‘This is grim,’ said Perkins as we walked past the headstones, each commemorating a young man or woman’s life not lived.
‘The loss seems more when you see them laid out like this,’ I said.
‘It doesn’t make much sense,’ added Perkins as we walked along. ‘If Quizzler had died, wouldn’t Kevin have foreseen it?’
‘Kevin doesn’t see everything,’ I replied, ‘but I agree it’s annoying. We’ll find out what we can, grab the Princess and get out of town. Without any evidence about the Eye of Zoltar, we’re not going any farther.’
Perkins hailed a passing gravedigger. His clothes were worn but respectable, his hands looked as though they were made of leather, and his shovel had been worn shiny by constant use. The gravedigger introduced himself as something that sounded like ‘Dirk’, and Perkins explained who we were looking for.
‘Kin?’ asked Dirk, staring at the pair of us suspiciously.
‘A distant cousin,’ I said, ‘on my mother’s side.’
‘Ar,’ said the gravedigger, ‘follow I.’
The gravedigger led us past hundreds of headstones carved with a name, the date and a short epitaph in a typically railwayese style. They ranged from the direct ‘Ran out of steam’ or ‘Hit the buffers’ to the more poetic ‘Shunted to a quiet corner of the yard’ and ‘Withdrawn from service’.
We turned left at a crossroads and followed another avenue of headstones.
‘You must be kept busy,’ I said to the gravedigger.
‘Busier than a turkey neck-breaker at Christmas.’
‘Nice simile,’ said Perkins, ‘full of charm.’
‘Jus’ thar,’ said the gravedigger as he pointed at a simple cross marked ‘Quizzler’ and a six-year-old date.
‘Ever meet him?’ I asked.
‘Only once,’ chuckled the gravedigger, ‘but he was in no mood for talkin’.’
‘You know how he died?’
‘Some say it were the grass what killed him.’
I sighed. Gravediggers always spoke in dark riddles. As a student at gravedigger college you’d have to master the art of random quirky banter before they’d even let you touch a spade.
‘The grass?’ I asked.
‘Aye. Was all grass around here when he arrived, and he wasn’t brought here by the undertaker, and we didn’t dig his grave, neither.’
‘Then who did?’
‘He done dig it hisself. He done everythin’ hisself ’cept read the sermon. Delivered hisself he did, then dug his own grave.’
Perkins and I looked at one another.
‘So what you’re saying,’ I said slowly, ‘is that he walked in alive, dug his own grave and was then laid into it?’
‘Sort of,’ said the gravedigger, ‘only he didn’t walk in here, and wasn’t put into the grave. Came in fast he did and buried isself quicker than a sneeze. Heard him the other side of the yard.’
Perkins was becoming exasperated too.
‘If I give you some money,’ he said, speaking very slowly and firmly, ‘would you tell us what the blue blazes you’re talking about?’
The gravedigger wagged his finger and laughed again.
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I’ve almost got this. He arrived in a hurry but not from the entrances, and buried himself in almost no time at all while making a loud noise?’
‘Aye,’ said the gravedigger, disappointed at our failure to understand him, ‘and you’ll get nothing further from me, not till you’ve learned some smarts.’
The gravedigger turned to walk away, but Perkins called after him.
‘Did you just … backfill over him after he landed?’
The gravedigger stopped, then turned slowly to face us. His eyes twinkled and he very purposefully looked upwards. I didn’t need to follow his gaze; I knew what he meant. Able Quizzler had arrived in the graveyard not by walking, but by falling, and if he hit the grass hard enough to bury himself, it was from a great height.
‘From a Leviathan, do you suppose?’ I asked.
‘No other explanation,’ said Perkins, ‘and Leviathans lead us on to Sky Pirate Wolff, and from there we get to the Eye of Zoltar – or do we?’
‘Sadly, no,’ I said after a moment’s thought. ‘We just get to Able Quizzler hitching a ride on a Leviathan. Ralph would have suffered the same fate – only I don’t think he had the good luck to fall into a graveyard.’
I stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do. I would risk all our lives if there was evidence of the Eye of Zoltar, but not for evidence of a Leviathan. This was a magic expedition, not one in pursuit of an endangered species, fascinating though that might be.
‘Right,’ I said, finally coming to a decision, ‘once we’ve got the Princess back we’re moving on to Cambrianopolis to negotiate for Boo’s release. My brief was to find evidence of the Eye. We don’t have any so I’m pulling the plug.’
‘Shame,’ said Perkins. ‘I was looking forward to climbing Cadair Idris and facing off all those terrors. jeopardy tourism has kind of grown on me.’
‘Well, it’s not growing on me,’ I said. ‘Come on.’
We walked back towards the entrance to the graveyard after giving the gravedigger a tip. We had almost reached the entrance when Perkins stopped.
‘Jennifer?’ he said.
‘Yes?’
‘I was just thinking. I mean, is it even possible for someone to bury themselves falling from a great height?’
‘What’s your point?’ I asked.
‘I’m thinking perhaps you’d only leave a dent in the ground, if that. Unless …’
‘Unless what?’
‘Unless you were made of something much, much heavier.’
‘Like … lead?’
Able Quizzler must indeed have come into contact with the Eye of Zoltar. But far from it giving him the power he craved, he had instead been changed to lead, the fate of anyone unskilled who tried to tap its massive powers. He would have been on a Leviathan when it happened, too, and once lead he would simply have toppled off. Being changed to lead wasn’t a great way to go, but probably quick.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘Kevin was right about the Eye. Looks like we’re heading north after all.’
The fast-track trial
We all reconvened at Mrs Timpson’s Battlement Viewing Tea Rooms situated atop the town walls, which, as its name suggested, afforded the many railway and military enthusiasts drawn to Llangurig a clear view of the battles below. We were there for a more culinary reason: Mrs Timpson’s was reputedly the best tea rooms in Llangurig, and I wanted at least to savour one last excellent scone, jam and clotted cream before we headed north.
‘… even if this only shows the Eye of Zoltar was here six years ago, I’m for going on,’ I concluded, ‘but if anyone wants out, I understand.’
‘I’ve got something to add before you all get too excited,’ said Addie. ‘I made a few enquiries and everyone who has ventured towards Cadair Idris to look for Sky Pirate Wolff or the Leviathans’ Graveyard has vanished without trace.’
‘How many?’
‘Fifteen expeditions, two hundred and sixty people,’ said Addie. ‘A hundred per cent fatality rate, and that’s weird. Even the most hideously dangerous undertaking leaves someone.’
‘The Mountain Silurians?’ I asked. ‘They’re pretty unpleasant.’
‘Unpleasant but not gratuitously murderous,’ replied Addie. ‘They let people travel across their territory so long as they get paid in goats. No, I think there’s something else. Something we don’t know about – a hidden menace waiting for us out there at the mountain. Still want to go there?’
We all exchanged glances.
‘You can only be talking to me,’ said Wilson with a smile, ‘because Addie we know would sooner accept death than dishonour her profession by baling out, and Perkins is as loyal and as unswerving as any man I have ever known.’
Addie and Perkins nodded their agreement at the assessment.
‘As for me,’ said
Wilson, ‘that brush with the Cloud Leviathan has really got my ornithological blood racing. Okay, it’s not a bird, but the notion of lighter-than-air flight in the animal kingdom is the scientific discovery of the century. I’ll be on the cover of National Geographic, so long as that woman with the gorillas hasn’t done anything exciting that month. Listen, wild Buzonjis wouldn’t keep me from this part of the expedition.’
I thanked them all, and asked how everyone had done since we last met. The short answer was ‘not very well’. Addie had found us transport in the guise of a battered jeep that was now waiting for us fuelled and oiled at the North Gate.
‘The jeep is a bit clapped out,’ said Addie, ‘but it should get us to Cadair Idris. I’ve also got eight goats in a trailer to barter safe passage with the Mountain Silurians.’
‘Good. Mr Wilson?’
Wilson explained that he had tried a small test bribe on the clerk of the court but was simply met with stony defiance.
‘I then went and told Judge Gripper O’Rourke that Laura was a princess.’
‘How did that work out?’
‘The judge laughed and told me that “everyone tried that” and “to come up with something a little more imaginative”.’
‘I could try magic to spring her,’ said Perkins, ‘but this is a tricky one. I’ve never used it against the accepted rule of law and … and that might cause some morality blowback.’
‘Some what?’ asked Wilson.
‘Morality blowback. Using magic to accomplish something against the natural order of justice can do serious damage. To use magic for wrong you have to believe the wrong is correct, and I’m kind of thinking that because the Princess was trading fraudulently, somewhere in all of this is a form of justice – even if execution itself is unjustified.’
‘Morality and magic is a minefield,’ I said. ‘It’s why wizards never spell death – just newting or stone transformations and stuff. It’s why Evil Sorcerer Geniuses always employ minions to do their dirty work. Even someone like Shandar would risk everything if he tried to actually kill someone or something directly using magic. Perkins is right. It’s too risky.’
We all fell silent for a while. We heard the gates of the town swing shut, and a second or two later the warring railway companies commenced their 18.02 teatime ‘Express Battle’ special.
We had a good view as the two railway armies locked in combat once more, this time with tanks and flame-throwers. Within a very short time two Trans-Wales Rails armoured bulldozers advanced to lay ballast for the tracks. They might have succeeded, had the earth not collapsed beneath them, the result of some secret tunnelling by Cambrian sappers. As the battle increased in intensity, the Cambrian railwaymen brought out a completed sixty-yard section of track while under cover of a diversionary ‘pincer movement’ to the south.
As we watched the proceedings, the assistants of Honest Pete and Rock-Steady Eddie communicated by a series of bizarre hand signals to their masters in the street below as to how the battle was faring, and with every sleeper or length of rail that was added or removed, the company’s share value rose or fell accordingly. By the time a short volley of mortars heralded the destruction of any small gains twenty-two minutes later, the shares had settled at about the same level as when the battle started. The railway tracks, it should be noted, had not progressed so much as an inch.
The railway enthusiasts who were with us made notes in their books as the dead and wounded were carried off, the town gates opened again and everything returned to Llangurig’s version of normal.
‘Senseless waste of time, effort and life,’ said Perkins.
‘So,’ I said, checking my watch, ‘any ideas on how to spring the Princess?’
There weren’t, which was discouraging.
‘Okay, then,’ I said, ‘we’ll just have to improvise.’
We paid for the tea and scones and made our way towards the combined bakery and courthouse to take our seats for the trial. It was hot in the courthouse – it would be, since the bread ovens had only just completed the afternoon bake – and the public were busy fanning themselves.
‘Where’s Perkins?’ I said to Wilson, as I’d lost sight of him coming in. He told me he didn’t know, and offered to find him, but I said not to worry. I wanted the Princess to see at least two of us there.
She was duly escorted in by the two officers who had arrested her earlier. Mr Lloyd, prosecuting, was sitting at his bench surrounded by a mountain of paperwork. In the Cambrian Empire lawyers were paid not by time worked, but by using a complex algorithm that took into account the weight of the paperwork, the age and height differential between counsel and defendant, recent rainfall and the brevity of the proceedings. It was said the best way to make a profit as a Cambrian lawyer was if you were a tall octogenarian who could generate three tons of paperwork, conduct cases in the rain for no more than three minutes and only prosecute the under-twelves.
‘All rise!’ said the clerk, and we all rose dutifully as the judge walked in and took his seat. He rummaged for his glasses, and had the court sit before he read the charges. While he did so, the public – there were at least thirty of them, I think – tutted and went ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’. The Princess looked on impassively, but did not glance in our direction. She may have been in the body of Laura, but she wanted to show us she could face the music like a princess if need be.
‘How do you plead?’ asked the judge.
‘Not guilty,’ said the Princess, and there were more muted whisperings in the courthouse.
‘Nonsense,’ said the judge, ‘I’ve seen the evidence and it’s highly compelling. Guilty as charged, for which the sentence is death. Anything to say before the punishment is carried out?’
‘Yes,’ said the Princess, ‘actually I do—’
‘Fascinating,’ said the judge. ‘Thank you, Mr Lloyd, for such a well-tried case. The legal profession may be justly proud of you. What was that? Nineteen seconds?’
‘Eighteen and a quarter, M’lud,’ said Mr Lloyd, bowing deferentially after consulting a stopwatch. ‘A new regional judicial speed record.’
‘Good show,’ said the judge, signing a docket the clerk had handed him. The scrap of paper was then passed to a bony old man who was sitting on a chair half asleep, and who awoke with a start when prodded.
‘Executioner?’ said the judge. ‘Do your work, but make sure it’s a clean cut – not like the messy job you did last time.’
‘Yes, My Lord,’ said the executioner.
I jumped up.
‘Objection!’ I shouted, and several people in the courtroom gasped at my audacity. ‘This trial makes a mockery of the high levels of judicial excellence that we have come to expect from the great nation that is the Cambrian Empire. I counter that everyone has the right to be represented by counsel, to be judged by their peers, and all evidence subjected to scrutiny before any decision is reached. I move that this farce be declared a mistrial and the prisoner released forthwith!’
There was silence in the court. It wasn’t a great speech. To be honest, it wasn’t even a good speech, but several of the public were moved to tears and shook me by the hand, and I even heard a sob from someone in the front row.
‘Your impassioned appeal has moved me, miss,’ said the judge, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief, ‘and I accede to your wishes. The trial will be declared void, the prisoner will be pardoned and released, and her criminal record expunged, with our apologies.’
He indicated to the clerk, who swiftly drafted a pardon for the Princess.
‘Th-thank you, M’lud,’ I said, surprised by the results.
The judge signed the pardon with a flourish.
‘There,’ he said, handing the Princess the pardon.
‘Thank you, M’lud,’ said the Princess, then added, as soon as she had read it: ‘Wait a moment, this is post-dated. I’m not pardoned for another hour – until after the execution.’
‘How … ironically tragic,’ said the judge. ‘Execut
ioner? Get on with it.’
‘That’s not fair!’ I shouted.
‘You shouldn’t confuse justice with the law, my dear,’ said the judge. ‘I have done everything that the law and you have asked: I have been both resolute and merciful. Now stay your hand, or you shall be arrested for contempt.’
I felt myself grow hot. The veins in my temples began to thump and a prickly heat ran down my back as my anger rose. It would end badly if I went into a rage, and I battled to keep it down. I squeezed the chair in front of me and the wooden back-brace exploded into fragments in my hands. I felt a howling in my ears, which then became a whistling; a high-pitched squeal that … sounded like a train whistle. Everyone in the courtyard had heard it too, and it had come from outside. My temper subsided as the judge, the executioner, Mr Lloyd and the public all hurried out to see what was going on. I took a deep breath and beckoned to the Princess, who hopped over the barrier between the combined witness box and flour bin.
‘All we have to do is keep you hidden for an hour,’ I said, taking her hand and heading for the door. ‘Quick, to the North Gate.’
We made our way to the town square and noticed that everyone was streaming out of the main gates with whoops of joy and resounding cheers. Hats were being thrown in the air, old women were crying in doorways and a brass band had struck up a triumphant tune. Just beyond the town gates I could see a shiny locomotive, big and bold and hissing with steam, where less than an hour ago there had been only battlefield.
‘Go with Wilson,’ I said to the Princess. ‘I’ll be with you as soon as I can. Something’s … not right. Wilson, use force to protect her if necessary.’
‘All other considerations secondary?’
‘Exactly.’
I left them and ran out of the gates to find that ahead of me a mile of shiny new track connected the depots of Trans-Wales Rails and Cambrian Railway. The rails were dead straight, the sleepers perfectly aligned and the ballast looked as though laid carefully by hand. The jubilant townsfolk and equally jubilant and now very wealthy railway troops were dancing in the dust outside the short connecting piece of rail while the railway militia generals were shaking each other’s hands in an annoyed but relieved fashion. The line was to be shared; profits would be equal; and better still, there would be no more senseless loss of life over an insignificant mile of railway line somewhere in the forgotten wilds of the Cambrian Empire.