“Don’t shout at me about it, Leo,” she said. She picked at the sewing without meeting my eyes.
“I’m not shouting,” I said, lowering my voice. “And you are partly to blame. You think the teachers are angels of God who can do no wrong. He made Stirling cry! That bastard Markey is constantly bullying him—”
“Leo.”
“Stop interrupting me!” I was shouting now. It made my own head ache, but somehow that made me shout louder. “Something has to be done. He made Stirling cry!”
“What was Stirling crying about?” she said, putting down the sewing.
I stopped then. I had promised not to tell her. I shrugged and rested my head against my knees again.
“I am on your side, Leo,” she said after a minute. “I just want you to be happy. Happy with what you’ve got.” I looked up at her. She picked up the sewing and continued with it as she talked. “I know that you do not like school, but you have to make the best of it. You have to get used to your life the way it is. That’s why I take the teachers’ side. It’s not because I think you are in the wrong all the time.”
I did not answer. “Could Stirling be moved from Sergeant Markey’s class?” she said then. “I could speak to the headmaster. He’s sensible, and he has always been kind to you both. He would want his teachers to be reported if they are behaving unacceptably.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “There is another Second Year platoon. I hardly know the teacher, though.” Our school went right up from First Year to Ninth Year—from six years old to fifteen. With two classes for each year, that made over nine hundred pupils. All boys, of course. Girls hadn’t gone to school in Malonia since Lucien took power. “I suppose you could speak to the colonel,” I said, but I knew Stirling would say no.
“Oh yes,” she said. “It’s not headmaster; it’s colonel. And a class is a platoon.”
I laughed. “It’s stupid, isn’t it? You have to admit it’s stupid.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps it’s good training.” She put down her sewing again and went to stir the soup on the stove. I was still coughing. “Leo, are you sick?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I just got cold this afternoon, that’s all.”
But I went to bed still coughing. “I worry about Stirling,” I told Grandmother when she came in to check on him. “I worry that he doesn’t … defend himself. Do you know what I mean?”
“Blessed are the meek,” she said. “There is more than one way of fighting life’s battles, Leo.” I sighed, turned over, and went to sleep.
In my dreams I returned to the story that had appeared, to the people and the places from the strange book. I could see the girl and the glittering necklace, and then the prince on that highest balcony with his mother and father as the sun set. I could see them clearly. And then, in my dream, another story began. An old man was sitting alone in an empty house when a stranger appeared at the door.
Although he had been listening for it all week, the doorbell startled Raymond. He had been certain no one would come after all. This was the last day, and no one had come yet. He put down his newspaper and struggled out of his armchair.
The bell rang again. It always made the glass cases in the hall rattle, now that they were empty. Raymond dampened the nearest one with the back of his hand as he passed, and hobbled to the door. He fumbled with the new locks, muttering, “Just coming.”
A few feet back from the step stood a middle-aged man. He was a gray-looking man—that was what Raymond thought first—gray like steel. Gray eyes, gray shadows of stubble on his chin, gray hair—not through age but naturally that metallic color.
“Al … er … Arthur Field,” said the man, in an accent that was not English but not quite foreign either. “I have come about the butler’s job.” As he spoke, he held out a hand. And the hand that he held out was his left one. He was definitely not English, Raymond decided. He took the man’s hand gingerly.
“Come in, then,” Raymond told him.
The man set about scraping his boots on the doormat. While he did it, Raymond squinted at him, hands on hips. Arthur Field had a heavy cloak about his shoulders, and his clothes underneath were worn as though he had come a long way in them. Raymond caught the glint of a necklace at the man’s throat, but the man pulled up his collar before Raymond could peer any closer. Raymond gestured to the drawing room door, and the man followed him.
Arthur Field looked even more out of place in the drawing room. He sat where Raymond indicated, in the armchair beside the window, and waited. Raymond lowered himself into the chair opposite.
Arthur was glancing at the glass cases around the room. “So …,” said Raymond, and the man’s gaze fixed on him. “You wish to apply for the butler’s job?”
“Yes. I saw your advertisement in the newspaper.”
“And what training and experience do you have?” Raymond asked.
“I … er … don’t have any formal training … as such,” the man faltered. Raymond waited for him to go on, but he didn’t.
“I see,” said Raymond eventually.
“I could not help but notice the … er … reinforced vehicle on the grass,” the man remarked, looking out the window, when the silence became embarrassing.
Raymond smiled. “It does look rather imposing there, doesn’t it? It seems to scare away trespassers better than any guard dog!”
“I expect it would.”
“It’s a genuine First World War tank,” Raymond continued. “Actually saw service in France, would you believe?”
“It must be rare to own one of those.”
“Yes, but I’ve had it a long time, you see!” Raymond told him. “Many museums have approached me, but I won’t sell it to them.”
“You cannot put a price on something like that.”
“No, indeed,” said Raymond. “No, no, indeed.” He chuckled. “So, you are interested in weaponry, are you, Mr. Field?” he asked.
“It is … yes … fascinating. Though I don’t know much about it.”
“I’ve built up some knowledge over the years,” Raymond said, gesturing to the cases around the room. “And quite a collection too.”
“May I?” the man asked, rising.
“Certainly.”
Each of the weapons lay in its case on glistening red velvet and was labeled with a card as if it was a museum exhibit. “So these were made much earlier than the … er … First World War …,” Arthur ventured.
“Of course!” Raymond exclaimed. “These are all swords, daggers, and rapiers in this room, from the sixteenth century to the early nineteenth.” He went to stand beside Arthur, who was looking into the largest case.
“This is my particular favorite,” said Raymond. “A gentleman’s rapier, which I’m pretty sure is Spanish, and it’s in remarkably good condition, don’t you think?”
“Yes.”
“I rather like the decoration on the hilt,” Raymond continued. “That’s a fine example of the cup hilt, and it’s a Toledo blade. I’ve always wanted to know for sure if it was Spanish, or an imitation.”
“Are there experts who could tell you that?”
“I’m sure there are—though I’ve never really asked anyone. I tend to keep my collection a secret. You never know what a con man might try if he wanted to find out about valuable weapons.”
“Would someone really steal antique weapons?” the man asked.
“Oh yes,” said Raymond, with bitter triumph. “Oh yes, they would. Only a couple of months ago, nearly my entire collection of firearms was stolen. You must have noticed the empty cases in the hall.”
“I did.” The man frowned at Raymond, his eyes intense. “A misfortune indeed.”
“I was sad to lose them,” said Raymond.
“And have you been able to trace the thieves?”
“No … the police have had no luck as yet. It’s my belief the criminals have smuggled the weapons into another country, but the police don’t think so.”
“Well, it would n
ot be easy. Surely controls are tight.”
“I would have thought so. I don’t know how they’d have done it. But if they were determined enough, they’d have managed.”
“How many of these weapons were stolen?”
“I had fifty-seven rifles and twelve pistols, as well as a Victorian revolver. Of them, fifty-three were stolen, and one of the most valuable ones was knocked to the floor and broken. The ones they left were the oldest.”
“That is odd.”
“Yes. Here’s the strange thing: there was evidence of someone entering this room. They found fingerprints. Yet they took nothing from here. And I know that a good many of these pieces are more valuable than the guns were.”
“Perhaps they wanted the weapons themselves, not the money.”
“That may be.”
Raymond limped back to the window and sat down heavily, motioning to the other chair. The man strode across the room but did not sit down. “It would take several people to carry fifty-three guns, would it not?” he asked.
“Oh yes. You know, I heard nothing, but it must have taken a veritable army to cart the things off.”
The man leaned forward, gripping the back of the chair so tightly that the tendons in his hands quivered. “A veritable army indeed.”
“It is most peculiar,” Raymond went on. “I cannot think why someone would want to steal the least valuable weapons in the house.”
“Perhaps …,” suggested the man, “they meant to replicate them.”
“But whatever for?”
“ To use.”
“No … I can hardly see why. There are simpler ways of getting guns for hunting and suchlike; I would imagine even criminals have easier sources. And why take so many?”
The man seemed deep in thought for a minute. “Tell me,” he said slowly. “Tell me—these weapons—are they very complicated?”
Raymond thought about that. “Certainly not compared to the modern standard-issue weapons. But they are very well designed, some of those old firearms.”
“Do you think someone would be able to replicate them, if they had an original to work from?”
“I don’t know. It would depend what they wanted them for. The decommissioned ones could have been reactivated, I suppose, and then copied. But most of them were antiques. The replicas wouldn’t fool any serious collector.”
“Well … say, for example, whoever stole your weapons wished to replicate them so that they would function. No more than function, simply so that they would fire. And then suppose they wanted to mass-produce them. Would they, in theory, be able to do that?”
“With only what they stole from me?”
The man nodded. “In theory.”
“Yes …,” said Raymond. “Yes, I believe they would.” The man did not answer, so he elaborated. “A couple of them were sturdy bolt-action rifles. In the case of those particular weapons, their simplicity is what makes them so effective.”
I woke suddenly. I was coughing again in the cold night air, and that was what woke me. In the darkness, I could see the light of the gas lamps on the cracks in the ceiling. I sat up. I heard that old man’s voice echoing in my head for a moment, as if his spirit was lingering in the room even after the dream was gone. Then the building was silent. Stirling was asleep, his face turned to the wall. The church clock in the square was chiming two.
I realized that the book was lying on my bedcovers, that strange black book that I had found in the snow and all but forgotten. It was open. I picked it up, rubbing my eyes, and glanced at it. But before I had read half a page, I was wide awake and staring at the new writing.
I was frightened suddenly. It was not just that I felt I had read this story before. It was the same, even to the last word the old man spoke, as my dream. And in the book, the story went on.
Raymond enjoyed talking about his weapons to one so attentive. “Yes,” he continued. “I would go so far as to say that if time, money, and patience were no concern, someone could make a working replica of at least the simpler weapons.”
Arthur didn’t reply. “Please, sit down,” Raymond told him, to break his unnerving stare. The man sat. “May I ask why you are so interested?”
“Oh …” Arthur laughed distractedly. “No reason really—just curiosity. It seems a strange crime.”
“Yes, it was strange,” said Raymond. And then he remembered why the man was here. “Anyway, about this butler’s job …”
“Oh yes, of course,” said the man, but the thoughtful frown did not leave his face.
“Look here,” Raymond said. “I’d like to employ you, but you tell me you have no training or experience. Do you have any references at all?”
The man shook his head. “I was working in another country, in a very different field. I did not think references would be worth anything.”
“Where were you working?” said Raymond.
“In Australia,” said the man. He cast his eyes about the room. “Actually, I was in the army.”
“The army!” said Raymond, leaning forward eagerly. “So when I asked you if you were interested in weaponry …”
The man laughed, showing all his teeth, like a skull. “Indeed.”
“You were in the Australian forces, then?” Raymond went on.
“No,” said the man. “I am not Australian.”
“What were you doing there? Training?”
The man nodded. “In the desert … the Australian desert.”
“What were you doing before that? Forgive me for asking; I’m rather interested in the army.”
“Before that? We were carrying out … you know … operations …”
“Other than war?” said Raymond.
“Yes. How fast one forgets these things! Yes, we were working in various countries—I am afraid I cannot be too specific. It was highly secret.”
“Of course.” Raymond regarded the man with a new respect. “Anyway, about this job … Mr. Field, I would have liked to employ you—you’re a decent sort of man, I can see—but if you’ve had no training whatsoever, I cannot pay you what I would pay an experienced butler.”
“I think,” said the man, “that we misunderstand each other. I did not expect payment.”
Raymond looked up, startled. “I ask for nothing,” Arthur Field went on. “I aim only to gain experience. I assume that whoever is employed will be lodged here?”
“Of course.”
“That is all I ask for. I did not think you would assume that I wanted money while I was still training.”
“I can’t have you working here for nothing,” Raymond began.
“You just said that you could not pay someone who had no experience.”
“I meant that I could not employ someone who had no experience.”
But he knew he was going to. He was under the strange man’s power; the sinister gray eyes and the skull-like smile and the mind beneath the mask of casual indifference had drawn him in, and he was going to employ Arthur Field against his better judgment.
Later the new butler regarded himself in the mirror and smiled grimly. He did not like uniforms or groveling, or being called a decent sort of man by people who had half his intelligence.
Arrogance never did anyone any good, he told himself, rearranging the new black jacket impatiently. He was being arrogant. Here he had safety, a job, food, and shelter, and he was hidden. Here he was alive. Assuming an expression of subservience, he turned and marched out and down the stairs.
After I closed the book, I sat in the darkness for a long time, thinking—and when I woke the next morning, the story was still in my mind. I wondered what the sixteenth and nineteenth centuries were, and the First World War. Were they English phrases? And if so, did that mean this story was connected to the other, the one about our exiled prince and that girl with the blue eyes? I was coughing all the rest of that week, and I could not shake it off, but I did not think about it so much as I would have done before. I was thinking about the book instead.
&n
bsp; On Friday the cold weather ended suddenly. The rain streaked down the windows of the classroom, and I sat and watched it and thought again about that story. How did it concern me? If it was nothing to do with me at all, I did not know why I had dreamed about the old man and the stranger even before the writing appeared. It was very strange. I had tried to put it out of my mind, but I could not.
Something thudded on the desk in front of me then. It was a rifle. I stared at it for a moment, then blinked and looked up. Sergeant Bane was looking down at me, amusement in his face. “North, we are going out for drill,” he said. “You were a hundred miles away.” I saw that the rest of my platoon were already jogging out into the yard, the collars of their coats raised against the driving rain. “Hurry!” said Sergeant Bane. I stumbled up and fetched my coat, then picked up the rifle and ran out after the others.
We were training harder than ever now. We had shooting drill every morning for an hour, then weight training, and then we ran twenty times round the yard. But no one was making much of an effort that day, and by the time we got to running laps, we were all halfhearted. Even when the rain dwindled, the mud was still slimy, and I slipped and fell several times. I tried to run, but every few yards I doubled over coughing. “Keep going, North!” shouted Sergeant Bane from the shelter of the overhanging roof. I stumbled on.
It was while we were running that I thought of the book again and realized that the gun in my own hand was a bolt-action rifle. And I remembered suddenly that there had been a rumor, a long time ago, that our military technology had been developed in a country as far away as England. Just a rumor. I slowed to a jog and examined the gun in my hands. I did not know if it was a simple weapon, like the ones the old man and the stranger had been talking about. Perhaps in other places—places like England—they had guns that were far more advanced than this. I did not know.
Then Sergeant Markey appeared around the corner of the building, leading Stirling’s platoon behind him. He stepped into the shelter beside Sergeant Bane, cast his eyes over us with a disparaging sniff, and said something that I could not hear. “North, you are going too slowly!” shouted Sergeant Bane to me. I was half a lap behind the rest. I ran to catch up, and that started me coughing again.
The Eyes of a King Page 4