by Eoin Colfer
Conor stood painfully, the stiffness of various mistreatments binding his bones. “I am not ready, Mister Billtoe, but I don’t suppose that makes a shadow of difference.”
Billtoe chortled, fishing the handcuffs from his belt. “You are right, lad. You have hit the badger on the nut. Not one shade of difference. Let’s be having you, and why not order a big pot of plantago stew from Mr. Wynter, if he could see his way clear to mixing it up.”
Linus did not react to the goading, just held his face in a grim aspect. Conor took this as a reminder of what had to be done. Today he became a killer, or else a corpse.
The route to the Pipe was the same, but on this morning there was a commotion behind the cell doors. Inmates roared taunts and slapped the wood with the flats of their hands.
“Moon madness,” explained Billtoe. “She was hanging in the sky last night like a silver shilling. Always gets the lunatics riled up.”
A nugget of information popped into Conor’s mind. “That’s what the word means. Moonstruck, from the Latin lunaticus.”
Billtoe propelled Conor along the corridor with a boot in the small of his back. “Don’t keep giving me information. It makes me feel stupid, and feeling stupid irritates me.”
“A familiar feeling, I’ll bet,” muttered Conor.
Billtoe could not be certain whether or not he was being insulted. He tapped Conor with his boot again, just to be on the safe side. “Talk clever to Malarkey. He loves a lippy mark; just adds to his enthusiasm.”
Malarkey’s name doused Conor’s wit, and his despair was clear on his face.
“That’s right,” cackled Billtoe. “Stick that in one of your lesson books. Go on, write it down. Not so generous with the information now, are you?”
The diving bell was already below water when they arrived at the Pipe, its tip poking through the surface. The blurred shapes of two inmates were visible through the porthole, hacking agitatedly at the rock below their feet. Guards chose pumpers from a gang of prisoners corralled into a wooden pen on the storeroom level, changing them often to keep the air flowing.
“The Pipe never sleeps,” said Billtoe. “Not now that Good King Nick is gone. All day, every day, pulling angel tears out of the earth. And do we see a penny? We do not.”
Conor noted the guard’s bitterness. It could prove to be useful information, if he remained on this earth long enough to make use of it.
“There are compensations, though. Sport like this, for example,” said Billtoe, unlocking Conor’s handcuffs. “Not that we can see what’s going on between prisoners inside Flora. Not clearly, you understand.”
So that was it. Nobody knew anything, because nobody could see anything.
Billtoe called to Pike, the gang boss. “Here, switch them up. Time for Malarkey to earn his few shillings.” He handed Conor a tool belt. “In case you are conscious for long enough to find a few stones.”
Pike pulled the cork bung from the bell’s air tube and hollered the order down. Moments later, two drenched convicts popped from the choppy water, to be briskly elbowed aside and frisked for concealed diamonds. It was a thorough searching that would have uncovered anything larger than a single blood drop.
Conor climbed down the ladder, eyeing the cave for Malarkey. The Battering Ram was easily spotted, reclining on a clump of rocks that bluntly resembled a throne. He threw a mock punch Conor’s way, no doubt expecting today’s performance to be a repeat of yesterday’s.
Not this time, sheep, thought Conor. This is the final show. The curtain comes down this morning.
Conor set both feet on the rock and headed directly for the shoreline. He did not wait for instruction from Pike. Conversation was the last thing he wanted now. Words would simply be a distraction. Before diving into the salty water, he patted the belt at his waist, to make sure the Devil’s Fork was in its holder. Without this simple tool, he would have little chance of overcoming Malarkey.
The water closed around him, and Conor’s fingers sought out handholds on the diving bell, pulling himself along its curve until he found the rim. Once inside, the bell’s terrible confined space nearly quashed his will, and Conor was forced to draw several deep breaths before he could even force himself to stand. Follow your instinct, he told himself. Allow it to consume you.
From the air hole, he heard a splash followed by whoops and cheers. Malarkey was on the way. The Battering Rams spurred on their champion, though none were expecting much of a contest. Displaced water waves shook the bell, sending up a rich hum within its curves.
I must act quickly. Be ready. Conor glanced upward. Malarkey had paused at the porthole to further torture his victim. He knocked the glass, grinning broadly; though his yellow teeth were lost in the porthole’s scum sheen.
The instant Malarkey’s face disappeared from view, Conor set to work. He quickly extended the mining trident to its full length, tightening the rings so that the tool would not easily collapse. The trident was roughly the same as a youth’s practice foil, but terribly balanced, with the weight entirely toward the tip. Still, a makeshift foil was infinitely better than nothing.
Conor filled his left hand with the wet diamond pouch from his belt, and scrunched it into a soggy sphere. He was as prepared now as he could be, and yet this entire sequence of events had a tinge of unreality about it. Unbelievable things were happening at a terrific rate.
Like many boys his age, Conor had often imagined going into combat. This was nothing like his daydreams. In Conor’s fantasies, heroic soldiers faced off against each other on windswept battlefields to the sounds of battle drums and bugles. There was nothing heroic about this reality. A cramped space, the stink of oil, sweat, and fear, and the sickness in the pit of his gullet at the thought of having to kill another human, however vile the man might be. It was as his father had always said: war is never noble.
A pale, water-wavering slab of arm crept under the bell rim. The temptation was strong to stab it with the trident, but that would be foolish. He would sacrifice the element of surprise for a gain of only a tiny wound. Malarkey would retreat, gather himself, then return with grim determination.
Conor held back, bending his knees, making ready to spring. Malarkey lurched under the rim, appearing in spurts, face up, his long strands of fine hair fanning about his head like seaweed. He was smiling still, streams of air bubbles leaking between his teeth. Once his feet had cleared the rim, Malarkey flipped carelessly onto all fours and breached the water like a walrus.
Conor’s breath came fast. Strike now, or the moment would be past and he’d have his two shillings’ worth coming. Malarkey began to rise, and while he was still bent almost double, Conor used the knobs of the big man’s spine as a stepladder and climbed onto his shoulders. It was a precarious position, and could last barely a moment. A moment was ample to stuff his wadded diamond pouch squarely into the air duct, stoppering it.
Malarkey shrugged him off, still smiling. He was bemused, in fact. “What yer trying to accomplish, soldier boy? Flight? Even an eagle would be bested by a ram in here.”
“I blocked the air,” said Conor coldly. “We have two minutes to escape.” This last fact was a barefaced lie, but not one that would be weighing on Conor’s conscience. There was air enough in the bell for half an hour at least, but with any luck, Malarkey would not know that.
For once luck ran Conor’s way, and the jaunty expression slid from Malarkey’s face like greased steak from a pan as he noticed the duct’s blockage. “You blasted numbskull,” he shouted, the bell vibrating sympathetically with his words. “Do yer want to kill us both?”
Conor held the makeshift foil behind his back. “No. Not both of us.”
Malarkey’s expression changed to the peeve of a kindly schoolmaster who has finally been exasperated beyond the limits of his patience. “I did you quick yesterday, soldier boy. A single punch, and that’s a talent. Today I’m going to be taking my sweet time, and not minding so much about bruises or bones.”
“That
’s right, sheep,” said Conor. “Keep talking, waste the air.”
Malarkey reached out, grabbing Conor by the throat. “Now, you pop yourself back up on my shoulders and pull out that plug and I might strike you once, but charge for two.” It was obvious from his tone that Malarkey thought this a great kindness.
Conor pulled out the trident so quickly it whistled. “The plug is staying in,” he said, thrusting the tiny fork heads into Malarkey’s leg.
The Battering Ram dropped Conor, yelping like a kicked mutt. He reared back, striking his head a sound bong against the bell. The impact crossed his eyes and set his ears ringing. Conor used the moment to settle his stance; knees bent, makeshift foil extended, and left arm cocked behind him. Attack now! his good sense urged. No time for sportsmanship.
But this was not sportsmanship. Conor wanted Malarkey to realize what was happening to him. The hired thug must never be able to convince himself that Conor had triumphed through luck. And so he waited until Malarkey’s vision cleared, then spoke, two words only. “En garde.”
Malarkey growled. “You think those words scare me?
You think I haven’t heard them from a score of prissy officer types what are now no more than bones in their uniforms?” Malarkey spread his arms wide, advancing through the water. “En garde it is then, soldier boy.”
Conor could almost hear Victor’s voice. Wait for the move. Wait for him to commit. The wait was not a long one. Malarkey swung in with the same haymaker that he had landed the day before. Conor found that it was not so lightning fast, when you were waiting for it. Conor used a simple attaque au fer, which sets up an offensive by deflecting the opponent’s blade, though in truth he was deflecting himself more than Malarkey’s arm, which he was addressing as a military-type broadsword.
Now. Facing Malarkey’s flank, he slashed down three times; the fork blurred with speed, like a golden fan. Three red stripes appeared on the band of flesh between Malarkey’s shirt and trouser band. These strikes were for pain.
Malarkey yelped once more, then howled lustily as the pain settled to a steady burn. Conor threw his shoulder into the man’s buttocks, not the most pleasant place to be even for a second, but it did have the effect of clanging Malarkey into the bell curve. His forehead collided with the brass, setting the bell ringing once more.
To the rear, Conor thrust deeply through the water and above Malarkey’s heel, feeling the tines puncture the tough flesh. This strike was for immobility.
Malarkey collapsed like a wall under cannon shot, filling the bell with spray. The Battering Ram continued to howl, demented with pain and anger. Conor felt his resolve falter.
“Kill you,” sobbed Malarkey. “I will skin the flesh from your frame.”
Conor’s resolve was firm once more. He laid several flat strikes around Malarkey’s back and shoulders, forcing him deeper into the sea. With his free hand he shoved straight fingered jabs into the man’s kidneys, causing him to reflexively inhale half a gallon of water—a trick adapted from karate.
Malarkey was effectively helpless. Wallowing in the shallow water, blinded by pain and salt. An infant with a mean disposition could have killed him. Conor leaned back against the bell curve, panting. His hatred for Malarkey had disappeared as quickly as it had flared up. And yet, this issue of a bounty must be solved today. Was Linus Wynter right? Must he kill this man?
Malarkey rolled onto his back and lay there sobbing, his face inches above the surface, wavelets from his own thrashings slopping water down his gullet.
Conor placed a soldier’s boot on the man’s neck, contemptuously knocking aside Malarkey’s weak grabs. “You see now what I can do?” he hissed, surprised at the venom in his own voice.
Malarkey could not answer. Even if there had not been a boot at his throat, he was beyond words.
Stop talking. Kill him! Conor jammed the trident deep into the folds of flesh beneath Malarkey’s chin. One more push, and the tines would pierce the skin and sever an artery. “This is no lucky accident. I can kill you easy as a Sunday chicken.”
Malarkey’s eyes suddenly focused. The thought of visiting the afterlife helps to concentrate the mind.
“Do you understand that, Mister Battering Ram? I could kill you.” Do it. Stop your jabbering. Conor tightened his grip on the fork; the muscles along his arm tensed. Three drops of blood pooled around the trident heads. One last push and his tormentor would torment him no more.
“Please,” said Malarkey, the word gurgling in his throat.
A bead of sweat trickled into Conor’s eye. Water lapped at the bell curve, humming gently.
“Please, spare me,” said the mighty Battering Ram.
I can’t do it. I have no wish to kill this man. Conor realized that he was not a killer, and this realization filled him with warm relief, because it showed that he had not lost himself entirely, in spite of all he had endured. He hadn’t been raised to gain the upper hand through murder, not if there were other avenues.
There must be another way. A more intelligent way.
Conor chewed on his problem without relieving the fork’s pressure on Malarkey’s neck. The Battering Ram must be made an ally. This struggle could not go on day after day. He quickly cobbled together a possible way out, for both of them.
“Listen to me, sheep,” said Conor, twisting the trident. “I am going to float out of this bell, just like yesterday.”
Otto Malarkey’s brow creased. “But I—”
“Quiet!” shouted Conor, with an authority he hadn’t known he possessed. “Listen to me, now. We are hatching a plan, you and I. We will come down here every day, and you will supposedly give me my two shillings’ worth. That way, you can still be king of the sheep. The big ram. In reality, we will have ourselves a quiet talk, and you can help me to survive in here.”
Concentration was not easy for Malarkey in his distressed state, but he did think of something. “What about my foot? I can’t walk.”
A problem, true. Water dripped from the bell curve, spattering them both with indoor rain. Conor racked his brain for a solution.
“After I leave, wait an hour, perhaps two, then make a great commotion on climbing out of the bell. Thrash around underwater and say the bell trapped you. Blame your ankle injury on Flora. It is a painful wound, but not serious. I missed the Achilles tendon, luckily for you. Strap it tight and stay off it for a few hours. You will be solid as an oak tomorrow.”
Malarkey was growing brave again, Conor could see it in the squint of his eye. He had his breath now, and fancied his chances. Any moment he would make a lunge for his young tormentor, and then Conor could be forced to kill him. This newfound courage must be nipped in the bud. Conor lashed him once on each forearm, temporarily deadening the nerves.
“Is it more stripes you want? Are you too mutton-headed for life? Accept my proposition, sheep, and you can live with your honor intact. If not, you can suffer defeat at the hands of a boy.”
It seemed as though the prospect of defeat was worse than the idea of death. Malarkey gritted his teeth, nodding, unable to meet Conor’s eye.
“I have your word?” Victor had once told him that the city gang members had developed a curious sense of honor, almost echoing that of the samurai bushido code.
“Yes, blast you, my word on it.”
Conor grinned coldly, a mechanism he would come to rely on in desperate situations. “I will trust you on it. No need for a handshake.” It was a cruel joke. Malarkey’s arms were dead at his side like two slabs of butchered beef. “Very well then, sheep. We have an agreement. Be warned: if you try trickery tomorrow, I will not be so merciful, or silent.”
Conor twisted the rings on his trident, collapsing it. “No need to get up, I’ll see myself out.”
Conor was surprised at his own comment. A second malicious joke in as many minutes. It was not like him to sneer at someone, whatever the circumstances; but perhaps Little Saltee was molding him into a different person. The kind that might possibly survive.
Conor filled his lungs to slide under the rim. Before salt water clouded his vision, he saw a final frustration dropped upon Malarkey: the wadded diamond pouch fell from the air hole, plopping directly onto the man’s face.
Malarkey cursed long and filthy, but his words were muffled by the sopping bag. A bag that he was unable to reach up and brush away.
CHAPTER 8: CONOR FINN
Billtoe and Pike carried Conor back to his cell on a plank, and they were careless in their work. Conor endured several bumps and jolts, which almost made up for Malarkey’s neglected two shillings’ worth.
Thinking him unconscious, they chattered on about the state of the islands.
“Bonvilain will strip this place of anything within a million years of becoming a diamond,” said Pike. “I’d feel a tot of pity for the Salts, if they weren’t lower than barnacles.”
“Barnacles,” agreed Billtoe. “But at least barnacles don’t give you lip. And you don’t put yourself in for a visit to the warden’s office if you happen to stamp on a barnacle.” They two-stepped the plank around an awkward corner, scraping Conor’s elbow along the wall.
“I’d say you could stamp on all the prisoners you like, now that Good King Nick is knocking at the pearlies. Bonvilain never minded before.”
“True for you, Pikey.” Billtoe laughed, following it with a regurgitating hurk. “Good times are here—that is, until Isabella comes of age. Possibly she’s one for the people, like her father. I hear worrying good things about her.”
“Ah yes, Princess Isabella,” said Pike. “I wouldn’t be concerning yourself on that score. She won’t wear the crown till her seventeenth birthday, and that’s two years away. I would bet my Sunday boots that something tragic will happen to our little princess after that if she starts queering things for the marshall.”
It took all Conor’s resolve not to grab Billtoe’s weapon and make a bid for freedom right then, but Conor Finn dying on a cold prison floor would do little to help Isabella. He needed to bide his time and wait for an opportunity.