Master of the Books Page 21

  ‘I don’t believe it. It’s too much,’ said Demiter, putting her hand to the side of her face. ‘I … I can’t think.’

  Marcel turned back to his sister. ‘What about you, Nicola? You were the one who suggested Damon was the traitor. I wouldn’t listen, but maybe you were right after all. It’s easy to become a hero if the enemy wants you to succeed, and what better ally could Ismar have than the commander of Cadell’s defences?’

  The court grew suddenly quiet. Looking up, Marcel saw that the general was calling them to order for the verdict. There was no time to think through a strategy; he had to speak before Damon could launch into a speech that would certainly end in a call for immediate execution.

  ‘Before you decide, think about this,’ Marcel called out to the nobles. ‘Lord Menidae wasn’t killed with a sword.’ Looking straight at Damon, he said, ‘It must have been a dagger — just like the one stuck into your belt, General Lorian.’

  There was no doubt what Marcel was suggesting and the court was outraged. ‘How dare you accuse the general …’ were the words that started every complaint. But amid Damon’s own fury Marcel could see a hint of uncertainty. He’s worried that I’ve guessed about the murder, Marcel decided, but he’s not sure how much more I know. Marcel had to act quickly before the mood in the room swung too far against him.

  ‘Sir Finton, tell everyone here why you were found so close to the prison cells,’ he shouted across the room, knowing that the courtiers wouldn’t want to miss a word of this scandal. They soon fell silent to hear the answer.

  ‘I was protecting Fergus from the man you all call Lorian,’ Finn said loudly. ‘His real name is Damon, and in Elster he’s known as a murderer and traitor.’

  This time the indignation that erupted through the room could only be brought under control by Damon himself.

  ‘Noble lords, the young knight’s story is a lie, like his companion’s. It is time to decide their fate,’ he called, with his hands raised, palms open and peaceful, like a father calming his children. There was no doubt the courtiers sided with him, and if it was up to them alone, Marcel would have been dragged off with Fergus and Finn to share their fate.

  ‘What are you doing, Marcel?’ Demiter hissed. ‘It’s your word against his. How are you going to prove who’s telling the truth?’

  Until that moment, Marcel didn’t have a reply, but in Demiter’s bewildered plea came an answer he would never have imagined. His hand strayed to his pocket even before he’d commanded it to do so and, slipping inside, it pulled out the leather pouch.

  ‘There is a way you can all know who is telling the truth and who is lying,’ he called out. ‘You’ve all heard of it, I’m sure,’ and with shaking fingers he loosened the pouch’s cord and extracted the precious page. ‘Everyone in the Mortal Kingdoms has heard of the Book of Lies. Well, here is one of its pages, the last one, with not a word on it. This is what gave the grey horse its wings. It can turn my cat into a fearful beast, but most of all it can distinguish truth from lies. Use it, Princess. Spread this page out on a table and let Fergus and Finn tell their stories. If they’re lying, their words will appear for all to see, but if they are telling the truth, then make General Lorian do the same.’

  Demiter took the page from his hand and studied it while the court looked on.

  ‘More tricks, Your Highness,’ said Damon, ‘all to delay what they fear. The guilt of these two has already been proved and, for all we know, Marcel and his sister had a part in the crime as well. Give him back that worthless sheet of paper — you have no use for such magic.’

  Damon was as sly as ever. He might be new to Cadell but he’d learned quickly that Osward’s daughter had no faith in sorcerers and their spells.

  ‘It’s true I never saw much strength in Lord Menidae’s powers, and to me the street corner magicians down in the city are nothing but thieves,’ Demiter responded, making Marcel’s heart sink. ‘But yesterday an evil magic killed my father and it was only a stronger magic that saved me today.’ She looked up, catching Marcel’s eye, then let her gaze fall on Nicola, Fergus and Finn, one after the other, before she came back to Marcel. ‘My father talked about the Book of Lies all the time. He wished he had one so he could know who to trust, but Menidae wasn’t as skilful as your Lord Alwyn. Perhaps this is our chance at last to use such magic in Tamerlane.’

  She smoothed out the page on a table brought for her by a servant. ‘You first, Fergus. Tell us everything you did since you escaped.’

  Fergus shuffled forward under the weight of his chains until he could almost touch the table. ‘I did escape through the window, digging my fingers and toes into the cracks between the stones until I reached the gaoler’s room.’

  Nothing appeared on the page and after a few moments it began to glow faintly, just as the Book of Lies had done.

  ‘But why were you seen coming out of Lord Menidae’s room? Did you go there to kill him?’ asked the princess.

  ‘No!’ cried Fergus. ‘I didn’t kill Lord Menidae. I … I only ended up there by mistake.’

  This time words did begin to appear on the page. Marcel was horrified. Surely he wasn’t wrong about Fergus. Amid the gasps and the suspicious murmuring, Demiter leaned forward. ‘He lied,’ she announced to the court, ‘but not about killing our Master of the Books. He lied about how he came to be in the room.’

  ‘You can’t beat the Book of Lies,’ Marcel called to his cousin. ‘Tell the truth, no matter what secret you’re trying to keep.’

  Fergus’s head drooped in shame, then he lifted his eyes from the words of his lie on the page and stared directly at Damon. ‘I went to Lord Menidae’s room to take back my sword. A witch named Tilwith placed special enchantments on it. With that sword, I can fight any man, even if he is twice my size and ten times as strong.’

  There had already been too many stunning revelations in the Gilded Hall for this to earn even a gasp of surprise. All eyes strained towards the single page on the table. Not a word of Fergus’s explanation appeared and instead it emitted the familiar golden glow.

  Fergus stepped aside to let Finn repeat his reason for lingering near the prison cells on the night Fergus escaped.

  ‘He’s telling the truth as well.’ Demiter’s eyes darkened and a deep frown creased her forehead. ‘It’s your turn, General Lorian — or should I call you Damon?’

  Damon was in no hurry to step forward and for many minutes he found ways to argue and delay without actually refusing. Only when Finn called out over the voices of the court, ‘He’s afraid. He knows the magic will catch him out,’ was he forced to respond. He advanced boldly until he stood across the table from the young princess.

  ‘What is your name?’ she asked him.

  He held back a moment, glancing down at the page with unmistakable fear in his eyes, until the hint of a smile touched his lips. ‘I am known as Lorian,’ he said.

  To Marcel’s dismay, the page began its golden glow.

  What had gone wrong? Even the Book of Lies, with the evil on its pages urging deceit, had never glowed in response to a blatant lie. The court seemed ready to accept Damon’s false word and poor Demiter could do no more than throw a thoroughly confused glance in Marcel’s direction. It was up to him. Think! How could the page have heard a lie, yet still …

  He had it! Damon hadn’t lied at all; he’d cleverly twisted his words until they became the truth.

  ‘You might be known as Lorian, but what name were you born with?’ Marcel called out.

  Damon had no choice now but to bluff his way through, and that could never work before the Book of Lies. ‘My name has always been Lorian,’ he said, only to see his words appear one by one on the page before him.

  Marcel had his measure now. His next question had to be the telling moment that would expose Damon as a murderer and a traitor before the courtiers who still supported him.

  ‘Tell the people here, who think you are such a hero, who is your master. Do you serve Princess Demiter and th
e people of Cadell or do you serve Lord Ismar?’

  When Marcel had accused Damon of Menidae’s murder, the court had been outraged. To accuse him of treachery like this brought a storm of fury to match the lightning Rhys Tironel had driven back from the city walls. To the soldiers present, their general was a loyal and courageous hero. Two of them grabbed Marcel by the arms, calling eagerly, ‘Give the word, General, and we’ll drag him down to the executioner.’

  Damon nodded and Marcel felt himself hauled backwards, his heels dragging along the floor. Nicola beat fiercely at the soldiers, trying in vain to make them let him go.

  ‘Wait!’ came a shout above the frenzy that made the soldiers stop and the court fall quiet. ‘The general might be commander of the army, but my father was the king, and now that he is dead I am the ruler of Tamerlane. You obey my commands, not the general’s. Leave the boy alone. And as for you,’ Demiter snapped harshly at Damon, ‘you haven’t answered the question. If you are loyal to me and the defence of Cadell, then this magical paper will prove it. That is all I ask. Declare your loyalty, General. Do you serve me or Lord Ismar?’

  Marcel shrugged his arms free of the angry soldiers and watched with the rest of the court while Damon turned a slow circle around the Gilded Hall. There was the look of a cornered fox in his eyes. When those eyes fell on the sergeant of the watch, a silent message seemed to pass between the two men. Marcel guessed what they would do just a moment before it happened so there was no time to shout a warning. In the blink of an eye, Damon and the sergeant drew their swords and charged towards the broken doors, reaching them before anyone else could react.

  ‘Stop them! Arrest General Lorian!’

  Demiter sent the stunned soldiers after Damon, but they dithered in the passageway, looking one way then the other, unable to believe that their hero had been a traitor from the beginning. By then Damon and his companion had fled far from the hall.

  FINN TOOK ONE OF the astonished captains by the arm and hurried him out of the Gilded Hall. ‘Go down to the courtyard and order your men to keep the gates closed. Don’t let anyone leave the citadel.’ When the captain seemed too bewildered to respond, Finn went with him.

  Marcel set off after them but Fergus called him back. ‘Not that way, the tunnel under the keep will be open to the outside by now. That’s how Damon will escape.’

  Fergus lumbered off in pursuit, only to trip over his heavy chains and fall awkwardly onto his injured hand. He pulled himself quickly onto his knees, but his face was creased with agony as he nursed his right hand in his left.

  Demiter appeared in the corridor. ‘I heard what Fergus said about the tunnels. You!’ she called to a pair of soldiers who peeked out sheepishly from between the shattered doors. ‘Go after the general, down into the tunnels under the keep.’

  ‘Tunnels, Your Highness?’

  Demiter groaned in frustration and looked ready to lead them herself.

  ‘I know where to go,’ said Marcel, and as another two soldiers joined them, he led the way towards the first stairwell.

  He knew where the tunnels began, but he didn’t know which direction to take once they got down there. Luck favoured the pursuers, though, because Damon and the sergeant had taken a torch from the wall of the passageway and the last of its faint glow was still visible.

  ‘That way!’ One of the soldiers grabbed a torch as well and led them into the narrow tunnels. Here, luck favoured them a second time because all they had to do was follow the light ahead. Damon and his companion needed to stop for a moment or two at each junction so the sergeant could point the way forward. The gap was closing quickly.

  ‘There they are!’ shouted the leading soldier.

  Marcel looked past the men ahead of him to see the jumbled silhouette of the two fugitives. Why can I see them so well, he wondered, then realised the solution almost as quickly. They were close to the opening cut through the rock. They were going to get away.

  Then Damon did something unexpected. ‘Turn and fight,’ he shouted to his companion, coming to a halt himself and blocking the way ahead.

  ‘What are you doing? We’re almost free!’ the sergeant shouted.

  But he had no time to argue any further because at that moment the soldiers ahead of Marcel reached him and the first clash of swords rained sparks onto the broken rock at his feet. In the narrow tunnel, only one man could fight on either side, no matter how many waited behind. Marcel saw now why Damon had stopped. Escape into the open air wouldn’t win his freedom when he had only the sergeant to help him against four pursuers.

  The full treachery of his plan soon became obvious. The sergeant fought savagely but this wasn’t enough for Damon. To give himself the crucial moments he needed to reach safety, he pushed the sergeant onto his opponent, creating a jumble of arms and legs that blocked the passage for the soldiers behind.

  Marcel saw Damon go and knew they had lost their chance. He was left to watch the chaotic scene playing itself out before him. Shoved off balance, the unfortunate sergeant had grabbed at his opponent, dragging him to the ground in a desperate attempt to save himself. On the ground, though, he was at the mercy of the second soldier who wasted no time wielding his sword. A cry of agony echoed along the tunnel as the blade plunged into the sergeant’s unprotected belly, once, twice, and then a third time in the chest. Then, in an act that seemed even more brutal, the soldiers clambered over the dying man, treading on his body in their haste.

  Marcel managed to squeeze past without stepping on him and joined the others to peer out through the opening in the rock. There was no sign of Damon.

  CHAPTER 22

  Sergeant of the Watch

  THE SERGEANT LAY ON the stony floor of the tunnel bleeding from three mortal wounds, the colour already drained from his face. He didn’t have long to live.

  ‘Help me,’ he gasped to the faces hovering above him.

  ‘The only help you’ll get from us is a quick death,’ said one of the soldiers, who was nursing a gash on his own hand. There was no mercy in his blunt suggestion, only anger. He raised a sword ready to do the job himself.

  ‘Wait, he can tell us about the rebel forces,’ called one of his companions.

  ‘I won’t tell you anything,’ said the sergeant. His defiant words cost him even greater pain. Every breath, every tiny movement of his body, pumped bright blood onto his tunic. He clutched at the holes in his clothing and looked down in horror as his hands came away drenched with blood.

  ‘If he won’t help us, why should we help him?’ said the soldier with the wounded hand, and once again his sword lingered above his head, eager for the final blow. ‘Seems like justice to me. We’ll leave his body here for the rats to feed on.’

  Frantic at this suggestion, the sergeant searched the dimly lit tunnel for a sympathetic face. His eyes settled on Marcel. ‘Don’t let me die,’ he pleaded. Then he recognised the face and dared to hope. ‘You’re the magician, aren’t you? You saved the princess from the taurine. Save me and I’ll … I’ll …’ He didn’t seem to know what he could offer, and his face contorted with the pain these final words had brought him. He fell back exhausted onto the hard stone.

  ‘There’s nothing we can do for him anyway,’ said one of the soldiers. ‘Even the best surgeon in the kingdom couldn’t save him.’

  ‘No, but I might be able to,’ murmured Marcel. He wasn’t entirely sure he could do it, but he had seen Lord Alwyn save Bea when she was close to death from a similar wound. He’d read the spells in the old wizard’s books and copied them into his own until he knew them by heart. Up to now, he’d never had a reason to use them, and even if he had he wouldn’t have dared.

  He felt the dragon’s tooth hard against his thigh. It had helped him keep Termagant in her savage shape and it might help him save this man as well. The question was whether he should.

  ‘This wretch is a traitor,’ one of the soldiers reminded him. ‘He knew this opening was here, waiting for Ismar’s mad rebels to invade the cita
del. They’d have killed us all, and d’you think this man would’ve saved a single one of us? D’you think he’d show the least bit of mercy? His life’s not worth saving.’

  Maybe not, but Marcel’s magic meant he could choose to save him or not and the weight of this disturbed him. He couldn’t deliberately let a man die.

  He knelt beside the injured sergeant and ripped the tunic, then the shirt, away from his abdomen. The soldiers turned their heads away at the sight of the three bloodied slits in the man’s flesh. Marcel was concentrating too hard on what he must do to feel squeamish at the ghastly marks of death. He felt around in his pocket for the dragon’s tooth, and when his fist had closed around it, found the words of a verse on his lips. Once again, the words meant less than his own will, which immediately drew the magic from within him.

  He tightened his grip on the tooth and, with the hardness of it inside his palm to give him confidence, he searched even deeper. Heal, close the wound, let the breath remain inside this man’s body. Marcel willed it openly, without reservation, without fear of what might spring unexpectedly from his sorcery, and although his eyes were closed in concentration, the gasps from the four observers told him his magic was working. When he opened his eyes, the wounds were no more than thin lines of hardened scab on the blood-smeared flesh.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said one of the soldiers, but the evidence was there to see. Calling to a companion, he said, ‘Come on, let’s get him up to the cells. Like it or not, he might have things to tell us yet.’

  One lifted the man’s shoulders, the other his legs. It was slow and awkward work with many a scrape against the wall. When they were barely halfway out of the tunnels, the sergeant’s eyes opened.