Ravenwood

by Andrew Peters

  He held the reins tight, stroking the horse’s neck. “Steady, boy. Steady!” he whispered. They were back to square one. Stalemate.

  The leader recovered himself, stepped back into the lamplight. “I’m doin’ a bit of countin’ ’ere. Twelve of us. One of you and a nutter for a horse.” He pointed the knife. “Though when my lads are finished, your little pet won’t be good for anything but steak pie. And you, softy southerner, we’ll be ‘appy to shave a few pounds off, if you get my drift!”

  Petronio did. He swung one leg out of its stirrup and over the saddle, slipping off the horse and landing easily on the ground. He continued holding the leader’s stare, not letting his eyes drop for one second. It was a game he was playing, with the highest stakes.

  “I’ve an idea about you,” Petronio answered. “Without this lot as backup, you’d be squitting yourself right now.” He turned to address the rest of the gang. “Isn’t that what cowards do? Surround themselves with fawning acolytes?”

  The words went over their heads, but the gist was more than clear. The leader didn’t like it. A stranger giving him lip, showing him up in front of his mates. He couldn’t have that, could he? He’d be laughed at all the way through Moss-side. Carving obscenities in wood was one thing. But now it was time to carve his name into the pompous prat’s face.

  “Go on, Flinty!”

  “Have him good!”

  “Stick him!”

  The crowd was eager for their leader to put the stranger firmly in his place.

  With a howl of anger, the boy came for Petronio, knife hand slicing through the air.

  It was exactly what the surgeon’s apprentice expected. After all, he was his father’s son. Scalpels weren’t his only specialty. Instead of toys, his father’s thugs had given him miniature knives to play with from an early age, teaching him all the classic street moves: feint, parry, double bluff. It was like a poker game, really, only a shade more physical. Make the other side think you’ve got a weak hand. Then, Bam!

  Instinct kicked in. As the knife came toward him, held in his enemy’s left hand, Petronio noticed and instantly analyzed his opponent’s classic mistake.

  The other boy was so keen to attack, he’d forgotten that extending one side of his body left the other totally vulnerable.

  As the boy overextended himself, nearly losing his balance, Petronio easily swerved out of the way, then pushed up hard with his haunches. Impact was instant, completely throwing his attacker off balance.

  “What?” squawked the leader in shock, as his own knife clattered harmlessly off the edge of the branch.

  Even as the word left his mouth, Petronio completed the maneuver, pulling the boy’s hair savagely so that his head was forced back, exposing his neck to the short but lethal blade that now zoomed like an arrow straight toward the soft flesh.

  Somewhere nearby, a gas lamp flickered and went out. No one dared to breathe, waiting for the blood to spill. The pack mentality was already kicking in. The stranger could kill one of them, but once the rest of them piled in, he didn’t stand a chance. A couple of the older lads were already working out who would take over, who would be next top man. King Flinty was about to die. Long live the king.

  Petronio was no fool. Killing the boy was the equivalent of committing suicide. The knife came to a sudden halt, pricking the underside of the boy’s chin.

  “Well! Well! Well!” announced Petronio to astounded silence. “Who’s the softy now, Flinty?”

  The leader wasn’t entirely stupid. “You’ve made your point, pretty boy. Wotchu want?”

  And that’s when Petronio pulled off the biggest surprise of all. He let the boy go and put away his knife. “I’ve come to see your father. So let’s get on with it.”

  Flinty’s eyes went wide. “How d’ya know ’oo my old man is?”

  “Oh, please. Work it out. Your colleagues here call you Flinty.”

  Flinty paused. He didn’t like the sound of it. “And wot’s my dad gotta do wiv this?”

  Petronio took hold of Mercury’s reins. “Plenty. Shall we go?”

  He could see that Flinty thought he was mad. One second, the stranger was about to kill him, and the next, he wanted to see his old man. With the knife out of the way, all it would take was one look for the rest of the gang to do him.

  “And I have a feeling that if I turn up damaged in any way, your father, Julius Flint, Commander of the Arborian Armories, won’t be pleased.” Petronio’s words were sharper than any knife.

  “Why didn’t you say before?” Flinty muttered.

  “Like you said,” Petronio answered reasonably, “they’re soft as squit down south. Now, I’ve been riding for hours and would like a drink….”

  Flinty pulled out a flask from inside his cote and handed it over. “Get that down your neck!” he sneered. The fiery, forty-proof, home-brewed hooch would soon have the boy spewing his guts.

  Instead, Petronio glugged away merrily. “Not much flavor, though it hits the spot. Brewed from scaffield potatoes, I believe?” He wiped his lips in satisfaction.

  “Suppose …,” muttered Flinty. Even this small victory was denied him.

  “Lead on!” said Petronio, pointing into the mist.

  13• THE SLIPPERY TRUTH

  Five minutes later, Ark came to, his head throbbing with an all-too-real headache this time. He’d blown it. Did it look like he was capable of killing a king? They obviously thought he did. He should have brought Mucum with him. Ark tried not to open his eyes. He was aware that he was sprawled on the ground, but where, he had no idea. He could smell … ammonia. Better to pretend for a while longer.

  “By all that’s green, we’re gonna be in big trouble.” The soldier who spoke poked at Ark with his foot as if he were no more than a sewer rat.

  Ark wanted to try and explain. But whatever he said, they wouldn’t believe.

  “Look, we didn’t let him in. It won’t be us losing our jobs. Leave it to the head of security. He’s in with the old canker right now.”

  “If the King heard you calling him that, you’d be chopped.”

  “Nah! Not him. He’s soft as fungus. But I wouldn’t want to cross the other one. He can do the interrogation. Councillor Grasp is well known for his methods of extracting information!”

  They’d decided. A door swung open and slammed shut, a key grinding in the lock.

  At the mention of Grasp’s name, all the hope in Ark’s heart died. He really was too late.

  He tried to study his surroundings. His right eye had already swollen up so badly that he could hardly see through it. With the other one, he made an inventory: a bucket full of ammonia; several mops; a gas boiler; a servant’s toilet bowl that was shockingly dirty; and a door that looked solid enough to withstand a siege. Obviously, it was the first place the guards had found with a lock. It was a never-ending circle. It had all started in a utility room not unlike this. That first time, he’d been able to run out. Now what? If the Councillor found him, he’d be shut up, permanently, and the King would be no wiser. Even Mucum couldn’t help him now.

  Something sharp dug into his ribs. That stupid feather again, nestled among the loose tools that didn’t fit into his plumber’s belt. Hang on a second…. He still had his tools! He gave a little prayer of thanks to Diana and crawled over to the toilet. He never thought he’d actually feel affection for a place where you did your ablutions, but he could almost have kissed the seat. Warning the King would have to wait; living through the next ten minutes was a priority.

  It was an everyday job for a sewage worker. He quickly shut off the water, pulled the handle to drain the remaining liquid, and then proceeded to undo the bolt surrounding the base. In a flash, the toilet bowl was pushed aside, revealing a welcoming hole in the floor. It was small, but then, so was he. Ignoring the rising stink, he put his feet over the edge just as he heard footsteps pausing outside the door and a voice drifting through.

  “And you caught him where?”

  It was now
or never. He put his hands high over his head and let go. His feet and legs vanished downward but the ragged lip caught at his belt, halting his descent. He was stuck fast!

  The key began to turn. No! Ark fumbled with his belt, trying to undo the buckle, his fingers slipping in panic as his legs wiggled free beneath him like worms.

  The door swung open to reveal not just the two soldiers but an overweight figure dressed in gaudy colors like a bloated parrot. The man whose voice he’d heard plotting treachery only the day before. Grasp! And on either side of the Councillor, two guards whose faces he knew only too well.

  “What?” Salix’s eyes almost popped out. “But you’re dead!”

  Ark would be if he didn’t get a move on.

  Alnus instinctively rubbed his head where a nice lump had formed thanks to the application of a certain wrench belonging to the very much alive boy in front of him. “Why, you little …!” The fruity insult was lost under the sound of Salix’s hobnailed boots pounding toward the center of the room, his whole body eager to rip the little spy into even littler pieces. But just as his meaty fingers reached forward to pull Ark out like a snail from its shell, the belt finally gave way. With a slurping sound and a wail of fear, Ark slipped suddenly from sight.

  Salix leaned over the edge and peered into the darkness, trying not to breathe the stench in through his nose, shaking his fists in frustration. The boy had got away, again, down a hole that no grown-up ever had a chance of entering.

  Grasp was beside himself. “Twice you’ve lost him! What do I pay you for?” he fumed. “Find out where the soil pipe leads, you fools. Get some men and search the sewers.” He turned to the soldiers as Salix and Alnus ran down the corridor. “And as for you two, if you value your livelihoods and reputations, don’t, I repeat, don’t,” he snarled, “disturb the King with the news that you very nearly allowed him to be assassinated! Get back to your station outside the doors and do what you’re supposed to do. GUARD THEM!” he screamed. “We shall deal with the would-be killer and let His Majesty focus his great mind on more important matters.”

  Both soldiers stood at attention. “Yes, sir! Whatever you say, sir!”

  “I do say. Now leave me. Your incompetence has made me weary.”

  The soldiers marched away, glad they would still have wages at the end of the week. But Grasp was worried. Could a mere boy come between him and power? Of course not. There were only so many places a sewer could lead. His men would not, could not, fail.

  It was time to return to the late-night meeting with Quercus. The Harvest Festival was only six days away and the King wanted every boring detail gone over, as if it hadn’t been the same for year upon year. It really was time the ineffectual sap was cut down to size so those with ambition could rise up in his place. That was one part of the celebration plans that Grasp would keep secret. His Majesty’s sudden and inexplicable death.

  Ark had only a split second to take in the astounded look on the guard’s face before he was sliding straight down a pipe that was more used to effluent than half-size Dendrans.

  I really am in the squit now! How long before Grasp’s men found him? Mucum wouldn’t stand a chance. And then what? Falling through emptiness was turning into a dangerous habit. His feet scrabbled to get purchase on the smooth, near vertical walls, but there was nothing to hold on to. He was sliding faster and faster, with no choice but to point his toes and keep his arms up together above his head like an arrow, say his prayers, and go with the flow. He remembered a book his mother used to read to him when he was little, about a girl who fell down a hollow trunk into a magical otherworld: Alice in Underland. He thought it was stuff and nonsense. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  He reached out his fingers to try and get purchase on the sides of the soil pipe but it was impossible. The pipe suddenly zigzagged, tumbling him around until he had no idea which way was up, though the wind whistling past his ears told him that he was moving way too fast.

  The soil pipe suddenly widened and before he could even think, there was a splash, his fall cushioned in a way he could hardly bear to think about. This was no comforting cradle of straw. Nor did his head fill with the scent of incense. His head briefly went under. With a push of desperation, he surfaced again, wiping a film of indescribable liquid from his face and eyes, just glad to be alive. The river of so-called royal muck he flailed about in had just saved his life. The Holly Woodsmen said that the Goddess moved in mysterious ways. This really had to be one of them.

  He let the current take him, doing the loggy paddle that every sewer worker learned for their Basic Safety Certificate. Any second, he expected to hear the scraping back of an inspection hatch and the pounding of boots. The guards might be reluctant to get their hands dirty, but he was a bobbing target. An arrow would save them the bother and then Ark would end up as another bit of compost, his bones fertilizing the scaffields.

  “There are better places to take up swimming!”

  “Mucum!” Ark gasped, ecstatic to see a familiar and friendly face.

  “Do you want a hand?” Mucum leaned over the edge and grabbed hold of Ark’s forearm. “Yeurghhh!” His hand slipped and Ark briefly went under. “Ark!”

  A bespattered head rose above the surface. “Not … dead … yet!” Ark spat out.

  This time, as Ark paddled closer, Mucum knelt down and reached out both arms to grab hold of Ark’s body. The slurpy stuff wasn’t willing to give up its guest so easily. It was like pulling a stubborn carrot out of soil, but finally, with one last glop, Ark was heaved out onto the side.

  “Eye, eye, what’s goin’ on ’ere, then?” Mucum peered at Ark’s swollen eye.

  “Very funny,” Ark said, trying to catch his breath.

  “I take it you weren’t successful in yer mission?” Mucum wiped his hands down his britches as if that would take away the smell.

  Ark began shivering all over. “Worse than that. We’re really in the squit now. The guards are on their way. We have to run!”

  “What? We only got ’ere ‘alf an hour ago and now you wanna leave? Wot’s a coupla guards? I can sort them, easy.” Mucum cracked his knuckles to show he meant business.

  “Mucum, stop being thick! It’s not a few rats we’ve got to face but the whole of the King’s bodyguard, armed with swords.”

  Mucum’s face went red. Nobody called him stupid, least of all this stinking stick insect. He should have known the boy was trouble the moment Ark started weeping all over him. Without thinking, his fist shot out, ready to black Ark’s other eye.

  “Don’t!” Ark squealed as he ducked down.

  “Blood and Diana!” swore Mucum as his punch impacted on a very solid wall. He hopped up and down, the agony in his hand finally bringing him to his senses. “Not thinking …,” he mumbled.

  “Me, neither,” Ark admitted. Arguing wouldn’t save them. “Anyhow, forget it. We need to disappear.” His thoughts flew around like a whirlwind. At this very moment, they were right where the guards expected, in the sewers under the castle. He had to confound them, make them lose the trail. Suddenly, his one good eye lit up like a sap-sozzled firefly. This under-land was the place where engineers put all the gubbins that made a building work — sewers, gas pipes, mail tubes, and … waterworks.

  Ark shook himself off like a dog. “We need to find a door with a porthole!”

  “Do you mind?” said Mucum, as he was covered in spray. Now he knew how the miniature trees in the local park felt, being endlessly visited by dogs desperate to go.

  “Not at all!” Ark smiled. He ran, or rather squelched in his soaking wet creepers, down the tunnel in the direction of sewage flow, looking for evidence. Someone crafty had built this place — squeezed all the utilities through the same pipe but charged for them separately. He hoped he was right as he pounded along the iron mesh floor. Mucum’s heavy footsteps followed behind. The tunnel twisted and turned as more sewage outflows transformed the fast-flowing stream into a roaring river. At least this time, there were no rats.<
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  Ark slowed to a halt. Built into the side of the tunnel was a door with a porthole viewing panel and rotating locking wheel. He peered through with his left eye, unable to believe his luck. There was a small chamber followed by a second door. The double system was put in to prevent infection. Dendran effluent and drinking water did not make a good mix. But this was no time to worry about health and safety. He grabbed the wheel with both hands and tried to force it free. No good. It was stuck solid. He looked nervously up and down the passage as he tried again.

  Mucum pushed him out of the way. “Think I’m thick, eh?” Mucum grabbed the wheel, braced his legs, and strained.

  Ark could see the veins bulging along Mucum’s arms. Of course! He’d been pushing clockwise, tightening the seal.

  Mucum gave one last grunt and the wheel finally began to turn. “See?” he gasped. In a few seconds, the wheel spun around on its bearings. The seal was broken. With a hiss, the door gave way reluctantly, an all too loud screech echoing into the darkness.

  Ark checked the tunnel. Clear. They both slipped in, Ark closing the door behind him and turning the locking wheel as fast as he could.

  Their timing was spot on. As Ark leaned against the curved wall to get his breath, he felt the telltale tremors. Footsteps. Coming their way. They were trapped in a tiny capsule space between two doors, like spiders in a jar. It was too late to even think about turning the second locking wheel. The smell of his clothes, concentrated in this confined space, made him feel like retching. He pulled on Mucum’s shoulders, motioning him to crouch down into the shadows. “Keep your head down!” he whispered.

  “All right!” muttered Mucum. It wasn’t Ark’s plea but the thought of all those sharply honed swords that convinced him.