Authors: C.K. Nolan
Winifred’s face turned scarlet. Harold could only imagine what she said next as Bassan took his arm and pulled him through the kitchen into the Great Hall.
“Members of the Session, take your seats!” boomed Trevello. But not only the Session were present. There were plenty of Southernwooders, too. This wasn’t like the last election! How would they vote without Great Aspen?
“Harold, pass these leaves around, please,” said Trevello impatiently. The chief of the guard was somewhat flustered today, and no wonder. Harold took the box of leaves and smiled to himself. Trevello would be most disturbed if he knew their plans to free Silva and Rath! But how would they do it?
“Not to everyone, you fool! Just the Session!” shouted Trevello. Harold murmured a quick apology and stepped back from the row of amused Southernwooders to whom he had nearly offered a plain aspen leaf, unwritten, still fresh. Each Session member took one, setting it on their lap next to their treequill.
“We vote alone,” said Trevello, “so there can be no room for error. No dependence on the wisdom of our Aspen. No petty politics or self interest. This time we must vote as one: one people, one island, one leader.”
Yes, they were one people; that was obvious. Probably the only people anywhere, on an island that knew of no other islands nearby, no other forests or seas. Although there were tales of trees far away in other lands, nobody knew where they might be or how they could be found. But voting as one? What was that about?
“Remember,” continued Trevello, “the eyes of the people of Southernwood are upon us. I invite you to come up to the lectern, write your choice upon your leaf, and place it in the box next to me. Then, in front of all, we shall announce the winner, and everyone may come and inspect the leaves for themselves so that there is no doubt about the result. Sheridan, Osbert, Arpad! I call you, also, to the lectern, to observe that the proceedings follow, as best they can, the law of our island.”
Sheridan and Osbert made their way to the front.
“Where’s Arpad?” asked Trevello.
Harold’s mind raced. They’d better not go searching for Arpad. He might be with Rath! So he piped up, “He’s been guarding Silva down on the underfloor. Shall I go and get him?”
“No, no,” said Trevello. “Leave him be; we’ll make do without him. Right, Harold, take this hand bell. Go to the Albatorium steps and ring it long and loud. Voting will now begin!”
Harold took the bell and rang it as long as he could before his arms and ears ached so much he couldn’t ring it any more. By the time he returned to the Great Hall, the last Session members had taken their seats, and the three men at the front were counting the leaves, sorting them into piles. One pile was much bigger than the others.
Trevello cleared his throat. “I’m proud of the Session. You’ve served your island well today. We have a decisive result. Osbert? I think you should announce the name of our Legator this time.”
Sheridan was clearly crestfallen; Osbert grinned. He selected a leaf from the largest pile, and slipped smoothly behind the lectern.
“It is an honor for me, a Quagfenner, to stand before you,” he started. Yells of support came from the crowd, and a few of the audience got to their feet, clapping and whistling. Trevello was about to shout back at them, but Bassan put up a hand, and everyone quietened down.
Osbert bowed to Bassan. “Our new Legator,” he said, “is one who is often to be seen pacing the glades around our southern shores. It is Bassan!”
Everyone stood up, cheering, waving their arms in the air, shouting “Bass-an, Bass-an!” Bassan returned Osbert’s bow, looking at the fisherman with something of surprise on his face, although whether that was due to Osbert’s comment or the election result, Harold couldn’t tell. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, either: Bassan, their Legator, a man who not even a day ago had tried to kill Silva before his very eyes. Look at him! Taking his place at the lectern, shaking Trevello’s hand, smiling at his people, enjoying their acclaim. What would his pledge be?
“People of Southernwood! Friends of the Session!” Everyone sat again and stared excitedly at Bassan. “I hardly think it necessary to repeat the pledge that was made yesterday, albeit by a traitor. We all know what it says. Shall I protect our island? Of course. All of it! Our history? Who knows it better than I? Our future? Assured, as we work together to restore our trees and woods that have been so cruelly attacked. The danger is over. Let us leave the Albatorium together. Let the halls be prepared for a banquet, the market square for dancing and song. I have no need to appear on some terrace to lap up the approval of adoring crowds, so come! To the Sundial Tree!”
Bassan stepped down from the lectern and marched to the open doors. Benches screeched along the floor as the crowd got up, shoving each other aside in their rush to be the first to speak to their new Legator by the tree outside.
Harold watched them go. Bassan hadn’t made the pledge. Some would think he had, but he hadn’t said anything about the last part where the Legators promised to rule in peace. Nobody had seemed to notice, not even Trevello, who stood alone by the lectern putting the leaves back into the box. And not one citizen had bothered to check the votes on those leaves, either, had they?
He shook his head. He couldn’t stand here doing nothing. He’d go and find out if Arpad had managed to see Rath.
“Harold!” called Trevello. “Can you take this box into my office? There’s a cupboard under my desk. You can put it in there.”
Harold’s heart sank, but he took the box. The Albatorium entrance was empty. Everyone was outside congratulating Bassan, even the guard. He went into Trevello’s office. He came in here quite a lot, usually to take plates of food through to Filibert. He opened the desk cupboard, put the box inside, then gazed at the keys on the wall behind him. Were they only decoration, or did they open anything useful? A few were mounted on plaques inscribed with tiny silver writing. The rest hung vertically from sharp hooks, but one key, high up, attracted his attention. Hadn’t he seen the same key hanging from Bassan’s belt in the greenhouse?
If only he could get a closer look at that key. Even if he stood on Trevello’s chair, he’d never reach it. He’d need…a ladder! Filibert’s cellar! Wasn’t there one in there?
Harold raced into the cellar, dragged the ladder into the office and steadied it against the wall. He climbed up. His legs shook. The ladder wobbled. But now he’d got the key. It must be an exact copy, but if he took it, wouldn’t Trevello spot it was missing? No, he wouldn’t, because there was a similar key lying on a large plaque just below that would replace it admirably. There! Trevello would never notice. He was far too busy thinking about Silva’s crimes, the vote, and his new Legator, wasn’t he? My, this key was heavy!
“Done it!” exclaimed Harold, stepping off the ladder. He dragged it back into Filibert’s cellar, then, holding the key under his jacket, sped into the entrance hall.
An uncomfortable thought crossed his mind. What if he was mistaken, and the key didn’t fit the lock? He went over to the great doors. Outside, the crowd surrounded Bassan, who was smiling and laughing, not a care in the world. Just then, Bassan glanced up and saw him. His smile became a fixed grin and the expression in his eyes turned ugly. Harold stepped back quickly, bumping into Winifred behind him.
“Watch where you’re going!” exclaimed Winifred. “What are you doing here? Ah, I see our new Legator is enjoying himself. Long may it last. Or not. But I can’t see an end to this man’s madness, and if I don’t put some lunch on the tables soon, he’ll hold good on his promise of getting a new cook, you mark my words.”
“Winifred, we must go to the underfloor,” said Harold, pulling out the key. “Don’t ask any questions. All you have to do is keep the guard busy while I try to open Bassan’s door. Quick!”
Winifred’s eyes widened, but she followed him without complaint. Down they went, she to the guards’ office, he to Bassan’s laboratory.
Harold placed the key into the lock. He had to work with both hands, but it turned easily, and the door opened.
Voices came from the office. “No, no visitors, Winifred, that’s what Trevello said. If you want to send a meal down, I’ve no objections. No, not for the prisoner! For me, you silly woman!”
Harold grinned, shut and locked the door, and then joined Winifred.
“Is that you, Harold?” said the guard. “You’d better get yourself upstairs, boy. And take Winifred with you. I haven’t got time to argue. Got an important prisoner to look after here you know.”
“Oh indeed you have,” said Harold. “Come on, Winifred, we can go up to the kitchen now.”
They started up the steps, aware of Silva standing by her cell door watching them. The guard gave them a puzzled look, then returned to his office. Harold lifted up the key with one hand, pointing at it with the other, mouthing “Bassan’s key! Bassan’s key!” and then Silva smiled and waved him away before disappearing into the gloom.
Upstairs, Trevello was nowhere to be seen. The furniture had been rearranged in the Great Hall, and Lisette was frantically throwing cloths over the tables.
“We’ve got visitors,” she said shortly. “Arpad and Marchus. Hurry up, and get them out of the kitchen. I can’t abide people sitting about while I’m busy.” She stomped off to another table.
“Oh dear,” murmured Winifred, as they entered the kitchen. “She’ll be threatening to go home soon, and we can’t do without her today. Ah! There you are, gentlemen. We’ve been observing our Legator out by the Sundial Tree. Everyone is very happy with him from what I can see. What a shame that we’re not! After that most unpleasant sight, we went down to the underfloor. This young man will explain everything. Harold?”
He drew out the key from his jacket.
“Found it on the wall in Trevello’s office. It’s a copy of Bassan’s laboratory key. I’ve just tested it, and it works. If we need to escape, we can use the tunnel again, see?”
It had been worth taking that key! They were impressed, but it was a shame Rath wasn’t with them, he’d have—
“What tunnel?” said a voice behind him. The key clanged onto the floor, and they turned to the door.
“Filibert!” cried Winifred. “You gave us such a shock! Harold, put that key somewhere safe before someone else comes in and finds out what we’re up to. As for you,” and she eyed Filibert suspiciously, “I hope you weren’t out with the simpering citizens congratulating Bassan?”
“No,” sighed Filibert, sitting down heavily on a chair by the hearth. “Trevello wanted a word with me up in the Legator’s chamber. Looks like things are going to change around here, and not for the better, either.”
“What do you mean?” asked Winifred.
Filibert shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Bassan’s in charge now. I don’t know how long I’ll be Treasurer. That’s all I can say.” He gazed into the fire miserably.
“That makes sense,” said Winifred. “He’s already threatened me today, saying he’ll get a new cook. Well, let him! I don’t want to cook for him or his Session any more, truth be told. You can be sure I’m not going to be dishing up anything tasty for that lot from now on. It’s the sops and the scrapings for them!”
Harold laughed, and there was even a shadow of a smile on Arpad’s usually serious face.
“We could use the tunnel, I think,” said the guard. “I can arrange to be on duty downstairs. But if we want to get into the laboratory, we have to make sure Bassan isn’t in there, don’t we?”
“True,” nodded Harold. “We’ll need someone to call him away if need be, someone he trusts.” He looked expectantly at Winifred.
“Who, me?” she asked, shocked. “I couldn’t—oh! I see what you mean.”
She drew another chair up to the fire and took Filibert’s hands in her own.
“Filibert, would you like something to eat?”
“No, Winifred, I couldn’t face a thing.”
“I thought so.” Her eyes flickered towards the door. “Would you like to help us get rid of Bassan?”
Filibert squeezed her hands. “Did you make those peach pastries you were telling me about? I think I could do with one. Or even two.”
Winifred leapt to her feet. “You can have the whole batch! Lisette! Finished with the tables? Good! Let’s all have some pastry, and Lisette, I’d like you to take yours out to the hall, please. Sit down and have a rest my girl, you deserve it. And if Trevello, Bassan, or any of the guard come along, give us good warning!”
Lisette’s eyes brightened. She removed the cloths covering rows of neat peach tarts, passed a tray to Winifred, and took a whole tray for herself, rushing out the door before anyone could stop her.
“So,” said Filibert, settling back in his chair. “It seems you’re planning an escape, yes? A tunnel, a key, all to do with Bassan’s laboratory by the sound of it. And where will Silva escape to?”
“Oh, it’s not just Silva,” said Harold. “We’re going to get Rath out, too. And then…”
And then what? How stupid of him! They had no idea where they’d go, had they? And removing Bassan from power? Was that another of Winifred’s crazy ideas?
“I know what we have to do,” said Marchus softly. They turned to him in surprise. Had everyone forgotten he was there? Harold had, and yet, when he thought about it, Marchus had mentioned something about a plan when they’d been down in Silva’s cell.
An empty tray flew into the kitchen and landed with a clatter on the floor. “Bassan’s come into the hall!” screeched Lisette. “Send some food out, quick, because our Legator is hungry!”