The Eye of Neptune
Read The Eye of Neptune Online
Authors: Jon Mayhew
For Mum and Dad,
who would have loved such nonsense!
‘Let me tell you . . . you won’t regret the time you spend aboard my vessel. You’re going to voyage through a land of wonders. Stunned amazement will probably be your habitual state of mind.’
Jules Verne,
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea
CONTENTS
Liverpool, 1810
I hate this place
, Prince Dakkar thought, pressing himself against a dirty, soot-stained brick wall.
It’s cold and grey. The English are cold and grey!
He shivered, watching people squeeze past each other, wrapped in greatcoats, their caps pulled down against the bitter wind that blew up the river. Tall masts rose above the heads of the crowd, and the noise of movement, ships loading and unloading, mingled with the screams of gulls. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang. It was another world compared to the markets of Bundelkhand.
Dakkar’s colourful suit and turban drew many a curious glance. He felt his cheeks redden and he stared down at his hopelessly thin slippers. They had been white once but travelling had greyed them and now brown water seeped through their soles, numbing his already frozen toes. The people here dressed strangely, in knee breeches and socks and long jackets with ridiculously large cuffs.
A face suddenly appeared from the seething crowd. Stern brown eyes glowering above a scarf that smothered the mouth and chin.
‘Prince Dakkar, you must come with me immediately,’ the man said, towering over the boy. ‘Your life is in danger.’
‘M-my life?’ Dakkar stuttered. ‘Ow! You’re hurting my arm! Nobody touches the royal personage!’
The man softened his grip on Dakkar’s upper arm. ‘Forgive me, your highness,’ he said, glancing behind him. ‘But it is imperative that we get away from here – now!’
Dakkar followed his gaze. Two hawk-faced men with long drooping moustaches and cold eyes weaved in and out of the travellers towards them.
‘Those men mean you harm – they are enemies of your father,’ hissed the man, pulling at Dakkar. ‘You must come with me.’
‘This is outrageous,’ Dakkar spluttered. ‘Where are my servants? I don’t even know who you are!’
‘Your servants are dead, their throats cut by those ruffians,’ the man snarled through gritted teeth. He pulled the scarf down, revealing a square jaw and a broad nose. ‘I am Count Oginski, your new mentor. Now, are you ready to go or do you want to meet the two thugs over there?’
Oginski didn’t wait for an answer but pulled Dakkar into the mass of people and hurried along the quay towards the streets of the city.
Dakkar’s heart raced and his knees nearly buckled as he bumped into passing dock workers and ships’ passengers. Oginski’s grip held firm. Every now and then Dakkar peered back and saw a stern eye or a determined stride through the throng. Once he thought he glimpsed shining steel.
A blade!
Oginski whisked him into a side alley, nearly dragging Dakkar off his feet.
‘Blast! Wrong one,’ Oginski said, skidding to a halt and slapping his palms against the brick wall that ended the alley. ‘It’s a dead end!’
Dakkar stumbled into Oginski, his breathing ragged, tears prickling the back of his eyes. He could smell sweat and the stink of the puddled alleyway. Muffled shouts and footsteps grew nearer and then the two men appeared at the mouth of the passage.
‘The boy is ours, Oginski,’ one of the men growled, pulling a long blade from his jacket pocket. ‘Hand him over and we’ll give you a quick death.’
‘Come and get him then.’ Oginski grinned, crouching and pushing Dakkar to the back of the alley.
The first man lunged but Oginski stepped back and grabbed his arm, twisting it upward with a sickening crack. The other assailant had closed in quickly and raised his own blade high.
Without thinking, Dakkar leapt forward and punched hard with both hands into the man’s kidneys. The man gave a hiss of pain and turned on Dakkar.
Snatching the dagger that fell from the first man’s grip, Oginski swung round and buried it in the second attacker’s neck. Something wet spattered Dakkar’s cheek and jacket. Their opponent fell with a gargling oath and lay still, his blood reddening the pools of mud on the ground.
Dakkar stared at the twitching man and then at his blood-speckled hands. The other assailant lay slumped, groaning and nursing his mangled arm.
‘Come quickly,’ Oginski said, grabbing Dakkar again. ‘There is no time – these men were only the first.’
Again they ran, pushing people aside, ignoring the curses yelled after them as they sent folk stumbling into each other. Left and right, right and left, they clattered on through the smoky streets, until Dakkar became dizzy and gasped for breath.
Suddenly, Oginski stopped, making Dakkar slip into the foul slime that coated the cobbled streets. Oginski gave a whistle and a horse-drawn carriage rumbled from a side street.
‘Get in,’ Oginski snapped, yanking the door open.
Dakkar clambered up and threw himself down on the wooden bench inside. His head spun and his heart hammered at his ribs. Oginski jumped straight in after him.
‘We are safe,’ he said, as the carriage began to rattle across the cobbles.
‘Thank you,’ Dakkar gasped, slumping in the seat.
For a second, the two of them sat panting for breath. Oginski handed Dakkar a handkerchief, pointing to his face. Dakkar wiped and looked in horror at the red stains on the cloth.
‘Not yours,’ Oginski said, getting his breath back. He smiled and Dakkar grinned back in spite of his shock.
‘Who were those men?’ Dakkar said after a moment.
‘Assassins,’ Oginski said, staring through the curtains that covered the windows. ‘They could be any number of people. British East India Company, Russians . . . Who else wants your father’s kingdom?’
‘Many, many people,’ Dakkar said, nodding.
‘But you are safe now,’ Oginski said again, folding his arms. ‘So, the great Rajah of Bundelkhand sends his eldest son to Count Oginski for an education. What was wrong with the schools of this land?’
‘I don’t like school,’ Dakkar grumbled. ‘I ran away.’
‘To run away from your only refuge in a strange land is brave indeed,’ Oginski mused, smiling at Dakkar approvingly. ‘At the tender age of ten years old too.’
‘The scholars were idiots and the masters were buffoons!’ Dakkar said, pouting his bottom lip. ‘I learned nothing trapped in those stuffy classrooms all day!’
‘And what about the previous school, my prince?’ Oginski said, raising his eyebrows. ‘And the one before that? You’ve run away from three schools in the last year!’
‘No,’ Dakkar protested. ‘I was expelled from the last school. One of the masters tried to beat me.’
‘And?’ Oginski said, his smile frozen on his lips.
‘I beat
him
,’ Dakkar said, suppressing a grin. He leaned forward and reached for the curtains.
Oginski grabbed his shoulder, yanking him back.
‘Please, my prince,’ he said. ‘I need to keep your whereabouts a total secret.’
‘I was just going to look out,’ Dakkar muttered.
‘If you look out and a passing local sees you, with your dark features and jewelled turban, he’ll mention it to his friends in the local public house. Soon it will be all over town,’ Oginski said, staring into Dakkar’s dark eyes. ‘It will be only a matter of time before that knowledge falls into the wrong hands.’
Dakkar flung himself back in the seat and folded his arms. Soon the motion of the carriage and the exertion of the chase tipped him into a restless sleep.
Dakkar felt as though he were falling. As he fell through his dream, he heard his father’s voice. Dakkar could see his sunken eyes, the long, grey beard barely concealing the pinched cheekbones.
‘You are going to learn how to be a leader of men,’ his father said. ‘You will be taught by the best, by a nobleman who has known our hardships.’
‘But he’s only ten years old – he’s still a child.’ His mother’s voice echoed across the miles. ‘Give him a few years more. Let him enjoy his childhood.’
‘He needs to learn how best he can serve his people,’ his father spat, anger gleaming in his eyes, ‘before he has no people left to serve . . .’
The earth began to shake and a searing pain split through Dakkar’s skull. Gradually, he found himself back on the bench in the carriage as it rattled and rolled him around. He felt a familiar tightness in his stomach and pressure in his throat. The sea voyage from India to England had not been kind to him and the memory of it was returning to him now. Oginski sat opposite, watching him.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, leaning forward.
Dakkar threw his head down and heaved a watery pool of vomit over Oginski’s boots. ‘I don’t always travel well,’ Dakkar gasped, choking back the acid burn in his throat.
‘I am sorry to hear that, my prince,’ Oginski said, grimacing at his feet and passing Dakkar another handkerchief. ‘You’ll get used to it. Your new home is close to the sea – we will spend many hours in its company.’
‘I hate the sea,’ Dakkar groaned, putting the handkerchief to his mouth. ‘And I hate learning.’
‘You say that now, your highness,’ Oginski said, smiling, ‘but you will see. My lessons are different.’
He rapped the ceiling with his knuckles and the carriage came to a halt.
‘There are fresh clothes in that trunk,’ he said, pointing to a large box on the seat beside him. ‘I shall step outside while you change.’
Oginski climbed out and Dakkar glimpsed a hedgerow and fields. He opened the trunk and found woollen European clothes.
‘And why would I want to wear these ridiculous garments?’ Dakkar shouted out to Oginski.