Master of the Books

by James Moloney

  ‘You don’t have anything to fear from us,’ the captains called back, but it wasn’t until the archers saw Lady Liana and her children that they put down their bows. The broken mast of the second vessel confirmed the travellers’ story and its captain was allowed ashore to go in search of repairs.

  ‘Not a very friendly welcome,’ Finn said to Rhys Tironel as they and Marcel watched the crew untie the tow rope between the two ships. ‘We shouldn’t have any trouble fitting a new mast though. Thank you for your help in getting us to safety. You can sail on to Noam now, as soon as you’re ready.’

  The wizard didn’t seem to hear Finn. He’d turned back to face the city and, stretching out his arm, he opened his palm towards it. He stood like that for only a few seconds until he winced and dropped his arm back to his side. Only then did Finn’s words appear to get through. ‘On to Noam … yes, of course.’

  He gave no orders to turn the ship towards the harbour mouth, however. When the captain of the damaged ship returned, Rhys called to him, ‘How long before you’ll be under way again?’

  ‘Three days at least, my lord, maybe four.’

  ‘Four days,’ Rhys repeated, and he took a long, deep breath. ‘Perhaps I’ll call on Cadell’s Master of the Books,’ he said.

  An hour later, Marcel found himself on the dock, with Termagant in his arms and Finn and Nicola on either side as they followed Rhys Tironel and his family into Cadell.

  They were bound for the imposing citadel, but to get there they had to weave a path through the steep and winding streets. The alleys and narrow laneways near the water’s edge were dark and seedy, as dockside streets always are. Marcel hurried past with the rest, expecting the scene to improve once they moved away from the docks, but he was soon disappointed. All the streets of Cadell were mean and filthy, it seemed. Sullen faces stared out at them through broken windows, ragged figures loitered in doorways, and thin, grimy children begged for coins at every corner. One tried to snatch the bundle Nicola was carrying but Finn was close by and chased the boy off.

  Four men approached along the street wearing the blue of a uniform. Recognising soldiers like himself, Finn called them, ‘Hold up, gentlemen, can you show us the best way to —’ The men didn’t stop, didn’t even slow their stride as they marched by, and if Finn hadn’t stepped out of the way he would have been shoved rudely into the wall of a nearby house.

  ‘This isn’t like Elstenwyck,’ said Nicola. ‘Father’s soldiers serve the people; they don’t frighten them out of the way.’

  As they caught sight of the gates into the citadel, Termagant delivered the final verdict directly into Marcel’s mind. ‘No rats for me here,’ she complained. ‘The people catch them and eat them.’

  They waited a long time for permission to enter the citadel, and even when it was granted, the massive gates themselves didn’t open. Instead, a smaller opening had been cut into one side, wide enough for a loaded cart to pass through and tall enough for a horse, but no bigger. It was slammed shut as soon as the last of them had stepped through.

  ‘Why don’t you open the whole gate?’ Finn asked the chamberlain who had come to lead them into the citadel.

  ‘The gates?’ he said, surprised. ‘They’ve stayed closed since King Osward was crowned ten years ago.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Marcel, but the chamberlain seemed at a loss to explain and turned away without answering to lead them across a wide courtyard.

  The contrast between the town and inside the citadel hit Marcel like a slap in the face. The air here was cool, as though the sunlight couldn’t easily find its way down between the high walls, but the cobblestones were swept, the doors and window frames freshly painted and, best of all, there were no hungry, worn faces eyeing them enviously.

  The citadel was like a city within a city. Stables with grooms’ quarters above them lined the inside of the walls to their right, and across the cobblestones were some two-storeyed buildings that must be barracks for the soldiers, Marcel decided. Towering above them to the left was an imposing keep that extended all the way to the sheer cliffs overlooking the ocean to the east. As they approached the keep’s main entrance, Marcel looked further and saw that the building stopped only ten paces short of the citadel’s heavily fortified walls, close enough for a bridge to connect its upper levels to the battlements.

  A man emerged and hurried towards them. Marcel saw the symbols of sorcery embroidered on the hem and sleeves of his robe and knew immediately he must be Cadell’s Master of the Books.

  ‘Rhys, Rhys, it’s good to see you again,’ the man said. ‘I should be bowing to you now that you’re the new Master of Noam.’ He clasped hands with Rhys Tironel and Lady Liana.

  ‘Lord Menidae,’ Rhys acknowledged, and began the introductions for the rest of the group. When he came to Marcel, he paused a moment and asked a silent question with the raising of an eyebrow. Marcel shook his head, just enough for his answer to be clear, and sighed in relief when Rhys neglected to mention that he was a wizard also.

  Rooms had been prepared for Rhys and his family in the keep, and since Marcel and Nicola were of royal blood their party was welcomed inside too.

  ‘King Osward wants you all to join him for dinner,’ Menidae told them.

  That evening, when the sun had disappeared, he returned to lead them to the banquet hall. The huge room glittered with gold-leaf decorations on the walls, the pillars, even the ceiling. No one could be seated until the king arrived, so Rhys and Lady Liana chatted with Cadell’s Master of the Books, Finn found a welcome among officers in the army, and Nicola seemed content to take charge of the Tironel children. That left Marcel to observe unhindered.

  Why so many people, he wondered. There were twice the number he was used to at Elster’s court. Did King Osward really need this number of ministers and advisers to govern Tamerlane? Apart from the visitors, every person in the room was sumptuously dressed in silk and velvet, the ladies competing with one another for the most extravagant headpiece.

  This wasn’t the only competition of the evening. King Osward arrived, drawing bows and hand-clapping from his courtiers. Fat-faced and barely taller than Marcel, he would have been entirely unimpressive if not for the gold that shimmered from every button and the many rings on his fingers. As soon as he came to a halt in the middle of the room, bodies moved towards him, yet once one man had gained the king’s attention another would edge him out of the way. The women were just as bad. The king seemed to think it all a great game, but to Marcel, watching from behind a pillar, the little man looked like a smiling carcass surrounded by vultures who hoped to tear a morsel from his flesh.

  Finn appeared at his side and followed his gaze to the grotesque dance going on around the king. ‘That’s a sad sight,’ he whispered. ‘The court flatters the king to win his favour, while outside the city walls Cadell is at war.’

  ‘War?’

  ‘Those officers,’ Finn said, nodding subtly to his right, ‘they’ve told me what’s going on. Osward’s army, what’s left of it, is desperately trying to hold back the rival forces that want to depose the king. No wonder the townspeople we saw today looked so demoralised. They’re cut off from the farmlands that feed them. The city isn’t under siege yet, but it’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘Who has invaded, though? Father would have heard if one kingdom was gathering troops to attack another.’

  ‘This war is not one kingdom invading another, Marcel. It’s the king’s own people rebelling against him.’

  A page swept past them, ringing a bell to call all to the tables. He had barely finished when a girl entered the room. Somewhere between Nicola and Marcel in age, she seemed very sure of herself even if her dress wasn’t as extravagant as the many other gowns worn that night.

  As well, her face was free of the pale creams favoured by other courtiers, even the men. In fact, her skin glowed with the tan of someone who refuses to spend all day hidden away inside. Marcel was surprised at how pretty she seemed. Why her? He�
��d seen plenty of blued-eyed girls before, many of them with honey-coloured hair like hers, so what made her so special? He was soon aware of another surprise.

  When the noble lords and ladies bowed towards her, Marcel realised she was Osward’s daughter.

  He stopped following her progress across the room and searched for his place at table. Good, he was next to Rhys Tironel, he discovered. While he leaned across to share a word with the wizard, someone slipped into the chair on his other side. Only when he straightened up did he discover it was the princess.

  ‘My name is Demiter,’ she announced bluntly but without rudeness. ‘Please don’t call me Princess or Your Highness.’

  ‘Fine, I won’t then,’ said Marcel. ‘You sound like my sister; she doesn’t like those words either. That’s her, across the table.’

  Nicola was indeed directly across the table, staring straight ahead and looking very, very uncomfortable. She had been seated beside Finn. The two princesses eyed each other off coolly, and after exchanging compliments about each other’s dress their conversation died.

  Food began to arrive on enormous silver platters, and it kept coming, until there was more than the guests could possibly eat: venison, beef, lamb and chicken; a roasted peacock among a fan of its own feathers; exotic fruits and piles of freshly baked bread.

  Conversation centred around the king. ‘I recall a hunting party when I was a youth,’ he began and for the next ten minutes he went on with a dull tale about the day he chased a deer until his horse dropped dead beneath him. By the time he’d finished, Marcel had long since stopped listening, yet the courtiers hung on every word and outdid themselves with laughter at the fate of the unfortunate horse.

  ‘No wonder the poor thing collapsed when it had to carry such a heavy load,’ said a voice, too low to be heard by anyone but Marcel. It was Demiter who’d spoken, and she stared him straight in the eye to see what he made of her scathing remark.

  ‘No way to treat a horse,’ he agreed.

  When the king stopped talking (because his mouth was stuffed with food), she started up again. ‘Look at these leeches,’ she said, nodding up and down the rows of diners. ‘The city is practically under siege and they’re only interested in what they can get out of my father. They won’t even tell him how strong the rebels have become. I tell you, if I was in charge I’d kick all these fine gentlemen out to the frontlines and make them fight.’

  Marcel was stunned to hear the girl speak so fiercely about her own father’s failings.

  ‘The town doesn’t look as though it will survive a siege for very long,’ he said.

  ‘You’re right. It’s a disgrace. By keeping those gates shut, Father thinks he can forget about his people. That’s something I’d change as well,’ said Demiter.

  Nicola would enjoy hearing a princess talk like this. Marcel looked across the table, hoping to catch her eye, but what he saw chased the idea from his head. His sister was no longer silent and no longer miserable either, it seemed, because she was talking freely and with a conviction he recognised all too easily. ‘I’ve always believed that …’ He couldn’t catch the rest of what she said, but she was excited and enjoying herself. The strange thing was, she was telling all this to Finn, and he responded with the same enthusiasm in his face. ‘I agree, but if …’

  Marcel left them to it.

  CHAPTER 13

  Under Siege

  A SERVANT WOKE MARCEL the next morning with some surprising news. ‘Princess Demiter is waiting for you.’

  ‘Waiting for me … where, in the dining hall? Does she want me to have breakfast with her?’

  ‘No, sir, she’s in the corridor outside.’

  Marcel was still stuffing his shirt into his pants when he staggered awkwardly out the door. ‘What’s going on?’

  Demiter was carrying a basket hooked over one arm. She used the other to put a hand over his mouth. ‘Don’t wake the others,’ she whispered. ‘We’re going down into the town.’

  He expected them to follow the obvious route, out of the keep and across the courtyard to the gate within a gate. Instead, she led him along passageway after passageway and down staircases, heading deeper into the building rather than outside. These must be the servants’ quarters, Marcel decided, only to descend to yet another level, this one crammed with storerooms, where the walls on either side weren’t made of bricks and mortar but solid rock.

  ‘We’re underground now. Feel behind that barrel over there,’ Demiter told him, nodding towards the one she meant. ‘You’ll find a torch and some flint. We’ll need them to see the way ahead.’

  With a quick glance over her shoulder to be sure no servants had followed them, she drew aside a curtain to reveal a rough staircase cut into rock. ‘Down here.’

  At the bottom lay a tunnel, also hewn through solid rock, which branched away in opposite directions. She led Marcel along the left-hand branch; it would be easy to get lost among the many turns and darkened corridors, he thought.

  ‘You’ve been down here before, haven’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ she snapped with a hint of exasperation. It reminded Marcel of last night when she had shown no patience for the fools of her father’s court. ‘These tunnels were dug before anyone still alive can remember. They cut through the rock under the citadel like a giant rabbit warren, and the best thing is not many people even know they’re here.’

  At last she halted at what looked like a dead end until she pressed firmly on the wall with her free hand and the solid rock became a doorway.

  There didn’t seem to be any more light through the doorway than inside the tunnel at first. It was the noise, however, that caught Marcel’s attention. ‘Sounds like … like chickens.’

  ‘Right first time. This chicken coop belongs to some friends of mine. Watch your clothes. Could get a bit messy,’ Demiter warned as she led him past shoulder-high ledges chaotic with the cluck and flutter of startled birds. Before they emerged into the glare of daylight, Demiter gathered her cloak closely around her to hide her brightly coloured dress and pulled its hood over her head. Moments later they were in a street halfway down the slope to the water’s edge. Marcel could pick out his own ship moored at the dock and noted with relief that a new mast was being hoisted into place.

  ‘What’s in the basket?’ he asked, now that he didn’t have to remain silent.

  The princess flicked aside the covering cloth long enough for him to see some remains of last night’s banquet. Together, they delivered it to a house where a woman seemed to be expecting her.

  ‘How’s your husband today?’ Demiter asked.

  ‘Not so good, but he’ll be better when he gets this lot inside him. Thank you, Miss.’

  ‘Doesn’t that woman know who you are?’ Marcel asked when the door had closed again.

  ‘If she knew I was the king’s daughter she’d throw the basket back in my face. Come on, there are other streets you should see yet.’ For the next heart-wrenching hour she showed him more of the misery he’d glimpsed the day before. Even worse than the poverty was the look of fear in every eye.

  ‘They know the rebels are almost at the gates of Cadell,’ Demiter explained. ‘And if the army can’t hold them back, the entire city will be cut off from the countryside. No more flour or corn, no meat or milk.’

  ‘Aren’t there supplies stored away in case of siege?’

  ‘Yes, but they’re inside the citadel. These people won’t see much of it and they know it.’

  In a street of houses that seemed more prosperous than the rest, Demiter’s knock at one door was answered by a servant whose face brightened when she saw who it was. Her curtsy showed that here the princess’s identity was certainly known.

  ‘Come in, Your Highness, the general was hoping you’d call today.’

  They were ushered inside to meet a man who rose immediately from beside a meagre fire and bowed to his guests.

  ‘Marcel, this is General Kendally,’ said the princess. ‘He was the head o
f Tamerlane’s army until those fools in the citadel convinced my father to give one of them the job instead. Now our soldiers couldn’t fight off a pack of dogs.’

  ‘Don’t be so hard on them, Demiter,’ the general said. ‘Properly led, our men are still a match for any foe. Ismar may find that out yet.’

  ‘Ismar?’ Marcel asked.

  ‘He’s the one who’s stirred rebellion among our people in the countryside,’ Demiter said. ‘He was a sorcerer once —’

  ‘And still is,’ said General Kendally, interrupting the princess without apology. ‘A very powerful one, I think.’ Seeing the dismay on Marcel’s face, the general tried to explain. ‘Ismar was Menidae’s apprentice, until he began to experiment with animals.’

  ‘Animals?’ said Marcel, not sure why this would be a concern. He had cast spells over animals himself, not very effectively with Termagant, it was true, but the pigeon that carried his messages to Bea had been a great success.

  ‘Not animals alone, animals and humans together,’ said the general, making no attempt to hide his disgust.

  ‘Transmogrification, but that’s forbidden throughout the Mortal Kingdoms,’ said Marcel. ‘Did anyone die before you stopped him?’

  ‘One unfortunate boy that we know of, but there may have been others.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Demiter. ‘Father never explained to me exactly why Ismar was banished. What’s trag … trans …’

  ‘Transmogrification,’ said Marcel, helping her pronounce the word. He’d come across it in one of Lord Alwyn’s books and been shocked at what he read. ‘It’s the cruellest magic I’ve ever heard of. It forces a human being into the body of a wild beast so they become a kind of double creature.’

  Demiter put her hand to her mouth. ‘How horrible. You said he did it to a young boy, General?’

  ‘An orphan he’d snatched from the streets, apparently. Ismar fused the unwilling urchin with a dog so the creature could bark and bite but also walk on two legs and speak like a human. The boy’s terror made the beast wild and dangerous, yet Ismar’s magic forced it to obey his commands. Swords were useless against it when it attacked a troop of soldiers, and only arrows enchanted by Menidae were able to kill the poor thing.’