by Eoin Colfer
Once there, he was amazed how obvious it was. Overlapping layers of shadow, untouched by torchlight, further shaded by a slipped cornice stone, with a spume of spilled crimson paint on the flagstones a foot to the left. A cylinder of blackness that would take no more than a heartbeat to pass through. But once inside, it formed a cloak of near invisibility that could be enhanced by further misdirection.
Billtoe walked beside him, muttering about his lack of respect for his superiors.
Twelve.
“And the warden? Don’t talk to me about the warden. That man makes decisions that boggle the mind. Too much time in the Indian sun if you ask me. Bloomin’ Calcutta fried his mind.”
Fifteen.
“The money that man wastes. The cash money. It makes my heart sick. I fair feel ill just talking about it, even to a Salt.”
Nineteen.
Billtoe clicked his fingers at Conor, meaning, Stop where you are.
Now comes the vital moment. All strands converge. Live or die on this instant.
Billtoe stepped to the wing door, tinging the bell with his fingernail. No response for a long moment, then a familiar mocking voice from the spy hole above.
“Ah, Billtoe. Is it out, you want? From the mad wing? Are you certain sure that’s the right direction?”
Billtoe’s posture stiffened. A dozen times a day he had to endure this ribbing.
“Can you not simply open a bolt, Murphy? Turn the wheel and lift the bolt, that is all I require from you.”
“Sure, I know it’s all you require, Arthur. The rest is free, a little daily gift. I am the funny fairy, dropping little lumps of humor on your head.” Six feet up, the wheel was turned and the bolt lifted. The door to the mad wing swung open.
“If I could put into words how much I hate that man,” muttered Billtoe, turning. “Then Shakespeare himself could kiss my . . .” The final word of Billtoe’s sentence turned to dust in his dry throat, because his prisoner had disappeared. Vanished into the air.
Not my prisoner, thought Arthur Billtoe. Marshall Bonvilain’s. I am a dead man.
* * *
While Billtoe stood glaring skyward into the spy hole, Conor found himself rooted to the spot. He had imagined this moment so often that it seemed unreal to him now, as though it could never really materialize. In his mind’s eye he saw himself confidently put his plan into action, but the flesh-and-bone Conor Finn stayed where he was. One and a half steps to the left of the corridor’s blind spot.
Then Billtoe began his turn, and Conor’s life to come flashed before him. Five more decades under night and water until his skin was leeched of all color and his eyes were those of a tunnel rat. Act! he told himself. It is a good plan.
And so he acted in an exhaustively practiced series of movements. Conor took a pace and a half to his right, spun around so his muddied back faced Billtoe and tossed his open handcuffs into the grate of the nearest sealed chimney. The rattle drew Billtoe’s eyes away from the blind spot.
“Stupid boy,” he groaned. “He’s gone up the spouts.” The guard hurried past Conor, who huddled, camouflaged, in his hiding place, his brown jacket blending effectively with the corridor walls. Billtoe kicked the grate angrily, then bent low to holler up the chimney. “Come down from there, halfwit. They are sealed, all of ’em. The only thing you’ll find up the spouts are the moldering remains of other scatterfools.”
There was no response, but Billtoe imagined he heard a rustle. “Aha!” he shouted. “Your clumsiness betrays you. Down now, Finn, or I will discharge my weapon. Do not doubt it.”
Conor moved like a prowling cat, stealing sideways to the open wing door. He must not reveal himself. This plan would only succeed if nobody worked out that he was gone. To be spotted now would mean a brief chase and a long time recovering from whatever beating the guards decided to dish out. He edged beneath the spy hole, searching for a face. There was none, just the tip of a boot and the lower curve of a cauldron stomach.
Conor slipped across the door saddle, and the closeness of freedom sent him light-headed. He almost bolted for the outer door. Almost. But one stumble now could kill him. It was so close, tantalizing. Only a dark wedge of stained wood separated him from the outside world.
The door opened and two guards strolled through, sharing a snide sniggering joke. I will have to kill them, decided Conor. It will be easily done. Snag the first’s dagger and gut them both. I can make a run for the balloons. He flexed his fingers slowly, making ready for the lunge, but it wasn’t necessary. The guards simply did not see him; they turned toward the mining wing without once pointing an eyeball his way.
I could have murdered them, realized Conor. I was ready to strike. Even this thought could not delay him for long. Little Saltee guards were not to be seen as normal people. They were cruel gaolers, who would gladly toss him from the highest turret into the maws of the sharks that patrolled the waste pipes.
Conor moved quickly, feeling that his store of good fortune was depleting rapidly, and slipped through the outer doorway as soon as the guards had rounded the corner. He found himself at the foot of a narrow stairway with a rectangular patch of starred night at its end. Twelve steps from open air.
This was the blurred section of his plan. From here to the balloons was unknown territory. He had some memory of his admission to the prison, and Malarkey had educated him in the setup as much as he could; but prisoners did not climb these stairs, neither did they patrol the wall. He must trust to his wits and whatever luck was left in the bottom of the barrel.
I will surely fail if I stay here, he thought, mounting the steps two at a time. Salty air washed over him as he emerged into the darkness, and its tang almost made him cry. Of course there had been air in his cell, but this was pure and fresh, untainted by the smell of offal and sweat. I had forgotten how sweet the sea air is. Bonvilain took this from me.
He was two steps below ground level now, a low stone wall shielding him from the main courtyard. It seemed smaller than he remembered, barely more than a walled yard. Two aproned butchers worked on a hanging pig carcass on the diagonal corner. They sliced fatty strips of meat from the haunches, rinsing them thoroughly in a water bucket, pushing their thumbs into the folds of flesh, rivulets of blood dripping from their elbows. Conor found himself lost in the image, a sight that he had missed and not known it. Honest labor. Life and death.
An explosion boomed overhead, and swathes of multicolored sparks rained from the sky. Conor ducked low, then saw that the explosion was of his own design. They were igniting the coronation balloons. Too early. Too early. It is not yet fully dark.
One of the butchers swore from shock, then caught himself, made a joke of it. “Good thing that pig is dead. The fright would have done for him.”
The second, a smaller man, pulled the kerchief from across his nose. “To hell with this, Tom. I’m going up on the walls. I don’t care what the warden says.”
The other butcher, Tom, pulled down his own kerchief. “You know what? You’re right. The lass is our queen, too. Let the warden eat half an hour past due. It’s not as if he hasn’t got enough lard stored away to be getting on with.”
The butchers shared a laugh and hung their aprons on a fence post. A second balloon exploded, releasing a swarm of dancing golden sparks. “Oh, the Saltee Sharpshooters are earning their pay tonight. Look lively, now.” The butchers left their work, skipping sharply up steep stone steps to the crenellated battlements above, leaving the courtyard deserted, apart from the prisoner concealing himself in the stairwell. A third balloon exploded, casting stark shadows from the wall, lighting night like a photographer’s phosphorous flash.
Three gone, thought Conor. Three already. Too early. He scrambled up into the courtyard, improvising a plan as he went. All the months of plotting fell apart in front of his eyes. Timing was everything, and it was all wrong. He skirted the walls, casting furtive glances to the battlements. There were a few soldiers, but most would be on the far side, enjoying the sp
ectacle. And the lee of the wall was made all the darker by the shocks of light from the fireworks. Anyone who had looked directly at them would be without night vision for several moments.
This is all wrong, thought Conor, snatching a butcher’s apron from the fence post. I am supposed to have at least an hour to figure out how the balloons are tied. Billtoe thinks I have bolted up the chimney, so no one will be searching for me out of doors. I should not be harried in this way. But harried he was, and there was little point wasting seconds rebelling against it. Every second wasted could see another nitroglycerin bullet on the way to its target.
Conor found a bloody kerchief in the apron pocket and tied it across his nose, then took another second to thrust his hands and forearms into the pig’s belly, greasing them with blood and gore. A butcher now, to his fingertips.
The nearest stairwell was the one recently mounted by the butchers, so Conor ignored it, boldly crossing to the western wall. He ambled slowly, imitating butcher Tom’s bowlegged gait. He was not challenged. Nobody saw, or nobody knew. There was a wooden gate at the foot of the stairway, but it was fastened with a simple latch, more to stop it flapping than with a mind for security. Conor pushed through and went up the stairs, boots crunching on sand and salt.
A guard stood above, his heels half moons on the top step, rocking gently with the brass music drifting across from Great Saltee. Conor had no choice but to disturb him, edging past with muttered apologies.
“God, you’re dripping blood, Tom,” said the guard. “This is a coronation not a battlefield. Don’t let the warden smell you on the upper level stinking like that. He has a delicate stomach, though you wouldn’t know it from the size of him.”
Conor faked a convincing enough chuckle, then threaded his way through the throng of guards and staff piled onto the battlements. There were women here too, dressed in coronation finery. All fashions of the day, Conor supposed— outrageous bodices and leg-o’-mutton sleeves.
There are too many people. The warden is throwing a party. Best seats in the islands. This was not a part of my calculations. The wall should be clear for safety reasons. I told Billtoe. I told him.
The Little Saltee parapet walkway was ten feet wide, with a chest-high open-gorge wall on the ocean side, and a sheer drop to the main bailey on the other. A rope had been strung along between posts to stop the drunken gentry from stumbling to their deaths. Conor recognized several guards serving drinks, dressed as prisoners in immaculate blue serge overalls. Obviously, the warden was hoping to discredit the rumors of unchristian treatment of the inmates. These prisoners were so well treated that they could be trusted to pass out Champagne and plates of hors d’oeuvres. There was not a nook or gap without a clay brazier stuck in it, baking skewers of shrimp and lobster for the guests to pluck at. Nowhere for an escaping prisoner to crouch and catch his breath.
Conor wiped the fine mist of salt spray from his face. The mist. He had forgotten that, too. How could an islander forget the mist? One more thing on Bonvilain’s account. Worth a few diamonds, surely, if Conor had the luck of the devil and managed to cast himself off from this cursed island.
Another balloon exploded, followed a second later by a dozen interlaced swirls of crimson and gold sparks. The Saltee colors. Very amusing for the watching crowd. The sparks flitted to earth in showers, casting their light on the waters below; some held their energy until a wave folded over them like a child catching a star. A few sparks had the audacity to land on the wall, singeing expensive silk dresses. A great tragedy indeed.
I told him, thought Conor, not unhappy with this development. It is not safe here. A genteel panic spread through the audience. Champagne glasses were tossed into the sea along with seafood platters, as moneyed folk hurried to the various stairways, preferring not to be set afire by low-flying fireworks. Pandemonium. Good.
Conor moved against the tide toward the next balloon, reaching for the stout rope fastening it to a brass ring on the battlements. Across the sound, Great Saltee was a riot of lights and music. Brass-band tunes thumped across the water, the music echoing on itself, arriving in waves. There were so many torches and lanterns that the entire island seemed to be ablaze. His fingers grazed the rope, and a second later he felt it slacken as the balloon exploded.
Conor swore and quickened his pace. Only six balloons left. He barged through the assembly, caring nothing for angry looks. If any of these gentlemen wished to fight a duel over a rough shouldering, he would have to oblige them another time. Shouts and protests followed him down the path. He was attracting attention, but there was no helping it. It was a race now. Conor versus the Saltee Sharpshooters. He could only hope that his own father was not holding a rifle, as Declan Broekhart rarely missed.
The next balloon detonated, the concussion seeming to shake the very island. Overloaded that one, surely. There were four balloons aloft, and a fifth anchored on the quay wall under a tarpaulin. The moving target. The flying balloons glowed bright like the moons of some distant planet. They bobbed in the wind, difficult shots.
Not difficult enough—two more exploded in quick succession. Conor could hear the applause from Great Saltee. A grand affair indeed. He made a decision. No time to rein in the flying balloons, he must go for the earthbound. It would be watched by a guard, but that must be risked. It was his last chance in this night of botched plans.
His way was clear now, so Conor ran, butcher’s apron flapping around his legs, the smell of pig blood hot in his nostrils. A guard blocked his way—not intentionally, he was simply there on duty. Conor thought to barge him from the wall, but at the last second changed his mind and ran him into the battlements instead. A sore head was preferable to a crushed skull.
The wall was more or less deserted. High society can move at a pretty pace when their fine garments are under attack. All that stood between Conor and the last balloon was a courtesy rope and another guard, who was actually sucking on a lit pipe. A lit pipe beside a hydrogen balloon.
“Hello!” called Conor. “You there! Guard.”
The guard stood, eyes round with a natural doziness. “Sir. Yessir. What can I . . . Who do you be?”
Conor leaped the rope with no slowing of his pace. His boots clicked on the uneven cobbles as he hurried toward the guard. The quay wall ran a hundred yards into George’s Channel, acting as a breakwater and a semaphore station.
“You are smoking, man!” shouted Conor, with a voice of authority. “There is hydrogen in that balloon.”
The guard paled and then yelped as another balloon burst into multicolored flames. The rope sagged slowly to earth like a beheaded snake. “I . . . I didn’t know . . .” he stammered, tossing his pipe away as though it would bite him. “I never thought . . .”
Conor cuffed the man roughly, knocking off his hat. “Idiot. Buffoon. I smell a leak. And you have put sparks on the ground.”
More stammering from the guard, but not one protest that hydrogen was an odorless gas. “I must . . . I must . . . run away,” he said, tossing his rifle aside, so that the bayonet raked the cobbles, throwing up more sparks.
“Dolt,” said Conor.
“I didn’t even want the bayonet,” whined the guard. “It’s ceremonial.”
“We must cut the balloon loose,” said Conor.
“You do it. I will commend you for a medal.” And with that, the guard launched himself into space, legs running through the air until they found purchase on a group of rich gawkers in the keep below. The lot of them went down in a pile like skittles.
Conor was alone with the balloon for the moment, but already there were more astute guards mounting the steps, perhaps wondering why a butcher was handing out orders. Conor twisted the bayonet from the rifle, no time to struggle with knots now. He pulled back the greasy tarpaulin to find a glowing balloon encased in a fishing net and tethered to several lobster pots. Conor held the balloon with his left hand, sawing at the ropes with his right, careful not to puncture the balloon itself.
“
Tom,” called a voice to his rear. “What are you playing at, Tom? That’s the entire show’s climax, that is.”
“She’s ruptured,” shouted Conor. “And the fuse has caught a spark. I can hear it buzzing. Stand back.”
So, like prudent guards who were paid less than your average street hawker, they stood back for a few moments, but then noted that nothing much was happening except a butcher hacking at ropes. “Eh, Tom. There’s a two-second fuse on those yokes. You shouldn’t be much more than a smear of butcher-colored mush on the walls by now.”
“Oh my God!” shouted Conor over his shoulder, seeking to spread alarm. “God help us all.”
Pike was one of the guards; he was all too aware that Billtoe would lump him with responsibility for the balloon, and so forged past the others up the steps.
“Stop what you’re doing, butcher,” he shouted in a voice quavering with fear and forced courage. “Cease or I will spill your innards on the stones.” He hoped the word cease would lend him more authority than he possessed.
The last strand of the last rope pinged, and the balloon lurched toward the heavens, almost yanking Conor’s left arm from his socket. He would have let go, had he not tangled the arm in the netting up to the elbow. “Help me,” he shouted, knowing they could never reach him in time. “Save me, please.”
Pike thought about shooting the balloon down, but decided against it for a two reasons. If his bullet did ignite the fireworks, he could kill himself and several minor European royals. Death by whizz bang was not a pleasant way to go. And even if he survived the fireworks, Billtoe would use his head for a boot polisher.
Better to take a shot and miss completely. He hoisted his rifle, taking careless aim. “You’ve had your warning, butcher!” he yelled, pulling the trigger.
Unfortunately, Pike was a terrible shot, and his deliberate miss took the heel from Conor’s boot. “Half-wit,” shouted Conor; then a gust of easterly wind caught the balloon and snatched him away.