The Dragonfly Pool (22 page)

“People of Bergania,” he began, “I come to offer you the deepest sympathy for the vile deed that has been perpetrated here today against the beloved ruler of our country. I promise you faithfully that the person who was responsible for this crime will be brought to justice and that all revolutionaries and anarchists will be hunted down without mercy. Meanwhile, the German people are prepared to offer you protection and to ensure that order will be maintained. There will be further bulletins every hour but for now please go quietly to your homes. A state of emergency has been declared.”

From the crowd came a shrill voice.

“Where is the prince? What has happened to the prince?”

Gambetti threw a frightened glance at Stiefelbreich, who whispered something in his ear.

“The prince's whereabouts are being kept secret for his own protection,” said Gambetti.

But this was a lie. The prince was nowhere to be found.

“What do you mean, he's disappeared?” said Stiefelbreich furiously.

He had moved to a room in the German embassy, which had already filled up with SS officers and Nazis in brown shirts.

“No one knows where he is,” said Earless. “They're running through the palace like maniacs, calling and looking.”

Theophilus sneezed and squirted something up his nose. “The head groom says the prince stabled his horse, but the master-at-arms swears his horse came in alone. There was such uproar after the king was shot that no one knows anything for certain.”

Stiefelbreich's jaw tightened. “He must be found at
once
,” he shouted, thumping the table. “At once, do you hear?”

Everything had gone according to plan. Gambetti would be allowed to strut about as a figurehead until the king was buried. Then, when suspicion was lulled, he would be got rid of, the German troops already mustered on the border would march in, and the thing was done.

But the prince must on no account be allowed to go free—there could be nothing more dangerous. Berganian patriots could use him as a rallying point, or there could be an attempt, now or later, to restore the monarchy.

“Somebody has blundered and will be punished,” said Stiefelbreich. “I made it perfectly clear that the prince was to be seized immediately after the assassination. Our plans for him have been in position from the start: he is to be taken to Colditz and kept there as a prisoner of the German Reich.”

Earless and Theophilus looked at each other. The bodyguards had heard of Colditz—everyone in their business had heard of the grim fortress in east Germany from which no one could escape. It had been a mental hospital for years; the cries of the patients incarcerated there were apparently still heard at night by superstitious peasants who lived nearby. Since the Nazis had come to power, Colditz had been used to shut up all the people who had displeased Herr Hitler: social democrats, gypsies, Jews. No place in Europe was more feared.

“The prince will be well treated,” said Stiefelbreich. “There is a special part of the castle kept for political prisoners. Later, if he cooperates with our plans for Bergania, he may be released, but if not . . . Well, children do sometimes have to be sacrificed to a Greater Cause. But he must be found, and quickly.”

“The trouble is,” said Theophilus, “we've only seen him from a distance, riding in the procession, and there are hardly any photographs, so if he's hiding on purpose it might be tricky. He seems to be a very ordinary-looking boy—brown hair and brown eyes, they say, but that doesn't tell you much. Now, if he belonged to the Royal House of Hapsburg it would be easy. The Hapsburgs are so inbred that their upper lips reach right up to their nostrils—you can recognize a Hapsburg anywhere, especially if you see them trying to eat. And if we were looking for a Bourbon, like in the Royal House of France, we'd be searching for someone without a chin. But as it is . . .”

“I suppose he doesn't have a birthmark?” said Earless hopefully. “They're a big help, birthmarks are.”

But Stiefelbreich had lost patience. “You can question the palace servants—no doubt you'll find ways of making them talk. But if the boy isn't found and brought here in the next twenty-four hours, God help you both.”

Matteo returned to the camp in the late afternoon, looking as though the devil was at his heels.

“He's vanished,” he told the children. “There's no sign of him. If he falls into the hands of those traitors . . .” He broke off. And under his breath. “Oh God, where
is
the boy?”

Julia brought him a piece of bread and a hunk of cheese and he took it, but it was obvious that he had no idea what he was eating.

Then Tally put a hand on his arm.

“I think I know where he might be,” she said.

Matteo went so fast, scrambling up the side of the waterfall, that Tally could hardly keep up with him.

He knew the place so well; his happiest times had been at the pool with the king. The woods surrounding it, the creatures in its depths, had helped to make him a naturalist.

They reached the top and the pool lay before them. There was nobody there. The water was as still as glass; the water lilies might have been carved in stone.

Then, behind a large boulder on the other side of the pool, something stirred.

Karil had not been crying. The boy was a long way beyond tears, in a state of shock so extreme that he could barely connect with the world, but after a moment he recognized Tally, and Matteo was glad that he had brought her in spite of his misgivings.

“We came to help,” she said, taking his hand.

Matteo waited, letting Tally talk quietly to the boy. Then came the moment when he focused on Matteo and said, “I saw you in the square. You were my father's friend, and . . .” But he could not go on.

Matteo knelt down beside him. It was time to tell his story.

“Yes, your father was my friend, the truest friend I ever had. We shared a tutor, we rode together, we went climbing together. I looked up to him, but really we were like brothers. We used to come here and talk about all the things we were going to do. He knew he'd be king one day, and he was going to be a different kind of ruler—give his people more freedom and more say in how the country was governed. Bergania was going to be a model for the world.

“When the time came to go to university we went to Basel in Switzerland. It was a heady time for Johannes—for your father—it was like the door of a cage opening. He was so happy to be free of the bowing and scraping. We met all sorts of people—idealists and dreamers and poets who wanted to make everybody free. And Johannes was going to do that, with me to help him. I suppose most people guessed who we were—but it didn't matter; we were students first and foremost.

“And then, while we were in our last year, the old king—your grandfather—died and Johannes had to go back to Bergania to be crowned.

“From the moment the courtiers came to fetch him, calling him ‘Your Majesty' with every second breath, everything changed. To me it seemed that he became cut off from his people, giving in to ceremony and pomp. But I had promised to help him and I stayed.

“Then a young hothead we'd known as boys got into trouble. He'd been giving out leaflets about the Brotherhood of Man, saying there shouldn't be kings.”

“Like Tod,” said Tally.

Matteo nodded. “They put him in prison, and I went to see the king to ask for his release—he was only a boy—and the king refused to see me. He was in consultation with his ministers.

“You have to know what friends we were to understand what happened next. I have a temper; when I found that Johannes wouldn't see me I went home, packed a bag—and went.” He paused. “That was fifteen years ago, but I've never been back. And then when I returned to Europe I learned what he had done, how brave he had been, standing up to Hitler, and I was ashamed of having deserted him. I realized, too, that he must be in danger and I longed to see him again. So I came back.”

“But too late,” said the boy.

“Yes, Karil. Too late.”

The boy could not blame him more than he blamed himself, thought Matteo. He should have made himself known to the king as soon as he arrived, but he had wanted to find out who the conspirators were and how serious the danger to Johannes. So he had hidden from those who might recognize him—the minister of culture, the waitress at the Blue Ox—and pursued his inquiries in secret. By the time he spoke to the king he knew where the danger lay—but not that it would come so soon.

Karil had been listening intently, but it was a tremendous effort: his eyes clung to Matteo's face almost as though he was lipreading.

“I saw how my father held you . . . how he wanted to be with you. I will remember.” He looked around at the trees and the pool as though wondering where he was. “Now I must go back.”

“No!”

Matteo spoke more loudly than he meant to and Karil shrank back. “I must,” he repeated. “I must see my father buried.”

“No,” said Matteo again, making an effort to speak calmly. “No, you must come away with us. You must carry on somewhere else. It is what your father would have wished.”

“I don't want to go on being a prince,” said the boy in a thread of a voice.

“You don't have to be a prince—only the person that you are and the man you will become.”

But the boy shook his head.

Matteo changed his tack. He took him by the shoulder. “Listen, Karil, the men who killed your father are not isolated criminals. They are part of a conspiracy that will take over Bergania and perhaps the whole of Europe. Once they have you in their power they will do one of two things. They will use you. Or . . .” He paused deliberately, judging how much the boy could take. “Or they will kill you.”

There was silence after that. Tally looked aghast at Matteo, then at the boy still deep in shock. But Karil had understood.

“I have to trust you,” he said. “I see that. But . . .” He made a hopeless gesture.

Matteo turned to Tally. “I'll take him over the mountains. You'll have to make your way back with Magda. We can stay overnight with the king's old nurse.”

But as soon as he had said it he realized it would not do. Old Maria's hut would be searched straightaway by anyone looking for the boy.

“No,” said Tally, “you'll be caught.” And then: “There are better ways of getting Karil out of the country.”

Matteo was about to cut her short. Yet it was uncanny, the feeling she had had about Bergania from the start. Perhaps she deserved to be listened to.

“Karil said he had to trust you,” Tally went on. “Well, you have to trust us. All of us. Barney and Julia and Borro . . . even Verity.”

Matteo waited.