Wynter felt the tears roll down her face at the cat’s awful hatred. “But I did nothing…” she whispered.
The cat stood up and prowled again, releasing a low irritated yowl. “Arrwwww. Hush up, hush up, creature. I do not care. Listen to my message and act upon it! That is all you need to do.”
“I will not bring about the downfall of the King!” Wynter said, her voice suddenly steely, “I will not aid you in your destruction of the crown.”
The cat turned sly eyes to her and smiled its needle-toothed smile. “The ghosts are surging,” it said. “They are this very minute about to rise.” It slunk across the table and brought its smiling face up close to Wynter’s, “They will thwart your friend, he who is son-but-not-heir to the King.”
“Razi?” exclaimed Wynter, half-rising from her chair.
“Yes, Razi.”
“Bring me to him!” said Wynter and the cat’s smile widened.
At the cat’s direction Wynter slipped through the hidden panel in the retiring room. They passed the door to Razi’s room and made their way into the pitch-black labyrinth beyond. The passages behind the wall were dusty and very dark. The cat had not allowed her to bring a candle, saying that the light might give her away, so Wynter had to depend on its voice to guide her through the impenetrable blackness. It perched on her shoulder, breathing instructions into her ear, its breath meaty and hot on her cheek.
She ran her hand along the wall for assurance, but sometimes the wall would just disappear and she would be assailed by a blast of icy air as she crossed the junction of a passageway. At those moments she would be gripped by the terrible fear that she was teetering on the edge of a precipice. She imagined a void yawning beside her, her feet a toe’s breadth from its maw, and she was convinced that she would simply topple over sideways and drop forever into the eternal black. At these times, she would be gnawed with doubt as to how far she could trust this cat, who was obviously filled with hatred and had not even offered her its name, but within a few steps the wall would be there again, running along beneath her fingertips, a tangible surface to anchor her in the dark.
They seemed to go on forever, past endless corridors of cobwebbed wood panelling. Occasionally they would hear voices, usually muffled, sometimes loud, sometimes there would be music. Now and again a thin line of light would show through a crack in the wood, and Wynter was glad that the cat had forbidden her a candle.
They went down steps. They took numerous turns. The air grew colder and colder and Wynter knew they must be in the cellars. Or in the dungeons underneath the keep.
“Here,” hissed the cat, “turn left.”
Wynter found herself in a very short, corbel-roofed passageway. There was dim torchlight coming through from the main corridor, which was only nine or ten paces ahead.
They were deep, deep underground, in the most secret of the palace dungeons. Wynter hesitated, terrified, her breath coming in misty puffs in the frigid air.
“Turn right at the top there, and go down the steps,” ordered the cat. “Tell he-who-is-son-but-not-heir that the ghosts will thwart him. Tell him to hurry in his inquisition.”
There were distant screams echoing from somewhere up ahead. Terrible screams, nothing like Heather Quinn’s, nothing like the nightmare cats’. Screams of unendurable agony.
Wynter panicked suddenly. What was she was doing here? What might she have to witness? She tried to retreat into the secret passage, meaning to rush back to her rooms and forget all about this fool’s errand. But the weight of the cat slipped suddenly from her shoulders and before she could turn, it had gone, flickering back into the dark like a snuffed candle. She was left with no way back, no guide through the pitch-black maze of passages. Her only choice now was to go forward and face what lay ahead.
The screams grew as she slowly moved along the corridor. High, bubbling, unending, they made her feel sick; they made her legs turn to water. She was suddenly filled with an urgent need for the privy.
She rounded the corner and found herself at the top of a short flight of stairs. She pressed against the wall, hugging the stone. The screams were so clear here, so full of human suffering. She was panting in fear and horror. She knew she was whimpering, but couldn’t seem to stop.
The stairs led down into a room. The bottom steps were flooded with sulphurous light, shadows moved about, flickering up the walls of the stairwell, making nauseating patterns on the stone. The prisoner, the poor, screaming, tortured victim that was the source of the sounds, was very close to the foot of those steps.
If she descended three, maybe five steps, she would see him. She would see what was being done to him, and who was doing it.
There was a smell of fire, of smoke, of burning flesh and hair.
She could make out the scattered, burbling words that punctuated the inarticulate shrieking. The pleading, the promises, the prayers.
How could anyone listen to that and still continue to inflict such pain? How could anyone, for any reason…?
“What in God’s name are you doing here?”
A cracked, appalled whisper from across the corridor. She turned her head to meet Christopher’s wide, haunted eyes. He leant in the shadows of the wall opposite her, looking as though he could barely stand. His face was drawn and horrified and he smelled of vomit. “You shouldn’t be here!” he exclaimed, his voice high with anguish. “My God! You shouldn’t be here!”
The screams fell away to moans and sobs for a moment, and the two of them turned towards the light. There was a short murmured conversation. A thin ribbon of garbled pleading. Sharp, impatient words. Then the pleading again, rising to begging shrieks, mercy, mercy, oh God, mercy. And then that great agonised howling again, those clogged, bubbling screams that stole the power from Wynter’s legs and brought her to her knees.
A shadow cut the light suddenly, soft edged and swirling as if walking through smoke, and then a tall silhouette came rapidly up the steps towards them. It was Razi. Wynter barely recognised him. The corners of his mouth were pulled down so far as to be hideous. His eyes were like live coals at the bottoms of tar-pits. He was smudged all over in soot and blood, and was shining with sweat. He looked like a monster cast in bronze, a horrific, horrified gargoyle forced to look on hell.
The screams continued to rise behind him as he topped the stairs. He flung himself on Christopher, who sobbed as Razi grabbed him and dragged him away from the wall. “All right,” Razi said, hoarsely, “All right, you win! Give it to me. Give it to me.”
Christopher was snarling through his tears, and Wynter didn’t think he heard what Razi was saying. He kept looking back down the steps. The victim was in a frenzy of pain, a series of high rhythmic shrieks tearing the air. “I should have killed him!” Christopher moaned, “I should have killed him! He’ll never talk! You should have let me…”
Razi shook Christopher hard. There was a patch of blood on his shoulder where it had soaked through the bandages and his shirt. “I’m SORRY!” he screamed, pulling Christopher up close to yell in his face, “I’m SORRY! You were RIGHT! Give me the bloody KNIFE!”
Christopher registered Razi’s words suddenly and started to scrabble at his boot to get his dagger.
Wynter was kneeling on the floor at the feet of the two men, completely disregarded. As she peered down into the sulphurous light she noticed a change in the air, a drawing out of the light, a low mutinous buzz that was rising up behind the sounds of torture.
“Razi…” she said, leaning forward over the top steps, staring into the light. It was drawing her like a whirlpool, it was sucking her down. “Razi… the ghosts…” she put her hand on the step below her, as though she intended to crawl down the stairs.
Razi turned beside her, Christopher’s dagger in his hand. He stuttered forward a few steps and then stopped. Christopher sank to his knees on the floor across from her. He fell forward onto his hands, his face tilted to the light, his eyes blank.
The screaming had ceased. The light had t
urned from orange to white. The air was humming all around them, like bees in a hive.
“The ghosts, Razi…” she said, “the ghosts are surging.”
The light seemed to burst.
Wynter felt her hands slide along the stone floor as she was pushed back up the corridor. She came to a stop against the stone arch with a gentle bump, rolling over, limp as a rag doll but still awake.
Light washed over her like watered milk.
Something big slid past her on the flagstones, brushing her legs. Later she would realise it had been Razi, toppled onto his back and shoved up the corridor like a sack of grain.
Great blossoms of white light flared and scattered on the ceiling and walls. All the sound had been crowded from the air, pushed aside, no room left for sound at all. Wynter knew that if she opened her mouth to scream, there would be nothing to hear.
The light went on and on, like a comet passing overhead, moving, flowing and blossoming. Wynter stared up at it, unable to lift a hand or her head, dumb and motionless as a stone.
And then it was over. Stone was stone, flesh was flesh, and she was seeing and hearing and breathing again as if nothing had happened.
She rolled slowly onto her side, her body tingling. Her hair was crackling like summer fire. Her clothes were sparking, sending out little fireflies of light at every crease and fold. Her teeth hurt. Her lips were buzzing.
Razi lay in the middle of the corridor, staring at the ceiling. As she watched, he slowly bent his right leg. Raised his left hand and dropped it again. Blinked.
Across the hall she heard Christopher release a shaky breath.
They got slowly to their feet, and went to look down the stairs. For a moment the three of them stood in a row, silent. Then Razi led the way down into the chamber.
The fires were out, their coals and soot scattered about the floor in a thick gritty carpet. Ash scraped beneath their feet as they walked, stone cold where only moments before it had been searing hot.
The prisoner and the inquisitors were indistinguishable, apart from their clothes and their positions in the room. Bloody, pulpy messes, barely recognisable as human; they looked as though they had been skinned and then carefully dressed again.
Wynter could look only very briefly at what was left of the prisoner before she had to turn away. The horrible chair, the straps, the twisted legs and broken arms, all these things she saw only fleetingly, but they never left her. The chair was ringed about with tables that were laden with terrible instruments, coated now with grit and ash. Great angry iron spikes, hammers, clamps, brands, screws, pliers, and some whose purpose she didn’t dare guess at.
Christopher would not come into the room. He followed them down the steps and she heard him pick up his knife from the floor, where it had fallen from Razi’s hand, but he loitered at the entrance and came no further. He stood staring at the bloody remains of an inquisitor. His corpse had been shoved up against the wall by the door, a scarlet trail leading from it to the torture chair. Christopher’s face was unreadable, but Wynter didn’t think he cared too much about this man’s fate.
Razi prowled the room, his footsteps scraping and echoing. The torch that he’d brought from the hall flared as he held it high and moved from body to body. He was checking for signs of life in the three inquisitors and the prisoner. When he had pressed his sooty fingers to the last bloody neck and found no pulse, he straightened and stalked back up the stairs.
Christopher and Wynter found themselves in utter darkness. Rousing themselves, they sealed the room, locking the door on the awful blackness within, and, without discussion, followed Razi’s footsteps, which led them along another hidden passage to the kitchen.
Fishing for Flies
False dawn was glimmering over the trees when the three of them came into the kitchen. They still had at least another quarter of the shadows before anyone but the fire-keeper would be wandering about. The old woman was actually just banking up the grate when they came slowly down the back stairs, and Razi snapped at her to leave them, his voice uncharacteristically harsh. She startled, bowed and scuttled off, shutting the door behind her.
Except for the little spit-boy, asleep in his crate of straw by the hearth, they were alone in the dancing light of the newly-stoked fire.
Razi got them beakers of water, horse-bread and butter, smoked fish, and they sat at the small table, not touching their food. Christopher was staring at Razi, his face hard, and Razi was pretending not to notice. Wynter was trying to keep her mind from dwelling on that chair, those instruments, and the memory of Razi stalking out of the smoke and firelight, bubbling screams rising up behind him.
“I’m SORRY!” shrieked Razi suddenly, rounding on Christopher and making Wynter jump. But he didn’t sound sorry. He sounded angry, he sounded furious, and his face was scarlet with rage. Christopher just looked at him, a stone wall, and Razi pounded the table with his fist. “I’m SORRY, Christopher! I’m SORRY, goddamn you, I’m bloody sorry!” And he was sorry then, his anger melting like ice on a skillet, leaving only regret. He put his face in his hands, and his voice was cracking when he said, “I can’t believe I let it go on so long.”
Christopher’s face softened for a moment and he moved his hand as though to reach out to his friend.
“Did you get anything from him?” Wynter asked. Christopher grunted in disgust and pushed back from the table with a screech of wood on stone. He went over to the fireplace and sat on the nook-bench beside the sleeping child. He turned his back on Razi and Wynter, his elbows on his knees, the fire outlining his taut profile in flickering light.
“Did you, Razi?” she asked again, her voice hard, purposely disregarding Christopher’s obvious abhorrence.
“Not much,” said Razi, tearing his eyes from the fireplace. “Just that Oliver sent him and…” he faltered, not looking her in the face.
“And? What?”
He looked at her then, the fire burning in his eyes, and she knew he was going to lie even before he wet his lips and opened his mouth. “That’s all,” he said, “Oliver sent him. That’s all we got.”
Wynter gazed at him. Oliver, her father’s old friend, the King’s beloved cousin. The man who had fought valiantly by the King’s side all through the insurrection, disgraced now, and fled the palace for reasons known only to the King. He had sent this man? But why? Why would he want Razi dead? It made no sense.
Razi slid a sideways look at her and she knew he was not telling her everything. Chuffing impatiently and pushing back from the table, Wynter glared at her friend. “What are you hiding, Razi Kingsson?” she said, “I’m not ten years old and in need of protecting now. Tell me!”
Christopher snorted in admiration and Razi ran his fingers through his hair, cornered. “There’s… he kept babbling about some kind of machine… what he called, ‘The Bloody Machine’. That, and Oliver… that’s all…”
There was more. She could tell. Something Razi couldn’t bring himself to say, and her intuition made her ask, “Did he mention Alberon?”
Razi glanced at Christopher, who turned to look briefly at them before facing back to the fire. Razi slid a glance at Wynter and shook his head, his gaze dropping to the table. She didn’t believe him. He might as well have had LIAR written in burning letters on his forehead. But that was all right, she’d get it out of him later. Perhaps it was something he didn’t want to say in front of Christopher.
“Why did the ghosts interfere, Razi?” Christopher said, speaking quietly. “What difference does any of this make to ghosts? They don’t care about anything. And why should the cats get involved?”
Wynter answered thoughtfully, working it out as she spoke. “I think the cats thought that the prisoner knew something… that he had information that would harm the King. And they wanted him to survive long enough to give you that information. Jonathon betrayed them, Razi, he poisoned them. They want their revenge. The ghosts must want to protect the King. They must…” Wynter hesitated, confused at the ve
ry thought of it. “The ghosts must have taken sides!”
Razi gave her a doubt-filled look. Even Christopher glanced at her sceptically. “Ghosts don’t take sides,” he said.
“A machine,” Razi mused, “The Bloody Machine… that’s what he called it. The Bloody Machine.”
“For Godssake!” growled Christopher suddenly. “He was talking about the chair! That’s all! That damned… contraption you had him in! That’s all!”
Razi flung his hand up and twisted his head away. “All right! all right!” he cried. “Just stop talking about it!”
They subsided into a bruised silence, over which the fire roared and crackled, the smell of smoke reminding them of the smoke-filled room with its odour of burning flesh and hair. Razi’s hands tightened to knots on the table, his eyes tormented.
Christopher suddenly gasped in surprise, and Wynter and Razi turned to see the cause. The spit-boy had lifted his hand and was sleepily running his fingers over Christopher’s loosely hanging fist. They watched as the little fellow, still comfortably curled in his sleep-shape, ran his fingers along Christopher’s mangled knuckles.
“How do, mouse,” whispered Christopher. “Thought you were asleep?”
“My Lord Razi woke me,” murmured the child, his cheek resting on his fist, his eyes silver slits under his eyelashes. He was barely awake. “What befell your fingers, mister?”
Christopher put the child’s exploring hand back under the blanket and pushed the greasy hair back off his little face. He ran his thumb across the sooty forehead. “Go to sleep,” he said quietly, “your day will start soon enough.”
The child’s eyes began to drift shut as Christopher continued to run his thumb across his brow.
“Tell me,” the boy insisted sleepily, his eyes still closed. Christopher chuffed a little laugh. Wynter was glad to see that even Razi, so downcast moments before, brightened noticeably, amusement gradually replacing the horror in his eyes.