The Mazer (23 page)

Marchus moved towards the yard door. “I’m going up to the archive,” he said. “Arpad, Filibert, come with me. You’ll have to stay here, I’m afraid, Winifred. And this evening, be sure to give Bassan good food. The best. And your strongest wine. Make it a meal…to remember.”

He smiled. Red lips scrawled on white skin, eyes golden-green pools of tulip tree flower, his face was a mixture of beauty and revenge.

Harold shivered. “What should I do?”

Marchus opened the door and breathed in the cool afternoon air. “Get rid of the bells,” he said. Then he disappeared into the yard.

***

The sundown bell rang, a slow, lazy sound that would fill the market square as Southernwooders made their last purchases or gathered around the Sundial Tree. The tree would be facing west as evening drew in, pondering on the day just gone and the day to come, before it came to its senses, swirling round to face east, waiting for the slumbering sun to wake once more.

How had Rath survived so long down here? How had he controlled the panic, the fear of losing your mind, your future, your past? He’d had no hope of escape, however. It was clear why he’d been held in the Albatorium and not in the guardery building. The laboratory was just along the corridor. Bassan could have kept a close eye on him. Every time Bassan had used the steps around Great Aspen’s trunk, he must have thought of Rath shut up in the cell only a few paces away. He must have looked down now and again to enjoy a glimpse of his innocent prisoner festering in the shadows.

She forced herself to sit up. “I won’t let him get away with it, Mother. Part of the mystery is clear to me. I know who was responsible for everything. But how did he kill Father? And why did he lie to him, to us, to everyone, for so long? Just to be Legator? What a waste!”

She shook her head. She’d get the answers out of him; she had to. There had to be more to it. The trees thought so. They weren’t worried about Father, were they? They were thinking about the whole island and their very survival. They’d known a traitor was using the Mazer. Had they known who it was?

Someone had come down the steps. The guard rushed out of his office.

“Who’s that? Oh, Arpad. You again? What’s that? Fair enough. I’m in no hurry to stay any longer!”

She strained her ears but couldn’t hear the rest of their conversation. Eventually, the guard ran upstairs. Arpad entered the office, then came out and unlocked her door. Marchus slipped into her cell.

“Only got a moment, Silva, can’t risk being found down here.” He thrust a sheet of vellum into her hands. “I want you to study this very carefully. It’s the third poem about the gardens in the book. The second is with Rath. We leave after midnight.”

He pulled his cloak around him, and without looking back, padded quickly toward the icehouse.

Arpad locked the door. “Best if you know nothing, my lady,” he said. “Cover yourself with that blanket, and once you’re done reading the poem, hide it well, and pretend you’re asleep.”

She wrapped the blanket around her and squinted at the verses. So the first poem referred to the Hintermounts—she hoped—but what about the third one?

From yonder plain I love to see

The clouds, the sky, where, flying free,

The gulls and gannets glide and soar

’Pon evening breeze along the shore.

I wait beside the ivy wall;

I listen to the seagulls’ call.

Exultant cries of joy! They know

What it is like to look below,

To lose themselves within the flow

Of air, of life, of their own kind.

They never had to leave behind

A loved one, family, a friend.

For them, this world can never end.

“Oh, cheer up, Hortus!” said Silva crossly.

If I could ask these birds to check

The skies, for just one tiny speck

Of white, a flash of red, a gleam

Of something they had never seen,

I would. But I cannot.

I hear the wind upon the stone;

I see the gulls returning home,

The path before me, empty, wide,

My flight above with them denied.

That didn’t tell her much. Where on the island could this be? Yewlith? That was where the Yew, the greenest tree was. Plenty of wind there. Plenty of gulls, too. So that was that. They’d go to the Hintermounts, then on to Yewlith.

What had Rath’s poem said? It was a long while since she’d read it. Fire? Water? Rath would puzzle it out. He’d known the island well from his work with Father.

Hintermount stone, the wind of Yewlith, water, fire…she closed her eyes, flying with the gulls over the island, wheeling high over the Albatorium, swooping down to see Great Oak leaning over the greenhouse, catching the breeze that took her up, up, from where she could see Old Elm to the north, Ashenwood to the west, the plains of the Round Tower near Spinney Henge—

“The plains!” she gasped, sitting bolt upright. Of course! Not Yewlith at all. The Round Tower was drowning in ivy, and there were fields of stone, now covered in grass and scrub, that in ancient times, so Father had said, must have been the foundations of some sort of structure. That must be the wide path that Hortus mentioned.

“What do we do when we find these keys, Hortus?” she whispered. “Fit them together? Find a secret keyhole? Decode a message? Boil them in the Mazer?”

She laughed softly, but she could feel the tears coming. “Calm down, Silva,” she muttered, burying herself under the blanket again. “Do what Arpad said. Lie still. Wait. You’ll soon be out of here. We’ll get the keys, find a way to steal the Mazer from Bassan again, and…”

She dozed and dreamed: Isleaf, shaking raindrops from his leaves; her cabin, stinking of scorched wood; fishing nets stretched out in the sunshine; roots, orange and green; Bassan’s face in the tunnel. But how would they reach the Hintermounts if they escaped through the tunnel? That would take them in quite the wrong direction! Can’t use the tunnel, can’t use the tunnel…

She stirred uncomfortably. Someone was standing by the cell door watching her. No key in the lock, though. Who could it be? Time went on and on. Someone knocked on a door; low chatter ensued; quiet footfalls made their way up the steps. She would scream if she had to lie here much longer. And then, the door was open, a hand on her shoulder.

“Wake up, Silva.”

It was Arpad. Marchus, Rath, Harold, Winifred, too! She scrambled to her feet and grabbed her bag.

“Marchus! It’s no good us using the tunnel if we—”

“Hush, Silva,” whispered Marchus. “I know. Rath and Harold will go that way. They have to travel north of Oakenwood. You, Winifred, and I, we’ll take the track out behind the Albatorium with Arpad. But tell me, Silva. Where does your next poem instruct us to go?”

“The Round Tower on the northern plain,” she said.

“Well done!” said Marchus gleefully. “Hear that, Rath? The Round Tower. In two nights’ time then.”

“Two nights.” Rath nodded. He glanced at Silva, then pushed Harold out of the cell. “Come on, Harold. Get that door open, and let’s go!”

“But Bassan?” hissed Silva. “Are you sure he’s not in there?”

“Sure as sure can be,” said Winifred, her eyes flashing proudly. “Filibert’s keeping our Legator busy. Bassan won’t be back for a while. Oh, no, leave the blanket there, Silva. She’ll need it.”

She? Who was she? Then a slight figure appeared, her hair, unusually, around her shoulders.

“Medrella! What are you doing here?”

“Taking your place, my lady,” said Medrella, entering the cell. “Nobody will notice you’ve gone until morning if you’re quick.” She shook out the blanket and lay down. Arpad locked her in, tossed the key into the guards’ office, then ran off up to the yard.

A low whistle came from the laboratory door. Harold waved excitedly. Rath grinned at the boy, then gazed at Silva. “Good luck!” he mouthed. Then he disappeared into the laboratory with Harold.

“That’s them gone,” said Winifred. “Now it’s our turn. Up to the kitchen yard, Silva!”

Medrella’s pale face peeked out from the blanket.

“Thank you, Medrella,” whispered Silva. “You’re very brave.”

Medrella gave her a faint grin. “Not as brave as Wystan,” she said.

So Wystan had taken Rath’s place! What would happen to these two once they were discovered?

“Don’t worry,” said Medrella. “I can’t wait to see the expression on Bassan’s face in the morning when he realizes you’ve gone. That, for me, will be reward enough. He can do what he likes with us after that.”

She turned to face the wall. Winifred pulled Silva away from the door. They followed Marchus past the laboratory and up the path to the yard where Arpad sat waiting for them with a horse and cart.

“Up you get. And in you go!” said Winifred urgently.

Silva went round to the back of the cart and climbed up. Before her stood one of Winifred’s biggest cooking pots surrounded by bulging sacks.

“Why is this huge cauldron here? Is that what I’m supposed to get into?”

“Correct,” sniffed Winifred. “And if you knew what trouble we had loading that thing on there, you wouldn’t be complaining!”

Winifred heaved herself up into the cart, and Silva stepped onto the sacks and climbed into the pot, which seemed even deeper inside than out.

“Sorry about this, Silva,” said Winifred. “Needs must!”

Onions. Heaps of onions, dropping on top of her, followed by something else falling on top of them.

“Still breathe, can you?” came Winifred’s muffled voice.

“Just about!” moaned Silva. Another cart ride, even more uncomfortable than the one before, and a lot smellier too: some of these onions were most certainly past their best. She could hear Winifred shoving some of the sacks aside to sit down in the back, and then the cart shook as Marchus took his seat. She was glad Arpad was driving; Marchus wouldn’t know one end of a horse from another. She smiled at the thought of the scribe trying to control a horse, then winced as the cart lurched forward. The onions settled, filling her lap and pressing on her shoulders. What was that? Oh, only a thin carrot sticking into her right ear.

“A glorious escape, Silva!” She began to laugh. “Onions, carrots, carts and pots. Are these our weapons? Oh, Medrella had the right idea; yes she did! What a shock Bassan will get tomorrow!”

And it was this thought that sustained her as the cart jolted its way along the path that wound behind the Albatorium and up the hill to the Hintermounts.

***

~~ Chapter Five ~~

In Quest of Keys

At last they stopped. The pot tilted, Silva fell out, and the vegetables followed her.

“Pooh, what a stink!” said Winifred.

“Oh, thank you very much!” puffed Silva, standing up shakily. “Help me down, Arpad. No trouble then? Nobody saw us? Where are we?”

“No trouble, Silva,” said Arpad. “We’re nearly in the Hintermounts.” He looked at her doubtfully. “Can you walk?”

“Of course I can!” she snapped. “I’m not going to sit here waiting for the guard to amuse themselves by stewing me in this pot, am I?”

“That’s enough, Silva!” said Winifred. “Come and scrape that grit out of your hair and shoes. Weren’t you going to unhitch the horse, Arpad? Get to it! And Marchus?” She coughed. “I think you should acquaint Silva with the details of your wonderful plan.”

Marchus limped over to them. “I’m glad that’s over,” he sighed, dropping down on the ground next to Silva. “Can’t remember the last time I rode in a cart. When I was a boy, I expect. Always hated the things. Too much movement for my old bones. Ah, well. We’re in the forest now.”

Yes, they’d reached the forest at last. The path ahead rose gradually into the hills past banks of flowers on one side, moss, beech, and oak on the other. Then they’d see, through the trees, a steep slope, leading down to a stream where, she hoped, they would find the stepping stones Hortus talked about.

“Tell me about Harold and Rath,” she said.

Marchus shook his head. “Incredible, Silva! Such promise! Such talent! He understood Hortus’ words immediately, no hesitation.”

“What did Rath say? Where are they going?”

Marchus looked at her, astonished. “Not Rath, my lady. Harold. Yes, young Harold! I was as surprised as you, but what skill in interpretation, in deduction, in—”

“Just get on with it, Marchus!” scolded Winifred.

“Yes, now let me see. North of Oakenwood it is. Up by Old Elm. That’s what Harold told us.”

“Old Elm? Harold could be right. Hortus mentioned an elm in his last poem, didn’t he?” said Silva. “That’s good news! So this means they have two days to find that key and make their way to the Round Tower.”

“Yes. It’s not long. And don’t forget, we have two keys to find,” said Marchus. “So we’d best be off.”

They got up. Arpad was leading the horse out of the trees. “That’s the cart hidden,” he said. “Who’d like to ride? Marchus?”