The King of Shadows, page 40
“Non, non,” she said. And with another effort of either concentration or memory, she added, “Too handsome.”
“I have nothing to pay you with.” DeKay knew this was not going to be fully understood, but the tone of voice would have to do.
It seemed her face—Jenny’s face, from long ago—was all he could see; it was the whole world, and the whole of his existence. He could not help but shiver when she placed her fingers against the mask’s cheek.
“Handsome,” she said. “Sous?” And with that question she actually put the tips of her fingers under the mask’s edge, as if to lift it up.
DeKay came to himself. He retreated a pace, his heart pounding. He realized what she was asking: for payment of the new feather, to see what was under the mask.
“No,” he said, but his voice sounded so far away.
“Je pense …” Apaulina stopped and tried again. “I think,” she said, “very … kind.”
“No,” he repeated. “It is not for you to see.”
She advanced upon him once more, and this time put her fingers against the cheek of his unmasked face. “I …” She struggled for a moment with the language. “Would like,” she said.
He wondered if she presumed the masked half of his face resembled the unmasked, not knowing the ruin that lay beneath. Oh so handsome that was! And his eye on that right side, burned out by the corrosive liquid, extinguished and blind. Oh how handsome she would find that to be! “Ugly,” he said.
Did she comprehend the word? For she shook her head, and she replied, “Cannot be.”
Then he would show her, he suddenly decided. Yes, show her … and that would be the end of his coming here, the end of what had become an obsession with a girl surely long dead, the end of his desire to somehow make things right, which of course was absolutely impossible, and this Apaulina’s face was not an older and undamaged Jenny’s though she looked so much the same it was soul-breaking but she was not her … no, she was not and now was the time to end it.
“All right,” DeKay said, and instantly felt the crawl of sweat upon his flesh.
He put his hands behind his head and found the buckles of the leather straps.
One buckle opened, and now the second. His fingers, trembling so.
The second and last buckle was undone.
DeKay caught the mask before it fell away. Then, slowly, he lowered it from his face and prepared himself for the scream that was sure to follow.
Apaulina for a moment wore no expression.
Then she smiled and nodded, and she said, “Handsome.” He staggered back. His heart was beating through his chest. Could she not see the ruin of rippled scars and cratered flesh?
He saw a hand mirror lying on Apaulina’s worktable, and he rushed past her to hold it up before him. The image he found there swam before his eyes for perhaps two seconds, a blur that became a face undivided by horror. His face … as it had been before that day and the hurling of the acid from a small brown bottle.
His face, whole and … yes … handsome. Except he could not see through the right eye, though in the mirror it was shiny and wet with life, and he knew that this was an illusion … a mirage … a trick of the mind. He was seeing what Apaulina wanted to see, what she had told him he would see.
Handsome.
Somehow, looking at himself in the mirror was more terrifying than the view of his own devastated visage, for he thought that either he was losing his senses or that Corbett was right about this island … it had the power to warp the mind, and here was the proof of it. Not only warping his mind, but Apaulina’s … likely everyone here, including King Tabor himself.
As these thoughts swirled in his brain, he saw the image in the mirror begin to contort, the right side of the face begin to turn gray, the craters and scars begin to appear like dark blotches and streamers of ink spreading across cracked parchment … and he instantly put aside the mirror and desperately pressed the mask against his face.
He started out, striding past the woman, going to … he had no idea where.
“Stay!” she called to him but he kept walking, out the door, into the wretchedly cruel sunlight, under a wicked azure sky stained by the volcano’s streamers.
He stood in a shadow and buckled the mask back into place. Then he walked on and on through the streets but wherever he walked there was no escape. There was just the island. His mind was reeling. Everything felt dreamlike, hazy, the dry hot air tinged with red. He heard a bell ring from the direction of the palace: a single tolling, but after the sound had echoed away it seemed to him that the town had become quieter, the markets and vendors he passed stilled, the citizens frozen in their conversations with each other, the whole place like a garishly colored painting done by a half-master, half-madman.
At length, breathing hard in the heat and still addled, DeKay sat down on the stony edge of a well. He peered into the water, regarding his own masked reflection. The island, he thought. What else was it that Corbett had said?
… when all of us are consumed by this place … Consumed … like being inside the stomach of a beast … being digested … slowly, bit by bit … until there was nothing left of what used to be.
Was that the fate that lay ahead?
A hand suddenly touched DeKay’s shoulder.
He looked up, startled, his genuine eye squinting in the sun’s harsh glare.
And close beside him, the face of his father smiled.
Six
Nemesis
Thirty-four
“What do you think of that one?”
“Hm. Well … a bit small at the shoulder but heavy at the dock. I think also that the forearms are a bit short for the build, at least to our standards. My opinion: pass.”
“Mine also.” Reuben DeKay gave his son’s shoulder a pat before he released it. “Plenty more to come.”
Caudlecutt, the white-wigged and big-bellied auctioneer in his too-tight breeches and ostentatious crimson jacket, had taken his podium atop the stand down in the auction pit. The horse that Mac DeKay had just appraised—a mare by the unlikely name of Fireball—had been paraded back and forth by her handler as the fifty or so other patrons assembled on the wooden benches had made their own notes and opinions. Then Caudlecutt banged his gavel a few times—as Mac recalled last year with an inward chuckle of remembered humor when the head of Caudlecutt’s gavel had flown off its handle and nearly brained Lord Ringgold’s agent Meizel, who now wisely sat as far back as possible— and began the proceedings.
First, as always, there was a recitation of Fireball’s owner, age, weight, and accomplishments, such as they were, for in five seasons of racing up in the Midlands the steed had only placed twice and shown a septuple, and now here she was up for the highest bidder. Among those gathered in this equine auction house just to the south of Croydon on the edge of the Great City were—as Mac and his father noted—some representatives of the glue business, who were also on the lookout for bargains. And five minutes later, after Caudlecutt’s wheezy caterwaulings and implorings had ceased to coax a single pound from the regular horse breeders and racing impresarios, to one of the glue potters went the unfortunate and soon-to-be-extinguished Fireball at the cost of a half crown.
The next horse up was another smaller than ideal ebony male named Bobtail … but had a fairly decent record of two wins, four places and three shows in two seasons and was also sired by that grand old winner, Icarus. Still, this one was not what the DeKays were looking for, but Bobtail was spared from a gluey future by a winning bid of six pounds from Earl Cloudwaite’s’ agent Fitchett.
Mac glanced sideways at his father. The old man—forty-four last October—was in his element. Reuben had leaned slightly forward, his dark brown eyes watchful and alert, his expression one of relaxed pleasure. He and his son—handsome men, the both—were expectant of a good season to come, not only from the winnings that might result but from the joy of working with horses, seeing them trained properly, possibly correcting the wrongs of other breeders and trainers and finding in this auction on the seventh day of March an animal that had lost the faith of others but might yet find faith and a positive future for DeKay Enterprises.
Mac drew in the air. It smelled of rich earth from the dirt ground of the auction pit, the smoke from the pipes many of the watchers were industriously puffing, and those wonderful scents of oiled leather and freshly scrubbed horseflesh. He and his father had attended these auctions, held two months before the start of the season in May, for as many years as he could recall, and usually they came away with one or two promising steeds. But that was part of the pleasure for them: the idea that they might see with their eyes of experience a horse capable of true glory, which others might not detect. And it was not only the pursuit of such glory that caused Reuben DeKay to open his wallet, but the thought of championing a horse thrown away by careless or cruel training, and bringing back to life its noble nature.
Mac was fresh of twenty and had graduated in December with honors from the acclaimed and very expensive Ambrose Academy, his field of study being finances. He had already been helping his father in the family business of the making of candles and oil lamps, and now was ready to begin his own journey in life. There were dances and parties with all the right families, and perhaps a girl or two whom Mac had briefly courted, but his attention for the present was on being a good and helpful son, thus he remained living on the DeKay estate in the rolling meadowed countryside between London and St. Albans. He had time—the greatest luxury of youth—to mark his own place in the world, and he was in no hurry to leave either the estate, the DeKay business— which he would surely inherit some sad day at his father’s passing—and in particular the joy he shared with Reuben at the work with the eight horses they currently owned.
The first racing day lay ahead, on the fifteenth of May, at the private track on the estate of Lord Pennington-Greaves. It would be, as usual, a wonderful and festive occasion whether any DeKay Enterprises horse won, placed, or showed; it was simply the art and beauty of the sport that caused son and father to greet the morning with great anticipation, and caused the father to spend several thousand pounds on the sumptuous stables and the expert trainers, jockeys, equipment, fodder and everything else needed for success.
“Here’s a beauty,” said Reuben, and meant it sincerely as a glossy muscular dapple grey with black leggings was led into the pit. Caudlecutt’s report, delivered at full blasting wheeze, was that this animal was a four-year-old mare named Misty Morn, sired from the great lineage of Dolly Dame and Thrush, and that Misty Morn had placed during last season at Oaks and at Parmenter and run respectable thirds and fourths at Brownbriar and Hampton Hill. “Inspection!” Reuben announced, holding up his green card supplied for this purpose, and the call for inspection was echoed by several others, including Meizel.
Mac and his father went down the steps into the pit, having the first right of inspection, for a closer look at Misty Morn. As the handler held the mare’s reins, the inspection involved looking at teeth, at hooves, at the eyes, the muscle tone and condition of the coat, if there were any visible scars or evidence of injury, and so on. At an auction of this nature, one had to be aware that a certain risk must be undertaken as perchance the overall health of the animal, and one had to judge its temperament on the moment, whereas for horses of great standing and accomplishment the buying and selling was done by appointment at private stables and might take a considerable length of time to conclude as many professionals would be involved.
“We’ll bid,” Reuben said when he and his son had returned to their seats, but after a flurry of other bids were presented Reuben paused at the ten-pound mark and Misty Morn went for fourteen pounds to Clayton Rawls of Silverstone Stables.
“More to come,” was Reuben’s next statement, and then came the more.
A horse’s angered and muffled scream presaged the arrival from the outer yard, which made everyone in the audience sit up a bit straighter. Into the pit two men dragged by the traces a wildly pitching and thrashing animal, dark brown colored between a chestnut and a blood bay with a red mane and tail. The horse was muzzled, which did not stop it from thrusting its broad head at the handlers with obvious intent to do injury. Its eyes glittered with crimson rage, and though it was obviously bony and gravely underweight its strength still lifted the men off their feet as it reared up and crashed down again.
“Oh my God!” Reuben said, as aghast as everyone else. “It’s Nemesis! The male that killed Archie Quayle last year at Parmenter. I thought the animal had been put down.”
Obviously not, for this beast was filled with fighting life, and its violent maneuverings caused the two men to slam together and nearly lose the traces … and, as Mac noted, the handlers were by no means lightweight puffins.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Caudlecutt hollered over the horse’s shrieks. “Calm, please!” He had seen those on the lower benches removing themselves upward for the sake of security. “Please, let us—” He was interrupted by the horse throwing itself forward, seemingly in an effort to get at the auctioneer. Caudlecutt flew back so fast he nearly tripped over his own stalks and his wig went crooked. With a look of stark terror on his jowly mug he held up the gavel as scant protection, perhaps wishing it was either a sledgehammer or an axe.
It took another two full minutes for the handlers to fight the horse to a standstill, and even standing still Nemesis was a jitter and quiver of nerves and tendons; it snorted and fumed beneath the muzzle, its head going back and forth as if on the lookout for the next man to kill.
Mac recalled the incident. This animal had been leading the race by four lengths at Parmenter last July, when suddenly it had leaped and twisted so violently the jockey Quayle was thrown from the saddle, to be hit and run down by two horses coming up behind. Death by a crushed skull was instant. And here before them was the beast, fearsome even in its quieter regard of the humans regarding it, as if at any second it might break loose and charge the gallery.
“Order, please! Order!” Caudlecutt called, now grasping both sides of the podium like a Spartan shield. “Let us continue with our business! We have before us the five-yearold male Nemesis, owned by Bertram Robey of the Robey Estates. Now before I go any further, let me—” He jumped, because the horse had again snorted and lunged, dragging his handlers’ boots six feet across the dirt before they could right themselves. “Let me say,” Caudlecutt dared to go on, “that this animal had a sterling career before the unfortunate accident at Parmenter last season.” He read from his ledger book before him: “Three wins—and one record set at Hampton Hill two seasons ago, as you must remember. Four places and another four shows, also two seasons ago.”
“Last season a killer!” spoke up Randolph Guffey, who rarely removed the pipe from his mouth long enough to utter a word.
“Granted, granted!” said the auctioneer, with a careful wave of the hand lest Nemesis take that as a challenge. “But let us look at the potential of this animal!”
“What? To kill again?” This was an elder man’s snarl from behind Mac and Reuben.
“Please refrain for the moment, kind sirs. Let us discover the measurements.” He read again from his ledger that held information about all the steeds on the agenda today. “Sixteen hands tall but as you can see, at the moment some three hundred pounds shy of its twelve hundred pound active weight. A handsome husker at his prime, you might recall. Spirited, yes, and in need of a spirited owner.”
“I don’t wish to become a spirit!” Spoken by Fitzjames Norwood on the lower quarter of the chamber, which brought forth a few strained and nervous laughs.
“The horse is ill!” said Kenworth Dodge from his perch higher up. “Any fool can see the animal is all skin and bones! Wasting away from disease, I’d venture!”
“I am assured by the Robey Estates,” Caudlecutt responded with a forward thrust of his double chins, “that this horse is not and has never been physically ill. It is a matter of nervous tension, I am told.”
“Sick onto death, it appears to me!” Dodge fired back. Caudlecutt gave what must’ve been a heavy sigh of resignation. “All right, sirs, to business: do I have a bid?”
Silence. Someone gave another harsh laugh to break it, and Nemesis rumbled like the wheels of an iron cart over cobblestones, but that was all.
“One bid, gentlemen! Any amount!”
Mac leaned forward. He was watching the movement of the slack and undernourished muscles under the animal’s flesh as it shifted slightly from side to side. Readying itself to leap? To kick? To charge the men trying to hold it to earth, when obviously the creature’s energy burned like a sky-thrown torch?
Interesting, he thought. Perhaps— “What’re you seeing?” Reuben asked quietly.
“One bid, sirs! Surely you don’t fear this grand animal, do you?”
“I don’t know what I’m seeing,” Mac answered. “I don’t know if I’m seeing anything, but … still … it seems a terrible waste for this horse to go to the glue pot. Don’t you think?”
“One bid! Anything you please, so we might move along!”
“Our present horses might be in danger,” Reuben said. “This animal has a killing instinct.”
“An instinct to run too, it seems,” said Mac. “Quayle’s death was caused by the other horses. Every jockey gets thrown, sooner or later.”
“But not in the last stage of a race when the horse is far ahead of the field. Anyway, the poor beast appears near gone.”
