Peter and the Sword of Mercy (12 page)

Uncle Neville, whose full name was Neville Plonk-Fenster, considered himself an amateur scientist. He was always conducting experiments, some of which blew up buildings. Fortunately he was rich and had plenty of buildings.

He also had a passion for aviation, and had built many flying machines, although so far none had actually flown. His latest effort was an ornithopter, which was a strange contraption consisting of a wooden frame some ten feet tall, on which was mounted a pair of huge wings made from silk and feathers.

The pilot stood on a small platform behind the wings, which were connected to a small gasoline-powered engine. The engine caused the wings to flap up and down rapidly; this, in turn, was supposed to cause the ornithopter to take gracefully to the air. So far, all it had done was fall over and flop around like a fish out of water. But Uncle Neville was sure that, with a few minor adjustments, it would soar like an eagle. Or at least a pigeon.

John and Michael worshipped Uncle Neville, and were thrilled when their father told them they would be going to visit him for a while. Of course, John and Michael didn’t know that their mother had disappeared; they’d been told she was visiting an ailing great-aunt in Scotland. Wendy knew better, and despite the many diverting activities to be found at Uncle Neville’s estate, she couldn’t stop worrying about her mother.

Her father had promised to let her know as soon as he heard anything, good or bad. But the hours had stretched into days, and there was still no word from London. Wendy could picture her father, frantic, making every effort to find his wife, but she also knew he would not mention anything to anyone about the Starcatchers. She was convinced mother’s disappearance had to do with her past; with her old friend James, who had visited their home; with the Starcatchers. And the one person who knew the most about the Starcatchers was the man her mother had been going to see that miserable day: her father, Wendy’s grandfather, Leonard Aster.

After a near-sleepless night, Wendy could stand it no longer. She came down to breakfast, which Uncle Neville had already started. He was sitting at the head of the table, with John and Michael on either side. In the middle of the table was an odd-looking contraption, with many gears and pulleys. It was connected to a wire, which ran to the wall.

“What on earth is
that!”
said Wendy.

“That,” said Uncle Neville, “is an automatic toast-butterer.”

“It runs on ’tricity,” said Michael.

“Electricity, you ninny,” said John.

“That’s what I said,” said Michael.

“But,” said Wendy, “why do you need a machine to—”

“It saves labor!” said Uncle Neville. “Do you have any idea how many hours the British public spends every year buttering its toast?”

“No,” said Wendy. “How many?”

“I have no idea,” said Uncle Neville. “But I suspect it’s a lot.”

“Ah,” said Wendy. “Well, I was wondering if I could ask you something.”

“Yes, of course,” said Uncle Neville. “Would you like to see how it works?”

“I, ah, certainly,” said Wendy. “What I wondered was—”

“The butter goes here,” said Uncle Neville, dumping the butter dish into a hole at the top of the machine. “And then the toast goes here.” He put a slice of bread into a slot on the side. “Then you turn it on with this switch.” He flipped a switch. The machine started to clank and whirr, its gears and pulleys turning.

“I was wondering if I could take the train to London today,” said Wendy.

“What’s that?” said Uncle Neville, eyeing the machine, which was clanking louder now and starting to smoke.

“I was wondering if I could take the train to London today, to…to visit someone. I’ll be back this evening, and I promise to—”

BANG

The automatic toast-butterer belched a smoke cloud and ejected a piece of toast burned to the consistency of charcoal, which flew straight up with such force that it hit the ceiling and shattered into a small black cloud of particles, which floated gently down onto the table. The machine then emitted a geyser of melted butter, which spurted up, then fell back, causing the machine to emit a shower of sparks, and then, with a loud POP, to stop running altogether. It now sat silent, a smoking ruin.

“Brilliant!” said John.

“Is the ’tricity gone?” said Michael.

“It needs a bit of adjustment,” said Uncle Neville.

“So,” said Wendy, “is it all right, Uncle Neville?”

“What?” said Uncle Neville.

“What I asked. Is it all right?” said Wendy, deciding not to mention the train trip again.

“I suppose so,” said Uncle Neville, looking at his machine. “Why not?”

“Thank you,” said Wendy.

She hurried out of the room before Uncle Neville thought to ask exactly what he’d given her his permission to do.

T
HE
P
RIZE

T
HE
S
KELETON AND
S
CARLET
J
OHNS
watched intently as Coben and the other man, whose name was Mauch, worked by the flickering light of the chapel candles. Mauch and Coben had just returned from a foray in to the city of Aachen, where they had broken into several closed stores to gather the materials they needed.

“How much time?” rasped the Skeleton, his lone eye glowing yellow in the candlelight.

“Less than an hour,” said Scarlet. “The altar boys replace and relight the candles at nine o’clock.”

“Faster!” hissed the Skeleton at Mauch and Coben, the word distorted by his lipless mouth.

“It will be working soon,” came the reply. Mauch was holding a small tin pan over a bundle of lighted candles. The pan held a lump of wax, which shrank as it melted. “A few more minutes is all.”

“Coben?” said the Skeleton

“Almost there.” Coben was building a scaffold from tables, chairs, two large wooden crosses, and a long bench that he’d confiscated from the choir. The teetering makeshift structure rose high off the chapel’s marble floor, parallel to and alongside the central stained-glass window.

Scarlet left the chapel to check on the priest. They had left him tied up and gagged inside a large, cedar-lined closet used to store the vestments worn by the clergy during services. They had propped a chair against the closet door to prevent the priest from opening it if he escaped his bonds. Scarlet removed the chair and opened the door.

The priest, propped against the wall, squinted at the light. He seemed to be all right, although he was pale and trembling. Scarlet knelt next to him.

“You have two options,” she said, her voice a soothing whisper.

He nodded.

“The first is that my colleague delivers you into heaven perhaps sooner than you would wish.”

The priest’s eyes widened slightly.

“That’s right,” said Scarlet. “It would not be a pleasant journey for you, though my colleague would much enjoy it. The second option, and the one I strongly recommend, is that you remain tied up here, that you make no attempt to be found until morning. When you are found, you must make no mention of what happened here tonight. We are not alone, Father. We have eyes and ears here. If you betray us, we will know, and we can be back here from Mun…from our headquarters in a matter of hours. And if we do come back, we will destroy you
and
your precious chapel.”

The priest shook his head.

“I will do everything in my power,” she continued, “to grant you the second option. But first I need your word, as a priest, that you understand and agree to my conditions. Nod your head if you do.”

The priest nodded.

“A wise choice,” said Scarlet. “We have an agreement. I will trust you, and you will trust me to make good on my promises.
All
of my promises.”

She closed the door and propped the chair against it. She returned to the chapel, where the Skeleton was still watching Mauch and Coben. He turned to Scarlet and said, “The priest?”

“He will not be a problem.”

“A pity,” said the Skeleton. “I would have enjoyed breaking him.”

“It won’t be necessary,” said Scarlet. “We’ll be miles from here before he’s found. And if he does send anyone looking for us, it will be in the wrong direction. I slipped up and mentioned Munich.”

“Good,” said the Skeleton. If his face had been willing, he might have smiled. He returned his attention to Mauch and Coben.

Coben had finished working on his wobbly scaffold, which looked as though it would collapse at any moment. Mauch was pouring melted wax through a piece of silk, allowing the resulting paraffin to drip into the chamber of a small brass blowtorch.

When he was finished, he screwed the chamber back onto the blowtorch, then held it over two burning candles. When he was satisfied that the paraffin had vaporized, he turned the valve and held a match to the torch tip. A tongue of blue flame shot out. Mauch adjusted the valve, then quickly went to the scaffold and handed it to Coben.

“The tip?” said Coben.

Mauch reached into his pocket and pulled out a triangular piece of metal, which he handed to Coben. Mauch had made it from a pewter plate he’d found on the altar, carving the soft metal into the shape of the bishop’s miter.

Coben stuck the pewter tip in a pocket and, holding the burning blowtorch carefully, climbed the rickety scaffold. The other three watched anxiously as he reached the top and trained the blue flame onto the outline of lead that held the bishop’s miter in the window. For a minute and more the chapel was silent, save for the hissing of the flame.

“How much time?” asked the Skeleton.

Scarlet pulled a watch from her pocket. “Less than twenty minutes.”

“Faster!” the Skeleton rasped up to Coben.

“The edges are melting,” Coben called down.

As he spoke, the bishop’s miter separated and sagged forward slightly from the window. Coben, using a cloth to protect his hand from the heat, carefully took hold of the piece and pulled it free. He quickly substituted the pewter piece. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but he melted the lead edging to make up the gaps. From a distance, the window looked barely different from when he’d started.

Coben climbed down quickly and handed the prize to the Skeleton, who held it up in his clawlike hand.

“The tip of Curtana,” he rasped. “The Sword of Charlemagne. The Sword of Mercy.”

Despite the need for haste, the four stood for a few moments, examining the tip. It was made of silver-colored metal that glinted in the candlelight like steel, but to the Skeleton it felt heavier. The tip was pointed at one end; the opposite edge jagged and at an angle, as the tip had not broken from the sword evenly. It was only a few inches long, about the length of his hand.

The Skeleton tested the edge by gently touching a scarred finger rub to it. He jerked his hand back: it was bleeding.

“Seven hundred years,” he said. “And still razor sharp.”

Coben leaned closer, peering at the gleaming tip. “All that effort,” he said, shaking his head. “All that searching, for…that. Nothing but a small piece of metal.”

The Skeleton looked at Coben, then back at the tip.

“This small piece of metal,” he rasped, “is about to change the world.”