The Secret of Zanzibar, page 14
‘Whoa,’ she whispered as her brother stepped off the branch to join her. ‘Alex, look how high up we are. We can’t jump from here.’
Her brother considered the distance. ‘Yeah, I suppose it’d be pretty dumb to break our legs.’
But an idea had struck Alice – and for once she had something to thank Sophia and Horace for. ‘Remember how we escaped from Sophia and Horace back in Shetlock that first time, when we were staying in the hotel near Shambles?’
‘We tied sheets together to make a rope and climbed out the window,’ Alex recalled.
‘I’ve got rope in my rucksack,’ Alice said. ‘We can tie it to the branch and climb down, and then we can use it to get back over the wall once we’ve rescued Tobias’s son.’
‘Brilliant, sis,’ Alex said. ‘But what if the guards see the rope while we’re gone?’
Alice considered this. ‘You did say they don’t patrol the walls,’ she reminded him. ‘Anyway, they won’t discover that their prisoner is missing till tomorrow morning – and by then we’ll be long gone, and the rope too.’
It was ironic, Alice thought as she clung onto the rope several minutes later, her arms aching with the effort of keeping it from spinning, her feet scrambling for traction against the stone. The last time she had done this she had been trying to get away from the Sourian spies; now her actions were bringing her closer to them.
‘You lead the way,’ Alice said when she was standing on the grass beside her brother. The lawn felt soft and springy beneath her feet – not unlike a mattress, she thought – and she was tempted to lie down for a moment. But Alex had already set off towards the darkened palace, walking purposefully. Smothering a yawn, she hurried to catch up. ‘Where are we going?’
‘We’ll go in through the kitchen door and use the servants’ stairs to get to the dungeon.’
In the old days, Alice knew, before the Sourians had taken over, the palace staff had moved around the building using their own sets of stairs and passages. The Sourians had declared these out of bounds, but Alex had spent night after night exploring them extensively when he and Alice had been working in the palace.
They skirted the flowerbeds in which they had passed many backbreaking hours under the watchful eye of Fiercely Jones, passed the potting shed in which the gardener could usually be found, then warily entered the courtyard at the rear of the palace.
‘All quiet,’ Alex noted as they approached the back entrance to the kitchen. He eased open the door and they crept in.
It was a strange feeling standing in the dark kitchen where they had had their meals, seeing once more the stove where Cook had banged her pots and pans, not bothering to hide her dislike for the two Sourian orphans sitting at the table. But Alice had little time to reflect on how much had changed since then, as Alex was already opening a door on the far side of the hearth.
She’d been mistaken if she’d thought the kitchen was dark, Alice realised now as she entered the staircase and pulled the door shut behind her. In the kitchen, at least, there had been enough light to make out the shapes of furniture; now she was enclosed by total blackness. She couldn’t see her brother in front of her; she couldn’t see the walls or the floor. She could feel the chill of the stone and hear the light scuff of her brother’s footsteps up ahead. She could hear her own breathing loud in her ears.
She moved forward cautiously, feeling her way with her feet until she’d found the first step. After she’d climbed a few, she discovered she was able to judge the depth and distance of the steps quite accurately, only twice stubbing her toe on the unforgiving stone.
Alice was just about to ask how far up were they were going to climb – she’d always assumed the dungeons would be down – when Alex whispered over his shoulder, ‘Turn left here,’ and she found herself standing in a passage that stretched away into darkness on either side, the blackness broken occasionally by a weak stream of moonlight trickling in through a chink in the wall.
‘Left again,’ Alex said a few metres later, and they were on another staircase, going down this time.
Alice had known the palace was big – two hundred and forty-three rooms, she’d learned when studying the palace layout before their first mission to Gerander – but she hadn’t really understood just how massive that was until now. They went down a seemingly endless series of staircases and along what seemed like miles of intersecting passages before Alex stopped at the head of a narrow set of steps.
‘This is it,’ he said. ‘The door at the bottom of these stairs takes us right into the dungeons.’
Alice’s heart started to beat a little faster.
‘There’s usually two guards posted at the entrance to the dungeons,’ Alex explained, ‘but with any luck we won’t see them and they won’t see us. It’s a bit of a maze down there and this way takes us in a fair way from the entrance.’
He opened the door a crack and peered through, then opened it wider and stepped over the threshold, Alice close on his heels.
They were standing in another passageway, this one dimly lit with candles flickering along the walls at well-spaced intervals. The door was set in a long blank stone wall facing a row of heavy wooden doors with tiny barred windows.
‘They put him in the very last cell,’ Alex muttered as he strode quickly down the passageway.
‘What if he’s not there any more?’ said Alice as they passed cell after cell, all empty.
‘If he’s not there any more we should be happy for him,’ Alex said.
‘Except if he’s somewhere worse.’
‘I can’t imagine worse,’ her brother said grimly.
And as they crept down, down, down into the bowels of the palace in a descending spiral Alice could see what he meant.
Summer appeared not to have touched the dungeons. The cold and damp seeped into her very bones, and as Alice peeked into an empty cell she saw that it had no windows, no source of natural light. She imagined being locked in that confined space, unable to see the sun or sky, and found herself struggling for breath as she was assailed by an overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia. It felt like the low ceiling was pressing down on her head and the walls were closing in.
‘We’re nearly there,’ Alex said, as if sensing her distress.
They rounded a curve and Alice saw that up ahead the passageway ended abruptly at a small door remarkably like the one they had entered the dungeons through.
‘Where does that door go?’ she asked, pointing.
Alex glanced at it and shrugged. ‘Dunno. Must be another entrance to the servants’ stairs.’
‘I wish we’d –’ Alice began, only to be cut off by her brother.
‘This is it.’
They had reached the last cell.
Alex took a candle from a niche in the wall and stood on tiptoe to look through the barred window.
‘Is he there?’ Alice breathed.
‘Yep.’
‘Let me see.’ Alice nudged him aside so that she too could see into the cell. In the dim glow of the candlelight she could just make out a skinny mouse with rumpled marmalade fur. He was lying on a bare cot, asleep.
‘Hey,’ Alex called softly.
The skinny mouse slept on.
‘Hey,’ Alex hissed, a little louder.
The skinny mouse started. ‘Huh?’ He sat up and looked around wildly, then squinted at the door. ‘Who is it?’
‘Shhh,’ said Alice. ‘Keep your voice down. We’re here to rescue you.’
‘You are?’ He leapt from the cot. ‘Who sent you?’
‘No one exactly,’ Alex said. ‘We just decided to.’
‘So my dad didn’t send you then?’
‘Tobias? No. He, er …’
Alex and Alice exchanged desperate looks. It hardly seemed the appropriate time to explain that his father had betrayed his own friends and family.
‘It’s complicated,’ Alice said at last.
‘But you are from FIG, right?’
‘Yes,’ said Alex in a firm voice. ‘My name’s Alex and this is my sister Alice.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ said the skinny mouse. ‘I’m Tom. Er, do you think we should be getting a move on?’
‘Of course,’ said Alice, but as her eye moved to the lock on the door she had an awful sinking feeling.
‘Alex, we don’t have a key!’ Alice whispered.
‘What?’ said Alex. ‘Speak up, sis, I didn’t hear you.’
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ Tom gripped the bars of the tiny window and rattled them. ‘Get me out of here.’
‘The key, Alex,’ Alice said through gritted teeth. ‘We don’t have one.’
‘The key?’ Alex repeated, a look of dismay dawning on his face.
‘You don’t have a key?’ demanded Tom. ‘What kind of rescue is this?’
And then Alice heard a soft footfall behind her and the fur between her shoulder blades prickled with dread. They were not alone.
All her earlier fear and foreboding returned to her in a rush. She had known all along Sophia would be here, waiting, an inner voice reminded her. She had known all along that they would never outsmart Souris’s most dangerous spy. She had known all along – and a sob rose in her chest as she thought it – that Sophia would, as she had promised, get them in the end.
With her heart in her mouth Alice spun around just as a familiar voice said, ‘Looking for this?’
15
Escape from Grouch
As the double doors swung open and a guard swept into the room, Alistair began to tremble. He was still kneeling before the Queen, with his head bowed, and he expected at any moment to feel the cool steel blade at his neck. It would be quick, he hoped, swallowing over the lump in his throat, tears pricking his eyes.
‘The court minstrel is insisting on seeing you, ma’am.’
What? Alistair spun around to see a harried-looking guard, his sword still in its scabbard.
The Queen seemed equally surprised. ‘Court minstrel? What gibberish are you spouting now, Winklepicker? There’s no minstrel at the palace. What would I want with another warbling fool around the place when I have you?’
‘Your Majesty, I –’
‘There, there, Winklepicker,’ said an amused voice, and a midnight blue mouse strolled into the room, carrying a fiddle. Alistair could barely restrain himself from shouting with joy. It was Timmy the Winns!
Alistair darted a look at the Queen, expecting her to explode with rage at the intrusion. Instead, her mouth had creased in a wintry smile. Alistair remembered the first time he had seen Timmy the Winns, how the sight of the midnight blue mouse and his equally colourful companions had made him smile too.
‘To what do I owe this unexpected interruption?’ Queen Eugenia asked.
Rather than answer, Timmy the Winns lifted the fiddle to his chin and, gazing straight at Queen Eugenia, began to play. He didn’t sing the words, but Alistair recognised the haunting melody. It was the song of the Winns.
As the melancholy melody filled the room, Alistair felt a longing inside him to see the broad green river once more, to hear the gurgle of the water and the whisper of the wind through the reeds lining the banks.
A strange calm filled him and for a moment he forgot where he was, forgot that only seconds before he had expected to feel a sword pierce his skin, until to Alistair’s astonishment, the Queen gasped in recognition.
‘I know that song,’ she said. ‘My grandfather used to hum that to me when I was a little girl. Do you remember it, Timon?’
For the first time, Alistair heard the ancient mouse who stood behind the Queen’s throne speak. ‘I remember,’ he murmured.
Alistair raised his head slightly to look at the pair. Were the Queen’s eyes actually glistening?
The Queen turned her teary eyes to Timon. ‘I haven’t heard that tune since Grandfather died. He loved me, didn’t he?’
‘He loved you very much, ma’am. And he bade me look after you and advise you, and so I have, to the best of my ability. Though Your Majesty does not take kindly to advice.’
As if words had reminded her who she was and where she was, Queen Eugenia turned back to Timmy the Winns and demanded, ‘Who are you? How do you know my grandfather’s song?’
‘It’s the song of the Winns, ma’am.’
‘The Winns?’ The Queen gaped at the midnight blue mouse. ‘That’s preposterous. Why would my grandfather sing me a song about the Gerandan river? Unless …’ She sat up straighter, her eyes glittering with excitement now. ‘It’s because he knew that one day it would be mine. That’s it, isn’t it? Sing me the song, Minstrel. I want to hear the words.’
Timmy put the fiddle to his chin and began to play and sing. When he came to the chorus he raised his voice so that the words rang out clearly:
‘Wherever the Winns takes me, that’s where I’ll be,
For me and the Winns will always flow free.’
The Queen’s tears were flowing as freely as a river now and Winklepicker stepped forward to offer her a handkerchief.
‘Stop, Minstrel,’ she commanded in an unsteady voice. ‘Stop!’ Then, sobbing violently, she lurched to her feet and rushed from the room, her old adviser close behind.
Timmy sprang forward and pulled Alistair up, but as Winklepicker rushed towards them Alistair reared back in alarm. To his surprise, Timmy didn’t seem at all concerned.
‘It’s under the throne,’ he said to the guard in a low voice. ‘Help me shift it.’
Timmy and the guard each took an arm and heaved the throne backwards to reveal a trapdoor.
‘Will you be able to push it back into place by yourself?’
The guard nodded. ‘I’ve got it all figured out,’ he said. ‘I’ll pretend you overpowered me and went out the window.’
‘And you got the uniform, like I asked?’
‘Ready and waiting.’
‘Good fellow,’ said Timmy approvingly. He clapped the guard on the shoulder, then bent to raise the trapdoor. The top of a ladder was just visible, but after the first few rungs there was only darkness.
The midnight blue mouse turned to Alistair. As he hastily untied Alistair’s hands, he finally spoke to him. ‘After you, little brother.’
Alistair, fearful of the Queen’s return, didn’t hesitate. He dropped to the floor and felt with his feet for the first rung, then quickly began to descend the ladder. Seconds later the form of Timmy the Winns filled the opening of the trapdoor, blocking most of the light. When Timmy’s head dropped below the level of the opening, the trapdoor slammed shut, plunging them into total darkness. A scraping sound above told them that Winklepicker was heaving the throne back into position.
Alistair tried to move quickly, but he almost lost his footing a few times – it was hard to judge the distance between the rungs in the dark – and he was forced to slow his pace.
‘Sorry,’ came a whisper in the dark as Timmy the Winns stood on one of Alistair’s hands.
All at once there was a distant cry of ‘Help! Guards!’ followed immediately by a clattering above their heads. Alistair’s pulse started racing as he realised that Winklepicker had raised the alarm.
‘Ouch!’ He couldn’t stop the involuntary exclamation as one foot then the other abruptly hit stone. He was at the bottom of the ladder. Now what? He opened his mouth to ask but before he could he felt his uncle’s hands on his shoulders.
‘We’re in a tunnel that runs beneath the palace,’ Timmy breathed in his ear. ‘Keep your left hand on the wall and walk as fast as you can. I’ll be right in front of you.’
Alistair heard the gentle scuff of footsteps on stone as his uncle walked off. He put his left hand to the wall and took a tentative step forward. It was disconcerting, the absolute blackness. Not a chink of light illuminated the tunnel; there was nothing to tell him whether it was straight or curved. He reached out blindly with his right hand to see if he could touch the opposite wall or the roof above, but he couldn’t. So it was a wide tunnel, then. He drew a deep breath and half ran after Timmy. The thought of being left alone there was terrifying.
The stone was cool and rough on his fingertips, and he stumbled often as his feet encountered unseen bumps and dips on the path. His head began to pound once more at the rush of blood brought on by sudden activity after the long hours lying on the cot in the cell.
‘You all right there, little brother?’ Timmy’s whisper sounded loud in the dark.
‘Yes,’ said Alistair, not sure whether he meant it.
‘Not much further.’
With no visibility either forward or back, he lost all sense of time and distance. He could hear nothing but the steady sound of Timmy’s breathing ahead of him, though he could imagine the commotion above as the guards – and, worse, the Queen – discovered their escape. What if they uncovered Winklepicker’s deception and swarmed into the tunnel? He shivered, both at the thought of a swarm of guards and at the frigid air; they must be deep underground.
‘Mmmph.’ He recoiled as something smothered him, before realising that he had walked straight into Timmy’s back.
Timmy grunted then said, ‘Hinges must be rusty; probably hasn’t been used for a long time, if ever. I’ll need you to give me a hand.’
Alistair felt an arm around his shoulders guiding him forward until he was pressed against a small wooden door that stretched from waist height to just above his head.
‘Push,’ said Timmy.
Alistair pushed with all his strength. Eventually there was a slow creaking and the door opened a crack. He blinked in the light that filled the opening.
‘Again,’ said his uncle, and together they threw their weight against the door, which moved reluctantly. When the opening was just wide enough for them to squeeze through, Timmy said, ‘That’ll do,’ and wriggled through the gap.
Alistair clambered through the door behind Timmy the Winns to find himself in a hollow carved out between two gnarled roots of an enormous tree.
Timmy shut the door behind them, and when Alistair turned to look the weathered timber was almost indistinguishable against the tree roots.
