Battlesaurus (34 page)

Willem thinks about that for a moment.

“I have an idea,” he says. “But I will need your help.”

“Of course.”

“I need to disappear,” Willem says. “In front of their eyes. It is the only way to keep my mother and Cosette safe.”

“It is not easy to disappear,” she says.

“I think I have a way to do it,” he says.

“You have much of your father in you,” Sofie says. “Tell me your plans.”

“If you have paper and pen,” Willem says, “I will draw them for you.”

The plans are complex, and although Willem explains as he draws, it is over an hour before he has finished.

“It is a daring scheme,” Sofie says, when Willem finally lays the pen to rest. “A grandiose illusion, to rival—perhaps even better—those of the great masters. But it depends on exact timing, and perfect coordination.”

“What magic trick does not?” Willem asks.

“Indeed, young Pieter,” Sofie says. “And the financial cost will be great.”

“I do not know how I would repay you,” Willem says.

“I would not take your money if you tried,” Sofie says. “I am an old woman, and have wealth that I can never use. Besides, it will be worth it just to see this performance.”

“I fear it will not have the audience it deserves,” Willem says.

“And the audience it will have does not deserve such an illusion,” Sofie says, laughing. She grows serious. “Now, Pieter. For a trick half as complicated as this I would expect to practice for months. But your first practice is also your performance. Respect your timing. It is a cruel and unforgiving master.”

She studies a rough map that Willem has drawn of the Western Scheldt, then stabs a finger on it. “There. No closer to shore. But that will mean running past the fortresses at Breskens and Vlissingen. They are the ones I told you about with the heavy cannon.”

“Do you think we can make it?”

“It is possible. The boat will be something small and quick, perhaps a brigantine. It will be light and maneuverable. That will help. But still you will need God looking over your shoulder.”

“How long will it take to be ready?” Willem asks.

“Not long,” Sofie says. “The equipment you ask for is relatively simple. The boat will be ready by tomorrow morning. The crew will do what you ask, but you must be seen to threaten them, in case they are caught.”

“We have a pistol,” Willem says. “And a crossbow.”

“That will do,” Sofie says. “But we still need to get you to the wharves. They are strictly cordoned. One person, alone, might slip through, but you say there are four of you?”

“Five,” Willem says.

“You will never make it,” Sofie says. “Not aboveground.”

“Aboveground?” Willem asks, but Sofie is thinking aloud.

“It must be at night, after curfew, but you will not be able to leave until they open the lock gates at high tide.” She ponders some more. “Where are you staying?”

Willem gives her the address of the inn.

“Sleep well tonight, Pieter,” she says. “And be outside the inn tomorrow morning at five. I will send Lars for you.”

“We will be there,” Willem says.

“Do not be seen,” Sofie says.

A door opens at the rear and the giant, Lars, enters again. He bends, and whispers in Sofie's ear.

Sofie looks up sharply at Willem. “Do the emperor's men know you are here in Antwerp?”

“I don't think so,” Willem says.

“Someone has seen you. Someone has talked,” Sofie says. “The French have just blockaded all the gates into the city.”

 

LARS

Lars, it turns out, is Sofie's youngest son. He carries a tall, narrow lamp and looks around constantly as they hurry through the still-dark streets.

At this early hour of the morning, there are few people, but fewer patrols. Still they keep to the shadows, moving only when Lars says it is safe.

“Wait,” he says, stopping abruptly at a corner. “Stay back.” He covers the lamp with a thick black cloth and the meager light it gives off disappears.

Willem draws back a little and the others fall into line behind him. Lars stares at a second-story apartment where a curtain has just been drawn back.

A woman's voice sounds from a few streets away. She sounds drunk and giggly. A cart clatters along cobblestones somewhere in the distance.

The curtain is drawn shut.

“We go,” Lars says. He uncovers the lamp and begins to move.

They move through the outskirts of Antwerp, one street at a time, always watching, often waiting. A mysterious and unseen network of sympathizers guides them through the streets of the city. In the east, the not-yet-risen sun leaks blood into the morning sky.

They are nearly at the main road when they hear the thud of boots and shouted commands. Lars leads them into a small garden to wait, out of sight, and a few moments later a group of British soldiers appears. They have no weapons and do not march, but trudge dejectedly, heads down. The reason for that is immediately clear as behind them walk a team of Dutch soldiers, muskets at waist level, bayonets fixed. Captors and their captives.

“A few days ago they were helping us kill the French,” Frost says when the soldiers have passed by. “Today they are helping the French.”

“It's because they've changed sides, sir,” Jack says.

“And if Napol
é
on conquers England will you fight for him, Jack?” Frost asks.

“I don't think I'd like that, sir,” Jack says after a while.

*   *   *

At a wide road, busy with wagons and carts despite the early hour, they wait for a clearing in the traffic before crossing.

A few streets farther on Lars leads them into a brick archway.

“This is as far as we can go,” he says. “The French have closed off all the streets around the port.”

“Your mother assured me there is a way,” Willem says.

Lars nods. “The Ruien,” he says.

“Ruien?” Frost asks.

“Come,” Lars says. A heavy wooden door in a wall at the back of the archway is bolted and padlocked, but the padlock opens easily to an iron bar that Lars produces out of nowhere. The air that wafts out when he slides back the bolt and opens the door has the foul reek of a cesspool, and Willem involuntarily puts his hand over his mouth and nose.

“Who passed gas?” Frost mutters, holding his sleeve to his nose.

“Not me, sir,” Jack says, and in a confidential whisper says, “I think it was the big fella.”

“This is nothing,” Lars says with a huge grin. “Wait till you get down to the tunnels.”

Inside, there is a bare room, with unadorned brick walls. The only thing in the room is the large hole in the center of it, and the circular metal staircase that leads down.

“You don't think the French will guard these tunnels?” Frost asks.

“I do not think so, monsieur,” Lars says. “And even if they do, there are many entrances and many exits. The tunnels themselves are a bit of a maze. In any case I think you have no other choice. Here is a map,” he says, handing Willem a piece of paper on which rough scratchings have been made. “If you lose the map, follow the water. It flows always to the sea.”

Willem takes the map and folds it carefully into a pocket.

“The smell is not so good,” Lars says. “But it mostly will not kill you.”

“Mostly?” Fran
ç
ois asks.

“There are patches of firedamp in the tunnels,” Lars says.

“Firedamp?” Willem asks.

“Gas. From the sewer water. Most places are safe, because the gas floats above air, and the ceilings are high. But there are many pockets that are very dangerous. Strike a flint, or light a lamp and … boom!”

He hands Willem the odd, tall lamp. A fine metal mesh surrounds the flame.

“You said no lamps,” Frost says.

“This is a miner's lamp,” Lars says. “It is safe to use, but you must keep a constant watch on the flame. See here.”

He indicates a graduated series of lines marked on the metal handle that runs up the side of the lamp.

“If the flame starts to burn higher, and bluer, then there is firedamp,” Lars says. “Firedamp rises, so crouch down and move on quickly. But if the flame starts to burn low, then there is low oxygen. You must move out of there immediately.”

“When we get to the estuary, what then?” Willem asks.

“Everything you asked for has been done,” Lars says. “The brigantine is called the
É
paulard
. It is moored in the dock.”

“You are not coming with us?” Frost asks.

Lars laughs and shakes his head. “No man would go into the Ruien unless he had no other choice.”

“I guess that's us,” Frost says.

Lars turns to leave, then stops. From inside his voluminous coat he produces a narrow oilskin wallet.

“I almost forgot,” he says. “Your papers. File these with the dockmaster before leaving the port. No boat can leave without authorization, and an inspection.”

“Thank you, Lars,” Willem says. “And Sofie also.”

“Good luck,” Lars says.

Willem, holding the lamp out in front of him, leads the way down the metal staircase. It is old and rusted, and the steps shift as he stands on them, sending metallic creaks reverberating out into the tunnel below.

*   *   *

The black shapes of the demonsaurus rasp and pace inside the small cage. The sun has just broached the horizon and the creatures need food.

The saurmasters appear with feed buckets, but Thibault stops them before they reach the caged wagon.

“Keep them hungry today,” he says.

“That is dangerous, General,” says the first of the saurmasters, a stocky man named Bolcque.

“I do not care,” Thibault says.

“They will be much harder to control,” the second saurmaster says. He is a thin, skeletal man named Alain.

“Half-rations only then,” Thibault says.

The commandant of the garrison approaches, walking quickly, with a soldier trailing behind him.

“General, sir,” he says.

“Yes, Commandant?”

“We may have found something,” the commandant says, indicating the soldier.

“Speak,” Thibault commands.

“Sir, we were patrolling the east side,” the soldier says. “We found a door with a broken lock. It leads into the Ruien. I left my comrade to guard it, and came straightaway.”

“What is this Ruien?” Thibault asks.

“Ancient sewers,” the commandant says, with an expression of distaste. “Could this be your fugitives?”

Thibault shrugs. “A broken door on a sewer entrance. Possibly. Where do these sewers lead?”

“To the estuary,” the commandant says. “Close to the docks.”

“We must check it,” Thibault says, turning to the saurmasters. “Bring the demonsaurus. Let us see if they pick up a trail.”

 

THE RUIEN

The first thing Willem is aware of, other than the darkness and the suffocating stench of the old sewers, is the sound of fluids dripping. Perhaps water. Perhaps not. And not the sharp plunk of liquid into a bowl. Each droplet seems long and drawn out as though things move more slowly here in these ancient bowels of the city.

At first the sounds make him flinch, but soon they just merge into the background, unnoticed unless he thinks about them.

Not so the smell. The stench is aggressive, forcing its way through his nostrils and down his throat. He can taste the stink. He can feel it in his lungs.

A sharp turn at the bottom of the stone steps leads them into the first of the tunnels. A steeply walled brick corridor with a vaulted ceiling, supported by heavy arches of stone.

Ceramic pipes jut from the walls and it is from these that the dripping sound comes. Tongues of green slime hang from the ends, and sewer juice bloats on their tips before dropping into the channels below.

The light of the miner's lamp is dim, but enough for them to see that the surface of the water in the channels is bubbled and uneven with drifting blotches of scum. Foot-long sewer worms writhe in the sludge at the sides of the channels.

Willem is grateful for the floating scum. It shows him which way the water is flowing, and he does not want to rely on the map in these lightless innards.

Another sound encroaches: tiny, scuttling feet, and from on top of one of the pipes a large rat regards them curiously.

The tunnel curves twice before leading them out into a larger chamber where the ceiling is supported by huge pillars that curve up and outward in spouting fountains of brickwork.

They avoid wading in the effluent by following a stone walkway along one of the walls. Where it crosses the tunnels there are stone blocks in the streams, a pace apart. It is easy going, but runs out at the far end of the chamber where the flow surges into a low outflow tunnel. There is a little air gap at the top of that tunnel, and when Willem stretches out from the walkway and holds the lamp in the entrance, the flame almost extinguishes.

“No oxygen,” he says, barely opening his lips, unwilling to allow the fetid breath of the Ruien into his mouth.

“Then which way?” Frost asks.

*   *   *

The soldier holds a broken padlock, the metal bent and twisted.

“Has anyone come out?” Thibault asks, raising the back of a finger to block his nostrils as he peers into the entrance.

“No, sir, but I have heard movements down below,” the soldier says.

“Let us see if the demonsaurus can pick up a scent,” Thibault says.

The two patrol soldiers back well away as the black creatures are clipped to leashes, then released from the cage.

They latch on to a scent immediately and follow it through the doorway to the circular stone steps that lie behind it. They paw at the ground and strain at their leashes.