Beyond the Shroud (16 page)

And suddenly the helpless despair weighing down on me gave way to red rage, familiar, wild, and welcome as an
old friend. Without thinking — hardly knowing I was doing it — I strode to the bars and gripped them in my fists, shaking with all my might. ‘
Let us out!
' I yelled. ‘Who do you think you are? At least bring us some food and blankets! We'll freeze down here!' I hammered on the bars with my fists, and kicked at them with my feet till my toes were bruised and numb.

There was the last distant rattle of an iron grill falling, and the hollow echo of retreating footsteps, punctuated by an exchange of deep voices and a burst of harsh laughter.
‘You've killed Richard!
And what about Blue-bum?' I was almost sobbing with helpless fury. ‘He's out there somewhere, lost in the dark … and you don't even
care!
And the others — where are they? What have you done with them?' My voice rang out into the shadowy corners of the dungeon, the bleak walls bouncing my words back at me in a mocking echo.

And then my anger faltered and was gone as if it had never existed, leaving a hollow emptiness. It had all gone wrong — everything. Hot tears burned behind my eyes. I sank forward exhausted, hanging from the bars, feeling the cold fingers of the dungeon creep through my tattered clothes, through my skin, into the depths of my heart.

There was a long, long silence. Then a voice spoke behind me. ‘Adam?'

I turned stiffly, not daring to believe what I'd heard. It was Richard, the marks of the gauntlet still raw on his cheek. ‘Hey,' he croaked with a crooked grin, ‘do you see what I see?'

Rich was pointing at my backpack, which was lying on top of a forlorn heap just inside the door, where the guards had dumped them. It twitched. Tipped. Rocked from side to side. Slowly, the flap of the bag lifted … and a pinky-brown monkey paw patted its way tentatively out. Followed by another … followed — very cautiously
— by a single bright button eye.

Rich propped himself up on one elbow, his grin lighting up the gloom. ‘Why not relax and enjoy the free accommodation, Adam?' he said huskily. ‘After all, we're in Shakesh, where we wanted to be. We've got our sleeping bags, and plenty of chewing-gum … and now it looks like your old mate Blue-bum's hitched a ride in your backpack.

‘What more could you want?'

We slept huddled together for comfort like a litter of puppies, as far from the door as we could get, without stirring or dreaming: the sleep of utter exhaustion.

But tired as I was, when I woke it was as abruptly as if someone had turned on a light bulb in my brain. One moment I was in deep sleep, dark and silent as the still water at the bottom of a well; the next, my brain was racing, every sense alert.

Voices — there were voices in the dungeon.

I lay there without so much as twitching, listening.

‘Be sure you understand the order of ceremony for the day.' I recognised the voice instantly: deep and harsh, with a ring of authority. The chief guard. ‘First, the princess.' He gave the word a strange, almost sneering emphasis. ‘A private audience — His Excellency is still amusing himself with her, or so it seems.'

‘First, the princess,' repeated another, younger-sounding voice obediently.

‘She is already in the first holding chamber. Remember: private audience, drapes drawn. Then …' there was the sound of parchment shuffling … ‘then we have these vermin — you will need to take them up to the second holding chamber.'

‘Should I clean 'em up? They're awful stinky.'

‘Orders are that His Excellency wishes to see them as they came in.'

‘What will he do with 'em, do you think, Captain?'

‘Who knows? The Faceless found them sniffing about at the edge of the shroud. His Excellency has no mercy for interlopers — especially now, as the time draws nigh.' He gave a cruel laugh. ‘We will not be guarding these long, I'll warrant. Once they are done with, only the Mauler remains before mid-morning recess. Grilles closed, drapes open; Their Extreme Elegancies will wish to watch the display, but their safety is paramount. Be prepared to draw the drapes at a moment's notice should the spectacle become too overwhelming.'

‘So: grilles closed, drapes open, but be ready to close 'em.' A new note crept into the business-like exchange. ‘Captain … this Mauler. I've been up guardin' the slaves workin' on Arraz, and I ain't seen it yet. Is it really all they say?'

‘All … and more. A killing machine. Teeth like sabres; talons of adamantine. Eyes of fire, and a body lithe and sleek as a spring … untameable, and ruthless in the pursuit of its prey. It is a savage beast spawned of your wildest nightmares; a legend sprung to life. Aye, the Mauler is a rare curiosity, a collector's piece … and at present, His Excellency's greatest diversion and indulgence.

‘But remember, as your life depends upon it:
keep the guard-grilles closed.
And now, make haste!'

I opened one eye a slit. There was a heavy wooden table against the wall opposite our cell — a guard-station, I
guessed. It held an untidy scatter of parchments, a couple of dirty-looking tankards and platters, and a jumble of rusty-looking chains. A smoky lantern hung from a bracket on the wall above the table, with a grimy slate next to it. Though it was hard to tell in the dim light, it seemed to be divided into boxes I guessed must refer to the cells … or to the long rack of heavy iron keys fastened to the wall beside it.

A burly figure heaved itself up from one of the rough wooden chairs and unhooked the key second from the left. Hefting a thick metal truncheon, he crossed the wide gap between the table and our cell in three long strides and ran the truncheon along the iron bars of our cell with a rattling clang that brought the others leaping to their feet, wide awake in an instant.

In seconds, the door was flung open and we were herded out and down the narrow corridor between the wall and the line of cells — this time, in the opposite direction to which we'd come. We skirted a heavy metal grille set into the floor with a sickening, putrid smell wafting up from it. I noticed a narrow stairway leading steeply downwards to our left, into deep shadow. Instinctively, I shrank away, shuddering at the thought of what desolate depths it must lead to. An echoing chant wound up from the depths — the same few words endlessly repeated, with the hollow desperation of a mind clinging desperately to its last shreds of sanity. We huddled closer and hurried on.

Through one portcullis and another, to a circular tower with a spiral stairway leading upwards. Waiting our turn to join the file clanking its slow, cumbersome way up the steps, Rich and I exchanged a glance. We didn't need words to know what the other was thinking. There was no way in the world we would ever escape from here. We'd be here for life, as long as it lasted … if it wasn't for the secret microcomputer, hidden in the depths of my backpack with
Weevil curled on top of it, quiet as a mouse and hoping against hope not to be discovered.

We emerged from the top of the stairway into a curved passage. Our guard — a swarthy, bearded man in the black cloak which seemed to be the universal uniform of Shakesh — held one finger to his lips, indicating we should be silent … and then drew the edge of his hand across his neck to show what would happen if we weren't. Still in single file, we crept after him as quietly as our clanking chains would allow.

The wall to our right was unbroken, but studded wooden doors led off at regular intervals on the left. We followed the curve till only two doors remained. Our guard opened the first of these and pushed us roughly through, bolting the door behind him.

We were in a small antechamber, about four metres square. On the rear wall was the door we'd come through; the two adjoining walls were bare. The third wall wasn't stone, as the others were — it was a close-knit mesh of what looked like steel, intricately hinged and bolted … I guessed this was so that it could slide away to open the room to whatever lay beyond. On the far side of the grille was a heavy tapestry, drawn across like a curtain.

One thing was clear — for the time being at least, there was no opportunity to escape. Rich looked at me, raised one eyebrow, and shrugged. I shrugged back, and gave the others what I hoped was a cheerful grin. We were a pretty miserable-looking lot — pale with hunger and apprehension, faces smeared with dirt and dust from sleeping on the dungeon floor, clothes tattered and filthy.

I slid down so I was sitting with my back to the wall, a weirdly familiar feeling fluttering in my gut — and couldn't
help a wry grin when I realised what it was. Here, in the holding chamber awaiting an audience with King Karazeel of Karazan — an audience I had a hunch could only end badly — I had the same feeling of sinking dread I'd had on my many visits to the principal's office. For some crazy reason, the thought made me feel a whole lot more cheerful.

And then a man's voice spoke up on the other side of the grille, only slightly muffled by the heavy drapery, and every other thought was instantly banished from my mind.

‘I ask again:
Who are you?
' The voice had a silken, almost hypnotic quality; a gentle, sinister insistence.

There was a pause; just the merest heartbeat. Then another voice — a gallant, staunch little voice that sounded as out of place in the bleak castle as a skylark's song. It was a voice that brought me leaping to my feet and over to the grille in a flash, mashing my face against the cold steel so as not to miss a single syllable, my heart thundering.

‘I'm Hannah Quested.'

‘Han-nah Ques-ted? A strange name for a little girl. Especially a little girl who told me only yesterday that she was … let me see now …
Princess Fenella Foo-Foo.
Yet today, you have a different tale.'

‘I was Princess Fenella yesterday, and I'm Hannah today. People can be different things on different days. Depending.'

‘Depending? Depending upon what?'

‘Depending on how they feel.'

‘So. Today you are Hannah Quested.'

There was a short pause while King Karazeel — as I knew it must be — digested this information.

Then, the merest whisper: ‘I want my daddy.'

Quick as a striking snake — ‘And who is your “daddy”, sweetmeat?'

‘
Don't call me sweetmeat!
And don't touch my hand! You feel all slimy!' I closed my eyes, beaming her a silent, desperate message:
No, Hannah — no! Hang in there — don't make him angry, whatever you do!

But he was angry — I could hear it in the silkiness of his next words. ‘Very well … Hannah Quested. Tell me where you come from.'

‘I told you already. Quested Court!'

‘Quested Court? A court is a king's residence. Who is this king? And you say your name is Hannah
Quested
… daughter of the court … yet you deny you are a princess. You trifle with me, child.' I could sense his anger growing to a terrible, cold rage — but still he hid it from her. ‘But come now. Let us be friends, hmmm? Perhaps if I know more, I can help you return to your …
daddy.
So tell me: where is Quested Court?'

‘I told you — I don't know! It's at home. It's where I live with Q.'

There was a brief pause. ‘Very well then. Tell me this: how did you journey to Arakesh? A little girl like you, all on your own?'

‘I've already told you.'

‘Tell me again.'

Hannah, with exaggerated patience: ‘Through the computer!'

Richard and I exchanged a horrified glance. ‘And what is a com-pew-ter, little one?'

Even on the other side of the thick drape, I could hear Hannah's sigh — a sigh that said clearer than words that she'd had enough. ‘A computer is a
computer,
you silly billy! Don't you know
anything
?'

Instantly, the voice changed to a low hiss. ‘You dare call me
silly
? Me, His Eternal Excellency High King Karazeel of Karazan, Ruler of the Realm of the Twin Moons, and Conqueror of the Lands Beyond the Distant Sun?'

There was a ghastly silence. We waited, hardly daring to breathe. Then Hannah's voice came again, very quietly, with a slight wobble. ‘You sh-shouldn't yell at little girls.'

‘We shall see, sweetmeat, what His Eternal Excellency High King Karazeel of Karazan should and should not do —
and who will tell him so.
'

As if at some invisible signal, the door behind us edged open and our guard reappeared. At the same moment, the heavy drape was drawn aside, revealing the throne room of King Karazeel, a fleeting glimpse of a small figure in an extremely dirty fairy costume being roughly bundled out of the huge double doors at the far end … and the king himself.

The throne room was horseshoe-shaped, with a raised dais at the open end. Holding chambers were ranged at intervals round the curved perimeter, each with a metal grille and a heavy drape that could be opened or closed as required. I took all this in at a glance … and then all my attention was fixed on King Karazeel.

I'd been expecting a throne. Instead there was a long settee on the dais, with a backrest at one end. On it lounged the king, flanked by four motionless guards in golden armour.

By now I was used to people wearing drab colours in Karazan — and staring at the king, I felt as dazzled as if I'd been watching an old movie in black and white and it had suddenly switched to brilliant Technicolor.

King Karazeel wore a loose shirt of golden silk, and breeches of silver cloth, with a wide scarlet sash — the colour of royalty, I remembered Kai saying — encircling his waist. From his shoulders fell a heavy cloak woven of every colour imaginable — an exotic, dazzling kaleidoscope of shifting colour that glimmered and shone in the bright sunlight beaming down onto him like a spotlight from a skylight far above. His hair was the
deepest black, thick and luxuriant. He wore a crown — a design I had the weirdest feeling of having seen before: a heavy, interlocking circlet of gold and silver. Had it been on the box of Quest for the Golden Goblet — a kind of logo, perhaps?

But his face — I couldn't take my eyes from his face. It was harsh and utterly compelling: golden-skinned and strikingly handsome, with a thin, cruel mouth and a curved, hawk-like nose. On anyone else, the lines on his face would have been smile ones … but these were as different from Q's laugh lines as night from day. A voice spoke in my mind, with absolute certainty:
Those are lines drawn by pleasure in other people's pain.

It was the face of a man in his prime … yet somehow it wasn't. There was something strangely ageless about King Karazeel, as if he was suspended in time. But most striking of all was the aura he gave off, so strongly my senses reeled from it: a stench of power, greed and corruption.

As I stared at him, at the same time fascinated and repelled, his pale, hooded eyes slowly swivelled towards us … and settled on me.