The Underground City, page 11
“That’s where the pantomime’s being held, Lewis,” his mother said. “In that big building up there.” She turned to Clara. “I hope you’re both going to see Ali Baba,” she said, kindly. “I think it’s going to be a lot of fun!”
“Actually, we’re in it,” Neil admitted. “We don’t have any real parts, though,” he said hurriedly, “we’re in the crowd scenes and things like that.”
Lewis looked envious. “That sounds great,” he said. “We’re going to see it tomorrow night, so we’ll look out for you!”
“Tomorrow’s the first night!” Neil said. “We’re hoping it all goes well!”
“It’s fabulous,” Clara said. “You’ll have a great time!”
“I forgot to mention it, Lewis,” his father said, “but we’ll be going backstage after the show so if you like, you can meet up with Neil and Clara then. Sir James is an old friend of mine,” he explained, “and he’s invited us to meet Matt Lafferty. He seems to be the star.”
Lewis’s face lit up. “That’d be fab!” he grinned. “You know, I’m really glad we’ve met.”
“Great!” grinned Neil, gulping down the last of his drink. “Now, how about practising your skating some more? He’s getting quite good, isn’t he, Clara?”
Lewis nodded eagerly at this suggestion and with a final wave of thanks to Mr and Mrs Grant, they moved back on to the ice and were soon lost in the crowd.
Unseen by them all, Kitor sat in the black, bare branches of a nearby tree, utterly frozen and not, it must be added, with the cold. Kitor was absolutely stiff with fear! He had flown across from Arthur’s Seat not only to watch Neil and Clara skating but also to enjoy the lights, the Christmas decorations and the excited crowds that thronged Princes Street Gardens … not to mention, of course, the added treat of any left-over scraps of hot dogs and hamburgers!
Soaring in over the gardens, Kitor had very nearly had heart-failure when he’d spotted Neil and Clara skating round the rink with Lewis Grant in tow. How they’d met, he didn’t know, but was quite sure it wasn’t by chance. He watched them with a sinking heart, for he knew that it was up to him to find out all about this boy who had been trying to get into the hill. It would be the first thing the MacArthur would want to know.
Magicians, however, are in a class of their own and are definitely not to be trifled with. Kitor, therefore, steeled himself grimly and it was with a fast-beating heart that he managed to sidle unnoticed up to the Grants while they sipped their warm drinks.
Now, although Casimir had been careful to hide himself from Neil and Clara, he couldn’t hide his presence from the world of magic. Kitor immediately sensed the strength of power emanating from Lewis and almost choked as recognition dawned.
He knew immediately who the magician inside Lewis was. Prince Casimir! Prince Casimir had returned!
The magician, however, seemed to sense that something was amiss and even as Kitor saw the boy’s head turn to look searchingly among the crowd, the crow scuttled hastily behind a pile of carrier bags, loaded with presents, and it was only when the three children took to the ice again and started skating round that he breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief. Casimir hadn’t seen him although he had suspected his presence. Shaking with fright, he fluttered into the trees and, cowering behind the thickest branch he could find, pondered his next move.
18. The MacArthurs’ Return
It was only when darkness fell and Princes Street Gardens closed for the night that Kitor swooped carefully from his perch and, keeping to the shadows, flew towards the dark bulk of Arthur’s Seat. He was well aware of the peril he was in and heaved a huge sigh of relief as he reached the hill for, had Casimir been aware of him, he was quite sure that a thunderbolt would have long since finished him off.
He flew to the shaft that the pigeons used to enter the hill and dropped thankfully down into the darkness below. At last, he was safe! Completely safe! No thunderbolt could reach him now, for the magic shield that the MacArthurs had put round the hill protected all within it.
As he flapped his wings at the bottom of the shaft, he suddenly realized that the hill was filled with light. Torches were burning everywhere and the cavern was full of people. The MacArthurs! Kitor could hardly believe his luck! They had returned!
Heads turned to look at him curiously as he flew towards the huge chair layered with banks of cushions that held the MacArthur himself. A small, but regal figure, the MacArthur sat, straight and imperious, in a red, fur-lined coat and long, black boots. This vaguely Russian outfit was topped by a fur hat that sported long, drooping flaps that covered his ears and a tartan scarf. Braziers were being lit throughout the cavern but the hill, empty for so long, was still bitterly cold and, despite his feathers, Kitor shivered.
The MacArthur watched as Kitor flew towards him and knew, just by looking at him, that the bird bore urgent news.
“Welcome back, MacArthur,” Kitor croaked, bowing low before collapsing weakly in a shaking heap of feathers.
Hamish and Jaikie put down the brazier they were carrying and strode up to where Kitor trembled pathetically in front of the MacArthur.
“What is it, Kitor?” Hamish asked, lifting an eyebrow at the MacArthur, who looked puzzled and shook his head. “What’s happened?”
“Prince Casimir!” the bird stuttered. “Prince Casimir has returned!”
There was a horrified silence. “Prince Casimir?” the MacArthur said, sitting up straight in complete disbelief, “but surely Prince Casimir is dead?”
Jaikie looked at Kitor, who, adjusting his ruffled feathers, was struggling to his feet. “Are you sure?” he asked, lifting the bird gently onto a cushion and gesturing to one of the men to light the brazier and bring it closer.
“It was Prince Casimir,” the crow said stubbornly. “I knew him at once.”
They looked at one another in consternation, believing him implicitly, for Kitor had once belonged to Casimir’s son, Prince Kalman. There was no way Kitor was going to mistake Casimir’s presence.
The MacArthur looked appalled. “Jaikie, you’d better go to Arthur’s cave and fetch Archie. He’ll need to be in on this!”
Archie and Arthur arrived together and when Archie had perched himself comfortably on the great dragon’s arm, Kitor poured out his story of how he had seen the boy on the hill trying to break through the protective shield and told them, too, of his exploits as the Shadow.
The MacArthurs looked at one another in amazement. “You must be joking, Kitor,” Archie said, looking absolutely thunderstruck. “Are you seriously trying to tell us that Casimir, Casimir of all people, is involved in saving people’s lives all over the country?”
Kitor sighed. “That’s one reason I got such a shock when I found out that it was Casimir inside Lewis,” the bird admitted doubtfully. He drew a deep breath. “It’s … well, it’s not the sort of thing he ever did, is it?”
“You can say that again,” muttered Hamish. “The Casimir I know would never have lifted a finger to help anyone.”
“It’s certainly a turn up for the books!” Jaikie said, disbelief written all over him. “Let’s face it, Casimir was always as proud as Lucifer. That’s why I could never understand why he stole the Sultan’s crown. When you think about it, it was totally out of character …”
“Yes,” agreed the MacArthur, with a puzzled frown, “I’ve always thought there was something a bit strange about the whole affair.”
“The Chief Constable said that the Grants had just come back from the Middle East,” offered Kitor.
Archie’s head jerked. “That could be where Casimir managed to take Lewis over!” he said excitedly.
The MacArthur nodded in sudden understanding. “It’s possible,” he agreed.
“But we all assumed that when Casimir stole the Sultan’s Crown, the storm carriers chased him and killed him!” objected Jaikie.
“Hasn’t the Sultan mentioned Prince Casimir to you at all?” questioned Hamish dubiously.
The MacArthur shook his head. “The Sultan has never mentioned him,” he confessed, “and, quite frankly, I didn’t like to bring the subject up.”
“Then it’s possible that the storm carriers didn’t kill him when he stole the crown. The Sultan must have imprisoned him instead. Probably out in the desert somewhere …”
“If anything,” Archie mused, “you’d think Casimir would be spending his time looking for Kalman instead of indulging in this Shadow business! Kalman is his son, after all!”
Jaikie sat up. “Maybe that would explain why he was trying to get into the hill,” he said, excitedly. “If he’s discovered that Ardray is no more, he’d want to find out what happened to Kalman and I bet he’d rather come to us for information than go to Morven and the Lords of the North. You used to get on with him better than most, MacArthur, if I remember rightly!”
“The other thing you should know, MacArthur,” Kitor said, “is that Neil and Clara have been among the ghosts in the old town.”
The MacArthur frowned. “You should have told them to have nothing to do with them, Kitor,” he said, sternly. “Ghosts are something else! How did their parents allow it?”
“They didn’t tell them,” Kitor admitted. “The MacLeans know nothing about it. But it wasn’t Neil’s fault. The ghosts asked him to help them.”
Jaikie blinked. “This gets weirder and weirder!” he said, in amazement. “The ghosts asked Neil to help them? I’ve never heard the like of it!”
“The Plague People,” Kitor said. “They were afraid of them getting out.”
There was a deadly silence. “The Plague People?” the MacArthur said in surprise. “I thought they’d been sealed up pretty firmly.” Nevertheless, a shade of concern crossed his face as he spoke and he looked thoughtful.
“The ghosts are worried. There are some men working in the Underground City. They’re trying to break into the vaults of the big bank on the Mound. Neil says that the bank doesn’t keep money there any more so they won’t get anything, but the thing is that they’re very near the Plague People,” Kitor paused, “and we all know what they’re like!”
The MacArthur shuddered. “Aye, well, that’s not our business,” he said. “The ghosts will have to take care of the Plague People themselves.”
“I think they are,” Kitor nodded. “The last time we were there, they told Neil they were going to try to scare the wits out of the crooks. They’ve … they’ve asked for permission to materialize!”
Jaikie and Archie looked at one another. “That’s a bit much, isn’t it?” muttered Jaikie, raising his eyebrows. “They’ll scare Edinburgh stupid!”
Kitor nodded. “They’re pretty awful,” he said doubtfully, “but I don’t think they plan to leave the Underground City. And the Chief Constable said that he was going to wait until you got back so that you could work out what to do about Lewis.”
The MacArthur nodded approvingly. “I think we’d better all meet up,” he said, “and the sooner the better! Hamish, take a carpet and tell the Ranger what has happened so that he can pass the word on to Sir James and the Chief Constable. In the meantime, I’ll speak to the Sultan and Lord Rothlan through the crystal. They’ll both have to know that Casimir has escaped.”
A strong undercurrent of excitement ran through the little group as, later that evening, they sat round the MacArthur’s chair. How often, Clara thought as she sat with Kitor on her shoulder, had they sat like this in the past, sprawled on cushions and low divans listening to the MacArthur. Arthur, the great dragon, lay beside them, occasionally blowing gusts of roaring, sparkling flame across the cavern, for the huge hall was still fairly cold, despite the glowing braziers that had been dotted here and there.
“I’ve told the Sultan everything,” explained the MacArthur, looking round the assembled company. “Needless to say, he’s not best pleased that Casimir has managed to escape.”
“Is he coming here,” queried Hamish, “to the hill?”
A sudden silence fell as the MacArthur nodded. “He plans to come tomorrow evening to sort things out.”
“I’ll do anything I can to help!” Sir James said frankly. “And if we can somehow get Casimir to leave Lewis before the Sultan arrives, then so much the better. As it happens, I’ve already invited the Grants backstage after the show.”
“Lewis told us,” nodded Neil. “We met him at the ice rink in Princes Street Gardens and he’s looking forward to seeing us again, isn’t he Clara? I’m sure we could find some excuse to get him to leave his mum and dad. We could show him our dressing-room, or something. Then you could talk to him on your own, Sir James, and tell him that the MacArthur wants to talk to him. What do you think, Dad?” he asked, turning to his father.
“A good idea,” the Ranger nodded.
“It might be managed,” the Chief Constable said thoughtfully.
“He’s a wily old bird, is Casimir,” the MacArthur interrupted. “I reckon he’ll play things by ear. After all, he tried to get into the hill to speak to me, didn’t he? He’ll take you up on it all right, James — to see what I have to offer, if nothing else.”
Jaikie looked doubtful. “Do we have anything to offer?” he queried.
The MacArthur looked grim. “I think,” he said, “that the Sultan might be willing to pardon Prince Casimir now that he has his crown back.”
“Great!” Archie looked relieved and Arthur blew an approving cloud of smoke from his nostrils that set everybody coughing.
After that, the party broke up and as the magic carpets soared into the air, Kitor flew to the MacArthur’s shoulder to remind him of the ghosts of Mary King’s Close.
The MacArthur nodded and quietly drew the Chief Constable to one side. “The Bank of Scotland on the Mound, Sir Archie,” he said. “I’ve heard a whisper that some bank robbers are interested in cleaning it out.”
Archie Thompson’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “They must be pretty thick, then,” he replied. “It’s not been a working branch for quite a while now.”
“Then you’re not worried about it?”
The Chief Constable shook his head. “It’s a museum these days,” he replied.
“That’s what Neil said,” nodded the MacArthur.
The Chief Constable’s eyes sharpened at the mention of Neil’s name. “Actually, the Bank of Scotland has donated quite a lot of money to Ali Baba. They always contribute to good causes and it so happens that Molly and I are going to see the pantomime tomorrow night with one of the bank’s directors. I’ll … er, sound MacPherson out then.”
19. Overture and Beginners
The Assembly Hall that evening was a scene of hustle and bustle as the cast of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves arrived early and settled nervously in their dressing rooms to apply the layers of make-up and greasepaint that would transform them from solid Scots into the more exotic characters of the pantomime. For the stars who had dressing rooms of their own, this was more or less a routine matter but for the bit-part players it was all new, thrilling and exciting.
Neil and Clara found themselves squashed in the corner of a large room that was totally overcrowded. The brightly-lit stretch of mirrors above the make-up shelf that ran the length of the room added to the confusion, not only reflecting the performers but also rack upon rack of gaudy costumes, magnificent turbans, fancy wigs and those ornate slippers with turned-up toes so popular among the peoples of the east.
“I’ll be lucky if I can keep these slippers on my feet,” muttered Neil, as a make-up artist plastered Clara’s fair skin with what looked like brown gunge. “I’ll have to hold them on with my toes, I think!”
“I saw mum in the wardrobe room. She might be able to give you something to tie round them,” Clara mumbled, trying to keep her lips still as the woman doing her face wielded sticks of make-up and hissed at her not to talk.
Neil made his way to the door through the chattering, excited crowd that milled here and there between the costumes and the mirrors. He couldn’t see his mother anywhere in the general pandemonium of the dressing rooms. It all looked pretty frantic, but rehearsals had taught him that there was method behind the madness and that within an hour the entire cast would be totally transformed. Reaching the side of the stage, he practised walking up and down to get the feel of the gaudy slippers. Before he had arrived at the theatre, he had been looking forward to taking part in the show; now his confidence drained away as he worried about keeping the shoes on his feet!
Last minute practices were still going on. On stage, two men were fighting with deadly-looking, curved scimitars. Neil grinned as he watched them go through their routine. Before the rehearsals started, neither man had ever used a sword before, far less a scimitar, but they had managed to work out a mock-duel with the help of the one man in the cast that knew anything about sword-play; Alec Johnston, the Genie of the Lamp.
Alec, whose arrogance was unsurpassed, considered himself a rising star in the theatrical world and had, unsurprisingly, managed to make more enemies than friends during the course of rehearsals. Nevertheless, he was a professional and stood watching the fight critically as the two swordsmen went through their paces.
He was already made-up and in costume. It was, Neil admitted enviously, a fantastic costume. A dark blue mask, spiked with gold, decorated the upper part of his face and covered his hair while a loose cloak of the same colour hung over a tight under-suit of shimmering gold. And there was no doubt whatsoever that his spectacular leap onto the stage when Ali Baba rubbed the magic lamp, was absolutely fantastic and one of the highlights of the pantomime. However much you disliked him as a person, he made a fantastic genie, Neil thought, as he saw him lift a commanding hand and stop the fight.
“Watch me again,” he instructed, taking the scimitar from the hands of one of the men. “Step forward — one, two, three — and then lunge, like this.” The steel blade glinted and as the folds of his shimmering cloak rippled and billowed, his arm swung forward with deadly accuracy.
