Mr Eccleston grasped her arm fiercely.
‘You must come with me, Cassandra, you’re in great danger here.’
‘But… you… you’re one of them!’
‘Cassandra. You must trust me. Your mother would want you to trust me. Rufus would want you to trust me.’
‘But you had me taken away! You told on me!’
‘That is a lie Cassandra, a hideous untruth. My only ever desire is to protect you.’
‘How can I trust you?’
‘You must. I am your only hope.’
The Princess thought about it for a second. That was about all the time she had. She didn’t want to go with him, she didn’t trust him, but amidst the horror of it all, it felt right.
‘Wait,’ she said.
Balthazar, who had no intention of sticking around, was trying to creep away unnoticed. He didn’t have the strength to charm both the girl and the man, and an onslaught of trampling legs was coming his way.
He got about a foot’s distance before the Princess grabbed him under his belly and lifted him to her chest.
He hissed and moaned.
‘My cat,’ said the Princess.
Your what? thought Balthazar.
‘Very well. Come,’ said Mr Eccleston.
And with that, the tutor, the Princess and a reluctant Balthazar made off out of the crowd.
That wasn’t so good for Niclas.
He was waiting under a lamppost watching the horde of people move like a body of water to every exit in the square. He couldn’t see his master anywhere. Trying to spot a black cat in a mass of hundreds of people was like… well… trying to spot a black cat in a mass of hundreds of people. Really, really hard. It didn’t matter how much he squinted, there was no sign of either the cat or the Princess.
Several thoughts occurred to Niclas. Firstly, that he’d picked the wrong lamppost and Balthazar had left him there because of it. Secondly, that the Princess and Balthazar had been caught by the guards and were by now already en route to the Academy. Then he had the idea that Balthazar had never liked him much in the first place and had ditched him at the first opportunity. That was a tough one to stomach. The other thought was that Balthazar had taken a little longer than planned to get the Princess back, but was making his way over right at that moment…
He picked the latter of these, not because it was the most logical, but because it was the nicest.
But after another minute, the other three options became hard to ignore. And after ten minutes, even harder still.
But Niclas wasn’t really in the business of making decisions for himself, so he continued to do as he had been told, and waited.
That was until the guards spotted him. At least, it looked like they might have spotted him. One pointed his way and whispered something to the other. Then they exchanged words with the pompous looking, pointy-nosed Inspector Forsyth, who was up on a big grey horse.
It could have just been coincidence. Surely they hadn’t made him out from so far away. But then, he was the only person not trying to leave the square; and a suspicious cloaked figure standing at the perimeter of a public event looks… well… like a suspicious cloaked figure standing at the perimeter of a public event.
Niclas tried not to stare, but he couldn’t be certain they weren’t on to him, so his eyes lingered on them until their passing gaze lingered on him. When that happened, he made a pathetic attempt to pretend he was looking up over their heads. They didn’t fall for that old trick and soon enough, the Inspector gave the nod and the two guards started on his position.
He looked back into the crowd. Now would be perfect dramatic timing for Balthazar and the Princess to appear, then they’d make haste together, to the docks and beyond.
But now the guards were nearing closer, shouldering their way through the mob, hands on the twisted handles of their silver rapiers.
He had to run. As soon as he did it would give him away for sure, but it was probably too late anyway.
He backed away from the lamppost and moved sideways, like a hesitant crab, in the opposite direction.
Their pace increased. His increased.
There was no use trying to blend in, he had to make a break for it. If he could just get out of the crowd, then he could follow the Queen’s Road to the Brewery Quarter and cross back into the slums. They’d never find him there.
He stopped.
His heart began to pound.
Ahead of him, he’d seen another Watchman moving towards him. They were closing in around him like a net. He changed direction, started to move back towards the gallows. But the solitary Watchman came to meet him, cutting across the crowd.
‘You there, boy! Stop!’ he said, reaching out. Now he was only two or three people away, and reaching for the steel curved handle of his rapier. But his hand would never touch it. For between him and the boy came a man from seemingly nowhere. He gave the Watchman an open armed embrace, as if the two knew one another. But through the flash of moving people, Niclas saw the embrace for what it really was, and watched as a short sword was driven deep into the guard’s armpit, between the plates of his bronze, leather armour, and angled upwards into his heart. Once. Twice. The attacker’s other hand stifled the watchman’s mouth. No one had even noticed. And just like that the guard stumbled backwards and was dead.
Niclas didn’t have words. The Witchhunter turned to face him, grabbed him, and dragged him back into the direction of the swarm.
He looked for the other guards. They’d lost him. They were stood still, searching the square.
Niclas and the Witchhunter made it ten feet, maybe twelve, before a woman screamed. The guards hurried to her and found their dead comrade.
There was no panic in the crowd around the body. The corpse looked so peaceful, that for all anyone knew, the dead guard could have fainted. It was not uncommon for members of the Watch to faint at public events. The crowds and the leather cladding of their armour made it stuffy and hard to breathe.
But then, when Niclas and the Witchhunter had made it another ten feet, the guards noticed the blood seeping from the man’s side. At once they stood. One drew his sword. The other, his pistol. Then came the sound of a hollow whistle ringing out. Two long blows, followed by two more.
Guards all over the square knew what two long blows, followed by two more meant. They unsheathed their swords and advanced into the crowd on all sides.
Now the public were waking up to it. Everyone was starting to look back, all except the Witchhunter and Niclas, who were too busy getting away to look back.
Up ahead guards were pouring into the wide streets leading out of the Guard’s Square. They were slowing the crowd down, inspecting people as they left. It was only a few minutes before every road leading out of the square had a checkpoint assembled around it.
‘Crikey! Wot we gonna do, gov,’ said Niclas.
‘Act normal,’ said the Witchhunter.
‘Normal?’ said Niclas. What was normal? He couldn’t help but stare at the guards and their guns and their swords and their searching eyes. Some were sat up high on horseback and watched over the crowd like falcons.
‘You got a plan, gov?’
The silence suggested that either the Witchhunter had a very sound idea to escape, or, that he had nothing.
As they neared the checkpoint, Niclas saw guards passing round wanted posters between each other. Then he saw ones stopping and searching people, asking questions, telling people to remove hoods and hats.
‘Steady’ said one of the searchers, lifting his hand to the Withchunter’s chest. The great coat was so big and long that it was destined to be searched.
‘Stay close,’ muttered the Witchhunter. And Niclas became his shadow, turning his face down away from the guard.
‘Open your coat,’ the Watchman ordered.
The Witchhunter reached inside his coat and squeezed the handle of his short sword.
There were at least eight or nine of them close by, all armed
with enough ammunition to fight a small war.
Niclas thought he might wet himself, and probably would have, had he not taken the liberty of relieving himself in the canal earlier.
There was a shout from behind, back where the guard had been stabbed. It was hard to hear what was said, or if it came from the public or the Watch, but it sent a trembling wave of unease through the square. The people furthest back began to push forward. Amongst the nearest people, there were whispers of murder, of a killer in the crowd. Everyone could feel it, the shuffling, jittery smell of uncertainty.
‘Keep calm!’ called out one of the guards on horseback. ‘Please continue to exit the square in an orderly fashion. You may be stopped and searched as you do so. The Watch demands your utmost cooperation.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the haughty guard before the Witchhunter, ‘I asked you to open your coat.’
‘You should let me pass.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. Your coat, if you’d please.’ The guard stepped back, clutched the pistol at his waist and brought the whistle hovering up to his mouth.
‘You don’t want this,’ said the Witchhunter in a low voice, ‘don’t you have a family? Something to live for?’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ said the guard, trying to remain authoritative, but paralysed, unable to blow the whistle or pull the pistol; and there was a tremble in his voice that was only to be expected. Some men have eyes that when you look into them, you know to do exactly as they say. Some men have dangerous eyes, killer’s eyes. The Witchhunter’s eyes were this very flavour. Murderous.
‘What’s the holdup there?’ shouted the guard on horseback.
And then all of a sudden, Niclas could see where things were going. The Witchhunter was going to kill them. As many as he could. He’d certainly kill the man in front of him, perhaps slit his throat steal his gun and shoot the guard on horseback with it. But he wouldn’t be able to kill them all, and there were musketeers at the back, with rifles to pick them off. A bloodbath was about to erupt in the Guard’s Square. It was going to end badly, messily, bloodily. But worst of all, they were going to die.
There had to be another way, a way that didn’t lead down that road.
What would a reasonably minded person do, thought Niclas? What would Cassandra do? She’d probably try and bribe the guard, offer him money, assert her status, say something smart, something clever.
That wouldn’t work.
Then, Niclas thought, what would Balthazar do?
Yes. That seemed about right.
Without warning, he stepped away from the Witchhunter, put his hands around his mouth and shouted as loud as he possibly could, so loud he shredded his vocal chords. ‘’ELP, HE’S GOT A GUN. MURDERER! MURDERER IN THE SQUARE!’
At first the Witchhunter turned and struck him with a look of betrayal.
Then he looked up.
The crowd around them swelled like an ocean current. Panicked expressions leapt from one face to another. Then the swell broke. One or two people started it. They pushed and shoved and sent those around them pushing and shoving. Soon, thirty, forty people were shouting, cursing, forcing their way to the exits. Then a hundred. Then two hundred.
The guard nearest drew his pistol but was washed aside by the surge of human bodies. He tried to resist the wave, went under and was crushed to death.
The guard on horseback was flung backwards as his horse reeled up in fright, its front hooves clobbered the nearest woman and knocked her to the ground dead.
More screaming ensued.
More panic.
And now people lost their wits and all sense of their wits. They pushed against the small wooden blockades, and when they wouldn’t break, the people behind that pushed against them and so on and so on, until it was the people themselves who broke. Arms dislocated. Legs crushed. Ribs popped out.
The line of Watchmen were following orders and their orders were to detain people within the square. And so, when one highly ranked guardsmen readied his sword, the others thought nothing of it, they readied theirs and the rapiers cut down on the crowd as if cutting back a hedgerow.
Blood splattered and flicked into mouths and into eyes. It fed the panic, like oil to a flame. Some turned, tried to run the other way. Some fell underfoot and were trampled to death.
‘Get back! Back you fools!’ cried an officer of the Watch. But the crowd was unable to listen. They were frightened and completely out of control. So he ordered his musketeers to have one off over the top. But they mistook his order. They fired level. Bullets split heads and cut through necks. Women, children, men; rich folk, poor folk, servant folk, all were caught equally in the barrage.
And now, like a squeezed pimple that wasn’t quite ready to come out, the crowd ruptured and the cobbled floor shook.
They smashed into the guards – through the chopping swords and thrusting bayonets. They crashed through the wooden barriers, and spilled into the streets. It was every person for themselves. They ran and leapt and bounded down the streets as far as they could get from the bedlam. And when they got far enough, they looked back, some with blood on their faces and shook their heads because that was all they could do.
In the centre of the square, there were still shouts for calm, for order, for people to remain reasonable.
No one had ears to listen.
It was chaos.
Utter chaos.
And in that chaos, the Witchhunter, and Niclas, the boy with absolutely no talents, disappeared.
Widdershins Page 33