The Princess and the Captain (10 page)

Orpheus went down to the harbour for the fourth time that week. He had shut Zeph into the sitting room, and as he turned the corner of the third alleyway he could still hear the faint sound of reproachful barking. That idiot of a dog was playing havoc with his nerves. Whatever Orpheus did, Zeph was never satisfied: out of doors he growled and snuffled at the skirts of women passing by, indoors he barked. The neighbours would soon be complaining – indeed, they had already become less easy-going. Only the day before a woman had pinned a copy of the Archont's thirty-eighth edict on Orpheus's door. It was the one banning all forms of loud noise.

‘The thirty-eighth edict!' sighed Orpheus, shaking his head sadly.

Since the country went into mourning the Archont had been issuing more and more edicts, although no one could be sure if he was acting on the Coronador's orders, for the Coronador himself had not been seen in public since the
terrible day the Princess's dress was brought to him. The bans on weddings and funerals were followed by edicts forbidding theatrical performances, the sale of newspapers and flowers, the teaching of arts and sciences, walking out of doors after dark, swimming, kissing and singing in public, even taking a siesta under the trees.

To ensure that these edicts were observed, troops of armed soldiers patrolled the Lower Town, their hobnailed boots ringing on the paving stones at all hours of the day and night. The schools closed, travelling peddlers left town, musicians played under the bridges in muted tones, mothers were afraid to let their children play in the street, women stopped using cosmetics, and men deserted the terraces outside taverns. People didn't even dare to do what
was
still allowed, for fear it might be forbidden tomorrow.

‘What a dismal scene!' sighed Orpheus as he set out along the avenue that ran beside the river.

Further on, after passing a series of windy and almost deserted squares, the Gdavir grew wider and branched into a delta before it flowed out into the Maltic Ocean. Here was the port with its harbour, a little way from the city and lying under the layer of cloud that seemed to have settled permanently over Galnicia.

As he arrived on the quayside Orpheus took a deep breath. At least that hadn't changed: the sea air still smelled of salt and adventure! He sneezed, but smiled all the same and made for the Maritime Institute with a determined tread. He had been going there for weeks to consult works on navigation and polish up his knowledge of the subject. He would spend hours with his nose in a book, and then go to sit for a little while in the front hall, hoping to meet the captains of vessels that had just cast anchor
in the harbour. If he hung around there, Orpheus thought, he might finally hear of a ship on the point of sailing. Then he would only have to seize his chance, and with luck he'd be free of Galnicia and its oppressive atmosphere!

But when he had climbed the few steps leading to the entrance of the Institute, he found the doors closed. He strained his ears. Yes, he could hear voices and other sounds clearly inside. This was a strange time of day for the Institute to be closed. What did it mean?

Stepping back, Orpheus looked at the pediment of the building. It usually flew the green and yellow Galnician flag, but today the flag had been lowered.

‘Strange,' murmured Orpheus to himself as he went up to the doorway.

He waited in the draughty air, taking care to put up his coat collar so as not to catch cold, but all the same his throat began to feel sore. He sneezed another three or four times. When he raised his head he saw that he was no longer the only one waiting for the doors to open: two other men were pacing up and down at the bottom of the steps. One of them struck Orpheus as familiar. He was a small, thin man, nervous and frowning, who could hardly pass unnoticed because of the mop of bright red hair which surrounded his face. Orpheus had already seen him in the reading room and front hall of the Institute. He didn't look like a sailor, but if he frequented this place so often he must surely take some interest in the sea.

Orpheus was busy wondering about the redhead when the doors of the Institute were flung open, and a troop of soldiers marched briskly out. Behind them voices rose in protest. Then Orpheus saw a man with a shaven skull and grey eyes between the two columns of soldiers. He was walking fast, shoulders
straight, the high collar of his ceremonial coat fitting closely around his neck. Much impressed, Orpheus moved aside to let him pass with the troop of soldiers around him, and then watched while they moved away along the quaysides.

‘The Archont,' murmured Orpheus. ‘The Archont in person!'

Once his surprise had passed, he turned back to the Maritime Institute, determined to get in this time. But the doors were closed again.

‘This is too much!' the little redhead exclaimed, climbing the flight of steps. ‘Who do they think they are in there, slamming the doors in our face like that! You'd think we weren't good enough for them!'

Orpheus pounded on the heavy wooden panels with his fist. Once, twice, three times, harder and harder as the little man encouraged him to carry on.

‘The Institute is closed!' a voice on the other side of the door replied at last.

‘When's it going to open?' shouted Orpheus.

‘You don't understand!' the voice yelled back. ‘It's closed! Closed for good, by order of the Archont!'

It took Orpheus's breath away. How could such a place as the Institute be closed? There was no sense in it!

‘Here!' said the voice again. ‘Take a look. This is the edict!'

Looking down, Orpheus saw a piece of paper being slipped under the door. He picked it up. According to the terms of this forty-third edict, there was to be no more access to the Institute's public rooms, its books were to be locked away and seals set on the cupboards, its maps and charts and navigational instruments confiscated …

‘What a bunch of cowards!' shouted the redhead, kicking the door several times. Then he shrugged and marched off, uttering
several nasty remarks about scholars, scientists and a set of incompetent idiots whom he appeared to know well.

Orpheus stood there transfixed, his fingers clutching the piece of paper. The wind ruffled the skirts of his coat and got in under them. He shivered feverishly. He felt as if his last hope of leaving Galnicia had vanished with the issuing of this edict.

Eastwards. Eastwards all the time.

Malva and Philomena had been walking in the direction of the rising sun for twenty-eight days. They had crossed arid plains, passed villages and fields, forded tumultuous rivers, made their way through the dark forests on the frontier of Monteplano, and now they were approaching the mountains of Gurkistan. They took turns resting on the back of the mule that the Spertan fisherfolk had given them, but every step was painful. When their feet weren't bleeding their backs ached, their eyes streamed under the constant assault of wind and sun, and their stomachs were crying out for food. They had finished their meagre provisions long ago. While they were still in inhabited countryside they had managed to beg a little bread and soup, and had even stolen cabbages from kitchen gardens … but now they were coming to deserts where not a soul lived.

Before nightfall they would look for somewhere to shelter. If they were lucky it might be an abandoned shepherd's hut, but
more often it was a dip among some rocks, a tree with low branches, or just a ditch at the roadside. They slept there, stunned by exhaustion. The wild berries, chestnuts and mushrooms they found, and the mice they sometimes caught for dinner, were never enough to satisfy their hunger. At night they dreamed of the banquets of the luxurious days when they still lived in the Citadel.

Malva was woken by the same pain every morning: violent cramps in her right leg going all the way up to the small of her back. The first time it happened she screamed horribly, so loud that Philomena, woken with a start, almost had a heart attack.

Then she got used to her affliction. She found out how to relieve it: stretching her leg while holding on to her foot, then letting go and standing up as quickly as possible to take a few steps, limping at first, then more easily. Finally she drank several mouthfuls of a bad-tasting medicine that the fisherman's wife had brewed her, and which she kept in a goatskin bag. At last the cramp would fade, and it was such a relief that she suddenly felt very well.

‘Time to get up, lazybones!' she told her chambermaid. ‘The sun's rising, and Elgolia lies ahead!'

Philomena muttered. She had sworn to accompany her mistress to the end, but by all the Divinities of the Known World, her oath was costing her dear! Some mornings, if she'd had the choice, she would have stayed where she was, lying on the ground, waiting to be eaten by a wild beast or baked by the sun. She would rather have died than set off again for the wretched country that Malva kept talking about.

‘We'll get there,' Malva said encouragingly, her eyes gazing eastwards.

‘Yes, well, we're bound to get
somewhere
,' grumbled Philomena. ‘Elgolia or no Elgolia, the world has to have some kind of end!'

‘Do you realise,' said the Princess happily, ‘we'll be the first Galnicians ever to set foot on Elgolia? No one else has ever gone so far!'

Malva was already dreaming of the pages she would fill when she wrote down all her adventures. She had lost her notebooks in the shipwreck, but her memory would be enough.

‘Help me to think of a good title,' she said. ‘What about
Journey into the Unknown
? Or
Two Girl Adventurers in Elgolia
?'

Philomena looked sideways at her. She could only very vaguely understand her mistress's enthusiasm. So many dangers could confront them. So many traps could open at their feet. True, they hadn't met many people in twenty-eight days of walking: some suspicious peasants, a few vagabonds who had offered to let the girls join them, merchants who had tried to sell them jewels. Every time they had hastened to leave such company behind. But over there in those forbidding mountains, who knew what kind of men or monsters they might meet?

‘What a typical Galnician you are!' Malva laughed, seeing Philomena's frightened look. ‘Why do you have to see enemies everywhere? I'd rather think the Known World is full of such kind and generous people as the Spertan fisherman and his family.' And she added mischievously, ‘Anyway, we're so poor that we have nothing to lose!'

She put her hand to the Archont's medallion, which she still wore around her neck, ‘to remind me of his villainy,' she told herself.

‘This is all anyone could steal from me. But what's a traitor's medallion worth?'

* * *

A week later, when they reached the first snow-covered pass in the high mountain ranges of Gurkistan, they saw plumes of smoke in the distance.

‘Perhaps there's a village there?' Malva suggested.

She was shivering with cold, hunched on the mule, whose hooves sank into the soft snow. Her lips were tinged purple. Beside her, Philomena was struggling forward, gasping for breath. They must be on their guard, but what option did they have? They had to get over the pass before nightfall and reach the milder temperatures of the valley. As for going back, that was out of the question.

As they gradually approached the black smoke, they realised that there was no village there. Something on the ground was burning, but it wasn't a campfire or even an ordinary bonfire. Black forms lay all around: shattered carts, barrels, gutted crates. Silent and chilled, Philomena and Malva moved on. There was an acrid smell in the icy air. When they were close to the fire they froze. Burning there before their eyes they saw …

‘A horse?' said Malva, hesitantly.

‘No,' moaned Philomena, feeling her stomach heave. ‘Horses. Lots of horses …'

And at that moment they emerged from all directions, like shadows coming from the Sea of the Dead. There were about twenty of them, mounted on huge animals that were half-bull, half-deer, with steaming nostrils. Seeing them, Malva and Philomena turned pale and clung to one another.

In spite of the cold, the mounted men wore plain tunics open wide to show their hairy chests. Their faces were hidden by black hoods that made them look like ghosts. What terrified Malva most, however, was the sight of the necklaces hanging
around their throats: leather thongs with rows of human teeth strung on them.

Philomena suddenly fell on her knees in the snow. She wept and sobbed, begging these spectral warriors not to kill them. They did not react, but their circle was perceptibly closing in on the two travellers.

Malva dismounted the mule. Her legs and arms and the muscles of her face were numb with cold. She joined Philomena on the ground and began weeping too.

This is the end, she thought with infinite sadness. We shall die here and never see Elgolia.

She felt warm, moist breath on the back of her neck. Looking up, she saw that one of those monstrous beasts was snuffling at it. Its slimy nostrils were touching her skin! Without stopping to think, Malva tapped its flat muzzle smartly.

‘Go away!' she shouted.

The animal gave a low growl and rapidly straightened up, almost throwing its rider. Then sudden panic overcame the whole troop. The masked warriors uttered cries as they brandished metal weapons in their hands: crescent-shaped axes with shining blades.

At first Malva thought her gesture had aroused the warriors' wrath, but suddenly she saw an army of men on horseback making straight for them. They would distract the warriors' attention. This was their chance! She tugged Philomena's sleeve hard.

‘Come on!'

They ran, stumbled, then crawled through the snow to take shelter behind an overturned cart. From this vantage point, they watched the fight between the hooded warriors and the army of horsemen. The latter greatly outnumbered their opponents.
They fought valiantly with swords and whips, and seemed to be obeying the orders of a single leader, a strong young man wearing a fur cap and standing erect on his horse's back. Arms raised above his head, he was commanding his troops with astonishing elegance of movement.