The King of Shadows, page 18
Brand had been standing with slumped shoulders during this onslaught. Now he looked DeKay in the face, lifted his bearded chin and drew his shoulders up.
“One hundred and ninety-three miles,” he said. And added, “But you may or may not know, sir, that the island of Sardinia has been controlled for many years by the Spanish. Due to the … shall I say … animosities between our nations, we might lose our heads if we made that port.”
Someone laughed. More correctly, it was a cackle.
The sound of it made DeKay shiver with renewed rage. Then there came the noise of two hands clapping, and from under the archway that led into the chamber from the outer vestibule, Professor Fell in his crimson robe and tasseled cap grinned with fierce animosity and said, “Oh, what an entertainment!”
The frail old man took a step forward … stumbled, righted himself and staggered onward until he was close enough to grip both hands on the table’s edge, telling Matthew that Fell might have had his supper on a bottle of wine—or two—cajoled from Fratello, the cook or the cook’s assistant. “I’m just in time to see the second act, am I not?” he asked DeKay, his eyes so red and watery that sight was probably not at the moment his best ability. “I think,” he slurred on, “your mask is slipping.”
“I have no time for a drunken fool,” came the bitterly delivered reply.
“Time? Yes, it is time.” Fell gave those at the table a lopsided smile, which further shocked Matthew because he’d never seen such an expression on the man’s face. “Time,” the professor repeated to the gathering. “To tell those who do not know … why they are sailing to Venice. Were sailing to Venice, I mean to say.” And again, as if he hadn’t heard himself: “Were sailing.”
“Someone throw him out of here,” Black said, followed by a disdainful flip of a long-nailed hand festooned with Satanic rings.
“Maccabeus!” said Fell, with mock incredulity. “Haven’t you told every man here about the mirror? Haven’t you told Brand, or Stroud, or Tallow or Falkenberg … or your ship’s crew … that calling a demonic entity from the glass demands a human sacrifice? And some … more than one? Black, haven’t you passed the book around for everyone to digest?”
“A demonic entity? Sir, what is he talking about?” Stroud asked DeKay. Matthew noted that Tallow also looked puzzled and somewhat stricken if indeed the toadish man had enough sense to be struck, whereas Falkenberg’s expression remained entirely composed … and that told Matthew only one of DeKay’s men knew the entire story.
“Oh, you thought this was a pleasure cruise?” Professor Fell’s grin widened, and the crooked slash of a mouth below the red-rimmed and bloodshot eyes made him appear nearly demonic. “Maccabeus, tell us now … inform us … while we are here listening … who you have marked to be torn to shreds by whatever creature you’ve chosen to call forth!”
“You, first of all!” Black had almost shouted it.
“Of course me, first of all. But … first of all? Next would be Greathouse? Then Matthew? And then … who, Black? Who, Maccabeus? Tell us!”
DeKay stared at the professor for a few silent seconds. His voice was quiet when he spoke. “Go back to your quarters and drink yourself into insensibility. Or should I say … more insensibility than the nonsense you’re already spewing. The mirror is the key to a Roman treasure. All my men know that.”
“Does this thing look like a treasure-hunter?” Fell pointed at Cardinal Black, who lifted his scruff-bearded chin in defiance of the truth. “You men have been around him long enough! You must know about his so-called master! And tell us, Black, does this phantasm of yours have a name?”
After a short pause, Black said “Dominus,” with a curl of the lip.
“The master of his fantasies!” Fell proclaimed, with another gleeful and misshapen grin. He regarded the gathering at the table once more, and nodded with some sort of tipsy satisfaction. “I see it now, Maccabeus! I see the picture! You’ve done the same thing I did … to bring along some expendables! Some meat for the mirror! Yes?” He went on without waiting for a response, which Matthew figured was unlikely to come anyway. “Let me speculate on this now!” Fell said, gripping the table’s edge once again. “You need Captain Brand and the crew to sail that fine ship! You rely on Falkenberg for advice! Now … who does that leave? Ah … Stroud and Tallow! And there you have it, boys! Why didn’t I think to enlighten you about your roles as demon fodder a month ago! I am ashamed of myself!”
Stroud shifted uneasily in his chair. Tallow’s voice sounded to Matthew more bullfroggy than ever: “What’s this demon fodder business?” He looked to DeKay. “Sir?”
“The old man,” said DeKay in a calm, even tone, “has gone … how shall I say this politely? … batty. I’m sure it’s a combination of self-starvation, age and the island’s heat.” He ignored another wild cackle from the professor. “We are on a quest to find a mirror, the frame of which is engraved with clues to a treasure of gold coins hidden by a renegade Roman general. That is all you need to know at present. Isn’t that correct, Matthew?”
Matthew was struck dumb by this invitation to the dance. “Tell them the truth!” Fell commanded.
“Yes, the truth,” said DeKay, who crooked a finger at Hudson sitting to Matthew’s left. “I’m sure Mr. Greathouse would prefer that you are truthful, you two being such close associates.”
“Leave me out of this,” Hudson said. He reached for the last corncake on the platter before him. “I don’t care who gets their heads torn off, as long as it’s not me or Matthew.”
There were a few seconds of silence while Matthew’s mind wheeled through the ramifications of telling Stroud and Tallow that they were up for grabs by Satanic claws if the necessity presented itself, and understanding from DeKay’s comment that the truth would likely mean Hudson’s head would be torn off within a few hours of this ghastly supper scene.
He was spared by Falkenberg, who cleared his throat and said to his two underlings, “A treasure of gold coins from the Roman general Carausius, hidden before he fled from Italy. I assure you, that’s the truth.”
At this total fabrication, delivered with sickening sincerity and gravity, Tallow relaxed in his chair, but Matthew noted that Stroud—being less weak-minded than his compatriot—remained tense and vigilant, even though he accepted Falkenberg’s statement with a nod.
“How dearly we hold the lives of others!” Fell persisted. And to DeKay: “I know what you want with the mirror! It’s hardly a surprise! You want your face back, don’t you? Oh, yes, that handsome face gone to ruin! And you!” Again he pointed at Cardinal Black. “What’re you wanting? Power? Or to become something even a blind mother in Bedlam wouldn’t curse her soul for bearing?”
Matthew noted that Black winced as if at a physical blow, but he remained silent.
“Stroud!” said DeKay. “You and Tallow escort the old raving gentleman to his quarters. Go quietly, professor, like a good dried-up idiot who has come to his last hurrah.”
“I’ll go,” Fell answered when Stroud and Tallow got up on either side of him. “But … I will save my last hurrah, sir, for the moment I see you dead.” He lurched away followed by the two henchmen, and thus the feast room was silent but for the noise of Hudson chewing the last corncake.
“Well,” DeKay said at last. “Pardon me, gentlemen. I need some air.” He also left the room, the noise of his polished boots echoing off the stones.
“I suppose,” Brand ventured as he rolled up the charts, “that our supper is done.”
As Matthew and Hudson stood up, Hudson took hold of the problem-solver’s elbow and said in a hushed voice, “Come with me to the courtyard.”
Outside, the sun had not yet set though it was sinking into a bank of red clouds on the western horizon. Below Matthew and Hudson the town was also daubed red with darker shadows beginning to grow along the streets. Here and there a horse-drawn wagon moved about and a few of the fishing boats were still far off from shore, indicating that activity did not stop until sometime after sundown.
“That supper was not so pleasant for the digestion,” Hudson said. “I hope they’re not all going to be like that.”
“I have to say,” Matthew replied, “you’re taking all this remarkably well.”
“What? That there’s no way to get off the island? Should I fall on my knees and cry about it? What good would that do? You know me better than that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“So I’m going to try to make the best of this situation, and that’s my advice to you, too. I believe a means to leave here will present itself, in time. I don’t necessarily care to continue an enforced trip to Venice on this charade of an expedition, but … I’m not fretting about that right now because presently we’re all in the same … shall I say … boat?”
“I see your point,” said Matthew. “Though two years to wait for a merchant vessel to get us off seems like a tragic waste of days, weeks and months.”
“Particularly for a young man who has a young woman waiting in New York. Correct?”
“Absolutely,” Matthew said.
“It’s a damned mess, no doubt about it. I’ll tell you … why don’t you let me take you tomorrow to the shop I visited, where you can get a bath and a shave? It did wonders for my outlook. And all you have to do to pay for it is wash out the tub and sweep the floor … though it was a bit dusty and my nose didn’t like it. But simple enough. How about that?”
Matthew didn’t have to think too hard for an answer. “Fine with me.”
“Good.” Hudson turned his face toward the vessels out at sea, the ocean itself glimmering with a crimson cast from the setting sun. “And tomorrow I’m going to look into joining one of those crews. Do something positive with my time.”
“A sensible plan,” Matthew agreed.
Hudson nodded, his focus still on the boats. “Hm,” he said quietly. “Sensible. Now there’s an interesting word.”
Matthew said nothing; Hudson’s mind was working at some worry, and it could be seen in his face and his narrowed eyes. Matthew sensibly waited for the Great One to speak again.
“Sensible,” Hudson repeated. “There’s something that doesn’t quite make sense to me.”
“The fact that King Tabor and Fratello are both beginning to speak our language like Oxford dons, when yesterday communication was an affair of halts and errors?”
“Partly. It’s this: the tattoo on the back of Fratello’s left hand. I saw it when he was pouring my wine last night. You saw it too, I figure? Of course you did.”
Matthew recalled the emblem: a time-faded anchor on the leathery old flesh with the name Ruby beneath it. “All right,” he said. “What about it?”
“See … this is where I know something you don’t.
Obviously you’re not a student of military naval history.”
“And you are?”
“Not a student, but I know this much: I served in the second Dutch War, but there was a first. It was mostly naval encounters. In May of 1652 there was what is now called the Battle of Goodwin Sands, between us and the Dutch Republic. It was twenty-five English ships against forty-seven Dutch. We came out the better. But … the thing that is most interesting … is that one of the famous ships in that battle was the Ruby. Oh yes, it was a tale to thrill the adventurous heart of a young boy, and I sealed that event in my memory.”
“All right,” Matthew said again. “And…?”
“And … I don’t think that Ruby is the name of a female in Fratello’s past … unless one considers a ship to be a female.” Hudson looked into Matthew’s face. “The anchor is a universal symbol of belonging to a ship’s crew. I believe Fratello served aboard the Ruby … whether in that battle or not, I don’t know. But … Matthew … I think Fratello is English.”
“He says he was born here and has never left.”
“That’s what he says,” Hudson answered, “but the real question is: why does he say it?”
“Because it’s true?”
“Is it? If he’s English, wouldn’t that account for his sudden ‘recollection’ of the language? And Tabor too, for that matter. They may look foreign, being as sun-darkened and wizened as they are, and they may have lost the cadence of our speech, but … the Ruby, Matthew. It’s a proclamation of his past, right there on the flesh.”
Matthew frowned. “Ruby might be his wife’s name. And … May of 1652? Fifty-two years ago? I’d judge him to be in his late sixties. Would he have been to sea as a youngster?”
“Yes,” Hudson said, “and there you’ve hit it. Warships use boys as powder-monkeys to carry the bags of gunpowder to the cannons. These boys are usually twelve to fourteen years old … and small enough to move quickly in crowded spaces. So: I believe Fratello was a powder-monkey aboard the British warship Ruby, and why he says he’s never left Golgotha … well, now we get into your speciality.”
“My speciality?”
“Curiosity. The kind that keeps Matthew Corbett awake at night.”
“And also kills cats?” Matthew countered.
“You’ve been nearly skinned a few times, but you’re all in one piece.”
“Mostly,” Matthew said, and touched the scar on his forehead gashed there by the claw of a bear known as Jack One-Eye. Then he too watched the boats beginning to come in from the deeper sea as the light continued to fade. Lantern lights were starting to show in the windows of houses, and down on the streets below the palace a group of men were going about touching flame to torches that would illuminate the passageways. Fratello an Englishman? Matthew wondered. And possibly King Tabor as well? Yesterday morning upon arriving at the Nemesis, Fratello had not recognized— or at least had pretended not to recognize—the nautical flag of Britain that flew at the top of the mast. In fact, he’d pretended—possibly—not to recognize the names of either the city of London or of Venice.
Why?
“It would be a senseless pretense,” Matthew said after another moment of deliberation. “What would be the reason for such a deception? And I have to say … I don’t think Fratello understood our language at first. I don’t think it was an act.”
“As you please,” said Hudson. “But as you’ve pointed out, both Fratello and Tabor have caught on pretty damn quickly, haven’t they?”
Matthew pondered. This much was absolutely true. And the line of speculation that Hudson was drawing out led to another question: if Fratello and Tabor were for whatever reason lying about their heritage, were they also lying about the supposed band of brigands who’d sawed through the rudder post?
“I see,” Hudson said, with a small half-smile, “that a fire has been lighted.”
“One way to either quench the flames or find out why the tinderbox was used in the first place,” Matthew replied. “I’ll ask Fratello about the tattoo the next time I see him.”
“Yes, and I’d like to be standing there when you do.”
As the two gentlemen from New York were conversing in the courtyard, Maccabeus DeKay was walking through the streets. Torchlight touched him, but his face was shaded by his gold-trimmed white tricorn. He was a man of order and precision, and this situation of being interrupted in the journey and forced by circumstance to remain on the island for an indefinite period of time chewed to tatters his very soul. And then the unpleasantness at the supper table: of course a story had to be concocted for the benefit of Stroud and Tallow, in case all this about the mirror was true and—as Black had told him—human sacrifices were needed. But in essence falsehoods were again a disruption of order, and it galled him to be a party to it. Still, one had to keep the focus on the prime result, and thus the lie had been given to the two men from Falkenberg, who did actually know about the rebellious—and larcenous—Roman general Mausaeus Carausius, who fled Italy to go to Britain in 286 A.D. and became a self-proclaimed emperor of DeKay’s homeland for seven years. The tale suited the expedition.
DeKay walked to the end of one street and turned upon another. He passed several islanders who might have glanced quickly at him but did not pause in their own progress. The structures of red stone loomed around him, a prison of sorts. Being what he considered to be trapped put his nerves on razored edges; and of razors he had to ask Falkenberg on the morrow to shave him, as he’d gone two days without a blade and the hairs where they grew in sporadic patches under the mask were a further irritation. Removing the mask to reveal to anyone the ruin underneath was yet another disturbance of order, and Falkenberg by this time was used to the sight but still … still … one could not help but notice the barely perceptible flinch in the man’s eyes when the mask came off.
DeKay was mulling over the idea of a bath to go along with his shave when he rounded a corner and came near a collision with another walking figure. Both halted, and beneath the glow of a torch above the street DeKay looked into the face of a young woman.
She seemed not startled by his appearance, but simply stood still with a basket of what appeared to be folded clothing in her arms. And lovely she was, DeKay thought; she had long light brown hair that flowed down about her shoulders, eyes a shade or two lighter, high cheekbones, a firm chin and a gentle slope of a nose. She was wearing a straw hat tilted slightly to one side, a blue ribbon fixed to its brim, and her dress was a darker blue with a white ruffle at the throat and down the front.
Then he noted that a nicely dressed brown-haired little girl about the age of ten stood beside the woman, looking up at him, and without thinking of the language difference DeKay said to the wide-eyed child, “Hello. What’s your name?”
