The Lightning Key (Wednesday Tales (Quality))

by Jon Berkeley

  “If you wanted a pet,” said the tiger, his hot breath smelling of blood and meat, “you should have gone for a goldfish.”

  Miles could not take a breath to speak, even if he could have thought of something to say. His head swam, but he held the tiger’s eye in the hope that it would somehow save him from being eaten. Just as he thought he would faint from the crushing weight on his rib cage he saw the tiger’s ears swivel and felt the pressure ease. The tiger stood upright, and with another earsplitting roar he wheeled suddenly—as though he had just remembered something more urgent than snapping Miles’s neck—and disappeared into the night.

  CHAPTER TWO

  BORROWED WINGS

  Miles Wednesday, storm-soaked and tiger-winded, lay on his back in the pelting rain, gasping for breath. He had the dizzying sensation that he was looking down at himself from somewhere above the treetops, a bedraggled boy sprawled in the mud in an outsize overcoat. In his pocket lay the cruelly plundered Tangerine, the fragile life that Little had breathed into him dispersed like smoke on the breeze. The Tiger’s Egg was gone, taking with it the friendship and trust that Miles had built up with the tiger. He was wet and cold, alone, except for . . .

  Little’s pale face swam into view, and all at once Miles was back inside his own body. His head sang from the tiger’s blow, and he could feel something warm and sticky on his neck. He struggled to sit up, his hands slithering in the cold mud.

  “What happened?” said Little, a worried frown on her pale features. “Your face is bleeding!” She reached out to wipe his cheek with her sleeve, and Miles flinched. The whole side of his face was burning, and he realized that the sticky feeling on his neck must be his own blood.

  “The tiger!” gasped Miles. “The Tiger’s Egg . . .” He caught sight of Silverpoint standing over Little’s shoulder, and stopped uncertainly.

  “It’s all right,” said Little. “You can speak.”

  “Doctor Tau-Tau has stolen the Tiger’s Egg,” said Miles, clambering to his feet. “He took it from . . . from its hiding place.”

  “Doctor Tau-Tau?” echoed Little. “But I thought—”

  “He came back,” said Miles. “He must have figured out where the Egg was.”

  “Did Tau-Tau do that to you?” asked Little, her eyes widening.

  Miles shook his head. “It was the tiger,” he said reluctantly. “It probably wasn’t a good time to call on him, but I didn’t think of that until too late.” He fought back the hollow feeling that threatened to overtake him.

  “That will teach you to meddle with trapped souls,” said Silverpoint.

  Little rounded on the Storm Angel, and if she had been capable of producing lightning he would undoubtedly have said good-bye to his eyebrows at that moment.

  “Silverpoint,” she snapped, “don’t be such a pain!”

  Silverpoint raised his eyebrows (he still had them to raise) and looked at Miles, and for the first time Miles saw his ice-cool expression seem to melt a little.

  “Which way did the thief go?” asked Silverpoint.

  Miles pointed along the darkened driveway. “He went that way, but he had a car or a van—I heard it start up. We’ll never catch him on foot.”

  Little and Silverpoint exchanged glances, and he gave a little smile. She turned back to Miles. “Are your trousers tied tightly?” she asked.

  Miles gave her a puzzled look. He checked the cord that held up his pajama trousers, and nodded.

  “Good,” said Little, and at the same moment Miles felt something grasp his coat between his shoulder blades. There was a loud Whump!, and he was twenty feet from the ground in an instant, rising rapidly into the heart of the storm with Little by his side. His overcoat held him by the armpits, and his stomach had been left somewhere far below. He looked down in astonishment and saw that they were already above the treetops, and when he twisted his head he could see Silverpoint above and between them, his eyes fixed on the night sky and his mouth a thin line across his pale face. The Storm Angel gripped them, one in either hand, and with every beat of his powerful wings he lifted them higher. Lightning struck away to their left, and Miles saw Little’s face lit with the pure joy of flight, even though on borrowed wings. Her delight was so infectious that he laughed giddily and almost forgot his fear. Almost.

  They had stopped rising now and were traveling at speed over stubbled fields, rain flying at them like a silver tunnel. They cut across the loops of the road until far below Miles could see yellow headlights careering through the darkness. Silverpoint swooped a little lower and began to follow their winding path. A car approached in the opposite direction, and in its headlights Miles could see more clearly the outline of the vehicle they were pursuing, a battered circus van decorated with a laughing clown’s head and the words THE PALACE OF LAUGHTER.

  “I don’t think he’s alone,” shouted Miles. The wind whipped into his open mouth and left him gasping for breath.

  Little shook her head. “It’s Cortado,” she said. “It must be.”

  Miles nodded. He did not want to risk opening his mouth again. He thought of the malignant little ringmaster of the Palace of Laughter, who had been locked away in Saint Bonifacio’s Hospital for the Unhinged after Miles and Little had put an end to his sinister scheme, only to escape the hospital more twisted and dangerous than before. It would not surprise Miles to find that the Great Cortado himself was the driver of the van. As devious as Doctor Tau-Tau could be, Miles could not imagine him having the sheer audacity to enter Partridge Manor and steal the Tiger’s Egg from inside the bear’s head without orders from someone else. He tried to button his overcoat at the neck with frozen fingers, feeling for the lump in his pocket to reassure himself that Tangerine was still there.

  The driving rain stung Miles’s face, but after a while the stinging faded into a kind of hot numbness. The steady beat of Silverpoint’s wings gave a reassuring rhythm to their flight. The Storm Angel’s grip had not slackened in the slightest, and Miles noticed that he was swooping and jinking as he flew. His face gave nothing away, but Little was laughing and whooping with delight with every curve of their flight. As his fear of falling began to melt away Miles felt the thrill of flying radiating from his stomach like a warm glow. Faint memories of many flying dreams rose in the back of his mind, as though they had all been foretastes of this moment. A grin spread across his face and he turned to look at Little.

  At that moment he was blinded by an intense flash that seemed to come straight from Silverpoint’s mouth. When his vision cleared he saw a streak of blue lightning arrowing toward the van below them. His hair stood out from his head and crackled with electricity. The lightning bolt sped toward the van, and a tree burst into flames by the side of the road. The van swerved dangerously before righting itself.

  “What happens if you hit them?” Miles yelled. The wind filled his mouth again, and he tucked his head down to take a breath before continuing. “You might destroy the Egg.”

  “I’m aiming for the tires,” said Silverpoint. “The Tiger’s Egg must be returned intact, and in any case I can’t risk killing the occupants. It’s not permitted for a Storm Angel to release a soul to the wind. That’s the job of the Sleep Angels.”

  There was another blinding flash, but this time it did not come from Silverpoint. A twisted rope of pure light split the darkness before them, and Silverpoint swerved suddenly to avoid it. Miles felt a tingle all down one side, and a blast of heat, as though they were flying past a furnace. Another bolt of lightning followed the first and Silverpoint dived steeply to the right, his exuberant dodging becoming a grim maneuver to avoid being burned to a crisp. Thunder blasted through the sky and Miles could feel it vibrating in his chest.

  “Who knows you’re here?” shouted Little as the rumble subsided.

  Silverpoint looked paler than usual, if that were possible. “Nobody except Rumblejack,” he said.

  “Maybe he told someone,” said Little.

  Silverpoint shook his head, veeri
ng to the left to avoid another streak of lightning. His face was strained with concentration, and for some time he said no more as he swooped and tacked through a buzzing, crackling thicket of lightning. Miles tried to keep sight of the van’s headlights below them, as much to distract himself from the prospect of being torched in midair as anything else. Sometimes he lost sight of them for a while, but Silverpoint seemed to have an uncanny ability to navigate their course even while performing acrobatics that would put a swift to shame.

  The lightning eased off after a while. Whether Silverpoint had succeeded in outrunning it or the Storm Angel who created it had changed his mind, it was impossible to tell. The air grew colder and they left the rain behind as they rose to cross the mountains. Miles could no longer see the van in the darkness.

  “I think we’ve lost them,” he said.

  “No, we haven’t,” said Silverpoint. “Look, the trail is still there.” He pointed straight downward with his chin, but Miles could see nothing.

  “What am I looking for?” he asked.

  “The vehicle uses tiny sparks of trapped lightning,” said Silverpoint. “That faint silvery line shows the path it took. It will be hours before it fades completely.”

  “He can’t see it,” said Little.

  “Can you?” asked Miles.

  “I can’t see the trail,” said Little, “but the pattern it makes in the One Song remains for a while also, and I can hear that.”

  Miles tried to picture what the world might look like to a native of the Realm. He felt distinctly lacking in skills and abilities, and he wondered if Little’s own powers would fade in time, like the subtle whispers that the van left in its wake.

  They passed over a jagged mountain ridge and Silverpoint swooped downward as quickly as the slope would allow, in search—Miles hoped—of warmer air. Miles caught a glimpse of a circular lake reflecting the pinkish glow that was spreading from the far horizon, and recognized it at once.

  “Look!” he called to Little. “There’s the lake where we stopped with . . . with the tiger on the way to the Palace of Laughter.”

  “Do you think that’s where they’re headed?” asked Little.

  “I hope not, softwing,” said Silverpoint. “I could carry you all day and night, but your friend is starting to feel like a sack of rocks. I may need to rest soon.”

  “I can see the van up ahead,” interrupted Miles. His own limbs were aching, even though he was doing none of the flying, and he shared Silverpoint’s hope that the van would not be traveling much farther. “Couldn’t you get ahead of it and let us down in the road?”

  Silverpoint laughed. “I could,” he said, “but remember the Great Cortado may be driving. Do you really think he’d hesitate about running you over?”

  “Maybe you’d better try hitting the tires again,” said Miles.

  “I can’t risk that,” said Silverpoint. “We’re no longer in a storm, in case you hadn’t noticed, and shooting lightning out of a clear sky would draw a little too much attention. As it is we’re going to have to land before it gets light enough for us to be spotted.”

  “Isn’t it more important to retrieve the Tiger’s Egg?” asked Miles.

  “Of course it’s important, but the code of the Realm prohibits me from flying around like a lovesick jaybird for everyone to see.”

  Little laughed. “You really need to lighten up, Silverpoint!” she said.

  Silverpoint did not smile back, and Miles felt an unpleasant tingle run through him where he was encircled by the Storm Angel’s wiry arm. “Don’t preach to me, softwing,” he snapped. “There would only be chaos if we all broke every rule we were taught and abandoned our place in the Realm.”

  “Maybe the Code of the Realm can’t teach us every song that’s worth singing,” retorted Little.

  Silverpoint opened his mouth to speak, but Miles interrupted him.

  “That’s Cnoc!” he said. “The van is driving into the village. It looks like it’s heading for Baltinglass of Araby’s place!”

  “Are you sure?” said Little. “What would they want with Baltinglass?”

  “No idea,” said Miles, “but they’re stopping outside his house. I can see the orchard at the back.”

  Silverpoint began to spiral downward in broad circles over the village that clustered on the crown of the hill. Two tiny figures stepped from the van and disappeared into the front porch of Baltinglass’s house.

  “They’re at the front door,” said Miles, twisting around to look at Silverpoint. “You need to let us down.”

  “We’re already descending,” said Silverpoint calmly.

  “Not quickly enough!” said Miles. Anxiety clutched at his stomach.

  Silverpoint looked at him with his impenetrable black eyes. “You’re right,” he said. And he let Miles go.

  CHAPTER THREE

  WILDLIFE AND VERMIN

  Miles Wednesday, frozen, frightened and free-falling, plummeted earthward through the spreading dawn. After the heart-stopping moment when Silverpoint released his grip, an unexpected calm came over him, and he found himself thinking, “This the end of me, then. I shouldn’t have opened my big mouth.” Little’s laughter echoed through his head from somewhere near his left shoulder. Baltinglass’s orchard was coming up fast, and the fear suddenly rushed back into him like an electric shock. He closed his eyes tight, but just as he expected to hit the ground he heard the now-familiar whump of Silverpoint’s wings. The Storm Angel’s wiry arm grabbed him about the waist and he felt himself righted as they pulled out of their dive, his stomach left behind once more. With his eyes still tightly shut he was landed as softly as thistledown. His knees buckled under him and he sat down with a bump.

  Miles opened his eyes to find Little sitting beside him in the long grass of Baltinglass of Araby’s orchard, laughing like wind chimes in a spring breeze. Silverpoint stood over them, his arms folded. “Now who are you calling a pain?” He grinned.

  “Again!” said Little through tears of laughter. “Let’s do that again!”

  Miles opened his mouth to protest, but he was interrupted by a crash from inside the house. Little’s laughter ceased abruptly, and Silverpoint’s wings folded themselves away as he glanced sharply in the direction of the sound. He put a finger to his lips. Miles and Little got quickly to their feet, and all three crept up onto the patio and peered into the gloom of Baltinglass’s cluttered living room. Baltinglass of Araby was tied to a chair, his mouth gagged and shards of china at his feet. He was struggling to free himself, and the gag did little to dim the sound of his muffled shouts. Doctor Tau-Tau stood over him, his arms folded and his habitual red fez perched on top of his fluffy white hair like a beach hut on a cloud. In the corner of the room with his back to the window stood the Great Cortado himself, rummaging through the drawers of a large plan chest and tossing rolled and folded papers in all directions.

  Miles looked about him for something that would serve as a weapon. A rake stood against the wall, and he grasped the handle. The wood was old and bleached and the iron teeth rusty. It would not provide much protection against the frightening array of knives and swords that hung within easy reach of the Great Cortado, but it was all there was at hand. His heart thumped. He took a deep breath and pushed open the French windows. The Great Cortado whipped around in surprise, clutching a roll of yellowed paper. There was a patch over his right eye. Below it his cheek was pulled and puckered like a miniature mountain range where the wound that the tiger had given him had healed badly, unstitched and unattended.

  “Tau-Tau,” said Cortado in an icy voice, “why is this . . . boy . . . still alive?”

  Tau-Tau flinched visibly and shuffled his feet. “I . . . er . . .,” he mumbled.

  The Great Cortado fixed his humorless smile on Miles and took a cigar from his breast pocket. “I’m glad to see you’ve added Spark Boy to your entourage of freaks,” he said. “I seem to have come out without my lighter.” He placed the cigar between his lips and giggled.
<
br />   “I want back what you stole from me,” said Miles.

  The Great Cortado reached up and grabbed a straight-bladed dagger from its place on the wall. “You’re not in a position to make demands,” he said. “You know I can pin you like a moth from here.”

  “Go ahead,” said Miles, more boldly than he felt. He held the stare of the Great Cortado’s remaining eye, which fixed him like a rivet from his ruined face, making Miles feel as though he would be safer in a snake pit. He forced himself not to blink, and wisely so. The ringmaster made as if to turn away, but a sudden deft flick of his wrist sent Baltinglass’s dagger spinning through the air. Miles, whose circus training had prepared him well for just such a situation, deflected the blade with a sweep of the rake, and at the same time a bolt of lightning crackled from behind his left shoulder and hit the Great Cortado in the chest, knocking him back against the map chest. The hilt of the deflected knife struck Doctor Tau-Tau squarely in the eye.

  Tau-Tau yelped like a small dog and slapped a pudgy hand to his face. The Great Cortado pulled himself upright, smoke curling from a blackened patch on his shirt. His face turned a dangerous white and he unhooked another blade from the wall. It was no dagger this time, but a Hungarian saber with a long, curved blade. Little squatted behind Baltinglass’s chair, working at the knots that bound him with quick fingers, and Silverpoint advanced toward Doctor Tau-Tau, who backed away into the corner, still covering his smarting eye.

  “Now, then,” the fortune-teller quavered, “there’s no need for a fracas, young man. A fracas would be unnecessary. I’m a highly respected clairvoyant and a healer of note. I might even be able to do something for your unfortunate static problem.”

  “Tau-Tau, you mollusk,” said the Great Cortado between clenched teeth, “make yourself useful and call up security.” He tested the sword edge with his thumb. “This will do,” he said, smiling coldly at Miles. Miles held the rake tightly, as though his grip alone might turn it into a sword.