The Dark Flight Down (7 page)

9

Maxim chewed his lip. He waited, at the right hand of Frederick’s throne, while the emperor considered the situation before him.

The court was full. The usual crowd was there.

The doctors. A feckless assortment with less knowledge of medicine than Maxim, but they served their purpose. Frederick was never well. At least, in his mind there was always something wrong with him. The doctors were very useful to Maxim. He could, and did, blame them for the emperor’s poor state of health, deflecting from himself any complaints Frederick made. And if, as rarely happened, Frederick chanced to say he felt a bit better than usual one morning, Maxim would take the praise, pretending he had told the doctors to improve their efforts.

There were the stargazers, the astrologists. Maxim had less control of this group. Not that they were any less spineless than the doctors, but they were altogether unpredictable. They wore the badges of their office—pointed caps emblazoned with stars—and carried charts and diagrams with them always. Frederick set great store by astrological computations, and never did anything if Saturn was in retrograde motion. Maxim did his best to use the information the astrologers imparted to further his own position, but they were apt to come out with the most unexpected bit of news at any time, with little or no warning, and Frederick would be sent into fits of panic. When this happened he was likely to start accusing Maxim of disloyalty, or even treason, and at the very least criticized Maxim’s lack of care for his emperor, and his emperor’s health and general well-being.

There were alchemists, necromancers and other magical practitioners whom Frederick had seen fit to assemble around him. Many of them were entirely laughable and ineffectual, but some were devious and clever enough to give Maxim cause for concern. Frederick seemed to think the answer to his problems lay with men of this sort. He never welcomed Maxim’s suggestions that there were perhaps too many of them and that he might do better with a dozen fewer.

Then there was the court itself, with its entourages and hangers-on, the noblemen and ladies of the court, all from rich and powerful families, dukes and duchesses, lords and ladies, but not one with a direct claim to the throne. This was the group Maxim feared the most in the event of Frederick’s death. They were a conniving and greedy bunch out for nothing but their own gain. Maxim recognized these motives well, since they were his own, and to be feared in others.

Then there were the staff, though most of them existed almost unseen.

It was Maxim’s lot to rule this exotic collection, to see that things in the palace ran smoothly, to make sure Frederick was attended to in the smallest detail, every minute of every day.

Now Maxim stood by Frederick’s throne as the emperor considered the application of another occultist.

The influence of Frederick’s court was not what it had once been, but stories of its very real wealth still spread far and wide, and it was commonplace for several new applicants to arrive at the palace gates each week, all hoping to gain the special favor of the emperor and earn a fortune in the process.

This latest candidate was a youngish man, with thin hair and roaming eyes. Maxim, however, was fretting not about him, but about the boy in the dungeon. Maxim was convinced that Boy had to know about the book. His spies had told him that it had been rediscovered, and Maxim knew that Valerian had been looking for it. If he
had
found it, then it stood to reason that his boy had to know its current whereabouts.

Maxim now quite rightly believed the book would be the only way to find a solution to his predicament. There had to be some way out of the dilemma Frederick had placed him in, yet it managed to elude him despite his best efforts.

The emperor wanted immortality, and
nothing
would stop his relentless search for it. Any day the neurotic, decrepit ruler might decide he’d had enough of his current right-hand man.

As things stood, their relationship suited Maxim. He commanded respect, or at least fear, throughout the palace, and had luxurious chambers in which to live. But things could not stay that way forever, and Maxim’s schemes were going slightly awry.

For the moment, it worked well enough to help Frederick on his mad quest, until such time as Maxim had his plans in place; to keep his position and power whether the emperor was alive or not. But he was not ready for that yet, not by a long way. He saw that maybe the book was the answer to his problems, one way or another.

“You say you can divine the future?” Frederick asked. He didn’t do it directly, but spoke through Maxim.

Maxim repeated the emperor’s question, and the man eagerly nodded.

“Oh yes,” he said. “Oh yes!”

“Very well,” said Frederick to Maxim. “See what he can do.”

“The emperor wishes to see an example of your skill,” Maxim said.

“Very well. Of course!” the man said, looking a little nervous. He began to rummage in his bag and pulled out a tray and some cups.

“I will ask one of you,” he said, speaking very quickly, ‘to hide this ball beneath one of the cups and—”

“Enough,” said the emperor quietly.

Maxim stepped forward.

“Stop!” he said to the man. “We have enough prestidigitators already. We are seeking genuine clairvoyant ability. You will have to do better than this. Let me show you.”

Maxim called to the back of the court.

“Wolfram! Come here!”

A murmur spread through the room as the crowds parted to let a strange-looking man walk forward to the dais where Frederick sat. He was dressed very plainly, and wore a cap with brown feathers poking out of it. He mumbled to himself as he walked. He was one of the seers of the court, whose occupation was to scry the future for Frederick. This particular seer must have been reasonably good, for he had been in court for several years. The less accurate tended to vanish, quickly.

“Sire?” he said, without emotion.

Frederick nodded at Maxim.

Maxim turned back to the applicant.

“You say you can foretell the future. So tell us. What is going to happen to you in the next five minutes?”

The man dropped his bag, and wiped his forehead.

“I . . . I don’t . . . ,” he began, then steadied himself. “I mean, I think I will be happy to accept your generous offer of a position in your command.”

He forced a wide smile.

Maxim turned to the seer.

“Seer?” he asked.

For the first time a glimmer of emotion showed on Wolfram’s face. He shut his eyes and a frown developed. He opened his eyes, now moist, but it was a flat, almost disembodied, voice that spoke to Maxim.

“He will die.”

That was all. He turned and shambled back into the crowd.

“Ha!” said Frederick. “Correct! He is correct!”

The man began to protest.

“You can’t do that. He can’t . . . It’s a set-up! You can’t just kill me. . . .”

He stepped forward and pulled a knife from inside his tunic. Instantly, without fuss, two guards closed in on him and slew him where he stood.

“Silly man,” said Frederick. “Oh, do take him away. Don’t just stand there! He’s bleeding on my carpets.”

Maxim sighed. It was a scene he had seen too often to find amusing anymore.

His thoughts turned back to the strange boy in the dungeon.

10

As soon as the blind jailer left, Boy wasted no time.

He’d come back with more slop, and more oil for the lamp, having finally smelt that it had gone out.

He was in no particular hurry as he lowered the lamp on its long chain from the center of the ceiling, and poured more oil into its base.

Boy saw a scratch of sparks away in the center of the dungeon and the lamp was lit.

The jailer hoisted it back to the ceiling, brought Boy his food and once more took a second bowl somewhere else.

Now he was gone, and Boy took out his lockpick and set himself free again. He headed straight toward the dungeon’s far wall, in the direction the jailer had taken.

When Boy was a little less than halfway across, having averted his eyes from the hideous machines in the center of the room, he heard singing again. It was still faint, but now with the weak light from the lamp, Boy knew he was awake, and not merely imagining it.

He passed the center of the chamber and the oil lamp, and once he had, the blackness began to grow again. He waited to see if his eyes would get used to the deepening gloom, and after a moment, went on.

The singing grew louder. It was a man’s voice but it was high and wavering.

“Hello?” Boy called.

Nothing, except the singing. Now he could make out some of the words, and without consciously realizing it, they felt familiar to him.

“Surely you won’t run,
When your boat is ready to sail.
Surely you will stand
And face the gentle rain?”

Then he saw something. A pinprick of light, so tiny at first he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t his eyes playing a trick on him. As he stepped toward it, however, the light grew in size. It was still small, but it was bright, and shone like a jewel through the deepness of the dark in the dungeon.

He moved closer and came to a row of cells that he had not seen before. They were like his own, set into the wall in a row of four or five.

Beyond them lay the light, and now Boy saw it was a window cut through the solid rock, very small, just wider than a couple of hands. It was divided in four by a sturdy iron cross, so not even Boy would have been able to get more than a few fingers through its gaps.

He went closer, and still the singing continued.

“In the morning you should think
You might not last unto the night,
In the evening you should think

You might not last unto the morn.
So dance, my dears, dance,
Before you take the dark flight down.”

“Hello?” Boy said. He knew this had to be where the jailer was taking the other bowl of food.

“Hello?” He tried again.

Still nothing. He had to go closer.

He realized he was breathing light and fast, taking short uneven gulps of air. To compensate, his heart began to beat faster too, trying to get enough air into his body. He was arm’s length from the window now. It was slightly above his head, and as he approached, he put out a trembling hand to the grille. He stood on tiptoe to peer inside, and a warm orange light like fire spilled across his face. He had been holding his breath, but what he saw on the other side of the window took that breath clean away.

It was a room, of decent proportions, but not vast by any means. It had a low ceiling, unlike the high domed one of the dungeon, and was obviously some antechamber that had been carved from the rock. It was clearly still part of the dungeon, but there any similarity to that foul grimy place ended.

The room was beautiful. Light came from two oil lamps, one on a small table, the other hanging from the ceiling. Thick rugs lay on the floor, hiding the bare rock beneath. It was exquisitely furnished. There was a writing desk with an upholstered chair, a small but ornate bed covered in sumptuous sheets and plump pillows, red and gold. There were two wardrobes and a chest of drawers, again all of the finest quality. A small mirror with an enormously intricate gold frame hung on one wall, above a washstand with a fine porcelain bowl and a jug to match. There was even a small fireplace, with a chimney that must have been bored right through the bedrock all the way up to the palace and eventually away to the cold City air, for the room was completely free of smoke and the fire was drawing well.

Boy’s eyes widened in wonder, and then he saw him.

The man who had been singing.

He was sitting in a low armchair, by the fire. Boy tried to speak again, and the words caught in his mouth.

But he had been seen.

“Don’t ask me for food. I ate it all. You can’t have mine.”

Boy was still too stunned to speak.

The man went back to his singing. Boy struggled to think what to say, what to ask, but he was distracted by the song. He knew it. He knew it, but could not remember where from.

“Who are you?”

It was a simple question, but the man seemed confused.

He looked up at Boy, then into the fire. He did not reply.

“I’m Boy,” said Boy. “My name . . . is Boy. Who are you?”

The man looked back at Boy. He was old, quite tall, and had probably even been strong once upon a time. He wore a short gray pointed beard, and his features were fine, though his eyes seemed dead.

“Me?” he asked. “Me? I . . . can’t remember.”

He stopped, looked around again.

Boy stuttered another question.

“Wh-What are you doing down here?”

As soon as it was uttered, he realized his question was foolish, and asked another.

“Are you in charge here? Do you look after the prisoners?”

The man started to laugh, softly at first, and then more and more loudly.

“Prisoners?” he said. “What prisoners? I am the only one down here now.”

Boy shook himself. His feet were aching from standing on tiptoe at the small window. He looked around, to see if there was a door that led into the chamber, but could see nothing. He tried to pull himself up with his fingers again to make it easier.

“How long?” asked Boy. “When did they put you down here?”

The man blinked at Boy.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Boy felt a shuddering fear take hold of him. The man couldn’t remember his own name, and Boy couldn’t understand how you could forget your name, if you were lucky enough to have one. Unless it had been a long time since anyone had used it. Boy’s question about time had thrown the man too. Just how long had he been moldering in the dungeon?

But something didn’t make sense. If this man was a prisoner, why was he living in luxury? Why the fine clothes and furnishings? If it was a prison, it was a strange, gilded cage.

“Why are you down here?” Boy asked.

“Too long ago,” said the man, obliquely.

Now he asked Boy a question.

“What did you say your name was?”

“I’m called Boy and I’ve got to get out of here.”

“I haven’t seen anyone else here in a long time,” the man said. “They don’t keep prisoners anymore. They have other uses for them. . . .”

“What do you mean?” Boy asked.

“It’s been a long time since they’ve had anyone here. They don’t usually bother waiting . . . just take them straight to it. I expect they’ll be taking you down soon, though.”

“What do you mean? What is it?”

“You don’t know?” asked the man. “You don’t know?”

He stopped, and in the silence Boy could hear himself struggling to breathe.

“You don’t know?” the man repeated. “Then I fear for you. But maybe it’s best you don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“What is it?” asked Boy, urgently. “Tell me!”

Boy pressed his face against the iron cross in the little window.

“Please!” he begged. “What is it? What is it? An animal?”

“No!” said the man. “Not an animal. It’s a thing. A living thing, but they call it the Phantom.”

And Boy now knew it was the thing from his nightmares, the thing lurking at the foot of the dark flight down. The Phantom.

“He’s coming to take the bowl away,” the man said casually. “He’d better not find you here!”

Confused, Boy said nothing.

“The jailer’s coming. For the bowl.”

He nodded at the table, where the empty bowl lay.

“Get away from the window!” he whispered.

As he did so, Boy saw a door on the far wall of the chamber open; the only way into this room was from the corridor outside.

He ducked down, out of sight, and realized that if the jailer had come for the man’s empty bowl he would be coming for Boy’s next.

He crouched low and sprinted as quietly as he could back to his own cell, determined to visit the man again as soon as he could.

Boy was alone again. Thoughts whirled through his mind. Thoughts of the days he’d spent with Valerian, dark days before the end, of the trip to the Trumpet, where a man had been slain, and of Willow finding Korp’s body in the secret room in the theater. A victim of the Phantom.

The Phantom, which had been terrorizing the City for years.

The Phantom, in whose domain Boy now found himself trapped.