The Lightning Key (3 page)

M
iles Wednesday, frozen, frightened and free-falling, plummeted earthward through the spreading dawn. After the heart-stopping moment when Silverpoint released his grip, an unexpected calm came over him, and he found himself thinking, “This the end of me, then. I shouldn't have opened my big mouth.” Little's laughter echoed through his head from somewhere near his left shoulder. Baltinglass's orchard was coming up fast, and the fear suddenly rushed back into him like an electric shock. He closed his eyes tight, but just as he expected to hit the ground he heard the now-familiar
whump
of Silverpoint's wings. The Storm
Angel's wiry arm grabbed him about the waist and he felt himself righted as they pulled out of their dive, his stomach left behind once more. With his eyes still tightly shut he was landed as softly as thistledown. His knees buckled under him and he sat down with a bump.

Miles opened his eyes to find Little sitting beside him in the long grass of Baltinglass of Araby's orchard, laughing like wind chimes in a spring breeze. Silverpoint stood over them, his arms folded. “
Now
who are you calling a pain?” He grinned.

“Again!” said Little through tears of laughter. “Let's do that
again
!”

Miles opened his mouth to protest, but he was interrupted by a crash from inside the house. Little's laughter ceased abruptly, and Silverpoint's wings folded themselves away as he glanced sharply in the direction of the sound. He put a finger to his lips. Miles and Little got quickly to their feet, and all three crept up onto the patio and peered into the gloom of Baltinglass's cluttered living room. Baltinglass of Araby was tied to a chair, his mouth gagged and shards of china at his feet. He was struggling to free himself, and the gag did little to dim the sound of his muffled shouts. Doctor Tau-Tau stood over him, his arms folded and his habitual red fez
perched on top of his fluffy white hair like a beach hut on a cloud. In the corner of the room with his back to the window stood the Great Cortado himself, rummaging through the drawers of a large plan chest and tossing rolled and folded papers in all directions.

Miles looked about him for something that would serve as a weapon. A rake stood against the wall, and he grasped the handle. The wood was old and bleached and the iron teeth rusty. It would not provide much protection against the frightening array of knives and swords that hung within easy reach of the Great Cortado, but it was all there was at hand. His heart thumped. He took a deep breath and pushed open the French windows. The Great Cortado whipped around in surprise, clutching a roll of yellowed paper. There was a patch over his right eye. Below it his cheek was pulled and puckered like a miniature mountain range where the wound that the tiger had given him had healed badly, unstitched and unattended.

“Tau-Tau,” said Cortado in an icy voice, “why is this . . . boy . . . still alive?”

Tau-Tau flinched visibly and shuffled his feet. “I . . . er . . .,” he mumbled.

The Great Cortado fixed his humorless smile on
Miles and took a cigar from his breast pocket. “I'm glad to see you've added Spark Boy to your entourage of freaks,” he said. “I seem to have come out without my lighter.” He placed the cigar between his lips and giggled.

“I want back what you stole from me,” said Miles.

The Great Cortado reached up and grabbed a straight-bladed dagger from its place on the wall. “You're not in a position to make demands,” he said. “You know I can pin you like a moth from here.”

“Go ahead,” said Miles, more boldly than he felt. He held the stare of the Great Cortado's remaining eye, which fixed him like a rivet from his ruined face, making Miles feel as though he would be safer in a snake pit. He forced himself not to blink, and wisely so. The ringmaster made as if to turn away, but a sudden deft flick of his wrist sent Baltinglass's dagger spinning through the air. Miles, whose circus training had prepared him well for just such a situation, deflected the blade with a sweep of the rake, and at the same time a bolt of lightning crackled from behind his left shoulder and hit the Great Cortado in the chest, knocking him back against the map chest. The hilt of the deflected knife struck Doctor Tau-Tau squarely in the eye.

Tau-Tau yelped like a small dog and slapped a pudgy hand to his face. The Great Cortado pulled himself upright, smoke curling from a blackened patch on his shirt. His face turned a dangerous white and he unhooked another blade from the wall. It was no dagger this time, but a Hungarian saber with a long, curved blade. Little squatted behind Baltinglass's chair, working at the knots that bound him with quick fingers, and Silverpoint advanced toward Doctor Tau-Tau, who backed away into the corner, still covering his smarting eye.

“Now, then,” the fortune-teller quavered, “there's no need for a fracas, young man. A fracas would be unnecessary. I'm a highly respected clairvoyant and a healer of note. I might even be able to do something for your unfortunate static problem.”

“Tau-Tau, you mollusk,” said the Great Cortado between clenched teeth, “make yourself useful and call up security.” He tested the sword edge with his thumb. “This will do,” he said, smiling coldly at Miles. Miles held the rake tightly, as though his grip alone might turn it into a sword.

Doctor Tau-Tau fumbled in his pocket and began to mutter an incantation.

“Um . . . Nature red in tooth and claw . . . er . . . in the forests of the night . . . 
regit eeht nommus I
 . . .”

There was a moment's silence as all eyes turned to Doctor Tau-Tau. His florid face turned a deeper red. “Um . . . abracadabra?” he said hopefully. There was a mighty crash from the room above, and a disembodied roar shook the house. The Great Cortado flinched visibly, and Miles felt his own heart stop with a mixture of excitement and fear. There was a commotion of smashing glass and toppling furniture above their heads.

“It's upstairs, you idiot,” said the Great Cortado without looking at Tau-Tau. “I thought you knew how to use that thing.” He tucked the roll of yellowed paper under his arm and stepped suddenly toward Miles, lifting the Hungarian saber high in the air. Miles raised the flimsy rake in response, but at that moment Baltinglass of Araby, freed by Little from his bonds, stuck out a gnarled leg and neatly tripped the Great Cortado. The saber slipped from the ringmaster's hand as he stumbled, and Baltinglass caught it and leaped to his feet with the nimbleness of a far younger man.

“Cockroaches in my house!” roared the blind explorer, pulling the gag from his mouth. “I should have had the exterminators in.” The sword whooshed as he flourished it wildly, and had the Great Cortado still been standing he would have
been sliced clean in half. Instead he crawled hastily toward the door, only to have his fingers trodden on by Doctor Tau-Tau, who had also decided on a hasty exit.

“Out of my way, fool!” hissed the Great Cortado, scrambling to his feet and dusting off his jacket in an attempt to recover his composure. The sound of splintering wood came from upstairs, and another earsplitting roar boomed through the house. The stairs creaked under a heavy weight. A look of panic flashed across the Great Cortado's face as he elbowed Tau-Tau aside and wrenched open the door. “We've gotten what we came for,” he said, and turned to Miles with a sour grin. “I'll leave you to play with your pussycat,” he said, and he disappeared into the gloomy hallway, followed quickly by Doctor Tau-Tau.

“Well, that's gotten rid of the vermin, Master Miles,” shouted Baltinglass of Araby. “Now we just have to deal with the wildlife. Sounds like a male Bengal tiger, maybe five hundred pounds. Should make a fine rug, but we'll need more than a pistol. I've got a twelve-bore shotgun in the pantry that I keep for shooting rats.”

“We're not going to shoot the tiger,” said Miles.

“I thought you might say that,” said Baltinglass,
his voice tinged with regret. “In which case we'd better batten down the hatches. That tiger's not in a mood to parley.”

“I'll speak to him,” said Miles. “We can't let Cortado and Tau-Tau escape.”

“Miles,” said Little, “I don't think that's a good idea.”

Miles looked at Silverpoint. “Couldn't you stun him?” he asked. “I mean, without really hurting him?”

The Storm Angel folded his arms. His mouth became a thin slit.

“Silverpoint?” said Little.

“It's not my place to interfere,” said Silverpoint haughtily. “The tiger would not be here at all if the Code had not been flouted.”

“I thought interfering was your specialty,” said Miles angrily. He threw the rake aside and marched through the door as a soft thump from the hallway signaled the tiger's arrival at the bottom of the stairs.

“Take a sword, Master Miles,” Baltinglass called after him. “I once bit into a club sandwich with the cocktail stick still in it, and I can tell you I spat it out fast enough!”

The tiger waited in the gloom of the hallway,
crouched low and ready to spring, his tail lashing the dusty air. Behind him the hall door swung slowly open in the morning breeze, letting in a strip of cold sunlight, and with it the sound of van doors slamming.

Miles faced the tiger, trying not to think of the outcome of their last meeting. “It's me,” he said. His voice sounded thin.

“It's meat,” rumbled the tiger mockingly.

“You know me,” said Miles. “I'm Miles—Barty Fumble's son.”

“You're a persistent irritation,” snarled the tiger. His eyes burned with amber fire, and there was a blackness at their center that Miles had never seen before, a nothingness that reminded him uncomfortably of the eyes of The Null. The tiger inched forward, and his great paws shuffled for position. His fur looked bedraggled and dirty.

“I won't ask you for anything again,” said Miles. “Just let me past. I need to go after those two men.”

“The novelty has worn off your wild-goose chases, boy,” snarled the tiger, his tail flicking in anger.

Miles tested his own purchase on the floor. His only chance would be to leap aside if the tiger sprang. There was a rug under his feet, and it shifted slightly on the tiles. An idea began to take shape in
the back of his mind. “This wild goose chase concerns you,” he said boldly. “Doctor Tau-Tau is the one who's jerking your strings at the moment, and he's doing it on the orders of the Great Cortado. Why else would you find yourself in an old man's bedroom? Were you trying out his false teeth?”

With a roar the tiger leaped. Time slowed to a crawl. Miles saw his mighty claws outstretched and his eyes burning with rage. He saw the massive jaws open and felt in his chest the thunderous roar that swept like a wave toward him. He almost forgot to move, stepping aside only at the last moment. The tiger's forepaws landed where the boy had stood an instant before, and the rug slipped beneath his weight. He slid along the hallway, scrabbling for purchase, and crashed headfirst into the stone wall, knocking himself out cold. Miles held his breath as a shower of old whitewash descended slowly and dusted the stunned tiger like a tiramisu.

“What the blazes is happening?” yelled Baltinglass, sticking his woolly-hatted head out of the living room door. “Are you still in one piece, Master Miles?”

“I'm fine,” said Miles, letting his breath out with a whoosh, “but I'm not sure about the tiger. I hope he's not badly hurt.”

“Ha!” barked Baltinglass. “Just be thankful you're not lunch. You've got nerves of tungsten, boy, to take on a tiger without a good rifle, and the wit of a magpie to survive it.”

Little stepped into the hall, a look of relief on her face, and bent over the tiger's massive head. “He'll be all right,” she said after a moment.

“Of course he will,” muttered Silverpoint. “You can't kill a tiger when his soul is trapped in the pocket of some buffoon.”

B
altinglass of Araby, ungagged and unshaven, cocked an ear and listened to the deep breathing of the tiger who lay stretched out in his hallway.

“Not exactly a rug in the classic sense,” he said, “but I suppose it's the closest I'll get.” He straightened up with a loud creaking sound. “No time to lose, then. We've got to get ourselves packed and provisioned before the rug wakes up.”

“Packed?” said Miles. “What do you mean?”

Baltinglass broke into a wrinkly grin and a glint appeared in his eyes, though they were as white as milk in a pail. “It's time to saddle up and hit the trail,
Master Miles. There are villains to pursue and valuables to retrieve, and I have one good journey left in me.”

“They've got a head start,” said Miles doubtfully. “How will we ever catch them?” He could not imagine Silverpoint trying to carry all three of them at once through daylit skies, and it was hardly likely that the blind explorer would have a vehicle stowed away in his garage.

“I have a vehicle stowed away in my garage,” said Baltinglass of Araby with a wink. “It'll get us to Fuera in fine style.”

The mention of the bustling port made Miles's heart leap with excitement. “How do you know they're going to Fuera?” he asked.

“It was my map they stole, remember? Everyone knows that I have the finest collection of maps in the country, and that fool Tau-Tau came straight out and told me where they were headed before his nasty little associate could stop him. They're going to Kagu in the Starkbone Desert, but they'll have to sail from Fuera to get there. Now, enough of this chin-wagging—it's time to open the quartermaster's store.” He turned in Little's direction. “You'll get a pot of coffee bubbling for us, young Little. Miles, you can tidy up my map chest. Silverpoint . . .” He
paused for a moment, scratching his chin. “Just don't blow up any more of my trees.”

“I will be leaving now,” said Silverpoint coolly. “I've been away long enough. The storm has ended, and decisions will have been reached in my absence. I wish you good luck on your journey.” He motioned to Little to follow him, muttering, “You'll need it,” under his breath, and stepped out into the sunlit orchard.

“I'll be back in a moment,” said Miles to Baltinglass. He could see Silverpoint talking urgently to Little, and he did not want to miss what was being said. He followed them outside. “What are you going to do?” he asked Silverpoint.

“There's not a lot I
can
do,” said the Storm Angel. “The next time I return it will be with Bluehart. He will be here to release your life, and I will be his second.”

“You'll have to try to divert him,” said Little.

“Until what?” said Silverpoint sharply. Clouds began to darken the sky. “You clearly don't intend to surrender the Egg. Do you think you can dodge the Sleep Angels forever?”

Little looked at Miles and smiled. “I'm sure Miles has a plan,” she said.

“Of course,” said Miles, looking Silverpoint in
the eye. “I just need a little more time.”

Silverpoint sighed. Suddenly he looked like a twelve-year-old boy, and not a veteran of a thousand years who could call up a thunderstorm with ease. “I'll do what I can,” he said. “Just remember I'm only a Storm Angel, and we're dealing with more than a bunch of clowns here. Sleep Angels hate to be thwarted once they're on a call, and if Bluehart ever suspects I'm trying to delay him . . .” His words trailed off, and thunder rolled in the distance like a waking tiger.

“I must go, softwing,” said Silverpoint. “Be careful, and whatever you're about, be quick. You're on borrowed time already.”

The sky was turning blacker by the moment, and fat raindrops began to fall. Silverpoint walked backward through the orchard, exactly as he had done when he took his leave the previous autumn. Miles was determined to watch his departure this time, but when the lightning struck he was blinded once more, and by the time his eyes cleared nothing remained but another blasted apple tree and a whiff of metal on the morning air.

“Come on, Miles,” said Little softly. They entered the living room to an eerie silence. The blind explorer was crouched at the door that led into the
hallway, a hand cupped behind his leathery ear. He turned as they approached. “Mighty quiet sleeper for a full-sized Bengal,” he whispered loudly.

Miles's stomach knotted. Suppose the tiger had died? He crept to the door and peered over Baltinglass's shoulder. The front door stood wide open and a chilly breeze blew in, slowly erasing the tiger-shaped hole in the layer of white dust that sprinkled the tiles. Of the tiger himself there was not a whisker to be seen.

“He's gone!” said Miles in a whisper.

“Gone?” barked Baltinglass. “You sure he's not just lurking? Magnificent lurker, the Bengal tiger. Had one in my tent in Rangoon once, and I never saw the brute till I'd brushed my teeth and read three chapters of
Moby Dick
.”

Miles shook his head. He could feel the tiger's absence like the empty shape on the floor. “He's gone,” he repeated.

“Well,” said Baltinglass, straightening up with a symphony of creaks and pops from his old joints, “must have heard me mention the twelve-bore. That buys us a little more time, eh? No sense in running out the door half-cocked.”

“If they get too far ahead we may never catch them,” said Little.

“Don't you worry about that, Little. There'll be many a wrong step ahead of that pair, and I know every rock, river and rabbit hole in their way—things that can't be marked on any map. With my experience, your charm and the boy's wits we'll be more than a match for a psychopath and a charlatan.” He stumped off toward the larder, swinging his cane in front of him. “Sort those maps out, boy,” he called over his shoulder. “You're looking for one entitled ‘Unwise Routes Through the Starkbone Desert.' They didn't take that one.”

Baltinglass heaved open a trapdoor in the floor of his larder and disappeared, lampless, into the gloom. A racket of rattling pots and clinking jars rose from under the floor, mixed with a muffled commentary in the old man's voice. “Flints, splints, pisspot and poles. Where's the blasted quinine? Mosquito net. That'll need some stitchin'—a buffalo could get through those holes. Parachutes—think we'll need parachutes, Master Miles?”

“Unlikely,” called Miles. He gathered up the scattered maps and books from the floor and began to sort through them on the table. There were maps and charts of every place he'd ever heard of, and many that he had not. Some were obviously very old, stained with oil and coffee and tattered with use. Some were
unmistakably the work of Baltinglass of Araby himself, and were scrawled with names and comments in his own handwriting. The map he had been looking for, “Unwise Routes Through the Starkbone Desert,” was one of these, and Miles spread it out and weighed down the corners with jars of Baltinglass's Famous Homemade Apple and Thyme Jelly from the stack on the sideboard. The sounds of rummaging continued unabated from the cellar.

“Where's Tangerine?” asked Little, as Miles examined the scrawled notes and doodled camels that littered the desert map. He reached into his pocket and carefully removed the knotted pillowcase. He could feel tears start at the back of his eyes, and he was afraid to see the look on Little's face when she saw the ruined bear. Instead he pretended to be immersed in the map and handed the pillowcase to her without looking up.

In truth it was not difficult to keep his attention on the map. The more he examined it the more spectacular a document it seemed to be. Every town and village, every dune and well and water hole had been carefully drawn and named, annotated with details of Baltinglass's own travels in a fine pen. “Ahmet cures scorpion stings with fire,” read one tiny note, and another said, “Eat at the Hammam kebab house
if you have stainless-steel bowels.” There were tiny drawings of camels, their footprints marking out the desert trails, and even rough pen portraits of some of the characters that the explorer had met along the way. It was unlike any map Miles had ever seen, and he lost himself in it for some time.

He became aware of Little kneeling on the chair beside him, examining the map with equal interest. She smiled and handed Tangerine to him. The bear's head had been stitched back onto its rightful place. He appeared to have as much stuffing as he had had before—which was not a great deal—and his crooked smile was unchanged, but he flopped in Miles's palm without a sign of life.

“Is he . . . I mean, did you . . . ?” began Miles.

Little shook her head. “I didn't try, Miles,” she said. “The first time I sang him to life it was easier than I had expected. Now we know why, and I don't think I could do it again while Doctor Tau-Tau has the Tiger's Egg. Besides, with the Sleep Angels looking for us it's better not to try. It might draw attention to us.”

Miles nodded. He looked at the bedraggled bear that had been his constant friend for as long as he could remember, and forced a smile. “He's just the same as he was to start with,” he said, trying to keep
the regret from his voice, and he replaced him carefully in his pocket, where he belonged. “Thank you,” he said to Little.

There was a loud thump as Baltinglass of Araby heaved an enormous duffel bag out of the trapdoor and dumped it on the tiles. “That should do us,” he panted, mopping his brow with a large handkerchief. He climbed out after the bag and tapped his way to the table, where he deposited a pile of musty clothes. “Put them on you,” he said. “You should both find something to fit.”

“Where did they come from?” asked Miles.

“They were my own clothes when I was a nipper, and an even smaller nipper. Found 'em in my mother's house when she passed on, and I never throw anything out.” He pulled up a chair. “Now,” he said, taking out his tobacco pouch and his pipe. “Did someone mention a Tiger's Egg?”

Little glanced at Miles. “That was me,” she said. “It's a small stone that—”

“ . . . contains the trapped soul of a tiger,” said Baltinglass before she could finish.

“You've heard of a Tiger's Egg?” said Miles as he climbed into a pair of patched trousers.

“Heard of it?” said Baltinglass. “I've heard every fib, fable and yarn that was ever told, and made up a
few of my own into the bargain.”

“The Tiger's Egg isn't a fable,” said Little. “It's what Cortado and Tau-Tau have stolen from Miles.”

Baltinglass of Araby dropped his pipe and leaped to his feet. “Well, tan my trousers!” he yelled. “You mean I wasn't just imagining jungle carnivores skating in my hallway? I thought that was just a touch of the old brain shivers coming back at me.”

“There really was a tiger,” said Miles, “and his soul is in Doctor Tau-Tau's pocket.”

“Bells and bilgewater!” shouted Baltinglass. “This is worse than I thought. Have you any idea of the damage that fool could do if he ever learns to tell his head from a haddock?” He stomped across to the old writing desk that stood in the corner and pulled a sheet of paper and a pencil from the drawer. “Write this down,” he shouted, thrusting them in Miles's direction. The old man cleared his throat. “‘Dear Gertrude,'” he yelled. “‘Don't worry about a thing. Have taken Miles and Little for geography lesson. Back in six months approx, if we survive. Yours, etc., etc., Baltinglass of Araby.' Now, fold that up, boy, and we'll give it to Louis the postman on the way out.”

He paused for a moment, scratching the back of his head. “Think I have something that might come in handy,” he said. He marched back into the kitchen
and began rummaging in the cupboards, returning a minute later with a battered biscuit tin, which he upended on the table. A pile of odds and ends fell out and rolled across the polished wood. There was a cotton reel bristling with needles, some twisted pipe cleaners, a lock of blond hair tied with fuse wire, coins from every continent, rubber bands, pencil sharpeners, half a stick of dynamite, ball bearings, a wax crayon (there's always one of them), a whistle, a dozen wasted batteries, some string, a magnet, two teeth, a roll of solder, a tiger's egg, a broken penknife, two dust-covered bull's-eyes, a small—

“Just a minute!” said Miles, plucking a small stone from the tide of knicknacks. It was egg-shaped and polished, and shot through with deep amber stripes.

“Find something interesting, Master Miles?” said Baltinglass.

“Is this
really
a Tiger's Egg?” asked Miles in astonishment.

“Nope,” barked Baltinglass of Araby. “It's a fake. Bought it at a street stall in Hong Kong many years ago. Best place in the world for picking up fakes, Hong Kong. If they made a copy of your head and set it on your shoulder you wouldn't know which one to shave.”

Miles held it up to the window, and it glowed with a honey-colored light.

“It's beautiful!” said Little.

“But what use is a fake tiger's egg?” asked Miles. He suddenly realized that he had never seen the real Egg, though he had carried it with him all his life. He wondered just how good a copy this one was.

“No idea,” said Baltinglass, “but it has more chance of being useful in my pocket than lurking behind the semolina.” He took the fake egg back from Miles and slipped it into a buttoned pocket inside his jacket. “Best if I put it in here for safekeeping, eh? Now, lock the doors and batten the hatches, the two of you. We'll leave through the garage.”

Miles rolled up Baltinglass's map while Little locked the French windows and drew the heavy bolts on the front door; then they followed Baltinglass as he marched to a small wooden door in a corner of the hallway. He threw the door open to the sound of skittering mouse feet and a smell of dust and old grease, and they stepped through into a small garage that was carpeted with dust. Bars of sunlight crept in between the planks of the door and striped a large shape that stood under a tarpaulin in the center of the room, so that for a moment Miles thought the tiger stood there waiting for him.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he could make out the shape of a car beneath the cover, and he looked at it with curiosity.