The Underground City (13 page)

Underneath the theatre, in the lanes and alleys of the Underground City, the Plague People had steadily picked their way free and were now roaming the streets at will. The walls that had held them prisoner had crumbled under the pressure of their desperate attempts for freedom and as they sallied
triumphantly
forth, their wailing cries struck fear into the hearts of those who heard them.

The police were still in the Underground City at the time, some in the vaults of the bank, while others searched methodically through the streets and houses for traces of Murdo, Wullie and Tammy Souter.

The ghosts guided them here and there and it hadn’t take the policemen long to appreciate their help; for without them, they’d soon have been lost in the labyrinth of alleys and streets that seemed to stretch all the way down the High Street to Holyrood. Surprisingly enough, they worked quite well together. The ghosts were all right, thought the policemen, as long as you didn’t look too closely at their awful eyes.

Then they heard it in the distance, a strange moaning, bubbling noise that echoed weirdly among the houses. They stopped instinctively, flashing their torches back down the alleys and seeing nothing, looked sharply at the ghosts.

“What’s that awful racket?” a constable asked apprehensively and took no comfort from the sudden expressions of fear that appeared on the ghosts’ faces. They, themselves, it seemed, were suddenly scared to death and were looking down the narrow streets in terror. “The Plague People!” they whispered.

Moments later, they came into view.

Ghosts and policemen alike gasped in horror for the ghosts of the plague were, indeed, the stuff of nightmares. Dressed in long, white, hooded robes that drifted into mist, their pale faces were mottled black with boils and their long skinny arms stretched out hungrily as they swung swiftly and silently between the houses searching for their prey.

“Run,” the ghosts snapped. “Follow us. We know all the short cuts. Quickly! Run for your lives!”

The policemen, who had paled at the mention of the plague, did exactly that. Following the ghosts, they dived in and out of houses and alleys, knowing that had Mary King not made her offer of help, they wouldn’t have stood a chance and would soon have been caught by the nameless horrors that chased them. As it was, they reached the stair up to the Assembly Hall with the terrifying apparitions not far behind and it was only when the last policeman scrambled white-faced to safety that the cellar door was slammed shut and firmly locked.

The same thing happened in the bank. The bank security staff took one look at the drifting horrors that were sloping down the alley towards them and raced for the safety of the bank’s interior. It was a close run thing, for even as the ghosts sailed towards them over the scattered piles of banknotes, they were still hefting the door of the vault shut, with no thought for the money left abandoned and unguarded in its shattered ruins.

“MacArthur! Lord Rothlan!” Jaikie said, springing to his feet in alarm for the second time that evening. The first scare, when the goblins had shot out of the magic mirror, had been bad enough but this was worse. Much worse! “Will you come and look at this!” he said, gesturing towards the crystal ball. “The Plague People are loose!”

Kitor gave a squawk of alarm and Arthur heaved himself
to his feet so that he, too, could see what was going on. Lord Rothlan and the MacArthur hastily rose to their feet and strode towards the glowing crystal on its ornate stand. It showed a ghastly, horrible scene as its eye followed the ghosts of the Plague People as they glided with swift, hungry eagerness along the alleys of the Underground City.

Lady Ellan, too, peered into the crystal, her nose wrinkling in disgust. A nameless fear made her shiver. “They really look awful, don’t they!” she whispered. “But how on earth did they get out? I thought their cellars had been sealed up?”

“It must have been yon bank robbers that Neil was telling me about,” muttered the MacArthur. “He said they were trying to break into the vaults of the Bank of Scotland.”

“Do you think they broke into their cellars instead?” Jaikie whispered.

“Whatever they did, they certainly got more than they
bargained
for.” Lord Rothlan looked and sounded worried as he eyed the hooded white shapes with their bloated, mottled faces.

“You … you don’t think Neil and Clara might be down there, do you?” Jaikie interrupted fearfully.

Lady Ellan shook her head. “I shouldn’t think so,” she said. “They’re in the pantomime.”

“Let’s see if we can get hold of Sir Archie …” Lord Rothlan said. “Can you find him for me, Jaikie?”

The crystal dimmed and then brightened to show the
interior
of the bank where white-faced security staff clutched at one another, shivering at the memory of the ghastly drifting shapes that had so nearly caught them.

“Well, it certainly looks as though something’s been happening there,” the MacArthur commented as the crystal scanned the bank’s marble foyer.

“Look, there’s Sir Archie,” Jaikie pointed to the door of the bank where the Chief Constable was talking busily to Jock
MacPherson.

“Thank goodness he’s all right,” the MacArthur muttered and, as the crystal reverted once more to the ghost-ridden streets of the Underground City, he rubbed his chin
thoughtfully
. “Mind you, it’ll be interesting to see what he plans to do about that little lot,” he mused.

“Do? With the Plague People?” Lord Rothlan said, looking up with a frown. “There isn’t much he
can
do, is there?”

“There’s not a lot
we
can do either, come to that,” Lady Ellan remarked, slipping her hand through her husband’s arm.

“Well, it looks as though he might be coming here in a
minute
,” Jaikie interrupted as the crystal dimmed and brightened once more. “He’s just left the bank and called his carpet!”

Instinctively, they all turned to look at the side of the cave where a magic carpet had unrolled itself gently and was already whisking its way towards one of the tunnels that led to the
surface
of Arthur’s Seat.

The MacArthur eyed it sourly. “Aye,” he said as it
disappeared
into the gloom, “and when he arrives, I’ll bet you a pound for a penny that he thinks I can get rid of the Plague People with a hex! Just like that!”

“You can’t really blame him,” Lord Rothlan smiled wryly. “He won’t understand that we’re powerless to help.”

A few minutes later, they looked up as a carpet carrying the Chief Constable sailed into the huge cavern from one of the tunnels.

“Here he is now,” Lady Ellan said as the carpet flew towards them.

The Chief Constable greeted the MacArthur and then seeing Lord Rothlan, strode over to congratulate him on his marriage. “Lord Rothlan!” Sir Archie shook hands with him warmly, “and Lady Ellan,” he said delightedly. “My warmest congratulations to you both!” He cleared his throat. “MacArthur,” he said, “can
I ask you about the ghosts in Mary King’s Close?”

The MacArthur looked at Lord Rothlan and sighed. “I know you’d like me to help, but …”

“It’s serious, MacArthur,” Sir Archie interrupted urgently. “The ghosts of the plague victims have escaped. Mary King told me just five minutes ago. She managed to get all of my men out safely, but according to her the Plague People have taken over the whole Underground City!”

The MacArthur sighed. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, “but I can’t do it! I can’t hex them away!”

The Chief Constable looked horrified as his eyes flew from one serious face to another.

“Ghosts aren’t magic people, you see,” Rothlan explained. “They are spirits of the dead and our magic doesn’t affect them.”

“I’m afraid it’s something that the ghosts have to sort out for themselves,” the MacArthur said.

“But the plague!” The Chief Constable was astounded. “You’ve got to help! Once they get into the streets there’ll be panic! To say nothing of an epidemic of the Black Death in Edinburgh!”

“Aye, you’ll have to keep them confined to the Underground City,” agreed the MacArthur. “No doubt about it! All the exits and entrances will have to be sealed up so the plague ghosts can’t get out into the streets! You do realize that they need actual openings to get through, don’t you?”

The Chief Constable looked at him in relief. “You mean they can’t drift through walls and doors like Mary King’s lot?”

“That power was taken away from them by the Council of Elders,” the MacArthur explained, “otherwise how would the closed cellars have held them prisoner for all these years?”

“I see.” the Chief Constable said grimly. “Well, then, it’s not as bad as I thought, but it’s bad enough! It’ll only take one of them to get out and the whole of Edinburgh will be in a panic! Murdo Fraser’s got to be found! And found quickly!”

Matt Lafferty, the magnificently-clad Grand Vizier, got such a shock at Casimir’s sudden, dramatic appearance that he almost leapt the height of himself. He gawped in wonder and backed somewhat nervously away — for the towering genie was a frightening sight, his face grim amid the swirling clouds of multi-coloured smoke that billowed round him. He grabbed Neil and Clara and, pulling them towards the Sultan’s throne, let out a muttered stream of broad Scots that fortunately, given the circumstances, few people understood.

Casimir, now at least twenty feet tall, reared from the spout of the little lamp, smoke eddying around him in clouds. He was furiously angry! Angry with Lewis for being idiotic enough to put him in the lamp in the first place, and with Ali Baba for having been fool enough to actually rub the lamp in the second.

Alec Johnston was also furious. He knew that during rehearsals he had made a lot of enemies — jealous, no doubt, at his fantastic performance — and being totally self-centred, didn’t for one second believe that Casimir was real. And who could blame him? Genies, after all, only exist in story books! So it wasn’t entirely his fault that he thought someone was taking the mickey with a vengeance. He’d no idea how they’d managed it but they’d stolen his thunder, ruined his act and made him look a fool; for he gloried in the knowledge that his magnificent entrance was the star moment of the pantomime.

Spitting with fury, he reached out, grabbed the magic lamp from Ali Baba and threw it with all the strength he could muster, into the wings. Seeing it coming, a policeman ducked
swiftly but the monstrous slave-merchant standing behind him, wasn’t quite so quick off the mark and the lamp hit him full in the face with considerable force.

Now the slave-merchant, who in the past had been the butt of quite a few of Alec Johnston’s more snide remarks, positively hated the strutting, trumped-up star. When the lamp fell to the floor and he saw who had thrown it, he was not at all amused. A red rage seized hold of him and with a roar of fury he drew his scimitar and, blood streaming down his face from a badly mangled nose, charged onto the stage.

The genie saw him coming and turned quite pale as the mountainous man thundered through the wings towards him. He leapt back and, grabbing a scimitar from the ranks of the Sultan’s Guard, prepared for battle. Heartened by the
knowledge
that the slave-merchant was no swordsman, he leapt at him bravely enough and, scimitars clashing angrily, they fought their way several times round the stage, into the wings and back again. The Stage Manager, white-faced and horrified, looked close to a nervous breakdown by this time but nobody dared stop the two men who were fighting with deadly passion and deadlier weapons — for the way things were, neither could give way to the other without one of them being beheaded!

Casimir, suddenly deprived of his home in the lamp, had promptly shrunk in size and was now the rather sour, cross old man that Lewis knew so well. He didn’t even see the genie and the slave-merchant fighting around him but only had eyes for the Sultan. As their eyes met, there was a brief clash of wills. Casimir, however, had had all the time in the world to ponder his behaviour when he’d been held captive in the well at Al Antara. He was a changed man and, although puzzled at his sudden passion to own the crown, he had no wish to confront Sulaiman the Red. So, he did the only thing he could under the circumstances. He bowed low to the Sultan who rose to his feet
and beckoned him forward.

Neil and Clara, standing on each side of the dais, looked at one another in amazement. “Prince Casimir,” Neil mouthed to Clara, who nodded in agreement for the resemblance between father and son was strong. Knowing the depth of the enmity that existed between the two men, they watched in fascination as the Sultan extended his hand to be kissed; the huge, ruby ring on his finger glowing in the spotlights. Casimir looked the Sultan in the eyes and then knelt before him and kissed his ring. It was a historic occasion in the world of magic. Sir James sat tense with excitement in his seat as he realized its importance and even Matt Lafferty was astute enough to know that this was not acting.

His eyes goggled as, out of the blue, an ornate chair appeared on the dais to the right of the Sultan’s throne. Not quite as grand or as large as the Sultan’s but imposing nevertheless. The Sultan rose and taking Casimir’s hand, sat him graciously beside him.

It was only when the genie and the slave-merchant passed again in furious combat that the Sultan seemed to realize that there was a battle going on under his nose. As the men headed for the wings, he lifted his arm and as he did so, both scimitars suddenly flew into the air and the two men collapsed onto the stage.

The Stage Manager was close to tears. Now what? Would nothing in this pantomime go right? He was furious with Alec Johnston and also quite convinced that by this time the audience, having completely lost the plot, would get up and go home. Worse, however, was to come!

Ever since the magic mirror had disgorged the two goblins onto the stage, Sir James had been waiting for another figure to emerge from its depths. So, to a certain extent, had Neil and Clara, for they, too, had been present on that last terrible day at Ardray when Prince Kalman, in an attempt to escape, had been trapped between mirrors.

The Sultan, however, was most certainly expecting his arrival and when, like the goblins, a somewhat dishevelled Prince Kalman was suddenly catapulted out of the mirror into the middle of the stage, he merely waved his hand and a spell transformed him into a gorgeously-robed Turkish prince.

Sir James clapped furiously, the audience did likewise and a rather stunned Prince Kalman bowed with regal grace and then gawped in a most un-princely fashion at the sight of his own father sitting at the right-hand side of the Turkish Sultan, Sulaiman the Red. The look of relief that crossed his face when he realized that his father was alive was, however, fleeting. His brain, working with the speed of light, swiftly told him that the Sultan must not only have held him prisoner for countless years but also seemed to have succeeded in making him his vassal. Memories of that last, dreadful scene at Ardray, when the Sultan had taken his crown back, were still fresh in his mind and as his anger boiled anew, he glared furiously at the Sultan.

The Grand Vizier who, by this time, was now positively thriving on the totally unexpected, nipped smartly out of the way as another chair materialized beside the Sultan’s throne. He hadn’t a clue what was happening but as every theatrical instinct in his body was geared to keeping the show going at all costs, he stepped forward with a flourish, bowed deeply to the young prince and escorted him to the dais.

The Sultan rose from his throne, held his hands out in welcome and gestured to the empty chair beside him.

In the audience, Sir James sat rigid and hastily breathed a silent prayer for, in a matter of seconds, Prince Kalman’s expression had changed from blank astonishment to blind fury. Neil and Clara, standing like statues on either side of the dais, hoped fervently that he wouldn’t recognize them and turned their heads away slightly while Casimir, who wanted more than anything to hug his son, gripped the arms of his chair in
anxiety 
but did not dare intervene. Such was the crackling tension in the atmosphere that even the Grand Vizier stepped back, his eyes looking warily from Prince Kalman to the Sultan and back again. Indeed, Kalman’s arrogance in the face of the Sultan’s power was nothing short of mind-boggling. The Sultan could have hexed him there and then but Kalman was consumed by a black rage that made him fearless.

“How can you sit there, father?” he snarled. “The vassal of Sulaiman the Red!”

Casimir made to rise but the Sultan stepped forward. “Come Prince Kalman,” he said sincerely. “You are as welcome as your father to my court. Let there be peace among us as there was in times long gone.”

“Never!” Kalman almost spat the word out. His blue eyes blazed in fury as his glance swept the scene — and rested
inevitably
on Neil and Clara.

That did it. The Sultan knew it, Sir James knew it and so did Casimir although he hadn’t a clue as to why the sight of two children should send his son through the roof in a towering rage.

There was, in fact, nothing that could have been better designed to send Kalman’s temper rocketing skywards than the sight of Neil and Clara. “
You!
” the prince snarled, with a
ferocity
that sent the Grand Vizier’s eyebrows snapping together in alarm. “So
you
are here as well, are you?” he hissed,
venomously
. “Many’s the time I’ve longed to have
you
in my power!” Clara wilted under the unrelieved fury of his gaze and as Neil stepped forward to protect her, Kalman grabbed each of their arms and, muttering the words of a hex under his breath, the three of them vanished in a cloud of smoke.

Casimir leapt from his chair, screaming in horror as his son disappeared; the Sultan, hiding his fury, pursed his lips impassively; Sir James looked thunderstruck and tears sprang
to Lewis’s eyes. He knew how badly Casimir had wanted to find his son and now look what had happened!

As Casimir wailed and wept, the Sultan looked round and decided that as far as he was concerned, the pantomime had more than served its purpose. He met Matt Lafferty’s sharp, brown eyes with a glint of amused appreciation in his troubled smile, lifted his arm and cast a spell that not only replaced his own undoubted majesty with the body of the original Sultan, but also brought the pantomime back to the point when the genie appeared.

So, once again, Alec Johnston made his magnificent leap onto the stage. This time there was no Casimir to spoil it and the applause was deafening. It was only the Grand Vizier, Lewis and Sir James who noticed that neither Neil nor Clara stood guard at either side of the Sultan’s throne.