He began to search the room for money.
This is what Yann knew, what he had always known: All objects, great and small, have a spirit. Sometimes, if you listen carefully, you can almost hear the sound they make.
Hidden deep in among the drapes of the bed was a purse. Yann picked it up and put it in his pocket, where it felt pleasingly heavy. Now he had to get out of here as fast as he could.
Sido hadn’t dared move since the count had left. Yann found her still sitting on the floor, her head in her hands. She looked up at him.
“Where have you been? Count Kalliovski was here.”
“It took longer than I thought. We’ll be gone in a minute.” He went straight to the bed and pulled back the covers. “Wake up,” he said gently, shaking Têtu back into life as he helped him to his feet. He was pleased to see that the dwarf’s eyes were purple-black once more and his skin no longer pale.
“Where am I?” said Têtu, who for a moment thought that he must have woken from a bad dream. Yann said something to him in a language Sido had never heard before. Têtu gulped as the memory of what had happened came back to him.
Yann turned back to look at Sido, sitting crumpled and abandoned on the floor, and for a moment he had an overwhelming desire to take her with them, to save her from being one of the headless ones.
There was a knock at the door. Sido scrambled to her feet. Quickly Yann and the dwarf disappeared behind the screen and through the panel, sliding it back into place just as the count entered, followed by a footman carrying a tray with Sido’s supper. This time the dog at the count’s heels was silent. The tray was laid before her. The sight of the food made her mouth water. Eat slowly, she said to herself. Don’t rush.
The count’s eyes darted around the room as he ordered the footman to straighten out the bed.
“There is no need,” said Sido quickly.
"Continue,” said the count smoothly, addressing the footman. Balthazar had begun sniffing the air.
“I hope you don’t mind if I keep you company while you dine?”
Sido knew that the longer he stayed, the longer the dwarf and the boy had to make their escape.
“I would like that,” she said.
Count Kalliovski sat down on a chair by the bed. The dog at his feet let out a heavy sigh and, putting his head on his outstretched paws, closed his eyes.
“I think your dog is more used to me now,” said Sido.
“So it seems. When you have finished, I will take you down to see the fireworks. Your father assures me that they will be magnificent.”
Sido watched the count as with hooded eyes he searched the room once more, looking for evidence to confirm his suspicions. In the quicksilver candlelight he made a menacing figure, and she knew then that he was no friend. Her instinct told her that there was no escape: This dark spider was waiting patiently to catch her in his gold-spun web.
chapter seven
The kitchens of the château were busy. Even after the main banquet had been served there was more than enough to do. The gambling tables demanded a constant supply of drinks and petits fours. Jean Rollet, the chef, and his staff would be working all night until the very last guest had left or retired. The arrival of two more in the kitchen went almost unnoticed except as extra pairs of hands to help.
“Hey, you there, lackey,” a valet shouted at Yann, “the viscount needs this tray taken up to him at once.”
Yann shook his head. “We are the entertainers, hired for the count’s show. We need to get back to Paris tonight.”
The valet threw up his hands in disgust. “What are you doing in here, then?”
Yann felt bewildered. He had never been in such a large kitchen before, with servants running backward and forward, the chef swearing and stamping his foot, bells ringing, the noise, the smells, the heat. It was like a furnace.
Têtu started to sway. He was going to fall over if he didn’t sit down. Yann grabbed a stool.
“No you don’t,” said one of the cooks, snatching it back and lifting her wooden spoon as if it were a weapon. “Away with you, Gypsies.”
“We have to get back to Paris.”
“Well, what are you doing asking me? Do I look as if I have a magic carpet?” Then, seeing the state of Têtu, she softened. “You’d better go and ask the coachmen in there.”
Yann helped Têtu through the kitchen to a small antechamber where a group of men were sitting at a table, their plates wiped clean, their glasses full.
“My friend needs to sit down,” said Yann, and one of the men pulled out a chair for him.
“He don’t look too perky. What’s wrong with him?”
“We need help. Are any of you Paris-bound tonight?”
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” said one of the men, pushing his chair back and lighting his pipe. “With luck, they’ll be playing cards till dawn and then some.”
Suddenly Yann felt as if he had hit a wall. He had gotten this far without being discovered, and now, just when there seemed hope that they might escape, all was lost. Time was slipping away from him; he knew it would not be long before the count found out about the secret passages.
“Here,” said a man with a shining bald head, pouring some wine from a large clay pitcher into a glass. “Give this to Titch. He looks as if he could do with it.”
“Thank you,” said Yann, helping Têtu with the wine. Slowly he began to look more like his old self.
“Has he always been that small, or will he grow?” asked the bald-headed man, laughing.
If Yann had been given a gold coin every time he had heard Têtu insulted they would be rich by now. Still, it riled him as it always did to hear his friend slighted, though he knew better than to react.
A footman opened the door and poked his head around. “The Viscomtess de Lisle will be staying.”
“Good to know it,” said her coachman. “First sensible thing the old bat’s done in ages.”
“You think so?” laughed the footman. “Well, she wants her pet monkey brought back from Paris. She thinks it’ll be lonely. It’s not your night, Dufort, my old friend.”
“Hasn’t she seen the snow outside?” said Dufort, gesturing toward the window.
“That’s why she wants her monkey.”
“Oh well,” sighed Dufort, "here we go again. Doubt I’ll make it back before tomorrow. Tell you this much,” he muttered into the last dregs of his wine, “one day I’ll be my own master. No more of this come here, go there, lucky-to-have-a-job nonsense.”
All the men laughed. “You know what you can do?” said the bald-headed one. “Write all your grievances out and send them to the king.”
“That’s a good one,” said his friend, slapping him on the back. “Maybe the king will be able to get her to behave.”
Everyone burst out laughing, everyone except Dufort, who looked furious as he pulled on his heavy coat, loath to be leaving the warmth and comfort of the kitchens.
“To make matters worse, the roads aren’t safe these days, what with all the bandits and brigands, and she’s too mean to pay for a lackey to help,” he grumbled.
Yann seized his chance. “We will keep you company,” he said.
“What, take a couple of Gypsies like you? Forget it.”
Têtu, now able to walk unaided, followed Yann back through the kitchens past a rack of freshly baked bread that was cooling from the ovens. With the swiftness of hand that takes a lifetime to master, he took two of the loaves and hid them in his topcoat before making his way out into the snowy courtyard.
“It’s no good you two following me,” said Dufort. “I’m not taking you and that’s final.”
“Would money change your mind?” asked Yann.
“Would the man in the moon giving me a silver eye make me think different? Of course it would. It ain’t going to happen, though.”
Yann, as if from thin air, conjured up five coins and handed one of them to Dufort. He looked at it carefully, then put it in his mouth a
nd gave it a good bite to check its worth. He didn’t know what to make of this strange pair, the street urchin and the little fellow with the girly, squeaky voice.
“Where did you get this kind of money?” he said.
“We were brought here from a Paris theater to entertain the guests. We’re magicians. We were paid handsomely for our trouble,” said Têtu.
“Then where’s your driver, Titch?”
“We can’t find him. He must have left earlier to avoid the worst of the weather.”
“We were held up,” added Yann quickly, “because my friend was feeling unwell.” He knew that Dufort was wavering between doubt and the certainty of the coin that he held in his hand. “I’ll give you this now and as much again when we reach the city. Is that fair?”
“All right,” said Dufort reluctantly, “as long as you don’t tell anyone. The old bat’s most particular about who is allowed in her carriage. Monkeys yes, dwarfs and dogs no.”
The coachman led the way across the yard to the marquis’s stables. They were the height of luxury. He might not have cared much for his servants or his daughter, but the marquis’s horses were a different matter altogether. He liked them to be well looked after. He had a notion that after his death he might be born again as a fine stallion, in which case the marquis wanted to be housed here with crystal chandeliers to illuminate his hay, and underground heating to warm his hooves.
“Look at that,” said Dufort. “His tenants live in hovels with barely enough to eat and the horses live like lords. It makes my blood boil, it does.”
He opened the door of the carriage and let Têtu in. “If you don’t mind, I’d like the boy to ride with me and keep an eye out for thieves. When we’re near Paris, I’ll lock you both into the carriage. Don’t want the riffraff trying to hitch a ride, do we?”
He handed Yann a heavy coat to wear. It nearly drowned him. “Always keep two handy, in case of rain.”
It was a small carriage with two young horses to pull it, both of whom seemed high-strung and reluctant to leave the warmth of the stable. Finally, with much urging, they made their way down the avenue of trees whose branches were full of little lights that twinkled like stars. Beyond the estate lay a vast black abyss, waiting to swallow them up.
“I hate driving at night,” said Dufort miserably, his breath coming out of him in a foggy mist. “It gives me the creeps.”
The darkness had never bothered Yann, especially not tonight. There was safety in a starless sky.
“We may be less than four leagues from the city, and this may well be the best road France has to offer, but with no moon . . . Ah, what’s that?”The coachman flinched as the sky above the château erupted with the sound of fireworks. They exploded into the darkness, painting patterns of light in the shape of stars, serpents, comets, and chrysanthemums. It was an astounding sight in this landscape of ice and snow.
Terrified by the noise, the horses reared up. Dufort, distracted by the fireworks, lost control of the reins, grabbing at the sides of the carriage to stop himself from being thrown to the ground. The horses, now wild with fear, were galloping. Up ahead the road turned, and Yann could see that at this speed the coach would skid on the ice. He could hear Têtu shouting as he was thrown from side to side. With difficulty he scrambled down from the coachman’s seat.
“You’re mad!” yelled Dufort, as with one measured leap Yann managed to mount the first horse. Holding on to its neck for all he was worth, he leaned forward and whispered into its pinned-back ears. At the sound of his soft voice both horses became calmer and slowed down until they finally came to a halt, steam rising from their glossy coats. Yann climbed down and stroked their muzzles, talking to them in a language that the startled coachman was sure he had heard before.
“You’re a brave one and no mistake,” said Dufort, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “I thought I was a goner back there.” He handed Yann his flask as they set off again. “There’s a thing! What did you say to them?”
Yann shrugged, looking back to see the last of the fireworks as they illuminated the château before it too disappeared altogether.
“The only other person I’ve seen talk to horses like that was a Gypsy man. I had a feeling you two had Gypsy blood.”
Yann wasn’t listening. He was wondering if Sido had been allowed to see the fireworks, or if she was still locked in her chamber. He smiled as he stared at the road in front of him. The thought of how angry the count would be to discover that the purse and the red necklace were missing warmed him.
Dufort shivered. “I always think them forests are full of eyes, all watching and waiting.” He laughed. “Tell you this, boy, I’ll be glad when I see the lights of Paris.”
Yann looked into the woods of beech trees, their silvery barks catching the reflection of the carriage’s lights. An owl hooted, and its haunting cry followed them as they made their way down the icy road. An hour and a half later he was allowed into the carriage, where, half frozen, he quickly fell asleep.
Têtu woke him just before dawn. The coach had reached the gates of Paris. Through a gap in the curtains Yann could see crowds of people all waiting to be let into the city in the hope of earning the price of a loaf of bread. The carts that had food to sell were being heavily guarded by police and soldiers. They were the first to be let in, while the begging and pleading from the crowd rose in volume.
“Get away with you,” bellowed the gatekeeper. “There’s no work in the city. It’s frozen solid like the rest of this blasted country.”
Groups of starving people were being forcibly turned back, while others yelled that they had papers.
At last the carriage came to a standstill.
“How are you, Dufort?” they heard the gatekeeper inquire.
“Why, Monsieur Gaspard!” said Dufort with genuine surprise. “What are you doing here? A new job, I see, and a good one.”
“A good one, this, dealing with the rabble every day? You must be joking! I only got it because the old chap had a heart attack. They say one man’s misfortune is another man’s misfortune.” They both started to laugh.
“Is the viscountess with you?” asked the gatekeeper.
“No, thank the Lord.”
“So why did she send you back empty?”
“She wants me to fetch her monkey. I’ll be back this way as soon as I’ve got the little beast.”
“A monkey,” chuckled the gatekeeper. “I’ve heard it all now. Away with you.”
The carriage set off again, lurching from side to side as it made its way over the cobbles and over the Pont Neuf, and then they were on the right bank of the Seine. There, in a narrow side street, Dufort stopped, climbed down, and unlocked the door.
“You did well, my friend,” said Têtu.
Yann was too tired to do anything other than take some coins from the purse and hand them to Dufort.
“This is too much,” said Dufort, looking longingly at the money in his hand.
“Keep it,” said Têtu.
"Very decent of you.You’re good people,” said Dufort, climbing up again and taking hold of the reins. “I reckon it’s me who should be thanking you for saving the coach. I owe you one.”
The snow had started to fall again. Yann put his hands deep in his pockets. He could feel the purse, and the weight of it reassured him that they had money left over; but the red necklace had vanished.
“Come on,” said Têtu.
With heads bowed, coats pulled tight around tired, cold bodies, they walked toward the theater manager’s apartment in the Marais, knowing they had the unpleasant task of breaking the news of Topolain’s death to him.
Count Kalliovski, returning to his chamber in the early hours of the morning, looked into the heart of the fire. It had been a good night. He had watched as more money was lost than won at the gaming tables. The little black leather-bound notebook that he privately called the Book of Tears was full of IOUs with the trembling signatures of desperate souls longing to borrow more,
sure that their luck would change.
Men’s morals were as insubstantial as tissue, and about as transparent, he thought. Oh yes. He had bought himself more foolish-minded men and women, who would soon be asked to pay him back with interest.
He put the Book of Tears on the desk. It was only then that he noticed the absence of the red necklace. A cold fury overtook him. Balthazar made a low growl, and he spun around.
“Who’s there?” he said to an empty room.
The count went over to the bed, felt in the drapes for the purse, and cursed out loud when he found it gone. With rising anger he summoned Milkeye.
“Where are they?”
“We’re still looking, master.”
“Why haven’t you found them?”
“They could be anywhere in the labyrinth of secret passages behind the walls,” said Milkeye. For such a big man he seemed to have shrunk in size.
“Show me,” said the count coldly.
Milkeye opened the hidden door.
The count took a candle and disappeared into the passage. Coming back into the room, he turned his icy gaze upon his servant, and pinned him up against the wall.
“I made you and I can destroy you, and I will. I want both of them. Do you understand?”
“Alive, master?”
“No, dead.”
chapter eight
Monsieur Aulard was not a morning person. The previous night he had been out drinking with some actors. Now, red-faced and snoring, he was fast asleep.
It took him a few minutes to realize that the terrible banging sound was not coming from the inside of his head, that it was something quite detached from him.
His parrot, Iago, who was sitting on his usual perch shipwrecked amongst the shambles of the bedchamber, joined in the commotion by screeching, “Wake up, naughty boy, wake up!” In a desperate attempt to silence the noise Monsieur Aulard threw his wig at the parrot. The knocking just kept on, getting louder and more urgent.