Beyond the Shroud (17 page)

It was as if no one else in the room existed. I stared into those pale, empty eyes and felt the world fall away under my feet.

Dimly, I realised the metal grille had been slid aside, and the others were being herded reluctantly towards the dais. Automatically I moved with them, my eyes still locked on Karazeel's. It was as if his eyes were made of cold, grey steel — magnets, drawing me forward.

We reached the raised edge of the platform, and stopped. Karazeel was no more than two strides away. I was dimly conscious of a strange, musky odour almost like incense, overlaying another smell — one I couldn't identify.

‘Kneel!'
It was the guard, his whisper loud in the silence.
‘Kneel before the king!'

There was a dull thump from beside me as Jamie thudded to his knees. I felt rather than saw the others follow his example. It was what we'd agreed — do as you're
told. Buy time. Keep what options we still have open. Above all, don't make waves.

The order came again, more urgently this time.
‘Kneel, imbecile!'

I knew he was talking to me. I knew my life depended on it. But I couldn't. My legs were as stiff and wooden as tree stumps, rigid and unyielding. I could no more have bent them and knelt to King Karazeel than sprouted wings and flown up through the skylight.

‘Adam …'
Gen's desperate whisper.

Still, I stared into the eyes of the king. Then suddenly his lips curved into a smile, and he spoke. ‘This boy … interests me. Let him stand if he will. Evor …' He held out one hand.

Our gaze broke. From behind Karazeel, a hump-backed, misshapen figure shuffled forward. I had a fleeting impression of a dark robe, purple as night and spangled with stars; sharp, calculating eyes glinting from a nest of long, matted hair; a twisted hand with nails curled like claws.

The hand reached out to a low, gilded table beside the king's seat. Ranged on the table was an array of phials … crystal phials that shone like diamonds in the shaft of sunlight. Shimmering phosphorescence … liquid ebony … crystal-clear transparency … distillation of emerald … and a dull mustard sludge, the colour of pus. The hand stroked over them, as if considering. The long nails made a faint rasping sound as they trailed delicately over the gleaming crystal, like the scritch-scritch-scratching of rats in a dungeon.

The hand settled on the sludge-brown potion, thick as liquid mud. As the sorcerer touched it, a mottled shadow slithered into my memory, lifting its blunt head and tasting the air with its flickering tongue.
Inner Voices. The Potion of Insight.

King Karazeel's heavily ringed hand reached hungrily for the phial, almost snatching it. He held it up to his nose and inhaled deeply, savouring its scent. Then abruptly he put the phial to his lips and upended it with a greedy, sucking sound. Instantly, his eyes rolled up in their sockets leaving only blank, bloodshot slits of white, a thin string of drool sliding from the corner of his slack mouth.

Alarm bells were jangling in my mind. Fragmented thoughts jostled with the growing panic on the edge of my consciousness …
This boy interests me … Evor … sorcerer … Inner Voices … Insight …

Then I felt it. Sly and subtle, as if fingers made of jelly were probing my mind. Fondling, stroking, digging oh so gently into the deep reaches of my thoughts … deeper … and deeper. There was something comforting, soothing and luxurious about giving in to the soft searching. Pictures began to float to the surface of my mind, hazy and seductive as dreams, as if my memory was on slow rewind.

A distant view of a village from a mountainside … a stomach empty and hollow as a drum, and the minty taste of gum …
searching, searching …
swirling mist … a burning raft …
searching, searching …
a small figure in striped pyjamas … a computer keyboard … a dog's hot breath on my face
… closer, closer …
the blue of Q's eyes, clear as the sky … a shabby brown book … a haunting tune, the melody clear and pure as raindrops, made by … made by …
yes?… yes?

A glint of silver hovered faint as a note of music on the edges of my mind, flickering and starting to take form …

…
the blue of Q's eyes …

NO!

Denial rang through my head like a clash of cymbals, almost exploding my brain with its force. The trembling image shattered and was gone before it existed. Instinctively, in desperate reflex, I threw up a wall in my mind — a wall of stone, blank and featureless, stretching
to the sky. All I saw was the wall. I stared at it, eyes squeezed shut, metallic echoes still ringing in my skull. I stared at my wall. It was solid, strong. My world was the wall.

Gradually, the echoes faded and died.

The groping fingers were gone. Warily, I opened my eyes. King Karazeel was lying back, head lolling. His pale eyes were half-open, but vacant and empty.

The sorcerer hovered at his side, peering into the blank eyes. His bony fingers snapped once — twice. There was no response. He reached for the phial that shimmered with liquid mother-of-pearl, and held it gently, almost tenderly, to the king's slack lips.

I watched, sickened, remembering another time, in another world …

Karazeel sipped, coughed — then greedily sucked. At once colour flooded back into his face and his eyelids fluttered. His eyes opened, searching me out again with glittering intensity.

The hunchback fussed over him, straightening the crown, smoothing the rainbow cloak, dabbing at the pale lips with a silken cloth. The king murmured something to him. Evor hobbled forward with his awkward, lurching gait, and fixed me with eyes that burned dark as coal. He spoke in a hissing whisper that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. ‘King Karazeel bids me tell you there are more ways than one to unlock the secrets of the mind. Ways more painful for you … though not for him. But there is time enough … You will await his pleasure.'

At last Karazeel's gaze moved down to the others, huddled silently on the floor at my feet. His eyes rested on them one by one. His lips curved into a dismissive
smile. ‘Only the boy,' he said finally. ‘He has a look about him … but now I am tired. Dispose of the rest.'

Evor gestured to the guard and murmured something to him — I caught the words ‘boy … dungeons … others …
upon the eastern wall …
'

My heart froze.

The guard grasped the girls by their arms and hauled them roughly to their feet. Kenta's eyes were pools of terror in her ashen face. She'd heard what I had … maybe more. But Gen's eyes sparked blue fire. Her tawny hair was wild and tangled as a lion's mane, her teeth bared in a ferocious snarl. She fought the guard's grip on her arm, kicking and scratching like a wildcat … and then, unbelievably, she pulled free, leapt forward onto the dais, and spat full in the face of King Karazeel.

Instantly, the four soldiers were on her, her struggling figure surrounded in a second. Gen was helpless in their grip, a drawn sword at her neck, another at her heart. They turned to face the king, awaiting his order. Karazeel watched, face expressionless.

The moment stretched forever.

Then King Karazeel smiled … a smile that chilled my blood. ‘Yes,' he murmured, as if to himself. ‘How did I not notice her before? A little beauty — and the fiery spirit will be easily quelled. She will do very well as a handmaiden of the court, serving the king … and she will not spit so well, nor so far, when she lacks a tongue.'

Two of the soldiers dragged Gen away towards the huge doors at the far end of the throne room. ‘Let me go!' she screamed. ‘I want to stay with the others! I won't ever serve you! You're evil and hateful — I'd rather be dead!'

King Karazeel watched her go with cold, expressionless eyes. Then he inclined his head, and instantly the sorcerer was beside him, wiping Gen's spit off his face and bending to catch his next words. At a sign from Evor, pages sprang
forward and drew back the heavy tapestries lining the far wall.

I gaped. Beyond the tapestries was a luxurious chamber, an extension of the throne room itself. It was thronged with ladies — twenty, thirty or more: a gallery of queens. My eyes were drawn from one face to the next, each more dazzlingly beautiful than the last. Some were dusky-skinned, some rose-petal fair … some had dark hair, loose and flowing, some hair like spun gold piled high on their heads … some had eyes as wide and dark as fawns', some eyes like angels, blue as heaven. Each wore a gown of a different colour — ruby red, bronze, rose, sapphire, silver, ivory — and a delicate crown of gold. They were like exotic birds of paradise, fluttering and preening and twittering among themselves as they cast sidelong smiles and sultry glances at the king.

‘Remove the vermin!' Evor rasped. ‘The king wishes to be entertained! Heralds: a fanfare for the entrance of the Mauler!'

The four of us were bundled hurriedly down the red carpet towards the door Gen had disappeared through. We stumbled along without protest, numb with the shock of being separated and dread of what lay ahead.

As we reached the doorway a bright chorus of trumpets rang out. Instinctively, I glanced back. Our guard had also slowed and was gawking over his shoulder. A scarlet tapestry emblazoned with a golden coat of arms swished dramatically open and two courtiers appeared, wearing rich liveries of cream and bronze, each carrying a gilded cage. There was a bird in one, and in the other … a
rat?
Then my attention switched to the solitary figure behind them. Like his attendants, he was dressed in cream silk, but the trimmings on his tunic were gold. His hands were protected to the elbows by heavy leather gauntlets, matching boots covering his legs to the knee. His face
was hidden by an ornate mask, crafted to represent the head of a snarling predator.

In spite of everything I couldn't help staring over my shoulder. I was certain this must be the Mauler's keeper, and the Mauler wouldn't be far behind.

But I was wrong. The Mauler was already there.

The Keeper paced slowly towards the throne. His hands were held at chest level, like a waiter in one of those expensive restaurants you see on television. On the palms of his hands, resting on the gauntlets like a tray, was a plump velvet cushion of purest gold.

And on the cushion, with her paws curled under her, wearing a golden collar studded with jewels and looking mighty pleased with herself, lay Tiger Lily.

‘IT'S THAT DARN CAT!'
Richard's voice, never soft at the best of times, rang out to every corner of the throne room.

‘Rich — pipe down!'
I hissed. Our guard had turned pale and was desperately hustling us through the door — I realised that if he was caught hanging back in hopes of a glimpse of the Mauler, his head would be on the block.

But it was too late. The second she heard Richard's voice, Tiger Lily was off the cushion and streaking down the scarlet carpet towards the doorway. The Keeper stood helplessly as if turned to stone. Shrill shrieks of terror came from the queens' gallery — out of the corner of my eye I saw one after the other fainting to the floor, like brightly-coloured flower petals falling in the wind.

For the first time, King Karazeel was bolt upright, leaning forward avidly, an expression of greedy anticipation on his face as he watched the savage Mauler bounding towards the unprotected prisoners.

Just before she reached us, Tiger Lily sprang. She was
only a little cat, but months of soft living in the royal court hadn't done much for her waistline, and she hit me in the chest with a thump that nearly knocked me flying. She clambered her way up onto my shoulder and hung there purring like a steamroller, kneading my jerkin with her claws. Apart from the rumble of the Mauler's contented purring, there was absolute silence.

Then King Karazeel rose slowly to his feet. Gesturing to the Keeper to follow him, he walked slowly down the length of the throne room towards us, Evor hobbling after him like a shadow.

He stopped an arm's length away from me. When he spoke, it was to the sorcerer, though his eyes were on Tiger Lily. ‘What is the meaning of this?'

‘It may be … that the creature has in some way … evolved, my lord king.' The slimy voice had an undercurrent of uncertainty. ‘We know it to be a sacred beast. It may be … that its wildness has for some reason deserted it.'

The king turned his head a fraction in the direction of the Keeper, standing motionless at his shoulder. ‘Can this be so?'

The Keeper's reply was muffled behind his mask. He stepped forward and plucked Tiger Lily off me, though she dug her claws in and hung on as tight as she could.

His eyes glittering, King Karazeel gestured towards Kenta, Rich and Jamie, standing by with their mouths open. The Keeper held Tiger Lily out towards them one by one. She hung purring in his hands, placid and relaxed, blinking sleepily at them with blissful golden eyes.

‘You see, my lord king, it is as I supposed. I fear your Mauler has become tame. Observe …' Evor sidled forward, one hand outstretched towards the little cat. Instantly her ears flattened against her head, her mouth widened into a snarl, and a paw lashed out, claws extended.

Evor leapt back with astonishing speed and agility —
but not fast enough. Four deep scratches appeared on his shrivelled hand, oozing purplish blood.

‘Hmmm.' King Karazeel didn't seem too displeased by the turn of events. Slowly, very cautiously, he extended one hand in the direction of Tiger Lily himself. The Keeper, clearly alarmed for the king's safety and his own skin, took a rapid step back — but a glance from the king stopped him. Instead, the leather gauntlets tightened on Tiger Lily's sides. Her golden eyes, fixed on the king, narrowed dangerously, and she gave a low, warning growl. The king stepped back and smiled at Evor — but it was a smile without humour.

‘So. It seems you know less than you would have me believe, Evor. I will think on this, and draw my own conclusions. Guard — take the prisoners below. Their skins have been saved — for the moment. Saved —' and again the cruel lips curved into a thin smile — ‘by the grace of the Mauler.'

The guard bundled us back down the spiral staircase and into our cell. He removed our shackles and slammed the heavy gate, locking it securely. Then he replaced the key on its empty hook on the rack above the guards' table, made a mark on the slate, and disappeared the way we'd come, the portcullises rattling down behind him.

Absolute silence settled on the dungeon. I looked round at the faces of the others — only three of them now. They were grey in the gloom, and bleak with despair.

For what seemed a long time, no one spoke.

And then the silence was broken by a voice from the next cell, where a pale shadow like a ghost had crept up to the bars and was peeping through, unnoticed. ‘Adam,' it said reproachfully, ‘why did you take so long to rescue me?'

We were all huddled up to the bars between the cells, holding a whispered council of war. ‘So you see, Hannah,' I was explaining, ‘I haven't rescued you — not yet, anyway. It isn't that simple. I wish it was.' I was trying to put a positive spin on things for her, but there didn't seem to be one. ‘You see, even though we've got the microcomputer, we can't leave without Gen.'

‘But where
is
Gen?'

‘That's the problem: we don't know. She could be anywhere. She's been taken away by King Karazeel's soldiers, to be made into a kind of servant.'

‘Gen won't want to work for
him
,' Hannah said matter-of-factly. ‘He pretends to be nice, but he's not. He looks young and handsome, like a prince in a fairy tale, but he smells like an old person. A
nasty
old person.' She was right. That was the smell I'd been battling to place — the musty, oniony odour of unhealthy old age. ‘You'll have to rescue her as well, Adam.'

‘Yeah, but Hannah, it's not that easy. Blue-bum, for goodness sake stop doing that! You're making me feel dizzy!' Weevil was the only one who seemed remotely cheerful. He'd been hunkered down on his haunches listening intently to the discussion … and then at the first mention of Gen he'd started twirling round on his blue bum like a spinning-top. ‘What the heck's the matter with you?'

‘We had a dog that used to scoot along on the grass to scratch his bum,' Jamie said. ‘It was
so
embarrassing. The vet said he had
impacted anal glands
, whatever they are. Maybe that's the problem with him.'

Weevil did a little capering dance of frustration, and chittered up at Jamie crossly. Then he sat down again, spun round three times, and looked up at us expectantly.

‘
I
think he's trying to tell us something,' Hannah said thoughtfully.

‘Shhhh!' hissed Rich. ‘Someone's coming! Weevil — back in the bag! Quick, everybody — lie down and pretend to be asleep!'

There was the distant rattle of gates opening, and the sound of footsteps. A pause, then the squeal of a key in a lock, and the creak of hinges from the empty cell on the far side of ours. ‘In with you!' It was the gruff growl of the Captain of the Guard. ‘Here's food and water — and stay away from the vermin in the next cell if you know what's good for you.'

The footsteps moved to the guard station. A chair grated back on the stone floor and a heavy body settled itself with a creak and a grunt. Then there was silence, apart from the rustle of parchment and the scratching sound of a quill, and an occasional grumbling mutter.

I opened my eyes a crack. The Captain was at the table, the lantern beside him, writing laboriously in a thick leather-bound book. Who was the new prisoner? Could it be Gen? My heart thumping with wild hope, I turned my head a fraction and peered into the gloom of the neighbouring cell.

Unlike ours, it was furnished — if you could call a rickety table and chair and a narrow bed with a threadbare blanket folded at its foot ‘furniture'. I squinted through my eyelashes — and then my eyes popped wide open with shock. The prisoner wasn't Gen. It was the Mauler's Keeper.

He was standing at the table with his back to us, still in his cream satin get-up, pulling off his gauntlets. And perched on the table beside him was Tiger Lily, daintily lapping something out of a richly engraved metal bowl. My head spinning, I battled to make sense of it.

Had he been thrown in prison because Tiger Lily had been so friendly to us? But then why all that stuff about
‘saved by the grace of the Mauler?' Unless King Karazeel had
thought on it
like he'd said, and the conclusions were bad news for Tiger Lily and the Keeper. But then surely he'd be wailing and flinging himself against the bars? But he wasn't. He was lifting off his heavy mask, cool as a cucumber, and putting it on the table … running both hands through his sweaty brown hair with the air of someone just home from a hard morning at the office … and settling calmly down to lunch.

Still with his back to us, he perched on the stool, gave Tiger Lily a scratch behind her ear, and tore a hunk off his loaf of bread. I watched, still totally bamboozled, my mouth watering. There was a wedge of cheese on the plate too; I could see it clearly. I could
smell
it. I couldn't take my eyes off it.

The Keeper fumbled at the gold-embroidered edge of his tunic pocket and dug inside. Pulled something out and fiddled with it for a moment. There was a bright flash of steel. He sliced neatly into the cheese, once … twice … three … four times. My stomach growled. Then he put the knife down on the edge of the table — and my heart turned a slow, sickening somersault.

It wasn't the rough, bone-handled dagger I'd imagined. It was a smooth, gleaming, bright red pocketknife … with a white cross clearly visible on the casing.

It was the Swiss army knife I'd given Kai.

Dimly aware of the sounds of the guard leaving, I stared at the knife in numb disbelief, my mind racing. Kai would never have parted with it. I remembered the look on his face when I'd given it to him as if it was yesterday — I'd never forget it.

Friends forever,
we'd said.

Now, the Keeper had it. And that confirmed what I already knew. Kai was dead.

As the last echoes of the guard's departure died away,
the Keeper skewered the tidy pile of cheese slices on the end of Kai's knife, stood, and stretched. Then he turned and ambled towards the partition between our cells, his thatch of brown hair sticking up in an untidy cow's lick.

‘Friends forever,' he said with a grin. ‘Who's for some cheese?'