The Mazer (18 page)

“I am!” she puffed, laying her cloak on the dusty earth. She sat down. Bassan held the lamp high, gazing at the root above them. He didn’t seem the least bit tired.

“How long have you known of this tunnel?” she asked.

He crouched down. He traced a line on the ground, and then sifted the dust between his fingers.

“Oh, ah, let me see. Found out about it shortly after becoming Librarian as far as I remember. Moved my things into the chamber, went to inspect the fire, and what did I find? A tunnel! Quite a surprise it was!”

“Did you tell anyone about it?” Nobody had mentioned the tunnel to her. If Trevello had known it existed, he’d surely have mentioned it at Rath’s trial. But then she hadn’t attended the trial. She couldn’t have faced Rath after what he’d done to Father.

Bassan was fiddling with the lamp. “I never did tell anyone of this place. You’ll think that strange of me. Think what would happen if word of it got out! It’s a secret way into the Albatorium from Oakenwood, isn’t it? I know the guard are supposed to be protecting our shores there, but you can guess what I think about that arrangement. No, for the sake of our island’s security, I kept quiet.”

“But what if Father came through here the day he disappeared?”

“He didn’t.” Bassan stood up, wiping the dust off his hands. “I checked. I’ve been through this tunnel many times. No sign of Zossimo. As soon as I discovered the tunnel, I had the same thought. There was nothing, Silva.”

He picked up the lamp. “Got your breath back? I think we’d better keep going. I don’t like spending too long down here. The air’s not clean, and the longer we delay, the dirtier we’ll be when we come out at the other end. Come on!”

He marched off. He didn’t even look to see if she was ready. She scrambled to her feet, shook out her cloak, then hurried after him, following lamp, tunnel, and root until the tunnel bore left, the root right, and the lamp met the pale sun from Oakenwood.

***

Harold backed down the tunnel. If any light shone through the fireplace, he was done for. He heard a muffled shout. Bassan must know he was in here! He held the cup tight to his chest and slapped a hand on the mud-caked wall, sliding his fingers along its crumbling surface as he stumbled sideways, straining to look ahead, then glancing behind, expecting Bassan to haul back the tapestry and come racing after him. He tripped over his own feet, tumbled down a slope, the cup digging into his ribs, then got up, his whole body shaking, sweating. Did this tunnel go on forever? Where did it go?

He stopped to catch his breath. Keep facing the wall. Breathe slowly. Take the stones out of that shoe. Now move, quietly, quickly, and hope that this place led somewhere. What if it didn’t? What if Bassan knew there was no way out? He’d leave him to suffer a day or two, no food or water, then drag him out like a frightened rat. Oh yes, Bassan would enjoy that! But he wouldn’t give him that pleasure.

The wall became smoother. He felt calmer. He’d rest for a moment. Nobody was behind him. Silence surrounded him. He felt cold.

There was nothing in this tunnel. Why hide an entrance to a tunnel if it led nowhere or held nothing of value? He’d be missed in the kitchen. Had Marchus eaten his lunch? Would anyone find the mug of milk on the underfloor? They’d start searching for him. He could only imagine what Lisette would say. “We’ve lost Harold. Have you seen him, Bassan? He followed Marchus downstairs; carrying some milk, he was. Marchus never got it, but we found the mug! Harold must’ve disappeared right in front of the door to your laboratory. Fancy that!”

He licked his dry lips. He should have drunk that milk while he had the chance. Marchus’ platter of white food swam before his eyes. Perhaps you had to live in the dark to want to eat such food. It certainly seemed a lot more appetizing now that he was stuck down here.

His ears started buzzing. No, not his ears. The whole tunnel seemed to be vibrating. He stood up. Men with lamps? They were coming after him, they’d caught him up! Yet no voices, no footfall, only a green flame flaring along the tunnel roof, illuminating the path ahead, a light not of man but of the earth itself. He’d be a fool not to run with it!

So he dashed off, clutching Bassan’s cup, the green flames shooting along above him, silent shouts of exhilaration in his throat. Who’s the fool now, Bassan! I’m getting away; you won’t catch me! Ha ha!

The light faded after a while, but small flickers of green lit his way enough for him to run a good distance. Just when it seemed as though the tunnel would never end, he saw the mouth of the tunnel ahead. Sunshine, at last!

Two arms wrapped themselves around his chest from behind, and he was thrown to the floor, the cup crashing onto the ground next to him.

“Got you! But who—Harold! What are you doing here?”

The arms released him, turned him round. Rath’s face peered down at him.

“What am I doing? Escaping, that’s what! I got into Bassan’s laboratory. He nearly caught me, and I got out through the fireplace where I found this tunnel. We’d better not stay here,” and his teeth began to chatter, “because he might be after me, and I don’t think I can run much more.”

He was worn out. His arms and legs were covered in dust. Rath didn’t look much better: hair hung in tails around his dirty face, where there was no trace of the kind smile he’d seen the last time they’d met.

“I haven’t been here long,” said Rath. “I thought this must be a tunnel but I didn’t know where it led.”

“Where are we?” asked Harold.

“In Oakenwood. We’ll get into the greenhouse. None of the guard go in there, and we can hide easily.”

Rath picked up the cup and examined it.

“Where did you get this, Harold?”

“I took it from Bassan’s chamber. It was in a box. Only he came into the laboratory as I was looking at it, and I couldn’t put it back.”

“It’s beautiful,” said Rath softly. He strode over to a drawstring bag thrown on the ground next to the tunnel entrance and stowed the cup inside. “I’ll keep this for now. Looks like it doesn’t break easily, but we won’t take any chances.”

“How long will we be in the greenhouse?” asked Harold.

“A few hours, I expect. The guard will come round on patrol before sunset, if they come at all, but a rider came from the city earlier today, and there’s been a lot of movement on the road from Deep Dock. So we need to keep our eyes and ears open. Shall we go? Keep down, and run after me up to Great Oak.”

Oh dear—all afternoon! Winifred wouldn’t want him to work in the kitchen again; Trevello would find another bell ringer; he’d end up working in a mill, or worse, in the papery. But he couldn’t afford to get caught by the guard, and Rath must be good at hiding by now.

Rath stopped. “Come along, Harold!” he hissed impatiently.

Harold stepped out of the tunnel and chased after Rath. Great Oak’s branches spread wide and low. Had this giant of a tree grown even bigger? Harold had visited him with a group of children from school. The best part of the trip had been climbing up the ladder by Great Oak’s mighty trunk and exploring Zossimo’s den. They’d admired the office, hung out the window and shouted across to friends skipping about on the cliff path leading down to Deep Dock, and then traversed a narrow rope bridge to a deck that overlooked the greenhouse. Now, however, the tree’s branches covered this side of the greenhouse, which was lucky for them: nobody would see Rath fiddling with the door, pulling it open, beckoning to him to enter.

Rath shut the door behind them. “I know just where we can hide,” he whispered. “There’s a strange smell in here, isn’t there? Be careful where you tread, and don’t touch anything.”

Harold drew his hand away from an impressive long leaf covered with orange spots. He sniffed the thick, warm air. A scent of sweaty green, damp earth and sweet fruit. How would they eat or drink in this place? Food he could go without, but he was terribly thirsty.

“Have you got anything to drink?”

“Sh! Keep your voice down!” said Rath. “Yes, I’ve got water in my bag, but you’ll have to wait. We’ve got to get over to the other side of the greenhouse, and it’ll be safer if we work our way through the middle.” He bent down to look under a mass of greenery. “We’ll have to crawl through here. I can just make out the old path. At least nobody will be able to see us.”

Rath slithered off, accompanied by the sound of crunching leaves and snapping twigs. The path was covered in grit, chunks of earth, twisted vines, and dead undergrowth. Heavy clumps of leaves bore down from above. Harold could see Rath ahead, on his stomach, pulling a tangle of roots aside.

“Rath! How much farther do we have to go?”

“We must be nearly in the middle of the greenhouse. Stay close to me.”

It was getting hard to breathe. That sweet smell had become a sickening stench. Harold’s stomach began to churn. He had to keep going, a bit farther, pushing himself forward to a rusty column that sat upon an even rustier plinth.

Rath helped Harold to his feet. “So far so good. We could stay down here and hide, but that way we won’t know what’s going on. Shall we get a better view? Up we go!” Rath started climbing, his feet disappearing up a knotted rope that dangled down among the plants.

How high did the rope go? To the roof? He couldn’t climb all the way up there! But then he heard scuffles, and the rope stilled. He grasped the rope tightly and pulled himself up, reaching Rath who was standing on a wooden platform amidst the plant tops.

“Well!” said Rath. “You could see the whole greenhouse from here once, but now it’s just a sea of green. What’s Bassan growing, I wonder? It never used to look like this.”

Harold didn’t dare stand. The circular platform was built around a tall pole that stretched up to the greenhouse roof. The plants had climbed up here too, winding their way towards shoots and foliage covering the beams above, then curling down around another rope that hung just out of Rath’s reach.

The platform wobbled as Rath approached a broken rail.

“Watch out, Rath,” whispered Harold. “The whole thing’s going to collapse if we’re not careful.”

“Oh, it’s always been like that,” said Rath. “But you’re right, it’s in a bad way. I don’t expect Bassan ever comes up here, do you? Or anyone else by the looks of it. I used to climb the second rope right to the top, crawl along the beams, help mend the roof or the glass, great—”

The sound of voices.

Rath dropped to his knees, and then crawled over to Harold. “There’s someone over by the door where we came in,” he whispered. “We’d better split up. I’ll go down. You’ll be safer up here. Keep an eye on the side paths, and only come down if you have to.”

Rath winked at him, then disappeared over the side of the platform. Harold crouched down, listening to the voices that floated up. But this wasn’t the guard!

“Just over here, Silva, that’s right. And there it is, the prize of my collection. A magnificent specimen, don’t you agree?”

Bassan! And Silva? What was she doing here? Where was Rath? Could he hear them too?

“Oh no, it’s perfectly friendly. I’m convinced it enjoys the sound of a human’s voice. Go on. Whisper something to it. You’ll feel it shiver if you lean against the trunk. A most unusual sensation. There’s nothing else like it on the island, I can tell you!”

He wasn’t going to stay up here. He climbed over the edge of the platform and landed on the soft earth with a bump. He’d thought they’d come to the end of the path, but now he saw that it split into a circle around the plinth, leading off to the left and right, as well as straight towards Bassan and Silva. Rath must be just ahead of him somewhere. He crawled along as quietly as he could. The sickly smell returned, stronger than ever.

There was whispering. A rattle of tools in a bucket then a sharp swish, a splintering crunch, and a high scream.

Harold scuttled forward. Rath’s feet stood on the path before him. “Ah!” shouted Bassan. “So this is where my intruder is hiding. Look who it is! The notorious Rath! By the stars above, my man, you’ll be sorry you ever set foot in the Albatorium. Meet my strangler fig!”

Harold peered out between the leaves. Bassan raised his ax and chopped into the fig again. Vines shot out, trapping Rath’s legs. Harold strained forward to see Silva’s twisted body pinned against the fig, her arms flailing as the fig wound itself around her, poking into her eyes and mouth.

“Help! Help!” yelled Rath, fighting off the powerful vines.

“Oho!” laughed Bassan, holding his ax high. “I’ll give you help, I will!” He plunged the ax into the fig once more, then strode over to Rath, bent down, and whispered: “You stole something from me today, didn’t you? Where is it? Tell me, and I’ll let you go.”

“Here!” gasped Rath. “Under me. In the bag!”

Bassan kicked him over onto his front. He fumbled with a key hanging from his belt, then took a knife from his pocket, and cut through vine and sack.

“Got you!” whispered Bassan, holding up the cup. Then he turned to Rath.

“And how is life on the run, my old friend? Been enjoying yourself since I set you free?”

“You?” said Rath, scrambling to his feet. “It was you who unlocked the door that night?”

“Yes, Rath. Me! And off you went, just like I hoped. You were always the ‘good’ apprentice, weren’t you? Never disappointed anyone until the day you were found guilty of murder. And now you’ll be found guilty again, won’t you? If you survive today, that is, because,” and Bassan stood up and moved slowly towards the ax, “my little fig is very well trained, you know. He doesn’t like strangers. He doesn’t like greenhouses either. And best of all, he absolutely detests oaks!”