Between Two Ends (17 page)

The carpet lifted and the guard's face appeared. He traced his finger across his throat. The carpet fell back into place and they were plunged into darkness once again.

Yeats fell back with a grunt. It was no good. Khan was prevented from roaming in the daytime. He knew with growing certainty that he would die, at twelve years old, inside a book! He kicked at the bars again. They would not take him easily. His family, Shari, Roland, all needed him alive. No, he would make his captors pay before they got him.

“We've got to think of something!” Yeats said.

“I'm not so sure that yelling—” Roland was interrupted by the sound of a key scraping in a lock. Both boys peered into the darkness.

The door, from which the guard had exited earlier, creaked open, as someone took great pains to keep the hinges quiet. Yeats glanced at the carpeted grille above but no light appeared.

The boys clasped hands through the bars.

“Can't see a thing,” Roland whispered. “We're going to have to fight.”

“There could be more than one,” Yeats said.
Footsteps sounded on the stone floor: cautious footfalls.

“Maybe the guard was bluffing,” Roland squeaked. “Maybe they're coming for us!”

Yeats understood the plan all too clearly now. The carpet blocked out the light for the benefit of the guards. They were going to hang the boys in broad daylight.

Roland gritted his teeth. “I won't let go! They'll have to rip us apart! I'll kick 'em; I'll bite 'em!” Roland was working himself into a frenzy.

Yeats drew from his friend's strength and raised a fist. “Aim a punch for the nose and kick between the legs.”

A key rattled in the door of Yeats's cell. They heard a man shifting his feet in the straw. Yeats prepared to lunge. The man entered but left the door open. There came a scratching sound and a match burst into life. The crackle of light revealed a wrinkled, anxious face framed by a turban with a long strand of white hair coiling down one side.

“Mr. Sutcliff !” Yeats exclaimed.

The old man gripped his shoulder. “Found you!” he said.

“How did you … ?” Yeats began.

“No time for that, my boy. Have you seen her? Have you seen Shaharazad?”

Yeats nodded as the match blew out.

“Good boy.” Mr. Sutcliff lit another. “You'd best come now. And do hurry!”

Yeats wiped his sweaty forehead. He looked hopefully beyond the cell.

“No,” Mr. Sutcliff answered. “Your parents are not here.”

Tears filled Yeats's eyes. “They must be so scared.”

“They are,” agreed Mr. Sutcliff. “But not the way you think. Apparently story time works differently from our own. You'd scarcely been gone an hour when I arrived in the story. How long have you been here?”

“I got here yesterday,” answered Yeats. “So much has happened. Mr. Sutcliff! Mom needs to see this. Everything Dad said was true. He's not crazy.”

The old man grunted. “No, indeed.
You
are the key, my boy. If ever your family is to be whole again, we need you to do the greatest part.”

There was a scraping sound from above and light poured into the cell.

“Come, my boy! We've tarried long enough.”

“Wait!” Yeats cried. “My friend Roland—we must rescue him too.”

The guard yelled and several more faces appeared.

“There's no time, Yeats!” Mr. Sutcliff wrenched him from the cell with surprising strength.

“I'll get you out, Roland,” he gasped. “I promise.”

“Yeats! Don't forget me.” Roland stretched out his hand.

“I won't! I'll tell Khan. Roland! If you get out … find Rosemary Townend in Maine, USA. That's my gran. Remember it!”

“Rosemary Townend, Maine, USA,” Roland repeated. “I got it.”

Yeats slipped on the straw-covered stone as he was propelled out of the cell by Mr. Sutcliff. There
was light ahead and the matches were no longer needed. They raced past the guard climbing down the ladder, his sandaled foot inches from their heads, toward the door in the wall. The door slammed behind with a grinding shudder, and Mr. Sutcliff hurried them down the torch-lit corridor. All at once, two shadows detached from the walls and blocked the way.

“Look out!” Yeats cried.

“Quiet,” hushed one of the shadows. The figure leaned into the light.

Yeats caught his breath.

“Skin, at yer service.” The pirate nodded, as did his partner.

Disbelieving, Yeats looked from one to the other.

“Carry on, Sutcliff!” Bones growled. “We can expect more trouble if we dally.”

The passage opened into an overgrown garden. Yeats blinked in the brightness while his eyes adjusted. A grisly sight appeared: a long rope hung from a tree at the center of the garden, the afternoon sun casting the shadow of a noose over the broken ground.

Yeats came to a halt. “We've got to go back,” he puffed. “For Roland.” He made to turn, but Skin pushed him forward.

“No, you don't. We've a wish to fulfill and ye won't be stopping us so easily as that.”

“A wish?” Yeats asked breathlessly. “But I …”

“Not yer wish, landlubber!” The pirate glared at Mr. Sutcliff. “His.”

“I don't understand,” said Yeats. “Why can't we rescue Roland?”

“We'll do what we can, son,” Mr. Sutcliff said soberly. “That's my promise. And I do not give promises lightly. But if we're caught here, none of us will make it out alive. Think of what that would mean for your family.”

Yeats could have punched one of the pirates in frustration, but Mr. Sutcliff's words were true enough and so he hurried along. They followed a path that skirted the garden, and Yeats looked back frequently. It crossed his mind that he should break away and go back for Roland. But the pirates seemed to anticipate his movements. Skin remained in position at the
rear, the sound of his wooden leg thumping the ground as a reminder.

Bones navigated the alleys, avoiding the main roads. They passed a garden enclosed by a low whitewashed wall and filled with statues. The pirates stopped frequently to listen for sounds of pursuit.

“Stay close,” Bones whispered. “Best lay low till they've finished searching for us.”

They reached a row of homes in disrepair. The mud-brick walls had been shattered in places and broken tiles clinked wherever they walked. Yeats kept a lookout for the dark-robed palace guards, and the pirates flinched at every sound, their weapons at the ready. They stopped at the back of a ruined home, and Mr. Sutcliff patted Yeats on the back.

“Don't worry, my boy. These two know their business.”

Skin pushed open a wooden door with a gaping hole at its center. “After you, yer highness,” he said drily to Yeats. Pieces of the roof and walls lay everywhere and the collapsing upper floor revealed the open sky.

“Is it safe?” Yeats hardly dared to breathe lest he cause a house avalanche.

“Hope not,” Skin answered gruffly. “Keep 'em all away.”

Mr. Sutcliff pulled out a water skin. “Here, Yeats.” Yeats gulped down the water gratefully and then took a longer look at his rescuer. In the dilapidated ruins Mr. Sutcliff looked much different than in the upper room at Gran's house. Gone was the stiff figure he'd brought tea. Now he moved fluidly, purposefully, and with a great deal more authority. He seemed to understand Yeats's stare.

“I've waited twenty years for this, my boy,” he said and adjusted his turban. “I've always wanted my story to end with an adventure.” His smile faded. “And truly—happily ever after.”

“I think I know what you wished for,” Yeats said.

Mr. Sutcliff raised his eyebrows.

“You wished for the pirates to help you bring back your granddaughter.”

He smirked. “Good guess and very nearly true.” He leaned closer and whispered, “I wished
for their undivided aid in rescuing both of you! I'm a firm believer in two for ones. It's another reason why I could not wait for your young friend Roland. The pirates are not bound to him.”

“I wish I'd been a little smarter,” admitted Yeats. “I would have wished for something more specific and saved us all this trouble.”

The old man cocked an eye knowingly. “They are not particularly helpful or friendly, are they, our pirates? But don't you worry. I'll keep them to task.” He sighed and stared at the unhappy sight around them. “We are standing in what was likely a wealthy merchant's home. The remains of a family portrait are lying on the floor, there. I'd guess this merchant fell out of favor with royalty. It was common practice to turn a home into rubble if you displeased the King.”

Skin said, “Can't say I'd want to fall afoul of 'im.”

“Precisely!” Mr. Sutcliff agreed.

“What about the people who lived here?” Yeats whispered.

Mr. Sutcliff adjusted his turban before responding.
“I'd wager they came to an exotic end. Best not ponder such things when we have our own dangers ahead. And we have work to do. But first, some news! Tell me about Shaharazad.”

Skin took up position at the opposite end of the house, where the remains of another door led into sunlight. His sword reflected the light, and his swashbuckling sea cape and hat filled Yeats with courage.

“I've seen her! I've spoken to her!”

“Is she in danger?” Mr. Sutcliff asked.

“I don't know. She wants to know why the townspeople are weeping. She does not know that the maidens are dying. She hired me to find out.” He frowned thoughtfully and then added, “We agreed to meet tonight. At midnight, at her chamber in the palace.”

Mr. Sutcliff paced, crunching bits of tile underfoot. “This works in our favor. But how do we get to her? You seem to be a wanted man.”

Wincing, Yeats added, “The palace guards know that I'm trying to meet her. And they know when too. I'm afraid I ruined everything.”

Mr. Sutcliff rubbed his chin. “Unfortunate. I hoped our prison break would be less conspicuous. You're a boy, after all, not a political prisoner. But apparently you've become a celebrity.”

“Mohassin, the royal cook, told them everything,” Yeats admitted. “He thinks I'm a traitor—that I intend to hurt Shaharazad.”

For a long moment Mr. Sutcliff studied Yeats. Then he said, “It is imperative that we reach her. She must be convinced to come home. The pirates are firm about that. They will not bring her back unless she chooses to break her own spell.” His eyebrows knit in deep concern. “And we engage in a difficult task. My granddaughter chose this story purposefully, for it parallels her own: a girl of her own ancestry, called upon to face tragedy, solve a great problem, and create a happy ending for all.”

Yeats could only stare at the ground. He knew how difficult it was. He had already spoken with her once.

Mr. Sutcliff hurried on. “She must be brought to her senses quickly for I cannot ask you to risk
yourself much longer. We are in a dangerous story, my boy, with many pitfalls.” Then, in a different tone he said, “Yet, there is one thing I know for certain: we cannot claim to have lived life unless we have taken risks. And I've great faith in you, my boy. Shari will listen to you.”

Yeats thought about that. His father had not taken any great risks for years until their return to Gran's house. And look what had happened!

Mr. Sutcliff pursed his lips. “The trick is to find the spark of memory that makes her long for home. We've got to break that wish!”

Skin gave a snort from his guard post.

“We mustn't lose heart,” the old man said. “She trusts you, or she would never agree to meet you. Therein lies our hope. We must at all costs keep your meeting.”

“But we have to rescue Roland as well!” Yeats exclaimed.

“I've been thinking about him,” said Mr. Sutcliff. “There was little time to tell you while we escaped the cells. That boy will do as the story says. We can't be rescuing characters.”

“But he's not a character!” Yeats protested. “He doesn't belong here. He's from our world.”

Mr. Sutcliff stared sternly. “Did he tell you that?”

Yeats nodded. “I promised. I can't leave him.”

The older man pursed his lips thoughtfully. “You're right, of course. It's a fine quality to think of a friend in need. I should know. And you're quite certain he's not a character?” asked Mr. Sutcliff.

“Yes.”

“Curious.” He pointed to the pirates. “Do you know about this?”

“No.” Skin shook his head. “But t'ain't like we are the only magicals.” His partner glared at him and stopped him from saying anything more.

“We'll do what we can, Yeats. That's the best I can offer,” Mr. Sutcliff said. “But in my limited experience, I would suggest there may be someone after him other than us. He may not be as alone as you think.”

Yeats agreed. It was the best he could ask for under the circumstances. And there was a chance he could tell Khan if they made it to Shaharazad.
Mr. Sutcliff resumed pacing. “And now for my granddaughter. We will need different costumes. We might find something at the market. Have you any money?”

Yeats held up his coins still folded into the waistline of his underwear.

“Excellent.” Mr. Sutcliff rubbed his hands together, then turned to Bones. “Has anyone ever told you that you would look dashing in black?”