The History Keepers: The Storm Begins

by Damian Dibben

  At the next table, a drawing showed designs for a giant archway, similarly austere and colossal, this one with hundreds of round windows, all barred.

  Jake continued along the table, examining the illustrations. Each was headed with same phrase, the same symbol of the snake and shield; each showed plans for magnificent structures. Jake remembered their discovery in the pizza bakery. His parents’ single lead in this business had been the missing architects. It could certainly be no coincidence.

  Suddenly he heard footsteps approaching along one of the corridors. He quickly looked around for a hiding place, but there was no time. He sank back into the shadows as six guards, all dressed in the same crimson cloaks, marched into the room. They carried lit tapers and set about lighting the thick candles of the chandeliers.

  Jake stopped breathing as one of the guards suddenly turned and approached him.

  But the guard did not seem suspicious: Jake, after all, was dressed in the same way. He passed Jake a taper and issued an instruction – strangely, in English – for him to assist the others. As Jake took the torch, he caught sight of the face beneath the crimson hood: it belonged to a tall boy with cropped hair, cold eyes and a manner that was chillingly mature. He looked at the others: there were girls as well as boys, but their faces were all the same – tight-lipped, steely, expressionless. They were like robots. He knew instinctively that if he was to escape notice, he had to act in a similar manner.

  As Jake started to light the candles, one of the guards took a large bunch of keys from his belt and unlocked the gate that barred the corridor on the left.

  ‘Svegliati! Wake up! To work!’ he ordered.

  There was the sound of people stirring, chains clanking and voices murmuring. A few moments later a line of a dozen men, all shackled together by their hands and feet, shuffled into the room. It was a distressing sight. Jake realized that these had once been well-to-do people; their clothes, now in a sorry state, had been fine. They were herded into the room like animals.

  In turn, each one was unlocked from the chain, led to his seat at one of the tables and attached to the metal rings on the floor.

  Jake was in no doubt that these were the missing architects. His hands now free, one of them tried to pass a piece of bread to the old man who stood behind him. His neighbour smiled gratefully as he took it, but in a flash a baton came smashing down on his wrist, the bread dropped to the floor and was kicked into the corner next to Jake.

  ‘Work now!’ the guard barked.

  The old man did as he was told. He went and sat at one of the tables, his thin, shaking hand lifted the quill and he started to draw.

  ‘Everyone, work!’ The guard brought his baton down hard on the table.

  Jake strove to keep his face blank as anxiety raged inside him. He found himself feeling inside his cloak to check that his sword was still there.

  As the architects worked, he observed them more closely: their faces were pale, their hollow eyes etched with despair. The old man who had been denied the bread was the most pitiful of all. As he worked, his eyes blinked and his bloodless lips muttered away quietly.

  The sight of this poor man filled Jake with anger. Cruelty towards the weak was something he had always hated. Once, outside his school, he’d come across a group of bullies taunting a much younger boy whose leg was encased in a brace. Jake made a brave stand – only to be punched in the stomach. The boy in the brace showed no gratitude – he told Jake that he’d only attracted more attention from the bullies – but Jake would have done the same again. His family were like that: they stood up for people.

  All eyes turned as a door on the other side of the room was unlocked. Without thinking, Jake reached down, picked up the piece of bread and moved forward to drop it into the lap of the old man. He looked up in confusion; Jake responded with a stern look and stood to attention again.

  Then a brutish figure strode into the room, followed by a savage-looking mastiff. Jake shivered: this was the scarred man from the quayside, Captain Von Bliecke. The captain picked up a great pitcher of water, took a gulp, and flung the rest over his head to wake himself up. His dog yawned and stretched, then wandered around the room, sniffing. Jake stood rigid as the beast approached him. He could now see the extent of his wounds: as well as his torn ear and scarred head, one of his eyes was half closed, and his flank was bare of fur. He smelled something interesting and pressed his cold wet nose into Jake’s hand. Jake recoiled; then his blood ran cold as the dog’s upper lip curled back and he gave a low growl.

  ‘Felson!’ Von Bliecke called. Grudgingly the dog turned away from Jake and trotted over to his master, who threw a bone into the corner. Felson pounced on it and started tearing off ribbons of flesh. Jake breathed a sigh of relief. Meanwhile Von Bliecke took a long cut-throat razor from his back pocket and started to shave away the faint growth of dark hair on his head, ignoring the nicks to his scalp.

  Jake watched him out of the corner of his eye. He knew that this man could hold the key to the whereabouts not just of Nathan, Topaz and Charlie – if they were still alive – but of his missing parents. Perhaps this monster even knew something of his brother Philip.

  After nearly an hour, with one eye on the architects and the other on Von Bliecke – who’d been polishing an array of eye-watering weapons – Jake noticed activity in the canal outside the window. A gondola with a black awning pulled up. Four red-cloaked guards disembarked, secured the craft and stood to attention with their heads bowed. A girl emerged from under the awning and stepped ashore.

  Von Bliecke had also seen her arrive; his dark brow furrowed as he announced in a quiet voice, ‘Mina Schlitz …’

  At the sound of her name, everyone – prisoners and guards alike – froze in terror.

  A moment later there was a firm knock at the door.

  Felson trotted over and sniffed the base of the door. Suddenly his tail curled under his body and he crawled beneath a table, whimpering. Von Bliecke strode over, unfastened the four great bolts and opened the door.

  Mina Schlitz stepped into the room, followed by her retinue. She was a teenager of roughly Jake’s age – chillingly self-contained, with dark eyes and long, straight, raven-black hair. She wore a neat pleated skirt and a tightly fitting doublet. A velvet cap topped her perfect white face, and a single pearl hung from a scarlet thread around her neck. Wrapped about her forearm was a thin, live snake with red markings down its back. It undulated as the girl stroked it softly with her pale fingers.

  ‘Guten Tag, Fräulein Schlitz – a pleasant journey?’ Von Bliecke murmured, with a bow of his head. He was a battle-hardened soldier, double her age, but even he looked timid now.

  The girl ignored his question. She held up her serpent and kissed its head, then carefully placed it in a box at her belt. Still no one dared move as her sharp eyes darted around the room.

  ‘Finish your drawings,’ she instructed the architects – and her voice sounded like corrosive acid – before turning to Von Bliecke. She had a faint German accent but her English was clear and precise. ‘Captain, you are to deliver the captured agents immediately to Castle Schwarzheim.’

  Jake’s ears instantly pricked up. Surely she meant Topaz, Nathan and the others. He took some comfort from the news that they must still be alive.

  ‘Und Doktor Talisman Kant – ein—’ Von Bliecke started – but was silenced by Mina.

  ‘English!’ she said firmly. ‘The royal language is English.’

  Von Bliecke took a deep breath and continued, ‘And Doktor Kant? The rendezvous at Bassano?’ he asked.

  ‘You have been reassigned. I will rendezvous with Doktor Kant.’ Mina looked at the guards. ‘These soldiers will accompany me. Then I too will proceed to Castle Schwarzheim. That will be all.’

  Von Bliecke scowled at Mina, then turned, gathered up his weapons, whistled for Felson and left.

  Jake’s heart beat fast as he watched Von Bliecke cross the room in front of him. He desperately wanted to follow. If
indeed this man was about to ‘deliver the captured agents’, he would lead him straight to the others. But he couldn’t move. Instead, he made a point of remembering all the details of the conversation: Bassano, Doktor Talisman Kant, Castle Schwarzheim … He repeated the names over to himself.

  Just as Von Bliecke reached the door, Mina spoke again. ‘For your sake I trust there’ll be no more mistakes.’ The captain froze, his back to the room. ‘It has been four years in preparation,’ she said quietly and sharply. ‘We have just four days now until apocalypse. Failure is not an option.’

  Von Bliecke nodded soberly and left the room.

  Jake went pale. Of all the pronouncements he had heard since arriving in Italy, this last one was the most alarming. Just four days now until apocalypse, Mina had said. What apocalypse? What had been four years in preparation?

  ‘Stop working now!’ Mina ordered. She swept along the tables and collected all the architects’ drawings, placing them in a giant portfolio. Then she rang a bell and twelve more red-cloaked guards filed into the room.

  ‘Attention!’ she shouted, and the entire group, Jake included, formed a line. ‘We leave by the Veneto Tunnel,’ she continued. ‘Make your way down to the carriages in single file.’

  The other guards knew what to do: they turned on their heels and marched into the chamber where the giant borehole led down into the ground. Jake got into line and followed. Here they descended the spiral staircase into the subterranean world, their red cloaks streaming out behind them, their precise footsteps echoing around the cavernous space. As the extraordinary tunnel grew darker and hotter, its walls damp with moss, Jake wondered where it was leading. He glanced up to see the rigid silhouette of Mina Schlitz bringing up the rear.

  After a long, dizzying descent they arrived at the base of the tunnel and marched through an arch towards three horse-drawn carriages, all with drivers at the ready. Two were open-topped with rows of rough benches, the third was sleek and black, decorated with the symbol of the snake around the shield.

  As Jake turned to see where these carriages would be heading, his eyes widened in disbelief: he was at the end of a tunnel, perfectly round like those in the Underground back in London, and lit at intervals by gently flickering tapers, which receded into the distance, boring under the city of Venice.

  One by one, the red-cloaked guards took their places on the benches of the two open carriages. Jake was the last onto his vehicle. As he climbed up, he heard a faint clang and noticed that the silver scissors had dropped out of his trouser pocket. He froze, wondering whether he should retrieve them or not. Mina Schlitz had now appeared through the archway, so Jake decided not to draw attention to himself. He took his place on the bench, accidentally sitting on his neighbour’s cloak.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said without thinking. The other guard did not react; he just looked at Jake blankly, then stared ahead again.

  Mina Schlitz was scanning the carriages. Jake was terrified that she might catch sight of the glint of silver on the ground, but she merely climbed into the black coach and slammed the door behind her. A moment later the drivers cracked their whips and they set off. The big black wheels of Mina’s carriage passed over Nathan Wylder’s scissors and the vehicles rattled off along the tunnel.

  Jake gazed at the walls, made of millions upon millions of bricks. He was so awestruck by this secret thoroughfare beneath the canals of the city that for a while he forgot his troubles. Enemy forces were clearly using this highway for dark purposes, but that did not detract from the astonishing achievement.

  The tunnel gradually started to ascend. Thirty minutes passed before Jake finally spied a pinprick of daylight ahead. It was another twenty before they emerged into the open air. The tunnel had come out into a wood; as they left it and crested a hill, Jake looked back to see the Venetian lagoon spread below him. He let out a sigh. Despite all his fear and anxiety, suddenly he was thrilled by the prospect of adventure.

  The three vehicles headed north in the direction of Bassano.

  14 UNWELCOME NEWS

  IT WAS A bright, bracing morning on the Mont St Michel. Final preparations for Oceane Noire’s birthday party had been underway since dawn. It was being held in the stateroom the following evening.

  Oceane Noire had been born at Versailles, in the lavish court of Louis XV. It had been a time and a place of unparalleled extravagance, and Oceane had loved every indulgent second of it: the banquets, the clothes, the luxurious baths in jasmine water and rose petals.

  When the French Revolution erupted, partly due to the behaviour of people like her, Oceane was extremely irritated: it interrupted a hectic season of coming-out balls. It was rumoured that she’d given Marie Antoinette her famous line, ‘Let them eat cake,’ but those who knew her claimed that Oceane would never have wasted pâtisserie on people who didn’t fully appreciate it.

  While most French aristocrats were fleeing across the Channel, Oceane’s parents (now retired and living in the Cap d’Antibes, but very fine agents in their day) dragged their spoiled daughter across the remainder of the century to the safety of the 1820s and the Romantic period.

  It had been all downhill from then on. Now Oceane felt that her life was commonplace; she longed in vain for those days of opulence to return. So for her party, although she didn’t much relish turning forty, she decided that she would set new standards of luxury at Point Zero.

  All morning an endless stream of merchants – florists, purveyors of game and, indeed, cake-makers – had been arriving from the mainland with their goods for the banquet: special linens for the tables; braces of pheasant and quail; chocolates, nougat and coffee from Paris; peonies and delphiniums for decoration.

  It was only on very rare occasions that locals were allowed inside the Mount, so nearly all of them, though they affected an air of brisk efficiency, had their eyes peeled for anything worthy of gossip. Of course, no one knew what really went on here – that this was the headquarters of the History Keepers’ Secret Service; they had been led to believe it was a community of painters and writers. This, of course, did not lessen their appetite for tittle-tattle.

  The occupants of the island had to play the part and not arouse suspicion. That morning Norland had distributed a communiqué drafted by Jupitus Cole: as locals would be present today, he said, everyone must, ‘without exception’, be attired in the fashions of the time. To this end, Signor Gondolfino had opened the costumiery at dawn and had been run off his elegantly booted feet.

  In the stateroom, Oceane was overseeing the florists, her eyes as hard and sparkling as the priceless diamonds that hung from her ears. Rose Djones came in, spellbound by the magnificent decorations, and made her way across to where Oceane stood.

  ‘Looking very grand in here,’ she told her. ‘Will there be dancing?’

  A cloud descended over Oceane’s face. ‘You’re coming, are you?’

  ‘Isn’t everyone invited?’

  Oceane tensed. ‘There’s a strict dress code, you know.’

  ‘I’ve got the gown that Olympe de Gouges lent me somewhere here. I’m hoping I can squeeze into it. Amazing what you can do with a bit of invisible thread.’

  ‘Or, of course, you may end up looking fat and feeling stupid,’ replied Oceane helpfully.

  Rose knew better than to take anything Oceane said seriously, but she couldn’t resist a little bit of fun. ‘So, fifty today? You look really great on it.’

  Oceane’s expression froze in horror. ‘Comment?’

  ‘I hope I look as good as you when I hit the dreaded half century.’

  ‘Quarante,’ hissed Oceane. ‘J’ai quarante ans! Forty.’

  ‘Oh, well, in that case’ – Rose scrutinized her opponent’s face – ‘that makes much more sense.’

  ‘A vrai dire, je suis très occupée. I’m very busy.’ Oceane thrust her nose into the air, then swung round and demanded of the room, ‘Has anyone seen Norland? We need to finalize menus immédiatement!’ A servant who was in her way as sh
e flounced out received a firm clip from her fan.

  Rose left the room and made her way up the stairs, her mind returning to more serious thoughts. Yesterday she had received the news that her nephew had disappeared to Venice with the others. The Meslith message from Charlie had arrived late last night: Jake had stowed away on the Campana. Rose knew why at once. He had gone to find his parents. She was, of course, terrified for him – but also immensely proud. If she herself had still possessed the strong valour of her youth, she would have done the same.

  When Rose arrived at the door to Galliana’s suite, Norland was leaving.

  ‘Oceane Noire is looking for you. I believe it’s urgent,’ she told him.

  ‘Urgent?’ Norland replied with a mischievous grin. ‘In that case, I think I might go and have a bath.’ He hooted with laughter and disappeared down the corridor.

  ‘Galliana? Are you there?’ Rose called through the open door.

  The greyhound, who’d been having her morning nap, pricked up her ears and wagged her tail. Galliana emerged from her bedroom. ‘Rose, thank you for coming. I have Lapsang brewing.’

  They sat on ottomans in Galliana’s study, drinking tea from bone-china cups. Rose had always loved this room. There were glass cabinets everywhere, crammed with objects assembled in the course of Galliana’s many voyages to history: collections of marble busts, jade figurines, chess pieces, Spanish fans, limestone stalactites, dinosaur fossils, butterflies and beetles, duelling swords and ancient daggers. Amidst this treasure trove Galliana sat with her back straight, her smile warm and her eyes full of wisdom.

  ‘You’re the only person I feel I can trust absolutely,’ she confided as she passed Rose a plate of cakes.

  ‘Real French pastries – how did I manage without them?’ Rose sized up the delicious-looking offerings. Her fingers hovered between a rum baba and a Mont Blanc, before finally settling for a millefeuille crammed with crème pâtissier. ‘Dear me, it should carry a health warning,’ she sighed as she took a huge mouthful. ‘So, what’s happened?’