Charlie Bone and the Shadow of Badlock (Children of the Red King, Book 7) (15 page)

CHAPTER 15

THE SHADOW'S PALACE

Billy's journey into Badlock had been swift. One minute he had been putting out his hand to touch the painted Runner Bean, and the next something had seized his arm and dragged him forward, past the howling dog and into a mist that fell around him like the softest rain. On and on, through a forest of silver trees and shining lakes. Sometimes he flew and sometimes he gently walked a path that whispered like silk beneath his bare feet.

And now here he was, standing before a door as tall as a lamppost - an iron door with small sharp spikes protruding from it; they ran down each side, across the top, and all along the bottom. There was no handle and no lock, which suggested that the door must be opened either by some heat-sensitive device - or by magic.

As soon as Billy realized that he wasn't dead, or even hurt, that he could breathe just as easily as he had before the painting had kidnapped him, he forgot to be frightened, and curiosity took over. He stepped back to get a better look at the building that spread into the mist on either side of the iron door. It was like a fortress, but the walls appeared to be made of marble: smooth, glossy black marble whose surface had an oily gleam in the moist air. Halfway up the walls, iron brackets had been set into the marble. There must have been at least twenty of them, and in every one a smoky, tarry fire blazed.

Badlock was not how Charlie had described it. There was a wind that Billy could hear moaning and howling in the distance, but it did not touch him in any way. His smooth white hair remained unruffled, his face and hands merely warmed by the flames above him.

Billy turned around and found that, if he had taken just one step more, he would have fallen to his death, for he was standing at the very edge of a steep cliff. Below him a vast plain stretched to the horizon where strange narrow towers pointed at the sky. On either side of the plain, barren gray mountains rose endlessly into the purple clouds that rushed in every direction above the bleak and seemingly deserted land.

A voice, slippery as satin, said, "Well now, Billy Raven!"

Billy swung around with a gasp. The iron door had opened soundlessly, and there stood a man Billy had seen only once before, but whose image had burned in his memory ever since.

Count Harken, the shadow, was of average height, but he gave the impression of being much, much taller. His shining, gold-flecked hair rose high from his forehead; his eyes were brown one moment, the next a deep olive green. He had prominent cheekbones and a high-bridged, imperious nose. He was dressed entirely in emerald-green velvet.

Billy opened his mouth, and closed it uselessly.

"Enter." The count stood back and made a mocking bow. "Welcome to my palace."

Billy stood frozen to the ground. Beyond the count he could see a long hallway carpeted with furs. Rush lights flared from the black marble walls, and worst of all, to Billy, the ceiling was hung with the heads of many animals, their glassy eyes still reflecting the terror of their capture.

"What ails you, boy? Come." Count Harken seized Billy by the arm and dragged him inside. The iron door closed silently behind him.

"Follow," commanded the count.

Billy had no choice. Stepping as lightly as he could over the soft pelts of bears and tigers, he followed his host down the long, death-filled hallway, half-closing his eyes so that he could not see the distant heads that he was walking beneath. And it was then that Rembrandt chose to speak.

"Billy, where are we? What's up?" the rat squeaked.

The count whirled around. "What is that?"

Billy had completely forgotten that Rembrandt was sleeping deep in his pajama pocket. Without thinking, he answered, "My rat, sir."

"What is that?" the count demanded.

"I told you, sir, my rat," said Billy.

"WHAT IS THAT?" bellowed the count.

It dawned on Billy that the count did not actually know what a rat was, or had somehow forgotten. He gently lifted Rembrandt from his pocket and held him out.

"Oops!" squeaked Rembrandt. "This is bad news, Billy."

"I had forgotten about rats," grunted the count. "We do not have rats here. My soldiers ate every one of them, long, long ago. Give it to me."

"No." Billy clasped Rembrandt to his chest. "I can't. I can't live without Rembrandt. I won't!"

The count looked surprised. "You have spirit, boy. Very well, you can keep the odd-named thing, if it suits you. It spoke. Don't deny it. I know you understand its language. What did it say?"

Billy wondered if the question was a trick. Perhaps the count could speak the language of animals. Billy decided to chance a lie. "He said we are in a fine place, sir."

The count eyed Billy quizzically. "Did it say that? Hmmm. I shall have to trust you - for now." He turned and strode on, his long pointed shoes gliding softly over the thick furs. And Billy followed, feeling almost guilty that such a carpet should be so warm and comforting to his bare toes.

It took considerable time to reach the end of the hallway, but at last they were there and another iron door slid back soundlessly to reveal a vast chamber. Suspended from the roof by iron chains were three circles, set one upon the other at intervals of twelve inches or so. The smallest was at the top, the widest at the bottom. At least fifty candles had been set into each circle, and every one burned with a fierce white flame. Billy was so taken with this amazing chandelier, it took him several seconds to notice the three figures, seated before a huge fire, at one end of the chamber.

"My family!" the count announced. He dragged Billy forward. "And this is it!"

"The boy!" cried a girl, leaping up from a mound of cushions. "You have brought it." As if Billy were a thing.

She came bounding toward Billy, over a sea of rugs, a small, bright-faced girl with black curls and round brown eyes. She wore a long yellow dress, patterned with golden flowers, and her wide smile immediately put Billy at ease. When she saw Rembrandt, however, she stopped abruptly and, pointing at the rat, cried, "What is that?"

"A rat, child," the count told her, "from your grandmother's land. It won't harm you. The boy holds it fast in his power." He turned to Billy. "Matilda is my granddaughter. Over there" - he pointed to the fireplace - "you see my grandson, Edgar, and my wife, Lilith."

Billy nodded wordlessly. The boy, in a dark green jacket and britches, did not look up from the book on his lap. The woman, however, turned to stare at

Billy from the large chair where she reclined. Her head rested on the chair's tall carved back, her hands lay on the thick wooden arms. When Billy met her black-eyed gaze, he felt a chill run through him, and Rembrandt whispered, "This is a mistake."

"It made a noise," cried Matilda. "Your rat, sir."

"I am not a sir," Billy said quietly. "I am just Billy."

At this, the boy looked up. He was older than his sister by at least four years, and he was not a bit like her. His blond hair was neatly cut, and his eyes a startling green.

Matilda came up to Billy, still watching Rembrandt anxiously, but Billy hastily slipped the black rat into his pocket, and this brought the smile back into her face. "I like your mask, sir, but it is glass, and I can see right through it." She touched the arm of Billy's glasses. "It is something from the future, maybe." "Urn - yes," said Billy.

"Oh, and your eyes are the color of berries," she went on. "How lovely. And your dress too is most interesting. But you have no shoes."

"I didn't have time to put them on," said Billy, glancing at the count.

"Our grandfather told us that he would bring a boy from the future for our amusement." Matilda gently drew Billy toward the great marble fireplace. "And he said it would be our duty to care for you. Isn't that right, my lord?"

"Make sure he is ready to dine." The count threw these words at Matilda as he walked back to the iron door, which obediently opened for him and closed after he had gone.

Billy stood before the roaring fire. On his right, Edgar had returned to his book; on his left, Lilith continued to stare at him. Billy felt intensely uncomfortable. Her gaze was so hostile all attempts at conversation drained away from him. Luckily, Matilda was a chatterer.

"I shall take you to the room we have prepared for you," she said. "I think you'll like it, Billy. And there are new clothes for you - and even shoes. And you shall have a servant, of course, to..."

"I think I should be getting back now," Billy said.

Matilda looked baffled. "Back where?" she asked.

"Back to my home." Billy found he was trembling. "I don't belong here. I want to go. Why can't I go home?" He turned to the stony-faced Lilith. "Why am I here?"

"You don't have a home," said the woman.

For a moment Billy was too shocked to speak, and then he said, "I do, I do. I live with Charlie Bone."

"That's a lie," she said. "They house you out of pity. But they do not want you."

At these words a numbing coldness settled on Billy. He barely felt Matilda's touch on his arm but followed her blindly over to the door, which slid open before they had even reached it.

Matilda led Billy a few feet down the hallway of furs, and then turned and climbed a narrow marble stairway. At the top there was a long hallway where a single rush light burned at the far end. Matilda walked toward the light and stopped before a door that had a real latch. She lifted the latch and Billy followed her into the room that was to be his - but for how long? He dared not think.

It wasn't so bad. A fire burned in an iron grate and the walls were a soft-green-colored marble. The bed was a high four-poster, hung with ivory-colored curtains. There was a fur rug, a chair, and a large oak chest. A set of clothes lay on the bed: a blue velvet jacket, braided in gold at the collar and cuffs, and blue and gold pants. The shoes had been placed at the foot of the bed. They had long pointed toes and gold decorations.

"The enchanter says we are very fortunate." Matilda lifted the blue jacket. "In other lands they have rough clothing; boys have to wear coarse woolen stockings and scratchy tunics. Here, in Badlock, we are very advanced."

"Really?" Billy walked over to the fire and held his hands before its blaze. The chill that had descended on him wouldn't lift. He had no home but this.

Matilda hitched herself up onto the bed and swung her legs. "You can be happy here, Billy, can't you? I am so lonely sometimes. Edgar will never be a friend, so I have none." She paused. "And I am afraid of the enchanter and his wife."

She spoke as though they were barely related, Billy thought. And yet, weren't they her grandparents, the enchanter and his wife?

"Where's your mom?" asked Billy.

"My mother? She is dead, of a weakness of the heart. My father, too. He was a brave knight. His name was Gervais de Roussillon, and he was killed in an unfair fight." Matilda lowered her voice. "My old nurse said the enchanter had a hand in my father's murder. But I cannot tell for sure." She glanced nervously around the room.

"What is it?" said Billy. "Are you afraid of something?"

"You will soon see," she replied. "I can hear his footsteps."

And Billy did see, for a moment later, a patch on one of the marbled walls began to move, like worms squirming in mud; a fuzzy cloud appeared, as though the marble were steaming, and through the cloud stepped Edgar.

"You could have used the door," said Matilda.

"I chose not to," retorted her brother. "You are required to dine, immediately." He threw a look of contempt at Billy. "Why are you not dressed properly?"

Billy gazed helplessly at Matilda.

"He has not had the time," she said, jumping from the bed. "I will..."

"Leave him," said Edgar. "The servant will do it." Without another word, Edgar shuffled backward, and with an awkward twist of his shoulders and an ungainly swing of his right foot, he allowed the wall to swallow him up.

Matilda grinned at Billy. "Luckily, Edgar is not careful with his talent. I can always hear him coming, and his exits and entrances are very rude and clumsy. Listen, you can hear him even now."

Billy could indeed hear stumbling footsteps retreating down the passage.

Matilda crossed the room and opened the door. "You can come in, now," she called. "I'll see you in the dining hall," she told Billy.

He was alone for only a second before a squat figure darted into the room and began tearing at his pajamas.

"NO!" cried Billy.

The small being looked up at him aghast. Billy couldn't tell if it was male or female. With a woolen cap covering its head and presumably its hair, its face without eyebrows, and its body so wide and lumpy, it was difficult to tell where its waist might have been or where its legs began.

"You can wait outside," said Billy.

To his surprise, the being shuffled out and gently closed the door.

Billy took off his pajamas himself and put on the blue velvet suit. Next came the shoes. These were a problem. They didn't fit very well and the long toes made a slapping noise when he walked. It was like wearing flippers. Billy felt silly, but then bare feet would look even sillier, he realized. To his dismay, he found there were no pockets in his jacket or pants. He couldn't possibly leave Rembrandt behind. What would he eat?

"Urn, excuse me," called Billy, not knowing how to address the being outside. "You can come in now."

The thing opened the door a fraction and peeked in. Its eyes were the gray-brown color of bark, but there was kindness in them.

"Please, can you help me?" said Billy. "I need a ... a pocket or a bag or ... or something."

The creature came in and stood before Billy. "Dorgo," it said in a masculine voice. "Name Dorgo, me. What for you want pocket?"

Dorgo hadn't noticed the rat sitting on Billy's bed, cleaning himself.

"For him," Billy pointed at Rembrandt.

Dorgo gave an earsplitting scream and clutched Billy around the waist. "What? What? What?" he cried.

"He's only a rat," said Billy.