The Curse of Salamander Street (25 page)

The way was clear. The Druggles could be heard far away as they beat the Dragon’s Heart. Thomas looked to his bare feet, thankful he had cut the boots from them before he escaped.

At the turn of the landing, just before the entrance to the
factory, was the door to Galphus’s laboratory. It stood slightly open. A shaft of amber light came through the crack from a candle upon his desk. Thomas looked to Isabella. Again she disappeared in the blink of an eye and then was manifest again.

‘He’s not there, the room is empty,’ she said as she smiled at Thomas.

Kate shook with a tremor of disdain and sniffed the air as Thomas pushed the door slowly open and peered inside.

‘I’ll get the key,’ he said confidently, nodding to Isabella.

Stepping inside the room, he went to the desk by the wall. For the first time he noticed the thousands of glass jars that lined the shelves to the ceiling. The higher he looked the more he saw, until at their zenith was a single jar wrapped in cobwebs. Isabella appeared beside him as Kate stood in the hallway, arms folded and frowning.

‘Look,’ said Isabella. ‘What are they?’

‘Got nothing in them, just empty jars with writing on,’ he said.

‘Open that one,’ Isabella said pointing to the highest one as if giving a command.

Thomas obeyed. Climbing the shelves like a ladder, he took the jar from the shelf and read the name that was written upon it. ‘Andreas Lib … av … ius,’ he said, stumbling upon the last name as one self-taught. With that he jumped to the floor and began to slowly prise open the cork stopper. The jar spun in his hands as if it were alive. It burnt his fingers and danced from his grip. The stopper popped from the jar and an ear-splitting bellow shrieked through the room, as if invoked by the name Thomas had spoken.

‘Comenius – lux – en – tenebris – ereptor – occisor!’ The strange voice screamed from the jar like the hissing of a cooking pot. As it hollered, an effervescence of green mist oozed from the lid over Thomas’s fingers.

The ghost of Isabella recoiled, dimming in colour and shrinking before his eyes. She was like a fading candle out of wax, the wick burnt to the end.

‘Spirit,’ she gasped as the mist rolled about their feet like an ebbing tide. ‘LAST WORDS – HELD IN DEATH!’ she grunted. ‘Go to Pallium’s room – I will see you there. This is too much for me – too much death, too much sorrow.’ The ghost looked to the floor as inch by inch she unwillingly vanished. ‘They take my portrait – it is gone from the wall … They take me.’

Isabella spoke harshly, her voice coarse and brutal as if it were another who spoke through her. Kate cowered in the doorway as she waited her moment. The
Gaudium
whispered again. It spoke secrets, opening her eyes to its visions. She looked at Thomas with scorn and saw the way he smiled at Isabella. She thought how death was a garment that suited the spectre and one that would suit Thomas well.

B
EADLE gripped the back of the carriage with his fingers. He hopped, skipped and jumped upon the mud as the carriage gained pace. Raphah grasped his wrists, holding them tightly so his friend wouldn’t fall, then quickly plucked him from the mud and dragged him onto the coach. Whatever had feared Beadle was now etched on his face.

‘Where were you?’ Raphah asked.

‘Demurral,’ Beadle said, eyes wide, as he rubbed his face with dirty hands. ‘The Green Man – Demurral was waiting.’

‘You saw him?’ he asked.

‘More than that, he spoke to me,’ Beadle mumbled, unable to comprehend what had happened to him. ‘He follows us, Raphah, has done all this time. Said that I had led him to you. Everywhere we have been, Demurral has been a step behind. He speaks of a cup, the Chalice of the Grail – said we have it.’

Raphah looked to the bag that was strung about his neck. ‘That we do,’ he said as he opened the bag and gave Beadle a glimpse of the Chalice. ‘It’s a beggar’s cup.’

‘Magic?’ Beadle asked, quietened by its presence.

‘Deep magic. Without the need to cast a spell or kill a chicken.
Magic
that was won by blood and nail.’ Raphah carefully wrapped the vessel and placed it within the bag. He looked behind to the dark trail. Stark thick limbs of dead trees cut in across the path. Here the forest was at its darkest. The lamps of the coach lit the night. Forest creatures moaned and howled, the velvet black hiding all from human eyes. By the coach the hounds pressed on, never failing to keep pace.

They said no more. Both knew that Demurral wasn’t far behind, and his presence stalked them in the night. Beadle looked back constantly, tired eyes searching the pitch for any sign. The wind rushed through the trees and rattled the branches. He begged the wheels to keep turning.
Faster, faster
… he urged them on in his mind, fearful they would stop. The mud grew thicker. It clung to the wheels and slowed their progress. From here on, the horses couldn’t canter; they walked, wading through the mud, dragging the carriage behind which lurched and creaked like a storm-tossed ship. The hounds kept to the soft earth of the forest. They howled as they ran, all wanting to take the lead as if they knew a great evil was following their path.

Raphah slept fitfully, constantly aware of Beadle’s great agitation. He was conscious too of the growing warmth of the air. The cold frost had long gone and the night was now still. It also smelt dreadfully. Hanging in the air was a thickening mist with the odour of damp, rotting fur. He sniffed as the mist grew thicker and coated the earth like a blanket.

He could not count the hours, but watched the moon cross the sky from east to west. Raphah looked to where the comet had hung like a Damoclean sword. He counted the stars as they travelled on and wondered how they hung upon the firmament. He had spent many nights as a boy looking at the stars. Now, far to the north and wrapped in a blanket, he was thankful that they reminded him of home. His mother had said when
he looked at the moon he would see her face, and that she would stand upon the mountain above the village and look up. In the moon they would share a meeting. Raphah lifted his hands to the sky and closed his eyes. He knew she would do the same and that in Riathamus they would be made one.

The carriage rolled on, the road becoming smoother and metalled. The woodland gave way to high hedges and open fields that slumbered from hill to hill as they journeyed south. The horses clattered as they cantered, sometimes slowing to a trot and then speeding on. Hounds ran quietly behind, their voices stilled by familiar roads.

Beadle looked behind, wary that in the night Demurral followed. He wanted to speak, but feared the trees would hear his words and they would tell of his passing.

‘He’s near,’ Beadle said to Raphah as the coach rolled from side to side. ‘I can feel him, he’s watching us.’

‘Then we shall give him the fight he so desires,’ Raphah said.

‘Can’t we just give him the Chalice and be done with it?’ Beadle asked.

‘If he wants it, then he will have to snatch it from my dead fingers,’ Raphah said, nestling the bag closer to him. ‘It should not be kept in the world of men.’

The carriage went on as the hours passed. Beadle kept watch, convinced that he saw all manner of beasts staring from the high hedges. The moon set behind the hills and the night became as dark as a locked vault. Stride by stride the horses slowed their pace until the carriage crawled on.

‘Can’t see,’ said the coachman, as with one hand he held the lamp above him. ‘You’ll have to go ahead,’ he said to the bugler reluctantly as he shivered in the cold.

The bugler leapt from the driving plate to the ground and summonsed his hounds. Taking hold of the collar of the lead horse he walked ahead, blunderbuss in hand. All he could see
was the broken stones beneath his feet that cut through his thin soles.

‘All’s well,’ he said every few yards until they had gone half a mile. One by one the hounds began to shiver. Their hair stood stiffly on end and dog after dog began to moan. Their growls began softly, tenderly, like the calling to a young pup. Then as they went further down the lane, their voices changed. Each hound sounded discontent, joining the chorus as their fear grew. The bugler tried to calm them, calling them by name until they clustered tightly around him. He knew they could feel a presence close by – someone or something was near.

A large, lean dog with a severed ear came to him and nuzzled its head into his leg and pawed him as they walked on together. It growled a guttural growl and then, reaching up on its hind legs, wailed like a dying child.

‘What can you see, Hugo?’ the bugler asked the hound as it continued to cry, biting at the air, snapping at the darkness and bristling its fur as it leapt back and forth.

‘Steady ahead,’ he said nervously to the coachman. ‘Something’s up …’

The coachman kept a tight rein. He could feel the horses pulling against the hot metal bits. They snorted wildly, wanting to break free of their bridles and run off into the night. It was as if they were being stalked from the hedgerow, that some great beast followed.

The road dipped towards a bridge. Though the driver couldn’t see this he knew it to be there. Years of driving the road had ingrained each turn and twist upon his mind, and although blind to what was ahead, he knew that the bridge was there. From then on the trees and hedgerows would vanish and there would be open heath for twenty miles. At the ridge of the next hill they would see the distant lights and smell the fragrance of the city – London.

The bugler walked on. His hounds stayed near and the horses blustered in the slow pace. With every step he looked behind as the hounds’ barks grew louder.

It was then that a sudden, vociferous blast of light, brighter than the sun, exploded before the carriage. High to the right, a large sycamore was blown from the ground. Its branches scattered across the road as it ripped itself from the mud and crushed the earth beneath it. Several hounds were thrown through the air and strewn forlornly across the road. The bugler was knocked from his feet and fell to the mud, and the horses stood petrified.

The coachman looked into the dark night, still seeing the brightness of the explosion burning into his head.

Raphah pulled the blanket from his face and gouged the splinters from the back of his neck. Beadle cowered, not daring to move as a burning torch was held before the coach.

Lady Tanville held on to Barghast, who peered through the wooden shutter to see a man on horseback approaching through the gloom.

‘STAND!’ shouted the man. He held a tallow lamp and pointed a pistol at the coachman’s head. ‘DELIVER YOUR MONEY OR I’LL TAKE YOUR LIVES!’

His words echoed like the explosion. They were harsh and cold; he cared not for them or what he would do.

‘ONE MOVE AND MORE GUNPOWDER!’ he shouted again.

The bugler stumbled around beneath him, abandoned by his dogs and unable to see as the flash had blotted out the world. Clumsily he picked his way like his lost dogs through the dirt and fumbled with the blunderbuss.

‘We have no money – we are just travellers,’ cried the driver as he tried to make out who stood before him.

‘No one journeys without the fare,’ said the highwayman as
he approached the carriage. All around, the sound of the frightened hounds faded in the distance. ‘I’ll take all you have and be gone. No one will get hurt, just cooperate.’

There was a yelp of a hound as Hugo leapt from beneath the carriage and took hold of the man by the leg. The hound pulled at his boots as he bit and twisted, spinning in the air as he held fast with his teeth.

‘Damn the dog!’ the highwayman shouted.

‘Hugo, no!’ yelled the bugler, clambering blindly to find his hound.

There was a click, then a flash and a sudden crack. The dog fell to the floor, dead. The highwayman calmly slid the gun into a saddle holster and pulled another from his belt.

‘No need to kill my Hugo,’ the bugler cried as he touched his hand from stone to stone to find his pet.

Raphah looked down from the carriage. In the lamplight he could make out the shape of a large-framed man sat upon a jet-black horse. He wore a riding cape, and his face was obscured by a silk scarf that covered his mouth.

‘Blagdan?’ asked the coachman, as if he knew the man’s voice.

‘Who asks me that?’ the highwayman said, pointing his gun at the bugler who grovelled beneath him. ‘It is I and I am proud to say that I will take every penny you carry and make your journey lighter – Blagdan, the most wanted man in England, nothing to lose and all the world to gain.’ He laughed as he spoke. ‘Who or what are
you
?’ he said as he looked up at Raphah.

‘He’s a traveller, got no money, on his way to London,’ interrupted the driver, who held his calloused hands to his face.

‘Then I’ll have him do me a trick,’ the man said as he kicked the coach door. ‘Get yourself down and let me see you dance. In fact, I would have you sing me a song. Sing well or I’ll shoot
you dead, and doubtless no one will ever mourn your passing.’ Blagdan looked to the driver. ‘Better you be going – I’ll spare your life this time but be sure to tell the magistrate it was me.’

The coachman leapt from his seat and ran across the bridge as the bugler stumbled on, half-blind.

Raphah stepped down from the carriage and stood on the ground before him. ‘I’m not a puppet or a jester and I won’t dance for you,’ he said calmly.

‘Saw a bear dance once, he didn’t complain,’ Blagdan said as he pulled the hammer of the pistol. ‘And where I’m from, a bear has more right to live than the likes of you.’

‘Leave him,’ said Lady Tanville from inside the carriage. ‘I have something you can take that is worth more than watching the lad dance.’

Blagdan stopped and turned as if to listen intently to the voice. ‘A woman?’ he asked merrily, unable to see within the coach, as his thick chin rubbed against the collar of his coat.

‘I’ll dance and sing for you,’ said Raphah, ‘but leave her alone.’

‘You had your chance. I’d rather dance with the woman. Hold my horse. If it’s not here when I’ve finished I cut off your ears and post them through your mouth.’ Blagdan spat the words as he got down from the horse and went to the carriage door.

‘Don’t do it, don’t open the door. It’s not what you expect,’ Raphah pleaded.

Blagdan laughed as he belted his pistol and took a long, slender knife from inside his coat.

‘Keep it shut, boy,’ he said blithely, gripping the door handle and giving it a slow twist.

‘It’s not worth your life,’ Raphah pleaded. The coach rocked from side to side as if someone was desperate to escape. Raphah let go of the horse and stepped quickly away from the carriage.
Beadle wrapped himself within the blanket, not wanting to see what he knew would come.

‘You little tiger – can’t wait to see me?’ Blagdan shouted as he undid the buttons of his coat.

It was the last thing he ever said. The door to the carriage was blasted from its hinges. Blagdan fell backwards as the door smashed his face and Barghast leapt from within. The villain was gripped by the throat. He screamed momentarily. By reflex, he fired the pistol into the air. Barghast scragged him back and forth with the strength of ten men. He pulled his throat until he breathed no more. Blagdan was dragged to the ground as the remaining hounds scattered.

‘Leave him,’ shouted Raphah as Blagdan was dragged away. Barghast stared back, his eyes unwilling to give up his prey.

‘Barghast, no!’ screamed Lady Tanville as he pulled the body of the man towards the heath. Far in the distance, the screams of the coachman cried out as he ran into the night.

All fell deathly still. Lady Tanville stepped from the coach.

‘The explosion knocked Ergott from his seat. He still sleeps,’ she said.

From out of the darkness, Barghast stumbled back towards the coach. He came quickly from the shadows and into the light of the lamps. As he walked, he wiped the blood from his mouth. His eyes swept from side to side before focusing on Raphah and then on Beadle.

‘I couldn’t help it,’ he said as he bent to the ground and picked up Blagdan’s pistol from the dirt. ‘Shoot me now, Raphah – let me taste death.’