Sebastian looked at Princess Kerin standing helplessly on the stage and felt like going down and showing Kasim that not everybody liked what he did, but he knew he had to wait for the appropriate moment, otherwise they'd never stand a chance of getting out of here alive. He wondered how Cornelius was doing under the stage . . .
Deep in the criss-crossed timbers beneath the platform, Cornelius was at work, tying his last pack of thunder-sticks to one of the main supports. He had linked all the short fuses together so they could be lit simultaneously, and he figured that once ignited, he had perhaps to the count of ten to get out of there and shield himself from the blast. He glanced upwards at a small gap in the boards, through which he could catch occasional glimpses of what was happening onstage.
It would be impossible to see the exact moment when Princess Kerin stepped up onto the rostrum, but he had told Max to issue a loud moo at the appropriate time and that would be the signal to light the fuses. Once the explosives went up, it would be anybody's guess what happened next, and Cornelius had to admit that he didn't really have a clear idea of where it went from there. With any luck the explosion would stun people long enough to allow them to escape from the crowd – but Cornelius had had no idea it would be as big and jam-packed as it was.
He finished tying the last fuse and reached into his pocket for his tinderbox and a small candle he had borrowed from his room at the inn. Crouching down, he gathered a little straw together and struck the flint against the box, scraping repeatedly until he produced a big enough spark to get the kindling smouldering. By carefully blowing on the kindling, he eventually managed to produce a tiny flame, and from this he set the wick of the candle alight. He crouched there, ready to ignite the fuses the moment that he heard Max's alarm. From above him he heard the deep voice of Kasim, calling out to his public . . .
From where he stood near the front of the stage Max had a perfect view of the proceedings. Kasim spread his hands in a dramatic gesture.
'So, my friends,' he roared. 'We're all set. Let the auction begin. Bring me the first one!'
A soldier moved into the line of captives and emerged holding a skinny, tangle-haired woman by the arm. He pushed her towards Kasim, who gestured with his whip, indicating that she should stand up on the raised wooden plinth in front of her so the crowd could get a better view. Clearly terrified, the woman did as she was told. She stood there, looking anxiously around.
'Now, here's a real beauty,' roared Kasim sarcastically, and the crowd laughed. 'All right, there's not much meat on her bones, but I dare say she can work hard enough. She'd be good for scrubbing floors and cleaning out latrines and I've no doubt she can cook and sew. Who'll start me off at one croat?'
Somewhere in the crowd a hand went up, and the auction was under way.
Max could see the tears of humiliation in the woman's eyes. It must be a terrible thing, he decided, to be treated like this. Not that his kind weren't used to such things. Most buffalopes got sold at some point in their lives and it was always humans that did the bidding. But to bid for their own kind like this! How degrading. No buffalope would ever sink so low.
'I wish that big hairy brute would move,' said a voice immediately to his right, and Max turned his head in surprise. A short distance away, four slaves were struggling to hold up an opulent sedan chair so the occupants could have a clear view of the auction platform. On the chair, reclining on rich velvet and brocade cushions, lounged a fat merchant and his equally fat wife. They were looking towards the stage with interest, but the woman was holding a silk handkerchief over her nose, as though a smell was bothering her. She pointed a stubby, jewel-encrusted finger at Max. 'Can't you get him to clear off, Archibald?' she asked her husband. 'You know how sensitive my nose is.'
'I don't see how he can move,' replied the merchant. 'We're all hemmed in here. Mind you, I don't know who'd be stupid enough to leave such a creature there in the first place.' He lifted a hand to make a bid. 'Three croats!' he roared.
'You're not bidding for that sour-faced old baggage, are you?' protested the woman. 'What would you want her for?'
'The woman who tends the cesspits is getting too old for the work,' said Archibald. 'She can barely stand. I don't mind paying a few croats for somebody with a bit more energy.'
From the stage, Kasim surveyed the crowd. 'Three croats, I'm bid. Do I hear four?' He gazed around, looking for a sign among the crowd. 'Anybody? At three croats, then . . . going . . . going—'
'Four croats,' said Max, in as loud a voice as possible, while keeping his head well down.
'Four croats, I'm bid!' Kasim waved a hand in Max's general direction. 'Will anybody make it five?'
There was a long pause before Archibald said, 'Five croats.'
His wife gave him a disapproving look over the top of her silk handkerchief. 'Don't bid any higher,' she advised him. 'She wouldn't be worth it.'
Archibald smiled. 'Don't worry, nobody's going to pay more than—'
'Six croats!' said Max.
'Six croats, I'm bid,' said Kasim. 'Do I hear seven?'
The fat merchant was staring around the crowd, trying in vain to spot whoever it was that was bidding against him. 'Who was it?' he asked his wife. 'Somebody very cultured, by the sound of it. I bet it was that jumped-up little oil seller, Antonius. He's always trying to go one better than me.'
'Forget it,' she advised him. 'It's no great loss. You can bid for another one. Somebody younger, stronger . . .'
But the merchant ignored his wife's advice. 'Seven croats!' he roared defiantly. Clearly this was a man who was used to getting his own way. 'Let's see Antonius beat that,' he said to his wife with a smug smile.
'Twenty croats!' said Max. There was uproar in the crowd. Kasim couldn't believe his good fortune.
'Did I hear twenty croats?' he cried. 'That's fantastic' He was scanning the crowd now, trying to see who the bidder might have been. 'Only the first sale of the day and people are already digging deep in their purses. Now then, is there any advance on twenty?'
The merchant was looking around in open-mouthed awe. His wife, meanwhile, was pointing at Max. 'It was that animal!' she cried. I saw its mouth move!'
'What?' Her husband stared at her in astonishment. 'Don't be ridiculous, dear. It was Antonius. I know that slimy voice when I hear it. Well, he's not getting the better of me!'
The merchant was clearly going to bid again, but his wife grabbed his arms and held on tight until Kasim had dismissed the bidding.
'Going . . . going . . . gone for twenty croats!' Kasim pulled the woman down off the rostrum and pushed her unceremoniously towards the stockade where the winning bidders could collect their slaves. Then he gestured to his soldiers to pick out another one.
Max was giving a satisfied sidelong glance at the sedan chair, where the red-faced merchant and his wife were having a very loud argument.
'I'm telling you it was the buffalope! I saw its mouth move.'
'D'you think I'm stupid, woman? Antonius has had it in for me ever since we put that shop next to his.'
'It wasn't Antonius! Don't you know those animals can be trained to speak?'
'Oh, really – as if a great shaggy brute like that would have the intelligence to bid at a slave auction! Now, shut up, this one looks very interesting.'
'I'm not sure I approve. She's too pretty for my liking.'
Max turned his head back towards the stage and his eyes widened in surprise. He had expected to have to wait ages before they got to the princess, but no, here she was being prodded along at the point of a spear, while a second soldier restrained the plump woman she'd been standing with. Now she was climbing reluctantly up onto the rostrum. Max glanced up towards the window and saw Sebastian crouched in position, all ready to go. But first he had to give the signal. For a terrible moment he couldn't remember what it was. He started to panic, but then remembered: it wasn't a word or anything complicated. It was that degrading sound again. Still, he thought, at least this time it was fo
r a good cause.
He lifted his head, gathered all the power in his lungs and let out a great bellowing 'Mooooooooooooooooooo!'
CHAPTER 28
TO THE RESCUE
Under the wooden platform the noise was so sudden and so loud that Cornelius jolted as though from a dream. He reached out a hand to grab the candle, but caught it awkwardly with the tip of a finger, knocking it over. It immediately went out.
'No!' he gasped. He fumbled in his pockets for his tinder-box, knowing that he would have to go through the whole process of lighting the candle again – and that Sebastian would have already launched himself at the sound of Max's call. He got the tinderbox in his hand, detached the flint and started frantically striking sparks . . .
Sebastian took a firm grip on each end of the short length of rope, snatched in a deep breath and jumped out of the window.
At first he just dropped, and he had the horrible sensation that he was going to keep dropping until he hit the cobbled street below; but then he reached the point where the support thread snapped him back up again and he began to move towards the stage, slowly at first but with increasing momentum. Below him he saw the wide stretch of the wooden platform and Princess Kerin, gazing anxiously out at the massed crowd; and as he looked down at her, he was aware that his pace was quickening dramatically, the short rope sliding easily over the long stretch of silken thread. He snapped his gaze up to the end of it and it was then that he saw the grappling arrow pull a big chunk of masonry out of the roof opposite.
The rope ahead of him went suddenly, horribly slack and he was left flying through the air, forwards and downwards, carried by his own momentum. He opened his mouth to yell something, but then the crowded stage was whizzing up to meet him, so he forgot about yelling and concentrated instead on trying to land in one piece.
Cornelius struck and struck again, and the big sparks fell onto the mound of straw, fizzled and went out. He kept on striking repeatedly with the flint, his hands slippery with sweat and then, just when he thought it was no use trying any more, a spark caught, glowed red and burst into a tiny orange flame. He snatched up the candle, held the wick ever so carefully to the flame and finally managed to get a light.
'Yes!' he hissed; and almost blew the candle out again.
He put the flat of his hand around the flame, sheltering it from any other breath that might emerge from his mouth. Now he transferred the candle to the jumble of intersecting fuses gathered in the middle of the main beam, and immediately a bright hissing flame flared in his face. He crouched there for a moment, gazing at the rapidly shortening fuse; then remembered that he didn't have much time, so he turned round and started crawling frantically on his hands and knees, back to the opening at the front of the stage. And that was when his chain-mail jerkin snagged on a nail, leaving him stuck as the fuses burned rapidly closer to their explosive charges . . .
Max stared up in horror as Sebastian's gangly body fell through the air. He was pretty sure that this last development wasn't intentional, and looking at the way Sebastian was flailing downwards, it was hard to know which particular bit of the stage he would land on and whether he would arrive feet or head first. But there was no time to dwell on it: Max had to get on with his part of the plan. He nodded at the two equines, who were standing just ahead of him, closer to the stage.
'All right,' he said. 'On my command. One . . . two . . . three!'
And he and the equines turned quickly round so they were facing away from the stage. Max's main role, once Sebastian, Cornelius and the princess were mounted, was to clear a path for the escape. He noted, with more than a hint of satisfaction, that the fat merchant and his wife were right there in front of him. He saw the startled expressions on their faces and just couldn't resist speaking to them.
'Lovely day for an auction, isn't it?' he said brightly.
Sebastian steeled himself for the impact of the wooden stage against his skinny body, but at the last possible moment something softer intervened: Kasim. Sebastian had a brief impression of the slave-master's startled face an instant before he slammed into him. He felt the man grunt in surprise as all the air was knocked out of his body. Then the two of them fell, and Kasim's shoulders hit the wooden stage scant seconds before Sebastian came crashing down on top of him. Kasim's eyes bulged in pain and he opened his mouth to yell, but he couldn't get any breath. Sebastian rolled over onto his back and found himself looking up at an astonished Princess Kerin.
'You!' she gasped. 'Where did you come from?'
Sebastian gestured vaguely towards the upstairs window of the tavern opposite, but he too was unable to catch enough breath to make a reply.
He got back to his feet, drawing his sword as he did so, aware that the soldiers were all staring at him in astonishment, too surprised as yet to make a move. He also knew that this situation wouldn't last long. He stepped up to Princess Kerin, threw an arm around her waist and began to pull her towards the edge of the platform, wondering what had happened to the explosion. What if the fireworks had failed to ignite? He heard a groan from beside him, and glancing down he saw that Kasim was struggling upright, an angry expression on his face. He was still holding his whip in one massive hand.
'What happens now?' asked Princess Kerin.
It was a very good question.
Cornelius struggled to free his chain-mail singlet from the nail, but a link of metal had caught in the head and it was refusing to budge. He glanced desperately towards the thunder-sticks and saw that the fuses were burning down at terrifying speed, only a fingernail's length away from the explosives.
'Shadlog's beard!' he growled. He summoned all his strength and pulled hard. He was rewarded with a ripping sound and then, quite suddenly, he was free and scrambling frantically towards the opening at the edge of the stage . . .
'I don't know how you got here, Elf-man,' snarled Kasim, advancing towards Sebastian, his whip raised. 'But when I'm finished with you, you'll wish you'd stayed in Keladon to face the executioner's axe.'
Behind him, the other soldiers were advancing too, their swords and spears raised. Sebastian pushed Princess Kerin behind him and lifted his own sword in defiance as Kasim closed on him. He remembered something he had heard Cornelius say and tried to follow his example.
'Step right up here if you think you're hard enough,' he said, as calmly as he could manage. 'And I'll take that great ugly head off your shoulders.'
Kasim grinned unpleasantly, showing several gold teeth dotted in among his natural ones. 'Brave,' he observed. 'But so stupid.' He flicked his wrist almost casually, and some?thing hissed through the air, wrapped itself around Sebastian's sword and pulled it clean out of his hand. It went clattering away across the wooden platform. Sebastian stared after it in dismay. 'Still feeling confident?' asked Kasim. He flicked his wrist again and this time the whip lashed Sebastian across the cheek, a stinging blow that almost knocked him off his feet. 'Now,' purred Kasim, 'are you going to come quietly or am I going to—?'
The remainder of his sentence was lost in a great roar of smoke and flame that came belching up through the middle of the platform, flinging splintered wood in all directions. A couple of soldiers who were close to the blast were thrown headlong through the air, their arms and legs waving like frantic puppets. One of them collided with Kasim and sent him sprawling for a second time, but by then Sebastian had already grabbed Princess Kerin and jumped off the edge of the platform, into the chaos of panicking people all around it. As his feet thudded onto the earth, he saw a tiny figure crouched at the foot of the stage, beckoning to him. Cornelius indicated the two equines waiting patiently for their riders, just a few steps away. His face was black with soot and he was grinning like a maniac.
Sebastian Darke: Prince of Fools Page 23