The Eyes of a King (6 page)

“Oh yes. You know, I heard nothing, but it must have taken a veritable army to cart the things off.”

The man leaned forward, gripping the back of the chair so tightly that the tendons in his hands quivered. “A veritable army indeed.”

“It is most peculiar,” Raymond went on. “I cannot think why someone would want to steal the least valuable weapons in the house.”

“Perhaps …,” suggested the man, “they meant to replicate them.”

“But whatever for?”

“ To use.”

“No … I can hardly see why. There are simpler ways of getting guns for hunting and suchlike; I would imagine even criminals have easier sources. And why take so many?”

The man seemed deep in thought for a minute. “Tell me,” he said slowly. “Tell me—these weapons—are they very complicated?”

Raymond thought about that. “Certainly not compared to the modern standard-issue weapons. But they are very well designed, some of those old firearms.”

“Do you think someone would be able to replicate them, if they had an original to work from?”

“I don’t know. It would depend what they wanted them for. The decommissioned ones could have been reactivated, I suppose, and then copied. But most of them were antiques. The replicas wouldn’t fool any serious collector.”

“Well … say, for example, whoever stole your weapons wished to replicate them so that they would function. No more than function, simply so that they would fire. And then suppose they wanted to mass-produce them. Would they, in theory, be able to do that?”

“With only what they stole from me?”

The man nodded. “In theory.”

“Yes …,” said Raymond. “Yes, I believe they would.” The man did not answer, so he elaborated. “A couple of them were sturdy bolt-action rifles. In the case of those particular weapons, their simplicity is what makes them so effective.”

I woke suddenly. I was coughing again in the cold night air, and that was what woke me. In the darkness, I could see the light of the gas lamps on the cracks in the ceiling. I sat up. I heard that old man’s voice echoing in my head for a moment, as if his spirit was lingering in the room even after the dream was gone. Then the building was silent. Stirling was asleep, his face turned to the wall. The church clock in the square was chiming two.

I realized that the book was lying on my bedcovers, that strange black book that I had found in the snow and all but forgotten. It was open. I picked it up, rubbing my eyes, and glanced at it. But before I had read half a page, I was wide awake and staring at the new writing.

I was frightened suddenly. It was not just that I felt I had read this story before. It was the same, even to the last word the old man spoke, as my dream. And in the book, the story went on.

R
aymond enjoyed talking about his weapons to one so attentive. “Yes,” he continued. “I would go so far as to say that if time, money, and patience were no concern, someone could make a working replica of at least the simpler weapons.”

Arthur didn’t reply. “Please, sit down,” Raymond told him, to break his unnerving stare. The man sat. “May I ask why you are so interested?”

“Oh …” Arthur laughed distractedly. “No reason really—just curiosity. It seems a strange crime.”

“Yes, it was strange,” said Raymond. And then he remembered why the man was here. “Anyway, about this butler’s job …”

“Oh yes, of course,” said the man, but the thoughtful frown did not leave his face.

“Look here,” Raymond said. “I’d like to employ you, but you tell me you have no training or experience. Do you have any references at all?”

The man shook his head. “I was working in another country, in a very different field. I did not think references would be worth anything.”

“Where were you working?” said Raymond.

“In Australia,” said the man. He cast his eyes about the room. “Actually, I was in the army.”

“The army!” said Raymond, leaning forward eagerly. “So when I asked you if you were interested in weaponry …”

The man laughed, showing all his teeth, like a skull. “Indeed.”

“You were in the Australian forces, then?” Raymond went on.

“No,” said the man. “I am not Australian.”

“What were you doing there? Training?”

The man nodded. “In the desert … the Australian desert.”

“What were you doing before that? Forgive me for asking; I’m rather interested in the army.”

“Before that? We were carrying out … you know … operations …”

“Other than war?” said Raymond.

“Yes. How fast one forgets these things! Yes, we were working in various countries—I am afraid I cannot be too specific. It was highly secret.”

“Of course.” Raymond regarded the man with a new respect. “Anyway, about this job … Mr. Field, I would have liked to employ you—you’re a decent sort of man, I can see—but if you’ve had no training whatsoever, I cannot pay you what I would pay an experienced butler.”

“I think,” said the man, “that we misunderstand each other. I did not expect payment.”

Raymond looked up, startled. “I ask for nothing,” Arthur Field went on. “I aim only to gain experience. I assume that whoever is employed will be lodged here?”

“Of course.”

“That is all I ask for. I did not think you would assume that I wanted money while I was still training.”

“I can’t have you working here for nothing,” Raymond began.

“You just said that you could not pay someone who had no experience.”

“I meant that I could not employ someone who had no experience.”

But he knew he was going to. He was under the strange man’s power; the sinister gray eyes and the skull-like smile and the mind beneath the mask of casual indifference had drawn him in, and he was going to employ Arthur Field against his better judgment.

Later the new butler regarded himself in the mirror and smiled grimly. He did not like uniforms or groveling, or being called a decent sort of man by people who had half his intelligence.

Arrogance never did anyone any good, he told himself, rearranging the new black jacket impatiently. He was being arrogant. Here he had safety, a job, food, and shelter, and he was hidden. Here he was alive. Assuming an expression of subservience, he turned and marched out and down the stairs.

A
fter I closed the book, I sat in the darkness for a long time, thinking—and when I woke the next morning, the story was still in my mind. I wondered what the sixteenth and nineteenth centuries were, and the First World War. Were they English phrases? And if so, did that mean this story was connected to the other, the one about our exiled prince and that girl with the
blue eyes? I was coughing all the rest of that week, and I could not shake it off, but I did not think about it so much as I would have done before. I was thinking about the book instead.

On Friday the cold weather ended suddenly. The rain streaked down the windows of the classroom, and I sat and watched it and thought again about that story. How did it concern me? If it was nothing to do with me at all, I did not know why I had dreamed about the old man and the stranger even before the writing appeared. It was very strange. I had tried to put it out of my mind, but I could not.

Something thudded on the desk in front of me then. It was a rifle. I stared at it for a moment, then blinked and looked up. Sergeant Bane was looking down at me, amusement in his face. “North, we are going out for drill,” he said. “You were a hundred miles away.” I saw that the rest of my platoon were already jogging out into the yard, the collars of their coats raised against the driving rain. “Hurry!” said Sergeant Bane. I stumbled up and fetched my coat, then picked up the rifle and ran out after the others.

We were training harder than ever now. We had shooting drill every morning for an hour, then weight training, and then we ran twenty times round the yard. But no one was making much of an effort that day, and by the time we got to running laps, we were all halfhearted. Even when the rain dwindled, the mud was still slimy, and I slipped and fell several times. I tried to run, but every few yards I doubled over coughing. “Keep going, North!” shouted Sergeant Bane from the shelter of the overhanging roof. I stumbled on.

It was while we were running that I thought of the book again and realized that the gun in my own hand was a bolt-action
rifle. And I remembered suddenly that there had been a rumor, a long time ago, that our military technology had been developed in a country as far away as England. Just a rumor. I slowed to a jog and examined the gun in my hands. I did not know if it was a simple weapon, like the ones the old man and the stranger had been talking about. Perhaps in other places—places like England—they had guns that were far more advanced than this. I did not know.

Then Sergeant Markey appeared around the corner of the building, leading Stirling’s platoon behind him. He stepped into the shelter beside Sergeant Bane, cast his eyes over us with a disparaging sniff, and said something that I could not hear. “North, you are going too slowly!” shouted Sergeant Bane to me. I was half a lap behind the rest. I ran to catch up, and that started me coughing again.

“One more lap and then you can go in,” Sergeant Bane called as we passed him. I looked for Stirling in the crowd of younger boys and gave him a quick wave. He grinned back.

“North,” said Sergeant Markey suddenly. “Come over here.”

I stopped where I was. Stirling had stopped as well, but it was me that Sergeant Markey was talking to. “Come here!” he repeated. “Now.”

I trailed over. I was coughing again, and I could not see his expression until I straightened up. He seemed to be smiling, but that did not reassure me.

“I noticed that North was not making an effort,” he said, turning to Sergeant Bane. His voice was very reasonable. “So perhaps he can train for another hour and a half with my platoon. I will be very happy to supervise him.”

“Given the state of his health …,” Sergeant Bane began,
then seemed to change his mind. “Thank you, Sergeant Markey. Send him back in when he has finished.”

After my platoon had gone back inside and Stirling’s had started running, Sergeant Markey turned to me. “You think you’re above hard work,” he said, very quietly. “You think you’re a bloody prince, North. This hour and a half will teach you better.” He stared at me for a moment, and I could tell he was trying to make me look away. I didn’t. “Thirty laps,” he said then. “Get that rifle above your head. If it comes down, you will start again.”

I began running, still coughing as I went. “One!” he shouted the first time I passed him. Then “Two!” I tried to think of the story again, so as not to feel the sharp pains that were rising in my chest, but it did no good. I got to six, then stumbled and dropped the rifle. I bent over, trying to catch my breath.

Sergeant Markey picked up the gun and put it into my hands, then pushed my shoulder hard so that I straightened up. “Are you going to give up now?” he said, his face close to mine. “I told you to run thirty laps and not to lower that rifle. Do you want to do some other training perhaps? Weights? Or just give up? Is that what you want?” I shook my head. “What’s that?” he said.

“No,” I muttered.

“No, Sergeant Markey!” he shouted, pushing my shoulder again.

“No,
Ser
geant Markey,” I repeated. I spoke the word “sergeant” as if talking to someone insane who insisted on that inappropriate title. I should not have said it like that.

He watched me for a moment. I stood there coughing and trying to breathe. Sergeant Markey turned to survey the
younger boys. “North, run faster!” he shouted at Stirling. “You’re as lazy as your bastard brother! Do you hear?”

He turned back to me. “This is your first lap now,” he said. “Start again.”

I glared at him in silence. I decided suddenly to run the thirty laps even if it killed me to do it. I was coughing and gasping in air, but I started running again, keeping my arms locked straight above my head. They began to burn with pain, down to my shoulders, and the rifle grew so heavy that I had to slow to a jog. But I kept running. Every time I passed Sergeant Markey, he would stare straight at me, as though he was trying to put me off with his glare. My whole body was burning now, but my skin was cold with the rain and the sweat that was rising on it.