The Unknown Spy (16 page)

“Danny Caulfield.”

“Dixie Cole.”

“Of course, of course. I’ll have to have a word with the court about this. What a way to treat visiting students!”

Macari hurried to unlock their shackles, closing the door to the front room with his foot as he did so, so that they could no longer see the branding irons.

“Once the others came through, I thought that was the end of the students.”

Others? Dixie and Danny glanced at each other as they rubbed at the painful welts left by the shackles.

“What is this place?” Danny asked.

“The gateway to Morne,” Macari said. “Welcome, young students!”

His eyes were twinkling now, but Danny was cautious.

“The kingdom travels to various locations,” Macari said, folding his hands and reciting as if from a guidebook, “hidden by the weather—sometimes a sandstorm in the sun-baked desert, sometimes a typhoon in the storm-tossed ocean. The kingdom is always on the move, always watchful, for it is the guardian of the peace between the Two Worlds.”

“But we thought the kingdom was in the mountains,” Dixie said.

“It is. The passage behind you leads to it. We always have a disguised entrance to Morne. Makes things much easier. We just close up the chip shop when the kingdom is elsewhere. But enough talking, my young friends! You must be tired and hungry after your journey. Eat, and then let me take you to Morne!”

Macari swiftly filled two paper bags with fish and chips, then gave a great bow, sweeping out his right hand to show that Danny and Dixie should go first into the passage. With an edgy glance at each other and a nervy disappearance by Dixie from one side of the tunnel to the other, they set out for the kingdom of Morne.

ASSASSINS

T
he college was in an uproar the following morning. After the Unknown Spy had, as he thought, killed Les, he wandered through the shrubberies until he met McGuinness. He handed his gun to McGuinness and said mildly, “I believe I have killed someone. Perhaps you would take me into custody.”

McGuinness had escorted the Unknown Spy to the Roosts and seen immediately that he hadn’t killed anyone, merely ruined a good pillow. But not before both Roosts were wide awake and rife with rumor and speculation. The Unknown Spy had repeated his belief that Les had killed his wife, but Smyck immediately took Danny’s disappearance during the night as a sign of guilt.

“Maybe Caulfield tried to kill you.”

“Don’t be daft,” Les said.

“Well, why’d he run away, then?” demanded Orelia Detestes, a particularly nosey cadet with bright brown darting eyes. Les always said that if you added whiskers, she would make a particularly obnoxious rat.

Les was too shaken to eat breakfast and instead went to see Vandra before class. She was sleeping, and Les did not wake her. He looked out the window. The long black car that had brought Toxique’s father was still parked at the front of the building. When Les arrived late for geography class he saw that Toxique was missing. Les assumed his friend had been called to see his father, but when the class ended he found Valant waiting outside.

“Master Devoy wishes to know if you have seen young Toxique,” he said.

“No,” Les said. “Isn’t he with his father?” Valant shook his head.

When classes finished for lunch, Les slipped away—but not before Exspectre stopped him.

“You seem to be losing your friends,” the pale boy said. “A bit careless of you.”

“At least I’ve got some friends to lose,” Les said, but Exspectre’s comment hit home. It was a bit strange with Vandra ill, Danny and Dixie gone to Morne and now Toxique not in class. At least I know where to find him, Les thought as he made his way through the shrubberies, careful not to catch his wings on a branch.

His instinct was accurate. Toxique was sitting in the old summerhouse, moodily feeding crumbs to a column of black ants.

“No poison in that bread, then, Toxique?” Les said.

“No,” Toxique said, “that’s the problem. A real Toxique would be working out all sorts of new ways to poison ants. I just don’t feel the need.”

“Valant was looking for you.”

“My father put him up to it, I suppose,” Toxique said despairingly, “but I can’t face him. For a start, I didn’t try to kill the Messenger with the poison dart, but I can’t admit that I haven’t even tried to assassinate anyone—and if I say that I did do it, that’s even worse!”

“Then we’ve got to prove that you didn’t fire the dart,” Les said firmly. “After that we’ll worry about your assassination record.”

“What about my father?”

“Maybe he’s not that mad at you,” Les said.

“How do I find out without facing him?” Toxique said, dread in his voice.

“How about we try a little spying?”

Toxique stood up. Les slapped him on the back. “That’s better,” he said.

“You’re about to get bitten by the ant you just sat on,” Toxique said absentmindedly.

“Ouch! That hurt,” Les said, rubbing the bite. “Come on. We’ll show your father there’s more to a Toxique than assassinating people.”

Les guessed that Toxique’s father would be in the room that Devoy favored—the library of the third landing. They were forbidden to enter it upon pain of an Eighth Regulation offense, but Les had a plan. He dived under the summerhouse and came back up with a worn-looking leather attaché case.

“Where’d that come from?” Toxique said.

“Oh, you know,” Les said vaguely. He was quite proud of his abilities as a thief, but not everyone shared his view.

The two boys ran back toward Wilsons. They scrambled up to the Roosts, where Les rooted in his bedside locker. He produced the Beetles of Transmission and put one into the leather case. The boys then went to the main building, where Toxique waited outside in the hall while Les brought the case in to Valant.

“Yes?” Valant inquired archly.

“In all the excitement, Mr. Devoy left his briefcase downstairs. He asked that it be brought up to the library of the third landing.”

Les made as if to dart through the door beside Valant’s desk, but Valant stepped in front of him.

“No you don’t,” Valant said. “I’ll take care of that.” He grabbed the case from Les.

“But Mr. Valant, it’s urgent,” Les said.

“All the better if I take it, then,” Valant said firmly. “You know you’re not permitted in the library of the third landing without one of the instructors.”

Les ran down the steps outside.

“Success!” he said. “Valant’s going to bring the case up.”

Les and Toxique found a quiet corner of the shrubbery and waited, listening to the second beetle. At first they could only hear Valant’s feet and the creak of the bag. They held the big beetle belly-up and waited. They heard a knock and then Devoy’s voice.

“Come in.”

“One of your cases was left downstairs,” Valant said. Les held his breath. Would Devoy be suspicious? He could almost feel the master’s eyes on the bag.

“I don’t recognize it,” Devoy said. “It might belong to Brunholm. Just put it down, please, Mr. Valant.”

“Would you and Mr. Toxique like some tea?” Valant asked.

“That would be very pleasant, thank you,” Devoy said. The door closed as Valant left.

“Where were we?” Devoy said.

“My son,” a cold silky voice said.

“Of course,” Devoy said. “Well, as you know, there is nothing to connect your son to the attack on the Messenger.”

“The attacker used Toxique darts,” Toxique Senior said. “That is proof enough for me, and the fact that the Messenger survived appalls me.”

“I have to say I am glad one of the persons in my care survived,” Devoy said.

“You know as well as I, Devoy, that assassination is a necessary and honorable branch of spying. And assassins have to be trained. The boy must be blooded. And if he is not capable of fulfilling the role he has been born to …”

“I must confess,” Devoy said, “that I find your creed a harsh one, Mr. Toxique.”

“The Toxiques deal in matters of life and death, Mr. Devoy,” the voice responded. “There is no room for sentiment.”

Les glanced at Toxique. His friend’s face was pale at
the best of times, but now he looked as if all the blood had been drained from his body. They heard a knock on the library door and someone entering.

“I have never had the advantage of a son,” Devoy said, “but my assumption was that such matters between father and son went beyond the cut-and-dried.”

“Not for the Toxiques,” the other man said. “Different rules apply.” A sound escaped Toxique. Les watched in alarm as his friend leapt to his feet and raced off through the shrubbery toward the front door!

“Toxique!” Les yelled, running through the bushes after him. Les, hampered by his wings, wasn’t a fast runner, so by the time he had cleared the shrubbery, Toxique had disappeared through the front door. Panting, Les ran up the steps and into the hallway, where a dazed cadet was clambering to his feet.

“Which way did he go?” Les gasped. The cadet pointed to the stairs.

As Les scrambled up the first flight, a raven cawed mockingly from the shadows of the roofbeams. Far ahead he could hear running feet. Les raced across the Gallery of Whispers, the great domed room where, if you asked a question at one end, you would receive an answer at the other, but only after your question had traveled round the gallery in whispers. The answer was frequently strange and hard to decipher. Questions flitted through Les’s head as he ran. Would he catch up with Toxique before he reached his father? Which of his father’s words had sparked this uncontrollable rage?

Suddenly he was on the third landing and saw
Toxique launch himself at the library doors. They crashed open. An unearthly sound escaped the young assassin as he threw himself into the room. There was a mighty crash, then silence.

Les slowed as he reached the library, not knowing what carnage might await inside. Toxique was on the floor at his father’s feet. The man stared down at his son with fury. Devoy looked on, expressionless as usual, while Valant gazed in horror at the broken china strewn across the floor.

“The tea,” Toxique gasped, “it’s poisoned!”

His father bent down to pick up a shard of the cup that had been dashed from his lips. He smelled it carefully.

“No odor of any sort,” he said.

“There wouldn’t be, surely,” Devoy said. “If someone was trying to poison a poisoner, they would hardly make it easily detectable.”

Toxique Senior took a small case from his inside pocket, opened it and scrutinized the array of brushes and powders inside.

“What would such a poisoner use?” he said, looking down at Toxique. “Answer me, boy.”

“If it was me,” Toxique said, “I would use Tasmin arachnoid.”

“Colorless and odorless,” his father said softly. “We shall see.”

He dipped a brush in one of the powders and dabbed the damp surface of the teacup. After a moment the surface turned cobalt blue.

“Tasmin arachnoid it is,” the man said. He looked down at Toxique, but his expression did not soften.

“It appears that your son’s Gift of Anticipation has saved both of our lives,” Devoy said. If Toxique Senior was grateful, he did not show it.

“At least it lured him from whatever hole he was hiding in,” he said, his eyes fixed on his son’s. Les stepped forward, his face burning. How could this man speak to Toxique like that after what he’d just done? But Devoy held up his hand to silence Les. Toxique Senior got to his feet.

“It is worth reminding you,” Devoy said, “that our only physick is out of action following the dart attack. There would have been nothing to save us, Mr. Toxique.”

“I have to question those in charge of this institution who permit poisoners and murderers to roam the corridors openly,” Toxique said, his voice like ice. “And as for my son, he knows what his duty is, and if he is proved to have failed, then he knows the price he must pay.”

He gathered his cloak around him and swept out of the room.

“That’s a bit much,” Les said indignantly, stooping to give Toxique a hand as he got shakily to his feet.

“People like Mr. Toxique set very high standards for themselves,” Devoy said, “and they expect the same of others, whether they have the capability or not. There is a weight of family history on his shoulders. He may come round in time. As for me, young Toxique, I am indeed grateful and will remain eternally in your debt.”

“I just felt it as we were”—Les kicked Toxique hard on the ankle before he mentioned the beetles—“walking through the shrubbery.”

“You boys are late for class,” Devoy said. “You had better go. And Mr. Knutt?”

“Yes?”

“Please take your briefcase with you. I’m sure the beetle feels a little confined.”

Red-faced, Les grabbed the briefcase and headed for the door, followed by Toxique. Devoy turned to Valant as the door closed behind them.

“It’s a good thing they were listening,” Devoy said. “Otherwise I might well be dead. We must find whoever is responsible before someone else is killed.”

Outside the door, Les turned to Toxique.

“How did he know we were listening?” he said.

“Maybe it’s something to do with the fact that you’ve got the other beetle in your hand,” Toxique said. Les looked down at the beetle still gripped tightly in his right hand, its legs waving feebly in the air.