The Eye of Neptune

by Jon Mayhew

  For Mum and Dad,

  who would have loved such nonsense!

  ‘Let me tell you . . . you won’t regret the time you spend aboard my vessel. You’re going to voyage through a land of wonders. Stunned amazement will probably be your habitual state of mind.’

  Jules Verne, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Somewhere in Cornwall, 1814

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  A Note from the Author

  Also by Jon Mayhew

  Prologue

  Liverpool, 1810

  I hate this place, Prince Dakkar thought, pressing himself against a dirty, soot-stained brick wall. It’s cold and grey. The English are cold and grey!

  He shivered, watching people squeeze past each other, wrapped in greatcoats, their caps pulled down against the bitter wind that blew up the river. Tall masts rose above the heads of the crowd, and the noise of movement, ships loading and unloading, mingled with the screams of gulls. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang. It was another world compared to the markets of Bundelkhand.

  Dakkar’s colourful suit and turban drew many a curious glance. He felt his cheeks redden and he stared down at his hopelessly thin slippers. They had been white once but travelling had greyed them and now brown water seeped through their soles, numbing his already frozen toes. The people here dressed strangely, in knee breeches and socks and long jackets with ridiculously large cuffs.

  A face suddenly appeared from the seething crowd. Stern brown eyes glowering above a scarf that smothered the mouth and chin.

  ‘Prince Dakkar, you must come with me immediately,’ the man said, towering over the boy. ‘Your life is in danger.’

  ‘M-my life?’ Dakkar stuttered. ‘Ow! You’re hurting my arm! Nobody touches the royal personage!’

  The man softened his grip on Dakkar’s upper arm. ‘Forgive me, your highness,’ he said, glancing behind him. ‘But it is imperative that we get away from here – now!’

  Dakkar followed his gaze. Two hawk-faced men with long drooping moustaches and cold eyes weaved in and out of the travellers towards them.

  ‘Those men mean you harm – they are enemies of your father,’ hissed the man, pulling at Dakkar. ‘You must come with me.’

  ‘This is outrageous,’ Dakkar spluttered. ‘Where are my servants? I don’t even know who you are!’

  ‘Your servants are dead, their throats cut by those ruffians,’ the man snarled through gritted teeth. He pulled the scarf down, revealing a square jaw and a broad nose. ‘I am Count Oginski, your new mentor. Now, are you ready to go or do you want to meet the two thugs over there?’

  Oginski didn’t wait for an answer but pulled Dakkar into the mass of people and hurried along the quay towards the streets of the city.

  Dakkar’s heart raced and his knees nearly buckled as he bumped into passing dock workers and ships’ passengers. Oginski’s grip held firm. Every now and then Dakkar peered back and saw a stern eye or a determined stride through the throng. Once he thought he glimpsed shining steel. A blade!

  Oginski whisked him into a side alley, nearly dragging Dakkar off his feet.

  ‘Blast! Wrong one,’ Oginski said, skidding to a halt and slapping his palms against the brick wall that ended the alley. ‘It’s a dead end!’

  Dakkar stumbled into Oginski, his breathing ragged, tears prickling the back of his eyes. He could smell sweat and the stink of the puddled alleyway. Muffled shouts and footsteps grew nearer and then the two men appeared at the mouth of the passage.

  ‘The boy is ours, Oginski,’ one of the men growled, pulling a long blade from his jacket pocket. ‘Hand him over and we’ll give you a quick death.’

  ‘Come and get him then.’ Oginski grinned, crouching and pushing Dakkar to the back of the alley.

  The first man lunged but Oginski stepped back and grabbed his arm, twisting it upward with a sickening crack. The other assailant had closed in quickly and raised his own blade high.

  Without thinking, Dakkar leapt forward and punched hard with both hands into the man’s kidneys. The man gave a hiss of pain and turned on Dakkar.

  Snatching the dagger that fell from the first man’s grip, Oginski swung round and buried it in the second attacker’s neck. Something wet spattered Dakkar’s cheek and jacket. Their opponent fell with a gargling oath and lay still, his blood reddening the pools of mud on the ground.

  Dakkar stared at the twitching man and then at his blood-speckled hands. The other assailant lay slumped, groaning and nursing his mangled arm.

  ‘Come quickly,’ Oginski said, grabbing Dakkar again. ‘There is no time – these men were only the first.’

  Again they ran, pushing people aside, ignoring the curses yelled after them as they sent folk stumbling into each other. Left and right, right and left, they clattered on through the smoky streets, until Dakkar became dizzy and gasped for breath.

  Suddenly, Oginski stopped, making Dakkar slip into the foul slime that coated the cobbled streets. Oginski gave a whistle and a horse-drawn carriage rumbled from a side street.

  ‘Get in,’ Oginski snapped, yanking the door open.

  Dakkar clambered up and threw himself down on the wooden bench inside. His head spun and his heart hammered at his ribs. Oginski jumped straight in after him.

  ‘We are safe,’ he said, as the carriage began to rattle across the cobbles.

  ‘Thank you,’ Dakkar gasped, slumping in the seat.

  For a second, the two of them sat panting for breath. Oginski handed Dakkar a handkerchief, pointing to his face. Dakkar wiped and looked in horror at the red stains on the cloth.

  ‘Not yours,’ Oginski said, getting his breath back. He smiled and Dakkar grinned back in spite of his shock.

  ‘Who were those men?’ Dakkar said after a moment.

  ‘Assassins,’ Oginski said, staring through the curtains that covered the windows. ‘They could be any number of people. British East India Company, Russians . . . Who else wants your father’s kingdom?’

  ‘Many, many people,’ Dakkar said, nodding.

  ‘But you are safe now,’ Oginski said again, folding his arms. ‘So, the great Rajah of Bundelkhand sends his eldest son to Count Oginski for an education. What was wrong with the schools of this land?’

  ‘I don’t like school,’ Dakkar grumbled. ‘I ran away.’

  ‘To run away from your only refuge in a strange land is brave indeed,’ Oginski mused, smiling at Dakkar approvingly. ‘At the tender age of ten years old too.’

  ‘The scholars were idiots and the masters were buffoons!’ Dakkar said, pouting his bottom lip. ‘I learned nothing trapped in those stuffy classrooms all day!’

  ‘And what about the previous school, my prince?’ Oginski said, raising his eyebrows. ‘And the one before that? You’ve run away from
three schools in the last year!’

  ‘No,’ Dakkar protested. ‘I was expelled from the last school. One of the masters tried to beat me.’

  ‘And?’ Oginski said, his smile frozen on his lips.

  ‘I beat him,’ Dakkar said, suppressing a grin. He leaned forward and reached for the curtains.

  Oginski grabbed his shoulder, yanking him back.

  ‘Please, my prince,’ he said. ‘I need to keep your whereabouts a total secret.’

  ‘I was just going to look out,’ Dakkar muttered.

  ‘If you look out and a passing local sees you, with your dark features and jewelled turban, he’ll mention it to his friends in the local public house. Soon it will be all over town,’ Oginski said, staring into Dakkar’s dark eyes. ‘It will be only a matter of time before that knowledge falls into the wrong hands.’

  Dakkar flung himself back in the seat and folded his arms. Soon the motion of the carriage and the exertion of the chase tipped him into a restless sleep.

  Dakkar felt as though he were falling. As he fell through his dream, he heard his father’s voice. Dakkar could see his sunken eyes, the long, grey beard barely concealing the pinched cheekbones.

  ‘You are going to learn how to be a leader of men,’ his father said. ‘You will be taught by the best, by a nobleman who has known our hardships.’

  ‘But he’s only ten years old – he’s still a child.’ His mother’s voice echoed across the miles. ‘Give him a few years more. Let him enjoy his childhood.’

  ‘He needs to learn how best he can serve his people,’ his father spat, anger gleaming in his eyes, ‘before he has no people left to serve . . .’

  The earth began to shake and a searing pain split through Dakkar’s skull. Gradually, he found himself back on the bench in the carriage as it rattled and rolled him around. He felt a familiar tightness in his stomach and pressure in his throat. The sea voyage from India to England had not been kind to him and the memory of it was returning to him now. Oginski sat opposite, watching him.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, leaning forward.

  Dakkar threw his head down and heaved a watery pool of vomit over Oginski’s boots. ‘I don’t always travel well,’ Dakkar gasped, choking back the acid burn in his throat.

  ‘I am sorry to hear that, my prince,’ Oginski said, grimacing at his feet and passing Dakkar another handkerchief. ‘You’ll get used to it. Your new home is close to the sea – we will spend many hours in its company.’

  ‘I hate the sea,’ Dakkar groaned, putting the handkerchief to his mouth. ‘And I hate learning.’

  ‘You say that now, your highness,’ Oginski said, smiling, ‘but you will see. My lessons are different.’

  He rapped the ceiling with his knuckles and the carriage came to a halt.

  ‘There are fresh clothes in that trunk,’ he said, pointing to a large box on the seat beside him. ‘I shall step outside while you change.’

  Oginski climbed out and Dakkar glimpsed a hedgerow and fields. He opened the trunk and found woollen European clothes.

  ‘And why would I want to wear these ridiculous garments?’ Dakkar shouted out to Oginski.

  ‘They’re warmer and they don’t smell of vomit,’ Oginski replied. ‘Your highness.’

  ‘Barbarians,’ Dakkar muttered, pulling a face. He undressed and dragged them on. They felt strange and uncomfortable – the fabric scratched his skin and the thick material was stiff – but they were warm.

  They travelled for days, often in complete silence. At night, they stopped at small taverns or farmsteads, where Oginski paid handsomely for the innkeeper or farmer’s silence.

  ‘Speak to no one,’ Oginski said.

  ‘That’s easy enough,’ Dakkar snorted. ‘I have nothing to say to them!’

  Dakkar slept well enough – the journey and the motion sickness exhausted him. Dakkar wondered if Oginski slept at all though – he seemed on constant alert, his eyes always roaming over their surroundings.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Dakkar asked.

  ‘To my castle,’ Oginski replied. ‘But it’s better if you don’t know exactly where that is.’

  Finally, after days of bumping over potholed tracks, Oginski relaxed and pushed back the curtains. The clatter of the carriage made Dakkar wince but the welcome draught of cold air soothed his aching head somewhat. He stared out across an open moor that was devoid of any landmarks but one. In the distance, the moor ended in an abrupt cliff edge. Evening was falling quickly and, silhouetted starkly against the dying sun, stood a tower, pointing skyward like a witch’s finger.

  ‘Welcome, Prince Dakkar of Bundelkhand,’ Oginski said. ‘Welcome to the castle.’

  Somewhere in Cornwall, 1814

  Chapter One

  Drowning

  I’ll never make it, Dakkar thought. I am going to die.

  The freezing water pressed in on him, seeping into his nose and mouth as he kicked and flailed towards the pale light of the surface. Salt stung his eyes and the thundering of his heart merged with the roar of the tide. The mosaic pattern of the foam on the surface above him seemed so close yet too far to reach. More salt water forced itself into Dakkar’s mouth, his lungs burning for oxygen. His limbs felt feeble as he tried to swim faster. The swirling sea darkened, and his vision began to fail.

  Then a calmness embraced him. He loved the sea. He loved sitting on the gravelly bed watching wrasse and gurnard weave among the kelp and luminous anemones. It wouldn’t be so bad just to slip back down and rest there for ever. No more lessons, no more nagging from Oginski.

  But what about Mother and Father? He hadn’t seen them in four years – hadn’t heard from them, even. Would they ever know he lay lifeless at the bottom of the sea?

  The dark shape of a hand plunged through the waves above, startling Dakkar into action again. Fingers tangled themselves in his thick, black hair and pulled. Fiery pain burned through his scalp but the sudden cold as he broke the surface forced him to gulp at the welcome air.

  ‘You must control your breathing while you’re at the bottom,’ said Oginski, his saviour. ‘You waste your breath, you die.’

  ‘Thank you, Oginski,’ Dakkar gasped, collapsing on to the rocks on which Oginski squatted. ‘I’ll remember that next time you try to drown me!’

  Dakkar rolled over, still spluttering and coughing. His stomach twisted with pain as he retched up half the ocean. The bright sky dazzled him and the cold breeze prickled his skin. It was a few minutes before he could focus and see Oginski properly.

  ‘How long?’ Dakkar panted.

  ‘Six minutes,’ Oginski replied. ‘But you could stay down for longer if you had faith in yourself.’

  The big man stood up and loomed over Dakkar. He was a square block of a man, with greying curly hair, dark brooding eyes. To Dakkar he looked like he had been cut from the very cliffs behind him.

  He extended a hand and, when Dakkar took it, nearly pulled him into the air. Dakkar stumbled to his feet and grabbed the thick woollen blanket that Oginski offered him. He wrapped it round his shivering shoulders, revelling in the glow of warmth it provided.

  ‘You . . .’ Oginski began, and then stared out to sea.

  ‘What is it?’ Dakkar followed his gaze and saw something break the surface.

  A seal leapt high out of the water. A huge tentacle snaked up out of the sea, followed by another and another. Dakkar stood dumbstruck as the tentacles wrapped themselves round the seal. The seal gave a hoarse bark then vanished below the surface.

  For a second, Oginski stood silent, staring in apparent disbelief at what he had just seen. Then he turned on his heel.

  ‘Quickly,’ he snapped. ‘We must get back to the castle.’

  ‘But shouldn’t we raise the alarm?’ Dakkar called, hurrying after his mentor. ‘Let the locals know there’s something out there?’

  ‘I’m not sure they’d believe us,’ Oginski muttered.

  ‘It looked like some kind of giant squid,’ Dakkar g
asped.

  ‘That’s what it looked like,’ Oginski replied. ‘Whatever it was, it was something bad. Something very bad. Come on.’

  Dakkar had been sheltered by the cliff face but now, as they reached the top, a raw wind cut into him despite the woollen blanket. He shivered and huddled into the warm fabric. Across the flat cliff top stood the castle. It looked bleaker than ever to Dakkar.

  ‘I’m not sure what to do, Dakkar,’ Oginski said with a shrug.

  ‘We m-must warn the village,’ Dakkar stammered through chattering teeth. ‘Imagine if that had been a fisherman, not a seal!’

  Oginski stopped and turned to look at Dakkar. A smile cracked the man’s stony face as he laid a hand on Dakkar’s shoulder.

  ‘You’re a good lad, Dakkar,’ Oginski said. ‘Your concern for others does you great credit.’

  Dakkar felt some warmth despite the wind and the fact that he wore only a bathing suit. To think I used to fear this man, Dakkar thought, remembering his first night at the castle. But I was only ten years old.

  It wasn’t really a castle, more of a tower built on the cliff edge. Oginski had rebuilt it from ancient medieval ruins. The tower loomed above them, black and full of foreboding. It was round, stretching high above, with a conical roof of slate. A few cottages and outhouses huddled at its base. Thick glass and shutters protected the square windows that dotted the smooth stone face of it.

  ‘More surprises!’ Dakkar said as his gaze fell to the huge front door. Two horses stood outside, damp and dejected, in front of a black carriage. ‘We have visitors!’

  Oginski’s face darkened. In the four years Dakkar had been at the castle, he could count the number of visitors on one hand. They hurried past the carriage, where a surly driver in red military uniform was waiting. He stood to attention but Oginski merely gave a grunt and hurled himself at the oak front door. Dakkar hurried after.

  In the wood-panelled hall, Mrs Evans, the housekeeper, bobbed and fussed, her black ringlets quivering under her white mob cap. She reminded Dakkar of a plump blackbird.

  ‘Count Oginski,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Forgive me, sir, I know how particular you are about visitors but he insisted. I put him in your study.’ She handed Oginski the visitor’s card.