Chronicles of the Red King #3: Leopards' Gold (2 page)

“Why was the bell silent?” the king demanded. “The bellman should have been warned before you set us all topsy-turvy. My sister is old now; she was quite shaken.”

“We did warn the bellman.” Eri had woken up, but remained lying where he was.

The king looked puzzled. “Did he ring the bell, then? Are we all going deaf?”

“No, Your Majesty. You are not going deaf,” said Llyr.

Petrello saw deep concern enter his father’s face. The king didn’t like the comforting rhythm of his castle to be disturbed. “Then what … ?” He spread his hands.

“It was Rigg’s turn today. He is an efficient bellman, never late.” Eri spoke from his couch. “I warned him there were soldiers in the forest. I saw them in the crystals and knew they were there. ‘Ring the bell, Rigg,’ I said, ‘Quickly, before the Vanishing begins.’ We saw him mount the steps to the tower. We hastened away to cast the spell, but we heard no bell.”

“He disobeyed?” The king shook his head in disbelief.

“We went to the Bell Tower on our return,” said Llyr.

“And found it empty.” Eri sat up and rubbed his eyes. “There was blood on the steps, but no sign of Rigg.”

The king’s jaw dropped. He gazed around him in dismay, until his eyes found Petrello, backing away from the crystals as discreetly as he could.

“Someone attacked the bellman?” said the king. “Why was I not told as soon as you saw the blood?”

“I was coming, Sire,” said Llyr. “But we thought Rigg might merely have fallen and cut himself. Grandfather wanted to sleep and dream before we caused a stir.”

“I did not dream,” sighed Eri. “Rigg was most likely attacked, for he certainly disappeared.”

N
o one had ever disappeared from the Red Castle. The inhabitants died of illness and old age. Beyond the castle gardens, beyond the wizards’ protective wall of spells, men fought one another and died. The English king’s soldiers swept through the countryside unchecked, murdering and stealing, capturing and burning, but in the Red Castle, they had always been safe.

“Petrello,” said the king. “Come with me.”

“Yes, Father.” Petrello moved quickly to his father’s side.

“Return soon, young man,” said Eri. “We like your company, don’t we, Llyr?”

“Indeed, we do.”

Petrello made a small bow. “Thank you, wizards.”

The king was already descending the steps, two and three at a time. Petrello hurried after him. The king muttered to himself. He had taught his children to understand the language of his secret kingdom, but today his voice was quiet and quick, and Petrello could only catch a few words.

They reached the passage that connected the aerie to the Book Tower. The king increased his pace, and Petrello had to run to keep up with him.

A bell rang out, the call to breakfast; faint and light, it bore no resemblance to the great warning bell. The king paid no attention to it. “How old are you, Petrello?” he asked.

“Ten years, Father.”

“Of course. Forgive me. I knew it, but sometimes I forget. There are so many children here.” The king smiled and rubbed his head. His slim crown glinted as they passed the embers of a torch in an iron bracket nailed to the wall.

“Soon I shall forget which room is where,” went on the king. “What tower contains our stocks of corn, where I can find the schoolroom, or where the ice is kept.”

“Will the ancestors never stop building, Father?” asked Petrello.

The king laughed out loud.

“Who knows, my son?” He stopped at an archway leading to another flight of deep stone steps. “Here we are. The investigator is working in the library. Tell him to hurry to the Meeting Hall. I shall be with the knights.”

The king strode on while Petrello leaped up the steps. It was a short flight this time. The library was on the first floor of the Book Tower. There was no door, merely an arch, so low that most grown men had to duck beneath it.

Children seldom came to the library. They were not allowed to touch the precious books, though occasionally they were permitted to creep in and listen to a story told by the bard, Adam.

Petrello had the impression that the very walls were made of books, for they stretched from floor to ceiling, covering every inch of space. A narrow window between two shelves allowed very little light into the room, and Moreau, the book guardian, always had a candle burning on his desk. Today he was scuttling about the library, tucking books into the shelves and picking up others that had been dislodged by the Vanishing.

“Yes?” said Moreau, glaring at Petrello. He was a very small man with crinkled white hair, and eyelids wrinkled and red from all his reading.

“The king sent me to find the investigator, sir,” said Petrello.

Moreau nodded in the direction of one of the low, velvet-covered tables. Wyngate, the investigator, had his back to Petrello, but there was no mistaking the feathered cap that he always wore. His head was bent over a very large book, his long fingers tracing the letters that ran across its yellowed pages. The candle at his elbow had burned to a flickering stub.

Petrello went across and tapped the investigator’s shoulder.

Wyngate jumped. “What … ?”

And then he saw the boy.

“Petrello, what brings you here?”

“The king wants you in the Meeting Hall, sir.”

Wyngate frowned. “Now? But only this morning he sent me to the library, and I am not nearly finished with the land investigation he set me.”

“The bellman has disappeared, sir. Captured, the wizards said, because there was blood. That’s why he —”

“Blood? Captured?” Wyngate stood up, sending his stool crashing to the floor. The book guardian looked at him accusingly and shook his head.

“So that’s why we weren’t warned of the Vanishing.” Wyngate strode to the arch with Petrello at his heels.

“Books should be returned to the shelves,” grumbled Moreau.

“I’ll do it later,” said Wyngate, ducking under the arch. “Where was the blood?” he asked as he sped down the steps.

“On the Bell Tower stairway, they said,” Petrello replied.

“Tell the king I’ll be with him as soon as I can. But I have to visit the Bell Tower first. There might be clues.”

“What else, Wyngate?”

“What else?”

“What else can I do to help?”

“Search, Petrello. Look for signs, for anything that might indicate where our bellman has gone.” The investigator ran back toward the aerie, leaving Petrello at the foot of the library steps.

The Meeting Hall lay on the other side of the castle, and as Petrello ran across the courtyard he passed groups of people talking urgently to one another. Two words were on everybody’s lips. “No warning!”

He was approaching the door to the Meeting Hall when his arm was suddenly grabbed and a gruff voice said, “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

Borlath, oldest of the royal children, tightened his grip on Petrello’s arm. Behind him, his younger brother Cafal hopped from foot to foot, smirking. His sandy hair stood up from his head like the bristles of a wild boar.

“Tell me where you’re going.” Borlath’s smile was never friendly. His black brows hung thick and heavy over his small black eyes, giving him a perpetual scowl.

Petrello tried to twist away from Borlath’s grip. “I’m on an errand for our father.”

“Something to do with the bellman?” Borlath’s fingers were getting hotter; soon they would burn through Petrello’s jerkin and into his skin. Cafal watched his older brother with admiration. He gave Petrello a pitying grin that stretched his freckled skin into a doglike mask.

“Why must you know everything, Borlath?” Petrello protested.

“Stupid question.”

Petrello felt a stinging burn. The pain was so intense he thought he would faint. Cafal began to laugh, his voice inhuman, like the shriek of a wild creature.

There was a sudden, low growl behind them.

Borlath loosened his grip on Petrello, and with a petrified howl, Cafal turned and ran. A wolf, gray as a storm cloud, bounded up to them. Borlath stiffened at a second low growl, not from the wolf, but from another of the king’s sons: Amadis emerged from a group of young men and walked up to his brothers. Resting a hand on the wolf’s head, he grunted softly and murmured, “Greyfleet.”

The wolf backed up a little and sat close to his master’s feet.

The air between the brothers bristled with hostility. Amadis and Borlath could not have been more different. Amadis had hair as pale as straw and his eyes were the color of dark wine. Like his father, his quiet voice could speak the language of any creature.

“What do you want?” Borlath snarled.

“Let our brother go,” said Amadis.

Borlath had dangerous fingers, he was broad and heavy, but he was afraid of the gray wolf whose eyes never left Borlath’s face.

“The Knight Protectors are wanted in the Meeting Hall,” said Amadis. “Didn’t the message reach you?”

“What if it did?” growled Borlath. For a moment he relaxed his grip, and Petrello, taking his chance, twisted away and dashed through the crowds. From the other side of the courtyard he watched Borlath follow his brother to the Meeting Hall. Only then did Petrello remember the investigator’s message to the king. He should have passed it on to Amadis, but Borlath’s burning assault had swept everything from his mind.

Within seconds, Petrello was speeding down the open passageway toward the Meeting Hall. The doors were open and the Knight Protectors were still arriving from their quarters in other parts of the castle. They had been summoned hastily, but many were expecting the call. A Vanishing without warning was a grave matter and many Protectors had hurried to the Meeting Hall without finishing their breakfasts.

When Petrello reached the door he found the hall so crammed with jostling knights, their weapons rattling and clanking from hurriedly buckled belts, he knew it would be impossible for him to speak to the king.

“Be off now, young ’un,” said the guard. “This isn’t the place for you.”

“But …,” Petrello began, and then he saw his father’s friend Sir Edern. He was one of the last to arrive, and came marching across the courtyard, his belt unbuckled and his red beard dotted with crumbs.

“Sir Edern!” Petrello ran up to the untidy knight. “The investigator will be coming later, please tell my father he has gone to the Bell Tower to … to …”

“Investigate?” Sir Edern laughed. “I’ll tell him, Petrello. Is my beard clean?”

“No, sir,” said Petrello.

Sir Edern laughed again and pulled at his beard. “Bless you for your honesty,” he said. Patting the boy’s head, he hurried on.

Petrello watched the doors close behind the last knight. He wished he could have slipped inside before the guard saw him again. What would the king say? If the bellman could not be found in the castle, then the knights would ride out with the king at their head. They would search the forest, and then perhaps the hamlets and the towns, and then the mountains.

The king often led his Knight Protectors out into the fields and forests, looking for people who needed their help. The poor country folk had no one to defend them. Troops of soldiers would suddenly descend taking everything their lord demanded; land that the poor had always considered free was now owned by the conquerors. Anyone who resisted them would be cut down in an instant. Women were not spared, nor were children.

The first time King Timoken and his knights appeared as if from nowhere the people were terrified. Who were these men on their fine horses? Their helmets gleamed and their belts were encrusted with gold and jewels. Their leader’s shield and tunic were emblazoned with a burning sun; his face was dark, his cloak a vibrant red. The people could hardly believe it when they learned he had come not to loot and kill but to protect them. They began to call him the Red King. His knights were so skillful, their weapons so deadly, that the conquerors’ men often turned tail rather than meet them.

But if the soldiers stood their ground, there would be a bloody battle.

Petrello had seen the king and his knights return from one of these more violent skirmishes, their tunics ripped and muddied, their weapons bloodied, and their shields bent out of shape.

But a search is different
, thought Petrello. There could be no danger in a hunt, unless a wild boar was caught up in it.

“Brother, why are you dreaming?” called a voice.

The anxious crowds that only a moment ago had filled the courtyard were now breaking up and hastening to breakfast.

A girl came running up to Petrello. She took his hand and shook it gently. “You and your thoughts, little brother.”

“Not so little.” Petrello might have been younger than his sister Guanhamara, but she was small for her eleven years. With her wide hazel eyes and shiny chestnut hair, she reminded Petrello of a startled fawn.

“Did the Vanishing shake you? I didn’t hear the warning and flew right up to the ceiling and banged my head.” Guanhamara rubbed her forehead and giggled.

“There was no warning,” Petrello said gravely. “Rigg, the bellman, has disappeared. The investigator asked me to look for signs. Will you help?”

“Of course! But have you eaten?” asked his sister. “The bell went ages ago.”

“I didn’t notice. I’ve been busy.”

“Let’s go together. I’m hungry, and you can defend me from the ogress.”

“Nurse Ogle? I’m not a good choice, Guan.”

Petrello and his sister hurried to the Children’s Dining Hall. They found the table almost bare. The excitement of a surprise Vanishing had given the other children a huge appetite. Even Nurse Ogle had failed to stop the grabbing and gobbling of twenty-five hungry children, all of them under twelve.

The hot pottage had all gone, but Tolomeo had saved some bread and cheese for his brother. “Sorry, Guan. I thought you had eaten,” he told his sister.

“I bumped my head,” Guanhamara said ruefully as she slid next to Tolomeo on the bench.

“You can have some of mine.” Petrello squeezed in beside her and tore his bread in half. He was just about to cut some cheese with his black-handled knife, when a high voice drowned out the surrounding chatter.

“Where have you two been?” From the head of the table, Nurse Ogle glared at the latecomers.

Silence fell. Everyone stared at Petrello and Guanhamara.

“As a matter of fact, I’ve been very busy,” Petrello said, a little too self-importantly.

“Busy? You?” sneered Nurse Ogle. “You, Petrello, the foolish. You who cannot write your letters correctly, who cannot remember your numbers, who forgets what day it is.”

A quiet sniggering ran down the table.

Petrello clenched his fists. His fingers tingled, the muscles in his arms contracted, and he felt himself begin to shake. The sensation was familiar. Nurse Ogle’s ridicule was hard to bear, and how she enjoyed his discomfort.