Circle of Stones (2 page)

She threaded the key in the lock and opened the door. “Your room's in the attic. I'd better go down and give him a hand. His back's a bit dodgy, though he'll never admit it.”

She clattered down.

Sulis dropped her bag on a chair. She wandered into a high space of perfect whiteness, gauzy curtains at its lofty windows. A leather sofa with books dumped on it, a table, a TV, music. A faint smell of candle smoke. Beyond was a corridor with doors off, and at the end, tiny and white, a wooden stair. She ran up it, and found a bathroom and a narrow passageway that must have been designed for servants. It led to a small scratched door.

“Found it?” Simon called up the stairs.

“Yes,” she said.

“Great. Tea or coffee?”

“Tea. Please.” She stood in the opened doorway. A long, low room, white paneled walls, white-painted floorboards. A rug, a desk, a chair, a bed. The only big thing here was the window, a great flat rectangle of glass, and she opened it and found to her delight that she could step out, that there was a platform behind the stonework balustrade. A gull flapped off, complaining. Sulis ducked through the window and pulled herself upright, one arm gripped tightly around the pedestal of one of the great acorns. The stone was hot under her hands. Before her the King's Circus stood in its perfection, as if it focused on her like some polite, remote audience. Cars circled dizzily at her feet, a woman with a stroller walked the sidewalk, and in the trees a crowd of jackdaws rose and cawed and settled.

She stood there in the sky wondering why she felt so scared. As if delight could terrify you. And she wondered what sort of person this new life would make her.

Who this Sulis would turn out to be.

Zac

T
wo men were lighting the lamps in the street outside a dingy tavern. When I asked them the way, they stared like the fools they were.

“You'm from the North, mazter?”

“None of your business.”

They grinned at each other. Probably at my accent. One said, “The new house is thataway, in Giles Alley she be.”

“Thank you.” As I walked away I felt their eyes on my back, & I gripped the handle of the sword-stick Forrest had told me to carry. The city, he had said, was dangerous at night. A low snigger of laughter told me they were still watching. One of them called out. “Be careful going in that house, zurr. There be a ghost in she.”

The lower classes in this place talk in a soft, furry dialect, all aars & urrs. It's taken me weeks to understand a word they say. I splashed through the filthy runnels of the street, stepped over a pile of muck & turned into what must be Giles Alley.

It was pitch-black. The houses leaned together overhead & blocked out the sky with their decrepit eaves. Something like a rat ran over my boot; I stabbed at it, but it streaked into a hole. As I walked on, my footsteps rang in the narrow slot. Was this really the place?

I stopped. It struck me that those men might have sent me down here for some jest or darker purpose. Robbery. Even murder! My fingers tightened on the sweaty grip of the sword-stick. I looked back.

The night stank of decayed vegetables & ordure. In this quarter Aquae Sulis was still a fetid warren of dark alleys, & for a moment I could see why my new master Forrest raged so about it, & how his vision of a city made glorious with sunlit terraces & wide streets obsessed him. But no one was coming to cut my throat, so I groped onward, my gloves smeared by the slimy wall. After a while I came to an archway with a burnt-out lamp beside it, still smoking, as if it had recently been extinguished. There was no bell to jangle yet, & no gate either, so I ducked through, & found a courtyard. Dimly I could see piled heaps of building stone, & the choking dust made me sneeze, far too loudly.

The sound echoed. Above the half-finished roof the moon hung, a perfect crescent.

I wiped my eyes with a kerchief & said, “Master Forrest? Are you here, sir?” The letter crinkled in the pocket of my waistcoat. “It's Zac, sir.”

Of course he wasn't here. The site was deserted & the workmen gone home. Even the night watchman was in some ginhouse.

I turned, disgusted.

Then, in the window beside me, something knocked.

I confess I froze in fear. Because there was nothing there but a dark sash casement, showing me a ghostly reflection of myself, & above the window in the stonework a half-finished carving of a crowned man, his face an obvious copy of Forrest's own.
Bladud
. The ancient druid king. My master's craziest obsession.

After a moment I crossed to the window & put my face to it, looking in, blocking out moonlight with my hands. “Master! A message has come for you. The man said it requires an urgent answer.”

The room beyond was utterly dark. This was one of the houses Peter Bull's team were building to Forrest's design, & Bull's men were lazy. The work was weeks behind, & yesterday Forrest had stormed around the workshop in fury because he had discovered they had mixed bad stone with the good, & it would crumble to pieces in a few years.

I knocked softly. “Sir? Are you there?”

With a great crack something hit the window full in my face. I leaped back in terror, every nerve tingling, my hand snatching out the sword-blade.

Black. Black & flying, like a winged demon!

Again it came, a hard smack, but even as I cried out, my fear ebbed into relief because I'd seen its eye, tiny & bright & wild & suddenly I understood. There was a bird trapped in the room.

I breathed out. This place was getting to me. I straightened my shoulders & put on my most confident air. Then I walked along to where the front door should be & peered through the gap into the hallway. The half-built house was a patchwork of shadows & bright spills of moonlight; there were panels missing in the inner walls, & floorboards gaped like black traps for the unwary.

I thought about just going away. But I knew if I did, that bird would flap all night inside my dreams, & I found it hard enough to sleep already. It would be a matter of minutes to get the thing out.

Probing with the sword-stick I edged warily inside, through a darkness thick with sawdust & the acrid smells of pine & fresh turpentine. Curled shavings of wood crunched under my heel.

As far as I could see, the hallway had three doors; beyond them the skeleton of a staircase led up into the gloom. I put my ear against the first door & listened.

Thumps. Rustles. A silence that lasted so long I thought the bird must be dead. Then a harsh screech.

I turned the handle & looked in.

This room was almost finished. The paneling was dark oak. A great marble fireplace yawned in the far wall—that was how the bird must have gotten in.

I couldn't see it, but suddenly it zigzagged out of the dark & the smack against the window glass was so vicious I knew it would break its neck in frustration if I didn't do something quickly.

I slid into the room.

Behind me, the door shut with a click.

I swore, groping desperately behind my back for the handle, but there wasn't one, & at once a slash of feathers whistled past my ear, so close I felt the draft of it. I ducked, caught with the sudden horror of the hateful bird hitting me, tangling in panic in my hair, pecking at my eyes. I dived onto hands and knees, dropping the sword-stick, cursing Peter Bull & his bone-idle workers. How could I get out with no handle on the door! Would I be stuck in here all night? Forrest was probably arriving home about now & shouting my name, & Mrs. Hall was coming out of the kitchen to tell him there had been a message & that I'd gone off with it to Giles Alley. Maybe he'd come to find me.

Another swoop. There it was! It had perched on the mantelshelf, a small hunched shadow. Soft scratchings & flutterings came out of the dark. A bright eye caught moonlight. It was watching me.

Knowing where it was helped me regain my courage; I picked myself up &, keeping my gaze on it, backed toward the window.

Crack!

Shadows zigzagged all over me; I was slashed with clots of darkness.

The room was full of birds
. I yelled & threw myself down. How many were there & where were they coming from? I was trapped with corpsebirds & gallowspickers! Maybe my eyeless body would be all that would be found here in the morning. At least it would scare Peter Bull witless.

I rubbed my face with a gritty hand & told myself not to be a fool. All I had to do was get to the window & throw it open & the things would fly out. Then I could climb over the sill. It was a stupid situation to be in, but no one would ever know & tomorrow I could even be witty about it.

Carefully, keeping my head low, I crawled over the rough boards. Nails stabbed my palms. Oak creaked under my sore knees. I could see the mess the birds had made now; streaks of white spattered down the oak panels, & clotted in the hearth. Jackdaws, they seemed, & all at once a sliver of moonlight came from behind a cloud, & I saw them, perched on the mantelshelf, a dark row, & maybe some up on the top of the window! And one on a chair in the corner. I dared not breathe. I was almost there.

Then to my horror I put my fingers down & touched a warm hand.

I yelled! The birds erupted in panic, hitting walls, glass, smashing their frail bones. Something brushed my shoulder; I glimpsed a pale flicker of movement that made me jump up & fling myself at the window, heaving its weight upward.

It wouldn't move. I swore & tugged again, but the sill was slimy with bird muck. A black wing smacked into the glass. Feathers burst, inches from my face. I raised the stick & jabbed the blade under the sash. Sweat was blinding me. The birds, a rain of nightmare suicides, dived against the glass.

Wood splintered. I forced, harder. Behind me the door slammed open.

“Leave that window alone, sir!”

The voice was calm & it froze me like a douse of cold water.

Forrest stood in the doorway, staring at the black birds that swooped around him. He strode across the room, pushed me aside, & hauled the new ill-fitting sash upward with both hands, so that a gust of rainy air burst in, scattering us both with drizzle.

I staggered up. Even now I ached to keep my arm across my eyes, but not in front of him.

“Stand aside,” he snapped. “Give them space.” Three birds swooped out. Another hit the chimney with a crunch that made me wince.

Forrest clapped his hands, moved in, waved gently. The last bird fluttered. It circled us & landed, gripping with clumsy talons, on the back of the chair. Forrest's shadow was huge on the wall.

“Go on now,” he said, reaching out to it. “Fly free, dark spirit.”

But the jackdaw didn't go. Instead it hopped onto his hand.

Was he as astonished as I? It was the most extraordinary thing. The bird & my master regarded each other, beady black eye to calm brown, as if some silent message passed between them. I saw the scaly claws dig into Forrest's skin, the glossy feathered body adjusting its balance.

A second of stillness.

Then it flapped & was gone, out into the rainy night.

“Amazing!” I breathed.

Forrest nodded slowly. “A truly druidical moment.” He seemed to remain for an instant in that magic. Then he breathed out & glanced at me, & I saw the folly of the situation swim back into his eyes. “Zac, what in God's name have you done to yourself?”

I was suddenly aware of dust & filth smeared on my hands and face. And my clothes! Ruined!

“I was looking for you, sir. Then I realized  .  .  . the birds were trapped.”

“What a mess!” Forrest strode to the hearth & bent under it, looking up. “That lackwit Peter Bull hasn't capped the chimney. I swear that man will put me in my grave  .  .  .”

I said quietly, “Sir. There is someone else in the room.”

He turned. In the moonlight I saw his fine face, & his eyes, with their steady gaze that often unnerved me. Then he saw where I was pointing.

She was crouched in the corner, behind the chair. Something gray & sack-like was pulled about her, & she huddled there under it as if even now she thought she was hidden from us. Just for a moment I almost thought her a ghost indeed, she was so pale & thin.

Forrest surprised me. He crouched down, & his voice was very soft, as it had been with the bird. “Who are you?”

She made a small sound. Between a sob & a murmur.

Forrest looked up. “Get a light, Zac. Quick now.”

As I went out I heard her speak. She said, “Sylvia.” It took me a while to find a tinderbox & lantern in the foreman's office, & when I brought it back to the room the girl was sitting on the chair & Forrest was standing by the fireplace. I had the feeling he had moved away from her as he heard me come. I placed the lantern carefully on the rough floorboards. Then I stared at the girl.

She was very pretty. But her face was thin & dirty & pocked with raw pustules that she scratched at, constantly. Her hair was coppery red, a rich color, & it had been pinned up, but now it was all coming down on her shoulders. She clutched the gray cloak around her, but I could see a shoe, almost a slipper, on her left foot, of white silk embroidered with tiny flowers. Hardly outdoor footwear.

She was talking quickly, gabbling & breathless with sobs, but I could see at once that she trusted him.

He said, “Surely you cannot be forced to  .  .  .”

“Sir, you are respectable, you don't know these people. I can't go back, sir, I can't! Please don't make me go back there!”

So she'd run away. And I had a shrewd idea from where. The city reeks with gambling dens & houses of improper women. She smelled too, of sweat & pomade. And surely, drink.

Jonathan Forrest watched her intently. His great shadow & mine & hers flickered together on the wall. Forrest wore his usual fustian coat of brown & a waistcoat in the same dull shade. He makes no effort with his clothes. His boots were cracked & muddy, & unlike my father, or any other gentleman I know, he rarely bothers with a wig. But then, he's the son of a builder, & hardly a gentleman .  .  .

“Where is this place?” he asked.

She hung her head. “They call it Gibson's, sir. Down near the baths.”

“And they make you .  .  .”

“They make me draw the rich young gentlemen in. By talk & .  .  . suchlike. So that they gamble & drink & lose all their money. As I have lost mine. And if I stay there I fear what else will happen to me.”

“Have you fled tonight?”

“I have, sir.”

“Where will you go?”

She shrugged. I glimpsed a blue satin dress of sleazy finery cut low, but she grabbed at the cloak & drew it tighter. “My family lives in a village up on the downs, but they won't want me. Not now. I would be a disgrace to them. I was thinking I might travel to London .  .  .”