so, but unfortunately you’re wrong.

  Don’t worry, though, I’m going to kill him for what he’s done, before the day is out. Oh dear, a tear. Look, Mr Tull, she’s crying. Happy to see me at last.’

  ‘Leave her,’ said Mr Tull. ‘We have bigger fish to catch.’

  Anselm still held her. ‘Give us a kiss for goodbye, and tell Yann Margoza I will be waiting for him at the theatre,’ he said, and as Colombine turned her face from him, he punched her so hard it took her breath away.

  She waited until they had gone before setting off in search of the only member of the theatre company she knew might not wholeheartedly shun her.

  Basco, sitting in his usual place in the Café de Foy in the Palais-Royal, was caught up in the middle of a heated debate.

  ‘I tell you,’ said the waiter, ‘Robespierre shot himself, that’s what I’ve heard, trying to avoid the guillotine.’

  ‘In the jaw? Why wouldn’t he have done the job properly? No, I think someone took a shot at him, a member of the National Assembly.’

  ‘Well, it don’t matter,’ said the barman. ‘What matters is that he will be dead today without a trial, so I hear. They’re moving the guilliotine back to the Place de la Revolution so that everyone can see the bastard die.’

  ‘A tragedy,’ said the sans-culotte sitting at the table opposite. ‘A tragedy. France will be lost without him.’ He stared into his glass. ‘Robespierre was a great man, a priest, a philosopher. You agree, citizen, don’t you?’ he said, addressing Basco.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ replied Basco. ‘I don’t. I think he’s a villain. I see nothing incorruptible about him. I see a villain who gets other men to carry out his murders.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ said the sans-culotte. ‘He isn’t responsible for what the Tribunal decides.’

  ‘Do you want to fight? Do you? I am the great Basco!’

  ‘Calm down, the pair of you,’ said the waiter.

  The sans-culotte, seeing that he might well have met his match, shrugged his shoulders and mumbled under his breath, ‘You’re wrong, the Republic will live to regret this day.’ He headed for the door and nearly bumped into Colombine.

  Basco, pleased to have won his point and still fired up with the need for a fight, felt in the mood for giving Colombine the rough edge of his tongue. He was about to set to when he noticed the beads of sweat on her ashen face.

  His fury began to fade as gallantry overtook him.

  ‘Are you all right? You don’t look well.’
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  ‘I saw Anselm,’ she said, having trouble speaking. It was hurting to breathe. ‘I must have run too fast, I have a terrible stitch in my side. He’s threatening to kill Yann . . . please, we must do something! He says he’ll wait for Yann at the theatre.’

  Basco noticed a small purple stain on her dress. As she talked, it began to spread.

  Colombine, glancing down, saw it too and moved her hand there, lifting it to find it covered in blood. She looked horrified.

  ‘Where’s that come from?’ she said, her eyes flashing in panic at the sudden realisation of what Anselm had done.

  Basco gently laid her on the floor, took off his coat, and rolled it up for a pillow.

  ‘Get a surgeon. Now, man!’ he said to the waiter.

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ said Colombine, clinging to his hand. ‘I don’t want to die, don’t let me die.’

  He pushed the hair out of her eyes.

  ‘Shh, bella ragazza, it’s all right.’

  Colombine, with tears spilling down her cheeks, said, ‘I did the right thing, coming here, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, cara mia. I will find him and tell him you came.’

  She lifted her fingers towards his face. Then her voice fell away with her hand.

  The surgeon arrived soon after, but he was too late. Colombine was already dead.

  Basco, kneeling beside her, noticed that the surgeon had left his house wearing his slippers. Such a foolish thing, but the ordinariness of it was strangely comforting.

  Outside, people were singing, celebrating the impending death of Robespierre. An impromptu band played. A man in an oddly old-fashioned hat went past, banging a child’s drum and singing the Marseillaise. A lad shouted in at the doorway, ‘This is a day to remember!’

  Basco knew it was a day he would never forget. Crossing himself, he bent down and closed Colombine’s eyes.

  He pulled himself together. There was no time to be lost. He must find Yann.

  Yann lay in bed that late summer’s morning, his limbs entwined with Sido’s. He was lost to the season and the time of day. He became sleepily conscious when he heard someone tapping gently on the door. Careful not to wake Sido, he disentangled himself and pulling on his breeches went to the door.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ said Têtu, ‘but it’s late.’

  Yann pulled the door behind him.

  ‘Colombine has been murdered.’

  ‘By Anselm?’ said Yann, saddened at the predictability of it.

  Têtu nodded. ‘She found Basco before she died. She was desperate to warn you that Anselm is out to kill you too. He told Colombine he would wait for you at the theatre.’

  Yann went back into the room and gathered his clothes. Sido lay lost in dreams, all sleepy like a meadow on a hot summer’s day. Bending over her, he kissed her softly.

  ‘I love you,’ he whispered.

  Têtu was waiting at the top of the stone staircase as Yann quietly closed the chamber door.

  ‘Didier should go with you,’ said Têtu, as if he had been giving the matter considerable thought.

  ‘No,’ said Yann, ‘this is something I need to do on my own.’

  ‘It’s too dangerous,’ said Têtu, following Yann down the stairs into the large cool marble hall.

  ‘I owe you an apology,’ said Yann.

  ‘You owe me nothing.’

  ‘I want you to know this.’

  ‘No, no, I don’t need to know anything. I know it already.’

  ‘Will you be quiet, you old cantankerous dwarf, and let me say my piece?’

  Têtu crossed his arms and stared belligerently at the opposite wall.

  Yann laughed. ‘This is what I want you to know, just this and nothing more. I have a father, the best father I could ever have had; I have a friend, the best I could have had, and both these people are you, Têtu. It’s because of you that I am who I am, and I would never have it differently.’

  ‘Being in love can make a man quite sentimental, you know,’ said Têtu curtly.

  ‘I meant what I said.’

  ‘Cordell has sent word that arrangements are being made to take Sido back to London with all speed. I am to take her to him today.’

  ‘No,’ said Yann firmly. ‘You’re taking her nowhere. She’s staying with me. If Cordell wants to do anything, he can concentrate on getting Citizen Aulard out of prison. Do you understand?’

  Têtu sighed. ‘Yes. I understand perfectly that Sido’s aunt would be beside herself with anger if she knew what her niece had been up to.’

  Yann, unable to help himself, smiled. Regardless of Têtu’s look of annoyance, he lifted him off his feet and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘If anything happens to me, you will look after Sido? If she wants, take her with you and Citizen Aulard to America . . .’

  ‘Put me down. What on earth has come over you?’ said Têtu, battling with an irritating wave of emotion that was making him feel grumpy. ‘Of course, and you know that.’

  ‘And you are not to let Cordell make any arrangements. ’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Good. Tell me, old gypsy, do I have death on me today?’

  Têtu said nothing.

  ‘I do, don’t I?’

  Têtu’s face was grave as he nodded. ‘Let’s say he is close on your heels. Don’t let him catch you, Yannick.’

  ‘Look after her, you bad-tempered old dwarf.’

  The shadows drew in around Yann as Têtu watched him go. He closed the door and saw Sido standing at the top of the stairs. Panic rose in him. The talisman. Where was the talismann?

  Holding on to the bannisters, she came down and, as if she had read his mind said, ‘It’s all right, he has it safe on him.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Citizen Aulard was freed from the Luxembourg prison the following day. He was quite baffled by the turn of events that had led to his safe delivery from the clutches of the Tribunal. He had Iago to thank for his new-found freedom, for the parrot had spent his entire time in prison rousing the inmates and prison officers alike with his patriotic fervour and his whistling of the Marseillaise. It became apparent to all that Citizen Aulard was a man of the moment, a man of the Revolution, for anyone who had spent so much time training a parrot to speak like this could only be innocent of all charges.

  His release had happened so quickly that it had gone unnoticed by Basco, whose job it was to keep an eye on the day’s lists of those who were to be taken to the guillotine.

  So it was that Citizen Aulard and Iago returned to the theatre to find it deserted and, having not slept in ages, the good citizen lay down on his chaise longue, and both bird and man fell fast asleep.

  Mr Tull, creeping into the theatre later that day, wasn’t as set on the plan as Anselm. He was a man of limited imagination and couldn’t see how it would be possible for Yann to teach Anselm those sort of tricks. After all, Anselm wasn’t that bright. But whether he liked it or not, the lad had a point. They were broke, stony broke, for with the loss of his master went the loss of his income.

  Mr Tull had never been that keen on theatres. Places like this gave him the creeps: too many things to hide behind, too many ghosts. He felt better killing a man out in the open, but Anselm was more than at home here. He knew exactly where to go and what he was looking for.

  ‘Do you think he will come?’ asked Mr Tull.

  ‘Oh, he’ll come all right.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I killed Colombine.’

  At first Mr Tull wasn’t sure he had heard right. ‘No, you didn’t. She was alive when we left her.’

  Anselm, his face shining, said, ‘I didn’t work with Butcher Loup without learning where to put the knife in. Let’s just say he’ll come.’

  ‘What’s that noise?’

  ‘Shush,’ said Anselm.

  They waited in a dark recess.

  Citizen Aulard had woken and, thinking he heard voices, wandered down to the stage, hopeful of seeing Têtu. Instead, there befo
re him, looking quite deranged, stood Anselm.