The Silver Blade (17 page)
He and Citizen Aulard were engrossed in conversation when Yann entered the room. Cordell paused, wondering if the candlelight were playing tricks. For a moment he could have sworn that Yann had a myriad of brightly coloured threads dancing all around him.
He closed his eyes and when he looked again they had gone. There was only the room, the candlelight and Yann. But then again, he thought, many strange things happen around this young man. It was as if he weaved between two worlds: this one, bloodsoaked and ruined, and another altogether more mysterious.
‘Do you know the Silver Blade’s reputation is growing in London? You are quite a hero in emigre society,’ said Cordell.
‘That sounds worrying,’ said Tetu, close behind Yann. He was more than aware of the speculation, not only in London but in Paris, as to the identity of the Silver Blade.
‘The good thing is that no one can quite remember who you are, or for that matter what you look like. Would it be presumptuous to ask how you do that?’
‘Too much is made of it,’ answered Yann. ‘Where is Remon Quint?’
‘Basco is sitting with him,’ said Citizen Aulard. ‘Citizen Quint is quiet. Sleep is the best remedy.’
‘Did he say anything else about the key?’ asked Yann.
‘He genuinely believes that he is going to be killed the minute he hands over his masterpiece.’
‘Why?’ asked Cordell.
‘Because he was commissioned to make a key to a soul.’
‘And what on earth does that mean?’ asked Citizen Aulard. ‘Yes, you can have a key to a door, a key to a city, the keys of a kingdom, but never a key to the soul. Such a thing is impossible.’ He puffed his cheeks, letting a ‘put-put’ noise out through his mouth and exclaimed,
‘
Mort bleu!
You are a rational man, Mr Cordell, you don’t believe all this nonsense?’
Mort bleu!
You are a rational man, Mr Cordell, you don’t believe all this nonsense?’
There was silence, then Cordell asked, ‘Where is this key?’
‘He left it in his apartment,’ said Yann, ‘and it is no longer there. I saw Milkeye leaving; he’d ransacked the place. The key was commissioned by Count Kalliovski.’
The theatre manager sat down heavily in his seat. ‘No, no! He was killed in the September Massacre. Please tell me he was killed.’
An awful idea dawned on him. ‘Do you think Kalliovski and the so-called phantom who walks in the Place de la Revolution are one and the same?’
Yann didn’t reply, for Cordell’s thoughts worried him.
‘What report?’ he asked.
Cordell sighed. ‘Nothing much escapes you, does it?’
‘Forgive me, that was rude,’ said Yann, ‘but this report, whatever it is, is much on your mind.’
‘Correct. I had a spy working for me and Laxton, here in Paris, whose brief was to infiltrate a secret society believed to be operating under the city. His dispatches made intriguing reading indeed. The spy, a man by the name of Levis Artois, reported that the meetings took place in the catacombs, in a large domed cavernous room made entirely of human bones. A man known simply as the Master is the head of this organisation, a terrifying figure of demonic power.’
Cordell looked grave. ‘The last message I received from Artois was to say that he was sending me a report with further information about the Master, and the names of several of his followers, many, he indicated, working in positions of high office, in the Convention and the Committee of Public Safety. Unfortunately, the report never reached me.’
‘What happened?’ asked Citizen Aulard.
‘A body was fished out of the Seine about a week ago. There was little left to identify. He had been torn to pieces by a monstrous beast. But I suspect it was Artois.’
Tetu had been silent. Of all of them he understood the dreadful signficance of Cordell’s story.
‘Remon Quint should be escorted from Paris to London,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it would be wise to leave him at Dieppe. If he is as important to Kalliovski as we believe, the Count will have his men waiting at the ports to find him. Yann should go with him all the way to London.’
‘I suppose he could do that successfully while the theatre is being repainted,’ said Citizen Aulard.
Yann’s mind was whirling. London. He would be able to see Sido. Sido - at last.
He did his best to keep the excitement out of his voice. ‘That will work.’
‘Before we agree,’ said Cordell, ‘I have something to say and it must be said now. The situation in Paris is going to get worse. I have heard rumours that a proposal to accelerate the Terror is to be put forward to the Convention this month.’
‘That is ridiculous—’ said Citizen Aulard.
‘Please,’ interrupted Cordell. ‘I want to know if you all wish to continue with assignments, or would you rather we disbanded now?’
‘No,’ said Yann firmly. ‘We should go on. To stop now would be the coward’s way.’
‘Yannick,’ said Tetu, ‘consider Cordell’s proposal. You have helped more than enough people to escape. Now is the time to return to England, to take up your place at Cambridge.’
Yann looked at Tetu, bewildered. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, quite well. What do you think, Citizen Aulard?’
‘Have I missed something? Because I don’t understand your reasoning,’ said the theatre manager, perplexed. ‘This business has always been dangerous. If we were to close down now and vanish in the night we would be deserting many who need us. And why is Yann at more risk than before?’
‘I was just testing your commitment, that’s all.’
No, you weren’t, thought Yann. You have seen the future.
I
t was about one-thirty when the small meeting dispersed. Yann waited until he was alone with Tetu.
t was about one-thirty when the small meeting dispersed. Yann waited until he was alone with Tetu.
‘Is Death walking with me?’ he asked
‘I wish you knew more of the gypsy ways, I wish I had taught you better.’
‘Tetu, answer me.’
‘But did I tell you that bridges are important? They straddle two worlds and you walk with ease between them, but do you spit into the water before you cross? All gypsies know they must do that, there is a saying: “I believe that by the bridge of Cin-Vat all good deeds will be rewarded and evil deeds punished.” Whatever Kalliovski has done belongs to evil. It is a bridge too unstable to cross more than once. And I am frightened for you, Yannick, very frightened indeed.’
Tears welled in his eyes and Yann felt cold inside. He’d never seen Tetu like this.
‘It will be all right,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Next time I will remember to spit.’
He rested his hand on Tetu’s shoulder.
With a heavy heart Yann made his way to his attic home and climbed out on to the roof. He would often sit and look out over the sleeping city, at its ramshackle rooftops, its lopsided chimneypots, and church spires pointing into the night sky.
Shirkis
. The Romany word for stars, birds of fire that only fly in darkness. He remembered Tetu used to sing to him when he was small.
. The Romany word for stars, birds of fire that only fly in darkness. He remembered Tetu used to sing to him when he was small.
And the moon, the lady of the heavens coming nightly, certain in her coming o’er the meadow just to feed her chickens.
And Yann thought, I am like a bird of fire. Free at last, coming to tell you I love you, Sido, I love you.
Chapter Fourteen
I
t was another hot evening when the curtain rose on the last performance of
The Harlequinade
before the theatre was to close for repainting.
t was another hot evening when the curtain rose on the last performance of
The Harlequinade
before the theatre was to close for repainting.
Remon Quint was better than he had been, but worry had eaten at him and his eyes had a hunted look. Even Didier, who had no ability to read minds, could see that this man was close to breaking point. They sat together under the stage waiting for Yann, the keymaker locking and unlocking his fingers.
When the curtain fell, the audience was in no mood to let Harlequin go. Flowers were thrown on the stage; from the balcony a woman declared her undying love for him. The curtain was lifted again and again, until finally it rested for the last time, its velvet folds still quivering as Yann made a sprint for the door and removing his mask, rushed to join Didier and the keymaker below stage. From the minute they descended the stone stairs leading to the catacombs, Yann was filled with foreboding. The keymaker was shaking.
‘I’m not good in small spaces … I …’
‘You have to trust us,’ said Yann, but he was aware of a bad feeling that fogged his mind. As much as he tried to force it away, he knew it was not a good omen and omens were important to his gypsy soul. The keymaker looked almost wild with fright by the time they entered the catacombs.
‘I can’t do it,’ he announced. ‘I can’t stand the idea of all that earth above me. All the weight of the buildings pressing down, all the bones of the dead … all the worms … I have to go back, I have to. I’m going to be buried alive down here, I know it.’
Yann gently held his arm and, his voice a lullaby, said quietly, ‘Look at me.’
The keymaker stared at him and in those ebony eyes he found, as little Louis had before him, a stillness like calm water.
‘Do you think he’ll be all right?’ asked Didier.
‘I hope so.’
They set off, Yann in front, Didier at the rear, their lights swaying back and forth, gently illuminating the distance that lay ahead. Their plan was to reach the Chamber of Sighs then stop for a rest. Yann had named the vaulted cavern after the words painted neatly on the wall:
Life is a circle of sighs
. It was the first landmark he’d found in his search for a route out of the city.
Life is a circle of sighs
. It was the first landmark he’d found in his search for a route out of the city.
They walked keeping their heads down. It was wet underfoot. The catacombs were given to weeping and this evening the tunnels wept. All that could be heard in this echo-less place was the splash of their shoes.
Yann couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was wrong. He was sure they were being followed. He turned several times to confront the darkness, convinced he heard the panting of a great beast. He shone his light back the way they had come. He could see nothing, just the same empty tunnels. Didier too looked back.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing,’ said Yann, but he sensed something evil closing in.
At the Chamber of Sighs they rested and took water and food from their knapsacks. They always carried enough oil to keep the lamps lit for eight hours, for without light they would never find their way out again. Yann had long ago explored the Chamber of Sighs, a dead end that led nowhere, but was a good place to stretch after walking hunched up for so long. There was a stone bench and here they sat in silence.
The keymaker was eating and drinking like a sleep-walker, when suddenly he let out a terrifying scream which sent a chill through Yann’s soul. On the wall opposite loomed the shadow of an enormous dog.
Remon Quint was in a frenzy. He darted into the darkness of the vaulted room with Didier and Yann in pursuit.
‘He can’t get far,’ Yann was saying, but to their amazement the keymaker disappeared. Yann was surprised to see a gap in what he had always thought was a solid wall. They found themselves in a large unmapped tunnel ablaze with the light of candles gripped in bony fingers, coated in dripping wax. There was neither hide nor hair of the keymaker.
‘Where the hell are we?’ asked Didier. ‘What do we do?’
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