The Jade Boy (5 page)

For a moment Jem found it difficult to breathe – but it wasn’t just the heat that caught at his throat. The air was filled with the tang of something sweaty, old, musty, decayed and horribly sweet.

“Master Green, you are sinfully late.”

Cazalon’s weirdly accented, sing-song voice sounded from the depths of the room. “But as we are destined to become so very close, I will forgive you. Come here, boy, where I can look at you.”

Jem swallowed hard, stood up and stepped over the semi-circle of salt and into the room.

Jem found himself in a long, wide chamber with a vast painted ceiling. The only source of light came from a fire crackling in the hearth of a magnificent carved chimney breast halfway down the room. In the gloom he couldn’t quite make out what the painting high overhead represented, but he was aware of hundreds of glittering eyes staring down at him.

“Come, warm yourself, Master Green. You must be chilled to the marrow.”

The lazy hissing voice was unmistakably Cazalon’s, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Jem began to walk nervously towards the hearth. Even though the fire was at least thirty paces from the door he could feel intense heat from the dancing flames on his face. With every step, his eyes grew more accustomed to the dimness.

Like the room where Tapwick had left him earlier, Cazalon’s chamber had no windows. On the left, the wall was hung from floor to ceiling with a series of tapestries. Jem recognised the dark woven forms
of centaurs and goat-legged satyrs from the duke’s books of Greek myths.

On the right, the room was lined with a row of squat black chests. Standing on the top of the first chest was a large plaster model that appeared to show a ring of tumbled stones set in a field. On the next, Jem saw something that looked like a Roman temple, with rows of horizontal steps and vertical columns.

Finally, he recognised the building displayed on the last chest – it was a model of St Paul’s Cathedral.

“I see you are admiring my playthings, Master Green.”

As Jem turned towards the voice, every fibre of his being was strung tight as a viol.

Cazalon was seated in a tall-backed chair beside the fire. The chair’s back was to the door, which was why Jem hadn’t noticed him.

A gloved hand pointed to a spot in front of the fire.

“Stand there. I want to look at you.”

Jem noticed that Cazalon’s hand trembled. As he turned to face the count, Jem saw that he was wearing a long red gown that spooled out across the floor. A black curly wig hung from one of the carved points at the top of the chair and his head was
close-shaven, apart from a single plait that snaked from the top of his crown and was draped over his right shoulder. In the firelight the plait appeared to be blue.

Cazalon didn’t move. He was slumped oddly in the chair and his painted face looked gaunt and tired. But his slanted, mirror-like eyes glinted with dangerous energy as they flickered over the boy’s face. At last, the count spoke.

“So very like your father.”

Jem was startled. Despite his fear, he couldn’t stop himself from blurting out eagerly, “You knew my father, sir?”

Cazalon smiled slowly. “Well, you are nothing like your small, fine-boned, golden-haired mother – Sarah isn’t it? Companion to the duchess?

“You, on the other hand, are olive-skinned, blackhaired and tall for your twelve years. So I conclude, Master Green, that you must look like your father. It is a simple deduction.”

Suddenly Jem was angry. Everyone seemed to have something to say about his father – except him. Forgetting his fear he took a step forward.

“My father died before I was born. I don’t know what he looked like… sir.”

He scowled and fell silent. How dare this strange man speak of his mother, let alone his father. He had no right.

Cazalon leaned forward to poke at the fire with his knobbled staff and the flames danced and crackled.

“I seem to have upset you, Master Green, and I am sorry. Perhaps we can begin again?”

Jem shifted uncomfortably. All he wanted to do was hand over the duchess’s note, collect her package and get away from Malfurneaux Place as quickly as possible.

Cazalon stared at him. After a moment the man tapped the tip of his staff lightly on the floor and the crystal bird’s head sparked with firelight.

“I enjoy games, Master Green, they help to pass the time. I hope you enjoy games too. Can you guess from what this staff is made?”

He twirled it slowly on the spot so that the odd twisted knobbles seemed to move up and down its length like snakes around a branch. Jem found himself mesmerised, unable to look away.

“It is the petrified backbone of a shark. Do you know what a shark is?”

Jem shook his head.

“Then I shall tell you. A shark is a fish – a most
dangerous specimen, the sharp-toothed wolf of the sea. I trust you will remember that useful fact. Do you like quizzes, boy?”

Jem looked at his feet. He didn’t want to talk to this man. He just wanted to leave.

“Sometimes, sir. It depends on the subject.”

Cazalon leaned forward in the chair and smiled.

“Good, then let us start with observation. What have you noticed about my house?”

Jem was silent. He had noticed so many revolting, unsettling and frankly terrifying things about Malfurneaux Place. What answer did Cazalon expect?

“Well… Jeremy? I think I shall call you that.”

Jem replied warily, “It’s… it’s very dark, sir.”

“And what else? What about the people here?”

Jem considered the only people he had encountered inside Malfurneaux Place, before replying uncertainly. “Er… your page cannot speak and your steward cannot see?”

“Good, Jeremy. Good. We spoke earlier about deduction. What do you deduce from your last statement?”

Jem was lost. He looked around the room trying to find inspiration in the models and tapestries.
At the far end of the room there was a huge black shape in the shadows. Jem realised it was a vast canopied bed topped with a crest of dark feathers and gilded with figures. The thick velvet curtains were pulled shut around it.

Cazalon coughed.

“I would appreciate it if you would concentrate on my question, Jeremy. Think.”

Jem thought very hard, before stammering, “It tells me that you are a good master to employ those who are so afflicted.”

Cazalon coughed again and then began to laugh. This wasn’t the thin metallic laugh Jem had heard before. This was a laugh that grew to a deep, wild howl that seemed to wrack Cazalon’s body so violently that the man had to cling to one of the chair arms to steady himself.

Cazalon slapped the arm.

“Osiris, did you hear that?” he wheezed, still rocking with mirth.

Behind him, Jem suddenly heard a rushing sound like wind moving through tree tops. The hot air from the fireplace seemed to shift over his head as a huge white bird swooped close to his ear and came to settle on Cazalon’s chair.

The bird turned its milky pink eyes on Jem and opened its ugly beak to reveal a yellow tongue that wriggled like a fat worm. Osiris leaned forward, raised its tail and deposited a steaming squirt of foul-smelling liquid on the floor.

“Such a messy pet,” said Cazalon affectionately, adding, “but what can one do? An albino raven like my beauty here could not live in the wild. His kind would tear him apart.”

Cazalon looked directly at Jem.

“So, in some ways, young man, your answer to my question was quite correct. Despite their afflictions, Tapwick and Ptolemy are both singular people and I value their particular… qualities.”

He leaned forward and Osiris began to sway excitedly on the chair behind him.

“But what I value most, Jeremy Green, is that one of them cannot see what happens within these walls and one cannot tell of it. And that is the lesson I want you to learn today.”

Grasping his bird-headed cane, Cazalon raised himself to his full height. The movement seemed to cause him pain.

“I understand that you have seen some of my toys today, Jeremy?”

Jem nodded, thinking that ‘toy’ was strange choice of word to describe the wretched deformities he’d seen earlier.

As if reading his thoughts, Cazalon smiled slowly and spoke again. “When I was… younger… I travelled the world to find the creatures of ancient myth and make them my pets. I am sure that an inquisitive boy like you would be as disappointed as I was to find that gryphons, unicorns, manticores and merfolk did not exist. They were merely stories – the work of imagination.

“Ah, but then, Jeremy, I thought to myself, if such creatures could be created in the mind, why should I not create them in the flesh?”

Cazalon paused for a moment and his eyes bored into Jem’s.

“It was such a pity,” the count concluded, dropping his words slowly and deliberately into the air like stones into a deep well, “that none of them survived beyond a month.”

An image of the white horse with the horn bolted cruelly to its forehead flashed into Jem’s mind. The animal had been alive when Cazalon experimented upon its body. He wanted to be sick.

Cazalon watched him carefully. “And so I believe
we understand each other, Jeremy. If you and I are to become…” Cazalon paused and appeared to test a phrase in his mouth before uttering it, “…
bonded in friendship
before you leave today, I must extract a promise of discretion from you.”

Jem nodded dully. His mouth had gone very dry. Somewhere a small, hopeful voice told him that Cazalon had talked about him leaving.

Leaning heavily on the staff, Cazalon took a step closer to Jem and caught the boy’s chin between his fingers. Again Jem smelt the odd perfume of sweetness masking putrefaction. He stared up. Cazalon’s eyes were closed and his dark-painted lips were moving.

Suddenly Jem began to choke. His throat felt blocked and dry. Pulling himself free from Cazalon’s grip, he bent double as his stomach heaved. He began to retch – and sand poured from his mouth. He spluttered and coughed, fighting for breath, but to his horror, the sand kept falling and falling.

Then suddenly, it stopped.

Jem gasped and swallowed a lungful of air. It felt as if his chest was bound with iron bars. He braced his hands on his knees and tried to control his ragged breathing, then he wiped at his mouth and straightened up.

Cazalon was smiling.

For a second any fear was driven from Jem’s mind as he burned with hatred. He thought about lunging at the count – perhaps he could grip the plait and pull the man to his knees?

But Cazalon thumped his staff heavily on the floor and the fire in the hearth began to flare and pulse.

Jem felt his eyes begin to scald, his very eyeballs seeming to boil in their sockets. He could see and feel nothing but searing flames, as a pair of hot coals burned in his head.

Then, as quickly as it had begun, the pain stopped. Jem stood shuddering before the hearth. Around him, the room was swimming and everything appeared to be red. He blinked hard and winced at the sudden shot of pain that speared his temples. His head throbbed and tears were now streaming from his eyes. He wiped them away and then pulled to loosen the linen band covering the birthmark at his aching throat.

Cazalon barked a short, hoarse laugh.

“Just a taste of what I can do to those who displease me, Jeremy. I trust that you are now aware of what might happen if you were ever to reveal the secrets of my extraordinary…”

The count broke off as he noticed Jem’s bandaged hand. Most particularly it seemed that Cazalon noticed the fresh blood that had seeped through the scrap of cotton over Jem’s raw, scraped knuckles.

His eyes widened and he grasped the staff more tightly.

After a moment he spoke in an eager cajoling voice. “But where are my manners? You are injured and as I am, among many other things, something of a physician there is nothing I should like more than to help you. Show me your hand.”

Jem didn’t move. He stared sullenly at the floor.

“Your hand, boy. I haven’t got all day.”

Cazalon’s voice was light, but there was an oddly strained quality to the words that made Jem look up. The man was staring intently at him, his pupils were dilated with concentration – for a second it almost seemed that his eyes were completely black. Jem felt compelled to raise his bandaged hand and hold it out to the count.

Cazalon leaned forward and tutted as he unwrapped the bloody scrap and examined Jem’s scabbed knuckles. The tip of his thin black tongue appeared as he moistened his cracked lips.

“You should keep the wound clean to guard
against infection. And you should allow it to breathe.” Cazalon scrunched up the blood-speckled bandage and quickly stuffed it into the folds of his gown. “You will not be needing this again, Jeremy.”

Jem noticed that the man smiled broadly as he patted the place where he had secreted the bandage and smoothed the material.

Then Cazalon stared intently at him and he had the strangest sensation that he could feel the count inside his mind. Not in the way that Tolly spoke to him, but rather as if something was sneaking around in his deepest thoughts and trying not to be noticed. It was like the faint itchy feeling when a tiny insect lands on your skin.

Osiris bobbed excitedly on the pole. The bird opened its pale yellow beak, dribbled and let out a single ‘kraak’ of approval.

Cazalon nodded and looked over at his vile pet. He murmured something that sounded to Jem like, “Soon, my dear heart, my own soul.”

The count clapped his gloved hands.

“And now to business, my young friend. I suppose the great duchess will be expecting her cure?”

Jem felt in his jacket pocket for the duchess’s note. He handed it over.

Cazalon took it between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand and held it away from him as if it were something unpleasant. Then, without warning, he quickly crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the flames without even reading it.

“And the money?”

Jem dug into his pocket and produced the coin pouch. He was about to hand it to the man, but Osiris swooped swiftly and silently, and snatched up the little bag in his bent grey claws.

The count gave a satisfied smile and limped over to the fire. He reached up into the carvings of the chimney breast and retrieved a small polished black jar with a lid shaped like the head of a hawk.

He turned.

“Do you know what this is, Jeremy?”

Jem shook his head.

“It is a canoptic jar from taken from the tomb of a long-dead king of Egypt. A pharaoh, in fact. This little jar once held the mummified remains of the king’s heart, so that when he made the great journey to the afterlife he might…”