The Ring of Five (5 page)

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"Think of them as being different countries, if that helps." Dixie's tone was kind. "But don't try to think about it too much. It'll make you dotty, like me!"

She linked her arm through his and marched him off down the corridor, which seemed to be going a different direction from the previous night, and did not look at all familiar.

"How do you find your way around here?" he gasped, half running to keep up with her. "I mean, it's different all the time!"

"You have to look for clues," she said. "Takes a while to learn. For instance, the carpet is always red in the north wing." Danny looked down--the carpet was indeed red, patterned with sinister-looking black ravens. "And the ravens always point south. And no matter where you are, Ravensdale is always to the south. Easy."

Danny didn't see anything easy about it.

"I'll take your word for it," he said.

"Oh no," Dixie said, stopping and turning to him, her expression almost comically serious. "Don't take anybody's word for anything around here. That's the whole point!" She started walking again. "I hope they've got bacon this morning," she went on in a conversational tone. "I love bacon."

There was a murky kind of light in the phantom village, which was, as Dixie put it, "all the daylight you're likely to get around here." A low ceiling of cloud hung over the rooftops and a cold breeze blew down the street.

They headed down the dingy street toward the Consiglio dei Dieci, and Danny was glad when they

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pushed the door open and entered a warm fug of talk and food.

After the bacon there were pancakes with honey and maple syrup, and waffles and toast, all washed down with hot milky tea. Danny squeezed in beside Les and tucked in. Only when he had finished did he remember that someone had put a sleeping pill in his food the evening before. Anger at being tricked began to grow in him. Who did they think they were? Kidnapping him, imprisoning him, then sneaking pills into his food. That seemed to be the way of things in the spy school. But they weren't the only ones who could be sneaky.

"You look chirpy this morning," Les said. "Decided to go along with the whole thing, have you?"

"Yes ... well ... yes," Danny said, forcing a smile onto his face. Go along with it, all right--go along with it until I find out where I am, then escape!

"Are you going to class this morning?" the girl with the prominent incisors asked. "I'm Vandra, by the way."

"I'm Danny. But I don't know if I'm going to class or not."

"Danny the Cherb," the tall boy broke in, and laughed unpleasantly.

"Leave it out, Smyck," Les said wearily. "Danny, you got to go to Stores this morning, get yourself kitted out." The rest of them exchanged grins. Danny eyed them suspiciously. What was so funny about going to Stores? But before he had a chance to say anything about it, the voice he had heard from the speaker rang out.

"Three minutes to class."

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"Give over, Blackpitt," Smyck said.

"I heard that, Cadet Smyck," Blackpitt went on smoothly. "Two minutes to class."

There was the sound of many feet as the inhabitants of the benches got up at once.

"Who is that? Blackpitt, I mean," Danny asked Dixie.

"Blackpitt? He's ... he's the voice on the speakers!" she said brightly. Les looked at her and shook his head.

"No one's ever seen him, far as I know," Les said, rushing past, "but he ain't a bad sort. Knows everything that goes on. Listen, we'll see you later--you'll be put in our Roosts, I'd say."

"Roosts?"

"Yeah, see you later." And Les was gone. In a moment, so were the others. Once more Danny was on his own. He stood up.

"Stores, Cadet Caulfield," Blackpitt said helpfully. "Look for the parade ground." But when Danny tried to question the speaker further, Blackpitt was silent.

Danny pushed through the velvet curtains and stood in the corridor beyond, looking for clues. He wandered dusty halls for twenty minutes before he found a large oak door. The drafts whistling round its edges suggested that it must lead outside.

The door creaked and groaned, but it opened. Danny stepped outside onto a terrace that overlooked gardens running down to a small river. The gardens looked as if they might be pleasant in summer, but there was a cold wind blowing through the shrubberies, and the large

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Italianate fountain in the center was dry and full of dead leaves. Danny shivered. Nothing looked like a parade ground.

Then an ornamental arch caught his eye. It was made from wrought iron, and long-dead creepers clung to it. But it was the shape that caught his eye. It was in the shape of a trumpet. Perhaps ... He wondered: military bands used parade grounds ... and they played trumpets....

He crossed the grass to the arch and went through. He was right! Beyond the arch lay a large, empty parade ground, which looked as if it hadn't been used for many years. The surface was cracked and broken, and weeds poked through the cracks. There was a single building at the other side, and above the door, on a peeling sign, was written the word STORES.

Danny walked the parade ground quickly, the wind cutting through his jacket. As he neared the other side the wind began to whip sleet horizontally through the air, and he ran the last few yards, pulled the door of the shabby wooden building open and went in.

Inside, the Stores was warm and muggy. There were folding metal chairs in what looked like a waiting area, with posters overhead. The posters were faded and curling at the edges and said things like
Rationing--It's for Everyone!
underneath a picture of a small boy greedily tucking into a packet of biscuits, and
Turn Out That Light--Save Power!
, showing a girl reading a book under a powerful light.

In front of the chairs there was a counter, and at the

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counter was a small man in a brown coat and glasses. He was reading a paper. He did not look in Danny's direction.

"Excuse me," Danny said. The man didn't look up. Instead he pointed to a bell on the counter. Danny went over to the counter and pressed the bell. The man sighed and looked up.

"Chit," he said.

"What?" Danny asked.

"You got a chit? A bit of paper saying you need your kit."

"No," Danny said, "no one gave me one." The man sighed and rolled his eyes to heaven.

"You'd think I'd nothing better to do than hand out kit to youngsters with no paperwork."

"I'm sorry," Danny said innocently. "If you want me to ask Master Devoy ..."

"No, no," the man said hastily, "no need to trouble the master. Ain't his fault anyhow. I'll make an exception this time, busy and all as I am."

Danny looked along the seats, which were covered in a fine film of dust, as were the shelves behind him. What kept the man so busy?

"Wait here," the man said, and turned away. Danny looked down. The newspaper he had been reading was still lying on the counter. Danny furtively turned it toward him. It was called the
Covertian
. The headline read:

CAPTAIN SRANZER MISSING ON FRONTIER and underneath a photograph of Devoy was the caption:

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Ring Points Finger at Wilsons;

Devoy Denies Involvement
.

Sranzer, Danny thought. Wasn't that the name of the man who had stopped Fairman's cab the night before?

But before he could read on, the paper was snatched away.

"You want a paper to read, buy your own," the Storeman grumbled. He put the
Covertian
under the counter and went back to his work. First he went to a huge bin full of a white powder, which billowed around him as he scooped it into a tin. When he finished, and stopped sneezing, he put a lid on the tin and slammed it down on the counter in front of Danny.

"Fingerprint powder," he announced. The object he put down beside it looked like a bunch of keys with hooks instead of teeth.

"Lockpicks." The lockpicks were followed by a magnifying glass, a pair of binoculars, a codebook and something that looked like a hairy centipede.

"What's that?" Danny asked, pointing at it.

"False mustache," the man said. "Purposes of disguise." While Danny stared at the false mustache, wondering whether it was a joke, the man placed a small mirror on the counter. "Signal mirror," he said. Danny could understand that, but his eyes widened when the Storeman produced a small silver-plated gun.

"Derringer pistol, no rounds, ammunition on order." This was followed by "Miniature camera, no film" and "Secret transmitter concealed in copy of Bible, no battery."

"You mean none of these things work?" Danny asked.

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"Of course they work," the Storeman snapped. "There just ain't been any deliveries for a while."

"How long?" Danny asked.

"Five years," the man snarled, dropping a roll of wire on the counter.

"What's that?"

"Piano wire. For purposes of strangulation." Danny gulped. The Storeman added a razor-sharp stiletto knife to the pile, followed by fake glasses and a ginger wig. With a flourish he produced a long brown coat. It was stained and frayed about the collar, and was about ten sizes too big for Danny.

"Coat with hidden pockets," he announced proudly. Finally, on top of the coat he placed a small blue tablet.

"I'm not even going to ask," Danny said.

"Cyanide tablet."

"Why?"

"Kill yourself if you're captured. Just put it between your teeth and bite. It's sugar-coated. You won't feel a thing." Danny shuddered and decided there and then that he would throw the thing away at the first opportunity.

The Storeman made Danny put on the coat, which smelled of damp, and then put all the kit into the various hidden pockets, which didn't seem very hidden at all. He stood back proudly to admire his handiwork.

"Now," he said, "agent ready for the field. You look the part, young man."

"I look a right twit," Danny muttered under his breath, but the Storeman had, it appeared, finished with

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him. He took his paper out from under the counter, and turning away so Danny couldn't sneak a look, began to read. There was nothing for it but to leave.

"Thanks a lot," Danny said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm. The Storeman merely waved a hand at him. Danny walked to the door and stepped out onto the parade ground.

As he crossed the parade ground, the wind made the coat flap around him, no matter how tightly he tied the belt around his waist. He felt bulky and ridiculous. He ducked quickly through the trumpet-shaped gate and into the garden. Ravens cawed over his head. He walked up onto the terrace. Where did he go now? The strangeness of his situation washed over him. One day he had been sitting at home, waiting to go to Heston Oaks. The next morning he found himself in a school for spies! This couldn't be happening.

A gust of wind blew through the trees above his head. He shivered, remembering how he had left home the night before, the rain lashing the trees and the sinister black taxi outside. If his mother and father had been there ... Part of him longed to see them again, but another voice whispered bitterly that they had been too busy to wait to see him off to school, to make sure that he was safe. They have betrayed you, he thought.

He looked down at the brown coat, which hung almost to his ankles. The first thing I can do, he thought crossly, is get rid of this coat.

He took the coat off and flung it on the ground, then sat down on the low balustrade that ran around the terrace.

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He would find Devoy and Brunholm, he decided, and demand to be sent home straightaway, and in the meantime he would have nothing to do with their school and their classes and their Cherbs, whatever those were....

"Look out!" A man's voice cut through the quiet of the garden. Danny looked up to see a large object hurtling through the air toward him. He threw himself sideways. The falling object struck the balustrade with a sickening crash, sending debris flying. Something hit Danny on the cheek and drew blood. He looked up through the fine plaster dust that hung in a cloud over the place where he had been sitting. A man was looking down at him. He wore a double-breasted suit and scuffed black shoes. He had a long face and gray eyes, and his mouth turned down at the corners, as if the world had disappointed him once too often.

"You okay?" the man asked. His voice was deep and graveled, with the remains of what might have once been an Irish accent.

"Yeah ... I think so ...," Danny said shakily. The man bent down to the rubble on the ground. He lifted a chipped and broken plaster woman's head.

"Saint Agnes," he said, "patron saint of spies." He stared into the statue's empty eyes as though she might tell him something about what had happened; then he replaced the head carefully on the ground.

"The name's McGuinness," he said. "So maybe you'd tell me who you are and why someone would try to murder you?"

"Murder!" Danny gasped.