Authors: Sally Gardner

Tags: #Sally Gardner

The Silver Blade (26 page)

BOOK: The Silver Blade

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‘A dangerous thing, my friend, at a time like this.’

‘Maybe, but let me tell you: if we survive the Reign of Terror, I don’t wish to stay in France. I never thought I would live to say that. Perhaps I’ve become a gypsy in my old age. Still, I have a mind to go and take my chances in the New World, in America. There, Tetu, we could put on real magic performances. What I’m proposing is that we should be partners.’

Tetu laughed. ‘Better that you asked me for some gypsy luck, for that is what you need, not a partner.’

Iago squawked. ‘I’ve seen you where you never were …’

‘Quiet,’ shouted Citizen Aulard. ‘That bird is getting on my nerves.’

‘One day you will be grateful you have a parrot. Anyway, it is a line from a gypsy poem. Shall I tell you it?’ And without waiting for a reply Tetu continued:

‘I’ve seen you where you never were
And where you never be.
And yet within that very place
You can be seen by me.
For to tell what they do not know
Is the art of the Romany.’

Citizen Aulard laughed. ‘I thought I would end my days with a beautiful actress by my side. Instead I find a daft dwarf, who I am too fond of to be parted from.’

Tetu smiled. ‘The New World might well appeal to my restless feet, that is if we get out of this alive, but I am not certain that Yann would want to come.’

Citizen Aulard sighed. He had been avoiding this topic of conversation, for something was very wrong with Yann. Gone was his calm good sense, his cool head.

‘Explain to me what has happened to him. Ever since we lost Remon Quint he is a changed man.’

‘I know,’ said Tetu.

‘I have been told,’ said Citizen Aulard, ‘that silver blades are again being found after someone has escaped. It is madness, there is enough talk already. If he goes on like this, he will be …’ He drew his finger across his neck. ‘What is he trying to do? Get himself killed and us too in the process?’

Tetu went to the door and looked out.

‘What is it?’ asked Aulard.

‘Nothing. I thought I heard something.’

‘You see, we are all jumping like circus fleas. Yann must be stopped.’ Citizen Aulard looked thoughtfully at Tetu.

‘I’ve seen you where you never were …’ repeated the parrot.

‘There is an explanation for Yann’s behaviour, and I am not sure what to do,’ said Tetu.

‘That is most unlike you.’

‘Yann has stumbled on a secret that I have done my best to conceal from him, for his own sake.’

‘Already I don’t like the sound of this.’

‘It is hard to explain, but in our world the spirits play as great a role as the living. Yann’s mother, Anis, believed that his spirit father was her lost love, Manouche. She never wanted him to know the identity of his real father.’

Citizen Aulard took a sip of wine. ‘Come, it can’t be so terrible—’

‘One day I will tell you the whole story,’ interrupted Tetu. ‘It is Kalliovski.’

Wine sprayed in a fountain from the startled theatre manager’s mouth. He started coughing.

‘Kalliovski? No, no, tell me I have misheard. All the angels in heaven and hell! Tell me I have misheard!’

Outside the door, Anselm was lurking in the shadows. He’d come up from the stage door on an errand for Citizeness Manou. He was eager for any excuse to listen in on the theatre manager’s conversations. Like a magpie he collected gems of information and took them back to his master. He listened intently in the dust-filled silence, unable to believe what he was hearing.

Anselm, like many before him, had fallen under the Count’s spell, and he was sure the dwarf spoke nothing but poisonous lies. It was not possible that Yann Margoza was his master’s son. He had convinced himself that he was the rightful heir to the Kalliovski crown. Anselm walked slowly down the stairs to the stage door. Everything had turned red, vivid, bright red. He wanted to kill someone, it didn’t matter whom, just someone.

‘Well,’ said Citizeness Manou, ‘what did he say?’

‘What?’ said Anselm.

‘I sent you up there to give Citizen Aulard a message, and you forgot, didn’t you?’ She shuffled out of her sentry box, wheezing and panting. Pushing past him, she said, ‘As usual I have to do everything myself round here.’

Anselm, lost in a blind fury, didn’t answer. He left the theatre and, crossing the square, went to the Cafe du Coin where he sat shaking with rage, mulling over what he would do. He knew he would only find peace by killing. In the past a chicken would have satisfied him, but not now. Now he needed something more than a scrawny neck.

He saw Citizeness Manou leaving the theatre. She stopped to adjust her cap and set off, a long, thin quiff of smoke following her. Anselm felt his fingers tingle. Getting up, he paid and left.

Walking behind Citizeness Manou, keeping to the shadows, he waited to pounce. Then he saw his opportunity. An alleyway with a dead end and Citizeness Manou so obligingly stopping at the corner to relight her pipe.

Before she could even take in the face of her attacker, she found herself at the end of the alley where two cats were fighting over a fishbone. The stench of human waste and rotten meat made her gag.

‘What the hell—?’

He had his hands tight round her neck and a feeling of all-encompassing power filled him with excitement. This is what he should have done to Mother. He watched Manou’s face turn blue, her eyes nearly popping out of her head. He felt her last tobacco breath leave her body. As her tongue flopped from her mouth, he let her body drop to the ground.

L
ater, much later, Anselm felt calm as he sat with a glass of wine studying his pretty wife, whom he loathed. At any other time, listening to her incessant chatter would have made him long to hit her.

‘A penny for them,’ she said, looking at him in the mirror.

‘They ain’t worth that much, and I don’t think you will listen.’

‘Anselm, I love you. I know you never meant to hurt me.’

‘I can’t forgive myself,’ said Anselm. ‘I love you too and I’m just terrified of losing you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I have a bad feeling. I’ve heard rumours.’

‘What rumours?’

‘I don’t know … I shouldn’t say anything.’

‘Tell me,’ she said, putting her arms round him.

‘Well, I have heard that Yann Margoza is a gypsy and so is Tetu. Did you know that?’

Now he had Colombine’s full attention. ‘That would explain that funny language they talk together.’

‘What I’ve been told is, Yann works for a man who lives in the catacombs. They are all in it together, double-dealing the clients and selling them back to the Tribunal.’

‘No, that’s not true.’

‘Think about it.’

Colombine thought for a long time. Yann was becoming reckless. And there was that funny business with the keymaker. Looking up at the cherubic face of her husband, she said, ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

‘I know I am,’ said Anselm, with more passion than he had ever shown for her. ‘I think we’re all in grave danger. We’ve got to turn Yann Margoza in, let the Commune know he’s the Silver Blade. If you were to do that, we would be able to have a life together. Isn’t that what you want?’

‘I can’t, Anselm. I can’t do that, it’s—’

‘What?’ he said, feeling his rage rise again.

What Colombine saw, or thought she saw, was Anselm trembling with passion for her and it did her pride good. He truly loved her.

She went up to him and he turned and kissed her. She was taken aback by the strength of his longing. She felt shaken by that kiss. Love made her feel reckless.

Afterwards, as he escorted her to the theatre, he said, squeezing her hand tightly, ‘You’ve made the right decision, you won’t regret it. We will do it together.’

T
he shocking news that evening was that Citizeness Manou had been murdered. Yann was absent, on an assignment. Everyone else was cast into despair.

Pantalon said what the rest of the company was thinking. ‘Who would have done such a terrible thing? Isn’t there enough killing in this city?’

‘I think it was Yann who killed her,’ Anselm whispered to Colombine. ‘She knew too much.’

Chapter Twenty-Three

I
n Sido’s dream she hears her name being called. Walking down a woodland path she comes to a clearing. There sits an old gypsy woman who wears many skirts of moss, of mists, of snows. In front of her is a small fire on which a kettle bubbles, its lid chattering merrily to the boiling water.

The old woman speaks with a voice that is the rustling of leaves. She calls to the spirits of the forest and, down each of the seven paths which lead into the clearing, silvery ghosts appear.

The old woman says, ‘Yann Margoza, Sido de Villeduval is not a gypsy. Why is she here?’

Then she sees him standing beside the old woman, looking older than she remembers. A tiny silver thread begins spinning towards him from the shell hanging at her neck.

‘Because I love her. She is the key to my soul; without her I am powerless. She has the shell, the
baro seroeske sharkuni
, the shell of the shells. Only a true gypsy soul could benefit from its power. It will keep her safe.’

The old woman turns to face Sido. In those fathomless eyes Sido sees the road unfolding and knows her journey is about to begin.