The Hero's Tomb

by Conrad Mason

  Then Newton realized it wasn’t something in the Duke himself. It was the way the others looked at him. Their nervous glances. Their shuffling feet.

  They’re afraid of him.

  ‘Citizens of Azurmouth,’ said the Duke. He spoke softly, but it carried out across the courtyard, silencing every conversation at once. ‘Today is Corin’s Day. Welcome, all of you, to the House of Light!’

  Applause broke like a wave through the courtyard.

  ‘Long live the Duke of Garran!’

  ‘Here’s to the Duke!’

  ‘Corin save him!’

  The cheering swelled again as the League’s swordsmen began to climb onto the wooden platform, tall and strong and handsome in white. Trumpets sounded as the champions strutted, smiled and waved.

  Newton spared them no more than a glance. They all looked the same, anyway: athletic and smug. Instead his gaze was fixed on the balcony, where the Duke of Garran stood, his white plume quivering in the breeze. The Duke, who’d shot Newton’s oldest friend in front of him, left him bleeding on the deck, and smiled as he did it.

  The anger burned hotter, fiercer in the pit of his stomach.

  No. Not now. It was his anger that had got Old Jon killed in the first place. He couldn’t afford to lose his temper. Not now. Not ever again.

  Something caught his eye in the courtyard below. A plump, dark-haired youth had taken to the platform, and the cheers from the crowd had grown even louder with his appearance.

  ‘Lucky Leo!’ someone called out. ‘Let’s make it six times, eh?’

  Leopold smirked as he acknowledged his admirers, tossing his dark fringe from his face, drawing his sword with a flourish and posing as if he were some mighty warrior from the Dark Age.

  That sword …

  The hilt – shining silver and studded with milk-white star-stones. The blade – long and slender, carved with swirling patterns from an ancient time.

  It was the sword that had lain for centuries at Wyrmwood Manor, until Newton had brought it to Illon, to use in battle against the Duke of Garran.

  The sword the Duke had snatched from him and brought back to Azurmouth.

  The sword that Newton had crossed the Ebony Ocean to retrieve. The Sword of Corin.

  *

  Something is wrong.

  The Duke feels it as soon as Lucky Leo takes the stage. Turning, he sees that the Earl of Brindenheim is watching him.

  He stiffens. There is a look on the old fool’s face that makes him wary. Brindenheim is smiling, but even more smugly than usual. There is energy in that smile and – yes – triumph.

  For once, Brindenheim knows something he doesn’t.

  ‘Leopold of Brindenheim!’ calls a herald from below.

  ‘Bravo,’ calls the fat old Earl, clapping his podgy hands together and spraying spittle into the air. ‘Bravo, Leo.’

  Lucky Leo is preening and posing, basking in the applause. His black hair is oiled and combed back for the occasion, and he is dressed in dazzling fencing whites, yet still he manages to give the impression of a plucked chicken ready for the pot. He takes up position in the centre of the platform, legs wide apart, and places his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  The Duke peers closer. That sword …

  Leo grins inanely and draws, the blade flashing in the sun as he holds it aloft.

  Yes – the Sword of Corin.

  ‘I know what you think of my son’s fighting skills,’ says the Earl of Brindenheim. He is leaning in close, lowering his voice so the other lords cannot hear him. ‘So I’m sure you will agree – if he is to win the contest, he must have a fine blade.’

  The Duke thinks of the secret room where Major Turnbull left it. The iron door that held it, and the four whitecoats charged with its protection. It cannot have been easy for Brindenheim’s men to find where the sword was hidden, and the whitecoats would not have given it up without surrendering their own lives first.

  He smiles icily. ‘I wonder where you found such a thing?’

  ‘I think you know where,’ replies Brindenheim. ‘I heard a rumour that you had recovered it at the Battle of Illon, and I hoped you would have no objection if I … borrowed it. After all, the spoils of war should be shared openly amongst the lords of the League. We are all equals, are we not?’

  ‘But of course.’

  ‘Then naturally, I see no need to tell our fellow lords that the blade my son is wielding is the legendary Sword of Corin.’

  Blackmail – who would have guessed the old walrus could be so bold?

  So bold, and so foolish.

  Brindenheim did not take the sword because he has guessed what the Duke is planning. He did not even take it so that his prancing fop of a son has something pretty to fight with. He took it to prove that the Duke is no more powerful than him.

  That they are equals.

  They are not.

  ‘Your son is most welcome to it,’ the Duke says softly. ‘I am only sorry he will not be borrowing it for very long.’

  Brindenheim’s grin falters, as though he has an inkling of the mistake he has made. Yes – soon enough, he will be sorrier than he can imagine. No man stands against the Way of the Light.

  The words of the rhyme run through the Duke’s head, as they have so often since his return to Azurmouth.

  At the call of the sword, twelve stones shall sing, Twelve seraphs rise, in a golden ring …

  He turns back to the courtyard, where Lucky Leo has lowered the blade above the heads of the crowd nearest the platform. They reach up like lambs begging to be fed, desperate to lay their fingers on it.

  They have no idea what it is they are touching.

  PART TWO

  The Contest of Blades

  Chapter Ten

  Tabitha flung open the door to Master Gurney’s rooms, panting heavily. The magician was bent over his desk, peering at a chicken, which sat on a pile of books, ruffling its feathers as though it didn’t have a clue what it was doing there.

  ‘You managed it, then?’ asked Frank. ‘Bravo.’

  Master Gurney looked up sharply. ‘Managed what? Oh yes, I see. No, my good fellow, turning an egg into a chicken turned out to be rather troublesome. So what I am now attempting to do is to turn this chicken into … er …’

  ‘An egg?’ said Tabitha. She pulled off her bandana and dropped it on a pile of books. They’d run almost the whole way back from the docks, and her clothes were sticky with sweat.

  ‘Quite right! Yes, you’ll go far, young lady.’

  The door swung open again and Paddy wrestled Derringer into the room. The elf had been stubbornly silent since the fight on the docks. His make-up was peeling off, and his hat was lopsided, but he still glared at them as disdainfully as he had when he wore his official Dockside Militia uniform. Ty took off from Tabitha’s pocket to settle on top of a bookcase, watching the elf suspiciously as Paddy settled him in a chair.

  ‘And who, pray, is this gentleman?’ asked Master Gurney, examining Derringer over the top of his spectacles.

  ‘We’re so sorry for the interruption, Master,’ said Hal, mopping his brow. ‘This is Colonel Cyrus Derringer, of the Dockside Militia.’

  ‘I see. And what is he doing here?’

  ‘Good question,’ said Frank. ‘How about it Cyrus? What are you doing here?’

  For a moment Derringer looked like he was going to keep playing dumb. Then his lip curled. ‘You’re all under arrest.’

  Ty giggled from his bookcase. ‘Maybe I heard that wrong.’

  ‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ snapped the elf. ‘None of you! Governor Skelmerdale has ordered me to take you back to Fayt at once. Did you really think that after the Battle of Illon, you could simply sail straight into the League’s greatest port? If the Duke of Garran caught you he’d execute you as spies and send another fleet over the ocean.’

  ‘Well, personally, I’m flattered,’ said Frank. ‘Never knew old Skelmerdale cared about us so.’

  ‘What about Jose
ph?’ Tabitha cut in. ‘Do you know where he is? Did you see him anywhere on the docks?’

  ‘Who in Thalin’s name is Joseph?’

  Tabitha slumped onto a pile of spell books, sending up a cloud of dust. So far so bad. They’d barely escaped the whitecoats with their lives. Their only lead had been the griffin owner, and he was long gone by now. And where was Newton? He was supposed to be leading them, not sneaking off on mysterious missions all by himself.

  We’ll find you, Joseph. I promise. He had to be here, somewhere in the city.

  ‘If you’ll allow me to interject,’ said Master Gurney, ‘I should really prefer it if—’

  The door swung open once again, and a large figure in a hooded gown ducked under the lintel.

  Tabitha shot up from her seat. ‘Newt!’

  ‘Nice outfit,’ said Frank. ‘Very … magic-y.’

  ‘Don’t tell us you’ve been transmogrifying chickens too?’ said Paddy.

  Newton drew back his hood and gave Master Gurney a nod. Tabitha saw at once that he was sweating, as though he’d been moving fast, but his eyes were gleaming. ‘Had one or two things to take care of,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, but what does that have to do with Joseph?’ Tabitha demanded. ‘We’re supposed to be rescuing him, remember? That’s why we came here in the first place!’

  They were running out of time – she just knew it. Any moment Joseph could be caught and strung up by butchers. Or stabbed in an alley. Or sent to the zephyrum mines. The tavern boy was a total, utter bilge brain for coming to Azurmouth on his own, chasing some crazy lies about his father. What was he thinking?

  She tried to imagine what she would do, if someone told her that her own father was alive. She’d only been a baby when her parents died, but somehow she knew exactly what they were like. Alfred Mandeville, governor of Port Fayt – tall, gentle and kind. And Jessica Mandeville, young and beautiful, with a smile for everyone she met …

  I’d want to know the truth. Whatever it cost.

  Her face felt hot and uncomfortable, and she dabbed angrily at her eyes.

  I will not cry. Whatever happens, I will not cry.

  ‘Don’t worry, Tabs,’ said Paddy gently. ‘We’ll find him. Besides, Joseph can handle himself. He’s got his cutlass, hasn’t he?’

  Newton cleared his throat. ‘Aye, we’ll find him. But first things first. Will someone explain to me what Cyrus Derringer is doing here?’

  The elf glared at Newton, but held his tongue.

  ‘Ran into him on the docks,’ said Frank. ‘He says he’s here to arrest us. Caused a right scene with all his fancy sword-swishing. We had to run from the butchers.’

  ‘Pardon me,’ said Master Gurney, who seemed to have totally lost interest in his chicken. ‘But did you say the butchers?’

  ‘They followed you?’ asked Newton.

  ‘’Fraid so,’ said Paddy. ‘Reckon we lost them, though.’

  ‘But they saw you?’

  Frank nodded.

  ‘That’s bad. They’ll be looking for us. And you got no leads on Joseph?’

  Paddy shook his head and jerked a thumb at Derringer. ‘Not before we ran into this cheery cove.’

  ‘Dear, oh dear,’ muttered Master Gurney.

  Newton sank into an old rocking chair in the corner and pulled out his pipe. For half a second Tabitha could have sworn he looked weary, as though it was all too much for him. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him like that before. There was a long silence as he stuffed his pipe with tobacco, his brow creased in thought. Then at last he spoke.

  ‘My apologies, Master Gurney. Seems things aren’t working out as quick as we’d hoped.’

  Derringer sneered. ‘Typical incompetence.’

  ‘Shut it,’ said Frank.

  ‘Please,’ said Master Gurney, waving a hand dismissively. ‘Your business is your own. Just so long as you refrain from bringing the League to my door, I shall be content. Now, it seems you gentlemen have things to discuss. I’ll give you a little space, shall I? As it happens I need to pay a visit to the henhouse. I fear this chicken may be defective.’ He gazed sadly at the bird on his desk, which was still undeniably a chicken, and not an egg, before sweeping it up in his arms and bustling out of the room.

  As soon as they were alone, Newton let out a sigh. ‘Nothing else for it. We’ll have to lie low until the end of the day. First thing tomorrow we’ll figure out a better way to find Joseph.’

  Tabitha could hardly believe what she was hearing. ‘But he could be anywhere by then!’

  ‘He could be anywhere now,’ said Newton firmly. ‘I’m sorry, Tabs, but we can’t allow the League to find out that the Demon’s Watch is here in Azurmouth. It could put everyone in danger – not just us and Master Gurney, but the whole Academy, and Port Fayt too. They’ll think we’re spies, or worse. Can you imagine what would happen if the League sends another fleet to attack Fayt? We beat them once, but we couldn’t do it again.’

  ‘So what do we do, Newt?’ asked Frank.

  ‘I’d say Ty’s our best bet for now. He can head out and scour the city. He doesn’t have a shark tattoo, and he can escape quickly. Back by dusk though, understand?’

  ‘I’ll do my best, mister,’ said Ty, saluting. ‘Not promising nothing, though.’ He leaped off the bookcase and darted out of the window.

  ‘And what do you intend to do with me?’ Derringer demanded.

  Newton ignored him. ‘The rest of you – sit tight at the Academy till I get back.’

  ‘What do you mean, till I get back?’ snapped Tabitha. She felt the tears welling again, and fought them down fiercely. ‘You can’t tell us to wait here, then head out into the city all on your own.’ He was up to something. Something to do with that night in the library. Something to do with the Sword of Corin. But what?

  Newton lit his pipe, avoiding Tabitha’s glare. ‘I won’t be on my own,’ he said. ‘I’m taking our friend Cyrus here with me.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Joseph was bundled down the steps into a big room directly below the attic. Sunlight filtered through a small, grubby window, leaving most of the room in shadow. The walls were shelved and cluttered with busts and wigs, just like in the attic, and in the middle of the room sat a plain wooden table and chairs. A selection of tools was spread out on the table. Tinderboxes. Wooden clothes pegs. Crowbars. Keys. Knives.

  His heart jumped at the sight. They’re going to torture me! No, that was ridiculous. You couldn’t torture someone with clothes pegs. Could you?

  The horse thrust Joseph into a chair, pinning him down with hands that felt large, strong and entirely immoveable. The cat came behind, closing the door quietly. He moved so much like the animal that Joseph half expected him to curl up in a patch of sunshine and start licking his paws.

  No such luck.

  A third figure materialized out of the darkness from a corner of the room. A pale, cadaverous woman, dressed entirely in black. Her eyes were tiny, solid black and glistening, and she was completely bald – without even any eyebrows. She looked like a walking skeleton.

  The spider, Joseph realized with a jolt.

  The three shapeshifters loomed over him, watching, appraising. They made an odd trio, but no less menacing for that. The cat leaned suddenly across the table, peering curiously at Joseph’s face. For a second Joseph could have sworn his nostrils flared, as though he were snuffling at a mouse hole.

  Joseph changed his mind again. They’re definitely going to torture me. Or kill me. Or both. They’re dangerous criminals, and I got one of them arrested.

  He didn’t stand a chance.

  ‘I—’ he began, but the spider laid a long, bony finger over her lips.

  ‘You took this from me once,’ said the cat. He drew the wooden spoon from his pocket. ‘Back in Port Fayt. I stole it, and you stole it back from me. Do you recall?’

  Joseph was gripped by sudden desperation. Somehow, the thought of his own death seemed less terrible than the loss of the spoon. ‘P
lease,’ he said. ‘I need it. Just for a day. You can have it afterwards, I swear, then you can do what you like to me.’

  Maybe they’d take pity on him? His father had always told him, There’s a little bit of demon and a little bit of seraph in everyone, Joseph. Don’t let anyone tell you different.

  ‘We don’t want it,’ said the spider. Even in human form her voice was barely a whisper, and her strange black eyes gave nothing away.

  ‘Don’t need it,’ said the horse.

  ‘You underestimate us, mongrel,’ said the cat. He leaned forward and tucked the spoon into Joseph’s pocket. ‘We are no greedy, grasping goblins. We care nothing for the value of what we steal. What we care for is the game. And we have found a new game to play.’

  ‘A bigger game,’ said the horse.

  ‘A better game,’ said the spider.

  Joseph clamped his hand firmly over his pocket. What kind of cruel trick was this? Surely, any moment now, the cat would laugh and snatch his prize back.

  ‘You’re going to let me keep it?’ he said cautiously.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the cat, his yellow eyes twinkling. ‘Though if I were you, I should leave it well alone. Such a powerful wand in the hands of a mongrel boy. You really have no idea what it could do to you, if you were to misuse it.’ The spider chuckled.

  Joseph thought fast, trying to ignore the thumping of his heart. After all the shapeshifter had gone through to steal it, he was content to pass up the spoon. So what does he want from me?

  ‘Can I go then?’ he asked.

  ‘How precious,’ said the cat. ‘But I’m afraid not. My lady, if you’d be so good?’

  The spider produced a large scroll of paper and unfurled it on the table. It looked like one of the maps Joseph had seen captains poring over in the Legless Mermaid. Except instead of islands and currents, the map showed a building. A vast, sprawling building, seen from above, with windows, doors and walls marked on in thin, delicate lines of ink.