by C. K. Nolan
If only he could get a closer look at that key. Even if he stood on Trevello’s chair, he’d never reach it. He’d need…a ladder! Filibert’s cellar! Wasn’t there one in there?
Harold raced into the cellar, dragged the ladder into the office and steadied it against the wall. He climbed up. His legs shook. The ladder wobbled. But now he’d got the key. It must be an exact copy, but if he took it, wouldn’t Trevello spot it was missing? No, he wouldn’t, because there was a similar key lying on a large plaque just below that would replace it admirably. There! Trevello would never notice. He was far too busy thinking about Silva’s crimes, the vote, and his new Legator, wasn’t he? My, this key was heavy!
“Done it!” exclaimed Harold, stepping off the ladder. He dragged it back into Filibert’s cellar, then, holding the key under his jacket, sped into the entrance hall.
An uncomfortable thought crossed his mind. What if he was mistaken, and the key didn’t fit the lock? He went over to the great doors. Outside, the crowd surrounded Bassan, who was smiling and laughing, not a care in the world. Just then, Bassan glanced up and saw him. His smile became a fixed grin and the expression in his eyes turned ugly. Harold stepped back quickly, bumping into Winifred behind him.
“Watch where you’re going!” exclaimed Winifred. “What are you doing here? Ah, I see our new Legator is enjoying himself. Long may it last. Or not. But I can’t see an end to this man’s madness, and if I don’t put some lunch on the tables soon, he’ll hold good on his promise of getting a new cook, you mark my words.”
“Winifred, we must go to the underfloor,” said Harold, pulling out the key. “Don’t ask any questions. All you have to do is keep the guard busy while I try to open Bassan’s door. Quick!”
Winifred’s eyes widened, but she followed him without complaint. Down they went, she to the guards’ office, he to Bassan’s laboratory.
Harold placed the key into the lock. He had to work with both hands, but it turned easily, and the door opened.
Voices came from the office. “No, no visitors, Winifred, that’s what Trevello said. If you want to send a meal down, I’ve no objections. No, not for the prisoner! For me, you silly woman!”
Harold grinned, shut and locked the door, and then joined Winifred.
“Is that you, Harold?” said the guard. “You’d better get yourself upstairs, boy. And take Winifred with you. I haven’t got time to argue. Got an important prisoner to look after here you know.”
“Oh indeed you have,” said Harold. “Come on, Winifred, we can go up to the kitchen now.”
They started up the steps, aware of Silva standing by her cell door watching them. The guard gave them a puzzled look, then returned to his office. Harold lifted up the key with one hand, pointing at it with the other, mouthing “Bassan’s key! Bassan’s key!” and then Silva smiled and waved him away before disappearing into the gloom.
Upstairs, Trevello was nowhere to be seen. The furniture had been rearranged in the Great Hall, and Lisette was frantically throwing cloths over the tables.
“We’ve got visitors,” she said shortly. “Arpad and Marchus. Hurry up, and get them out of the kitchen. I can’t abide people sitting about while I’m busy.” She stomped off to another table.
“Oh dear,” murmured Winifred, as they entered the kitchen. “She’ll be threatening to go home soon, and we can’t do without her today. Ah! There you are, gentlemen. We’ve been observing our Legator out by the Sundial Tree. Everyone is very happy with him from what I can see. What a shame that we’re not! After that most unpleasant sight, we went down to the underfloor. This young man will explain everything. Harold?”
He drew out the key from his jacket.
“Found it on the wall in Trevello’s office. It’s a copy of Bassan’s laboratory key. I’ve just tested it, and it works. If we need to escape, we can use the tunnel again, see?”
It had been worth taking that key! They were impressed, but it was a shame Rath wasn’t with them, he’d have—
“What tunnel?” said a voice behind him. The key clanged onto the floor, and they turned to the door.
“Filibert!” cried Winifred. “You gave us such a shock! Harold, put that key somewhere safe before someone else comes in and finds out what we’re up to. As for you,” and she eyed Filibert suspiciously, “I hope you weren’t out with the simpering citizens congratulating Bassan?”
“No,” sighed Filibert, sitting down heavily on a chair by the hearth. “Trevello wanted a word with me up in the Legator’s chamber. Looks like things are going to change around here, and not for the better, either.”
“What do you mean?” asked Winifred.
Filibert shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Bassan’s in charge now. I don’t know how long I’ll be Treasurer. That’s all I can say.” He gazed into the fire miserably.
“That makes sense,” said Winifred. “He’s already threatened me today, saying he’ll get a new cook. Well, let him! I don’t want to cook for him or his Session any more, truth be told. You can be sure I’m not going to be dishing up anything tasty for that lot from now on. It’s the sops and the scrapings for them!”
Harold laughed, and there was even a shadow of a smile on Arpad’s usually serious face.
“We could use the tunnel, I think,” said the guard. “I can arrange to be on duty downstairs. But if we want to get into the laboratory, we have to make sure Bassan isn’t in there, don’t we?”
“True,” nodded Harold. “We’ll need someone to call him away if need be, someone he trusts.” He looked expectantly at Winifred.
“Who, me?” she asked, shocked. “I couldn’t—oh! I see what you mean.”
She drew another chair up to the fire and took Filibert’s hands in her own.
“Filibert, would you like something to eat?”
“No, Winifred, I couldn’t face a thing.”
“I thought so.” Her eyes flickered towards the door. “Would you like to help us get rid of Bassan?”
Filibert squeezed her hands. “Did you make those peach pastries you were telling me about? I think I could do with one. Or even two.”
Winifred leapt to her feet. “You can have the whole batch! Lisette! Finished with the tables? Good! Let’s all have some pastry, and Lisette, I’d like you to take yours out to the hall, please. Sit down and have a rest my girl, you deserve it. And if Trevello, Bassan, or any of the guard come along, give us good warning!”
Lisette’s eyes brightened. She removed the cloths covering rows of neat peach tarts, passed a tray to Winifred, and took a whole tray for herself, rushing out the door before anyone could stop her.
“So,” said Filibert, settling back in his chair. “It seems you’re planning an escape, yes? A tunnel, a key, all to do with Bassan’s laboratory by the sound of it. And where will Silva escape to?”
“Oh, it’s not just Silva,” said Harold. “We’re going to get Rath out, too. And then…”
And then what? How stupid of him! They had no idea where they’d go, had they? And removing Bassan from power? Was that another of Winifred’s crazy ideas?
“I know what we have to do,” said Marchus softly. They turned to him in surprise. Had everyone forgotten he was there? Harold had, and yet, when he thought about it, Marchus had mentioned something about a plan when they’d been down in Silva’s cell.
An empty tray flew into the kitchen and landed with a clatter on the floor. “Bassan’s come into the hall!” screeched Lisette. “Send some food out, quick, because our Legator is hungry!”
Marchus moved towards the yard door. “I’m going up to the archive,” he said. “Arpad, Filibert, come with me. You’ll have to stay here, I’m afraid, Winifred. And this evening, be sure to give Bassan good food. The best. And your strongest wine. Make it a meal…to remember.”
He smiled. Red lips scrawled on white skin, eyes golden-green pools of tulip tree flower, his face was a mixture of beauty and revenge.
Harold shivered. “What should I do?”
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Marchus opened the door and breathed in the cool afternoon air. “Get rid of the bells,” he said. Then he disappeared into the yard.
***
The sundown bell rang, a slow, lazy sound that would fill the market square as Southernwooders made their last purchases or gathered around the Sundial Tree. The tree would be facing west as evening drew in, pondering on the day just gone and the day to come, before it came to its senses, swirling round to face east, waiting for the slumbering sun to wake once more.
How had Rath survived so long down here? How had he controlled the panic, the fear of losing your mind, your future, your past? He’d had no hope of escape, however. It was clear why he’d been held in the Albatorium and not in the guardery building. The laboratory was just along the corridor. Bassan could have kept a close eye on him. Every time Bassan had used the steps around Great Aspen’s trunk, he must have thought of Rath shut up in the cell only a few paces away. He must have looked down now and again to enjoy a glimpse of his innocent prisoner festering in the shadows.
She forced herself to sit up. “I won’t let him get away with it, Mother. Part of the mystery is clear to me. I know who was responsible for everything. But how did he kill Father? And why did he lie to him, to us, to everyone, for so long? Just to be Legator? What a waste!”
She shook her head. She’d get the answers out of him; she had to. There had to be more to it. The trees thought so. They weren’t worried about Father, were they? They were thinking about the whole island and their very survival. They’d known a traitor was using the Mazer. Had they known who it was?
Someone had come down the steps. The guard rushed out of his office.
“Who’s that? Oh, Arpad. You again? What’s that? Fair enough. I’m in no hurry to stay any longer!”
She strained her ears but couldn’t hear the rest of their conversation. Eventually, the guard ran upstairs. Arpad entered the office, then came out and unlocked her door. Marchus slipped into her cell.
“Only got a moment, Silva, can’t risk being found down here.” He thrust a sheet of vellum into her hands. “I want you to study this very carefully. It’s the third poem about the gardens in the book. The second is with Rath. We leave after midnight.”
He pulled his cloak around him, and without looking back, padded quickly toward the icehouse.
Arpad locked the door. “Best if you know nothing, my lady,” he said. “Cover yourself with that blanket, and once you’re done reading the poem, hide it well, and pretend you’re asleep.”
She wrapped the blanket around her and squinted at the verses. So the first poem referred to the Hintermounts—she hoped—but what about the third one?
From yonder plain I love to see
The clouds, the sky, where, flying free,
The gulls and gannets glide and soar
’Pon evening breeze along the shore.
I wait beside the ivy wall;
I listen to the seagulls’ call.
Exultant cries of joy! They know
What it is like to look below,
To lose themselves within the flow
Of air, of life, of their own kind.
They never had to leave behind
A loved one, family, a friend.
For them, this world can never end.
“Oh, cheer up, Hortus!” said Silva crossly.
If I could ask these birds to check
The skies, for just one tiny speck
Of white, a flash of red, a gleam
Of something they had never seen,
I would. But I cannot.
I hear the wind upon the stone;
I see the gulls returning home,
The path before me, empty, wide,
My flight above with them denied.
That didn’t tell her much. Where on the island could this be? Yewlith? That was where the Yew, the greenest tree was. Plenty of wind there. Plenty of gulls, too. So that was that. They’d go to the Hintermounts, then on to Yewlith.
What had Rath’s poem said? It was a long while since she’d read it. Fire? Water? Rath would puzzle it out. He’d known the island well from his work with Father.
Hintermount stone, the wind of Yewlith, water, fire…she closed her eyes, flying with the gulls over the island, wheeling high over the Albatorium, swooping down to see Great Oak leaning over the greenhouse, catching the breeze that took her up, up, from where she could see Old Elm to the north, Ashenwood to the west, the plains of the Round Tower near Spinney Henge—
“The plains!” she gasped, sitting bolt upright. Of course! Not Yewlith at all. The Round Tower was drowning in ivy, and there were fields of stone, now covered in grass and scrub, that in ancient times, so Father had said, must have been the foundations of some sort of structure. That must be the wide path that Hortus mentioned.
“What do we do when we find these keys, Hortus?” she whispered. “Fit them together? Find a secret keyhole? Decode a message? Boil them in the Mazer?”
She laughed softly, but she could feel the tears coming. “Calm down, Silva,” she muttered, burying herself under the blanket again. “Do what Arpad said. Lie still. Wait. You’ll soon be out of here. We’ll get the keys, find a way to steal the Mazer from Bassan again, and…”
She dozed and dreamed: Isleaf, shaking raindrops from his leaves; her cabin, stinking of scorched wood; fishing nets stretched out in the sunshine; roots, orange and green; Bassan’s face in the tunnel. But how would they reach the Hintermounts if they escaped through the tunnel? That would take them in quite the wrong direction! Can’t use the tunnel, can’t use the tunnel…
She stirred uncomfortably. Someone was standing by the cell door watching her. No key in the lock, though. Who could it be? Time went on and on. Someone knocked on a door; low chatter ensued; quiet footfalls made their way up the steps. She would scream if she had to lie here much longer. And then, the door was open, a hand on her shoulder.
“Wake up, Silva.”
It was Arpad. Marchus, Rath, Harold, Winifred, too! She scrambled to her feet and grabbed her bag.
“Marchus! It’s no good us using the tunnel if we—”
“Hush, Silva,” whispered Marchus. “I know. Rath and Harold will go that way. They have to travel north of Oakenwood. You, Winifred, and I, we’ll take the track out behind the Albatorium with Arpad. But tell me, Silva. Where does your next poem instruct us to go?”
“The Round Tower on the northern plain,” she said.
“Well done!” said Marchus gleefully. “Hear that, Rath? The Round Tower. In two nights’ time then.”
“Two nights.” Rath nodded. He glanced at Silva, then pushed Harold out of the cell. “Come on, Harold. Get that door open, and let’s go!”
“But Bassan?” hissed Silva. “Are you sure he’s not in there?”
“Sure as sure can be,” said Winifred, her eyes flashing proudly. “Filibert’s keeping our Legator busy. Bassan won’t be back for a while. Oh, no, leave the blanket there, Silva. She’ll need it.”
She? Who was she? Then a slight figure appeared, her hair, unusually, around her shoulders.
“Medrella! What are you doing here?”
“Taking your place, my lady,” said Medrella, entering the cell. “Nobody will notice you’ve gone until morning if you’re quick.” She shook out the blanket and lay down. Arpad locked her in, tossed the key into the guards’ office, then ran off up to the yard.
A low whistle came from the laboratory door. Harold waved excitedly. Rath grinned at the boy, then gazed at Silva. “Good luck!” he mouthed. Then he disappeared into the laboratory with Harold.
“That’s them gone,” said Winifred. “Now it’s our turn. Up to the kitchen yard, Silva!”
Medrella’s pale face peeked out from the blanket.
“Thank you, Medrella,” whispered Silva. “You’re very brave.”
Medrella gave her a faint grin. “Not as brave as Wystan,” she said.
So Wystan had taken Rath’s place! What would
happen to these two once they were discovered?
“Don’t worry,” said Medrella. “I can’t wait to see the expression on Bassan’s face in the morning when he realizes you’ve gone. That, for me, will be reward enough. He can do what he likes with us after that.”
She turned to face the wall. Winifred pulled Silva away from the door. They followed Marchus past the laboratory and up the path to the yard where Arpad sat waiting for them with a horse and cart.
“Up you get. And in you go!” said Winifred urgently.
Silva went round to the back of the cart and climbed up. Before her stood one of Winifred’s biggest cooking pots surrounded by bulging sacks.
“Why is this huge cauldron here? Is that what I’m supposed to get into?”
“Correct,” sniffed Winifred. “And if you knew what trouble we had loading that thing on there, you wouldn’t be complaining!”
Winifred heaved herself up into the cart, and Silva stepped onto the sacks and climbed into the pot, which seemed even deeper inside than out.
“Sorry about this, Silva,” said Winifred. “Needs must!”
Onions. Heaps of onions, dropping on top of her, followed by something else falling on top of them.
“Still breathe, can you?” came Winifred’s muffled voice.
“Just about!” moaned Silva. Another cart ride, even more uncomfortable than the one before, and a lot smellier too: some of these onions were most certainly past their best. She could hear Winifred shoving some of the sacks aside to sit down in the back, and then the cart shook as Marchus took his seat. She was glad Arpad was driving; Marchus wouldn’t know one end of a horse from another. She smiled at the thought of the scribe trying to control a horse, then winced as the cart lurched forward. The onions settled, filling her lap and pressing on her shoulders. What was that? Oh, only a thin carrot sticking into her right ear.